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jen-with-a-pen · 1 year ago

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𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦

summary: After what you assumed would be a successful mission, things veer off-course and you're stuck with Bucky Barnes in Istanbul with no way out until morning. The tension between you comes to head and nothing will be the same again.

parings: Protective!Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Sniper!Agent!Curvy!F!Reader

word count: 6.5K

warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, canon-level violence with just a bit more blood, guns, reader is a sniper/sharp-shooter, hate-making out, degradation, fighting, insults and cursing, teasing/banter, reader and bucky don't know how to talk about their feelings (or to eachother), spanking, doggy, angry-horny, rough-ish sex, pent up anger, pent up sexual tension, power dynamics, protective!Bucky, vague hinting to Bucky's PTSD, no use of y/n, reader is tagged as curvy and is described as such but body description is kept to a minimum

a/n: this work is for @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge! My prompts were "enemies to lovers" and "Again! Please, again!" I am incredibly thankful to Suz for letting me participate. I haven't been able to participate in a challenge since forever ago 😅 ALSO! This is my first time writing enemies to lovers, as well as curvy!reader! even though i'm curvy myself, i hope i did okay ♥ This work is not beta-read. all mistakes are my own. If any mistake is glaringly obvious, please feel free to message me and let me know! p.s. I listened to a lot of PVRIS + Nothing But Thieves writing this, can ya tell? p.p.s. the amount of willpower and struggle with my muse it took to finish this is... a lot. i think she scratched my cornea at some point.

If I’ve missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @unearthlydust | dividers by @cafekitsune | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist title from: You Know Me Too Well by Nothing But Thieves Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

Bucky Barnes has always hated you, and you have always hated Bucky Barnes. At least since you first met, that is.

Being the newest recruit– and only sharp-shooter– to grace the S.H.I.E.L.D. Direct Action Team’s roster since signing on the Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, the hostility was almost immediate from the second you walked in your first day.

You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.

When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.

Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.

After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.

You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week.

With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.

Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together.

Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”

The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival.

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A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’

“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door.

“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.

You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.

Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger.

“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.

It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder.

The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit.

“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.

“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip.

Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing.

“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.

You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.

“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.

Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.

“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”

“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink.

Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it.

You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time.

You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell.

Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.

The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.

“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear.

“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”

White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.

He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.

“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.

His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.

You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below.

With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.

“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost.

“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape.

“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”

He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully.

“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.

“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.

“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”

He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.

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The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium.

There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form.

Your face burned.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?”

You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.”

He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.

♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.

You swallowed a groan.

“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear.

“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”

“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”

“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”

Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours.

“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.”

You wanted to take his finger and break it.

You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.

You doubted it was convincing.

“Fine.”

He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion.

When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.

“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

“When the hell did you–”

“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.

“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance.

He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.

The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles.

“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.

Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.

It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike.

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The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own.

Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–

“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously.

“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side.

“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.

“Because there’s only one fucking bed?”

“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.

You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”

His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward.

You swallowed. “You heard me.”

One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard.

Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body.

“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.

“Look at me!”

“No! Fuck– Get off me!”

With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.

You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.

“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.”

His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it’d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”

You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone.

“Is that all, Sergeant?”

His Adam's apple bobbed.

“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.

“You heard me.”

The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged.

“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.

“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”

Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.

“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you.

And you let him.

“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.

“Holy–fuck, holy shit.”

Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why.

He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame.

“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your heart stopped.

“You’re telling me.”

Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door.

Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy.

Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.

Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however.

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?”

You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”

“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.

“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release.

“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.

“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”

He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”

“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”

“Number fuckin’ one.”

The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core.

Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.

“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.

He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs.

“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass.

SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”

SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”

SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.”

Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him.

“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”

You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure.

“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you.

“Fuck! Again! Please, again!”

He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you.

“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode.

“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”

“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.

For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile.

“Thanks.”

He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”

You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”

“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.

“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”

“Mhmm, sure,” he hummed. The covers shrouded you as he placed a metal hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb in soft circles as he pulled you in for another electrifying kiss.

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scribendis · 1 year ago

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𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝

Aemond Targaryen x female reader (third person perspective) ❖ husband & wife

Warnings: smut, dry humping, p in v sex, semi-public sex, newlyweds being horny, little bit of profanity, breeding kink if you squint really, really hard Rating: 18+ MDNI Word count: ~3,500

Summary: Upon returning to camp from a hunt in the Kingswood, Aemond looks for a way to keep his wife warm on a bitterly cold night.

A/N: Serendipitously conceptualized ages ago but written (very late!) for the first week of the @hotd-bigbang winter word prompts challenge - Fire | Furs | Forest

Dividers by @saradika | AO3 link

The setting sun cast long shadows across the small city of tents that made up the hunting camp in the Kingswood. While the men had spent the day combing the forest for boars, stags, and other game, the women had occupied the main tent. They gorged themselves on cakes and other sweets, all the while indulging in gossip that ranged from the salacious to the downright treasonous.

And, much to the chagrin of the new wife of Prince Aemond Targaryen, they pestered her endlessly about the burgeoning love life of her and her husband. She quickly learned that, to be a woman in the king’s court meant sharing every last, excruciating detail of one’s “wifely duties” so that the others could compare them with their own. So that they could all know whose husbands fucked them the best and complain about their own lackluster experiences.

They questioned her until she was beet-red in the face and one of the older women finally called for an end to her torment. Still, it would taste a lie for her to say that all their titillating conversation about lovemaking had not made her ache desperately for her husband.

But by the time that night finally claimed the sprawling camp, the men had still not returned from the hunt. It signaled to the waiting wives that their husbands would come back without their prize, frustrated and exhausted - and that they would later fall into their beds reeking of wine.

The call of horns and the distant sound of barking hounds was their cue to don their furs and exit the tent to greet the arriving men. The prince’s wife was glad for the fur-lined cloak that her husband had procured for her for just such an occasion as this. She was even more grateful for the garment as she exited the tent only to be met with the sting of the cold night air on her cheek. The women elected to wait for their husbands by the bonfire that raged in the middle of the camp, its light their only source of warmth as frost began to settle on the Kingswood.

It was easy for her to spot her husband among the group of riders, his long silver hair unmistakable in the light of the rising moon. Whatever otherworldly quality his Valyrian features gave him seemed amplified tonight - and it made the sight of him astride a horse even more odd to her. Were her husband any other lord of the realm, his approach on horseback would not have seemed out of place. But Targaryens were no horse riders. Still, Aemond effortlessly commanded the steed beneath him, his mastery reminiscent of the way he would handle a dragon.

As the crowd of riders began to disperse, her eyes remained fixed on her husband. Amid the thundering of horses’ hooves and the raucous laughter of the noble lords, Aemond's attention, too, was solely focused on her. The intensity of his gaze only intensified her excitement, eliciting a gentle flutter in her belly.

With grace and ease, Aemond slipped off of the horse’s back. A waiting servant took his leather riding gloves from him, but Aemond could very well have let them fall to the dirt for as little attention as he paid to anyone but her.

Aemond was always loath to indulge in any public affection, aside from the occasional hand at the small of his wife’s back or a brief touch upon her cheek. Even now that he was reunited with her after such a long day apart, his restraint came in the form of a soft kiss brushed against her temple and nothing more. But the way that his arm wrapped around her and his hand dared to wander much lower than her waist - and the way his eye held hers so intently - told her just how much he had missed her. How much he needed her.

Given Aemond’s usually stoic demeanor, she had never thought that he would be needy, but he had proven to be just that in the few weeks since they had been wed. They had already made love in the depths of the palace library more times than she could count, and discovered countless other hidden places throughout the Keep where his hands had found their way up her skirts and his lips had left marks on her neck. Some mornings, he would forego training altogether to stay in bed with her with his face between her legs or his cock buried inside her.

And he had not heard a single complaint from her yet.

“Ābrazȳrys, your skin is cold to the touch,” Aemond commented, a hint of concern lacing his soft voice. His lips lingered at her temple for a moment longer before he withdrew, taking one of her hands in his. “As are your fingers.” (wife)

She smiled. His own hand was as warm as ever. “I am no dragon like you, dear husband. The cold night air chills me to the bone.”

“And the furs I gave you do not suffice?” he asked, quirking a brow.

She shook her head. “Nor the bonfire.”

Aemond hummed, his displeasure at such an assurance quite clear. He brought her fingers to his lips, blowing warm air on them before kissing them. “Come, jorrāeliarza. I have another idea for how we might offer you some warmth on such a cold night.” (beloved)

Still with an arm drawn around her, he swiftly guided her around the bonfire and, to her surprise, past the royal tent where food, wine, and music awaited them. She glanced over her shoulder questioningly at the entrance to the tent, from which poured an inviting golden light, but Aemond seemed determined on his path.

“Aemond, are we… not going inside?”

A smirk tugged at his lips, and she noticed a mischievous twinkle in his eye as they passed a flickering torch. “I thought I would spare you any further conversation with the ladies of the court.”

“And I thank you for that, dear husband,” she said with a laugh, her words falling from her lips in fleeting clouds of mist that looked like she was breathing smoke. “But I do not think–”

Aemond stopped them in their tracks and turned to her, staying any further words by sweeping in to press his lips firmly against hers. “Lykirī.” (Be calm.)

Once freed from his bruising kiss, she stood, dazed, for a moment before any further thoughts could come to her - something that her husband had certainly noticed given the grin that spread across his lips. She pushed him away playfully with a little scoff and an over-exaggerated look of annoyance that drew a rare chuckle from him.

“I am not one of your Targaryen dragons,” she protested, drawing her furs tighter around herself. “Those… dragon commands won’t work on me.”

Aemond leaned in to meet her at eye level, offering an arm to her that she took. “But it did work, did it not?”

She was still none the wiser about their destination as her husband quickly guided them beyond the boundaries of the camp and toward the treeline. The leaves had taken on stunning hues of red, orange, and yellow, a sight that she had marveled at from within the wheelhouse on their way into the Kingswood that morning. But in the cover of night, that beauty was lost to the pitch-black darkness. Not even the light of the moon could permeate the thick canopy of trees, leaving the forest an endless void.

She did not fear the darkness, only the occasional sound of a twig snapping or the call of some unknown creature. As husband and wife disappeared from the sight of the camp, she found herself clutching onto him more tightly.

“Aemond, where are we going?” she whispered as though speaking at full volume would topple one of the mighty trees.

“Patience, jorrāeliarza.”

“What if there are wolves out here, Aemond–”

“There are no predators in the Kingswood. And, if there were,” Aemond turned to her and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, brushing the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip, “do you think that I would let them harm even a single hair on your head?” He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before releasing her. “Do not worry. We can stop here.”

She glanced around, seeing the pleasant glow of the camp in the near distance and nothing but darkness everywhere else. “Here?”

“I thought, perhaps, you would want to be a bit further from camp…” he purred. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to see him lean in. One of his hands reached up to pull her furs aside and his lips found her neck, warm and soft as they began to kiss her skin. She felt his hum vibrate against her pulse point, where her heartbeat fluttered wildly. “Given how loud you can be, dōna ābrazȳrys.”

A gasp left her and her head tilted away from his lips, begging silently for more. Tomorrow would call for yet another dress with a high neckline, she thought.

“I’ve… I’ve not heard that one before…” He regularly called her all manner of names in High Valyrian. She often found him muttering to himself in his ancestral tongue. One night, he had even spoken it in his sleep. She knew a small handful of words, but only those few. “What does that mean?”

“Sweet wife,” Aemond breathed against her neck, leaving a bit of warmth behind before his lips captured hers once again. “You taste sweet tonight, too.”

“It must be the… the wine, I think,” she gasped. “Or the lemon cakes…”

But the growing hunger inside him was not for the sweetness of cakes or Arbor gold.

He kissed her more deeply this time, lips coaxing hers apart to taste her tongue for himself. His hands fell to her hips, fingers digging into her soft flesh to draw her body against his. And, in doing so, he finally offered her the warmth he had previously promised her - one that not even the hottest bonfire could provide.

As his fingers began to deftly ruck up her skirts, she felt her skin prickle. At the same time, an entirely different kind of heat began to spread through her until it found its familiar place between her legs. Moaning softly into their continued kiss, she dropped her hands to the closure of his trousers, where his obvious arousal strained against the dark fabric.

“Gods, Aemond, you're so hard and I've barely touched you," she breathed against his lips. “Did you miss me?” But she knew the answer, and how pleasing it was to know just how badly she had been missed that day.

His only reply was a grunt that rose in his throat as his hands slipped beneath her smallclothes and all but tore them from her. Despite the rough, calloused spots on his palms and fingers, his warm touch was a balm against the cold night air. In a swift, almost aggressive motion, he lifted her by her arse so that she had no choice but to envelop his hips with her legs. It taunted her, the feeling of his hard cock pressing against her wet entrance. His trousers were a tedious, unwanted barrier between them.

Their passionate embrace only became more heated as Aemond pinned her to the trunk of one of the trees and his body pressed firmly against hers. She squirmed, inadvertently causing friction between her clit and his still-clothed hardness that was too delicious to keep a moan from stuttering past her lips.

“It would seem that you missed me as well, jorrāeliarza,” he rasped with a playful smirk. Teasingly, he rolled his hips against hers to coax another one of those sweet sounds from her. “Come on. Take what you need.”

She needed no further convincing, as great as the ache between her legs had grown. Her grip on the collar of his longcoat tightened and she took over, rocking her hips against his at a slow, but steady, pace. Each gasp and moan that left her lips billowed from them in a smoke-like mist, until she tucked her head into the crook of her husband’s neck and the sounds became muffled against his throat. He smelled of horse and sweat and, if she searched for it, the soap he had used the night before. But he tasted divine as her lips began to pepper open-mouthed kisses against his skin.

Judging by the trembling breaths that she felt against her hair, this teasing was just as pleasurable for her husband as it was for her. His own grip on her arse tightened, as though he was fighting to hold on. Knowing him, he wanted only the satisfaction of spilling himself inside her.

But his own torture would not go on for much longer, as her rutting against him was quickly bringing her to the brink of release. Her pace quickened, desperate as she was to reach it. Finally, the pleasure inside her began to unfurl and its warmth spread through her. From head to toe, it enveloped her completely as though she had been submerged into a hot bath.

It was exactly as Aemond had promised. In the grips of her climax, the frigid air mattered little, if at all.

Gasping for breath as she came down again, she pressed her lips to his and he received her kiss greedily. No doubt he was desperate for his own release after watching her come apart - and how could she refuse him?

“You know,” she began as her hands fell to his trousers once again. Only, this time, her fingers made quick work of the closures. “Earlier, all the women wanted to know how good you are in bed.”

Their gazes locked and, even in the darkness of the forest, she could see the almost animalistic desire in his one good eye. But as desperate as he was to be inside her, he seemed almost equally as intrigued by her words. She freed his cock from the confines of his trousers and took it into her hand. Her simple act of stroking him once was enough to draw a low groan out of him.

“Fucking gossips,” Aemond replied huskily. His lips drew close to hers but did not quite meet them. “Do I wish to know what you told them?”

She grinned. Her fingers guided his cock to her slick entrance but stopped there momentarily. “I told them–” Her words were cut off by a moan as he buried himself inside her quickly and without warning. “Oh, fuck…”

“Oh, fuck?” Aemond repeated teasingly, raising a brow. “Am I so bad at it, jorrāeliarza?” The smug look of satisfaction on his face belied any attempts at fooling her into thinking that he believed that to be her true confession earlier that day.

Too impatient, he began to move his hips against hers - and she met each of his slow, steady thrusts with movements of her own. Misty air surrounded them amid their shared panting, both of them relishing in the sensation of becoming one again after such a long day apart.

She allowed her head to fall back against the tree, where strands of her hair began to tangle in its rough bark. But she hardly noticed or cared at all, especially as her husband’s lips reclaimed her neck and his hot breaths swept along the contours of her jaw.

“Ābrazȳrys.”

She became so lost in the carnal pleasure of his cock sliding in and out of her that Aemond’s voice barely reached her. It did not help at all that his pace began to quicken as the heat between them grew to a simmer. The cry of pleasure that left her mingled with the sounds of the forest, joining the nighttime symphony of hooting owls and the rustling of the crisp underbrush.

“What did you tell them?” Aemond pressed. His own composure was starting to fail him and his words came out strained.

A breathy laugh left her. He always purported to care little about what the members of his father’s court thought of him. But, evidently, that sentiment did not extend to his wife and her opinions.

She placed a hand on his cheek to pull his lips to hers, kissing him deeply as pleasure began to coil inside her anew. “I told them,” she panted, her eyes opening to meet his, “that my husband is not the one riding the largest dragon in the world.”

Whatever Aemond had expected her to say, it clearly was not that. For a moment, his hips stilled and he looked as stunned as the ladies had been when she had uttered those same words that morning. One of them had even spilled a full cup of wine down her pale blue dress as she stared at her like some startled animal.

“My, my…” he purred.

But his look of shock fell away just as quickly. Replacing it was a ferocity that she had never seen from him before. A hunger that her words had awakened inside him which only she could satiate. There were no more soft words of love, or the usual names he called her while making love to her. His fingers dug almost painfully into her hips and he resumed his movements against her.

Aemond quickly built up a brutal pace, the head of his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her toes curl inside her shoes. Any thoughts or complaints about how bitterly cold it was outside had been long forgotten, drunk as she was on the intensity of the pleasure he was fucking into her her. Even her moans began to leave her in choked gasps and broken mewls that, if anyone in the hunting camp heard her, would have sounded no different than the calls of some creature of the forest.

She could feel it, the straining of her muscles and the tightening of her insides. The tremble that overtook her as she hurtled toward the edge along with him. She felt like a handkerchief being squeezed of water, and he would not stop his tightening of her until he had wrung her of every last drop.

Her eyes fluttering, she leaned in to capture Aemond’s lips in a kiss that he did not reciprocate in his own carnal pursuit of release. “Aemond…” “Mm-mm,” he chided, his tone gruffer and far lower than she had ever heard it. “I want to see you.”

One of his hands released its grip on her arse and moved to the nape of her neck to hold her firmly and ensure she could not look away. As he watched her, he groaned deeply in his own fight to hold on until he could get precisely what he wanted.

And it only took three simple words from him to finish her at last.

“Cum for me.”

Like a dam breaking, all the building pleasure that had been twisting inside her released. Coaxed by the continued pounding of his hips against hers, it spread into every extremity as her body shuddered and her cries of ecstasy filled the dense, frosty air. The fluttering of her walls around him soon spelled the end for him, too. With a few more ragged thrusts, he found his release inside her.

His eye squeezed shut. His lips, kiss-swollen, parted. And then, a certain look of peace overtook him.

Although still lost in her own haze of pleasure, she watched him closely - and she decided that he had never looked more beautiful.

They remained in their loving embrace, neither one wanting to pull away from the other just yet. Her, with her legs still encircling his hips, and him, with one hand holding her up and the other at her neck. Aemond pressed his forehead to hers and his thumb began to caress her cheek tenderly.

She hadn’t spoken of these moments to the women of the court that day. About how her husband could fuck her within an inch of her life and, immediately thereafter, treat her with such affection and softness. With such devotion in each caress of his fingers and every soft word he uttered.

Their breathing soon began to slow once again and the world around them finally came back into view. Smiling, she brushed the tip of her nose against his before kissing him so deeply that he hummed in surprise. But he reciprocated earnestly, slowly setting her back down on the ground but never quite letting her go.

“We should return to the camp,” Aemond said as he re-adjusted her furs on her shoulders. “I would not have you catch your death out here in the cold, jorrāeliarza.”

A sweet grin spread across her lips, but something wicked glistened in her eyes. “Oh, but my husband has already given me all the warmth I require.”

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buzzcutlip · 26 days ago

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For @tyferbebe who requested "You know you didn't have to get me anything" & Touch starved from my Winter prompts list <3 I changed the sentence a little bit

Not Monday Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader Rated E (oral sex) 2170 words

You have a massive, ginormous crush on your neighbour, Carmen Berzatto. You find him extremely good-looking—even though he might not be the typical hot guy type—and the fact that he’s a successful chef takes things to an even higher level. The fact that he’s been capable of running some of the best restaurants in the world definitely impresses you, and, frankly, turns you on in all sorts of ways.

Hi, are you at home?

Mind if I pop in for a sec?

The two messages from Carmy show up on the screen of your phone, and you simultaneously panic and get excited. You’ve just returned from the Christmas family visit late last night, and now you’re in the middle of unpacking, sorting out dirty laundry, and eating leftovers. The urge to put on at least a bit of makeup and change out of your old sweatpants is strong, but on the other hand, you’re worried that Carmen’s plan might change if you don’t respond immediately.

Sure, come over!

The next second, you hear the door opposite yours open and shut, followed by a quick rap on your entrance door. When you open it, you’re still clutching your phone in one hand.

“Wow, you’re quick,” you blurt out with a laugh. Carmy smiles back, his dimples appearing, and your heart swells. Your eyes quickly roam over his form and face, hoping that he won’t notice your obvious gluttonous interest.

“I’m returning the screwdriver,” Carmen says, handing you the tool he borrowed at the beginning of December.

“Oh, thank you.” This has become a game you two play. Not so innocent on your side, as you would often come up with silly reasons, but hopefully convincing ones, to either visit Carmy or invite him over to your place—to borrow a cup of flour, ask him to change a bulb, or help you move the sofa. On the other hand, Carmen’s been over to yours for small favors like shirt ironing, sewing a button on his chef whites, or suggestions for Natalie’s birthday present.

“Sorry about the mess,” you say quickly, clutching the screwdriver like it’s a precious artifact. “I just got back last night and haven’t really… sorted everything out yet.”

Carmen shrugs, a little smile playing at his lips. “Looks fine to me.” His eyes linger for a moment on the half-open suitcase spilling clothes onto the floor before they return to you. There’s something about the way he looks at you—like he’s caught between being bashful and wanting to stay longer.

“So, uh, how was your trip?” he asks, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. You know that despite The Bear being closed for the Christmas holidays, Carmen was probably busy coming up with new dishes and similar things. No rest for the wicked.

You’re a little surprised by the question—he doesn’t usually linger after these quick exchanges. “Good. A little chaotic, but that’s family for you.” Carmen knows about your mother and three siblings—each of you with a different father—and how intense she gets.

Carmen chuckles, the sound low and warm, and you wonder if it’s possible to bottle it. You’d play it on repeat whenever you needed cheering up. “I can imagine.”

“Oh—wait! I’ve got something for you,” you suddenly remember and reach into your suitcase to fish out a small package adorned with a green ribbon.

Carmen’s eyes widen, flicking between you and the package as you hand it to him. “It’s Belgian chocolate. Milk with roasted almonds and sea salt,” you quickly explain. “One of my older brother’s father is Belgian. He always sends a lot of chocolates. I think he doesn’t remember how old we are anymore,” you shrug. “This is my favorite.”

Carmen’s face softens as he looks at the package in your hand, and he hesitates for just a moment before taking it. His fingers brush yours, and you don’t miss the way he notices it too—his eyes darting to yours for a fraction of a second.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice quieter, almost shy. “It’s nothing,” you reply, brushing it off. “I mean, you’ve helped me out so many times. And besides…” You trail off, shrugging again as you feel a little self-conscious. “I thought you might like it.”

Carmen studies the package for a moment before meeting your eyes again. There’s something so earnest about the way he looks at you, it makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Thanks…Uhm—I didn’t get you anything.”

You wave your hand dismissively, shaking your head as you try to mask the pang of disappointment you feel, even though you honestly hadn’t expected a present from Carmy. “Don’t be silly. It’s not like that.”

Carmen’s shoulders relax slightly, though his brows remain knitted together like he’s still mulling it over. “Still… I feel bad now,” he mutters.

“You really don’t have to,” you insist, a small laugh escaping you. “I mean, unless you wanna give me the New Year’s kiss I didn’t get.”

When you blurt out the last sentence, your eyes widen as you realize what you just said. You quickly laugh again, only this time it sounds a bit forced. “I guess I take that from my mom—finding the right guy who would stick around is not my strength,” you ramble on uncomfortably, trying your best to get out of the situation with as much dignity as possible.

Carmen looks genuinely caught off guard, like he’s not sure if you’re joking or not. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, spreading all the way to your ears. “You serious, or…?”

Your heart skips—no, jumps—at his words. The laugh that escapes you now is soft, nervous, and entirely unplanned. “I mean… maybe?” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

Carmen’s eyes flicker to yours as he steps just a little closer, the tension between you so thick you can almost touch it. “You tell me,” he says conspiratorially, his voice even softer now.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he leans in, his movements careful, like he’s giving you all the time in the world to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you tilt your head, your lips brushing his just barely, soft and tentative.

It’s you who leans back first, afraid of him ending the kiss. Only now do you realize you’re wearing old sweatpants and a stretched-out t-shirt, your face completely makeup-free. Carmen’s seen you at The Bear, when you went there for dinner with a friend—all dressed up in fancy clothes and carefully styled hair. “I’m a mess,” you state, still vibrating from the little kiss.

“You always look pretty,” Carmy says quietly with a small smile, sounding genuine. You want nothing more than to kiss him some more, so you ask: “Was that just a one-time—” but before you have a chance to finish your question, or even your thought, Carmy’s lips are on yours again, and your brain short-circuits.

Your bed is hiding behind an old antique paravent you bought in Boston when you first moved here. The bed itself is large, just how you like it, with a solid wood-carved headboard. That’s where you end up together.

The touch of your tongue against Carm’s is intoxicating; the taste of his kiss is absolutely addictive. You moan into the kiss needily, the sound catching in the back of your throat, and blush furiously at your own reaction.

Despite how much you hate admitting it, it’s been years since you kissed someone like this—since a guy has touched you like Carmen is now. His hands roam up and down your sides under your jumper, squeezing the meat of your thighs, enveloping you heavily, wholly.

Carmy’s solid weight above you is grounding and electrifying all at once. Your hands find their way under his hoodie, fingers brushing against his warm skin, the wiry strength of muscle a reminder of how physical his life is. He lets out a quiet, almost shy groan when your nails graze his back, and you feel the sound in your chest as much as you hear it.

“Is this okay?” he asks between kisses, his voice husky, his breath warm against your neck. The care in his tone makes your stomach flip. “Yes,” you whisper, arching into him.

That seems to give him permission, and his touch grows bolder. He pushes your shirt up, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your waist, sending shivers up your spine. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, to your neck, each kiss deliberate. You’re finding it harder and harder to keep still under his attention, your head tilting restlessly, your teeth sinking into your lip to stifle the embarrassing noises spilling from you.

When Carmen leans away and up, you almost protest. He sits back on his haunches between your spread legs, all flushed cheeks and messy hair. He looks adorable and also devastatingly hot. Before you can say anything, he swiftly takes off his t-shirt and jumper in one go, and you finally have the opportunity to admire his bare torso.

The second you want to get up to explore his torso properly with your hands—and maybe your mouth—he stops you.

“Lie back,” Carmy gently nudges you into position, and you obey willingly, watching him curiously.

Carmen’s gaze is heavy, filled with an intensity that sends a fresh wave of heat coursing through you. His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths as he studies you quietly. All you can do is watch as he reaches down for the waist of your sweatpants.

“Can I…” he trails off, leaning down to kiss the sliver of bare skin peeking between the waistband and the jumper. Immediately, you nod, letting him know he has your consent. You even help him push the garment down your legs and off. His calloused fingers are warm, rough in a way that contrasts beautifully with how gently he’s touching you. You feel like you’re about to melt into the bed.

A sudden stillness forces you to open your eyes to check on Carmy. He’s staring down, right between your legs.

“It’s not Monday,” he says, sensing your eyes on him.

“Whaat?”

He touches his thumb to your pelvis bone. “Here. It says ‘Monday.’”

Confused, you look down. It takes you only about two seconds to understand that he’s referring to the word on your panties, just above a picture of daisies.

“Shut up,” you nudge him with your knee, laughing.

He chuckles low, his breath fanning against your skin as he presses a kiss just below your navel. “I’m just observant,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your skin between words, sending a violent shiver up your spine with the tender contact.

“And for the record, these”—he hooks a finger under the elastic, tugging gently—“are cute as hell.”

Then, instead of taking your underwear off as you expect, he takes your hand in his and pulls it down to your crotch—a silent invitation to touch yourself. You do, feeling your heart in your throat, turned on and shy in equal measures. Carmen watches as you stroke yourself through your panties, hesitantly at first. You’ve been wet since the moment you two started kissing, the damp patch on the pale blue fabric drawing Carmy’s eyes.

He lowers himself, planting open-mouthed kisses on your inner thighs and moving higher, closer to your core. He kisses your hand too, mouthing at it with his tongue as if it were your mouth—or your pussy. You can’t believe something so innocent can feel so sexual, and you let out a stream of soft moans. With every passing second, you’re closer and closer to voicing out loud that it’s time for the main act.

Carmen seems to sense it—your need, your desperation. His gaze flickers up to your face, heavy-lidded, and he murmurs, “Don’t rush. Let me take care of you.” His voice is a low rasp, full of tenderness and heat.

The way he’s looking at you sends another ripple of arousal straight through you, and your breath catches when he pulls the soaked crotch of your panties aside, kissing your pussy for the first time.

“Fuck. Carmy,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

He hums against you, not letting up, giving you a hard lick—one that ends right at your sensitive clit. Your hands find his hair, threading through the soft strands as his lips and tongue explore you. You can feel his breath against your skin, the way it hitches every time you squirm or let out a sound. All the sensations are new, overwhelming, and intense in the best possible way.

Carmen doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate. His mouth is warm, deliberate, and unrelenting. The rough drag of his tongue paired with the softness of his lips makes your head spin. Each stroke feels like he’s memorizing you, mapping out what makes you gasp and moan with the precision of someone determined to get it right.

#the prompts are now changed into Winter-post-Christmas ones #winter prompts #oh and i've kinda lost my job today ha ha #perfect beginning of the new year #not letting it get to me tho!!#carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #the bear #carmen berzatto fic #carmen berzatto x you #carmen x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto fantic #carmen berzatto smut #the bear fanfic

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justaz · 4 months ago

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BIG fan of two sides of the same coin running incredibly hot and the other running incredibly cold.

people who brush hands with merlin wincing bc holy fuck that was like touching ice and merlin just smiles and wanders off. he’s like a cat, he likes to lounge in the sun and soak up the heat. he’s always been a huge fan of summer bc it was the time when the sun was out the most and there were rarely storms or clouds to block out the heat. he like farming with him mom bc of this bc he got to spend time with her while being in the sun. he never tanned tho. for some reason. he always remained as pale as the snow.

the knights are training during a hot summer day and merlin is cleaning a blade so he’s taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves so they don’t get dirty. gwaine wanders over to grab and drink and makes conversation with merlin and nudges his arm and pauses before placing his hands on his arm. he looks up at merlin who is staring at him in confusion. gwaine asks if he’s feeling alright and merlin’s like ?? yeah?? and gwaine just keeps touching him bc fuck its hot out today and merlin is freezing cold to the touch despite sitting in the sun and it’s offering him a bit of relief. arthur ofc barks at gwaine to get back to training and he forces himself to leave. he does make a note to cuddle up to merlin when it gets too hot bc merlin can definitely make him feel better.

no one really touches arthur as he’s the crown prince and all his servants did their best to not touch him directly and if they did it was really quick and professional. gaius always had a hard time figuring when arthur would get a fever bc he always ran hot so it always felt like he had a fever. arthur loved winter bc the snow and cool temperature. his nursemaids and servants would insist on bundling him up but often times arthur would just tear it off when he was outside, he never froze or got sick from it either.

when arthur takes the knights out on an expedition during winter and they’re all bundled up and shivering while arthur is just enjoying the cool air. merlin is shivering the most tho despite being wrapped in about fifty layers of fabric so arthur sheds his cape and hands it to merlin who wraps it around himself with a slight gasp and comment about how its so warm. the knights start a bidding war about who gets to sleep next to arthur when they stop to rest. it doesn’t matter who won. they all just piled on/around arthur and steal his warmth. merlin resides in the middle though bc he’s the coldest so arthur was willing to offer all his warmth to him while the rest stole it.

after they get married, merthur cuddle all night. merlin is freezing and arthur is burning so merlin cools arthur down while arthur warms merlin up. it’s an equal exchange. they’re also touching all the time no matter the temperature. if its summer and most people think its too hot to so much as be looked at? arthur has an arm up merlin’s tunic and wrapped around his waist cooling down while merlin is stealing him warmth. in winter, merlin is the koala and is stealing arthur’s warmth which he doesn’t mind bc merlin’s touch just reminds him of his favorite season.

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clone-wars-winter-challenge · 4 months ago

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Last time for a would you rather before the prompts begin!

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thisapplepielife · 2 months ago

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Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Within Reach

Prompt Day 5: Winter Sports | Word Count: 846 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: AU, Olympic AU, Sports AU, Doubles Luge, Childhood Friends, Secret Relationship, Steve Harrington Has Good Parents

The run is adrenaline-pumping, and makes his nerves stand on end, even all these years later, as he hurtles down the ice track.

But the launch? That's the actual terrifying part.

Getting it right, setting yourself up for a good run or a bad one, that's the part that Eddie hates.

He fell into this sport by accident, literally. Steve was the one that was signed up for the Slider Search by his parents, and Eddie just tagged along to watch. When he was asked if he wanted to do it, too, he said sure because it looked like a thrill ride.

It wasn't ice, just pavement, but hell yeah, eleven-year-old Eddie Munson wasn't about to turn down the chance to do some daredevil shit.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Two kids from Hawkins, Indiana, on the Junior National Team, and now, Team USA.

It was unlikely, and has made for a great puff piece leading up to the Games. Everybody wants to know about the childhood friends, turned pro. Wanted to know if they hated each other yet, after living, breathing, being joined at the hip for this many years.

They don't.

That's why this works.

Solo riders, turned doubles, because you can't manufacture the kind of trust they have in each other. Eddie is a bottom man, at least on the sled, and that means he can't see. Can't do anything, other than be along for the ride.

But he's always been along for the ride with Steve Harrington, and he just has to trust that Steve won't steer them into certain death.

Steve hasn't yet.

He's steered them lots of places together, from childhood, to careers, to this love that they've tucked away and kept just for themselves.

Of course, there have been gnarly crashes, it's just the way of the sport, but when they're lucky they can turn a wreck into a controlled crash and walk away to slide again tomorrow.

He'll never forget the first time they took their newly learned skills to actual ice. It was electric.

He never, ever could have afforded an Olympic run on his own. Wayne didn't have the money, only the love, and Eddie never would have dared to dream to ask for more from him. But the Harringtons just folded him into the budget, as if they'd always planned to have two Olympians, not one.

Buying double the sleds, double the suits, double everything. Year after year, until they made it high enough in the ranks that their equipment was partially, then fully, covered by USA Luge. Still, the Harringtons help pay the rent for their nice apartment, and deposit money into both of their bank accounts on the regular.

He'll never be able to repay them.

But they've never asked him to.

Steve's independent, always has been, and they've let him take the reins on his life from way younger than most do. But they were there. In the background, nudging him the right direction, and by association, Eddie, too.

The run's over, and it wasn't good enough. Getting up to their feet, Eddie wants to break the ice. Wants to tamper the stinging sadness of defeat, even if they were prepared for this to happen. They weren't front-runners. Not yet. They've worked their way up the pyramid from the bottom of the Junior National Team to the top, then starting over again at the bottom of the Senior National Team heap, until they got here. Chosen for Team USA for the fucking Olympics.

That's wild. Crazy. Still unbelievable.

"They think we're fucking," Eddie says under his breath, waving to the crowd, just wanting to make Steve laugh.

"We are fucking," Steve hisses back through his plastered on smile.

"Yeah, but they don't know that."

Steve laughs, a real laugh, not the one he puts on for the public, and it makes Eddie grin. They didn't place. They won't make the podium, turn five was too tricky, and it just didn't go their way this time.

At least they didn't eat shit and die.

Next time, maybe they'll do better. With more practice. More time in the start house, the weight room. There's room for improvement. And the time. They're young. Younger than most, and they have plenty of time to peak.

They'll do it. Eddie knows it. Because Steve does everything he sets his mind to. Always has, always will.

It won't be hard to commit another four years to training, as long as he gets to do it with Steve. Still chasing their dream. The one they've had since they were little kids and playing on snow sleds up on Turn Back Hill.

And then they aren't alone anymore.

The first one to grab him is Wayne, and right after, Mama H. They're happy, all of them. Nobody is disappointed that they finished out of the top ten.

They made the Olympics.

They've got the time, the drive, the desire, to finish higher next time. And maybe then, when they're four years older, the podium will be within reach.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! 🛷

Notes: Slider Search is real, and started in the US in 1985. Since 2002, at least 70% of Team USA came from Slider Search! That's pretty cool that such an open tryout event is proven to produce Olympians. I feel like that's probably not true for most Olympic sports!

#steddieholidaydrabbles #prompt: winter sports #steddie #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #steddie fic #steve harrington #stranger things #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddieholidaydrabbles

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starlight-archer · 3 months ago

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Here we go! The official prompt list for Catwinter! (shout out to the catwin discord for brainstorming prompts with me again)

Each week of December has a theme so you can do all prompts, pick and choose or combine them however you like!

Remember to use the tag #catwinter when you post any art/fics etc that you create! There will be a collection added to AO3 closer to the start date, (titled CATWINTER 2024) too for you to add your fics to if you post there!

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th30ra3k3n · 13 days ago

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“how could i forget

the pair of gorgeous eyes

that i memorized like books?”

(da’s)

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rriavian · 1 year ago

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Okay so I honestly don't remember if I sent you this already or not. My brain was very mushy near the end of nano, lol. But, for the december prompt list you reblogged:

Fuzzy socks, Hobrinthian. :)

You did so well to power through the curse of November! I also reblogged far too many prompt lists when I was supposed to be concentrating on Nano haha. This was a great prompt! I had a lot of fun with it (despite it not wanting to stay wholesome and cute) though this is still a new pairing for me so very much testing things out. It's still a little rough but please enjoy! <3

Hob must admit he’d been expecting this reaction.

One could almost say he’d been aiming for it—anticipating it, amused at the thought—had grinned while he’d wrapped the fuzzy socks in garish Christmas paper and tied a ribbon around the finished product. The socks were fairly soft, definitely warm, and, most importantly, ridiculously decorated with tiny toothbrushes and silly cartoon teeth.

The Corinthian wasn’t impressed. “What the fuck are they?”

Hob let an unhealthy dose of mockery slip into his tone when he replied.

“Socks.”

The Corinthian fell into outrage almost the same way Dream did, the difference perhaps in how here sophistication slipped a little more, his representation of affront sharpening feral rather than aloof. Hob might have been lucky enough to be allowed to examine the ocular teeth unbarred—it becoming increasingly rare that the Corinthian wore them around him at all—but whether those opaque glasses were on or not the eyes were always contemplating murder. Now it became the certainty of a threat rather than the tease of one. Golden lashes might be delicate but the Corinthian’s blink was far from benign, teeth snapping closed before he opened his eyes again, a bite to tear a chunk of flesh. Unmistakeably a glare.

The danger thrilled.

“They’re supposed to go on your feet.” Hob added.

The Corinthian smiled.

A sudden change for all it crept slow across his face; as if he’d seen footprints on a trail, read ahead and found spoilers, a secret entrusted to him just by Hob standing neutral in the Corinthian’s presence. It was as unavoidable as it was uncanny.

The truth of him was that any human left themselves unguarded when caught in the Corinthian's eyeline.

Hob watched as he set the socks down gently on the table, subtly stretching in a roll of muscled shoulders, what lay beneath the surface seeming to shiver free like shifting gears. Perhaps like flicking off the safety on an already loaded gun. A lean into the sensuality of motion, a perfect knowledge of what he looked like when he moved, the inhuman thing he was threaded intricately in flesh. Infused with a human shape to render a nightmare here, in the Waking World, to translate the Corinthian so perfectly to this place that had inspired his creation but would never be his home.

When he spoke the question was mild.

“You got me a Christmas present?”

“Yes.”

Oh, the danger was calibrated now, set to exactly the right sort of simmer, deliberate rather than an instinctive reaction. The Corinthian prowled closer, unhurried despite the growing loom of his threat, a trigger in that sinuous stride because Hob didn’t even realise he’d backed away until he found himself stumbling back against a wall.

He didn’t remember how he’d got there.

A moment of lost time; Hob couldn’t even say he’d been directed, knew the destination had been predicted nonetheless, knew it by the amused twist in the Corinthian’s deceptively charming smile. That was similar to what happened around Dream sometimes—when his friend let himself slip, when an implication of what he was decided it wanted to take a look out of his eyes—a fraction of a mask sliding to the side to reveal an scant inch of bare skin. It was a moment of instinct bypassing consciousness. Perhaps that was part of what a nightmare was, a peek behind the curtain, letting Hob see enough to know it, letting him recognise danger enough to act on it.

“Scared?” The Corinthian purred.

“A little,” Hob replied with a smile; no hesitation in the admittance, embracing the pounding heart, the quickened breath, fear responses so similar to another sort of reaction. For all terror served its own purpose it was still similar enough to tempt at crossing the wires a little.

Enough that Hob had long since been certain feeling afraid could feel so very good.

The Corinthian would know that too, far older, far more experienced—rare to come across that, to find what made Hob feel young, feel new—had been a monster for longer than even Hob could comprehend.

Had practised at it like a musician with their favourite score.

“Just a little?”

Hob smirked. “Well I—”

A soft little thud as a hand struck the wall next to his head, open palmed before curling into a loose fist, a sound that made Hob jump. He realised he was trapped before the flinch had even settled; really caged in now, the Corinthian smiling a rapidly sharpening smile, an answering instinct inside of Hob squirming with helpless fear and telling him to move. There was nowhere to go though. No where to run.

Oh how part of him wanted to run.

It was what was behind the curtain, wasn’t it? The Corinthian anchored fear in what looked like a man, no unknowable terror could ever be this stark, the truth that what lived alien in the darkness could step out wearing your own face. He unveiled the depth of an ocean, shone a light where human eyes alone could never hope to see, revealed how right it was to fear the dark by forcing you to understand what lived in it.

By making itself comprehendible it proved why you should be afraid.

“I didn’t get you a present yet.” The Corinthian mused; voice dipping low, smooth even in threat, even in innuendo, smooth because both could potentially be one in the same. “Let’s fix that hmm?”

Hob swallowed. “What do you have in mind?”

A hand crept to land heavy on his shoulder while the other remained languid beside his head. Hob tensed; relaxed as strong fingers flexed in a tease of superior strength before they groped upwards, found his throat, rested relaxed while a thumb teased at its hollow. The Corinthian knew how to handle a human, how much to push, how hard he could touch before one broke. That wasn’t always what he wanted. Now he hummed, thoughtful, the easy confidence of a predator deciding what to do with caught prey, a debate of whether what he’d caught would be better as a meal or entertainment.

It was honestly more than a little theatrical because Hob knew the Corinthian had already made up his mind.

He knew he could play as well as eat.

“Let’s get you out of those clothes.” The Corinthian replied at last, a soft drawl yet still an order, aware of what sort of game Hob had initiated. “Then we’ll see.”

Hob took a deep breath.

Then he grinned, unapologetically cheeky, taunting bold like a crooked finger beckoning for more, an invitation saying if you want me come and get me. Hob flicked his eyes to the table then back to the Corinthian, looked straight at those gleaming teeth and winked, half salacious, half cold.

“You should put the socks on first.”

#winter prompt fic #the sandman #the corinthian #hob gadling #hobrinthian

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softmangoes · 2 months ago

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First, I just wanna say, I adore your writing. From your word choice to the way you convey every emotion, it is nothing short of stunning.

I binged all of your writing, and I was so thrilled to find your DoL fics!!!! If you’re feeling inspired, I’d love to see your take on the LIs reacting to the PC becoming a Fallen Angel, especially if the PC fell for them (like, letting them take the PC’s purity).

In game, it feels kind of tragic falling, especially when doing the quest for the spear, but on the other hand, the whole, who needs a God’s love when I have you is a special type of romantic that I really love.

I hope you have a wonderful holiday season if you celebrate! If not, I hope you’re having a wonderful winter in general!!!

hi hello!! thank you for all your kind words and i'm so glad you liked my dol fics!! 💛

the graciousness of your message has filled my well of inspiration, so here you go and i hope you also enjoy this 🥭

"why me?" pure!sydney says between breaths, between kisses that only make you both yearn for more. your skin is hot against his, while the wall of the library's private study room is cold against his back. he knows he shouldn't be doing this, that the temple would strip him of his status, and that your embrace marks the end of something he's been building all his life.

so why him? you are a holy thing, after all. untainted. pure.

and yet, as you grind against his length, the slickness of you irrestible now that his cage lies beside him in fragments, he finds no trace of regret within him - only reverence, only devotion. only the urge to take your breast in his mouth and to finally slip his length inside you, savoring the warm wetness that anoints him with the miracle of your consummation and the sound of your song.

"because it's me," he murmurs, his hips finding the pace that makes you shudder. after all, why can't a study room be a holy place? who says the bruises from his lips can't count as praise? when he feels you tighten around him, your feathers smoldering as your voice cracks in pleasure, he has his answer. "because," he gasps, reverence threatening to spill. "there's no one better to worship you."

"all saints die," corrupt!sydney murmurs, breath hot between your thighs. his fingers are digging into your hips. the marble altar is cold against your back. you both know you aren't supposed to be here, but there is a thrill in the forbidden.

he dips his tongue into your warmth, the sensation of his veneration smoldering even moreso than the feathers charring on your back. "what is this, but another apotheosis?" he muses, pulling his midnight hair into a ponytail. "another transformation?"

you feel thrilled at the comparison, knowing how you have both changed each other.

a dark force churns within you, tight and coiling. you recognize it as hunger, as the lust you have denied yourself so long in the face of virtue. but what use is virtue, when it can be easily cleaved by the warmth of a hot tongue? when the eyes that behold you in worship reflect the same golden light that used to grace your skin every day? as if sensing your hunger, sydney slips his fingers inside you, filling you. your hips sway into his touch, wanting more. wanting to burn together.

you shake in whitney's embrace, whimpering at the pain, the burning, the visions of the world cracking open and corruption spilling through like so many hungry tentacles reaching to engulf the light. and yet, you would do it all over again to feel his breath, his skin, his desire for you all for the first time.

"hey," he says, scooping cold water onto your tender back. it does little against the fire you feel in every feather, the taint eating away at each filament. "stay with me." there's a tinge of panic in his insistence. you aren't quite sure whether it's real or a hallucination. although he is your former tormentor, this is a kind of pain he is unfamiliar with, yet committed by his hand all the same.

your eyes dull. whitney adjusts his weight, water sloshing in the bath. he jostles you, willing you to stay conscious. whatever the fuck is going on with you, you can't leave him. you can't go before he knows how to help you.

before the darkness takes you, the last thing you hear is him telling you he is sorry.

there are tears in kylar's eyes. "it hurts?" he says, daring to touch your half-singed feathers. you nod, straining to unfurl them to reveal the slow fire eating away at the soft ivory. your halo is cracked, bleeding inky corruption that sizzles upon contact with the air. "it's because we...." his voice shakes, the guilt lancing through the pleasure of your skin just moments ago. "we..."

how dare his selfishness cause your agony. if only he could unmake a moment, exercise even a minute of restraint. perhaps then, you wouldn't be in this pain. his fingernails dig into his palm, teeth sinking into his lips as tears stream down his face freely.

but your mouth covers his, your soft tongue lapping at the blood beading on his lips. your kiss, so gentle, feels nothing like lament. only the delicate grace of forgiveness.

"you're beautiful," eden says, mouth hot against the hollow of your neck. when he first saw you, wings unfurled in the light of the clearing, he thought that you were some kind of strange bird. right as he leveled his shotgun to take aim, he remembered you turning to face him, a look of surprise gracing your features as you beheld the man who would have been your end.

it was a while before he first touched you. your skin burned. the air in the cabin would ripple from your heat. even the bars of the cage threatened to warp. in the cold of the winter, your rage radiated at your confinement, a prized bird trapped in crude metal.

the hunter knew that he was not worth your beauty. your very presence made the shadows of his past all the more darker. you were an angel, a being of pure light, and all he wanted to do was take your warmth for his.

then one day, like a miracle, you came for him. he had collapsed into the cabin, his body stiffened by the cold. hair cracking with ice. he had fallen into the lake while fishing, the ice sheet far thinner than what he originally estimated. he looked at you, glowing in the dark of the cabin, teeth chattering as he unlocked the cage with his hand outstretched.

"go," he rasped as the door swayed open. "it won't be long until -"

warmth spread across his body the moment your mouth pressed against his. you tasted like honey, like sunlight, like every summer he never thought he would live to see. to his surprise, he found you breathless, lips at his neck, telling him to take you.

"why?" he asks, voice hoarse. his fingers run through your hair. because he fell, you tell him, and it was only right that you would as well.

"something's burning," robin says, fear tinging his desire. "is it you? we can stop -"

you silence him with a kiss, tongue tasting his lust for you. your feathers are charring, your halo cracking. before this, you had both talked about the consequences of what would happen. once you were intertwined, there would be no going back. the both of you would be burned into each other's lives forever.

besides, this moment feels less like falling and more like flying: robin's warm eyes on you, his soft mouth parted in pleasure, each sway of his hips bringing you both closer to sweet oblivion. all you can do is card your fingers through his hair as he whimpers against you, sending you both soaring into the heights of a new heaven.

"the moon waxes and wanes," the wraith says, tentacles tracing the darkness of your once brilliant wings. one of them prods at the shards of your halo, corruption leaking from its fragments. you wince, the pain sharp despite the gentleness of the abomination's touch. "and even when it bleeds, it is beautiful."

tendrils, thick and strong, knead along your shoulder blades right where your wings protract from your back. this earns a sigh of relief from you - one that he drinks eagerly with his cold mouth.

"flight must make you ache," he says, his voice nothing less than a sonorous purr. "i may be able to assist."

with his lower pair of hands, the wraith lifts you against the walls of the ruin. he slips inside you with ease, your fingers grasping the silver threads of his hair as you take him. his countless tendrils suckle and writhe against your skin, drawing sounds that echo into the darkness of the ruin. the wraith is a force, a wave of pleasure that does nothing else but pull you further and further into its depths.

after all, you chose to sacrifice the love of a god for the heart of a monster. what else can he do, except devour you?

#degrees of lewdity #degrees of lewdity fic #dol fic #sydney the faithful #sydney the fallen #whitney the bully #kylar the loner #robin the orphan #eden the hunter #ivory wraith #this is honestly great to hear because i was in such a bad writing slump that had me like man!! what am i doing #but it's always so nice to hear that people enjoy what i write :')#this is a lot longer than what my headcanon fics tend to be but the deliciousness of this prompt truly cannot be denied #i hope your winter season has been going well too!! thank you so much for stopping by!! 🥭#my writing #mango asks #divider by cafekitsune

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