#so yes he probably could break your spine

[rolandtowen]

oh - my - god - keep - me from going lunatic: chapter 14

hear ye hear ye! the hiatus is over! a chapter of angst and fluff be upon ye! read on ao3 or under the cut.

content warning: non-graphic suicidal ideation in a flashback

The next afternoon, Bruce already has a preliminary dose for Bucky to try. The two pills wash down easily with Bucky’s lunch – tomato soup and a protein shake – and in under an hour, he…feels it. Or rather, he stops feeling so much. He’s like – like tangled yarn, being unwound, carefully and slowly, by invisible soft hands. The remaining musculature on his left side relaxes, and the lack of tension spreads through his body. He’s even able to complete one of the gentle exercise videos that Bruce had recommended, something called “yoga”, which relaxes both his body and his mind. 

The worst of the pain remains between the shoulder blades, where the nerves are compressed, but – God, Bucky hasn't felt this good in…decades. He gets the first night of good sleep he's had in a long time too. He reads before bed – doctor's orders – and he's out like a light before the hobbits even leave the Shire. The first time he has two nightmare-free nights in a row, he notes it in his journal with three exclamation points. 

Bit by bit, he starts to feel…whole. Like the pieces he's been gathering are finally starting to fit into place. Like…like a quilt. Small pieces of a whole stitched back together, creating something…new. Someone new. The seams are wonky, and the edges are raw, but the stitches are holding. 

There's a little calm in Avengers Tower, for a while. Sam starts teaching Bucky some basic recipes that should be gentle on his stomach, including a version of the potato and leek soup he’d had during movie night a few weeks ago. In time, he slowly builds up to having some form of solid-ish food at every meal, and he can tell his body is finally retaining some weight and rebuilding his former muscle mass. 

Rebecca clears him for taking walks outside of the Tower, but the first time he tries with Steve and Sam, the lively rush of New York and cacophony of honking cars has him cowering in an alley. Steve has to coax him out, carefully lifting Bucky’s hands to his ears to block out the noise. “You’re alright, Buck, you’re okay. I’m here.”

The next day Tony sets up a garden on top of the tower. He says it’s for Pepper, but the way Pepper immediately asks Bucky to join her for lunches in the garden makes him wonder if she heard about his disastrous attempt at getting outside. Or if she’s just as starved as he is for some calm as the CEO of Stark Industries. Probably both. 

Rebecca recommends a new therapy for him to try. Exposure therapy. The name sends a chill down his spine, but he trusts Rebecca. Everything she’s done so far, from the worksheets to breathing exercises to sleep recommendations have helped him. He has to trust her. 

“Today we're just going to go over what this therapy will look like, and if you're okay with it, we'll start next week.” Rebecca explains that she and Jason think it'll help break down his response to the Winter Soldier codewords. “This is going to be challenging,” she cautions him. “Exposure therapy can be very exhausting, but that's to be expected. We're essentially building up your resistance to the codewords from scratch.” 

They're going to go slowly, Rebecca says. He'll be exposed to one word per session, and then they'll work to build up to the whole sequence. “Your coping skills are in a good place, but I think you should have a support person ready for after each session,” she cautions. “They could sit in on the session too, if you want. Of course, you’ll need to be okay with them hearing about any memories that come up with the code words.” 

Bucky doesn't hesitate to ask for Steve. 

*** 

The day comes, and Rebecca comes to therapy with a cassette player and a million more worksheets. The cassette player makes Bucky’s stomach turn. He knows, that she could let the whole tape play, and then– 

“Before we get started, do you have any questions?” Rebecca asks. Bucky shakes his head and she continues. “We’re going to take our time getting into this session today. I expect it’s going to be intense. I saw Captain Rogers waiting in the hall, is he who you’ve chosen for your support person?”

Bucky nods. He’d broached the question when Steve had come to their nightly music hour. The hour had slowly turned into Steve sketching while Bucky read, the sound and smell of the graphite tickling a memory, tucked deep into the recesses of Bucky’s brain. Steve’d said yes almost immediately, before Bucky could get all of the words out. They agreed to have dinner together at Steve’s apartment after, Bucky anticipating that his skin would be crawling if they tried to stay in his apartment after such a tense session. 

“And you have a plan for after?” Rebecca inquires. Bucky nods, holding tightly to the knowledge that Steve is waiting for him, here for him. “Okay, we’ll get started then.”

She slides a worksheet across the table, one with what looks like a temperature scale on it, numbered zero to one-hundred. Each interval of ten has a different label, with zero reading “no distress” and one-hundred labeled “worst distress you have ever felt”. He wonders briefly if he’s supposed to compare to what he, Bucky Barnes, has felt, or the worst distress the Soldier ever felt. 

“This is called a subjective units of distress scale, or SUDS for short,” Rebecca explains. “When we conduct an exposure, I’m going to repeatedly ask you to rank the distress you feel on this scale so we can get an idea of how long it takes for your body to regulate after an exposure. Does that make sense?” Bucky nods. “Now, I know your…history…of distress is vastly different from anyone else who uses this scale. Anytime when you stop functioning entirely, I’m calling that a 100. Do you have any questions about the scale?” Bucky shakes his head. “Alright, before the exposure, how would you rank your distress right now?”

Bucky looks down at the chart and tries to match up the feelings in his body with the words on the page. “Um, 40.” Mild-to-moderate anxiety and/or distress. 

“Would you say that’s a normal number for you in general?” 

“It’s a little elevated – since we’re about to do this.” Bucky’s eyes flick to the tape in the cassette player, and he has a sudden impulse to crush the whole thing. 

Rebecca nods and makes a note on her legal pad – she’d stopped bringing any sort of notebook by their second session – and sets it down. “Okay, I’ll give you an overview of how this will work and then we’ll get started.” She picks up the cassette player and Bucky’s stomach flips. “This tape has the codewords spaced one at a time, then gradually builds up to the whole sequence. We’re only going to do the first word today. Before I play the first word, I’ll make a note of the time. After you hear the word, I want you to try and ground yourself on your own as much as possible, and I’ll step in if I think your distress is getting too high, okay? I’m going to take notes, but all I’m writing down is the numbers you give me and the time. Do you have any questions?”

Bucky shakes his head. He wishes she would just do it, get it over with, instead of talking endlessly about it. Just dunk him in the water already. 

“Alright, here we go,” Rebecca clicks the cassette player on and there’s a crackle of silence, before – 

“Желание.”

There's a sudden pain in his temples. He feels a chill run down his spine, the sensation threatening to drag him under. There's a flash of memory, the cryo tube, ice in his veins, burning his skin. Someone's talking to him, who's talking to him? 

–the bitter cold of the concrete walls leeches into his skin, but he’s too weak to sit up on his own. Voices filter into the cell from the gap in the door where meager rations are shoved at him every night. Twenty-nine days at this base, forty-two at the base where Zola operated on him. Where is Steve? He’d promised, til – til the end of the line – he’d come for him at Azzano, he’d come for him now, right? Unless, unless Steve knew – knew what they did to him at that camp, knew what they put inside of him, and decided – 

“He's still too unstable, the conditioning is taking longer than expected.” The voices here, the accent is different. More melodic. Russian, if his mind isn’t failing him already. 

“Doctor Zola sent the data from our branch in Japan, yes? The stasis, the cryochamber?” His body aches, God, does it ache. His – the arm flexes weakly at his left side. His shoulder burns whenever he uses the arm. He looks down at where flesh is fused to metal and has to resist the urge to vomit. What is he now? What have they done to him? He’s – he’s still James Barnes, Sergeant – 

“Sir, that data…no subjects survived those experiments.” Good, do that to him. Whatever it is. Get it over with. He knows it’s a sin to pray for death, but he’s starting to think God forgot about him. 

– “Bucky, take a deep breath with me,” a woman’s voice – Becca? No, no, not his Becca. Not her, but – 

“That may be true, but our Soldier is no ordinary man. Start building the chamber immediately. We can't risk him escaping before the conditioning is complete. And send my regards to what's left of Unit 731. Ishii's at Fort Detrick now, I hear.” The voices fade down the hallway and he grasps at the edges of his fraying mind, clutching at seams ripping apart as silence tears at him again. James Barnes, Sergeant. 325…5? 32551 – no, dammit! James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255…325…32– 

"--ucky, take a deep breath, open your eyes." 

He shakes his head, nausea building in the back of his throat. Where's, where's the rest of the sequence? Why are they making him wait? What, what infraction–no, no, he’s not–he's not there . He’s in New York, not Siberia. He’s in New York and Steve is waiting on the other side of the door, waiting for him, and he’s safe. He breathes, his chest tight and throat raw. The blood pounding in his ears subsides, and he can hear again, Rebecca’s voice filtering to him like dust floating in sunlight. 

"Can you tell me your number, Bucky? Can you nod if you can hear me?" He nods, words stopping in his throat. "Okay, keep breathing, Bucky." 

There's some shuffling, and something soft is pressed into his right hand. His shaking fingers run over the object, the repetitive pattern of stitches jogging something. Knit, purl, knit, purl, knit– 

The pain in the head drains away slowly, the nausea recedes, and he opens his eyes. Rebecca sits across from him. He's at the kitchen table in his apartment, and when he looks down–the  sock he’s been working on is under his hand. For Sam. For his friend Sam. He looks up at Rebecca, his heart still pounding. “I’m, I’m here.”

She gives a gentle nod. “Remember how we talked about that number scale, a zero-to-one-hundred of distress? I’m going to put what just happened, not being able to speak, at 100. Can you tell me your number now relative to that?”

“Eighty?” 

“What's causing that distress?” 

Bucky takes a deep breath in, and lets it out as slowly as he can. “Knowing…that you have the words. That you could use them. I guess, knowing that they still work. It's not that I don't trust you,” he rushes to add. 

“I get it,” Rebecca soothes. “That would make me distressed too, no matter how much I trust the person with the words. If it helps, Natasha is the one who provided me with the recording. And you know she wouldn't tolerate me misusing it. As soon as we finish this session, this bad boy,” she picks up the audio recorder. “Goes into a lock box in the Tower Vault.” 

Bucky nods shakily. “It helps. Seventy.” His heart is still pounding, and he feels sick to his stomach thinking of the cryochamber. 

Rebecca makes a note of that with the time. “Good, Bucky. Can you use one of those skills we've been working on? I want you to get down to at least a forty before we move on.” 

“Okay, um. I can see you, the table, this sock, the window, um…this glass of water. I can feel…” he closes his eyes, focusing. “The carpet under my feet, the seat of the chair, the woodgrain of the table. The condensation from the water.” By the time he finishes the exercise, his mind is significantly clearer, his heart more steady. “Thirty, I think.” 

“That's really good, Bucky. Do you want to jump into discussion or take a break first?”

He really, really wants this over with. “No break, I'm good.” 

Rebecca gives him a look that means she's onto him, but she relents, letting him choose his path. “Alright. Tell me about what you felt during the exposure.” 

“Cold.” He's always cold, but this was so much worse. The kind of cold that went down to his bones, froze his marrow. “I remembered, the first time I heard about the cryochamber. I overheard…they said the conditioning was taking too long. It'd been…maybe three months since the fall? I was unstable. I think they were worried I was either gonna escape or off myself before they got their perfect soldier.” 

Rebecca nods. “How does knowing that make you feel? That they couldn't control you after months of captivity?” 

Bucky pauses, running his right hand over the knitting again. “I think…I should feel proud? Or strong? But I just feel…sad. In the memory – I was so fucking naive.” His eyes are burning and he brings his other hand up to wipe at them angrily. “I kept thinking I was gonna be rescued, kept thinking –” He cuts himself off as realization dawns over him. 

“Kept thinking…?” Rebecca prompts. 

“I kept thinking Steve was gonna come save me,” he says slowly, pieces fitting together in his mind. “Because Steve fought too, didn't he?” 

Rebecca keeps her expression neutral but nods. “You served together in WWII.” 

“But – how, how is he still the same age as me? Did,” his stomach drops at the thought. “Was Steve captured too? Did they preserve him, like me? Is that how he became a supersoldier?” His mind runs wild with the thought, producing imagined memories of Steve going through the same hell that he went through. 

“No, nothing like that.” Rebecca assures him. “I want you to recover some more memories before we get to what happened, but no. Steve wasn't captured. He was safe.” 

First time for everything , Bucky thinks, and he smiles genuinely at Rebecca. “Thank you. I'm, I'm glad to hear that.” 

Rebecca wraps up their session, double and triple checking that Bucky's calm and in a good place before departing. Bucky takes a moment to splash cold water over his face, to ground himself and to wipe the tear tracks from his face. When he deems himself presentable, he opens the door to his apartment to find Steve waiting for him, sitting on a bench in the hallway. At the sound of the door, his head snaps up and his face softens. “Hiya, Buck.” 

Something cracks and blooms in Bucky’s chest when he looks at Steve’s soft smile. Steve hadn’t been captured. He’d been in the war, but he was safe. They both were now. He pushes down the cold that lingers at the back of his mind and follows Steve to his apartment. 

Steve’s so thoughtful that Bucky could cry. As soon as the door to his apartment opens, Bucky’s hit with a wave of aroma from soup simmering on the stove. As he makes his way down the hall, Steve gestures towards his couch and makes them both a bowl. Tucked under at least two quilts and sipping carefully at the flavorful broth, Bucky finally, finally feels warmth cover his whole body, inside and out. When afternoon passes into evening, and finally into night, Steve makes up the couch and asks Bucky if he wants to stay the night. Bucky can’t say anything other than an emphatic yes . Here, with Steve, he’s safe and he’s warm. When he lays down at last, Bucky does not dream of surgeries, or the cryochamber, or even his missions. This night, Bucky dreams of Steve. 

[jincheeto]

I love them all bisexually

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

TRAINER KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. sucking könig's humongous titties. big cock. shower sex. semi-public. non-fluent könig.

it was a practical decision, you told yourself, scrolling past flashy advertisements for gyms promising overnight transformations, past testosterone-fueled testimonials about “beast mode” and “grindset.”

you'd sworn to yourself that as soon as you had the financial breathing room, as soon as you didn’t have to mentally calculate whether a dinner out would set you back for the week, you’d do it. invest in yourself. not in aesthetics, not in performance metrics, but in survival.

something that made you feel safer so that walking home late at night wouldn’t always feel like a loaded gun pressed to the base of your spine. you wouldn’t keep your keys between your fingers like they were some flimsy excuse for a weapon.

you found a coach who was within budget, someone named könig. a straightforward profile without a profile picture and just a handful of mid-range reviews.

it was genuine in its mediocrity, not glowing in the way bot-generated reviews tended to be, but not riddled with horror stories of scams or half-baked lessons either. people mentioned that he knew what he was doing, that he was patient, that his methods were effective.

but there were a few comments about his communication too. his english, more specifically.

at first, you were more nervous about looking weak than anything else.

logically, you knew that was the point. that was why you were paying for this— to get stronger, to learn. but the thought of stepping into a room filled with people who could probably bench your body weight while you struggled with a 25 kg deadlift made something inside you shrivel. made you feel like you’d be under a microscope, mistakes magnified. the thought of someone watching you fumble through drills, assessing your form— the potential for ridicule made your stomach knot up.

so, you signed up for solo lessons.

before you even met him, könig messaged you. a late-night notification breaking through the dim glow of your phone screen.

“is it ok that my english is not so good?”

you blinked at the screen. read it again. there was something unexpectedly… earnest about it. a self-consciousness that you rhymed with your own.

your thumbs hovered over the keyboard before you replied. “of course! i don’t mind at all.” then, after a second, “i’ll probably learn some phrases from you, haha.”

a long pause. three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. finally— “this is nice. i will try my best.”

something about that, about the fact that he had asked at all, the careful way he phrased it, stuck with you. you didn't know why, but it did.

the first time you met könig, you nearly turned around and walked straight back out the door, convinced your coach still hadn’t arrived.

at first, you genuinely thought you had the wrong room. or maybe there’d been some kind of mix-up, like another instructor using the space before your lesson.

you had walked into the gym expecting— what? some average-looking guy in a compression shirt? maybe a little bulky, maybe with that particular kind of gym-rat energy, all tight smiles and way-too-enthusiastic handshakes.

instead you got könig.

a massive, six-foot something, tank built like something that was meant to withstand damage and then deliver it back tenfold.

his hoodie, loose on his frame and looking a bit worse for wear from too many washes, still did nothing to hide the sheer scale of him. the water bottle he was holding was dwarfed by his hand and his arms, even relaxed at his sides, looked like they could crush a man’s ribs without much effort.

out of place. that was what he looked like. less self-defense coach and more guard stationed at the gates of hell.

you hesitated in the doorway, gripping the strap of your gym bag, suddenly hyperaware of every muscle in your body tensing up.

and then he spoke.

"… my client?” his voice was surprisingly soft. deep, yes, but smoothed down with the lilt of his accent.

you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. jesus christ.

“uh, yeah, i think so,” you shifted on your feet, clearing your throat. “i booked the solo slots.”

he nodded. “good.” a pause. then, “you are… beginner?”

you exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. “you could say that.”

his eyes smiled, something in the creases looking like amusement, before he jerked his head toward the back of the gym. “we start slow then.”

the whole thing went… surprisingly well.

könig was an amazing instructor for self-defense, not afraid to teach you moves that were downright dirty. not just the textbook counters or polished techniques that looked good in demonstrations but the kind of violence that left real damage. moves that could end a fight before it even started. his lessons were brutal in their practicality, built for survival, not sport.

his shrug always came before the skepticism could leave your mouth, as if he already knew the doubts forming behind your eyes. anticipation sat in his expression, waiting for you to question the practicality of a move that involved hitting someone's throat or breaking a wrist. waiting for that flicker of hesitation so he could counter it.

“has no rules, defense,” he simply told you, adjusting his gloves with a nonchalance that felt at odds with the destruction he'd just inflicted on the poor training dummy. his foot still pressed into its broken torso, the material caved inward like a crushed can. “s’long as you're safe, is good tactic.”

it was truth that didn’t need embellishment to him. könig wasn’t just saying it to justify his methods— it was a simple fact.

he made it seem less brutal, more justified. not just an excuse for violence but a reassurance, a lesson in survival.

it had you thinking if maybe you had been seeing things too rigidly, measuring combat in terms of right and wrong instead of what kept you breathing. könig didn’t. his world wasn’t one of fairness, it was of outcomes.

you exhaled, glancing at the poor, ruined dummy before looking back at him. “i think you broke it.”

könig tilted his head, unbothered. “hm. ja.” then, after a pause, he grinned, nudging the dummy’s crumpled remains with his boot like it might suddenly spring back to life. “but was good form, yes?”

the laugh that bubbled up caught you off guard, an unexpected burst of warmth. the corners of his grin lifted just a little higher at that.

texting started out as a necessity. scheduling changes, clarifying techniques, occasional reminders about bringing extra wraps. that was the whole point, really— a way to communicate outside of training.

somehow, though, könig turned out to be a menace over text. sarcasm practically dripped from his messages, sharpened now that he had the time to translate things properly. he was witty, sometimes outright ridiculous, and the sheer absurdity of his jokes caught you off guard more times than you could count.

könig: i think i have unlocked a new level of muscle soreness. my body is rejecting me. i am a broken man.

you: rip. gone and forgotten.

könig: good. don't tell my story. it's kind of pathetic.

“könig,” you typed one evening. “where the hell did you learn english?”

“the internet.”

immediate suspicion flooded your mind. “what part of the internet?”

“…the bad part.”

“be more specific.”

“ah…” there was a long pause, like he was regretting his choices. finally, “weird forums.”

apprehension curled at the base of your spine. “what kind of weird forums, könig?”

“…conspiracy theories.”

sheer, undiluted disbelief clung to you as you stared at your screen.

“WAIT” he backpedaled immediately, as if he could feel your judgment through the phone. “i was a child!!”

“A CHILD IN CONSPIRACY FORUMS?”

“it was not like that!!”

his frantic response only made you laugh harder. “then explain.”

“i was just reading, yes? stories. people told very cool stories. aliens, secret government projects, ghosts”

“oh my god, you were a cryptid kid.”

“nein!!”

amusement bloomed in your chest. “so what i’m hearing is you were, like, deep in the trenches. lizard people? JFK clone theories? the moon isn’t real?”

“…yes.”

“jesus christ.”

“it was fun!! and good english practice!”

“you learned english from paranoid men on the internet.”

“they were very passionate.”

laughter ripped through your chest so violently you nearly dropped your phone. könig sent a series of increasingly exasperated texts, all variations of “stop laughing”, which only made it worse.

every time you thought about it after that, a fresh wave of giggles overtook you. the next training session, you couldn’t even meet his eyes without picturing tiny könig hunched over an old computer, nodding solemnly as someone named TruthSeeker88 explained how the queen of england was actually a reptilian overlord.

he hated you for it. “you are evil,” he muttered when you brought it up again, shoving your shoulder lightly. “this is slander.”

“is it slander if it’s true?”

“YES.”

somewhere along the way, little snapshots of your lives started slipping into the conversation. könig sent blurry photos of his boots kicked up on a table, a war documentary playing in the background. “history lesson,” he’d caption, like he wasn’t watching something unreasonably brutal for fun. you sent the sky from your morning walk, pink bleeding into gold, and he always responded with a simple “pretty.”

you weren’t sure if he meant the sky or something else, but you let yourself wonder.

and then, selfies.

his were always shy, half-obscured, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you see too much despite the fact that you saw each other every week. the lower half of his face, mostly— jawline tucked into the shadows, the soft curve of a grin barely visible.

sometimes it was just his hands: wrapped around a steaming mug, fingers long and scarred, or flexed absentmindedly over his knee, veins shifting beneath pale skin. you never commented on them outright, just sent something casual— “cozy” or “nice gloves, old man”— but you always saved them, tucked away in your camera roll like little guilty pleasures.

yours were much less subtle in comparison.

exhausted post-workout, slumped against your couch with a dead-eyed stare. wrapped up in a hoodie, coffee in hand. the first time you sent one, you didn’t expect much. maybe a quick “good job” or some kind of fitness advice. instead, he sent “cute.”

you stared at the message for a full minute, blinking. your stomach did something stupid.

after that, he started commenting more. when you looked particularly grumpy, he’d send a teasing “you need nap, bird?” or “angry face. very scary.” and when you groaned about soreness, he was smug about it, “should have stretched. tsk tsk.”

it was cute. unbearably cute.

but all good things must come to an end.

one month. that’s how long this was supposed to last. four weeks of training, a neat little package of lessons that would leave you more capable of handling yourself in a fight. somewhere along the way, that timeline stretched, bending under the weight of something neither of you dared acknowledge.

könig should have cut you off weeks ago.

“you are expert already,” he tells you one evening, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. his tone is light, teasing, but there’s a hint of real curiosity beneath it. “i do not think class is needed. why do you keep taking?”

hesitation flickers in your chest. because of you, you want to admit, but the words sit heavy on your tongue, too risky, too exposing. instead, you roll your shoulders back and offer something easier, something safer.

“i need to beat you first.”

amusement dances across his features. könig huffs out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if considering the possibility.

“it will not happen in a million years, i think.”

arrogance suits him. confidence carved into his bones, stitched into the way he moves, the way he fights. you don’t argue because he’s right— he’s bigger, stronger, more experienced. if he wanted to, he could probably break you in half without much effort.

but miracles happen.

it’s a fluke. both of you know it. a momentary lapse, a split second where his guard lowers just enough for you to slip past his defenses. könig lets you try—indulges you, really, humoring your attempts at taking him down like he’s teaching a child to wrestle. that cockiness, that easy amusement, is what costs him.

somehow, impossibly, you get him in a triangle choke.

his body tenses the moment your thighs clamp around his neck, locking him in place. shock flickers in his eyes before it shifts into something unreadable, something quiet and assessing. his breath comes out steady despite the position he’s in, controlled in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

for a moment, you think you have him.

then, with an ease that’s almost insulting, he pries your legs apart, spreading them like it’s nothing.

a gasp hitches in your throat.

his movements don’t stop there— before you can even process what’s happening, he shifts, pressing himself close, kneeling between your thighs, completely caging you beneath him. his grin is wide, pleased, entirely too unbothered for someone who had just been seconds away from losing.

“very good, bird,” he praises. “very good takedown. i like.”

air sticks in your throat. something is wrong.

“k-könig-”

he blinks at you, tilting his head slightly. “ja?”

your bugged-out stare flicks downward, and his follows instinctively.

oh.

his entire body tenses. his pupils shrink.

understanding dawnes, slow and terrible, as he finally feels the press of something very, very apparent against you.

“that was not supposed to happen.”

no shit.

könig’s weight shifts over you, muscles tight as he tries to move away but instead— maybe by accident, maybe not— his cock drags against your core, thick even through the fabric separating you. the pressure is just enough to make your breath hitch, a spark of something warm licking up your spine before a sound slips from your throat.

he freezes, head jerking up like a startled animal, eyes darting around the empty training room, scanning for any sign that someone might’ve heard, his breath uneven as he listens, as you listen, as the silence between you stretches impossibly thin.

nothing. no one.

he exhales. something in his face twitches, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real, that you really just made that sound because of him.

his gaze drops, landing back on you, mouth parting, jaw flexing. then his body moves again, slower this time, cock grinding against you, rubbing you through your clothes, dragging heavy between your thighs, and you swear you see his eyelids flutter just slightly at the friction.

his forehead presses against yours, breath coming faster. “tell me to stop.”

the words hit your skin as more air than voice, warm against your jaw, but you don’t even need to think about it, because stopping is the last thing you want right now, the very last thing your body would allow.

“d-don’t stop.”

he curses, words slipping before he can stop them, and you don’t know what they mean, only that they sound wrecked, like they’ve been dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest.

könig’s forehead presses harder into yours. his hands tighten at your waist. his breath comes out uneven, stumbling over itself, and his voice fumbles through the next words. “i don’t have lube.”

“we don’t nee-”

“we do.” his face twists a little, mouth pressing tight, like the idea of taking you without it is actually painful.

you swallow, shifting slightly under him, feeling just how big he is. slick gathers between your thighs, and before you can stop yourself, the question slips out, barely above a whisper.

“are you big?”

his lips twitch, like he’s fighting back a grin, like he can’t believe you just asked that, and then it spreads into something quintessentially könig, — slow, lazy, and warm.

he presses in harder, dragging over your soaked cunt through the fabric of your underwear. the friction pulls a gasp from your lips, hips rolling up instinctively.

his grin stretches wider, eyes flicking down to watch you grind against him. "i am not small."

heat floods you, pussy fluttering around nothing, aching. your hips move again, searching for more, slick soaking through your underwear. your head tips back, breath catching. the sound that escapes you is closer to a whimper than you’d like to admit.

his lips find your jaw, tongue flicking out, tasting sweat and skin. his voice follows his mouth, words warm against your neck. "pretty little pussy..." he murmurs, dragging the syllables out like he’s savoring them. "bet it’d feel better wrapped around me."

the sound that leaves your throat is humiliating, high-pitched and needy. you don’t mean to make it, but it’s too late.

könig grabs your wrist. pulls you up. your balance falters, and before you can recover, he hauls you toward the showers. boots thud against tile. the door slams, lock clicking into place.

his mouth finds yours before you can speak. lips crash into yours, messy and eager. tongues tangle, breaths mix, heat pouring between you as your fingers twist in his hair. a laugh bubbles up between kisses—yours or his, you can’t tell—and he groans into your mouth, grinning against your lips.

“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. cheeks flush, eyes dark with something feral. “wanted this so long…”

clothes hit the floor in frantic shoves. hands fumble, pulling fabric away until skin meets skin, warmth pressing in on all sides.

his cock, thick, flushed, and dripping with precum, hangs between the two of you, weighed down by its own girth.

he sees your stare and grins. "big, huh?”

words fail you and for a moment you can't do anything but nod dumbly.

könig reaches past you, flicks on the shower. water crashes down, steam rising fast. the air thickens with heat and he wastes no time to pull you under the spray, water slicing over skin.

scarred hands find your face, thumbs brushing your jaw as his mouth returns to yours.

your hand slides down between you and wraps around his cock. konig's hips jerk forward, breath shuddering out against your lips.

“could kill you with this, eh?” his grin tugs lazy at the corners of his mouth. his chest lifts and falls, breaths dragging in deep, water cascading over both of you, hot against skin already burning.

your hand tightens, fingers sliding along the thick length of him, precum slicking your palm. warmth pulses beneath your touch, veins pronounced under your grip. he twitches when you give a slow twist near the tip, hips jolting forward. a groan rips from his throat, echoing off the tiled walls.

“scheiße,” he hisses, jaw working as he fights the urge to thrust. one hand flies to his hair, tugging as if the sting will help. water streaks down his face, lips parted, breaths breaking up his words.

“not helping,” you breathe, voice shaking. you press your mouth to his jaw, pressing a kiss there before your tongue darts out to taste the salt of his skin. his breath catches, eyes squeezing shut.

“oh, fuck-” his hips rock forward again, cock dragging through your fist, smearing more warmth along your stomach. precum drips from the flushed head, glistening in the steam-filled air.

a grin tugs at his lips, strained but there. “you tryna kill me?” the words slide out. "scheiß kleines ding…”

you laugh, kissing down his jaw. “not my fault you’re easy.” your thumb slides over the tip.

his head knocks back against the wall, neck stretching, throat working through a swallowed groan. “you- fuck- you think is easy?” a hand finds your chin, pulling your gaze up. “look at me.”

könig’s eyes catch yours. blown out. a ring of blue against black. then suddenly his lips curl, and his voice slips through his teeth.

“i have touched myself to you.”

you blink. “what?”

his grin widens. “before.” his hips push forward, cock dragging against your belly. “many times.”

your face burns.

“oh my god.”

his head dips, lips brushing yours, his breath hot and amused. “you do too, hm?”

your heart stops. heat shoots through you, cunt clenching. “yeah,” your breath shudders. “me too…”

his eyes widen, like he didn't expect you to admit to it, then narrows, grin pulling crooked. “yeah?” his cock twitches in your hand again. “fuckin’ knew it…” laughter spills out, breathless and warm.

könig’s head dips to press a sloppy kiss to your lips. tongue sliding against yours, messy and eager. laughter rumbles out, hips rolling, giggles slipping between mouths.

“fuckin’ knew it,” he repeats, words slurring together. “think about me late at night? fingers stuffed in that pretty cunt…”

you gasp, half scandalized, half aroused, hips shifting as slick pools between your thighs. “könig-”

“yeah?” another thrust. precum smears across your belly. “tell me.”

“i- fuck- yeah,” you breathe. “think about you all the time.”

he groans like the words alone could undo him. könig’s hands drop to grip your thighs, fingers digging firm into the flesh as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your back meets the cold tile with a dull thud, heat from the shower clashing with the chill seeping through the wall.

your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him close. his cock drags through your folds, thick length sliding slick against your cunt, nudging your entrance but never pushing in.

könig watches your face, chest lifting with every shaky breath. “how much do you take?”

you blink, heat simmering through your skin. “what?”

his cock slides against you again, harder this time, grinding against your clit, making you twitch. “normally. how much?”

a shrug rolls through your shoulders, confidence bubbling up, reckless. “all of it,” you answer without thinking, back arching, rubbing against him, arms looping around his neck. “i can take everything.”

he stills, expression shifting— his lips part, brows lifting just slightly. then he laughs, a low, amused sound, mouth curling into a grin. “nein, you can not.”

challenge flares in your chest. “i can.”

another laugh, softer now, hands adjusting on your thighs. “you are-” he shakes his head, grinning wider, lips brushing your cheek as he exhales, “-so very stupid.”

heat pools in your stomach, thighs clenching around him. “i’ll prove it.”

hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing deep into flesh as könig shifts his weight, cock grinding slow against your entrance, precum smearing where you’re slick and warm. a breath shudders out of him, jaw tight, brows pinching like he’s trying to hold something back. “you say this,” he mutters, “and then you cry.”

“i won’t,” you shoot back.

“hm.” his gaze flicks down to where his cock pushes against you, dragging through your folds. “we’ll see.”

könig’s fingers flex. his grip tightens and your breath hitches. “ready?”

“please,” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders.

he grits his teeth, cock sliding as deep as your walls will allow, head bumping against your cervix. every sob that escapes your lips makes his hips stutter, breath catching like he’s holding on by a thread.

"oh shit," he mutters. "look at you... crying so much."

"feels too good." your hands are weak on his shoulders.

könig grins, breathless, hands squeezing your hips. "ja? but you begged for this, no? say ‘please, könig, fuck me’-" he mocks your voice, low and whiny, then thrusts, ripping a squeak out of you. "and now you cry like a little baby like i said."

you shake your head against his chest, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. you love it—you love his cock so much it hurts—but you just can’t stop the sounds. every thrust drags a new sob from you, body trembling in his grip.

"shh." he squints down at you. "you are too loud-" his hand slides to the back of your head, pressing you close. "fuck... here. suck."

your lips brush his chest, and his nipple is right there, stiff against warm skin. you hesitate, dizzy from pleasure, but then your mouth opens and you latch on, tongue flicking over the peak before you suck soft and slow.

könig’s hips jerk.

"oh, shit- good girl," he breathes, head falling back. his fingers tangle in your hair. "yeah, just like that. little baby needs something to suck on, huh?"

your cheeks burn, whining against his chest, mouth working over his nipple as his cock drags in deep and slow. he groans, low and desperate, fucking you through your cries.

"such a messy baby," he grins, looking far too fucked-out to be as smug as he is. "can’t stop crying, can you? too good, yes? too much?"

you nod, sobbing around him, and könig just laughs, like he can’t believe how fucked you both are.

"keep sucking," he growls. "will fuck you ‘til you’re dumb.”

[riddlesrose]

kissin him stupid

w/ the housewardens

in which you were recently gifted a tube of lipstick from grim, you're unsure of where he got it or why he decided it's yours now but it's given you a fantastic idea.

(he probably stole it from vil somehow and wants to place the blame on you..)

note; malleus' is the shortest but the most full of love i swear to goooood but the post itself is quite long

part two!

if riddle could form a proper sentence right now, he might scold you for slacking off, or breaking rule six hundred and seventeen, or he may just ask you to do it again. if colours could speak, his face would scream in comparison to the red accents in the housewarden’s room, uniform and matching hair. 

you attempt to keep a sober expression but he seriously cannot be so flustered by a single kiss? the red lip stain on his cheek is bright against the flush of his cheeks, as he sputters vowels and consonants, attempting to speak, to protest, to ask you what in the queen’s name are you doing.

you invited riddle over to the ramshackle dorm under the guise of needing help with studying, but you had this motive the entire time. riddle could feel your rebel to his help and directions if he ignored the obvious fact you hadn’t even cracked the spine of your book yet (to be fair it was only assigned today, and it was a new book), and the devious smile you attempted to hide until now. 

riddle took a breath, finally feeling sensible enough, “what… was that.” 

“affection, riddle. this isn’t new.” you shot, tone dripping in sarcasm. 

“yes, my rose, i know that. i mean,” he grabs hold of your uniform tie, drawing you closer, “what’s with the lipstick?” your head probably could have exploded, where did this riddle come from and how can he be drawn out more often?

you press a swift kiss to riddle’s other cheek, thanks to the proximity. “i have no explanation,” you press another kiss onto his forehead, “i simply was gifted it,” a kiss to his temple, “this morning.” the grip riddle has on your tie loosens completely as it falls back onto your chest, slightly wrinkled from the force. 

“i just had this ironed!” you frown. 

“i-i’ll get it done again.” riddle stands, brushing invisible dust off his jacket, though nothing could distract from the shade of pink that covers his face. 

“you’ll iron my tie for me? how kind.” you wrap an arm around riddle’s waist, pulling him close. he drops his forehead against your chest with a thud, inaudibly mumbling to himself. 

you wrap your other arm around him as he takes your face between his hands, slightly squishing into your cheeks he drags your face to his height, kissing you feverishly. 

“where did this riddle come from? i like him.” 

“i just felt… bold i suppose.” riddle’s red tinted lips smile against yours.

“do it again!”

leona stirs underneath you. you’re sat, straddling either side of his hips, weight pressed on his defined torso. leona doesn’t know it but you’ve practically trapped him where he sleeps. where he’s asleep currently, that is. in your dorm. 

on your couch.

using your pillows, taking in the setting sun like a true feline, though you would never dare utter the word feline anywhere near him lest you face the wrath of a moody boyfriend. 

you silently laugh to yourself, leaning down and pressing your lips on the prince’s temple.

leona stirs again at that, attempting to roll over – he cracks an eye when you gasp. slowly, coming to his senses, he furrows his brows at your positioning. you weren’t there when he fell asleep, when did you do that, and why are you sitting on him with half of a sinister smile across your lips…

and when did your lips turn red? he brings a hand up to rub his face, trying to shake the sleep out of his fogged mind, but you catch his hand before it makes contant. 

“don’t, it’ll mess up all my hard work,” you say with a half hint of embarrassment. (just a hint; only because you were caught before you could slip away undiscovered.)

leona’s confusion increases, as he detaches your hand from his wrist. he takes his freed hand up to your lips and swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, smudging it further across the line of your lip.

he inspects his red finger, “is this… lipstick?” you purse your lips in an attempt to stifle the laugh that bubbles in your chest. he looks ridiculous; eyes half lidded, nose crunched in focus and red marks painting his face.

your tinted lips curl upwards slightly into a smug grin, “maybe?” if leona knows one thing, it’s smug grins. he matches yours and wipes his thumb on your cheek, smearing the lipstick off his thumb and onto your skin. 

you playfully swat his hand away and lean down to continue painting your masterpiece, placing another kiss on his skin – onto the spot between his eyebrows. leona’s hand find your hip, giving a teasing pinch to the side. 

leona may be a prince used to some pampering, but this is some treatment he could get used to. 

azul has a finger in every pie, as riddle likes to say. you’re very much aware of that as your boyfriend likes to talk your ear off about his investments, new opportunities and the lounge. you’re so very proud of all of his hard work but sometimes he gets off on a tangent that doesn’t stop until you make him. usually with a kiss. it flusters him just enough that he forgets what he was going on about and it works every time. 

this time, however, was a bit different. azul didn’t take notice of the hue change of your lips as you leaned in and shut him up. drawing back, you snicker at his pursed lips and flushed cheeks, and the red lipstick smeared around his lips.

azul peeked in your direction, curious. you usually find it funny when he’s flustered like this but you were laughing a little too much. he noticed the messy red lipstick and furrowed his brows, wiping a finger across his lips. 

you suppressed a smile as you watched him curiously examine his stained finger, “it’s lipstick.” he concludes. 

“well… obviously? i thought that would have been pretty clear,” you grab his hand, wiping the red off of his finger. 

before azul can retort you lean in to kiss him again; anywhere you can get your lips on before he shells himself away, utterly embarrassed. a kiss to his cheek, jaw, forehead, nose, other cheek, forehead again, has him sputtering, almost begging to be released. 

azul places his free hand on your shoulder, trying to push you away while laughing between breaths. when you do back up, leaning back on your hand, he almost looks sad. (as if he wasn’t actively trying to get you off!) 

“so, mister ashengrotto? feeling loved and appreciated yet?” you give him a toothy grin, watching as his face contorts from flustered to even-more-flustered. (if that’s possible.)

“well yes! i dare say i’m feeling very valued and cherished as well.” despite his rosy features, his voice is unwavering, full of conviction. 

his confident, put-together outer layer completely melts away when you’re alone with him, but this has him absolutely on fire, a feeling no number could replace. numbers can’t give affection, you give it tenfold in their stead. 

kalim’s permanent grin widens when you claim you’ve got a gift for him. he expectantly holds out his hands, making you shake your head. 

“it’s more of an eyes closed kind of gift,” you start, kalim instantly squeezes his eyes shut. he puts so much trust in you that you worry jamil has eyes everywhere. everywhere. but you brush the jesting idea away, believing that you wouldn’t even be allowed on scarabia grounds if jamil didn’t trust you with the housewarden. 

you turn to a nearby mirror, passing the tube of red lipstick over your lips. the smooth makeup applies nice and neatly. (doesn’t matter because you know it won’t be neat for long.)

you step back over to where kalim’s sitting on the edge of his bed, standing between his knees. he’s waiting not-so patiently, he looks like he’s almost vibrating, is he really that excited? you suppress a smile as you gently grab onto his jaw, tilting his head to the side as you press your lips to his cheek. his laughter immediately fills the room, making you press more kisses over his face. one to his forehead, one on the nose, another on the other cheek, his temples, and anywhere you can get before he’s laughing too much, pushing you away.

“it tickles,” he heaves a breath, “stop!” a wider smile grows on his face after seeing yours, the red lipstick you applied had smudged around your lips, looking not-so neat. his face isn’t much better, tan skin littered in red kisses.

while you’re mentally retaining the image of kalim covered in red lip marks, you notice him looking more intently at you. you raise a brow, curiously.

“my turn, give it here!” he reaches a hand out, expecting the tube of lipstick?

you look at him bewildered, “what?” 

“my turn!” he repeats. he seems real set on returning the ‘gift’ it seems. kalim’s all smiles as you hand him the black tube. he exposes the stick and passes it over his own lips, tossing it aside and pulling you down to his seated height. he flattens his lips across the expanse of your face, getting at any skin he can just like you did to him. 

when he deems he’s finished, you’re dazed and equally covered in red lipstick stains, smiles wide across your faces. matching stained faces for matching blitheringly infatuated idiots.

vil leans on the back of his vanity chair; his face littered in different coloured lip marks. the reason? he claims he wants to see which ones compliment him the most. 

you know he already knows exactly which shades of each brand line do exactly that. (thanks, rook.) vil doesn’t know that you know he’s already figured this out. 

you wipe the makeup remover-soaked cotton pad across your lips, ridding it of the pink. “what would all of your fans think if they knew you were being covered completely in rainbow kisses?” you wipe the moisture from your lips as vil reaches around you to grab another tube, but you stop him. 

“i’m sure they would lose their minds,” you reach into your pocket, revealing a miscellaneous tube of lipstick, it matches none of the previously discarded lipsticks, nor does it have a brand logo on it. “where did you find this?” vil takes the lipstick in his hand, nimbly examining the exterior. he removes the top to reveal a rich, velvety red colour. his eyes widen just slightly. 

“it’s a secret,” you wink and take the lipstick from him and apply it, smiling as you replace its cap and let it fall from your hand, onto a messy vanity behind you. 

vil wraps an arm around your neck, drawing you closer to his seated level, “well, share your secret with me, if you would be so kind.” you swiftly close the gap between yourself and the housewarden, administering a healthy dose of red onto his lips and the surrounding skin. 

he parts first, his cheeks dawn a hint of pink that’s hidden behind the various stains on his otherwise perfect skin. he truly is the most beautiful person ever. makeup or not, hair tied back or loose, vil is sincerely as pretty as the morning's first light, a flower; freshly bloomed, and a fresh set of nails. 

“you’re staring. not that i mind,” you snap out of your hazy daydream about your gorgeous boyfriend and back into reality. 

“yeah, sorry. you’re just really fucking pretty.” you lean down and tenderly kiss his forehead as he internally squeals like one of his fan-girls. he really hit the jackpot with you as his (second) biggest fan.

idia looks up at you with wide yellow eyes, but they have a sort of gloss over them that makes you believe he would not want you to get up and leave his dorm right now. you grin at his feeble attempt of a silent, inconclusive plea. an ask to what, you’re unsure because his face (minus the eyes) and hands grabbing at you tell you he’s very much enjoying you straddling his hips right now.

you reach into your pocket, revealing your master plan. a tube of lipstick, you swipe it over your lips once, then twice before replacing the cap and tossing it down, letting it hit the plush bedsheet you’re atop. 

the translucent tips of his hair start to turn pink as you lean down towards his face. a trembling hand comes up to your shoulder, not pushing you away but seemingly grounding the housewarden underneath you. “how cute,” you smile against his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to his left cheek, then the right. one more on his forehead for good measure. maybe one more. okay, one last one couldn’t hurt.

you sit upright and drag a hand down idia’s chest, over the sweater you know is probably two sizes to large for him, (but that’s how he likes them you suppose and it just makes for a more comfortable sweater when you steal ‘em) while admiring the definitely not smudge-proof lipstick marks on idia’s face, giggling as you compare the red smears to his blue features. you wonder if-

the rapid rise and fall of idia’s chest catches your attention, it almost sounds like he’s hyperventilating, but when you look up to his face it’s surrounded by fiery pink hair and a flush across his cheeks, spanning down his neck, you realize he’s fine. probably a little more than fine. 

“well, that’s some false advertising,” you smile, wiping at the edges of your lips lightly with a finger. idia snaps out of his stupor, hastily agreeing with a stuttered breath. his hands find your hips, giving you a small squeeze. you lean down and press a proper kiss to his lips, you lift away just as quick as you bent down, pushing idia back down as he chases you up, hoping for more. a pitiful whine escapes him as his hair burns brighter. 

the red lipstick mixes with his natural blue lips gives him a sort of purple that would put the octavinelle’s house colour to shame. though, he almost looks forlorn. the usual solemn and gloomy housewarden; reduced to a blushing mess after a few kisses. 

hilarious, isn’t it?

malleus’s eyes flutter shut, a pleased sigh escapes his lips. his hands, hidden by your sweater, trace messy patterns on your back as his nails scratch lightly. he’s unsure of how he got himself into this humanoid predicament but he’s not complaining. 

you’re sat in his lap, placing kisses all over his face, leaving red lip marks behind. 

“you look like you’re enjoying this more than i am, malleus.” you bring a hand up to rake it through his bangs, pushing them behind his horns and revealing the shiny scales hidden beneath. 

the housewarden cracks a sharp emerald eye, examining your features. the slope of your nose, the curve of your stained lips, your eyelashes, cheeks. your eyes. oh how he loves your eyes, the way they look up to him with adoration, not fear or indifference like other humans do. 

you cup his cheek, “malleus?” 

he blinks once, twice. the gloss over his eyes breaks, refocusing on you. “i apologize, i was lost in thought.” 

“i could tell,” you trace your finger to the tip of his ear, then drop your hand back into your lap. “what were you thinking of? me?” 

“yes.” 

“woah, okay. blunt!” heat rises to your face. 

a hand leaves your back, trailing around your side and up to tuck a piece of hair away from your eyes. “was i not suppose to tell the truth?” 

“no, malleus, you should have said you were thinking of pancakes.” 

“but i wasn’t? i was thinking of-” you cut him off, placing a kiss on his lips. 

“now, let me resume my art.”

malleus is more than happy to sit as still as the gargoyle statues he studies while you press kisses all over his face. he is, truly is.

this was so self indulgent i ain’t even sorry (is my favouritism showing??)

masterlist

[y2kstarr]

brother's bsf!matt fixing nate's little sister!reader's attitude

࣪˖ ִ⭑ ࣪ warnings : 18+, smut w/ zero plot, dom!matt, brat!reader, spanking, car sex, unprotected p in v, usage of "brat" and "whore" requested? yes more of this au

It was just some light teasing.

Around his friends.

In public.

But it was literally nothing, he was being a big baby about it, especially as he drove you home, all quiet behind the wheel, not even letting you turn on your music to fill the silence. You would've never pushed his buttons and played around with his friends if you knew he was gonna be like this.

It was a near 10 minute drive until he finally pulled up in front of you and Nate's house, the house lights off to signal that he was probably already asleep. But as you went to open the door, a click sounded through the car, the motion of the lock switching catching your eye.

You turned to look at Matt, who had his head turned just slightly away from you, crossing his arms once more after locking the doors. No matter how hot he looked with the streetlights and the darkness of the night making perfect shadows of his face, he just locked you in the car!

"You're acting so fucking childish right now, Matt," You huffed, annoyed and fed up, reaching for the door handle once more to unlock it and get out, but his voice finally came up the moment your fingers touched the metal.

"Get over here." His voice was sharp, low and almost dark as he spoke, sending a shiver down your spine as you waited just a moment or two more. "Now."

You let out a breath, half as a sigh of annoyance and half as a sigh of nerves, moving over to the driver's seat and maneuvering yourself to sit in his lap, before a gasp left your lips, feeling his hands forcefully pull you down into his lap.

You went to snap at him, expecting him to still be broodingly looking out the car window, but as your eyes met, a chill ran down your spine at his darkened blue eyes, this cold shimmer to them leaving your stomach in twists and turns.

His hands found their way to your thighs, his fingers slightly digging into the soft plush that wasn't covered by your jean shorts, whilst your hands rested on his shoulders, almost hesitant with where to keep them.

"Matt-" You went to finally break the silence, but it took no more than a second for his lips to be pressed against yours in a harsh, deep kiss.

You had no idea why he was being so pissy with you, giving you the silent treatment and all — you two weren't even together, there wasn't a label or anything, just hidden touches, stolen kisses, and quickies more than there was actual intimacy.

But as he slowly pulled you closer in his lap, his lips moving against yours in a needy yet dominant way, his hands slowly sliding to your ass, you couldn't care less if he was acting irrational.

A sudden smack came down on your ass, ripping a yelp from you as you felt the sting course through your body, the pain slowly morphing into pleasure as Matt rubbed the palm of his hand against the hit area.

"All night, and you were just showing off like a little attention whore, huh?" His snarled words made a shiver run down your spine, a whine slipping out as he bit your bottom lip. Oh he was really wanting to hold the power now.

"I was just–" But before you could even give him your reasoning, if not already fabricated a bit to make it look as if you were innocent, you felt another smack against your ass, pulling yet another yelped noise from your throat as the sting made it known there would be marks tomorrow.

"Brats don't get to speak," He nearly growled against your jawline, his lips kissing down to your neck and along the column of your throat as you tilted you head back, a whimper quietly leaving your lips.

"So.. should I kick you out of my car and ignore your needy calls for the rest of the week?..." He spoke against your skin, delivering one more smack to your ass before nipping at your throat, already telling you exactly what he truly wanted to do with you. Fuck, tonight was gonna be a long night.

"Or should I fuck this little attitude out of you?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The car practically shook from the two of you, the windows almost foggy now with how much the two of you were panting. Moans and grunts filled his car, mixing with the sound of skin slapping against skin, your hips rising and falling as you rode him in the driver's seat.

It was restrictive, a bit cramped and annoying to keep up a solid rhythm, but fuck, did it feel good to have his cock within your needy cunt. One hand grasped at his shoulder, whilst the other held onto the car door armrest, pants leaving your kiss-swollen and bitten lips along with breathy whines and needy moans.

"That's it, baby– fuck—" Matt groaned, his head falling back against the headrest as his hands gripped your hips tight, helping to guild them up and down on his shaft. "Ride that fuckin' dick, baby—"

"Matt—" You whined, your thighs starting to shake as you felt that heated pleasure burn in your stomach, twisting and pulling tight. You looked at him through half-lidded eyes to see he was watching where the two of you were connected, almost hypnotized with how you fucked yourself on his dick.

"F-fuck–!" You felt yourself clench around him as you panted hard, your hands shaking before that pleasure finally snapped within you, your hand that gripped the car door armrest turning to a fist as you moaned, eyes rolling back, back arching, that ecstasy washing over you in delicious waves.

"God– you're so fucking hot when you cum—" Matt groaned through clenched teeth, his hands still guiding your hips so he could reach his high too.

Feeling as you rode through your pleasure, it soon turned into slight overstimulation, a whine leaving your lips as you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands slid from your hips to your ass, gripping tight as he fucked up into your spent cunt, chasing his high as he panted in your ear.

"Shit shit— fuuuck—" Matt groaned as you felt his cock twitch within you, pumping thick, warm loads of cum into you, painting your walls and filling you to the brim with his seed.

The both of you caught your breath in near unison, chests rising and falling as Matt lay back against the driver's seat, his hands sliding back down to your plush thighs as you lay lax against his chest, legs subtly shaking from the intense pleasure.

"Learn your lesson..?" Matt breathed out, making you remember just how the two of you got into this little mess, your face nuzzling into his chest as you nodded and let out a breathy little "yes", making him chuckle low before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

"Good girl."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

a / n : i really need to be better for my requesters, i'm so so sorry 😭 idk if i like how this one turned out either, but I had fun getting to write them again

Tysm to the anon who requested and i hope you at least liked it <33

Inbox, dms, and requests are all open, hit me up wheneva babies <33

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© y2kstarr

[tuiccim]

We're Gonna Burn (Part 3)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: Smut, Sex Pollen, Non/DubCon (because sex pollen), enemies to lovers.

Summary: When an exposure to a strange powder makes you feel as if you're burning to death, your only relief is in the person you hate the most. Now, dealing with the aftermath makes you question everything.

We're Gonna Burn Masterlist

Knocking on his door a short time later, you felt the fear and panic rise from your stomach to take a stranglehold on your throat. Dipping into the tenacity that had made you into a badass, you straighten your spine and wait, staring ahead with purpose. You felt it wobble for just a second when the door opened but you breathed in deeply and met his gaze directly. Your insides quelled but your mask never fell.

“Hi,” Bucky says softly, almost timidly.

“May I come in?” Your voice sounds harsh to your own ears, but it was necessary to keep it from trembling.

“Yeah, of course,” He steps back to allow you entry and you notice that he is giving you a wide berth. Even once you had turned back to him as he closed the door, he moved to ensure you could get to it without issue. As if he wanted to ensure you didn’t feel trapped. “So, uh, I think I owe-”

“Thank you,” you blurt, cutting him off.

“Wha, uh, what?”

If your nerves weren’t shot you probably would have smiled at the confused expression on his face. “Thank you for how you wrote your report. I appreciate that you were… discreet.”

Bucky just nodded, looking at you askew.

“I was as well. Not that you needed to know that,” you cross your arms to help hold yourself together.

“I read yours,” he says.

You give a curt nod. “Who else have you told?” You feel almost mean asking the question when he looks back at you with such sad eyes but you had to know.

“The doctor, my therapist, and Alpine,” Bucky says.

“Who’s Alpine?” You narrow your eyes.

“My cat,” his lips quirked the tiniest bit.

For some reason, the humor of it puts you a little more at ease. “You have a cat?”

As if knowing she was the subject of conversation, a fluffy white cat with big blue eyes rounds the corner letting out a small meow. She rubs against Bucky’s leg and then decides to study you. You crouch down as she approaches but don’t reach for her. You let her come to you, keeping your hands in plain sight with your forearms resting on your thighs. She sniffs at you, rubs her furry head against your hand and then puts a paw on your thigh to stretch closer to your face. Your eyes flick up to Bucky to see his surprised expression but you return them to Alpine quickly. Giving her a slow blink to show you mean her no harm, she moves her head up to rub against your chin and, following her lead you bring your forehead down to give her a head boop. She meows happily, jumps on the couch and gives you an expectant look while making circles.

“She wants you to sit with her,” Bucky’s voice breaks you out of the trance this little interlude had put you in.

“Oh,” you move to sit beside the white cat and she immediately makes camp on your lap. You stroke her soft fur, a small smile curving your lips.

“Uh, can I?” Bucky gestures to the opposite end of the couch.

“It’s your couch,” you say nervously.

“Alpine doesn’t often take to people like that,” Bucky says as he sits.

“Really?”

“She’s usually pretty standoffish. Kind of like you,” Bucky shrugs.

Your brow furrows at the comment but you decide to let it go. The last thing you wanted right now was to turn the conversation contentious. You worked your lips trying to form your next question but he spoke quickly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he looks away.

“It’s fine.” You look down at the cat happily purring in your lap and then look up at him, “Are you… all healed up?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that but, yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good. And before you have to ask, yes, I’m healed. Physically,” you whisper the last word but can tell he heard it.

“I’m sorry for what happened. What I did, to you.”

“We did it to each other. It wasn’t your fault. Unless you knew it could happen. You didn’t know that was where they conducted those experiments, did you?” You felt wrong for asking but needed the reassurance.

“No! No, I would never have taken the mission if I did. I would have insisted they send a biohazard team. I may be a jerk but I wouldn’t wish that stuff on my worst enemy.”

“As your worst enemy, that’s good to know,” you try to lighten the moment.

“You aren’t my worst enemy. You’re my teammate,” Bucky says, incredulously.

“Coulda fooled me. You’ve hated me since I got here,” you scoff.

“Because I knew you were sent to observe me. I knew as soon as you got here that you were meant to watch over me. I’m still a threat as far as they’re concerned.”

“You arrogant son of a bitch!” You’re seething with the realization of the source of his disdain, “I was sent here to round out the team. My placement had nothing to do with keeping tabs on you. No wonder you question my every move. I can’t possibly be good at this job since the only reason I exist on this planet is to check up on Bucky fucking Barnes. Well, fuck that, Barnes, I’m damn good at my job and have skills that the team needs. Not that you ever cared to notice the value of my input!”

Bucky seemed taken aback by your reaction but still narrowed his eyes as he asked, “Why else would they send someone with a background in psychology?”

“I don’t know. What possible advantage could psychological insight have when dealing in espionage or motive?” You stare him down, your jaw steely and eyes filled with umbrage.

And he floundered as you did. His mouth worked several times as if trying to form some rebuttal but in the end his eyes met yours with clear defeat in them. “Exactly,” you sign his epitaph. “Look, you can believe whatever you want but that-”

“I believe you,” Bucky says.

You look him over, trying to determine his sincerity. It was then that your background in psychology kicks in somewhere in the back of your brain. He has a huge chip on his shoulder. A constant reminder that most people will always see him as a murderous ghost assassin rather than the tortured war hero that he is. He probably never trusts anyone’s motives until they’ve proven themselves. You were no different and knowing how the system works you can’t blame him for fearing that any new face was just meant to keep tabs on him. After all, even knowing he is free from the grasp of Hydra, the Dora Milaje still keeps tabs on him. When you can’t trust your own mind, how can you trust new faces that appear?

“Do you think that we can move past all of this?” You ask. The question seems to catch him off guard and so you elaborate to give him time, repeating what you had told Dr. Montesi. “Look, I want to be part of a team that has mutual respect for each other. If you can never give me that respect, if you can’t move past your prejudices or what happened in that cabin to see me as an asset, I don't want to work with you. I'm not asking to be friends, just co-workers, teammates, whatever you want to call it. Preferably ones who can talk without all the biting commentary.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Bucky asks quietly.

You’re taken aback by the question but answer quickly, “No.”

“Were you when we were in that cabin?” He asks, not quite meeting your eyes.

“No,” you search your brain as to why he would ask that question. “I wasn’t afraid of you. I was scared about what was happening, the lack of control, the fear of burning to death. I wasn’t scared of you physically. Mentally, I was terrified that you would tell everyone. That you would lord it over me that you had… gotten me in bed. That you would make me a laughingstock. It’s no small feat to make it to where I am as a woman but it can all be taken away just as quickly when people lose the respect you’ve earned. When they start seeing you as an object rather than a person.”

“You really thought I would do that?” Bucky asks.

“You hate me. You have since I got here and what better way to take me down a few pegs and prove that I don’t belong here? What a way to bring me to heel and force me out, right? Yes, I thought it was a possibility.” You admit everything and watch the hurt and emotions that cross his face.

“And now? Do you still think I would do that?”

“Honestly, no. For one thing, you haven’t done it. And when I read your report,it was as succinct as possible while also shining me in a good light, I realized you maybe weren’t that kind of person. Then, I-” you cut yourself off, not wanting to reveal too much.

“You?” Bucky pushes.

“I read your other reports for missions we had been on together. You keep it short but you also always mention others' contributions to the outcome, mine included. Reading them, I thought that, maybe, at some point you had started to see me as an asset. That somewhere in all of the times we worked together you had built some grudging respect for me. And if that was the case, somewhere under the asshat facade you wear, there’s a good man I haven't gotten to meet yet.”

“When you first got here, you were too friendly and I put up all my defenses. You… scared me,” Bucky admits quietly.

You nod, grasping exactly what he means. To him, you had seemed like someone with an agenda, trying to get under his skin. You decide to match his vulnerability, “I was interested in your story. I wanted to get to know the Howling Commando who was the first to fall and the last still fighting. You’re kind of a living legend.”

“So, you’re a fangirl?” He smirks.

“Uh, how very dare you. No,” you can’t help the little scoffing laugh that escapes. “More like a history buff.”

“Okay, I’ll go with that.”

You smile at each other, a feeling of comradery flowing between the two of you for the first time. But, still, you need reassurance and the question had to be asked, “So, does this mean you think that we can move past all of this and keep working together?”

“I’d like to. You?” He looks at you hopefully.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Good. That’s good,” he nods.

“Yeah. Okay, I should get going,” you look down to the cat napping in your lap. “Sorry, Alpine. Time for me to get out of here.” The cat looks up at you as you gently place her on the floor. She stretches and then looks at Bucky, letting out a loud meow before walking away.

“She’s letting me know it’s time for food,” Bucky chuckles.

“I see who’s the boss around here,” you laugh.

“Oh, 100% her,” Bucky smiles as he stands.

You were almost to the door when Bucky said your name. You turn back to him in surprise and listen as he says, “Thanks for this. For talking.”

“Yeah, of course,” you turn away again but your mind is screaming because he had used your first name. Part of you wanted to let it go, to not ask about the one thing that bothered you most about what happened. To let sleeping dogs lie and keep the new peace that had been formed between you. But you know yourself, it will haunt you and working up the courage to bring it up later would likely never happen. It felt like once the door closed behind you when you left, you may never be able to get back to the one question that you needed answered. You whirl back around, “Wait. There’s one more thing. A question I have to ask.”

“Anything. What is it?” Bucky asks nervously.

If his stomach felt anything like yours, it’s in knots with fear that all the progress that had just been made would crumble to dust once the question was asked. You watch yourself twist your hands as the words tumbled out, “When we were…at the cabin, there was this one thing that, the, uh, you, at one point you, there was, you,” frustrated with yourself you blurt out the question, “Why did you make me say your name?”

You meet his eyes, yours filled with curiosity and just a touch of accusation and his tinged with fear and… sadness? You couldn’t quite read him.

“Ah, that. I, um, everything was so beyond our control. It felt like-, we were forced into this situation. And we didn’t have a choice in what we were doing but it was…”

“A small semblance of control?” You provide.

“Yeah, but more than that. I didn’t have any control over myself as the Winter Soldier. I was always the asset or Soldat. When we were in that cabin, Hydra had control of me again and the only way I could ground myself, to remind myself I wasn’t Soldat again was that,” Bucky looks into your eyes, “I was with you. I wasn’t alone and I wanted, I- I needed to hear my name. To be reminded that I was still Bucky even if Hydra did have control of my body, my mind was still my own. That Bucky meant something to me and it wasn’t lost again. So, I made you say it. I’m sorry. I know it was me taking away more control from you but I,” he stopped, looking away. His eyes were rimmed red and his demeanor screamed the feeling of shame overtaking him.

“It’s okay.” It took a few seconds for you to form the response you felt would give you both the closure you needed. You had rarely touched another person since the incident. Touch was overstimulating and occasionally triggering to you, but leaving that behind, you reach out and cup his cheek, “I understand. It wasn’t about me and that’s what I needed to know. It’s okay… Bucky.”

He covered your hand with his own, closing his eyes and leaning into your touch, “Can you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive-”

He interrupted, seemingly unsatisfied with your denial, “I tried so hard not to take any more advantage of the situation than was necessary. I didn’t try to kiss you or force you to look at me. I just needed-”

“Bucky,” you waited until he looked at you, “I forgive you.” You nod and whisper again, “I forgive you.”

He stares at you in awe for a few moments. He reached to caress your cheek in the same way you held his. You mouth, “It’s okay” again to reassure him. You stay frozen like that for a few moments just staring into each other. You feel something shift inside of you and track when his glance slips to your lips and then back up again. Instinctively, you do the same but suddenly fear grips you. Panic begins to roll up from your stomach and your skin suddenly feels like it's being scorched by the heat of his hand on your face.

“MROW!” The loud yowl from Alpine pulls you both back to reality and you separate quickly. The cat was obviously impatient about her delayed dinner.

You let out a breathy laugh, “I’ll let you get to her dinner.”

“Uh, yeah. Dinner, right,” Bucky says. He watches your quick retreat but before you close the door he calls out, “Have a good night… doll.”

“You, too… Bucky.”

Part 4

Updates and taglist: Due to the unreliable nature of tags, I no longer keep a taglist. Updates for series will be made on Sundays Central Time Zone. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and turn on notifications for updates. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!

[heetr]

ask and you shall receive —

i’ve been so torn between jungwon and sunghoon like . both of them have this magnetism that i cannot describe

anyway, i can’t stop thinking abt a smutty scenario where the reader finds herself having to choose between the both of them and simply cannot do it so jungwon and sunghoon are like “ok, fuck that, don’t choose.”

like both guys are so down bad that they’d share the reader with each other if it meant that it made her happy ??

idk if that made sense ahshdjsj i could go into more detail but i’m feeling self conscious hiding behind my hands rn

— @yourislandgirl

💌 oh my god yes!!! you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place and as bad as they don’t want to share you they will. that’s how bad they want you 😪🤞🏽. gng shit fr

you’re looking between the both of them—they’d almost started fight just from the topic of you. “serious you’re making me pick?” you asked them both. one of the hardest decisions to date, you had to choose between two boys you liked and adored and… you didn’t know how.

“me or him,” sunghoon grunts, “if you know what’s best for you you’d pick me.” jungwon rolled his eyes at sunghoons comment. you were silent, hands on your hips as you really had to think about it. “well.. guys i can’t.. why can’t i just have you both?” you laughed trying to ease the tension in the room.

then it’s like there brains lit up at once. “deal.” they both said, coming to a conclusion because of your joke, but that’s what it was. a joke. “we can share you.. and if we’re sharing you that means.. you can have the best of both worlds.” jungwon stepped closer, sunghoon following suit.

“and i haven’t forgotten about what you said earlier—.” he chuckled. “taking us both at once, oh y/n. is one at a time not enough for you baby?” your skin ran cold, chills running down your spine. what the hell did you just create. “they say being stuck between a rock and a hard place is a bad thing,” he murmurs, smirking. “but you seem to love it.”

you instantly felt hands on your body, one running down your chest and the other down to your ass. there was a sense of possession, jealousy—“of she breaks its because of me.” sunghoon snarled. “don’t flatter yourself, fuck-face.” you mentally facepalmed. knowing you were in for one hell of a ride right now.

you sat down on the bed, deciding. ‘indulge, yolo’. kissing the both of them, letting their hands travel your body while each of yours did the same for them. each one of them just has hard as the other—probably won’t be able to take both at once—and they knew that. “we’ll make a way.” you muttered, jungwons hand slipping into your shorts while sunghoons grabbed your breast. rubbing your nipple in steady motions while jungwon spread your lips apart.

jungwon turned your face towards him. “since we’re doing this, i’ll make sure you cum harder than you ever have.

sunghoon, turning your face towards him. “and i’ll make sure he doesn’t leave you too needy. i heard his finger work when they want to.”

for them to have beef with each other, working together seemed to be the easiest thing. the way they moved. like this was planned ahead—sunghoon moving behind you while jungwon shifted in front of you. the three of you easily undressing and touching you. all the attention was on you—“suck me off while he does the hard work hm?” sunghoon whispers next to your ear. you smiled, turning around.

ass up for jungwon, leaking cunt on full display for him while sunghoon leaned against your headboard. biting harshly on his lip while waiting for you to take him. jungwons hands rested on your hips, lining himself up and pushing into you with ease. his cock dragging against your tight, velvety walls—moans leaving both of your throats.

meanwhile, sunghoons cock rested on your tongue. chest rising and falling as you swallows him whole, his hand resting on the side of your head as he guided you up and down. bobbing your head at the pace jungwon was going. “make it last, as soon as he’s done—im next.” he warned, guttural moans leaving his lips at the ruthless rhythm that flowed through the room.

[quillsnink]

"Say Please"

• You were sitting on the couch in Chan's studio, eyeing him occasionally as he was lost in editing the songs for their upcoming album, not having spoken a single word for the past hour .

• When he started lightly humming a random melody, that's when you knew he was a little bit available and probably very happy with how the editing turned out.

• He turned his chair to face you and gave you a sweet smile, flashing his dimple.

• "What's up ? You okay there baby girl ?", he asked, turning back to his laptop again while clicking something on it.

• "Can I get a hug Channie ?", you pouted, while making puppy dog eyes at him.

• He turned his chair back towards you, with one eyebrow raised, his serious demeanor now replaced with a playful smirk.

• "Say please", a teasing smile now tugging at his lips, his eyes sparkling with mischief, expecting you to clearly get shy or roll your eyes at him.

• You looked at him with both eyebrows raised slightly. Moments and words like these still made you shy and surprised at how flirty he could really be, but today you were having none of his games.

• So you sighed and decided to take matters into your own hands today, suddenly feeling a surge of boldness.

• You stood up and walked towards him, your movements confident and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his as if you were quietly challenging him.

• Chan leaned back slightly in his chair, his smirk faltering and suddenly feeling flustered, his flirty demeanor from a second ago, now completely replaced with shyness and anticipation as you came closer. "Wait, what are you".

• You came and stood in between his legs which were already parted and you leaned down, your face mere inches away from that of his now. Your thumb brushed his lower lip, gently tracing it as you tilted your head slightly, your eye contact still intact, and you whispered, your voice soft yet confident and sultry, "please".

• For a moment, the room was dead silent except for the muffled sounds of an upbeat song coming from the practice room beside his studio. His dark brown eyes bore into yours, searching for any trace of hesitation or teasing. But all he saw was your confidence, and it completely threw him off balance.

• His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but no words came out. A faint blush spread across his cheeks, and his usual calm, composed demeanor seemed to crumble under your gaze.

• "Oh my goodness, what is she doing ? No no no I cannot with this, I think my heart just stopped" , he kept thinking, his eyes still wide open in shock and surprise.

• He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure, but his voice came out slightly shaky. "I, uh... I guess... you really wanted that hug, huh?"

• You smirked, stepping back slightly but not breaking eye contact. "Is that a yes or a no then, Christopher?"

• The way you said his full name made his stomach do flips. Without another word, he stood up, towering over you slightly as he closed the distance. In one swift motion, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a warm, firm embrace. His hands rested securely on your lower back, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest.

• "You win, okay ? But don’t think I’m letting you tease me like that without consequences", he murmured into your ear, his voice low.

• You laughed softly. "Ooh what consequences are we talking about Chris ? What are you going to do to me huh ?", you asked, still hugging him tightly as you breathed in his manly cologne. "God, he smells so good", you thought, inhaling more of his scent.

• He smirked, leaning in close so his lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, "You’ll find out soon enough Y/Nie", his grip tightening as if trying to pull you even closer, trying to fill any possible space between you.

• You couldn’t help the shiver that ran down your spine as he pulled away, his teasing smirk firmly back in place. But as he sat back in his chair, the flush on his face betrayed just how much you had affected him.

• She’s going to be the death of me, my God, I still can't get over her touch on my lips, he thought, as he shyly turned towards the screen, now with a water bottle in hand, your gesture clearly leaving his throat dry.

A/N : Hope you liked it. Do like, comment, reblog and follow if you did. You can find the rest of my masterlist here.

[thimbleandakiss]

You Shouldn't Be Here

Hufflepuff!Reader x Fred Weasley

Summary: After a rough night, you sneak into Gryffindor Tower to bug your sleepy boyfriend.

Content: Fluff, mild angst, mild cursing, and Umbridge hate

Cross-posted on Ao3

"Bloody hell- what in Merlin's name-"

You quickly covered his mouth with your hand, grinning lopsidedly. 

"Shhh, Freddie," You hush with a small giggle, "You'll wake the others." 

You'd ensured the crimson curtains were drawn tight around Fred's fourposter, but there was only so much privacy fabric could provide. 

Fred grabbed hold of your wrist and effortlessly pulled it away from his mouth. He pressed a quick kiss to your knuckles before giving you an incredulous look. 

"What time is it, love?" He grumbled. 

"Oh, not long after one o'clock," You replied casually.

"And you're in Gryffindor Tower." 

You nodded, looking quite pleased with yourself, "Yes."

"...But you're Hufflepuff."

"And?"

"You shouldn't be here."

You raised a single eyebrow which probably couldn't be seen well in the gloom. "Are you, Fred Weasley, complaining about me breaking school rules?"

He huffed and shifted his weight, so he's sitting up just a little on the headboard while you straddled lap. His hands rested casually on your hips, thumbs mindlessly stroking the curve of the bone and your own arms slung across his shoulders. 

"No, not at all, love, it's just-" He sighed, "With that foul Umbridge woman running amok, consequences are a lot more... permanent."

Even in the low light of his dorm room, you could see the worry that shone in his eyes. Fred was always one for mischief, but he was hesitant to string you along in it. He had no issue whatsoever with throwing himself headfirst into danger, him and George, because they'd be the only ones to suffer the consequences. With you involved? ...He never wanted you hurt. He had this intense urge to keep you protected at all times. So, while he certainly enjoyed the fact that you were willing to bend the rules to be with him and get yourself in trouble just to cause mischief with him, he always found himself personally responsible whenever you got hurt. 

Your expression darkened slightly at the mention of the Professor. Your hands tightened behind his head, and the scars you'd kept hidden there burning like they had when they'd been freshly etched onto your skin. 

"Believe me, Freddie, I'm intimately acquainted with Umbridge's definition of consequences," You muttered, turning your face away slightly. 

Fred tensed beneath you, sitting up a little straighter. "What haven't you told me?" He demanded quietly but firmly. 

You shook your head. "It's nothing important-"

He cut you off and grabbed your chin to force you to look at him. "Bullshit," he said with careful calm. "Don't tell me what I do and don't find important."

The callouses of his hands scraped gently against the skin of your chin, and though his grip was firm, he's always made sure to be gentle. He'd never admit it to your face, but he treated you like the most precious, fragile thing. He'd probably die from the sheer guilt alone if he ever hurt you. 

You swallowed and, staring into his warm brown eyes which reflected the moonlight like stars across his pupils, found yourself unable to lie to him further.

"...I had detention with her today..." You admitted quietly, looking down. 

Fred let out a stream of colorful, and arguably creative, curses, dropping your chin and returning his hand to your hip. "When?" He asked stiffly, the muscles in his jaw working

"I got off and came straight here."

He cursed again. "She kept you there until one in the morning?!" 

You shrugged. "I suppose I have thicker skin than she anticipated," you mumbled with forced casualty. 

"I'm going to kill that woman." A shiver passed up your spine at the sheer conviction with which he spoke. "What was the reason for it?"

"She caught me consoling a second-year student about his own detention. I was trying to use magic to take away the pain. And, as you well know, all magic is now banned in the halls." 

Fred looked downright outraged. "She threw you in detention for comforting a child?" 

Another shrug. "You know Umbridge," You muttered, though it was of little comfort. "I wonder if she's somehow part dementor. She sucks the soul out of everything."

Fred scoffed lightly. Then, he lifted one of his large hands and set it gently on your arm. "Let me see," He asked softly. 

You knew exactly what he was referring to, and withdrew your hand from behind his neck, angling it so the fresh, angry scars caught in the moonlight. They read I must not set a bad example. 

Fred gently rubbed his thumb across the words, a few locks of his ginger hair falling in front of his eyes. Despite the situation, you smiled, loving the sight. With your spare hand, you gently brushed his hair off his forehead, and he glanced at you, his gaze briefly softening. 

"...This is some bloody bullshit," He muttered finally, intertwining your fingers. 

You chuckled softly. You knew he was upset and angry on your behalf, but you couldn't help but find his inability to adequately express it endearing. 

"It's alright, love," you murmured, running your fingers through his hair, "I'm alright."

He looked at you like he seriously doubted this but chose not to say anything. 

There're a few moments of comfortable silence, before you take a breath. "...Can I stay?" You asked hesitantly. 

He once again looked as if he was about to say something then decided against it. He sighed, "You want to?"

You nodded. 

"Alright. You can stay. But I'm not covering your ass if Professor Sprout gets mad at you for breaking curfew." Despite his words, you knew deep down that he would, in fact, try to cover your ass if it came to it.

You smiled gleefully and quickly shucked off your robe and pulled off your yellow and black tie, tossing them to the ground. You both knew George and Lee wouldn't say anything if they saw your clothes on the ground. They'd probably choose to actively avoid the topic. 

Fred reached over to his dresser and grabbed a spare jumper, handing it to you. It was so oversized that, if you stood, it'd reach to your knees. The extra room in the jumper allowed you to unbutton and slide off your school shirt without ever having to be actually shirtless. 

After the white fabric joined the pile on the floor, you leaned forward and settled against Fred's chest as he, too, laid back down, one arm behind his head, and the other wrapped securely around your waist. You lifted your face to smile at him and found him already grinning down at you. Propping yourself up slightly by your forearms, you planted a gentle kiss to his lips, one he happily returned. 

"Goodnight, Freddie," You whispered as you laid your head back down, closing your eyes and listening to his heartbeat. 

"Goodnight, love," He murmured back softly. 

He rubbed his thumb back and forth soothingly against the small of your back, just to let you know that he was still there, still with you. You knew the moment he started losing consciousness, because it was the same moment the reassuring motion ceased. 

It didn't matter much, however, because it wasn't long after that the sound of his soft breathing, and the quiet, comforting strength of his arm around you sent you into a blissful sleep. 

[haloeffvct]

Charms Assignment - Theodore Nott

Pairings: Theodore Nott x Reader

Summary: Theo has offered to help Y/N in charms but he gets a little distracted. 

Warnings: mature themes, sexual tension, fingering, choking, praise kink, degradation kink, semi public. bad writing. there's probably more. 

The sun had gone down, leaving the library in a warm glow. Theo had charmed a few floating candles over top of your work so that you could continue on with your charms assignment. You’ve been at it for hours. Growing impatient and restless, no longer able to focus on your assignment.

Your hand cramps. Placing the quill down you stretch your hand rubbing the sore muscles. Leaning back in your chair you look over to Theo, who sits hunched in his chair, scribbling furiously on his parchment. His glasses are perched precariously low on his nose.

You remember when you first started the assignment and he had put them on. You could barely contain yourself from squirming in your seat and clenching your thighs together to relieve the ache in your core. There was something about glasses on Theodore Nott that made the man irresistible, not that he wasn’t already devastatingly handsome without them.

Theo must have felt your stare for he looks up at his parchment. His dark eyes looking to you with a raised brow. 

You can feel your cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Do you think we can take a break?” You ask him as you lift your arms above your head and arch your back a little to relieve the sore muscles. 

You can feel his heated gaze on you. The way his gaze lingers on your raised arms above your head and then slowly moving down to reach the sliver of skin revealed to him from your blouse being rising.

“Yeah, alright,” He says, putting down his quill and relaxing back into his chair. Taking off his glasses he rolls his neck, hissing in pain at the tension. 

“Are you alright?” You ask. 

“M’Alright,” He replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Must have pulled a muscle in my neck.” 

“No doubt,” You chuckle. “ You’ve been hunched over working on this assignment for hours.” 

Theo narrows his eyes at you. “I do not hunch,” He counters. 

“Oh yes you do,” You giggle, shaking your head at him. “Sit back,” You instruct as you get up from your chair and make your way behind him. “I can help.”

Standing behind him you hesitate, your hands raised to his neck hovering just ever so slightly above his skin. Even without touching him you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. The smell of cigarettes and sandalwood greet your nose and your head swims with inappropriate thoughts. 

His hands in your hair, his lips kissing and biting your neck, his weight pressing into you, as his dark eyes bore hungrily into you. 

You shake your head to get rid of the thoughts. You shouldn’t be thinking of him like that. You were just doing him a favor. 

As soon as your hands are placed on his shoulders he goes rigid. His shoulders tensing uncomfortably under your grip. 

“Sh...” You say quietly in his ear. “Relax..”

You can feel his shoulders relax, dropping from their tense state. You run your hands over his broad shoulders and then to the sides of his neck. At first you massage gently, afraid to hurt him. But when a soft moan, that could only be deciphered by the silence of the library, reaches your ears you massage firmer.

“Merlin…” He swears when you reach a particular knot in his neck.

You chuckle as you continue to massage the knots on his neck. “Does it feel good?” You ask.

His eyes close and he hums blissfully as you find another knot to work on. “Fuck yes,” He says. His voice is gravelly and deep, obviously enjoying the massage you’re giving him.

His voice sends a tingle down your spine shooting right down to your core. Your panties are damp and you can feel the stickiness between your thighs.

Suddenly he grabs your hand at his neck. “I have some knots on my shoulder do you think you can get them f’me?” He asks, his dark eyes staring up at you with indecipherable heat.

You blush under his gaze. “Of course,” You say softly, moving your hands from his neck to his shoulders.

But he grabs you, pulling you in front of him and tugging you so you straddle his lap. Your legs bracket each side of his thighs, thick and muscular from playing quidditch. You’re hovering ever so slightly over him, but not for long before Theo grabs your hips and pulls you down. Sitting you right on his hard cock.

A whimper falls from your lips, his hardness nudging against your neglected clit.

“I think this will be a better angle for you. Don’t you think?” He asks with a smirk on his face.

He clearly knows what he’s doing teasing you like this. You decide to proceed, trying your best to ignore his prodding length pressed deliciously against your heat.

Taking a shuddering breath you nod at him. 

Letting your hands begin their work on his shoulders you can feel his breathing deepen. His hands find your hips gripping them harshly before running his hands along your waist, just barely grazing the side of your breast.

You try not to act affected as his hands continue to smooth over different parts of your body. Your breathing gets trapped in your throat when his large hands flatten down your back and drift over your ass.

Theo leans into your ear, his warm breath tickling. “I can feel how wet you are and I haven’t even touched you yet,” He says, his voice deep and sultry.

His hands that drifted over your ass grabs it harshly, pressing you tightly against him and making you gasp. He chuckles, massaging one cheek,“You're practically dripping for me.”

You can feel your face heat with embarrassment. You’re about to get up and tell Theo to forget this ever happened when he rolls his hips up into yours. A moan slips from your lips and your grip on his shoulder tightens.

“Don’t shy away from me now.” Theo purrs. His other hand that doesn’t grip your ass grabs your jaw, his fingers digging almost painfully into your cheeks. “Not when you’ve been sitting there for hours all wet and needy for me.”

You tremble under his grip, the firmness of his cock nudging all your spots. “H-how did you know?” You ask breathlessly.

He smirks, “You think I didn’t notice every time I put my glasses on you clench your pretty thighs?” He replies with his hands smoothing up your thighs. One of his hands dipping to your inner thigh getting close to your heat.

He pulls your face so that your lips are barely touching. His eyes looking into your face. The dark brown of his eyes swirling with hunger and lust. “You poor thing,” He says huskily. “Sitting here pussy soaked and begging for me.”

You whimper quietly, his words making you even wetter. Theo’s hand rests on your inner thigh, his fingers just centimeters away from your aching core. You feel like you're in a daze, the ache between your thighs nearly unbearable. You want to grab his hand and shove it in your panties, but you don’t. Knowing Theo would never let you cum unless you did as he asked.

He turns your head to the side, his lips leaving butterfly kisses along the side of your neck. You moan rolling your hips against his to relieve some of the pain.

“You’ve been so patient for me,” He says against the skin. “Do you think you deserve to cum?” He asks.

“Yes,” You nod desperately.

He chuckles. He trails his tongue up the side of your neck to the shell of your ear. You gasp and the sensation makes you tremble.

“Beg me for it,” He demands.

His left hand rubs between the valley of your breasts, his hand creeping up your neck before enclosing it in his grip. Your mouth drops open in a pant. His right hand just barely grazing the side of your panties.

You whine when his hand doesn’t move. “Please, please, please make me cum Theo.” You say looking at him with pleading eyes. “Make me feel good. Please.”

He smirks his hand finally running over the front of your damp panties causing you to shake. “Only because you sound so sweet when you beg.”

He takes his time running his hand over your panties, feeling the wet lace under the palm of his hand. But you need more. You grind your hips against his hand, seeking for more friction, but as soon as you move he pulls his hand away.

His grip on your neck tightens and he pulls his face towards yours. His hot breath fans against your face. “ Be still. Or I won't let you cum,” He threatens.

You want to cry. The ache in your core is bordering on painful. “Please Theo,” You whine. “Please touch me. I need to cum please.”

“Aw, does my baby want to cum?” He asks mockingly. You feel Theo pull your panties aside, his middle finger just grazing your entrance, but it’s enough to make you mewl.

Before you can even answer he slams a finger inside of you making you moan loudly and clutch his shoulders. “You dirty whore,” He says as he curls his finger inside you.

He finds the spot that makes you see stars easily. The spot you can never reach by yourself. Slowly he begins pumping his finger inside of you, your slick leaving no resistance.

“Fuck you’re so wet,” He growls before sticking a second finger in.

You throw your head back with a moan. Not caring anymore that you were in the library and anyone could catch you at any minute. If anything it turned you on more.

Theo picks up speed, fingerfucking you roughly. His fingers nudge the perfect spot every time. You can feel your orgasm growing each time his fingers enter you.

“Look at you all fucked just from my fingers,” Theo grunts in your ear. “Are you going to cum for me?” He asks.

“Fuck, yes,” You moan. You feel the coil inside you get tighter.

“Rub your clit f’me,” He rasps.

Your hand drifts down your stomach and down to your clit. You’re so close you can feel the coil about to snap. You rub your puffy clit, a loud moan escaping your lips. “Such a good girl rubbing your clit for me.”

Theos words spur you on making your hand move faster. “God Theo! I’m gonna cum.”

Theo’s hand doesn’t stop. The sound of his fingers working your pussy fills the air. “Cum for me.”

That’s all it takes for the coil to snap.

Your orgasm is intense, your mouth opening in a silent scream. You're grinding your hips into Theo’s hand, your own still rubbing your clit ferociously.

He fucks you until you’ve ridden your orgasm. When you slump against him and begin to twitch from overstimulation. His hand that’s still wrapped around your neck brings your mouth to his in a heated kiss. His tongue dancing with yours.

He pulls away as he pulls his fingers out of you. He lifts his fingers to his mouth staring deeply into your eyes as he licks his fingers clean. Before he connects his mouth back to yours.

His tongue joins yours in a dance. You can taste your essence on his tongue.

God, this man was going to be the death of her. 

[coolemmasulivan2]

A Beautiful Mess | 3

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Two neighbors who can’t stand each other, until an accidental kiss changes everything.

Word count: 3049

You can read part 1 here, part 2 here and part 4 here.

Right now, I'm shameless Screamin' my lungs out for ya Not afraid to face it I need you more than I want to

The first thing you registered as you woke up was the pounding in your head, like someone was smashing a drum inside your skull. The second was the blinding light hitting your face. You never slept with the curtains open.

"Ugh, my head." You groaned, pressing a hand to your head.

Blinking against the brightness, you forced your eyes open, only to realise, very quickly, that you were not in your bedroom. Your heart stopped and your eyes widened.

You looked around the unknown bedroom. The other side of the bed was unmade and there were clothes scattered on the floor. A pair of pants. A shirt. A man's shirt.

The bedroom door was open, and the distant sound of running water caught your attention.

"Oh my god. No, no, no." You lifted the covers. You were wearing your underwear and that was all you had on. "Noooo!" You groaned, dropping your head into your hands.

What did I do? You questioned yourself. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to piece together the night before. You remembered drinking. Dancing. Meeting a guy at the bar. Eric, right? Had you slept with Eric?

The sound of a door opening, made you open your eyes. You looked up, but you wished you hadn't.

Appearing at the doorway, drying his damp curls with a white towel, was none other than Lando Norris.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He had another towel slung low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his skin, his toned chest on full display. It could only be a nightmare. Right? Right?

Lando smirked, breaking the silence. "Look who finally decided to wake up. Thought you were dead for a second." You stared, completely frozen. "What? Cat got your tongue?" That snapped you out of your trance.

You jumped out of bed, immediately regretting it when a wave of nausea hit you. "What the hell am I doing here?"

Lando's smirk deepened. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, enjoying your state too much.

"You don't remember?" He asked you, looking you up and down.

You followed his gaze and realised you were basically naked. Yanking the bed covers up to your chest, you shot him a glare.

"Don't need to cover up." He chuckled. "I already saw everything last night." A shiver running down your spine.

"I was drunk!"

"So was I."

Your grip on the sheets tightened. "What happened?" You asked him, not really wanting to hear the answer.

Lando dragged his tongue over his teeth, eyes glinting with amusement. "Come on, you're not that naive."

Your heart nearly stopped. "No."

"Yes."

"No, wa-- Oh my god!" To your absolute horror, Lando dropped the towel that was around his hips. You turned around and squeezed your eyes shut. "What the fuck are you doing, Norris?"

Lando laughed, completely unbothered. "Nothing you haven't seen before."

"I HAVEN'T!"

"You sure? Because that's not what you were screaming last night."

"Shut up!" You turned back around, cautiously peeking through your fingers, but thankfully, he was already wearing pants. Your mind was a chaotic mess. This couldn't have happened. Even drunk, you would never sleep with Lando. "If you tell anyone about this, I swear I will kill you."

Lando chuckled. "Oh, don't worry. No need to tell anyone, I'm pretty sure the whole building heard you last night. Hell, probably all of Monaco."

Your jaw dropped. "You're disgusting."

"A disgusting man you slept with." You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at his face. He caught it effortlessly, smirking. Spotting your dress and purse draped over an armchair, you made a beeline for them, grabbing them quickly. "Not staying for breakfast?" Lando teased.

"Go fuck yourself." Tightening the sheet around your body, you stormed out of the bedroom.

"Hey! That's my sheet!" He shouted, standing up from the bed. You didn't stop. "Y/n?" Before he could say anything else, you slammed it shut behind you, making the frames on the wall tremble.

He let out a chuckle, shaking his head. Messing with you was way too much fun.

Lando lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head. The room was dimly lit by the city lights outside, casting soft shadows across the walls. The only sound was your slow, steady breathing beside him.

He had told himself he'd leave once you were asleep. That had been the plan. Carry you to bed, stay until you dozed off, and then head to the other room. But for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to move.

Maybe it was the way you looked so peaceful, completely different from the stubborn woman who drove him insane daily. Or maybe it was the way your face changed every few minutes, like you were dreaming about something.

Lando let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face. Just as he was debating finally getting up, you stirred beside him.

You shifting under the covers, eyes barely open, still very much drunk. Then, without warning, you reached for the hem of your dress and started pulling it over your head.

Lando shot upright. "What the hell are you doing?"

You huffed in frustration, your dress halfway off. "It's hot."

"So?"

With absolutely zero hesitation, you stripped the dress off completely, tossing it somewhere on the floor. Now, you were left in nothing but your underwear in his bed, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Lando swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his curls. This cannot be happening.

"Jesus, Y/n." He averted his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can't just--" He sighed. "For fuck's sake." Muttering to himself, he grabbed one of his t-shirts from the closet and turned back toward you. "Put this on!" He said, holding it out.

You made a sleepy noise, barely cracking one eye open. "No."

"Yes."

You groaned and lazily swatted his hand away, turning over so your back was to him. "Too hot." You mumbled.

Lando sat there, t-shirt still in his hand, staring at you. "Unbelievable." He muttered under his breath. Then and idea hit him.

Oh, she was going to lose her mind.

You stumbled into your apartment, slamming the door shut behind you, your breath uneven and your cheeks burning from the humiliation.

Sleeping with Lando Norris was the last thing that should have happened. He was a womanizer, a nightmare and a insufferable idiot.

You groaned loudly, collapsing onto the couch and burying your face in a cushion. "Why did this happen?" You mumbled against the fabric before letting out a muffled scream of frustration. "I hate him. I hate him. I hate him."

You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping that when you opened them, the last twelve hours would magically rewrite themselves. But the image of him, half-naked, smirking, teasing, was burned into your mind like a bad tattoo.

Kill me now. You thought to yourself.

With a deep breath, you forced yourself up and pulled your phone from your purse. Six missed calls. Eleven messages. You called the first person on the list, already heading to the bathroom. You needed a shower. A long, scalding shower to wash away the disaster that was last night.

"Where the hell have you been? We've been trying to call you all night!" She practically shouted into the phone, the second she picked up.

You winced. "Sorry, I drank too much and... passed out." You rubbed your forehead, catching sight of your reflection in the mirror. Mascara smudged under your eyes. Hair an absolute mess. "I need to ask you--"

"Passed out where? And why did you leave with Norris?" Your friend interrupted.

You froze. Your brain scrambled to piece together her words. You remembered being outside with Eric and Lando. But just the two of them.

"Wait-- you guys let me leave with Lando?" Your voice rose, panic creeping in. "Why didn't you stop me?"

"Y/n, we didn't know you left with him!"

You frowned. "But—how do you—?"

"There are photos and videos of you leaving with him." She said bluntly. "In his car. They're everywhere." A cold shiver ran down your spine. You felt your legs go weak as you gripped the bathroom counter for support. "I thought you were hitting it off with that other guy." Your friend continued. "How the hell did you end up with Lando?"

You ran a hand through your tangled hair, your mind racing. "I-- I don't know." You admitted, panic settling in. "I don't remember! But we—" You stopped yourself just in time, biting your lip. No way in hell were you telling anyone about what may or may not have happened last night. "I'm never drinking again. This was a terrible idea."

Monday had rolled around again, far sooner than you would've liked. You hadn't seen Lando since you stormed out of his apartment wrapped in his bedsheet, and you had no intention of crossing paths with him anytime soon.

But somehow, his fans had found your Instagram account and the follow requests had been insane.

You'd seen the photos and the videos. And, yeah, it looked bad. Really bad. His hand around your waist, your head resting against his chest. The way he leaned in close, like he actually cared. Anyone looking at those pictures would think there was something more than just hatred between you two.

And then there was that picture. That one that made you blush like a tomato.

Your head rested against his chest, looking up at him, while he brushed a stray piece of hair from your face. He had this soft look, like you were the only person in the world.

You could easily pass off as a pair of lovebirds, but that was far from the truth.

"Miss Y/n?" A small voice interrupted your thoughts.

You blinked and looked down to see Clare, one of the little girls from your class, staring up at you with big and curious eyes.

"Yes, Clare?" You asked, forcing a smile as the rest of the kids ran out for playtime.

She motioned for you to come closer, so you bent down.

"You and your boyfriend look cute together!" She whispered in your ear. Your breath hitched. "My mommy showed me the pictures. She said he looks at you like my daddy looks at her."

The innocent compliment made your cheeks burn and for a split second, your heart fluttered, before the reality of it all came crashing back. Before you could respond, Clare giggled and ran off to join her friends, leaving you absolutely stunned.

Lando leaned back in his chair, headset on, fingers flying across the keyboard as he played. The glow of the screen illuminated his focused expression.

"Mate, you're actually terrible." Max groaned as Lando missed another shot in the game.

"Shut up!" Lando shot back, laughing.

There was a brief silence as they played, until Max broke it with a teasing voice.

"So… you and Y/n, huh?"

Lando's fingers froze for half a second before he recovered. "What?"

Max chuckled. "Oh, don't play dumb. I saw the pictures. The whole world saw the pictures."

Lando sighed, already knowing where the conversation was going. "There's nothing going on and you know it."

"Uh-huh." Max said, clearly enjoying himself. "You looked pretty cozy. Hand in her hair, staring at her like she was the last slice of pizza…"

"I was just helping her." Lando muttered, trying to focus on the game. "She was drunk. I wasn't going to let her walk home. I'm not a piece of shit."

"And the part where you like her?"

Lando's character nearly got shot in the game. "I don't!"

Max laughed. "Yeah, yeah, sure. You hate her. That's why you haven't stopped talking about her since that night, right?"

"You're the one that brought her up." Lando groaned. "And if I talk about her because it's because she's annoying!"

Max hummed. "Right, but remind me again, why did you stay in bed with her until she fell asleep?"

Lando gritted his teeth. "Because she was drunk, and I didn’t want her to choke on her own vomit. I'm already regretting telling you that."

Max snorted. "Sure, sure. And the fact that you haven't been with anyone else since that night has nothing to do with her, right?"

"Shut up and play the game."

"I'll shut up when you admit you like her."

"That's never gonna happen."

"Okay, then. Guess I'll just keep sending you those cute photos the fans keep posting."

"Maxxxx!"

You were exhausted. Work had drained every last bit of energy from you, and to make things worse, dinner with your parents had been nothing short of an interrogation.

"So, who is this Lando?"

"Are you dating him?"

"You two look very close in those photos!"

Your mother had shown you the pictures as if you hadn't already seen them a thousand times. Your father, usually indifferent to your personal life, had even said: "He's a race car driver, right? Those guys are trouble."

No matter how many times you insisted that nothing was going on, they wouldn't let up. By the time you finally left, your head was pounding.

All you wanted was to get home, take a shower, and sleep for the next ten hours.

As you pulled into the underground garage of your building, your eyes immediately locked onto your parking spot and the sight of Lando's McLaren sitting right in it. Again.

Your blood boiled instantly. "That prick! He does it on porpuse." You smacked the steering wheel in frustration.

You sat there for a moment, until an idea formed in your mind. With a smirk, you pulled up right behind his car, blocking him in.

Getting out, you slammed the door shut, crossed your arms, and admired your handiwork. Let's see him try to pull out now.

Before you could take three steps, you heard footsteps. Lando appeared, dressed in all black, keys in hand, clearly about to go out. The moment he saw your car blocking his, his expression changed.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He snapped, walking toward you.

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did you think my parking spot was yours?"

Lando exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls. "I was only going to grab my phone. I left it upstairs. Relax."

You let out a dry laugh. "Relax?" You gestured to his car. "How about you stop acting like you own the damn building?"

His jaw clenched. "Y/n, move your car. I'm in a hurry."

You tilted your head. "Why should I? Pick another one. It's not like you only own one car."

His frustration was evident, just as much as yours. "I swear it's the last time I park in your spot."

"I don't believe you."

"Move!"

"I don't want to."

Lando stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're impossible."

"And you're an idiot. Stop thinking you're above everybody."

"For a kindergarten teacher, you sure are a nightmare."

"For an F1 driver, you sure are slow."

Lando opened his mouth and let out a sarcastic chuckle. And then, before you could process what was happening, his hands were on your face, and his lips crashed against yours.

You gasped, your body instinctively responding as his mouth moved against yours, rough and urgent. His hands cupped your face, pressing you back against your car as if he was trying to prove something.

And for a second, you let him. Because despite everything, it felt good. Too good.

But then, reality hit you like a truck. You shoved him away hard, breathing heavily. And before you could stop yourself, your hand flew up, slapping him across the face. The sharp crack echoed in the garage. Lando's head snapped to the side, his jaw tightening.

"You asshole." You spat, your heart pounding.

Lando exhaled sharply, his tongue running over his bottom lip. He didn’t say a word. He just stared at you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, without another word, you turned on your heel, stormed to your car, and pulled out of the garage, leaving him standing there.

You drove out of the garage like a maniac, the tires screeching against the pavement. Reckless. Impulsive. Exactly how Lando drove.

And then, out of nowhere, tears started spilling down your cheeks.

You didn't remember the last time you had cried, but now the sobs came fast and uncontrollable, a lump forming in your throat so tight it felt like you couldn't breathe. Your vision blurred, and your hands trembled against the wheel.

With shaking fingers, you pulled over and leaned your forehead against the steering wheel, trying to suppress the pain that had crept up without warning.

You couldn't believe. All of this for a selfish prick like Lando?

Lando had canceled his plans. He had barely made it through the elevator doors before frustration consumed him, his feet carrying him straight to his apartment. The moment he stepped inside, he let out a sharp exhale and dropped his keys onto the counter, running a hand through his curls.

His whole body was buzzing with anger, confusion and something else. Something he didn't want to name.

He didn't know why he had kissed you. No. That was a lie.

He knew. Deep down, he fucking knew. He had wanted to kiss you since the first day he saw you, since the moment he moved into the building. But now that feeling he had buried and denied, had come crashing back to life because of that stupid accidental kiss at the school.

Lando groaned, gripping his face as he collapsed onto the couch. "Fuckkk!!!" His voice echoed through the empty apartment. He tilted his head back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. "You don't like her, Lando!" He muttered to himself. "It's just a stupid… crush. Sexual tension. That's all it is." His jaw clenched. "She's never going to like you like that. She hates you."

But, don't you hate her back? A voice whispered at the back of his mind.

Lando swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. And for the first time, he admitted the truth. "I don't!"

Tags:

@lilorose25 @downsideup1989 @anayaverse @ln4-cl16-world @chlmtfilms @444-leqz @joannaln4 @notarshia @willowsnook @goossha-blog @wakasays @linnygirl09 @green--beanie @whisperofthewild @n3versatisfied @rbv3rstappen @guaaafiiburg @fat-meh @freyathehuntress

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (10)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 10.4k

Warnings: mentions of knives, dead parents, death; talk of arranged marriage; suggestive themes; heated make-out session; self-doubt; small mention of kidnapping

Author’s Note: Omg we are nearing the end here. Only the epilogue is left. Thank you for sticking with me! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Your wrist tingles from where Bucky’s fingers had pressed too gently against your skin.

He has soothed the bruise left by Lord Ward, but there is nothing to be done for the ache settling in your chest.

It’s been silent for a few moments between you two. It’s thick and charged with some kind of electric buzz you can’t quite make sense of. But it makes you feel shy all of a sudden.

“You should probably go,” you state weakly, barely able to force the words past your lips. “They will be here soon.”

Bucky lets out a slow, unreadable breath. He gets to his feet, shaking the water droplets off his hand. The one he used to dip your hurt wrist into the cool water of the fountain. “Then we’ll have to be quick.”

Your head snaps up and you quickly get to your feet yourself. Something frigid curls down your spine. “What?”

His expression is blank, but his jaw is set.

“We leave. Now.”

His words rattle through your ribs, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

“We? Bucky I- We can’t-”

“Can’t what?” he cuts in, almost flatly, but with a determination underlying it. “You think I’ll walk away and leave you to that prick? You think I’ll let them lock you in here and make you play queen to some bastard who doesn’t deserve you?”

Your throat is thick and you swallow hard. “I don’t have a choice.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You do have a choice, princess.” He says the title like it’s a curse, something wretched and wrong, something that shouldn’t be wrapped around your throat like a noose. “And you damn well know it.”

You narrow your eyes. “I never had a choice in anything.” Your voice is rough.

“You do now.”

A sharp breath pushes out of your lungs. “How?”

Bucky leans forward, eyes forcing yours to stay locked together, looking at you with the precision of a man who is hoping for something again after a long time.

“You come with me.”

Something wild careens through your ribs, something intoxicating and terrifying.

He says it so easily. As if you could just go ahead and say yes, grab his hand, and run off into the woods again.

And god help you, you want to say yes.

But it is not that simple.

You shake your head slowly, fingers digging into the fabric of your gown. “This is not about me.”

Bucky’s jaw works hard. His lip twitches “Like hell, it ain’t.”

“I just- I want to help those people. The townspeople. I want to help them.” Your voice is breaking, twisting into something unfamiliar. “They deserve it. They-”

“-don’t need another noble locked in a fuckin’ tower, paraded through halls built on their backs,” Bucky snaps. His tone is not rising but it is low, carrying an edge.

Your breath hitches.

Bucky presses on, voice not unkind, but still strong with sharpness. Coiled with something he’s barely keeping in check. “You think you’ll be helping them in here?” He throws a deliberate glance at the castle. “Sitting and rotting on a throne built by a man you don’t love?” He scoffs. “C'mon, darlin’, you’re smarter than that.”

Your pulse roars in your ears. “And what do you think I should do then? Run away? Disappear?” You bite out the words, frustration bleeding through your fear. “How does that help them?”

Bucky exhales through his nose, the breath fanning over your face. He shakes his head, running a hand along his stubble, but keeping his eyes on you.

“I don’t have all the answers, princess,” he says then, softening his tone but not the intensity of his voice. “But I know this - staying here, being his wife, playing their game - it won’t fix a damn thing. And I know that if you let them take you, you’ll never get out.”

The churning in your stomach deepens, turning around in slow circles only to leave you stranded and feeling helpless. Again. You hate it. You hate feeling helpless.

Bucky is considering you, looking at you so closely, you can’t hold his gaze anymore.

“You really wanna stay here and marry that bastard?” Bucky’s voice is rough, quiet, edged with something that might be disbelief. Might be anger. Might be hurt. Might be disappointment. Might be something else entirely - something sharper, something that writhers in your gut and mind.

Your breath comes out shuddering. “It’s not about wanting to.”

Bucky exhales a low breath. He swallows. “That’s not an answer, princess.”

You look away. Sweeping your eyes over the many flowers around you. Perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of forget-me-nots to pretend they are Bucky’s eyes so you would not have to look at the actual ones.

His gaze does not sway from you. He watches you carefully, too carefully, eyes tracing your face like he is searching for every smallest twitch of your features.

There is no expectation in his eyes, no demand. But there is something else there. Something sensitive. Hopeful. Unsure. But still so unwavering. A belief that you can make this choice. That you should.

But it is crushing you.

Because no, you do not want to marry that man.

But what if it is the right thing to do? What if, in time, you could make a difference from within the castle? You could be queen - a good queen. You could pass laws that bring food to the villages, mend the wounds your father never cared to see. If you stay and play their game and become the ruler like how you should, then maybe you could make their lives better.

But would they let you?

Or would they mold you into something unrecognizable before you ever had the chance?

They would see to that. Lord Ward would see to that.

Your husband.

The thought might as well break you.

You see it too clearly now - the life you would have under this thumb. His queen. His prize. You’d be draped in silks, painted and polished to be something pleasing, something obedient. Your words, your thoughts, your very breath would be dictated by men who see you as nothing more than a means to an end.

It is basically the life you’ve always lived, only worse.

Would you be locked away in golden rooms, paraded in pearls and brocade, expected to smile while they rule through you?

Would they let you make a difference?

Or would they hollow you out until you are nothing but a puppet? A shell?

Bucky is still watching you.

“Think you’ll be happy with that guy?” he asks, quieter than before. There is something pained in the way he says it.

It’s an absurd question. Happiness. What does that have to do with any of this? You made yourself believe that you were happy once. Even before the forest, before the lies, before knowing of your father’s sins that made your ribs crack open and bleed. Before Bucky.

You always forced yourself to believe you had been happy.

But even if you weren’t, there still is no point in that question.

“It does not matter if I am happy.” Your voice sounds hollow. Rehearsed even.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t shift, as if he expected you to say that. But something about him goes still. Too still.

“The fuck it doesn’t.” His voice is low. Convicted. Almost hard.

Your eyes sting.

“Look at me.”

You do.

“You wanna stay?”

You don’t.

“It’s not that simple,” you whisper.

“It is. It can be,” Bucky counters, stepping even closer, and suddenly he is too close, heat rolling off him and slapping you in the face. He is a gravitational pull you could never hope to resist. His forefinger lifts your chin, to gradually tilt your face up to his. “Look, I'm not tellin’ you to come with me, alright? I'm askin’ you. That’s all I can do. I’ll get you the fuck outta here if that’s what you wanna do. But I kinda need you to want that. Not tryna make any decisions for you. You get the last word here, darlin’. You choose. And we’ll figure out the rest.”

Your ribs are closing in on themselves, locking the air away. Each inhale you try for is a struggle, a climb up a steep, endless slope. Your lungs are reaching, grasping, but never quite filling up the way they should.

A stinging heat rises in your limbs. It’s a weightless feeling, but so without rest. You feel like your body is hovering just outside itself, adrift in shallow air.

Bucky asked you to come with him.

Your father never gave you choices. The crown never gave you choices. The kingdom never gave you choices. Nobody did.

But Bucky does.

Could you do it? Could you walk away from everything expected of you? From all the years of conditioning, the training, the expectations? Could you defy your old self like that?

Could you leave it all behind - forsake the crown, the court, the man you are meant to marry? And go with him?

You told him it doesn’t matter if you are happy.

But looking at Bucky now, feeling the heat of him, the sincerity of him, the way he waits patiently for a choice that is completely your own, even though it seems to edge him.

And it makes you wonder, why not?

Why shouldn’t it matter?

You have spent your entire life serving something larger than yourself. A kingdom. A crown. An idea of duty that never asked if you were willing. That never cared what it cost you.

You’ve never been selfish. Not once.

And the thought of saying goodbye to Bucky a second time-

You can’t.

The first time was barely manageable. And it wasn’t even for a day. You left him standing there, walking through that gate, feeling his eyes on you. It had felt like watching your own heart step away from you, leaving nothing but a cavernous, painful emptiness behind.

You don’t think you could survive a second time.

Your father sent you here to be traded. A bargain to be struck.

But Bucky really looks at you. He looks and he sees you.

Not just a princess. Not just a duty-bound daughter of a king.

A person. A woman.

And when you think of the life you would have at Lord Ward’s side - cold, controlled, strangulating - you know.

You know.

You can’t be certain of what is going to happen no matter what you choose to do.

Maybe you could help the kingdom as his wife, but at what cost? Your voice? The freedom you only briefly glimpsed? Your soul?

Bucky is right. You can’t fix a broken kingdom from inside a cage. You can’t lead if you’re shackled to a man who wants to own you.

But if you leave, if you go with Bucky, you might find another way. A better way.

One that doesn’t require you to give up every piece of yourself in the process.

It means stepping into the dark with no safety net. No crown. No title to protect you. But considering it all, you never felt more protected when walking by Bucky’s side.

It would be just your own mind. Your own choices.

And Bucky.

Bucky, who has never been a guarantee. Bucky, who has always been on the run, just like you are now. Bucky, who might leave again someday.

But right now, he is here. And he is offering you a chance.

You meet his unrelenting gaze again. Just studying, watching each other.

And then his eyes light up. Ever so slightly. But it still manages to blind you.

Because he sees the nod you are about to give him in your eyes before your head can go through with the motion.

He doesn’t look triumphant. Not smug. Only grateful. Relieved. Almost exhilarated.

And he doesn’t hesitate.

His fingers brush against yours delicately, before taking hold of your hand completely. Your fingers tremble slightly in his hold and he squeezes gently, reassuringly, but keeps his eyes on yours to watch your reaction. You try not to let him know how much his touch affects you. But your pulse thunders against his skin.

And then he moves, tugging you along.

And just like that, you leave the castle behind.

****

Your hand stays in Bucky’s. His grip is firm but not crushing. His pace is quicker than before, less careful, less measured.

You have no time for slow steps now. Because you are no longer just traveling. You are running.

Shadows are spilling over the narrow path ahead as the trees rise above.

You should be afraid.

And you are, in a way.

But the fear is layered, jumbled in something deeper - something more complex than simple terror. It is not the fear of leaving. Not the fear of the darkening woods enclosing around you again.

It is the fear of what comes next.

You cannot organize the thought properly. Your mind tries to tuck it into a neat little space, into a box labeled decisions you have made, but the corners are too notched. The lid won’t close. You have done something irreversible. You have stepped across a line that you cannot redraw.

But there is still excitement coursing through your veins.

The thrill of it burns hot in your chest, unfurling like flames reaching for parched leaves.

It is not just the rush of escaping an arranged marriage, or a life you would have spent as a marionette with strings attached for your so-called husband-to-be to move you around with.

It is not just about the fact that you slipped from the grip of a fate that was never truly yours.

It is the realization that you have finally done it.

You have finally chosen yourself.

You have chosen to do what you always wanted.

For years, you have watched the forests from your balcony, their darkened outlines distant, unknowable, untouchable. You imagined them wild and free, the kind of place where the rules of the court could not reach, where names and titles had no bearing whatsoever. And you dreamed so big about running into them, of escaping a life that didn’t feel meant for you.

And now, here you are.

Running.

Fleeing.

The very thing you have wanted since childhood is finally happening.

And it is happening because you wanted it. Because you chose it. Not because you were thrust into it.

You are doing it for yourself.

No more palace halls, no walking in pre-measured and composed steps across marble floors for show, no more of that expected display of poise and beauty.

You are running towards something unknown. Something yours.

And it might not just be freedom. It is uncertainty. It is fright and exhilaration and the painful, intoxicating realization that you do not know what happens next.

You don’t know where you are going. You don’t know what waits beyond the next stretch of trees, or the next town, or the next day.

And that is - as strange as a thought it might be - so beautiful.

It’s the most exhilarating feeling you ever had.

Because this is what you always longed for. This is what life was meant to be. Full of surprises. Not knowing what comes next. Adventures. Things being uncontrollable.

The air starts to burn in your lungs, but you suck it in and relish it. Everything is sharp - the scent of bark, the sound of snapping twigs under your pounding footsteps, the slashes of light sweeping between the branches above.

You feel alive. Not the careful kind of way, the kind that means staying inside the lines drawn for you, the kind that means breathing only as much as you are allowed to.

You feel truly, wholly, terrifyingly alive.

Bucky pulls you along, always knowing exactly where to step, where to lead. There is a sort of urgency in his steps, the need to put as much distance between you and that castle - Lord Ward - as fast as possible.

But you catch the glint of something in his face when he takes a glance back at you to check how you are keeping up. Something like satisfaction. Something light.

Maybe Bucky doesn’t know where to take you now either. Maybe he doesn’t know what waits beyond the next stretch of trees, or the next town, or the next day.

But the knot of emotion that spins in your gut never hardens into panic.

Because there is adrenaline.

It flows through you, loosening the tangled thoughts before they can squeeze the air from your lungs completely.

And Bucky is still holding your hand.

He slows then, his boots crunching against the forest floor. And he stops entirely. Right in front of the thick trunk of a tree.

It catches your attention. You believe it to be a sycamore. The shape of its leaves, the curve and texture of its bark, the way its roots snake over the ground.

Your eyes follow the trunk up into the branches. You have seen it in books. You have read about trees like this, pored over their descriptions in dusty tomes stacked high in the royal library.

You have knowledge of them - so much knowledge. Their wood, their uses, the way their bark was once ground into remedies for fevers and infections, the way their roots pull deep into the earth, older than the stone walls of that castle.

But you have never really seen one for so long.

Not growing tall before you, unbound by pages and ink.

You have been walking through forests for weeks, been surrounded by trees, running, traveling, living in the very world that was once kept away from you.

But have you ever really taken a second to look at one? To observe it? To study it?

You do now. And you relish it.

Every tree. Every warped root. Every low-hanging branch and every bramble that has snagged at your skirts.

You begin to learn to cherish it. To drink it all in. To see it for the first time even though it isn’t and never take those things for granted again.

Bucky turns to look in the direction where the castle is standing. But it’s not in your eyesight anymore. Its looming towers are smothered by thick canopies and winding trunks.

He exhales, long and slow, shoulders rolling back. And then his eyes sweep to you.

Studying. Analyzing. Making sure you are holding up.

You feel his stare on your skin, but you don’t meet it.

You are too busy averting your gaze from the tree to the path behind you. The one you will not walk back.

The certainty of that fills your chest with something delightfully bright. It starts deep, looping in your ribs, growing warm and soft, spreading across your body like the first rays of sunshine in the morning.

And before you can catch it, before you can smoother it into something quiet and contained - you are smiling.

Panting, breath hitching from the fast pace, lungs burning with exertion - but smiling.

It feels strange on your lips. Unprompted.

Not the practiced smile of a princess performing her role. Not the polite, close-lipped curve you have been taught to wear in court.

This smile is real.

Bucky watches you, something wary in the way his gaze sharpens, like he doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

His fingers brush your arm. “You okay, princess?” His voice has a gravelly quality, laced with subtle concern.

You clutch at your side, chest rising and falling with quick, uneven breaths, your body still trying to catch up to the choice you have made - but God, yes.

“Yes,” you gasp out, chest heaving, and something bubbles up inside you, something so unexpected, it startles you. A laugh. It is light and breathless, spilling past your lips just like that.

Bucky eyes you like you are something unfamiliar. Like you are something he’s never quite seen before.

Not in all the weeks he’s spent with you, sleeping beneath the same stars, traveling the same roads, moving through the same dark woods, and with only each other’s presence to fill the spaces between heartbeats.

It’s the smile. Your smile.

The way it breaks across your face so out of control. The way your shoulders loosen. The way your eyes glint - not with fear or helplessness, but with something else entirely.

Something like freedom.

He wasn’t expecting it. That much is clear.

His brows twitch like his body is catching up on what he’s seeing, instincts warring between amusement, relief, and just that little bit of caution he has never quite learned to shake off. His lips part slightly, but no words come, no sharp-witted remark or gruff warning. Just a pause. A heartbeat’s worth of simple observation.

Then, he exhales.

It’s quiet, him trying to make it subtle. But the breath visibly enters deep through him, dragging off some tension from his shoulders, softening something rigid in the line of his stance.

He chuckles. It’s so low and so rough that it seems to have been held in his throat forever before it came out.

“What?” His voice holds something unreadable. A touch of humor. Warmth. A hint of curiosity.

His head tilts, eyes still flickering across your face still tracing the way your lips are curved, the way your constricted chest is rising and falling from the effort of running - of choosing to run.

“You laughin' princess?” He drawls, and there is something unreadable in his gaze now. Not quite teasing. Not mocking. More like he is testing something. Prodding at it.

You shake your head, still breathless. Still grinning. Unrepentant. “No.”

Something is soaring through your chest. You can’t control it. It is uncontainable. And it makes your legs burn to push forward anyway. It makes your heart feel too big for your rib cage.

It makes you want to sing. To shout. To throw your arms out and feel the wind bite at your skin and know, for the first time in your life, that you are truly free.

He huffs amused, smirking. “You’re smilin’,” he points out.

“Am I?” The smile is still in your voice.

Bucky snorts, shaking his head, but there is something almost fond in the way he does it. A breath of laughter slips through his lips.

His eyes then immediately flicker back to the woods, as though he doesn’t know how to do anything else. Back to the reality of your situation, of what comes next. His fingers flex at his side.

“We should keep movin’,” he says, but there is a rasp in his voice. Something contained.

And just before he turns wholly, before he takes hold of your hand again to tug you along gently, his gaze catches yours another time.

He is smiling.

****

Bucky made you walk longer into the night this time.

It’s important to put as much distance between yourselves and the castle before dawn.

You didn’t ask how far he meant to go.

Didn’t ask if he thought they were already after you.

“They’re gonna think you were taken,” he had told you. So flatly. So unbothered.

But it made your blood turn to ice. And you had stumbled over a root. His hand shot out to steady you.

Well, but why wouldn’t they think that?

It made sense. Lord Ward had seen you with Bucky, had held your arm in a vice grip, had looked upon you as though you were his to command. His to marry. Now, with you missing, with Bucky’s name already tainted by whatever past he had with your father, whatever history existed between them - who would believe otherwise?

You imagined Lord Ward pacing in front of the king, spinning lies like fine silk. So he wouldn’t be standing in the picture of a fool who left his betrothed alone.

You felt your knees threaten to buckle, but Bucky caught your arm before you could stumble fully into your thoughts. He had stopped, standing in front of you, his head tilted, watching you carefully.

“Breathe, darlin’,” he had ordered. He didn’t coddle, didn’t tell you that everything would be fine. But he squeezed your arm gently and waited for you to compose yourself.

And after you calmed down your breathing, he was walking again with a simple “we’ll deal with it.”

Now, It is nearly dawn and Bucky finally decides to stop. But you just know that he is not going to get any sleep.

You know it before he sweeps your surroundings. Scanning. Watching. You know before he sits, back against the rough bark of a black oak, one knee bent, hand curled over it. Knife in his grip.

It is like you came to know the lines of determination set in his shoulders.

You want to sit down yourself. Lay down. But you hesitate.

It has nothing to do with the dirt, the inevitability of mud streaking across the fine fabric of your skirts. That’s the last thing on your mind. You couldn’t care less about the ruined luxury of your gown.

Actually, it is quite ironic that you started this the same way as before - fleeing into the woods in silks and embroidery, escaping something tragic.

But this one hurts.

Not just the meaning behind it. The physicality of it.

You attempt to sit down, but the boning sharpens its hold, the laces biting, tightening, restricting. A band of steel and lace and force that does not yield.

You exhale through your nose, biting down in the discomfort. You’re used to it. It’s nothing new. The breathlessness, the burn, the way it forces you into stillness and grace. You have worn worse. You have endured worse.

And you manage to compose yourself, except for the barely-there wince.

But of course-

“What was that?”

Bucky's head is turned towards you. His sharp eyes catch everything. The flicker of strain in your jaw, the slight flaring of your nostrils, the way your fingers twitch against your lap, the subtle way you brace yourself against the pressure of the corset.

His brows are drawn together tightly.

“What was what?” You feign innocence, but his stare is already pinned on you, drilling past whatever poor attempt at pretense you think you can manage.

His eyes narrow disapprovingly. His mouth pulls tight. He doesn’t move at first, just watching you.

“You made a face.” His voice is gruff.

You tilt your chin as if you could somehow dismiss the look of scrutiny now cutting through you. “I did no such thing.”

The moon is a thin sliver above, half-hidden behind clouds, barely enough to light anything in front of you, so how in the hell did he even see that? He must have been already looking at you.

Bucky leans forward slightly, exhaling profoundly before he really lets his gaze drag over you with even more intent.

You can feel the assessment in it. The way he pieces things together. He spent too much time learning to read people, to anticipate weakness.

Because it does not take long for his eyes to catch on the bodice. The tight lacing. The pristine white of the gown, too fine, too rigid, too much a thing not meant for this life - your life.

His expression darkens.

His jaw ticks.

And before you know it, he is up.

One second, Bucky is seated, with hard eyes and brooding in the dim glow. The next he’s on his feet, stalking over to you with an intent so firm it makes your breath catch.

Your voice hides somewhere deep in your throat.

You instinctively shrink back - not out of fear, but out of suspicion - and press your palms against the earth.

Bucky is lowering himself onto the ground behind you, his warmth now suddenly at your back, his presence now a barrier between you and the night.

You stiffen.

“What are you-” you start, unsure.

His voice is close to your ear. His tone is gruff. “You want this thing off?”

But his hands are already at the laces before you can even begin to form a reply. Tugging. Loosening. Deftly undoing the knots. There is a strength in the way he does it. As if the very sight of you caged in this gown offends him.

The corset clamps down on your middle, but as soon as he pulls at the first few loops, loosening the strangling fabric, you feel a rush of air finally filling your lungs. The relief is instant. Involuntary. You suck in a deep breath, ribs extending, your chest rising.

Bucky doesn’t miss it.

“There we go,” he coos. His voice is a low rasp at your ear. Encouraging you to take in more deep breaths.

Your own voice comes clambering up your throat again, but you are still shocked by his swiftness.

“Bucky, you cannot just-”

“You’re breathin’ easier, ain’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then you might notice I can-”

His fingers undo another loop. He is not rough. Not careless. Just confident. Certain that this thing needs to go off.

Your hands fly up to hold the slackening fabric together at the front, even as your shoulders sag from the newfound freedom.

You swallow harshly, pressing your lips together.

He tugs another lace free.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric at the front, heart hammering against the boning.

Another lace undone.

Another breath released.

His hands move slower now since you are able to breathe steadier again.

He leans in slightly. You feel the shift of his weight behind you, the way his hands brush your back as he works. He is warm. Warmer than he should be in this night air.

His breath is on your neck. It moves to your ear. Plump lips are almost touching you.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” There is amusement in his tone. But it’s a low rumble, dipped into something rough.

You inhale sharply.

“‘Cause I can.” His words roll out huskily. He is still so close. He doesn’t move away.

He tugs another lace free, but he moves so achingly slow now. You inhale deeper than you have all day, oxygen rushing in so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Or that’s just Bucky.

Your hands are still clasped at your chest. And you can only think of saying the one thing that never really worked when you needed to distract yourself from your current situation, but you still always mentioned anyway.

“I still don’t like you interrupting me.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. It’s a knowing sound and it delicately drags over your skin in caresses. You shiver. Bucky feels it.

You can feel his sly smirk at your ear. Your head stays locked in place.

His voice is a slow drag of heat. And it pierces your core. “You wanna tell me what’s on that pretty mind’a yours, then? Won’t be interruptin’ ya, princess. Cross my heart. Can tell me anything.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you. I just don’t like it.”

“That right?” He’s smirking so wide.

You twist slightly at the way his voice slips through the air. Looking at him over your shoulder, his face definitely is way too close. His eyes gleam with something, something that makes your whole body tingle.

“Yes. I did not miss it!” But it sounds weaker. Too defensive.

“C’mon, princess,” he drones out, a smirk on his lips. His eyebrow lifts almost smugly. But there is more to it. His eyes shine with a fierce clarity. “You missed it.”

“I did not.” It still sounds small in your eyes.

His smirk deepens. “Missed me, then.”

The air seems to grow tense under his stare and you break away from it, turning back around.

Heat latches onto the back of your spine, crawling upwards deliberately.

You feel his fingers resting against the now unsecured laces at your spine, idle, as if waiting for your response.

He is so close. So intense. But still somehow not close enough.

You basically feel everything about him behind you. The heat of his body. The way his breath shifts the air between you, rustling the stray wisps of your hair, rough but deep. The way his fingers stay at your back, poised against the loose laces of your gown.

Your heart fights against the cage of your ribs, pounding with a force that you are sure he can feel.

You don’t know what to say.

Well, that is not quite right. You do know what to say. But you don’t know how to shape it into words, how to breathe them out into the night without choking on them.

But why should you hold back?

You have him back, after all. He is here again. You are with him.

After all the distance and separation and fear, after thinking you would never see him again, never hear that gruff voice again, never feel his presence beside you again - he is here.

You never believed that to happen again.

And there is no universe, no force of fate, no damn destiny that could convince you that that isn’t exactly what you wanted.

So hell, yes you missed him.

You missed him in ways you cannot even comprehend, in ways that have scratched at your walls deep inside, stealing your sleep and making a ghost of you in your supposed new home. It branded your mind, body, and soul, almost scorching every nerve with thoughts of him, his absence something you felt rather than simply noticed. You did not just miss him, you ached for him.

Even when they spoke of your marriage to Lord Ward, even when your fate was sealed with words behind closed doors, you could not think of anything but Bucky. Because you did not want Lord Ward. Not for a second. You do not want a loveless future wrapped in velvet chains.

You want him.

He was the most prominent thing on your mind in the time you were apart.

And he deserves to know it.

Your knuckles turn white. You wet your lips, chest rising beneath the pressure of your next words.

“I did miss you.”

You feel the moment the words reach Bucky because he freezes.

A stillness takes hold of him, so suddenly, so completely. It’s the kind that comes with shock - something having cut cleanly through his composure. Like your words caught him utterly off guard. Like they hit him.

You barely dare to breathe. The corset no longer constricts your middle, but your breaths still grow shallow once more.

He wasn’t expecting you to admit that.

You can feel the disbelieving motion which drifts into the shape of his body, the way his fingers flex minutely at the laces. His muscles lock up and his breath halts. Maybe he tries to ground himself, trying to determine whether or not he imagined it. Whether or not he is hearing things he shouldn’t.

He goes so still as if he had only been joking, believing that you couldn’t have possibly missed him in the first place. As if he thought this was just a game, just banter, just another exchange where you would dodge and deflect and roll your eyes at him.

And the thought of that - of him thinking himself so forgettable, so undeserving of longing - has your stomach slump to the ground.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch the barest glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. He’s staring down at you, gaze unreadable, lips pressed into something that is not quite a frown, but not quite neutrality either.

Something dangerous lurks in the air beneath you.

And you don’t care anymore.

You turn fully, meeting his gaze head-on. And whatever he sees in your expression makes something flutter in his own - something dark, something irrepressible, something hopeful.

He exhales. It’s almost cautious. Long. Steadying himself.

When he speaks, his voice is different.

“Say it again.”

Your pulse jumps.

You swear you have never seen Bucky Barnes look like this before. This intense.

There is something so raw in the way he gazes at you, so stripped down, something vulnerable in a way he probably doesn’t even realize. His eyes are stormy and magnetic and full of something.

Your swallow. You feel the muscles in your throat constrict.

“I missed you.” It’s barely above a whisper as you repeat the words.

His lips part slightly. He is still staring at you. So close. Too close. Is he getting closer?

You are turned to him, but his hand is still at your back, fingers shifting just a bit to barely graze you. It’s a tickling touch. But the heat of it, the intent behind it, makes your skin sparkle with sensation. You shiver. He feels it. He sees it.

He shakes his head slightly, exhaling again. “You really mean it, huh?”

You hold his gaze. “I would not have said it otherwise.”

His mouth twitches and his throat vibrates with a harsh swallow.

You inhale.

You exhale.

Again.

You watch him do the same.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Again.

He is moving closer.

Definitely moving closer.

You feel the deliberate press of space folding between you. It’s not rushed. Bucky takes his time.

His hand lifts toward your face, the backs of his knuckles ghosting over your cheek with an intense slowness. A shiver of a touch, reverent and so delicate.

He trails along the curve of your face, down to your jaw, before his palm settles fully against your cheek, warm and firm. His thumb traces a slow, mind-numbing line along your skin.

So slowly.

Agonizingly slowly.

You do not move. You do not breathe.

Your pulse hammers beneath your skin as he tilts his head, his gaze flicking down. Down to your lips. Watching them.

You watch his in return.

Full. Plump. Red.

Poppies.

He pulls you to him and the world disappears.

The first press of his lips is not what you expect. You thought he’d be rough. Like the man who fights with clenched fists and gritted teeth, whose hands are more accustomed to wielding a weapon than offering softness.

But Bucky Barnes kisses like something stolen. Like he needs to be careful with what he is holding. Like you mean more to him than any weapon he’s ever had in his hands.

His kiss is soft where he is rough.

Warm where he is cold.

His lips are gradual in their movement against yours, coaxing rather than taking, guiding rather than demanding.

He tastes like salt. Smoke. Something that lingers. And something that is only Bucky. Like steel and storm winds. Like danger and safety all at once.

And he doesn’t stop kissing you. He rather shifts, and his touch gets urgent, fierce. But never rough. His fingers thread through your hair, his other hand curling around your waist, and his lips part against yours, his tongue sliding past them, sweeping into your mouth and exploring it so boldly, coaxing yours to meet him.

A soft, surprised sound escapes you.

Bucky groans into your mouth. It’s deep and guttural and it sends a hot shiver down your spine.

And he moves again, not breaking the kiss, never breaking the kiss, when his hand slides to your back, lowering you with him until your spine meets the ground and he hovers over you. Not crushing you, never crushing you, but solid and there.

His lips don’t stop moving, don’t stop claiming, don’t stop tasting.

A wall of warmth. A shield. Something that steadies you.

His fingers skim along your side, trailing fire over your ribs as he leans deeper into you, fitting himself between your legs like he belongs there. And maybe he does.

You grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, your body answering before your mind can catch up.

You can’t put into words what he is doing to you but you are sure to show him.

And Bucky shows you too. He is kissing you like he has been starving for it. Like he is drowning in it.

And you let him.

He holds you close to him as if he is afraid you might disappear again.

He is kissing you as if he is trying to make up for every second you were apart.

Like he won’t let it happen again.

The heat of him is overwhelming, drowning out the cold of the earth at your back.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto as he goes in stronger, as his tongue sweeps over yours, leaving you dizzy and electrified. His thumb brushes your cheek, soothing even as he steals your breath.

“Say it again,” he roughly pants against your lips.

You breathe against his mouth, struggling to find coherence.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

The rumbled groan that comes out of him is basically a growl. It is something primal. Something torn from the depths of him. It vibrates against your lips, shakes through his body, and you feel it.

The hunger in the way he pulls you closer, one arm locked tight around your waist, locked beneath your body and the earth. The other cradles the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair with a carefulness that does not match the desperation in his hold. He tilts your head enough, just right, to deepen the kiss, to drink you in, to take more.

And you let him.

Because the contrast of him is addictive.

The softness of his lips. The rough scratch of his stubble. The steel in his body, pressing into you, against you, around you. The warmth of his breath, mingling with yours, melting into you as if he is trying to fuse himself to you.

It is too much but not enough.

The heat inside you grows stronger. It sparks in your belly. Then it floods your limbs, blooming in your chest, thrumming under your skin. Your pulse is erratic, pounding in places you never quite noticed before.

It pools low. Deep.

And instinctively, you move.

Your legs shift, your thighs closing around his, your knees pressing into his hips, pulling him closer to you even though he already is upon you. There is fabric between you, but god, you feel him.

For the first time, you really feel him.

Not just the presence of him, the idea of him. Him. His height. His weight. The hard muscles beneath his clothes, the shape of his body against yours. The way he fits between your legs.

And he shudders.

His breath stutters, catching against your lips. His fingers flex, tighten. His body tenses.

And he groans.

It’s a sound you feel down to your bones, something that rips through you and sends a fresh rush of heat into your bloodstream.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked, pulling away from your lips to drop his forehead to yours. His eyes are closed. His breath is uneven, his control slipping.

You can’t breathe.

You don’t want to breathe.

Because he is opening his eyes and looking at you like he is a second away from ruining you and you might as well just want him to.

You crave him.

His lips, his taste, his touch, his hands, his everything. The feeling is molten, unshakable, and implanted somewhere deep in your belly, running through your veins, buzzing under your skin.

Maybe it is the adrenaline from running through the woods, from leaving behind the life you have always known. Maybe it is the way he is here, hovering over you, pressing you into the earth, his scent all around you, the taste of him still on your tongue.

Or maybe it’s been brewing inside of you all along.

So you reach for him again.

You tilt your head up, your fingers fisting a buckle of his armor, pulling him down to you. He goes willingly, eagerly, with a hunger that ignites the very air around you. His mouth crashes onto yours like a storm meeting the sea. His lips are hot and urgent, taking and giving all at once.

You arch into him, your body moving on instinct, drawn to him. You shift slightly, rolling your hips up - not much, not enough - but it sends a shockwave through your system, a slow, burning ache that makes you grip him tighter.

Bucky stiffens.

Immediately, his body coils, tension increases. His hand tightens at your waist, his grip suddenly rigid, bordering on restraint. And then, he pulls away.

You chase after his lips, but he stops you with the hand on your cheek, keeping you still, keeping himself from diving back in.

His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw is tight, his breath is broken. And that makes you pause. Because he didn’t sweat a single drop while running through the forest earlier the day, but now he is panting above you like a man who’s just fought for his life.

He swallows hard, shakes his head, and looks at you.

Really looks at you.

“We can’t, darlin’,” He is breathless. His voice is hoarse. But firm.

His words should be a warning but they don’t sound like one. They sound pained. Strained. Regretful.

You know he wants you. You feel him. Even through the many layers of your skirts between you, he is hard, achingly so, pressed against your hip with a desperation that should be impossible to ignore.

But he is ignoring it.

Even though he wants you. Even though he is starving for you.

“I gotta do this right.” There is something solemn in the weight of his tone. Something real. His fingers twitch against your skin before he pulls away, enough to still hover closely over you.

Your brows furrow.

“I can’t have you like this. Not like this. S’ not right.”

It’s almost funny. Almost.

Because of course, he could. He could take you here right where you are the way he wants. He is stronger than you, faster than you, and he has you beneath him, pliant and willing. And yet, he holds himself back.

He looks down at you with something that almost looks like remorse, but not because he doesn’t want this. No, he does what this. It’s because he started it in the first place. Because he let himself taste you, let himself sink into you, let himself feel what he could have - what he could take - but does not.

“You really care about that,” you whisper, still catching your breath. It is more an observation than a question.

And you don’t mean it cruelly, not at all. You just did not expect it. For him to have this kind of restraint, this kind of morality. He is a mercenary, who kills without hesitation, whose hands are rough and bloodstained.

But you already came to see his caring side. So, really, it should not be all that be surprising.

“I didn’t think I would,” he admits quietly, voice rough, almost holding something amused. But then, just as quickly, a small grimace crosses his face and he looks away shortly.

But then his eyes are back on you and they soften.

“But I do.”

You don’t feel yourself breathing.

“I gotta do this right, sweetheart.”

There is something different in the way he says that. Something gentle. Something warm.

His calloused fingers brush against your cheek, his thumb running along the line of your jaw. It’s such a contrast to the way he has been kissing.

Your hands are still gripping him but your hold has loosened, fingers splayed against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his it.

Bucky’s arm winds carefully from beneath you, sliding free and making sure you lay comfortably.

You feel his fingers skim along the slackened fabric of your gown, adjusting it across your chest with an absentminded sort of tenderness. He pulls it back into place to keep the fabric from exposing you too much.

His other hand props himself up on his forearm beside your head to keep some of his weight off you.

Calloused fingers stay at your stomach, tracing idle patterns along the curve of your ribs. His eyes move with them. Then, again so achingly slowly, he trails his knuckles up over your chest, following the dip of your collarbone, to the side of your neck, where his palm cups your cheek with a softness that has you lying there completely limp.

A slow stroke of his thumb skims the shape of your cheekbone. His eyes meet your own again. His breath fans against your lips when he speaks.

“You deserve more than this.”

The words are spoken low. Filled with things deeper than regret and heavier than longing. His eyes travel down to the makeshift bed of dirt, leaves, and moss below you. He takes in the tangle of fabric, the stray twigs caught in your hair, the way your body is still half-pinned under him in the darkness of the woods.

His expression sours.

There is an instant flash of frustration. Displeasure. Something unfulfilled.

He wants to give you something better. More than the dirt, more than the forest, more than the running.

His eyes sweep back to yours and you hardly have a chance to suck in a breath before he bends toward you, so leisurely, voice husky and burning with a controlled heat that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“But trust me, darlin’.”

You swallow, shaking slightly.

His lips graze your jaw and he places tiny, but lingering kisses over the curve of it to your ear where his mouth finds the sensitive spot that makes you gasp quietly. He lingers there. He savors it. You feel him smirk.

“M’ gonna make it up to you.”

His voice drops to a sly whisper, only for you, only for this.

“Just you wait.”

****

The world wakes slowly.

The air is still cool, the lingering breath of night remaining in the leaves and the earth beneath you.

But you are warm.

Not because of the breaking dawn.

Because of him.

You are wrapped in Bucky’s arms, his body a furnace against yours. His heartbeat thumbs beneath your palm where it rests against his chest.

You don’t remember falling asleep exactly, only the feel of him, the deep rise and fall of his breath like he is able to get full breaths in for the first time in his life. You only felt the way his fingers had traced mindless patterns against your back until your body had melted into him completely.

Your breaths deepen as your senses slowly come back to you. Stirring against his chest, you feel the way his grip instinctively tightens at the movement, pulling you closer.

You blink against the first rays of the morning.

Bucky is awake.

You don’t know if he ever truly slept at all, or if he simply laid there, holding you, guarding you, letting his eyes slip closed only when he was sure you had drifted off first.

But when you tilt your head to look up at him, your breath catches.

Golden light dapples his skin in shifting patterns. And it paints his smile. His smile.

It is lopsided, lazy, and warm, the kind that tugs at the corners of his mouth like he isn’t used to smiling but can’t help himself right now.

“Mornin’, darlin’.”

A shiver runs through you.

His voice is rough and slow, like gravel smoothed over by honey. You inhale sharply, taking in the scent of leather and earth and him, pressing yourself closer without meaning to.

Bucky notices.

He smirks just slightly, shifting to pull you even closer.

Neither of you moves to get up.

Instead, you melt into him again, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, letting the warmth of him seep into every inch of you. His fingers press you tighter to him.

Carefully, he moves and you feel his breath over your skin, lips touching the corner of your jaw, before he dips lower. He kisses your neck in a slow and unhurried drag of his lips.

He doesn’t rush. He simply tastes you, presses his mouth to the place where your pulse flutters, lingers there, lets his teeth graze just enough to make your breath shudder and goosebumps rise.

Each kiss is softer than the last one and you feel them setting a fire in your belly.

You sigh, pressing further into you.

Bucky smirks against your skin.

“You sleep well?” he asks, voice a low murmur, thick and knowing, his lips brushing against your jaw between words.

You hum, a soft wordless sound that vibrates against his lips, still too caught in the haze of his touch.

He rolls slightly, so that his weight presses more firmly against you, pinning you beneath him. His hand slides lower, fingers skimming the curve of your waist, dipping beneath the loose folds of your gown, calloused fingertips tracing slow and aimless lines on your back, your waist. He is leisure about it, memorizing the shape of you like he never means to forget, and watching your reaction.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, gripping it slightly as you try to even your breaths, but it’s impossible when he is looking at you like that. Like you are something he intends to take his time with, something he is in no rush to let go of.

You blink up at him, still drowsy, still trying to process the fact that you woke up like this - with him wrapped around you.

“Am I overwhelmin’ you, darlin’?” he muses, speaking softly, but the smirk is still in his voice.

You let out a huff, tilting your chin up in mild indignation, but your attempt at a glare is short-lived. Because he chooses that exact moment to smooth another kiss beneath your ear, so consciously, his lips barely there, teasing the spot he already knows will unravel you.

The sigh you let out this time is less innocent.

Bucky chuckles, the sound deep and satisfied, vibrating through his chest where it’s pressed against yours. “Mm. That’s what I thought.”

Another kiss. “You want me to stop?” It’s an earnest whisper and he lifts his lips off your skin to look at you.

“No,” you breathe out.

“Good.” He dives back in.

Neither of you seems to be in a hurry to move any time soon.

You stay in his arms, feeling his breaths against your temple.

The world feels so quiet like this. So small. Like it only consists of the space between you.

But there’s that question burrowing in your mind since you left the castle - since you chose him and yourself over everything you had ever known. And as much as you’d like to keep living in this moment, you know you need to ask.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, darlin’?.”

The comfortable tone of his voice settles over you. His hands come to a halt on the dip of your spine, still lying between the folds to give you his full attention.

You hesitate, tracing small and lacy lines along the ridges of the brown leather strap crossing his chest.

“Where do we go now?” It’s a whisper.

His body shifts and you feel him exhale, his chest rising and falling slowly against you. Almost absentmindedly, he resumes the movements of his fingers at your back, as if weighing his answer in his silence.

“I know a place.”

You tilt your head up slightly, to catch his gaze. He looks back at you immediately. “That does not tell me much, Bucky,” you say lightly, but throw him a small expectant smile.

A corner of his lips quirks, but his eyes remain unreadable. “You’ll see soon enough,” he hums. A kiss is placed on your temple.

Leaning back just slightly, you try to search his eyes for more than his usual cryptic deflections. You study the way the light catches in the depths of his gaze, the way his features still are relaxed but somehow holding a guard up. As if there is more he’s not saying.

“Tell me something,” you plead in a whisper, keeping your tone soft.

His eyes switch between yours, his thumb grazing over your hipbone. He exhales through his nose but it lacks frustration.

“What do you wanna know, princess?”

“Are there others?”

He smiles a bit of a sad smile. Eyes on you “My friends.”

“Your friends?”

His smile falls into a smirk, a twinkle in his eyes returning. “Surprised I got ‘em?”

“No,” you retort quickly. Then softer, “Maybe a little.”

His low chuckle resounds in your own body and his arms around you tighten.

“Who are they?” you continue, eager to learn more. “And how many? Where do they live? Are they all together? Do they know you’re coming?”

Bucky lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back against the mossy ground, feigning utter exhaustion at your curiosity. But his smirk doesn’t waver. “Again with those damn questions.”

You fight the smile threatening your lips, but it lifts your cheeks nevertheless. Shifting to prop yourself up on one elbow, you can see his face better. “Hey, you told me to ask.”

“Right.” He clicks his tongue, tilting his head with the motion. “That was my mistake. Shoulda seen it comin’.”

“I want to know more about you, Bucky,” you say after a beat, quieter this time.

His expression softens at that, eyes falling back to you. Looking at you for a long moment, he studies you the way someone would examine a delicate being. Long fingers trail up to brush against your cheek, his rough-skinned thumb grazing the high point of it before settling along your jaw and mapping the curve of it. He follows his fingers with his gaze before going back to your eyes.

And when he speaks again, his voice is lower. More careful, but sounding somewhat hollow.

“It ain’t no castle,” he says, gaze dropping to his fingers briefly, before returning to yours. “Or palace.”

There is something in the way he says it - like a warning, or an apology. He says it like a man who has been told his whole life that he could never offer something worth keeping.

You don’t believe him to think you might be dissatisfied, or that it won’t come close to any standards you might have. More like that some part of him believes he cannot give you what you deserve. Or what he might think you deserve.

A shadow of doubt.

Your heart clenches.

You don’t want him to doubt. Not even for a second.

You reach for him before you can think twice, letting your fingers skim over the rough scruff of his jaw. He lets you trace the line of his cheek, his temple, as if you could memorize him with your hands alone.

He doesn’t seem to breathe. His stare is piercing.

“Well, it is a good thing that castles suck,” you assess almost flatly.

There is a beat of silence and then Bucky laughs. Out loud. It resonates among the trees like something out of nature. It rumbles out of him, shaking his shoulders and you a little with it. His mouth curls into something wide and almost boyish, so utterly amused. He shakes his head in disbelief.

You grin at him. Can’t stop it.

With a wistful sigh, he fixes his gaze on your lips. “I do like that mouth of yours, princess.” He bites in his lip to suppress a snicker. There is a glint in his eyes, something playful, something teasing, something more in the way his gaze drops even lower still, raking it over the length of you.

His voice is dipped low. “If you keep talkin’ like that,” he drawls, something dark and sweet in his tone, “I might just have to take you right here.”

His words roll off his tongue in an indulgent kind of slowness, laced with something wicked - but not serious. His smirk deepens at the blush that starts to heat your skin, his eyes glinting with mirth. There is a deliberate lightness in the way he tilts his head, gauging your reaction.

He watches the way your throat bobs, the way your fingers twitch ever so slightly against his chest. You might as well have to fight the urge to just grab hold of him and pull him closer. He looks at your reactions so devastatingly patient, reveling in it, it makes your pulse pound against your chest. You can’t meet his eyes.

With a quirked brow, he leans in and leaves a small kiss at your ear before whispering, “Though I can’t have you for myself with that audience all up in the trees.”

A bird calls just as he says it.

And before you can tame the hotness bubbling in your belly, his hands at your waist start moving. Fast. He’s tickling you.

“Bucky-” you shriek in surprise, squirming in his hold, giggles spilling from your lips. He seems to know exactly where to touch, where to press to leave you gasping. He did take his time to memorize your body last night.

“Or would you like that kinda audience, princess, huh? That somethin’ for you?” It’s clear in his voice that he holds back his own laughter, shoulders shaking faintly.

“Stop,” you laugh, cheeks on fire, but you don’t do much to swat his hands away.

With a chuckle so full of smug satisfaction, he relents, easing up and letting you catch a breath. You keep giggling against him, hiding your face in his chest. His fingers stay at your waist, giving you a quick squeeze.

His grin softens and his own breathing evens out. A finger meets your chin to make you look back at him and his gaze traces your face as if he needed this. Needed this excuse to see you flustered, to hear you laugh.

And it takes a moment of regaining your breath before you realize just how light you actually feel.

Weightless.

Unburdened.

Not even as a child, when you ran barefoot through the palace halls, had you felt this way. Even then, you were never truly free.

Even in the secluded spots of the gardens, where you once thought solitude could feel like freedom, there was always a link, a bond encircling your wrist in the form of duty, expectation, obligation.

This.

This is freedom.

It is him.

“And how brave you are for letting go of everything that’s no longer for you.”

- Evan Sanders

Epilogue

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd @winterassassin1804 @thescarleteevee @coutureisart @chachkid @ibelieveindragons141

[ronwestbreeze]

too slow

pairing: miguel o'hara x spider!fem!reader

warnings: angst heheh. spoilers! small scenes of somewhat explicit nsfw. mentions of death!

summary: the both of you would come back from this. you would...right?

word count: 4.9k

author's note: did i come out of hiatus just to post a angsty miguel fic? yes. you know i had to as y'alls fav angst queen

part 2

No matter how far you left that spider life behind, he somehow managed to pull you back in.

And god you tried so desperately to stay away. To refuse him.

Miguel O’Hara just had a way with you. He always did. 

Sometimes you wished you were stronger.

The moment you stepped into your apartment was when all of your senses struck your spine and made you freeze in your doorway.

No one else would have known to continue forward cautiously by leaping up to your ceiling and crawling the rest of the way into the apartment, high on alert. Then again, no one else was you. At least not in this universe.

Your spider senses got worse as you crawled toward your ajar bedroom door. When you were close enough, you dropped down as quietly as you could to the floor. One hand preparing a web to shoot and the other raising toward the door to push it further open.

Only you freeze all together.

A sharp tingle struck your back.

Behind you.

Of course, you were quick. Without turning toward the intruder entirely, you shot a web to grab a large vase sitting on a nearby table in the short hallway and swung it behind you. They dodged the vase just as fast and you instantly shot both of your webs toward the intruder. Only for them to be caught by them with both their hands.

“I’m disappointed, Domino.”

It was a mistake to let your guard down by only a little. It was a mistake to instantly recognize his voice.

“Miguel—AAARGH!”

A sudden yank from the webs caused you to fly forward until an iron grip wrapped around both your wrists. Until you were facing the scarlet and blue mask of the one Spider-Man you never expected to see again.

“Too slow.” Even with the mask, you could hear his smirk.

Now that you were aware of who you were dealing with, the tension in your muscles lessened. Just a little.

Some part of you wanted to say “You shouldn’t be here” but since you weren’t in the mood for a long and exhausting spout with the man, you took the more easy and straightforward route of the conversation.

“Why are you here, Miguel?”

His hold on your wrists loosened but he didn’t let go right away. Which was to your dismay as you really didn’t want to be this close to him. Not when you knew that both seeing him now and now having very little space between the both of you would compromise your senses, your steeled will.

And yet you didn’t pull away.

You watched quietly as his mask disappeared, trying your very best not to get too drawn into his features like you used to. Resisting the urge to run your fingers through his dark locks, tugging on some of them like the old days.

Stop.

That was a long time ago.

And it should remain that way.

Unfortunately, Miguel didn’t appear as strong or restrained. The way he hungrily looked at you wasn’t missed but it certainly wasn’t voiced. By either of them. That was something they wouldn’t touch right now. Probably not ever.

When his forehead gently brushed against yours, when his scent overwhelmed your nostrils was when you forced yourself back on solid ground.

“Miguel.”

Eventually, he also had to pull himself together. Eventually, he dropped his hold on your wrists and walked around you, putting a good distance between the two of you. Warily and curiously, you watched his movements.

He gestured toward the shattered pieces of what once was the vase, “I bought you that, you know. That was rude.”

“So is breaking into someone’s apartment.” You retorted dryly. 

Miguel suddenly took out a small object that shone in the gentle light of the sunset, “I still have a key.”

You huffed, “Imma need that back.” You tried reaching for it, only for Miguel to quickly yank it out of your reach, the beginnings of a smirk forming on his face. That’s when you grew annoyed. 

“I thought you were never gonna come back to this universe again. Remember? You went on a whole tangent about it.”

“Mmm.” Was his response at first. You silently watched him tuck the extra key away into some invisible pocket in his suit. “That was only after you said you were never coming back to the team” You tensed at this as the memories came trickling back. “Or coming back to me—”

“So what’s changed?”

Miguel frowned, “I need you—”

“No.”

You reframed from smirking at the twitch in his jaw, at the way his trained mask momentarily slipped at your obvious stubbornness. You gestured in the direction of the front door, “If that’s all, the door’s over there—”

“It’s Electro.” That, of course—he knew it would—made you stop. It was your turn for your mask to fall, just enough for Miguel to notice as well. The intenseness in his features softened, “It’s your brother…he somehow made it into another universe—”

“When do we leave?” Miguel had the audacity to look surprised. You glared, “I’m not doing this for you, O’Hara. It’s like you said, he’s my brother. After that, I’m done for good, you hear me?”

With that, he schooled his face back to a controlled mask. One that meant business.

“Whatever you say, Domino.”

You wince and send him another glare before stalking toward your bedroom to change.

Ever since he started calling you that name, Domino, you’ve hated it. It originated from a mission gone bad—mostly for you—and he hadn’t stopped calling you Domino since. It was mostly because you had been knocked down into a bunch of trash cans that happened to be in a long line. 

Hobie said you tumbled like a stack of dominos. Miguel never let that moment go.

Fuck him.

Yet despite your hatred for it, you never discouraged it. You just liked the way he said it. You liked the way his voice softened whenever—

No. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck. Him.

After this you wouldn’t ever have to see him again. You wouldn’t ever have to be wrapped up in his shadows, in his overwhelming way of showing…

Fuck him.

It was odd being back in your old suit. Frankly, it felt dated as you swung around in it. There was an itching part of you that wanted to update it, get new designs, and test them out of your suit. Self-restraint was a challenge during that mission. Especially around Miguel.

Thankfully, Jessica and Hobie showed up so it wasn’t just you and Miguel facing Electro—or in other words your estranged brother. It was already enough having to face family drama, but then you add a frustratingly unlabeled drama that kept interfering with your focus.

“Stay on your side, O’Hara!” You snapped when you dodged an electric zap sent your way.

“Don’t be a child!” Miguel shot back.

“I’m not! We agreed Hobie and I’d take left and you and Drew would take right! You are not holding your end of the agreement!” You landed on a nearby pylon. “Which is no surprise!”

Another blast came from Electro, this time aimed at Miguel and Hobie. Hobie was able to swing out of the way and land on the same tower with you while Miguel landed on the other side, “What the hell is that supposed to mean!?”

“She means you’re an asshole, bud.” Hobie added.

“Nobody asked you!”

“Hey!” Jessica shouted from below, steering her motorcycle toward Electro, “Less fighting like children and more getting this guy before he causes the entire city to go dark!”

The fight hadn’t gone on for long. Eventually, you were able to confront your brother up close despite Miguel’s protests against it. Yet you were the one that knew your brother the best, who was he or anyone else to tell you what to do when it came to him? Certainly not, Miguel. Leader of a secret society or not, this was your turf. He asked you here and you would complete the job the way you knew how.

There was a point where you managed to get Electro at a somewhat calm and the thrilled part of you was ready to prove Miguel right. But unfortunately, family bonds wouldn’t save you in this situation. It wouldn’t tie anything up in the neat bow you were expecting.

The blast nearly threw you entirely off the building if not for a bunch of webs catching you in mid air and bringing you back up. Miguel and Hobie managed to subdue Electro thanks to your unintentional distraction while Jessica was the one to pull you back to your feet.

“Damn, babes, that was a close one.” She gave an amused smirk. “Just how long have you been out of the game?”

“Shut up, Drew.” You grumbled despite the other woman’s grin.

Coming back to HQ was the very last thing you wanted to do. But you wanted to make sure your brother was properly dealt with. Even if that meant dealing with Miguel’s bullshit along the way.

As you entered the computer room, Miguel’s mask came off, “What the hell was that back there?”

“Domino doing Domino things.” You mutter dryly.

“Yeah you are.” Hobie held up his hand for a high five, which you reluctantly gave.

Miguel sent him a scathing scowl before turning back to you, “You think this is funny? You could’ve gotten yourself killed back there!”

“I had it handled.” You gritted out, removing your own mask. “He didn’t need everyone coming at him all at once. If you had given me a few more minutes with him—“

“But we didn’t have a few minutes, did we?” Miguel snapped quickly.

“No, of course not.” You crossed your arms, ignoring how he stood taller than you. Ignoring how he would’ve appeared menacing if not for your pissed off mood. “Because everything has to go O’Hara’s way, right? Fuck everybody else.”

Hobie smirked from the side of the room, his mask also removed, “I missed her. ‘ow come she’s not around often, Bossman?” 

Miguel’s jaw twitched dangerously because they all knew Hobie never referred to him as “Bossman” unless to piss him off. because he knew that Hobie didn’t respect him as much, and didn't care for him as a leader. Bossman was just Hobie being a little shit, in Miguel’s words at least.

“It was fucking reckless.” Miguel seethed. “And as usual, you’re too immature to even realize what you did. What could’ve happened—“

“You brought me here!” You snapped back, as venomous as his fangs. “If you don’t like my way then you should’ve left me the fuck alone!”

“Guys, come on.” Jessica sighed, already used to the both of you like this.

Miguel was fuming and trying so desperately to hide the fact that you easily worked him up this way. And him failing at hiding it only made him pissed off even more. 

He hissed, turning his back to you.“I was being considerate. For your sake. It was your brother after all…It was a mistake bringing you in. I should’ve known fucking better.” 

A bitter laugh left your lips, “Finally! We can agree on something!” You stalked out of the room with Hobie trailing behind you—you were used to him following you around—as you muttered, “Let me know when you’ll be sending Max back.”

Just as you left the room, there was a loud crash and Jessica snapping at Miguel.

When your brother was finally sent back to your universe so that he could be sent to a cell powerful enough to hold him, you left HQ and didn’t look back when you did. Swearing to yourself that it would be the last time you would ever allow yourself to step back into that place. To allow yourself to set your eyes upon him again.

Unfortunately, that promise didn’t last too long.

Despite yourself, you started messing with your suit designs. Adding new stuff to make it look less dated than before. But that didn’t mean you were back to that spider life. No. Not one bit.

Hobie swung by your dimension and suggested that both of you went crime fighting for the day. And you only agreed just so your fighting techniques weren’t so rusty anymore. But you weren’t back in the game. Not one bit.

Then Jessica came to visit, claiming that she wanted you to see the progress in her pregnancy and catch up as friends. Which then led you to following her into another dimension to fight another Rhino, which was a great success.

Fuck, you missed this.

And you were tempted. You really were tempted to swing through your city as their Spider person again.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt after all. Didn’t mean you had to face Miguel. Yes. That was fine.

In the next month forward, you had started your crime fighting as the spider person of your dimension. A new suit and refreshed skills, you felt unstoppable. You even brought out your dimension traveling bracelet. Just to go and visit Hobie and Jessica whenever. Just that.

Soon, Jessica took on a new protege. Spider-Gwen. She was a nice kid and started coming over to your dimension with Hobie whenever they had the time. You liked her alot. She was like a little sister whenever she came around. Same as Hobie being like a younger brother to you.

At one point you found yourself back at HQ—you were honestly terrible at keeping your steeled will—but only to return a few bad guys to their respectful dimensions. You had fully planned on avoiding Miguel—at this point you hadn’t seen each other since your spat a month ago—and going back to your dimension.

That was the plan at least.

“How come you never go with us to see Miguel?” Gwen asked while the two of you watched one of the villains being sent back to their dimension. “You two don’t get along or…?”

Spider-Byte snorted and you sent the hologram a glare, “They have a special history, newbie. You’ll see someday.”

“Quiet, kid.” You mumbled, crossing your arms before addressing Gwen, “Yeah…we don’t get along. It’s best for the both of us that we aren’t in the same room together, right now.”

“Is it?”

You tried your very best not to allow your face to fall into shock at his voice coming from behind you and Gwen. Really, you should’ve expected that to happen.

Miguel approached the two of you, glancing briefly toward Gwen but his eyes remained glued to yours. “Drew’s asking for you. Says she needs your help on Level 4.”

It took you a few seconds to realize he had been talking to Gwen as the blonde nodded her head and disappeared out of the room. Spider-Byte threw on some headphones and continued with her work. In other words, it was just the two of you. The very opposite of what you had planned and wanted.

“I hear you’ve been coming around here a lot more often.” Miguel mused as he brushed past you, his arm grazing yours as he did. You watched him, a lot less hostile than you thought you would be. Instead, you only stared at his back muscles. “I didn’t know you’ve become quite the contradicting person.”

You shrugged, hugging your arms closer to you, “I’ve just been helping Jess and Hobie out. S’not a big deal.”

A sound came from his throat, similar to a chuckle, “I also hear that the White Spider is back on the news.”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me?” You instead said, one of your brows raising slightly. “When did you start that up again?”

Miguel glanced over his shoulder, his face unreadable, “Who says I ever stopped?”

You smirk, trying to hide how tight your chest felt at his words. At how soft his voice had gotten.

“Look who’s become contradicting now.”

Miguel was quiet at that.

You tried to continue your original goal after that frustratingly vague interaction. You weren’t really sure where you had stood with him after that. Sure, you still were hesitant to rejoin the society fully—mostly because of him—but now you were going on missions with some of the members and helping Jessica train her protégé. At this point, you were practically back, just without the official stuff.

And now you were on a mission with Miguel. You hadn’t been on one of these since your fight. Piece by piece you were just breaking your own promises, your stubbornness was weakening. Your spine had shaken.

Damn him.

No matter what you could never resist Miguel.

You could tell it was the same for him.

“You should go home.”

“Do you know how many times you’ve said that and I’ve still ended up staying?” You leaned on the doorway entrance to his quarters with a smug look on your face. “I think you should give it up by now.”

Miguel was topless. After a particularly long mission, a lot of the team had come out with some cuts and bruises, Miguel wasn’t exempt from that.

You watched as he was cleaning his wound on his left shoulder, only that put too much strain on his bruised side every time he reached his right hand over to tend to that shoulder. For a few more minutes you watched him keep going at it before you sighed and eventually stepped in.

“Stop.” You smacked his hand to the side gently and took the bloodied cloth from his hand.

Miguel tensed, “Domino—”

“I’ve got it.” You told him sternly. “We don’t need you reopening your stitches. Just relax. I’ve got you.”

Your words had disarmed him and caused him to loosen the tension in his muscles at your gentle touch. The wound wasn’t too bad, at least not as bad as the one under his right arm. Once the blood was wiped away, there was just a bit of purple coloring. The blood must’ve been from someone else.

His breaths fanned against your own shoulder. You didn’t forget how close the two of you were in that moment. It was more like you were trying to distract yourself from the fact.

Instead, a small smile tugged at your lip, “It’s been a minute since you’ve been injured.” You noted the light scars on the other parts of his arm.

“Not really.” Miguel grunted, ducking his head down as he rested his elbows on his knees. “I got hit a couple months back. Only difference was that you weren’t there to lick my wounds clean.”

“Do you always need me to?” You joked halfheartedly.

A small tug upward in his lip made your heart skip, “I would prefer it better than being alone.”

“I thought you liked being a loner.”

“Not these days.”

You knew you were treading dangerous territory but the question left your lips before you could rethink it through.

“Did you really want me to go?”

Underneath your fingers, you felt him inhale, slowly.

“Honest?”

You scoffed, “I wouldn’t be asking if I wanted to hear a lie.”

Over his shoulder, he stared at you. A part of you wanted to shift under his intense gaze, a part of you wanted to look away sheepishly but you bravely held it. Though the change in your grip was probably a dead giveaway at your nervousness.

“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t have ever left my sight.”

You tried not to feel too overwhelmed by his words, knowing it was your own fault for asking. For even bringing it up in the first place.

So instead you snorted, “Wow. Sounds awfully possessive—”

His other hand grasped the back of your neck and brought you toward him, your lips connecting. His desperation for you was clear. And your resolve had slowly fallen—no that was such a lie. It had quickly crumbled the moment you felt his touch, the moment his lips were on yours, the moment you felt his desperation sink into your skin just as easily as his fangs would.

When his larger body moved on top of you, you knew your resolve had fully broken. Completely gone. When his lips found your neck, you were gone. When his hips rutted against yours, your mind was gone. When you finally felt him sink into your being, when you felt him inside you—god you never realized how much you had wanted this until now.

No. You knew.

Miguel held your hands down to the bed sheets, only you managed to slip them from his grip and find them tugging and running through his hair, legs wrapped around his hips to pull him closer.

You felt him smirk against your neck, “My stubborn girl.”

And just like that you were back into a cycle in which you swore not to fall into again. Only, this time the two of you didn’t make it known to the others. It was a silent choice between the two of you to keep whatever this was to yourselves. It was better that way you realized.

But as time went by, you knew it would be a little more difficult to hide it. Miguel was touchy. It was fine on days where it was just the both of you, when the both of you were working on something together. Yet on the days where you are around others, such as missions, you know he can’t help himself. And neither can you.

The both of you were terrible at hiding it in the end.

Hobie was surprisingly observant.

“You’re lookin’ cozy now.”

You glanced up to find Hobie lounging about as you were looking at videos of different dimensions. “Let it go, B—”

“I ain’t sayin’ shit.” He shrugged. “Just noticed a few things is all.”

And the two of you left it at that. Never really spoke on it again. Hobie now knew. And Jessica had eyes and a brain, she probably already put two and two together. Especially with you coming to HQ a lot more often now. Even the newbie, Gwen, took double takes every now and then whenever she saw you and Miguel together.

“You seem particularly stressed tonight.” You hummed to him on another night—this time in your apartment, squirming as his cock twitched inside of you.

Miguel looked down at you, a brow raised in challenge, “Can’t take it tonight, baby? Usually you like it a little rough, hmm?” He buried his face into your neck, his thrusts slower than before. Gentle nips at your neck that would sure to leave bruises the next day. Just the way he liked it. The possessive shithead.

“And yet, you’re still stressed.” You whisper next to his ear, breathing out a sigh of pleasure.

Miguel grunted in reply and remained at your neck. Until he slowly pulled away to rest his forehead on yours. He sighed against your skin, “Just another anomaly. Nothing we can’t fix.”

You smiled with a soft hum, “You always do anyway.”

His lips were pressed into yours, a hint of a smile shaping his mouth, “Not just me.”

The anomaly problem never went away it seemed. Soon Miguel got buried deep into his work. You were fine with it, already used to his committed work habits. Besides, you had your own world to manage. You weren’t just waiting all night for him to come home like some girlfriend slowly practicing patience. No, instead you had your own thoughts to keep you busy. But you still managed to find time and visit HQ. To visit the others. To visit Miguel.

It wasn’t until the anomaly was formed into a single person. Another Spider-Man. A kid.

Miles Morales.

Gwen told you about him a few times. How he was the first friend she made after her Peter’s death. You remembered wanting to meet the boy with how much Gwen kept talking about him. And you told Gwen this as well. That they should plan a day to go visit him. Unfortunately, that day never came to fruition.

The unfortunate part was the why.

“What are you not telling me about this Miles guy?” You already knew the answer. You weren’t stupid. You just wanted to know if Miguel would tell you. Would trust you with the information.

Miguel had his back turned to you, facing the screens when you stalked into the room to ask him this. “He isn’t your concern.”

“Bullshit.” You cross your arms. “Clearly, you said something to Gwen. And Jess. Hell, even Hobie. What are you not telling me, Miguel? Why is Miles Morales so important?” You narrow your eyes challengingly, “Or rather, why does he make you so nervous—”

“Enough, Domino.” Miguel said through gritted teeth, trying desperately not to snap at you. “He isn’t your concern. Let it go.”

Hobie had already filled you in on the details before you had come to Miguel about it. The information in itself was troubling, yes. But what was even more troubling was why you were hearing it from someone else other than Miguel. Why did he want to keep you in the dark about this?

That’s when your eyes landed on the old video of him and his daughter. The daughter he lost on another Earth.

“Fine.” You frowned. “Don’t tell me.”

Miguel still had his back toward you. You scoffed and turned to leave. You would’ve been fine to leave it there. That was the one thing the two of you disagreed on the most. The canon stuff. Your sister had to die for it. That’s why Max had become what he had become. That’s why you had left the society, left him in the first place.

Restarting all of this. Thinking you could forgive.

But there was no way you could’ve ever forgotten.

You had to stand by and watch your sister die because it was a part of canon. Because Miguel cared for you and your world so much that he did not want to see it unravel like his did. A part of you wanted to believe that—maybe there was a small part that did—but that didn’t change the grief nor the terror. You just hoped.

Hoped. And hoped. And hoped….

Eventually, you did some research for yourself. Apparently, this Miles guy hadn’t lost his parents but his uncle. Apparently, he was supposed to lose his dad once he became captain. There was nothing you could do about it if it was supposed to happen. You certainly couldn’t tell him that was going to happen.

You couldn’t do anything….

Until you could.

Hobie appeared in the middle of your living room that night.

“I quit that place.” He shrugged, flopping down onto the couch next to you. “But I suggest you suit up, yeah?”

“Why?” You furrowed your brows, placing down your book you had been reading until he unexpectedly arrived.

“Because I ‘ave a good feelin’ you are the only person that wouldn’t like what’s about to happen. What’s currently happening.”

This time you frowned, an aching feeling tugging at your chest.

“Hobie. What’s going on?”

It wasn’t long until you were flying through the HQ, following all of the spider people as they chased after one thing. One person.

Nobody had known you were there. Nor what you were there for. You had blended into the crowd of spider people, flying around, swinging around until you spotted a blip of the boy that they were chasing. And you saw Miguel, Gwen, and Jessica going after him.

All that you knew was that he was alone. The boy was alone. He needed at least one person at his side. One person who understood what he was going through right then.

By the time you had gotten to the speeding trains, Miguel had Miles pinned down to the top of the train. He had yet to see you. But there was no doubt he would sense you. There was no doubt that he would see your flashing figure, zipping toward him. There was no doubt that in the corner of his eye, he would see you flying at him with a kick and landing it just perfectly, and in time before he could prepare to block you.

Now you stood in front of Miles as Miguel rolled away before clawing his hand into the top of the train to keep him on it.

You removed your mask and grinned, “Too slow, O’Hara!”

“Y/N!” Gwen stared at you in shock.

“Who’s that?!” One Spider-Man with a pink robe—and a baby—attached to him questioned in confusion.

Miguel crawled to his feet. In the corner of your eye Miles jumped off the train and disappeared in seconds. “What have you done?!”

You shrugged, “Nothing yet. That depends on you.”

“Y/N, don’t!” Jessica shouted. “You can’t beat him!”

Miguel’s face was twisted into a scowl, mixed with both betrayal and anger, “She’s right, Domino. You can’t win. You’re on the wrong side!”

You pulled your mask back on and melted into a fighting stance, “I don’t have to win. I just have to give the kid more time.”

For a brief second, the scowl was gone. This look was only for you to see. The same look he wore when you first quit the society.

They were back to where it all began. This was the cycle. It was bound to happen. You knew this. He knew this.

“I don’t want to fight you.” He gritted out. “Stand down, Domino. I’ll only ask this once.”

Not once did you budge.

“I hope we come back from this, Miguel.”

You dashed forward.

Miguel let out a roar of anger and dashed toward you.

The two of you would meet in the middle. And for a second, you really wondered…

Would you? 

Would you come back from this?

[bunnylove1]

-ˏˋ. Say cheese 📷 ˊˎ-

✎ᝰ. : I Do not own this character! This is a smut one shot so be careful !

✎ᝰ. : warnings! 18+ content ! The kid at the back is an 18+ game so is my account if you are underage please leave. This writing contains, smut ! Not proof read! You have been warned.

How did you end up like this, you were on your couch laying underneath Sol. The man was kissing your neck and leaving small bites and hickeys all over it. Your hands were tangled in his hair pulling him closer too you.

*ping* … *ping* … *ping* your phone was going off every 2 minutes. Which was being a total buzz kill hints the situation your in right now. A audible frustrated sigh was let out by Sol he grumbled a little and pulled away too looked at your phone. His face dropped too a mean look. 

Sol took your finger and unlocked your phone, “say hi too Crowe pumpkin” Crowe? Was that the person messaging you, Sol just hovered the phone over you and held your chin slightly turning it too get a good view of your neck you stared straight into the camera, and with that you heard a snap from the phone.

This man just took a photo of you, “you look so pretty almost don’t want too send this” but just like that he sent it too Crowe… Sol typed something, the man looked at you then He showed you the message sent too Crowe, holding it still for you too read it, it was that photo and underneath of it was a message saying ‘sorry ___ is busy rn.’ 

You didn’t even care to be honest, well maybe a little bit embarrassed and you would probably have too apologise too Crowe at school tomorrow but right now, it didn’t matter too you all that you could focus on was the cold hands going under your shirt and roaming your body.

And the soft lips that kissed down your neck and on your stomach, and the hooded eyes that looked up at you from in between your thighs. Sol looked like a hungry man but a sickly in love dog at the same time. “Can I please” He tugged at the hem of your shorts asking no begging, if he could take them off. All you did was nod your head yes, and just like that he was tearing them off, you helped by raising your hips off the couch a little giving him the room too move them down. 

Sol had thrown your shorts and underwear to the floor next too him, he hovered over you his arms stroking your hair, “can I make you feel good ___, please” His eyes were like a puppy’s his head slightly turned to the side, “yes… please Sol” you let out, your voice soft but there giving him the answer he needed, Sol just grinned and then dipped his head between your thighs again letting his hands rest on your stomach, he began kissing your inner thigh kissing up and up closer and closer towards the heat in between your legs.

“Your already so wet pumpkin, I know you needed me” sol teased your bud with his thumb for a moment smiling at your hips pushing deeper into his hand, Sol being too lean down too your bud his tongue lapped around your bud, he was sending shivers up your spine, his tongue was so warm. Sol wrapped his arms under your thighs pulling your hips closer too his face. This man looked like he couldn’t breathe. But he didn’t care this is exactly what he wanted exactly how he wanted you, sol started to devour you like a starved man getting his first meal in years.

Your hands reached down too his head grabbing his hair and tugging at it gently. He didn’t budge one bit though, you were so close; you were just on the edge of breaking. “Please don’t stop.” And with that Sols tongue moved faster around your sensitive bud your words gave him the pleasure he needed, You rocked your hips. You were basically riding his face. 

Sol knew you were close when you were grabbing his hair more harshly, and that your moans were louder than the soft ones before. Your body quivered with your realise, your hips buckling under Sols arms. You’re back arching off the couch. Sols pace softened letting you ride out your high. 

And once you were soaking in the after glow of your orgasm, Sol detached his face from your heat and hovered over you again, this time cupping your cheek and kissing you forehead, “you did so good for me pumpkin”. Sol got off the couch and then picked up your limp tired body and carried you bridal style too your room. It’s like he knew your apartment like the back of his hand.

Sol stepped into your room and laid you down on your bed and covered you with your blanket making sure it covered your shoulders so you weren’t cold, then he laid himself down next too you and moved your body close to his so he could rub your back and play with your hair while you tried too fall asleep.

Sol kissed the top of your head and smiled “good night sweetheart.” He whispered. And just like that your were out like a nightlight, being cradled in a pair of cold yet warm arms.

✎ᝰ. : I’m sorry if this does not make sense, it’s been awhile since I wrote smut 😭 please repost! It helps my stories reach out too other people!

✎ᝰ. : this character belongs too @/fantasia-kitt ! Please go play the kid at the back it’s an amazing game !!

[matt-murdockk]

Human 101: Sneaking Around

pairing: rk800 connor x reader

words: 1.5k

warnings: language, heavy making out, lack of proofreading, fic from reader's pov

summary: This week, we risk unemployment by getting *cough cough* busy at work (comedy, fluff)

additional context: reader is a detective with Detroit PD, reader and Connor are now dating (yay). Sequel to Human 101: Dancing

a/n: wrote some risque stuff this time and i am terrified hello :)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I take my job very seriously. I love being a detective, and I believe rules are essential for keeping everybody in line. But hey, things happen. If you had told me say, a couple weeks ago that I'd lie to my superiors, break a whole lot of rules, and risk getting fired, all for some guy, I'd have laughed in your face and called you things I probably shouldn't say out loud.

But, like I said, things happen. Against all odds, there I was, stumbling backward into the evidence room, one hand fumbling for the doorknob while the other was tangled in my new boyfriend’s hair, his lips on mine like he was afraid to let go. I managed to get the door open and we practically fell inside, the door clicking shut behind us.

Connor took the split-second gap to slam me against the wall, staring into my eyes with a mischievous look he knew drove me crazy. I pulled him down by his tie, his lips crashing into mine with a fervor that left me breathless. He deepened the kiss, which I didn't even know was possible because 3 seconds in I was already giddy.

His lips left mine and trailed down to my jawline, sending shivers down my spine. The sharp edge of the cold metal shelving dug into my back, but I didn’t care. His hands were already tracing down my sides, pulling me impossibly closer.

“Connor,” I whispered, my voice shaky but still laced with desire. “We are so gonna get caught.”

"In that case, we'll be quick."

“You’re insufferable,” I managed to gasp, though my words lacked any real bite as his lips trailed down further, at a maddeningly slow pace. God, this was killing me.

“Am I?” he murmured against my skin, his tone low and teasing, the faintest smirk in his voice.

“Yes,” I shot back, tugging at the collar of his jacket to pull him closer. “You- God, you drive me insane.”

“Good,” he said simply, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear, making my breath hitch.

I was just about to tell him something- probably completely incoherent- when the door creaked open.

“What the hell-”

Connor froze mid-movement, his lips still pressed to my neck. I turned my head, heart dropping into my stomach, and there stood Hank. Hank. His face went through what could only be described as the five stages of grief in three seconds flat.

For a moment, nobody moved. The only sound was the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint echo of music from down the hall. My face felt like it was on fire, but I couldn’t say a word. I prayed to every god I knew to make me disappear that very instant. It did not work.

Hank finally broke the silence. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I- uh- this isn’t- ” I stammered, trying to pull myself together, but words were failing me. Somebody shoot me, please.

“Save it,” Hank interrupted, holding up a hand. His eyes flicked between the two of us, landing on Connor. “You. Romeo. What the hell are you doing in here?”

He slowly straightened, his LED flickering yellow as he turned to face Hank. His hair was disheveled and his shirt was practically undone, the tie only barely hanging on for formality. His head tilted slightly as his gaze darted to me, then back to Hank, then back to me.

“...What is the appropriate protocol in this situation?” he asked, his voice as calm as ever but tinged with just the faintest trace of curiosity. I just stared at him incredulously. How the fuck would I know the appropriate protocol for getting caught by your boss playing tonsil tennis at work.

“‘Protocol,’ my ass,” Hank grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re supposed to be out there chasing perps, not- whatever this is.”

I could feel my soul trying to leave my body. “Hank, it’s not-”

“Oh, it’s exactly what it looks like,” Hank cut me off, leveling me with a glare. “You think I don’t know? I’ve seen rom-coms, kid. You think I don’t recognize the ol’ ‘hide in the evidence room for some slap and tickle’ move?”

“I assure you, Lieutenant,” Connor said, deadpan as always, “there was no slapping involved.”

I groaned audibly. “Connor, honey, stop helping.”

“Yeah, please do,” Hank grunted. He gestured between us. “Listen, I don’t care what you two do on your own time, but if I find out you’re doing it on my watch again, you’re both benched. Permanently.”

"Wait, so, you won't be reporting us to Fowler?"

"Report what? I didn't see nothing. Understood?"

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor and I said in unison, though Connor’s tone was far too composed for someone who’d just been caught with his partner’s tongue down his throat.

Hank sighed as he shook his head, muttering something about ‘damn androids and their hormones’ as he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The second Hank stormed out of the room, I dropped my head back against the cold metal shelf with a groan. I was this close to just melting into the floor.

Connor, of course, was already straightening his tie, like it was no big deal. “That could’ve gone worse.”

I shot him a look, my hands still trembling from the adrenaline. “Really? You think? Because I’m pretty sure Hank just walked in on us doing... that.”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Well, Hank didn’t report us. So, I’d say we came out on top.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, even though my face was still redder than a lobster. “Yeah, sure, no big deal. Just your boss catching you- us- in the middle of... whatever the hell that was.”

He shrugged casually, like it was just another Tuesday. “He didn’t seem too upset. Besides, I’m sure he’s seen worse.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, crossing my arms. “I don’t even want to know what he’s seen.”

Connor shot me a knowing look, that signature smirk of his never leaving. “What can I say? The guy’s been around.”

I had half a mind to throw something at him, but honestly, I didn’t have the energy to care anymore. I was still processing the fact that Hank had basically given us the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ treatment.

"You know we’re gonna get an earful from him later, right?" I muttered, feeling my face go a little hotter. "He's gonna be all, ‘You kids are lucky I’m a softie.’"

Connor laughed, the sound so carefree I almost wanted to smack him. “Hey, at least we got out of it.”

I turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. “You think we got out of it? He just let us off the hook because he’s... what, distracted by whatever his new favorite bar’s got on tap?”

“Hey, whatever works,” Connor said with a grin, completely unbothered.

I gave him a look, walking toward the door. “Yeah, well, next time, let’s not make the whole department part of our ‘special moments,’ okay?”

He followed me out, casually fixing his jacket. “You know I can’t promise that.”

I shot him a sideways glance, feeling the heat still simmering beneath my skin. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Connor’s smirk only deepened as he sidled up beside me, his breath warm against my ear. “You love it,” he whispered, voice low and velvety.

A shiver ran down my spine before I could even process it, and I could feel my pulse pick up. Fuck him. I turned my head just enough to catch the glint in his eyes, but not quite enough to meet his gaze directly.

“Stop,” I muttered, voice coming out weaker than I’d like.

He didn’t, in fact, stop. In fact, he leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing my ear as he added, “I can’t, if you keep looking at me like that.”

“I’m serious, Connor,” I warned, but the slight quiver in my voice betrayed me.

I tried to stay annoyed, but I could feel it slipping, like trying to hold onto water with a sieve. But the second he leaned in closer, that same teasing smirk still tugging at his lips, it hit me. He was messing with me.

I blinked, suddenly realizing he’d been toying with me this whole time. Damn android.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked, the realization making my cheeks heat up.

“Absolutely,” he replied without missing a beat, his voice a low hum in my ear.

I couldn’t help but laugh (at myself, mostly), shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re so mean.”

"Yeah, you love it."

"Well, just, try not to get us caught next time."

"Now, where's the fun in that?"

[dontbesoweirdkira]

can you write about a rebel being bothered by invincible who joined his dad and took over the planet?

i'd imagine mark would see himself as a god because of how much stronger he is. So it's funny to him to see the rebel character resist when they both know she lives at his mercy. he'd take her to dates she didn't want, being her clothes, do sweet relationship stuff meanwhile the character is fuming everytime she sees him.

although some comments gets to him and spirals him into a converstion about how she is nothing compared to him to cope.

(LOVED your batsib x yandere!mark grayson thing btw ❤️)

A/N: Oh my gosh yes? I swear some of ya'lls minds are insane. Mark with an insufferable "god" complex is the best yandere Mark. I loved that the variants of him showed just how fucked up he truly can be. Can you tell which mark is my favorite based on how I wrote this lolll? Sorry this has taken forever to come out. I've been dealing with a lot this past year...forgive me.

Warnings: Dead Dove Don't Eat | yandere!mark, threats, violent descriptions, degradation, and abuse relationship dynamic.

Here's the funny thing about this scenario, Mark is convinced that he's such a good boy for "preserving" you. He doesn't seem to understand why you are so turned off to him when you got the best possible outcome a useless being such as yourself could get. He could've easily killed you or made you into some slave for Viltrumites to use and abuse, but no. You should be kissing his feet and worshiping the very ground he walks on for taking you as his personal..pet *cough* lover.

You hate who he has become. Mark is far from the sweet boy who used to walk you to class and pull all-nighters with. The old mark would never put his hands or you or treat you like some subhuman who should be blessed by his presence. Your heart breaks all over again whenever you wake up next to him, knowing that this isn't all some bad dream and he would probably never return to his old self.. I can't really blame you at all for your rebellion.

Mark tries to convince you that deep down he's always been like this and you need to get over it. The Viltrum way is the only right way to live, that's why humans die off so easily.. can't you see everything is so much better now?

In Mark's defense, he does *try* to retain some of his humanity for you and only you. Well...his own twisted sense of humanity that is. I agree with you that Mark would still take his darling on dates, use cute pet names and do human gushy ushy stuff.. that on paper you should be loving. He thinks that by doing the things you used to love to do with him, he can manipulate you into loving him again. It never really works because it ends with him not knowing how to act right. From forcing intimacy upon you to letting his violent tendencies towards others, especially humans, get the best of him. He'll rip someone's spine out of their body during a date simply because they glanced in your direction then go back to drooling over you like nothing even happened.

Not sure about you, but i'd be a little shit and bite the hell out of his lip whenever he tries to make-out with me. He'd definitely do a dry chuckle, then bite back, drawing blood because you hurt his ego a bit. (the type of man that tries to play it off by sexily sucking your lip and continuing with the kiss. I want to choke him out)

Mark's idea of cuddling is basically just strangling you while he goes on and on about himself or the plans he has for the both of you. Dear Lord, please save us. You can use all you might to push him off of you but he is rather unfazed by this and keeps talking.

Can you imagine Mark trying to be sweet by bringing you a pretty outfit since you mentioned how bland the clothes are that Viltrumites wear are, not expecting to be met with a negative reaction from you? You cannot tell me that he wouldn't be set off by that. He personally took precious time out of his day to get this custom made for you, it's your taste down to a t and he even had it GIFT WRAPPED for you----yet you couldn't be bothered to open it before you tossing it. Madness, he thinks.

He'd grab your hand and force you to fish through the garbage disposal and pick it up, then hold you down while he manhandled you into the outfit. (you have bruises and scratches all over you after that) The entire time he's spewing all sorts of degrading things at you, making sure he's hitting real deep just to make you cry at this point. Oh and you're only wearing that for the next couple of weeks since you're ungrateful, he doesn't care. How dare you disrespect him.

You're right, though. It is hilarious to him when you try fighting him back or acting tough, he's a king and you're his jester. I can see him egging you on at some points for him amusement. You know what he's doing and it only gets you more heated which in turn makes him poke fun at you more.

Tossing you around, pining you down and scaring you are sources of fun for him too. Likes when you get so fed up that you slap him too,,it's so cute and it feels like a tickle to him ..

"You're so damn pathetic, babe. This is why I keep you around, other humans aren't as adorable as you are.."

His very big yet very fragile ego is so on point tho too. He can take you fighting back and acting tough...but do not say shit about leaving him and do not attempt to.

The last time you did, and it genuinely seemed like you meant it to him, he flipped the fuck out. Like you always knew that Mark was batshit, but the way his eyes shifted into something sinister before dangling you by your ankle thousands of miles in the air, threatening to drop you and let the birds eat up your splattered guts...yeah, i'm good on that. You think you are going to just leave and have a better life without him? No way, baby. Death is the only way out of his *loving*chokehold.

Another way to cause him to act out is mentioning something about him being weak or not as great as he thinks he is. Bonus points if you compare him to someone else. You might think you're just getting under his skin as retaliation for whatever he did to upset you, but you are unleashing something you shouldn't..

"----You're nothing. A piece of gum stuck to the sidewalk has far more purpose in this world than you ever could. You could live a million lives, and never amount to me. You wanna do comparisons, huh? I'll show you how weak I am when I snap their fuckin' neck, they're not shit to me and neither are you--- so don't think I won't---"

Yeah he's talking all of this shit while you're trying not to black out from his hands that are tightly constricting your airflow.

I do think he's that much of a pussy that he would have this same reaction without even doing anything, really. He could see someone that he feels insecure about and he's so deluded that he convinces himself that you are somehow now in love with that person, even though you've never met them before...and now he's destroying the house when he comes home.

Once he comes down from his ego trip and realizes he almost just killed you and could've lost you for good over his immaturity, he's very very apologetic. Like the way he acts is the closest to his former self that you're going to get. His touch is suddenly gentle, and his head is thrown into your lap, begging you to forgive him. He goes on about how he is so stupid and he just wants you to love him blah blah "I didn't mean it sweetie" blah blah... yeah fuck you mark. He'd be soft until you're better and finally forgive him (just so he can stfu honestly) then he's back to his shenanigans.

There's so much I could write for this but I don't wanna go too far off of the request lmaoo. Please send in more for daddy Mark with an inflated ego. I need himmmm