#-feel safe. even if he needs the bed more. even if it would make him feel better

[madamechrissy]

Good future boyfriends make sure their pretty professor gets in safely, and make sure to sit in their cars and observe them just a bit. How else was a future boyfriend to know what she likes? Satoru wants to make sure he has you figured out in every way he can, like how the curtains don’t fully hide the silhouette of your body in the evening.

He’d have to fix that, once you’re his, the way people could catch a glimpse of your pretty body, one that ultimately is his. The swell of a breast, or the hint of your hips, and between those curtains he catches little glimpses of what you wear – he already knows your favorite type of panty, he eyes them any time you uncross your legs while you’re doing a lecture.

Normal cotton ones, when he’d deck you out in delicate blue lace, rope your body so he could feast on you without any interruptions or protests. The thought, along with the silhouette of you makes him hard all over again, god but when isn’t Satoru Gojo hard for his professor?

He releases his thick cock, resting his head back against the seat and moaning your name softly – practicing it against his lips while he spits down, a trail of saliva dripping onto his reddened tip. Precum leaks out of the little hole there, beading at the center, he can’t help but imagine pressing it across your slit, sinking into your cunt and stretching you out.

He knows you’re alone every day, he knows by studying your socials that your last exes weren’t anything, you’ve gotta be so needy, but that’s all right. Satoru has been saving up so much for you – he doesn’t even fuck anyone at this point, it would just be disloyal, and he has no issue waiting.

Picturing how you’ll cry out when he fucks you makes him stroke himself, twists of his hand in circles, eyes fluttering shut while he’s hidden with the dark tint of those windows in his sports car. He’s stroking faster, thick veiny cock leaking so much pre, like it’s ready to fill you up, and fuck he would. He’d fuck you so good you couldn’t leave his bed.

You would never leave.

“Professor, f-fuck, so tight,” he murmurs, it’s a devotion to you really, sitting outside your home, cumming just for you. “That’s it, you can take me.”

He’s whimpering ever so slightly, wondering how good it’ll feel to bottom out inside your perfect cunt, hit your cervix till you drool, make sure you remember his shape and no one else’s. Your name keeps dancing on his lips while he strokes faster and faster, more spit mixing with his precum, the sounds wet and filthy echoing in the little car.

“That’s it, you want it all, don’t you sweetheart, hah – I’ll give it to you,” Satoru Gojo gasps out when he pictures your face, mouth wide open, eyes rolled back, and thinks of how he’ll pump your eager cunt so full. White ropes pouring across his big hands, he can’t help but think how you’ll clean him up, eagerly. “Such a good girl for me.”

After cleaning up, he grins at the sight of you on that couch with your glass of wine and your cat through your living room window. You’re nothing if not consistent, like you’re just waiting for him, surely you feel it too – the connection, the aching need to be constantly near you.

He can’t wait until you realize how badly you need him, you’re not there quite yet, but he can wait for you.  

Fic is here

[dailykrypton]

Soup For The Soul

pairing: Clark Kent x Photographer!Reader

wordcount: 3.2k

warnings: mentions of injury, no hypno glasses, not proofread

synopsis: You tend to Superman's wounds after he crashes into your apartment building, and not one, but two, impromptu love confessions ensue.

Clark would've been so dissapointed if he could see you right now.

Sneaking up your staircase in a beaten up old hoodie, polka dot pyjama shorts that toe the line of being just too short, and armed with a crowbar you nabbed from the superintendents supply closet a week ago and never returned, all because you heard a thud on the roof of your apartment building.

You're not even a journalist, you're a photographer, someone who captures a story from a safe and respectable distance, but something in your gut seemed sure that this would present an opportunity you didn't want to miss.

"You've got this," You whisper, sliding open the latch on the rooftop entrance. "It's probably just a meteorite, or a transformer, or something completely normal and safe."

The door swings open the moment it's rusted latch isn't holding the broken hinges in place.

"Is anyone out here?" You call out into the dark night sky.

"O-over here," The broken plea is interrupted by a fit of coughing. "please."

Oh. Oh no. You didn't think someone would genuinely be out here and in need of assistance. You just expected to find that one of the fuse boxes had blown or an obscenely large pigeon had landed above your apartment.

You take a cautious step into the windy night, your stomach clenched as you expect to find the worst. You're expecting some kind of mutated creature that can mimic human voices, or a criminal who's going to stick you up the moment you try and help them, but instead you find… Superman?

He's crumpled against the building's cement parapet, covered in fresh scrapes and deep burgundy bruises. He's clearly taken a beating by something or someone a lot stronger than him—if that thing exists— and lost. Badly.

"Jesus Christ." The crowbar slips from your grasp and hits the gravel with a muted thud.

"No, just me." He tries to smile but with his busted lip it only causes him more pain. "and my favourite photographer."

"I can't be your favourite if we've never met."

"You take the best photos of me," He whispers, somehow curling in on himself even more. "and Clark mentions you."

You try to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks at the mention of the clumsy reporter. "What can I do?"

"I just need somewhere to lay low until the sun comes up."

"Is bringing you into my apartment going to put some kind of Luthercorp sponsored target on my back?" You joke, offering a hand to help him up.

He slips his hand into yours, wincing when he strains one of his various injuries. It's not as charming or heroic as he usually makes himself look, but he manages to haul his mangled body off of the ground with your minuscule help.

"I'll—gosh, that hurts—I'll protect you." He grips his ribs through an attempted laugh.

"Such a hero."

You give a fond roll of your eyes and attempt to make yourself a human crutch as you drag him down two flights of stairs. He's a complete champ about it, because of course he would be, but you can feel the strain in his chest increase against your side with every step.

"Just lean your weight on me for a sec." You fish in your pocket for your keys.

"I'd crush you." He looks at you as if you have three heads.

"I'd rather you crush me than crush the hallway and cost me my deposit."

His mouth flattens into a line but you notice the shift in his posture when you let go of his side.

"I'm going to put you on the bed because there is no universe where you'd fit on my couch." You slip your arm back under his shoulder and somehow maneuver the two of you through the tiny foyer of your apartment.

"I'm not taking your bed from you." Superman tries to shift away from your hold, angling his weight towards the living room.

"You're not going to fit anywhere else, Superman," You let out an exasperated laugh. "I'll drag you by your cape if I have to."

"I'd be breaking every lesson my mother taught me about being a good guest if I stole your room from you when you have work in the morning."

"And I'd be breaking every rule my grandmother taught me about being a good host if I left the half-dead guy on my couch for the night." You fix him with a pointed stare.

"I'm not half-dead." He mumbles but he lets you drag him into your bedroom.

You become aware of every embarrassing item in your apartment the moment he crosses the threshold of your bedroom, but it's too late to turn back now.

He settles into your mattress with a contented sigh and you can't help the tiny smile that finds itself on your lips. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity to see a seemingly invincible man so vulnerable.

"Do you take human medicine?"

"I use the sun to heal."

"It's one in the morning," You push a couple of stray hairs away from your face. "Sun won't be up for another five hours."

"I can manage till then."

"Do you need anything? Water? Food?"

"Do you have chicken noodle soup?" It's almost comical how bashful he looks.

"You want soup?" You let out a quiet laugh. "I can do that."

You start to head for the kitchen before his voice stops you.

"Is that a photo of me?"

You pause in the middle of your room.

"Uh, yes. Yes it is."

You cross your arms over your chest, toying with the corner of your carpet so you don't have to meet his eyes.

"It's the first picture of mine that ever made the front page of the Daily Planet." You bite back a smile at the memory of the flowers Clark left on your desk. "It accompanied the first interview you ever gave Clark."

"I remember."

"You do?" Your brow furrows in confusion.

Superman seems to blanch.

"Yes, I uh, uhm… It was the first article published about me after I came to Metropolis!" He nods vehemently as if agreeing with himself. "Clark brought me a copy the next time I saw him. He told me about your photo."

"Does Clark mention me a lot?" You question.

"He mentions you, like, a normal amount?" He seems to fumble through the answer.

"O-Kay, Superman." You nod. "I'm going to go make you some soup."

You scurry into the kitchen before he can notice anything else embarrassing in your presence and root through the cupboards for the canned chicken noodle soup that you bought the last time you were sick. You wish you could be making it from scratch, but neither of you have time for that.

You ladle the soup into one of the few clean bowls you have left in your apartment and take a deep breath before reentering your bedroom.

"Are you still with us, Blue?"

He lets out an amused huff. "Blue?"

"You've got a lot of blue in your suit and I'm tired of calling you Superman." You shrug. "Now c'mon, sit up."

You temporarily place the soup on your nightstand and help him sit forward. It's a bit of an awkward dance but you manage to stuff a couple of pillows behind his back and guide him back down to rest.

"Comfortable?"

He nods.

You pick the soup back up and scoop some onto the spoon.

"You don't have to feed me." You can tell he's trying to fight the physical exhaustion threatening to take over.

"I know." You give him a gentle smile. "but you're exhausted, and you're so busy running around caring for others I doubt you've ever had someone caring for you."

He stares at you for a moment, his usually empathetic eyes clouded and unreadable.

"Thank you." He whispers your name as if it's a secret for just the two of you.

"You're welcome…" You snap yourself out of your daydream of sunny mornings and staged action shots. "Now shut up and eat this before it gets cold."

You bring the spoon up to his lips and he takes the bite slowly, his eyes fluttering shut as he swallows the first bite of a warm meal you're guessing he's had in a while.

"That's really good." He whispers, a sleepy smile stretching across his bloodied lips.

"It's from a can."

"Doesn't matter," He shakes his head. "It's delicious."

"I'm glad you think so."

You continue to feed him slowly, conscious of the exhaustion evident in his every breath. It takes close to twenty minutes for him to finish the bowl, a satisfied sigh leaving his lips when swallows the last few drops.

"Thank you." He whispers. "Of all the roofs I could've crashed onto, I'm very glad it was yours."

"You're welcome" You brush a few strands of dirt matted hair away from his forehead. "I'm sorry I almost beat you with a crowbar."

He laughs again before wincing again.

"Please don't make me laugh," He pleads. "It hurts."

"I'm sorry." You smother a laugh. "You should get some rest."

He nods through a yawn.

"Good night."

"G'night."

"Sweet dreams, Blue."

You wake up to the sound of bacon sizzling in your kitchen.

It's an unusual sound given the fact that you live alone. Except you're not alone. Because Superman is here. And he spent the night in your bed.

You untangle yourself from the comforter you wrapped yourself in before bed, stretching out your limbs with an almost exaggerated yawn.

"Good morning!" His greeting is followed by the sound of a cracking shell. "How do you usually cook your eggs?"

"… over easy."

You peer over the arm of the couch and into your kitchen. He's still dressed in his suit, blood red cape a stark contrast to the tiles in your kitchen. He looks good, actually, he looks radiant.

"You're clearly feeling better," You observe. "Get some time to photosynthesize, Blue?"

He laughs and you feel your heart threaten to jump out of your chest.

"I woke up a bit before the sunrise and you looked so peaceful that I didn't want to wake you, but I couldn't leave without giving you a proper thank you, so I brainstormed while taking in some sun and decided to make you breakfast."

"Do you usually make breakfast for the people who stow you in their apartments overnight?"

There's a heavy pause, and the only noise in your apartment is the sizzling of eggs and the odd hum your toaster gives off when it's plugged in.

"You're actually the first person I've ever had to hide out with." He awkwardly clears his throat.

Something about that answer makes you feel oddly warm.

"I'm flattered, Blue," You quickly pad across the cold floor and stand next to him at the stove. "What're you cookin'?"

"Eggs, bacon, and some toast. It's nothing much, just breakfast."

"It's a lot more than I usually make for myself. I spend most mornings surviving on half a bagel and ten cups of coffee."

"I know." He mumbles under his breath.

"Pardon?" You ask.

"I said I'm sure," He turns from you quickly and starts plating the food. "You guys are running that newspaper on emotions and fumes."

He glances at you, cheeks turning red when he notices the tank top and very tiny shorts you slept in.

"T-the food, it's uh, it's ready now."

He places one of the best looking plates of breakfast you think you've ever seen on the table and pulls out a chair, gesturing for you to sit.

"This looks amazing," You gush. "But it's really not necessary."

"I'm glad you think so," He teases, trying to hide a mischievous smile when he sees you register his callback. "And it is necessary. You went way out of your way to take care of me last night. This was the least I could do."

"I fed you soup and gave you a place to rest," You shake your head. "it was the bare minimum."

"If you think that's the bare minimum, you're going to be making someone very lucky some day."

"Just not the right someone." You mutter, stabbing at the perfectly cooked eggs with your fork.

Superman hesitates, taking a contemplative sip of orange juice.

"Please, forgive me if i'm overstepping, but are you… unhappy?"

You snap up from your eggs. "What would make you ask that?"

"You just said 'not the right someone'. That's often the way people talk when they're with someone who doesn't make them happy." He shrugs like it's obvious.

A home cooked breakfast and therapy from Superman was not how you expected this morning to start.

"I'm not with anybody," You explain, trying to focus on anything other than the intensity of his gaze. "I just have horrific luck with the one man I do want."

Superman leans forward and the table creaks under his weight. "How do you know you have horrific luck?"

"Because no matter how many signs I throw out there, Clark just doesn't get it!" You shove a piece of bacon in your mouth, channeling your frustration into your chewing.

"Clark?!" He sputters.

"Yes, that Clark." You nod.

"You're in love with him." Superman all but collapses back into his seat. "You're in love with Clark Kent."

"Why do you seem so shocked by this?" You question.

"I don't know, I'm just…" He leans forward again. "You love Clark?"

"Yes."

"You're in love with him?"

"Are you sure you're not concussed?" You ask, turning his head side to side as you check his pupils.

"I'm fine." He removes your hand from his face but keeps his grip on it. "Have you told him how you feel?"

"Of course I haven't," You slip your hand out of his and clear the plates from the table. "We're coworkers, and I doubt he sees me as anything else."

"You'd probably be surprised."

Maybe he's right. Maybe there is a world in which Clark has been mutually pining over you for the last few years. Or maybe your feelings aren't reciprocated and you're doomed to spend the rest of your days hoplessly in love with him. But right now you and Clark have a good thing going, and you can't risk losing that.

"I… I should get ready for work."

You brush past where Superman stands in your kitchen, swallowing half the room with his size. His hand brushes the back of your arm as you pass but you can't bring yourself to turn around.

"Most of the apartments on this floor are empty so you don't need to worry about anyone seeing you, and I left the door to the roof unlocked." You offer a barely there smile over your shoulder. "It was really nice meeting you, Blue."

"You look exhausted." Lois is pouring an extravagant amount of sugar into her coffee when you leave the elevator.

"I was up late last night." You shrug.

"Sounds like my kinda party." Jimmy teases. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"Superman." You deadpan, internally smiling when you see the look of shock on everyone face but Clark's, oddly.

"You spent the night with superman?" Lois questions, already reaching for a pen and paper.

"He crashed onto the roof of my apartment building covered in blood. I brought him in, fed him soup, and gave him a place to rest."

"You fed him soup? As in you supplied him with the soup, or you fed him the soup?" Lois looked at you expectantly.

"This is off the record, Lane." You pointed at the recorder she was failing to hide under her desk. "And I may or may not have spoon fed him."

"You spoon fed Superman?" Jimmy blanched. "It's official: you're insane."

"I think it's kinda romantic," Cat chimed in. "A photographer taking care of the wounded hero who is also her muse."

"Superman isn't my muse." You object, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

"He's obviously your muse," Lois agreed. "You don't complain about work half as much as you used to since he showed up."

"Okay fine! He's my muse, but it was nothing more than a favour for a sorta friend."

"Why is it I'm the only one who's not running into Superman," Lois complained. "I've had interview questions prepped for months."

"He's probably avoiding you." Jimmy hid a smile behind his cup of coffee.

"Why would he be avoiding me?"

"Oh you know why."

"Enlighten me, Jimmy."

You settled back into your chair as you prepared to watch Jimmy and Lois fall into one of their usual arguments.

"You got a minute?" A hushed but familiar voice spoke next to your ear.

"What's up, Clark?" You take a sip of your coffee to hide your smile.

"I need to see you for a second," He seems to hesitate. "on the roof."

You turn over your shoulder, fixing him with a confused look. "You need to see me on the roof?"

"It's not as odd as it sounds." He fumbles with his glasses.

You take one last gulp of your coffee before grabbing your jacket and following Clark to the elevator.

"Is everything okay, Clark?" You ask as the elevator doors slide shut.

"Everything's fine," He presses the button for the roof. "I just need to talk to you about last night."

"What are you talking about?" You frown. "I was with Sup- uh, a friend. I was with a friend last night."

"You were with Superman last night." Clark slips through the elevator doors and takes the stair up to the rooftop entrance two at a time.

"How do you know that?" You ask, struggling to keep up with his pace.

"How is it you spoon fed me soup last night and still didn't figure it out?" Clark let out an almost depricating laugh.

"Clark, what are you…"

Oh.

Oh.

"I should've told you this morning," Clark slipped off his glasses with shaking hands. "But I was a bit distracted by discovering that you love me, because I've loved you ever since I met you, and I honestly never thought that I had a gosh darn chance with you."

"You love me?" You ask with a tearful laugh.

"Are you really more surprised by that?" Clark takes your face between his hands, wiping your tears away with his thumb.

"When I think about it, the Superman thing makes a lot of sense." You mock a carefree shrug. "But the whole Clark Kent being in love with me is a bit more shocking considering you can barely look me in the eyes most days."

"You stare at photos of me as Superman all day," Clark let out a disbelieving laugh. "The only thing standing between you figuring out I was Superman was a singular pair of glasses. What was I supposed to do?"

"Hm, maybe have asked me out on a date three years ago? Would've saved us a lot of time."

"You're a piece of work, you know that?"

"But you love me anyway." You grin.

"You're right," Clark pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, his face splitting into a bright smile. "I do."

[thevoidstaredback]

Part 3

Danny woke up just after Jason pulled the chicken pot pie out of the oven. He didn't make much noise, moving a silently as a ghost, so the only way that he knew the kid was awake was the feeling of eyes on his back.

Slowly, Jason made his way over to the sofa and squatted in front of it, leaving enough room for the kid to bolt if needed. "Danny?"

Danny looked him in the eye. "Where's my sister?"

Jason hesitated. "She's with my friend Harley, remember?"

Danny's eyes seemed to be glowing, though it was probably a trick of the light. For a long minute, he didn't say anything and Jason got the feeling the kid was looking straight into his soul. "Okay."

Clearing his throat, Jason asked, "Are you... do you want some food? I made chicken pot pie."

"Sure," Danny nodded. He didn't move.

"Right," Jason stood and went back to the kitchen. Once he was safely between the oven and the island counter, Danny moved and pulled himself to sit on a stool.

Jason served him a plate before taking his own.

Neither said anything while they ate. Danny seemed to be lost in his mind and Jason was internally berating himself about everything he was doing wrong.

When they were done eating, Jason put the leftovers in the fridge and cleaned up the dishes. Danny sat on the stool the whole time, watching him work. When he was done, he turned back to the kid. They sized each other up for a minute.

"What's your name, mister Red Hood?"

"Jason."

"Less stupid than 'Red Hood'," Danny, "I like it."

Jason's eye twitched. "I agree. It was a pretty stupid name."

Danny tilted his head. "Was?"

He flinched a bit. Oops. Hadn't meant to say that. "Someone else had it before me. He was really stupid. I took the name, so it's cool now."

Danny hummed. "If you say so."

Another awkward moment passed. Jason cleared his throat. "How, uh, old are you, Danny?"

"Seven."

Sev- "Seven?" Danny nodded. Okay, he could deal with this. "Is 'Danny' short for something?"

The kid thought for a second before shaking his head. "Mom an' dad an' Jazzy an' everyone only ever call me Danny."

Okay, okay, cool, cool. He could work with this. "Do you want to see your room?"

Danny blinked. "I have a room?"

"If you want it."

There was definitely stars in his eyes. "Yes!" He jumped of his stool, making it wobble, before running around the island and grabbing Jason's hand. "Where is it? Where is it?"

Chuckling, Jason lead the way to the second bedroom. This one was used by any of the Outlaws that decided to visit or Lian when she and Roy popped by. He figured everyone else would be fine sleeping on the sofa or in a different safe house until he took Danny to his actual apartment.

The second he opened the door, Danny gasped, let go of his hand and ran in. "It's so big!"

It wasn't really, but there was only a bunk bed and a dresser, so he guessed it would be big to a seven-year-old.

"This is really my room?"

"For now," Jason nodded, "We're gonna head to my apartment next week. Your room there will be even bigger than this one." and decorated. He was gonna give the kid the master bedroom and move his stuff into the guest room. First, he had to figure out what the kid liked.

Danny wasted no more time and climbed to the top bunk. "I've never had a bed this tall before."

So he's probably had his own room before. Good to know. "Yeah? It's high up, huh?"

Danny nodded fiercely. Then, he went as still as a corpse. For one heartstopping moment, Jason thought the kid had keeled over. Then, "Can I have the blanket from the couch?"

Letting go of the anxiety held in his lungs, Jason nodded. "Of course." The blanket was one Kori had given to him. She said the random pattern of stars looked like the constellations on her home planet.

He was quick to go and grab it. When he came back, the kid had dosed off again, clutching the pillow like a stuffed animal.

Shaking his head, Jason put the blanket over Danny and left, leaving the door open a crack.

Part 5

[prettycalla]

|| come and love me ||

Pairing: Vampire!Eddie Munson/Reader

Summary: Eddie wakes up with a bit of a problem. Turns out, you have the same one.

Word count: 3k

Tags and warnings: Smut (a little more explicit than what I normally write), fluff, psychic vampire Eddie (it's not super important to the story, but it's mentioned!), established relationship, Eddie's a cheeky lil shit (affectionate), Eddie's POV, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(Does anyone actually want any more of this AU? Here it is, anyway. Can be read as a part 2 to Creature in the Night. Title is from Wild Child by W.A.S.P.)

Eddie Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

Eddie's not one for waking up early, never has been. Even after everything that's happened - what he is now - he still likes his sleep. Being an undead creature of the night is exhausting, thank you very much.

But as he is right now, he doesn't think he could go back to sleep even if he tried.

How could he, when he's lying in bed with the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

You're curled up in his arms, still fast asleep, soft snores pushing past your parted lips. His arms are around your waist, his chest pressed to your back.

He allows himself a contented little stretch, his wings unfolding as best they can without knocking everything off your bedside table. He's still getting used to them.

The room is beginning to become unbearable as the sun slowly rears its ugly head for another stifling summer day. Eddie's hair is plastered to his forehead, and his boxers are twisted at his waist in a way that's quickly becoming uncomfortable, but right now, he couldn't care less.

He has you, safe and close to him, and nothing could make him happier.

Well...

Maybe there's one thing that could.

You shift in your sleep, your ass pressing against Eddie’s dick, which decides that it needs to wake up now too.

Great. Just fucking perfect.

He tries to move himself back a bit, so he doesn’t wake you, and just his luck, you follow him, pushing yourself right back into the position you were in before. A little sigh escapes you, as if you’re finally content.

That makes one of you.

Eddie tries again, carefully pulling himself back, and again, you follow him.

"Eddie..." you mumble, with another little sigh.

He winces.

"Sorry, baby, didn't mean to wake you," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

You don't respond, instead nuzzling your head sleepily into your pillow. Eddie breathes a tiny sigh of relief. He's about to put his head down again when-

"Eddie..." you say again, and his eyes widen.

You're not awake, he realises that now.

You're dreaming. About him.

And judging by the way your ass is still pressing against him, it's a good dream. Not only that, but he can feel it, emanating from you in waves.

And suddenly, he's starving.

He's still getting used to how all of this works. Different emotions have different tastes to them, he's realised, and how intense they are can affect that. Anger, rage especially, tastes like charred meat, like it's been cooked to the point of ruining it. Sadness tastes...soupy. Like it's been watered-down. Bland. Tasteless.

Happiness is a whole other thing, because it comes in so many different forms. It's like pasta, he thinks - no matter what shape it is, you can't go wrong with it.

But this? What you're feeling right now? It's like the most indulgent kind of dessert, the kind that could sicken even the sweetest tooth.

It's definitely not helping his current situation, he can say that much, at least. Sometimes he thinks drinking blood would be easier.

God, he needs you to wake up, and soon.

He gently shakes your shoulder, and you mumble something incoherent, before drifting off again.

"Baby, c'mon, you're killing me here," he grumbles, giving you another little shake.

With a snort, you wake up, lifting your head in a daze.

"'S'wrong?" you whisper hoarsely. "Eddie?"

Eddie rolls you onto your back, softly stroking your cheek.

"Nothing's wrong, sweetheart," he tells you. "It's just, uh, you were talking. In your sleep."

You rub your hand across your face, trying to rouse yourself. "Was I?"

Eddie chuckles, pushing his messy hair out of his eyes. "Oh, yeah, you were talkin' up a storm."

"What did I say?" you ask.

He pretends to think about it for a minute, tapping his lip with his index finger.

"I believe, if I'm not mistaken, that it was something to the effect of-"

He raises his voice, making it ridiculously high and breathy.

"Oh, Eddie."

Your eyes widen as you glare at him, slapping him on the shoulder. "I did not."

"Oh, but you did. I'm not lying, heard it with my own two ears." Eddie makes a X across his chest with his finger. "Cross my heart and hope to...Well, you know what I mean."

"You know what? I don't have to listen to this right now," you tell him, clearly embarrassed. "And it's still very early, so goodnight."

You roll over onto your side with a huff. Not knowing when to call it quits, Eddie sidles back up to you, sliding his arms around your waist again.

"Baby, c'mon, don't be like that," he murmurs, pretending to sound as pathetic as possible in the hopes that you'll give in and let him win this one. "It's not a bad thing. If anything, I thought it was flattering, that a pretty thing like you is dreaming about little ol' me."

You don't reply, but Eddie is nothing if not persistent. His hand dips lower, tracing faint lines across your stomach.

"In fact, I'm, uh...Well, I'm kinda in the same boat. If you catch my drift."

He feels you shiver under his touch, and that only urges him on.

"I was thinking, maybe, we could help each other out. What do you say?"

Still no answer. Fortunately, Eddie has one last play. He sighs, long and dramatic.

"Y'know, maybe I got the wrong end of the stick. And like you said, it is still early, so I should let you get some sleep."

He moves to pull away from you, when your hand suddenly catches his wrist.

"Wait," you mumble.

"What's wrong, baby?" Eddie asks, his tone the very definition of innocence, in spite of the shit-eating grin on his face.

You let out a breath, as if you're nervous.

"Look, I...Maybe I did have some kind of dream about you, okay?" you mumble in a rush.

Eddie's smile only widens. "That's not a bad thing, sweetheart. Like I said, I'm flattered."

He gently pulls at your arm, and you let him roll you onto your back again. He reaches for your wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it.

"Honoured, even," he says, and even though he's teasing, he means it.

How he managed to land someone like you, he'll never know. But he'd never take it for granted. Not before, and certainly not now. Not after everything that's happened to him.

"You want me to help you out?" he asks, dark eyes watching you carefully.

You stare up at him for a moment, before you finally nod. Eddie's on you in a heartbeat. His hands drag the length of your stomach, across your ribs, calloused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. A breathy gasp escapes you, and that only encourages him further, greedy hands sliding up over your chest. Your back arches into his touch, and he squeezes you, desperate to hear more of those pretty noises that always drive him wild.

You reach for him, and he's quick to catch your wrists.

"Nice try, but you're not gonna distract me, okay?" he asks, his tone just leaning into patronising.

He waits until you nod in answer, before moving your hands up over your head.

"Keep those right there. I mean it."

He knows you well enough by now that if he was taking it too far, you'd tell him. You're stubborn, probably even more than he is - which is really saying something. If anything, judging by the look you're currently giving him, he's not doing enough, and he sets to work to correct that as quickly as he can.

His hand slips down to your thigh, his touch teasingly light as his fingers play with the hem of your pyjama shorts. He traces small circles across your skin until you huff impatiently at him, urging him on. He pushes past the hem, dragging the tips of his fingers across your underwear. He can feel a little wet patch on the fabric, and his mouth pulls into a sly smile against your ribcage.

"Baby," he groans, still dragging against you. "Is that because of me?"

He loves playing the fool with you sometimes, knows how it drives you crazy. But it's so hard not to. He wants to hear you say it. Needs to hear you say it.

You make a non-committal hum in response, and that just won't do. He presses harder, finally drawing a moan from you.

"Well?" he persists. "Is it?"

You mumble a flustered "yes", and that's enough to satisfy him. For now.

"Musta been some dream you were having," he continues, between little kisses across your stomach and chest. "Why don't you tell me about it, huh? Give me some ideas."

He keeps teasing as he talks, his fingers pressing not quite where you knows you want them. He can't help himself. He loves you like this. All spread out and pliant. Letting him take care of you.

You open your mouth to speak, barely getting a single word out before Eddie drags his fingers against you, hard. You slap at his shoulder.

"That's not fair," you practically whine at him.

Eddie stops, levelling you with a feigned look of disappointment. He takes your hand, pressing it back up above your head.

"Try that again, see what happens," he replies, the warning clear in his tone.

You're still pouting, but you say nothing.

"If you want me to stop, all you gotta do is say and I'll just-"

Eddie lies still.

"No, wait," you say, a little too quickly. "I don't want you to stop."

"You gonna behave?"

You nod.

Eddie tilts his head. "You promise?" he asks, his tone definitely patronising now.

You nod again, more urgently.

Eddie smiles. "Good girl. Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Right, I believe I was..."

He slips his fingers beneath your underwear, sliding two of them up and down the length of you.

"...right here."

You gasp sharply, and that only urges him on.

"Now, since you're so insistent on talking, you can tell me all about that dream you were having. I feel like I have a right to know, since I was in it."

"Eddie, come on, it's embarrassing," you protest.

"It's not embarrassing at all. But look, if you don't wanna tell me, that's fine. I can't make you. I'm just saying, think about how much nicer this would all be if you were getting exactly what you want."

He keeps going, his fingers sliding back and forth in a way that he knows isn't enough, and he says as much.

"You want more, don't you?" he asks, in a sickly sweet tone.

You let out a little whine in response.

"You don't?" he asks, pretending he doesn't understand.

You huff then, and it takes everything in him to hold back the laughter threatening to burst out of him. You're so cute like this.

He can be a bit mean sometimes, he knows he can, but he also knows you like it, even if you won’t always admit it. He presses just a little harder then, and another moan pushes past your lips, small and broken.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks, as if he’s not at all aware. “Use your words.”

He picks up the pace, knowing it's only going to make things harder for you.

“If you don’t tell me, I can’t do anything about it,” he says with a theatrical little sigh.

You push yourself closer to him, and he pulls back. He can't have you finishing before he's even gotten started. He's having far too much fun with you right now.

"O-Okay, fine, I'll tell you," you say in a rushed breath.

“Come on, sweetheart, you can do it," he murmurs. "You’re always so good at telling stories, and you have no idea how much I wanna hear this one.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to concentrate. Eddie's not helping. But to be fair, he's not trying to.

"I-I was…I was on top of you, and your hands were on my hips, and you were…you were telling me how good I was, and…and how well I was taking you and- Oh, God, Eddie-"

Eddie picks that exact moment to slide a finger inside you, completely cutting off whatever else you were about to say.

"I could do that for you, if you want," he says nonchalantly.

He's surprised at how well he's holding himself together right now, especially considering how impatient a certain something is getting.

"You want that, baby?" he asks.

"Please, Eddie," you manage to stammer out, and that's about all he can take.

Undead or not, he still has needs, and God, you're driving him crazy right now. He pulls away from you, letting himself get comfortable as he lies down.

"C'mon," he says, lightly slapping his thighs. "Up you get."

Eddie takes your hand, gently tugging at you until you take the hint. Ever the gentleman, he's already wriggled himself free of his shorts and flung them halfway across the room. You swing a leg over Eddie's hips, straddling him.

"Y'know, as pretty as the view is, sweetheart," he says, his hands running back and forth across your thighs, "I don't think this is exactly what we were doing in your dream, was it?"

You shake your head as you sit forward, taking him in hand and slowly sliding down onto him. Eddie's sure he's gone to Heaven. How do you always feel so good? Every goddamn time.

"You okay, baby? Not too much?" he asks.

"No, it's- God, you feel good," you tell him.

He slides his hands up to your hips, easing you down closer to him. He doesn't know what's better right now, how you feel or how you taste, because Christ, he's completely overwhelmed by the waves of pure lust pouring from you. It's not like he hasn't felt it from you before, but never this intense. It's perfect.

You're perfect.

He thrusts up into you, and he laughs at your little surprised yelp.

"Wakey wakey, sleepyhead," he says with a smile. "You want me to do the work?"

He will, gladly, but he knows you'll take it as a challenge. True to form, you shake your head, pressing your palms against his hips as leverage, before raising yourself up slightly and sinking back down. It takes you a couple of tries, but eventually you find your rhythm, and Eddie doesn't even have to do anything. He just lies there, letting you take what you want from him, and God, if you aren't the most perfect thing he's ever seen, especially like this. Lost in your own pleasure, panted breaths falling from your parted lips.

You're a vision like this. A dream.

"That's it, sweetheart, you're doing so good for me. So fucking good," he manages to grit out.

His head's fuzzy, like he's been drinking the hard stuff. It's not just how he feels, but how you feel as well. It's too much, and not enough at the same time. If he could keep you like this forever, he would. But unfortunately, he's still the same as when he was alive in that regard. He knows he's not gonna last long.

He slides a hand between your legs, rubbing against your clit as you ride him. A broken moan leaves your throat, and you push his hand closer to you, breaths growing heavier and more ragged the closer you get.

"That's it, sweetheart, so good for me, you're perfect-"

The words are barely out of his mouth when he feels you squeeze him tight, your back arching as you ride it out. He doesn't let up until you push him away, over-sensitive. He tries to give you a minute to recover, but you're having none of it, doubling down on making sure he gets off too. The way you sink back down onto him pushes the air from his lungs, and he doesn't hold back, gripping your hips and fucking up into you like he's possessed. It doesn't take him long at all to follow you, fingers digging little grooves into your skin.

You lean in close to him, resting your forehead against his as you both struggle to catch your breath. He stretches his wings out, letting them close around you like a cocoon. He's never felt more sated, and he tells you as much.

"Probably why I feel so tired, then," you mumble. "You're a glutton, Eddie Munson."

Eddie just laughs, pulling you in for a kiss.

"Can you blame me? You taste so fucking good," he says sincerely. "I can't help myself."

A breathless little laugh escapes you at that, and Eddie thinks it might be the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. You slowly sit upright, and he stretches himself out, letting out a long, satisfied groan.

"We should get you fed now, yeah?" he asks. "Since you were so good to me."

"No, I'm gonna feed me," you tell him. "I couldn't trust you in the kitchen before, and I'm sure as shit not gonna trust you in there now."

Eddie holds a hand up to his mouth with a dramatic gasp.

"Are you saying I'm a bad cook?" he asks, pretending to be offended.

"I'm saying you're a terrible cook," you shoot back cheekily.

Eddie clutches at his chest theatrically. "Oh, you wound me, you awful woman."

You roll your eyes, moving to climb off him when he grabs you, holding you still.

"What?" you ask.

Eddie shakes his head. "Nothing, I just...God, you're so pretty, you know that?"

You scoff at him, and he reaches up then, cradling your face in his hands, firm enough to lightly squish your cheeks.

"I'm serious," he says. "Prettiest thing I've ever seen."

"And you're a big sap," you tease, placing your hands over his.

"For you? How could I not be?" he murmurs.

You puff out your cheeks against his palms, and he smiles up at you.

"Alright, c'mon, let me up," you insist. "I'm starving."

He reluctantly lets you go, and you awkwardly climb off the bed, lifting the shirt Eddie threw on the floor last night and putting it on. Eddie wolf-whistles at you as you leave, laughing when you pull a face at him. He indulges himself in another long stretch, resting his arms behind his head.

Death, afterlife - whatever he's supposed to call this, it's pretty damn good right now.

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[lia-linny]

summary: when your best friend is slipping away and you feel like you are loosing yourself in the hurt changbin will hold you close.

words: 1.1k

genre: hurt, (comfort)

note: sorry if this was too self indulgent... i went full on drama mode and exaggerate maybe a little bit to make it a good story. 😅🤏

It’s strange when you feel a person you hold dear to your heart slip away. When the distance between you grows. Not the distance of shared live locations, but the distance between your thoughts, your dreams, your hearts. Once intertwined, they now feel so far apart. When you catch yourself crying yourself to sleep every night until there aren’t any tears left leaving you staring at your ceiling, hollow.

Her boyfriend wasn’t that worried at first. Changbin told himself it would pass. Every friendship goes through a hard time sometimes. There were always ups and downs. Of course, he comforted her anyway, rubbing her back, holding her against his muscular chest, making her smile with silly little jokes. She just needed time, and he’d be there to hold her until it was better.

But time kept passing, and the light in her eyes didn’t return. When coming home to her curled up in bed with silent tears on her cheeks had become too normal, concern crept into Changbin’s heart. And every time, when he pulled her close, when he wiped her face gently with his thumb, she whispered “I’m fine” in a voice that broke him more than her crying ever could.

She didn’t even know when exactly it had started. At first, it was just little things, a message left unanswered, a laugh shared with someone, the quiet sinking feeling that maybe she wasn’t the first choice anymore. She told herself it was normal, that friendships shifted, that she was overthinking. But the quiet voices in her head wouldn’t stop whispering.

Nights were the worst. That was when her thoughts grew sharpest, pressing into her ribs until she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She tried to hold onto the memories of how things used to be: the late-night talks, the certainty that she had someone who would always understand her without her having to say anything. But every time her phone stayed silent, every time she saw that smile aimed at someone else, those memories blurred. They felt like a dream she was slowly waking up from.

Changbin’s arms were safe, warm, steady. She leaned into him when the weight of it all became too much, because he was the only anchor she had left. But even as he rubbed soothing circles on her back and whispered silly things to make her smile, she felt guilty. Guilty that she was dragging him into a storm he couldn’t calm. Guilty that her heart was breaking over someone else, when he was right there, loving her with everything he had. She felt like he deserved better. Like she was burdening him with her heartbreak.

Changbin hated feeling powerless. He wasn’t used to it. On the stage, in the gym, even in arguments, he was never weak. But here? Watching the girl he loved slowly fall apart in front of him? He felt as if someone had ripped out his heart and stamped on it.

That night, when he walked into the bedroom and saw her again, eyes red, cheeks wet, hugging her little dwaekki as though it were the only thing keeping her from falling apart, something inside him snapped. Not in anger, but in resolve. He sat down beside her, careful, as if she might break beneath the weight of his presence.

"Yn," he said softly, his deep voice steady but edged with worry. She tried to turn her face away, but his hand found her cheek, gentle, warm. "Baby… I can’t just keep watching you hurt like this." Her lips trembled, words trapped somewhere between her chest and throat. "I know you keep saying you’re fine, that you can handle it alone," he went on, brushing his thumb across her skin. "But you’re not. And I love you too damn much to sit here and pretend to believe that."

Her eyes filled with fresh tears, guilt swimming in them. "Binnie…" she whispered, but he shook his head lightly. “No. Don’t protect me from it. Just because i'm 'stressed' or 'overworked'." His arms opened, pulling her against him until she was tucked against his chest. “Please. Let me in. Tell me what’s eating you alive, so I can fight it with you. I don’t care how ugly it is... I just want you to talk to me.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was her shaky breathing, muffled against his shirt. But then, in the smallest, breaking voice, she finally whispered the words she had been choking on for months.

"They don’t need me anymore. They found someone else..." The words cracked as they left her mouth, like she wasn’t sure if speaking them aloud would make them more real. Changbin’s chest tightened, but he stayed quiet, letting her keep going. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes glossy and wide.

"It’s like… everything we had, everything we were, it doesn’t matter anymore. They laugh with someone else now. Tell them the things they used to only tell me. And I…" Her breath hitched, and she pressed her trembling hands against her face. “I don’t recognize us anymore. I don’t recognize me anymore without her, and I hate that.”

Changbin caught her wrists, gently lowering her hands so he could see her face. "So you’ve just been carrying this around alone?" His voice was soft, but there was a weight in it, hurt, but not at her. At the fact she had been drowning in silence over this.

"I didn’t want to sound pathetic," she admitted, her voice breaking into a whisper. "You already do so much for me, and this is just… it’s just a friendship. I shouldn’t be falling apart like this."

His jaw tightened, and he shook his head immediately. "Yn, don’t you dare call this pathetic. Losing someone you thought would always be there? That kind of heartbreak cuts deeper than people realize. Of course it hurts. Of course it feels like you’re dying inside."

He pressed a kiss to her damp cheek, lingering. "But you’re not alone in it anymore. You hear me?" Her tears kept falling, but for the first time in weeks, they weren’t silent. They weren’t swallowed down. She cried into his chest, sobbing and hiccuping, clinging to him as if she was finally allowing herself to need him.

And Changbin held her like a vow, like he would carry the pieces until she was ready to put herself back together.

"You still have me," he whispered into her hair. "You’ll always have me."

[fru1t4fr0gs]

Snow and Pine - Part 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/The Winter Soldier x Reader

Summary: After the two of you reunite with Steve and Natasha, the Winter Soldier slowly works to become Bucky again. However, when a mission goes wrong and ends with you both back in the clutches of HYDRA, you risk losing more than just Bucky. More than just his progress. You risk losing everything.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Violence, Angst, Mentions of past torture, Trauma, Nightmares, Possessive!Winter Soldier, Tranquilizers, Mind control, Kidnapping, Implied sex (no explicit smut, but it gets pretty close), Jealous!Winter Soldier, Protective!Winter Soldier, Steve is big brother coded in this one, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: The amount of action, angst, and emotion in this one compared to part one is so crazy that I almost don't want to call this part 2! But let it be known that I LOVED writing this one! I hope you guys like it too!

This is part two of Snow and Pine

-

“What’s the plan?”

“Are you going to stop asking me that?”

“No.”

“Fair.” You offer him a smile, and you don’t plan to elaborate until you look up and meet his eyes. He looks worried. You try to push back a twinge of guilt. You fail. “Okay, well I kind of have a plan. Not a good one, and it might end up getting us both killed, but this is Part One.”

He makes a noise, narrows his eyes, and reaches out to you like he might pull you to him and drag you to another safe house. You dart out of the way, and he grunts with something akin to irritation.

You thought things would be awkward. At the very least, that there would be some sort of tension between you. You’re not really one to jump into bed with someone you haven’t known for very long, let alone someone who, less than a week ago, was actively trying to kill you.

And yet, the awkwardness, the feeling of shame or even regret, wasn’t there. You woke to his arms around you, holding you close, and when you opened your eyes and drifted back into consciousness he was already awake, already pressing surprisingly gentle kisses to your shoulder and cheek in a way that was so strangely intimate, so much like worship that you couldn’t keep yourself from snuggling a little closer, from letting him hold you a little tighter.

And it felt natural. Right, even. There was something there, something between you that had been strengthening over your time in that freezing safehouse. That night, it had solidified into something harder than steel. Something that connected your hearts together like it couldn’t be broken.

It’s a scary feeling, this intense connection, but it’s also…nice. Really nice. You’re nervous, a little thrown off by it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s there. Whoever he was before, whoever he’s still slowly growing back into, you like him. You really like him. In a way you can feel in your bones. In your veins.

He doesn’t seem to regret anything, either. You still bicker. He’s still too-still and a little grumpy, but he remains close. Clingy, even. Especially in public, surrounded by people and cameras and potential threats, he’s still pulling you to him every chance he gets. His fingers still brush yours any time you get close enough. His eyes never seem to leave you, like he needs to constantly assure himself that you’re alright.

“You know, I think you might be a fedora guy.” You change the subject, plopping another hat on top of his head. He rolls his eyes, removes the hat, and places it back on the cart beside you.

“What’s the plan?” He asks again.

You put a new hat on his head, this one cartoon and felt and shaped like a squid, and his frown deepens. The sight is so ridiculous it almost makes you snort with laughter.

“Okay, cranky. Try this one.” You remove the squid hat, and replace it with a plain baseball cap. The squid was definitely funnier, but you’re pretty sure it will draw attention. Another time, then.

You pay for the hat, and pull him along with you once again.

“Why don’t you have a hat?”

“Don’t need one. Not for this.”

“We’re in public. In the open.”

“Mhm.” As if to prove your point, you look up and wave brightly to a security camera. He tenses, arm tightening around you. When he tries to look up, you reach up to pull his cap down a little lower.

“Not you. Just trust me.”

He tenses even more as time goes on, as you look at other carts and stores and keep making eye contact with cameras. After about thirty minutes, you can feel so much tension radiating off of him that you wonder if he might have a heart attack.

When the hour is up, you lead him down an alley, grinning and tugging on his arm like a lover pulling him away for a hidden rendezvous.

“Get ready to run if this doesn’t work.” You murmur to him, heart constricting in your chest with hope. The risk you just took is high. You’ll be found, yes, but your timing was planned so you’d be found by the right people. If they’re even still alive.

He frowns again, but allows you to lead him into the alley, pressing you back against the wall the moment you’re alone. He’s keeping up with the image, hiding you from anyone who might be walking by, but the proximity still makes your skin tingle.

“What are you planni-“

You hear a whirring near your head, and his metal arm shoots out to catch something.

A shield.

“Wait, shit.” You say, reaching up to try to pull on his shoulder and dislodge him from you. “Get behind me and just-“

You’re too late. He throws the shield back, and you watch it ricochet around the alley until it flies back into the arm of its owner.

A kick connects with his shoulder, knocking him off of you and onto the ground. He’s back up in an instant, but doesn’t fight back yet. Instead, he’s on you again, caging you against the wall like he’s blocking you from a threat as his hand grabs towards the gun hidden beneath your clothing.

You grab his arm. Stop him from aiming it.

“Wait, get off, hang on-“

One of Natasha’s tasers knocks him back to the ground, and suddenly Steve is the one dragging you away.

The soldier is on his feet faster than you would have thought humanly possible, and your own feet fall out from under you as Steve is thrown against the wall of the alley. Natasha is running forward, prepared to punch or kick or-

You scramble up as Bucky is knocked down, and you roll atop him and block him from any oncoming blows with your body. Finally, finally, the two Avengers in the alley freeze like they got the message.

You take the moment of silence to stand, pull the soldier up with you and push him behind you. His arm wraps around your waist, like he’s preparing to spin you back around and use his own body to block you from another oncoming blow.

“Okay, hi.” You say, arms outstretched defensively in both directions. You know the gesture must look a little ridiculous with a six-foot-something brick wall of a man attached to your back, but you don’t exactly have another option right now. “Everyone calm the fuck down.”

Natasha and Steve remain tense. The Winter Soldier doesn’t let you go. You can feel him glaring over your shoulder.

You turn to Natasha. “I was really hoping you’d be the one to find us.”

“It was a really stupid move.” She counters, her gun still aimed at the man holding you.

“I know, but it was kind of our only shot.” You offer with sheepish shrug. “What with everyone dead, evil or in hiding these days.”

Finally, you turn to Steve, who is staring directly at Bucky. At the metal arm wrapped securely around your waist. At whatever face he must be making right now.

“I found Bucky.” You say, a little more quietly than you intended. “…kinda.”

-

“Now, this is a safehouse. See? Not a hole in the wall to be found.”

“We need to talk.” Steve says, the moment the door closes behind you.

“And look, there’s even heating.”

Steve says your name, in that mildly irritating Captain America way he has, and you’re forced to drop your act of nonchalance.

“I know.” You say, shoulders dropping. The relief of seeing Steve and Nat, of not being swept back up by HYDRA, is finally creeping its way into your bones, making you feel absolutely exhausted. You don’t have the energy to argue. To put off this conversation.

Steve’s eyes are on Bucky as he speaks. The other soldier stands right behind you. Close. Protective. “What happened?”

You try to answer, feeling suddenly awkward about the whole thing.

“You know, kidnapping, bullet wounds, sketchy HYDRA medicine. Seriously, these guys need to update their healing techniques because that shot felt like-“

“Don’t.” Steve says, genuine and pained, and turns his eyes to you. “Please don’t do that. Just tell me. Is he…”

You look back to Bucky, who is staring right at Steve. “I…yeah. Yeah, I think so. He doesn’t remember, but I got him out before they could really…” you trail off, make a gesture at your head like you’re scrambling your brain. Bucky remains silent.

Your voice is quiet when you speak again, and yet it sounds very loud in the quiet room. “It was bad, Steve.”

He nods, jaw clenching with pain as he looks over to his friend.

“Do you know me?”

The soldier hesitates. His fingers twitch, like he’s about to reach for you. Like he’s seeking comfort.

He nods.

Steve’s relief is almost palpable. Finally, he smiles. It’s filled with pain and relief and hope, and it makes your very soul ache.

“Okay.” His shoulders drop, and he nods like he’s confirming it to himself. “Okay, we can work with that.”

-

“Huh.” You break the silence, eyes still locked on the picture in front of you. Bucky is at your side, jaw clenched as he reads the description for what must be the fifteenth time. He’s concentrating. Hard. Like he’s trying to force the memories back into his mind. “You were hot.”

He blinks, turning to you with an incredulous expression.

“What?” You ask, tilting your head and blinking innocently up at him.

“Were?”

“Oh, come on.” You roll your eyes, lightly bumping his shoulder. “You still are. I’m just saying, that uniform and haircut looks good on you. Really good.”

He glares at the picture, and you watch him for a moment before it’s your turn to look incredulous.

“Are you…jealous?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look like you want to punch the picture?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps glaring at it.

“Oh my God, Bucky. That’s you. You can’t be jealous of yourself.”

“I don’t remember being him. Not well.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself. “I can’t believe you. You’ll get the memories back. You’re already starting to- dude, stop glaring.”

You laugh harder, and he pulls you to him and silences you with a kiss, paying no mind to the crowded museum around you. He likes doing that, lately. If he weren’t so damn good at it, you might complain.

As always, it works. You relax, eyes falling closed, and pull back right before you know he’ll try to deepen the kiss right there in the middle of the room.

His gloved fingers come up to brush over your cheek, the rims of your baseball caps bumping against each other’s foreheads, and you can’t help but smile again.

“I’m not good at this.” He says, and he sounds almost apologetic.

“I’d say you’re very good at it.”

“You know what I mean.” His hand flexes against your waist, and your cap is pushed up a little more as he leans closer to rest his forehead against yours.

“Well,” you reach up, brush your fingers through the hair at the base of his neck, “you do get jealous a little easily. But I can promise I’m not going to jump through time and leave you for yourself.”

His arm tightens around you, and there’s a glimmer of hope in his blue eyes that makes your heart clench.

“Does that mean you’re…” he hesitates. Seems to look for the right words.

You’ve never had a ‘what are we’ conversation quite like this, but you do think about it for a moment.

“I mean, yeah.” You shrug, as nonchalant as you can be despite the hammering of your heart, and smile at him. You haven’t really thought about it, but you are. Whatever this connection between the two of you is makes it feel less like a decision and more like a fact. Plain and simple. “If you want me to be.”

“I want you to be.” He doesn’t hesitate. Nearly cuts you off with how quickly he confirms it. Still, he frowns. Just a bit. “I’m not him. Not all the way. Not yet.” He tilts his head toward the picture beside you, toward the description of James Buchanan Barnes.

“I think you are. You’re getting there.”

“I might be different when I get my memories back.”

“You haven’t changed yet, and you have been getting them back.” He’s been working with Steve. Poring over old information about himself, and you’ve watched him become and more of whoever he used to be with each passing day. “I think, whoever you were, I like all the parts about you that are still him.” You lean up, press a gentle kiss to his lips. The gesture seems to relax him a little. “Brainwashing can only change you so much, you know.”

“I’m not gonna cut my hair like that again.”

You snort, and you see the corners of his lips twitch up in a smile. “First of all, you suck at making jokes.” His smile grows, turning from a twitch to an actual expression, and you can’t help but match it. “Second of all, I like it long, too.”

He kisses you again, and this time you forget about the other people in the room. This time, it takes a lot longer for you to pull away.

-

“Do you see this? We really need to keep our safe houses better stocked. Or get moving and do something soon. I feel like we’ve been planning and waiting around for weeks.” You lay on the side of the bed, wiggling your toes, one of which is sticking out of a hole in your sock.

Bucky reaches out for you, dragging you across the bed in one smooth movement and enveloping you in his arms. You try to protest, still emphatically wiggling your toes as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

He huffs what feels like a soft laugh into your hair. “Go to sleep, doll. We’ll find something for you in the morning.”

“It’s an injustice, and I don’t need- wait, what?”

He’s too busy burying his face in your hair to even hear your question at first, calloused fingers finding warmth against the skin beneath your t-shirt. The man cuddles like a cartoon bear. “Hm?”

“Did you just call me ‘doll’?”

You can feel his brow furrow at the realization against the side of your head, fingers stilling on your skin.

“Yes.”

“That’s so…old fashioned.”

“Do you not like it?”

“No, I do. I definitely do. It’s cute. You’ve just never called me anything like that before.”

His hand comes up, smooths over your hair. “I don’t know. It felt right.”

“Are you gonna start handing out hard candies, too?”

You feel him roll his eyes, and he pulls you a little closer to his broad chest like he’s trying to hide a smile. “Keep pushing.” He warns, and the playful growl in his voice makes it impossible not to.

“Feeding the pigeons in the park? Should I buy you a cane?”

He rolls on top of you, pulling back just far enough to look down at you with a very unconvincing frown. You grin back up at him, and he leans down to kiss you. Hard, slow, and with a possessive sort of purpose that makes your toes curl.

“Still wanna call me an old man?” He asks when you’re good and breathless, low and hungry as his lips brush the shell of your ear.

It’s difficult to string a thought together, let alone form a sentence, but you still manage a mischievous grin. “Might wanna slow down soldier, you could break a hip.”

The comment earns you a growl, and he bites hard at the sensitive skin of your throat, making you arch into him as he presses closer to you and slides his hand down to hook beneath your thigh, guiding it over his waist. The new angle, paired with a roll of his hips, pulls an almost embarrassingly high pitched noise from your throat, and he chases the sound with his lips like he’s trying to taste it.

You don’t manage to make a single comment after that.

-

That night, he has a nightmare.

His arms tighten around you with enough force to pull you from sleep, eyes fluttering open to see the cool light of dawn peeking in through the window. You try to wiggle, still half-awake, and you’re pulled to him even more tightly. You feel super-soldier strength force the air from your lungs, and alarm begins to seep into your tired mind.

“Bucky.” You try, and you hear him make a noise of protest against your shoulder. You force yourself to stay calm, try to lift your arms to push against him. “Hey, wake up.”

He doesn’t wake. He’s shaking. You push a little harder, needing him to release you before he cracks a rib. It’s hard to draw breath in. You can’t move.

“Bucky, wake up.” You say, a little louder, fighting down panic and pushing again.

His eyes fly open, and he moves fast. Too fast.

You’re shifted before you even realize it, pressed onto your back with his weight atop you and his metal hand wrapped around your throat.

He’s not there. His eyes are panicked, terrified, looking down at you without recognition.

His hand doesn’t squeeze, but it holds you firm. Fear, not of him but for him, despite your position, rushes through you like a wave of ice cold water.

Despite the instincts screaming at you to grab at the wrist around your throat, you reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek.

“Hey. Look at me. I’m here. You’re okay.”

You watch, frozen, as he blinks the dream away. As he looks down and finally sees you.

He pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, horror flooding his expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t let him pull back. You sit up with him, and you wrap your arms around his neck before he has the chance to flee.

“I’m okay.” You soothe, quietly now, and he hesitates for just a moment before he returns the embrace and pulls you to him like he’s drowning. He’s still shaking. His flesh hand flies up to the back of your head, cradling you against him as the tension slowly leaks from his body.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He’s murmuring the words, holding you like you’re the air he needs to breathe and like you’re made of glass all at once. “M’sorry, sweetheart. Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to-“

You shush him. Press a gentle kiss to his shoulder. You feel him exhale, still shaky.

You just sit there for a while, fingers tracing over his back in soothing circles, letting him breathe you in and calm himself until he finally stops trembling.

Finally, when you’re able to guide him back down onto the bed and he’s pressing another gentle, apologetic kiss to your forehead, you ask what his dream was about.

He tells you. Soft and quiet. About falling off of a train. About being dragged somewhere. About HYDRA and losing himself for the very first time.

Your heart aches. You listen to every word, and try not to cling to him more tightly as a surge of protectiveness runs through you like fire.

Instead, you lean up to kiss his cheek. Pull back to look him in his lovely blue eyes.

“You have an accent, you know.” You say, offering a little smile.

He looks startled, blinking at you in surprise.

You continue, tracing your thumb over the curve of his jaw. “I noticed it a little last night. Definitely heard it just now. You didn’t have it before, but now you’ve got a Brooklyn accent.”

His eyes soften. So quickly and so deeply that it makes you melt.

“Do I?” He asks, fingers brushing over your back..

You hum in confirmation, pressing another soft kiss to his nose.

“I remember.” He confesses, leaning forward to touch his forehead to yours as his hands continue to trail over your body like every touch is a form of worship. “I remember some things.”

“Mm?” Your eyes fall closed as he guides you onto your back and slides his knee between yours, as his lips begin to trace over your collarbone like he’s painting a picture into your skin.

He hums in confirmation, the nightmare slowly drifting away as the energy in the small room begins to glow with something else. Something soft and warm and lovely. Something laced with desire and an intimacy you’ve never felt before.

“You would have liked me.” His nose skims over your shoulder, warm breath igniting a spark deep within you.

“I like you now.”

His fingers tighten against you, just a little, just enough to let you know he heard the words, before he continues. “I would have taken 

you out.” His hand slides over your waist, body pressing against yours. “Dancing, maybe.”

You almost laugh, but the feeling of his lips trailing lower is a little too distracting. “As charmingly old fashioned as that sounds, I definitely don’t know how to dance.”

“I would have taught you.”

“You would have broken a few toes, but-“

He moves back up, just to cut you off with a kiss. Deep and slow and with just a little too much hunger to be entirely gentle.

“Shh, doll. M’talking.” He murmurs against your lips, the words honey-sweet, though his voice is a low, craving growl. Whatever comment you were about to make dies on your tongue, and he kisses you again like he’s chasing it with his own. His fingers tangle with yours, warm and grounding, and he pulls back once again to trail his lips back down to your collarbone.

“Would have brought you flowers. Picked you up at the door.” He continues, voice a low rumble against you. “Would have thought about kissing you all night. About other things too, but I would have waited.” He nips at your skin, smiles against it when you gasp. “Or tried to.”

Your free hand tangles in his hair, and you feel his smile widen, eyes dark as he looks up at you from where he has your shirt pushed up to your ribs. His metal hand slides over your thigh, and the movement is so soft you would think it nothing more than an afterthought, until his fingers tighten and he tugs you closer to him.

A part of you is thrilled that he seems to be getting memories back, and not just the terrible ones. The rest of you, however, is unbelievably distracted by the feeling of his stubble scraping against your hip.

This isn’t like before. The other times had felt like chasing instincts, nearly primal with need and a hunger so deep it felt like it was fighting to escape from your very bones. That hunger is still there, you can see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch, but it’s held back by something calculated. Focused and almost playful in a way that makes it impossible to keep your breathing steady.

“What other things?” You manage, fingers tightening in his hair as his smile turns mischievous. He nips lightly at your hipbone.

“I’ll show you.”

And he does.

-

“No.” Bucky’s hand wraps around yours, and the considerable weight of the weapon is quickly removed from your arms.

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

You roll your eyes, irritation and a little bit of petulance seeping into your tone. “I just think I’m the only person in this room who hasn’t used a grenade launcher yet.”

“This is a stealth mission.” Steve says, and you frown at him.

“Big explosion means no evidence. Technically, that’s stealth.”

You reach out, eyes as big and pleading as you can make them, and you watch Bucky actually begin to cave at your expression.

“Don’t give it to her.” Steve says, exasperated.

You groan as the man pulls it back, looking sheepishly at his friend like he hadn’t even realized what he was doing.

“Fine.” You grumble, reaching for another gun and holstering it at your hip. “No grenade launcher.”

“No grenade launcher.” Steve echoes, firmly confirming.

“But we should bring it just in case we-“

“We’re not going to need a grenade launcher.”

“You guys are so boring. I swear, this whole thing could be over and done so fast if you just let me bring a grenade launcher.”

When you look up, Bucky is smiling. Open and affectionate.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of planning. Weeks of being cooped up in this damn safehouse. Still, you haven’t minded as much as you thought you would. Sure, the space gets a little crowded. Sure, Steve and Nat have come close to soundproofing the walls once or twice, but there’s been something comfortable about it.

And now, though the transition took some time and a lot of help from Steve, a lot of encouragement from you, and a lot of patience all around, Bucky is almost entirely Bucky again.

You liked him before, and you were right when you told him that the parts you like are all Bucky, but something about him being completely himself again has a tendency to make your heart melt.

Bucky Barnes calls you old-fashioned nicknames. Laughs at your jokes in a way that makes you ache with joy. Slides his hand into yours as you talk and lifts it to his mouth to kiss the back of it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Bucky Barnes reminisces with Steve with a smile on his face. Stays up into the early hours with you to talk about everything and nothing. Holds you close and wakes you in the mornings with peppered kisses to your cheeks and nose that make you laugh and swat at him in your attempts to try to sink back into sleep.

The connection you felt with the version of him before, as confusing and strange as it was, makes so much more sense now. Who he is, who he has always been, was always beneath the surface. You don’t necessarily believe in fate, but it’s difficult to find another explanation for this.

He checks over your weapons, hands skimming gently over your body as he tightens the straps on your holsters and buckles weapons into place.

“You gonna be okay?” You ask, and he frowns a bit as he pulls back to look down at you.

“I’ll be fine.” He says, but he doesn’t sound entirely sure. His gloved hand moves up to brush over your cheek, and you try to offer him a smile.

“In and out.” You say, reassuring, and the crease between his brow only deepens. You turn your head and kiss his palm in the way you know always makes him melt. “We’ll be fine.”

-

At first, everything goes well.

Very well, in fact. It’s too easy. Too quick. You take down the guards at the door, cover Nat as she moves to extract the information needed from their computers, stick by Bucky and Steve as you move through the warehouse.

Something feels wrong. You feel it deep down, low in your gut. You think the others do as well, but no one vocalizes it. You all stay locked into the mission, guns ready and muscles tense.

You turn a corner, just out of sight, moving ahead just far enough to clear a hallway.

You hear chaos erupt behind you. The whir and clang of Steve’s shield, guns going off, metal connecting with skin.

You spin, ready to spring forward and jump into the fray.

Something sharp pricks at your neck, and your shout of surprise and fury is cut off by a gloved hand on your mouth.

Your gun is caught before it clatters to the floor, and your boots kick at the concrete below you as you’re dragged away, weakening with every passing moment.

Everything goes black.

-

The lights are too bright. Your head spins.

It takes a few moments for your vision to come back into focus, and you reach up to rub at your eyes only to realize that your hands are tied behind your back. Not cuffed this time. Not something you can pick or wiggle out of. Tied. Tight.

You guess they learned their lesson. Not great news for your current situation, but at least it’s a small boost to your ego.

Your eyes don’t even have the chance to open all the way. You’re dazed, foggy, trying to decipher the words being spoken and the people around you as the ringing in your ears finally begins to fade.

“You’ve caused a lot of problems.” Pierce. Awesome. “You should consider yourself very lucky that you’ve also proven to be the solution to them.”

You blink, gaze finally steadying as you peer up at him through squinted eyes. “My hands are tied,” you start, voice hoarse and broken. Geez, what kind of tranquilizer did they hit you with? “but it’s important to me that you know that I’m flipping you off behind my back.”

He doesn’t flinch. His expression doesn’t even change. “Hit her.” He says, simply. A command given by someone who is confident in his position. His authority. Like you’re nothing more than a bug to be scraped from the bottom of his freshly shined shoes.

The blow knocks you to the ground. Splits your lip. Makes you spit blood onto the floor.

“Do we move her, sir?” The man who hit you says. Not even bothering to pull you back to your knees. The floor is cool beneath your cheek, and-

Oh.

Oh, you know this room. You’ve been in this room.  

“No,” Pierce waves the question off even as your chest constricts. “He’ll be here soon. It won’t be convenient, but we have the leverage now.”

“Steve and Natasha are with him, jackass.” You say, hope fluttering in your chest. The three of them will-

“Rogers and Romanoff are incapacitated, for the time being.” Pierce explains, not even bothering to look at you. “A small distraction. A few potential civilian casualties. Unfortunate, yes, but worth it for the greater purpose.”

The implication sits in the air like a heavy weight. Bucky is coming, and he’s coming alone.

You open your mouth to say something biting, but you’re interrupted by the sound of a heavy metal door flying off it’s hinges.

No. No, no no. You need more time. More time to plan. You can get out of this, and even if you can’t it would be better if they just killed you. He can’t-

Two HYDRA soldiers fly across the room, slamming into the back wall.

“Get her up. Hit her again.” Pierce says, like he’s commanding the controls in a fucking video game. “Make it loud, before I have to replace anyone else.”

You’re yanked up by your hair. Quickly and seamlessly, and you see a fist pull back.

You can’t help it. You want to be brave. You want fight and kick your way out of this one, but the promise of pain blinds you for a moment and you gasp out a quick “wait, wait wait-“

You feel one of your ribs snap. You can’t hold back a scream.

The gunfire. The violence around you. It stops.

The silence is heavy in the room. The click of a gun’s safety echoes through the chamber. You blink up through tears of pain to see Bucky, eyes filled with ice cold fury as he holds a gun aimed perfectly between Pierce’s eyes.

The other man doesn’t cower. Doesn’t try to hide. He doesn’t even make another command before you feel cool metal press against your own temple. Another click.

Bucky doesn’t speak, but his eyes move to you.

The desperation. The apology. The terror. All of the emotions mingling in his gaze hurt you more deeply than any blow they could ever hit you with.

“In the chair, Soldat.” Pierce says, gesturing to that same horrible machine you pulled him from weeks ago.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his gaze from you.

“Don’t.” You say, and the barrel of the gun digs deeper into your temple, making you grit your teeth.

Pierce continues, eyes empty of emotion or empathy or anything that looks even remotely human. You’ve never hated anyone more. “I don’t want to have to discard our leverage too quickly, but you know that I will. So I’ll let you decide.” He gestures to you, and you fantasize briefly about bashing his smug face into the floor. Stomping on it with your boot. “Something to live for,” the gun presses closer. Deep enough into your temple to make you see stars, “or nothing to live for.”

Bucky lowers the gun. Places it on the floor. You feel sick.

They can shoot you. You don’t care. You would rather they kill you right now than do this to him again.

“Don’t.” You say again, but he’s already moving back to the chair. Already allowing the agents nearby to strap him in.

Desperation claws at your lungs. Sucks the air from them and makes tears prickle in the corners of your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you fucking dare let them do this. Don’t you dare-“

They shove a gag in your mouth, cutting off anything you can say. Any plea you might use to get through to them. You can fight. You both can. And if they kill you, who fucking cares? He’ll get out of this, at least. You shout in frustration, and watch as hesitation makes his fingers curl against the armrest. Like he might break out and come to you. Like he might fight for just another moment.

You twist, every ounce of training you’ve ever had making you move as quickly as you possibly can to dislodge the man holding you. The gun fires. Misses you by an inch. You hear a snap nearby. See another body thrown back across the room in your peripheral, and you kick the man holding you with both feet hard enough to send him sprawling as you begin to rise to your feet.

A shoe connects with your stomach. Hard. Sends you back to the floor and makes you wheeze.

That same shoe slams down on your left arm and breaks it.

Pain, white hot and blinding, rips a noise from your throat that doesn’t sound entirely human.

Pierce looks annoyed, like the effort to deal the blow was something beneath him, even as he aims another gun between your eyes.

“There are a lot of bones in the human body. I guarantee you, I can break a lot more before she dies.”

Bucky sits back in the chair. His eyes lock onto yours. There are tears in them.

You can’t think through the pain. Your vision tunnels to focus on him. Only on him. You shake your head, one last time.

He mouths something to you. I’m sorry.

Tears obscure your vision. The machine starts. Locks him into it. And just like that, like it’s nothing at all, they rip away everything. All of him. They erase his mind and his memory and his autonomy as you watch.

For a moment, as pain pulls you into darkness to the sound of his screams, you think you might be screaming too.

-

They heal you. You’re not sure where, or how, or when. You recognize the pain of the shot, like the one Bucky gave you back in that safehouse so long ago.

This time, there are no arms around you. No whispered words into your hair. No soothing lips against your temple and no warm body against yours. It’s you alone in a darkened cell, hands tied behind your back to keep yourself from trying to claw the pain from your bones.

You don’t care. Because this time, whether it be a dream or an echo through the cavernous halls of this horrible place, you can still hear him screaming.

-

You don’t know what drugs they keep you on, or even how long you’re in the cell. All you know is that time blends together. It’s difficult to keep your eyes open. To think.

Eventually, your foggy thoughts are interrupted by metal fingers against your cheek. By a familiar figure crouching in front of you. You hear the soft click of a knife, feel the ropes behind your back come undone in one quick movement.

“Bucky.” You feel like you’re underwater, but you grab at his arm like it might save you from drowning. Look into his eyes with your own hazy ones.

They’re not Bucky’s eyes.

“No, no. You have to come back.” Your voice is hoarse, quieter than you want, but you can still hear the desperation in it. “You can’t leave now. You can’t be this right now, Bucky.”

He just stares at you, brushes that metal thumb over your cheek to catch your falling tears.

They took everything away from him again, but they left you. And the most sickening part is that you know why.

Leverage.

Something to keep the Winter Soldier in check. A prisoner to threaten, to hurt, to ensure that he won’t go rogue again.

You’re going to kill them all. Every last one of them.

The rage, the panic, is muffled by whatever they’ve put in you to keep you too docile to fight back. As he leans closer, that same familiar devotion in his eyes but nothing else, your weak hands fly up to shove him away from you.

“Get off me.” You stand. Your legs feel like they’re made of jelly. Your thoughts are dragging. Still, you shove him again because this is wrong. He’s not Bucky. He’s not even the version of himself he was in that safehouse, confused and lacking memories but still clinging to a part of who he was before. This man before you is an empty shell of the one who cares for you. Who loves you.

He reaches for you. You shove him back. “Get off of me.”

You stumble. He catches you. Familiar arms that are Bucky’s but not Bucky’s wrap around you and pull you close. Possessive. Adoring. Wrong.

He holds you up effortlessly, presses his nose into your hair and murmurs something in a language you don’t understand. Russian, Romanian, doesn’t matter. It’s not him.

“I don’t speak that.” You nearly sob. It’s one of the first things you ever said to him, and even then he was more human than this.

He shushes you. Soothes his hand over your back. Presses a kiss to the side of your head.

“Come back, asshole. Come back now or I swear to God-“

A sharp command from the guards outside makes him go rigid against you. His hand brushes over the back of your head, and he nuzzles his nose into your hair once more like he’s saying goodbye.

“No. No, stop. Stop. Come back, Bucky.” You can’t think enough to be eloquent. To say whatever you could say to drag him out of this. He lifts you, lowers you back to the cot like you’re made of glass, and you struggle to form a fully coherent thought. Your hands don’t push him away anymore. They cling his tactical gear, refusing to release him despite the shakiness of your fingers.

“Don’t.” You say, desperate and angry and so, so tired.

He kisses your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.

You know what they’re sending him out to do. You know that it’s wrong. That when you get him back - and you will, even if it kills you - that he’ll be ripped apart by his own actions.

Another sharp command. Another bout of tension in his shoulders, like he’s being physically pulled away from you by the words.

And then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him, and you’re alone.

You fight, then.

When you rip yourself off of the cot, you stumble and fall, but you still drag yourself back to the door of the cell. You slam your hands against the metal surface until you draw blood. Until it opens.

You kick and struggle, as weak as you are, against the agents that hold you.

A needle plunges into your neck, and you reach up like you’ll rip it out of you.

“I’m going to kill you.” You say, and you’ve never sounded angrier in your life. More sure of a threat. “Every single…”

The world goes dark again.

-

The next time you wake, it’s to a familiar voice.

“Hey, wake up. We’ve got to move.”

Your bleary eyes open. See blue eyes and blond hair. Slide too-slowly down to the corner of the cell. Dropped guards. Open door.

“Steve?” Your voice is hoarse. A large hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, helping you into a sitting position as the world spins.

“I’ve got you.” He says, soothing and kind as always as he looks into your eyes with the firm, calm command of a captain. “Try to focus.”

You do. Your weak fingers grip his arm, curling in the sleeve of his suit.

“I can’t…” you grit your teeth, frustrated.

“I know.” His voice is even, but understanding. “Just stay still. Try not to panic.”

You barely have time to let out a weak “what?” before you feel the prick of another fucking needle in your arm.

Adrenaline shocks your system like a bucket of icy water.

You bolt upright, nearly leaping off the bed and only held back by Steve’s arm. Clarity comes to you fast. Too fast, even. The previously blurry room is suddenly in complete focus. The memories of what happened before this are sharp enough to cut.

“Holy shit.” Your entire body hums. You leap off of the bed, suddenly needing to move. “Holy shit, what is that?!”

“Natasha gave it to me. It’s counteracting-“

“Where’s Bucky?” Your voice is loud. Maybe too loud. You start moving towards the door.

Steve catches you. Holds you back. You squirm.

“Bucky. Where’s-“

“You need to breathe.” His voice is solid and sure. Your heart is hammering so hard in your chest you feel like it might bust out of you. “You just took three hits of adrenaline.”

You shake. You try to wiggle out of his grip.

“I’m sorry.” He’s still holding you firm.

“Nope. Don’t say that. Take me to Bucky. Now.” You’re talking too fast, but at least you can form words.

“I will. Just hang on.”

It takes a minute, though it feels like an hour. You twitch, try to control your breathing, and fight off the urge to attempt to rip out of his grasp and run. Finally, and eternity later, he releases you.

Everything is still very clear. Very focused. But now you don’t want to jump out of your skin. Now you can at least draw breath.

Hands fall on your shoulders, and your friend’s blue eyes look into yours like a captain assessing a fellow soldier. Still, there’s an almost brotherly concern behind his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. Throat dry and body humming. “No more needles. Ever. I mean ever. I’m not even getting a tetanus shot after this.” You breathe, still feeling the tremble in your hands. “Let’s go.”

He nods, and you run.

-

The fight that ensues, the explosion of battle bursting out between agents of HYDRA and agents of SHIELD, separates you from Steve.

It separates you long enough to miss the aircraft taking off. To earn yourself new bruises and potential battle scars as you do your best to take down anyone that comes near you. The adrenaline from the shot is wearing off too quickly, but it’s replaced with the natural surge that comes with battle. With fighting for your life.

You make it to Sam right before he takes off.

“Get me up there.” You’re breathless, blood on your face and bullets empty from your gun. You toss it to the side like the useless, empty brick of a thing it’s become, eyes wild as you look up at the craft a hundred feet above you.

He tries to protest, and in your desperation you might even have aimed your gun at him if it wasn’t already skating off the side of the building.

“Sam.” You snap his name harshly enough that he doesn’t protest, just grabs you to him and takes off. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling wind whip through your hair at the rapid ascent, and wonder how the fuck he does this without passing out.

You shout your plan to him over the wind, distracting yourself with logistics and doing everything you can to keep from looking down. He leaves you at a door near the bottom of the craft before he moves to the fight at the top, and you nearly rip the door off of its hinges as you jolt inside.

You don’t have comms. You don’t have anything but instinct and panic guiding you.

You’ll get Bucky back, but you need to keep him from killing people first.

So you run. Your lungs burn. Your body aches. But you make it to the center of the craft just as you hear the commotion behind you.

You grab the key. Disable the weapon before it can be fired and wait until it can be rerouted. The little rectangle can’t weigh more than an ounce, but it feels like it’s dragging you to the floor.

You have a second to catch your breath. Just a second.

And then you’re crushed back against a solid chest hard enough to knock the wind from you.

You can’t see the Winter Soldier’s face, but you can feel his surprise at your sudden appearance in the way his arms lock around you. Tight.

“Let go.” You demand, uselessly, as he begins to pull you back. He doesn’t hit you, doesn’t even come close to hurting you, but he holds you firm as his hand begins to reach into your pocket. To grab the device hidden there.

You twist to face him, look him right in those empty eyes, and yank him down to crush your lips to his in a desperate movement. A distraction. If, by some miracle, it works, you decide that you’ll feel guilty about it later.

And it does work. For just a second. He freezes, hand pausing it’s descent into your pocket just long enough to return the kiss like he can’t help it. Like he needs to.

You grab the little rectangle in your pocket, and throw it at Steve.

His lips stop moving against yours. He turns, and you expect him to start moving again. To run to the device and grab it from the other man’s hands.

Instead, you’re pulled to him again, and you’re moving.

“What are you doing?” You ask, pushing at him and trying in vain to break his hold. “Bucky, what the fuck are you- no. Oh my God, no.”

He grabs your arm and cuffs it to a pole at the main panel.

“You son of a bitch.” You tug against the cuff, trying to kick at him. Trying to grab him back to you. He stands, turns back to Steve like he’s confident that you’re locked down and not going anywhere until he can come back for you.

“Get the fuck back here you brainwashed Kong Kong motherfucker!”

Your furious words fall on deaf ears, and you kick uselessly at nothing in pure frustration as the fight continues. You twist, reach into your pocket to find something to pick the stupid lock with, and hear the clash of metal on metal explode through the ship.

“When I get you out of this,” you growl, knowing he’s too far away by now to even hear you, already working at the lock as the ship rocks with the force of supersoldiers throwing each other into the walls. “I am going to make you sleep on the couch for a fucking month.”

-

He’s killing him.

Steve is on the ground. The weapons are disabled and the ship is about to crash into the water, and The Winter Soldier is killing Steve Rogers.

You try to pull him off, and you’re pushed back. Surprisingly, not hard enough to hurt. But hard enough that all of your efforts are for nothing.

Steve won’t fight back.

And, for one moment, between the last punch and watching Steve fall into to the water, you see it.

You see Bucky.

He watches him fall. Steve hits the river and doesn’t resurface.

The Winter Soldier turns to you. Begins moving towards you with what you can only imagine is an intent to grab and protect. To find some way to escape the craft that allows Captain America to drown and ends with both of you back in HYDRA’s clutches.

But you saw Bucky. For a moment, he was back. For a moment, the spell broke.

“Fuck.” You say, voice drowned out by the sound of metal scraping against metal. Of explosions. Of inevitable doom. You know what you’re about to do, and it is going to suck.

He seems to sense your thought before you even have it. He moves faster, sprinting towards you now, and you don’t let yourself think.

You jump.

You hear his shout over the chaos above you, and the moment you fall feels like a fucking eternity. This had better work. The impact better not break your legs or shatter your spine. Steve better be alive down there.

The silence when you hit the water feels more like whiplash than anything else you’ve experienced today.

You don’t let yourself think. You didn’t make sure to inhale before you plunged past the surface. You search for a moment, and thank everything above and below and in between when you spot a body floating down into the depths of the river. Far, but not too far.

You kick with the last of your strength, manage to grab the front of his uniform and begin to drag him to the surface just as your lungs begin to burn. You come to the surface gasping for air, throwing Steve’s weight - is he even heavier in water? What the fuck is in that serum?- onto the nearest floating piece of debris and begin to grab for it yourself before some impossibly large part of the craft lands beside you and sends you spiralling back under.

You lose track of where you are. Of what direction is up. Your vision begins to blacken.

And, as it finally goes dark, you see a glint of metal fingers above you.

-

The ground is firm against your back. Something pushes rhythmically against your chest. Hard. Uncomfortable. Forcing the water out of your lungs and making you seize.

A mouth covers your own. Air blows into your lungs. The pushing continues. Someone is speaking, a low voice you recognize, but you’re still just a little too far gone to register it completely.

And then, with one last push, you shoot back into your own body. Roll to your side and hack up what feels like half of the fucking river.

When your vision clears, you see Steve beside you. Unconscious and bloody, but breathing.

You have less than a moment of relief before you’re pulled into someone’s arms, and when you look up this time, it’s Bucky. Panicked and horrified, but Bucky all the same.

“Look at me, doll. C’mon. Look at me. You’re okay. M’sorry. I’m so fucking sorry-“

“Hi.” You say, exhaustion running bone deep through you, and his relief is a palpable and beautiful thing. He kisses your wet hair. Your forehead. Your cheeks. He rocks you against him and pulls you impossibly closer like he’s still trying to rip you back from the dead.

You let your eyes close for a moment, lean against his chest and reach out with numb fingers to take one of his hands in yours. “Knew you’d come back.” You say, lungs still burning and body still aching. “Wish there had been an easier way to do it, though. Ow.”

He laughs, but it’s a broken and pained noise.

For a while, you sit there together, exhausted and hurting in more ways than physical. Eventually, he helps to guide you to your feet, still holding you close as he presses his lips to your forehead.

“We have to go.” He murmurs, and you nod.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

You’ll go anywhere with him. And you have to. Steve will be okay, but HYDRA is going to want both of you back, and there’s no way to protect yourselves unless you go off the grid. At least for a while.

You rest your forehead against his shoulder. He trails his fingers through your wet hair. You ground each other, matching your breathing and confirming to yourselves that you’re both alive. Both here. Both as safe as you can be, for now.

And then, you leave. Together.

[pink-apollo]

I love your work so much!! I do have a request. I was wondering if you can write about the mw2 team how they would act when they come home from a mission

Would honestly love nothing more than to pamper them and make sure they’re well fed😭 Make them feel loved and adored

Price

Absolutely pent up and just happy to finally be in the comfort of his own home with you. No more commanding orders, no more restless nights, no more wondering if he’ll make it back home

Takes his boots off by the front door as soon as he walks in, duffle bag dropped to the floor and instantly makes his way into the kitchen where he finds you in one of his old beat up shirts that he maybe should’ve thrown away a long time ago, but doesn’t regret doing so because he gets to see you in it

Immediately wraps his arms around you from behind and just stands there in the kitchen inhaling your scent, nose in your hair, before whispering “I’m home lovie.”

Watches you cook and even adds some of his favorite spices before leaving you too it before he gets swatted out of the kitchen

Doesn’t leave your side when sitting together on the sofa. Has a big ol fluffy blanket covering the both of you and you pulled up on his chest as you watch your favorite show. Although he tries to stay awake he instantly falls asleep, finally feelin safe at home with his partner on top of him. It’s good to be back home

Soap

When soap comes home, the house is back to square one of being a mess again. Leaves a trail of his dirty clothes on the floor as he runs to go get a much needed shower. Wastes no time in jumping in and stays in there much longer than he really needs to but the hot water running down his back feels to good.

Although he does try to get you to climb in the shower with him, and sometimes it does work and other times you clean up after his mess and lay out clean clothes that he can just put on before crashing with you

But shower time takes double if you’re both in there. Happily washes your hair and just holds you and gives so many kisses until they start to turn into hickies because he missed you so much

And once hes all clean he climbs into bed, smothering you as he lays on top of you. Quietly looking over to see what you’re reading before resting his head back on top of yours as his arm is slung over you. The man is quite literally a koala as he doesn’t leave you alone for the next week and refuses you to leave the bed. Doesn’t matter if you need water, you are staying with him as he’s been away from you for months

Is just so happy to be back home and devours all your cooking. No more scraps, no more asking if the food is even edible as who knows how long it’s been there. Doesn’t care if you burned it, he will gladly eat it and ask for seconds

Gaz

Kyle is another that no matter how long he’s been away, he knows the rules of the house and makes sure to clean himself up and although he will put his things away, just right now he needs to hold you and connect with you. His duffel bag and other gadgets can sit there for the night, spending time with you is more important

He’ll gift you things he’s found that reminded you of him and shows you all the goofy pictures that he’s taken with the team. Although being far apart for such a long time, he wants to show you the good things he’s done and how the team asks about you because of his good you take care of Kyle

Doesn’t ask for you to cook and insists on doing take out where you both met for the first time. It’s mandatory at this point as he has been doing for years with you

And the night he does come home he always makes sure to be little spoon, the feeling of being held and safe in the embrace of his partner gives him great comfort that he seeks the moment he walks out the door for deployment

Ghost

The smell of home brings him back to earth, away from the sound of guns firing, tanks running, and the endless chatter of privates that make him want to rip his hair out due to the over stimulation of so many things going on at once . But that’s the job he’s signed up for and is ever so grateful that you’re here to balance his mind

Wastes no time in washing himself up and makes sure to clean up considering he wasn’t able to for a while before joining you on the couch where he lays his head on your chest, listening to your heart beat as you watch your show. He doesn’t care about eating or throwing his clothes in the washer, you are the only thing he wants

Simon places kisses every so often on your neck and talks about things that the team has done and the dumb shit soap does making you giggle. That damn giggle that he’s missed so much.

Takes bonding time very serious with you. Despite being away for so long he wants to make sure that he still loves you, still wants to know everything that you did and even though he doesn’t say it, it makes his heart swell when you mention how much you missed him, miss waking up to him and miss making love to him

Although he tries so hard to stay awake and listen to you ramble, he can’t help but fall asleep on you as you run your fingers through his hair. His breathing slowed down as his body rises and falls at a steady pace. He’s finally back where he belongs, with you

[creepyazi]

Yellow!!! Can I request headcannons of the creeps who accidentally find sketches of reader kissing them?👀maybe they're just reader secretly has a crush on them when they find these drawings.... not sure if you write for multiple characters at time, so if not can I request it for BEN specifically?

i can write HCs for several! :D

sorry these are short

Creepypastas x Artist!Reader

except they found your secret sketchbook :3

i’ll write for: Jeff, BEN, EJ, Toby for now, if you want anyone else, lmk.

Jeff

he left something in your room, and he needed to get it. so he barged into your room while you were out on a mission. he didn’t really care when it came to privacy and boundaries, he wasn’t good at that. so when he came in, he stumbled upon a sketchbook. it said “MY EYES ONLY” and he got curious. again, no knowledge of boundaries? he opens it.

- first initial reaction: “is that me? damn i look good.” of course he had to stroke his ego a little before realizing what the actual art was.

- his next reaction: he laughs a little. talks to himself about how desperate you were, and how cute it was that you drew that out.

- he’s def the type to go up to you about it, not hide the fact he blatantly went against your boundaries

- he teases you about it, calls you down bad, before eventually askin “how about we make that drawing a reality, hm?”

BEN

he’s lurking in your TV again, teasing you about god knows what. he likes messing with you, and believes that’s the extent of your relationship. but when he sees you leave your sketchbook on the bed, he gets tempted. The first flip through, he isn’t paying much attention, until he sees the page.

- first initial reaction: damn, they like me? he thought you despised him, absolutely loathed him for how annoying he was.

- he wasn’t one for romance and charms, he was used to showing to showing his affection through being annoying. so the fact you fell for him took him aback.

- he gets flattered, maybe blushes a little. he’d never tell you though. but he keeps looking, wondering what else he’d find about the two of you.

- he’d likely shut up about it, but maybe be less annoying and more affectionate now knowing his feelings are reciprocated

EJ

You guys were debriefing after a mission. You went to the bathroom, but you left your sketchbook. He’s usually not one to break boundaries, but curiosity got the best of him.

- He was confused at first, he thought you guys were just friends. he wouldn’t fathom that you’d see him of all people that way.

- but he isn’t against it, he’s just worried about your safety. he’s a blood thirsty, organ eating demon. he’s not exactly boyfriend material.

- but he wants to try for you. he was once human after all. he wants to hold you and treasure you like he already does. but he worries about your safety more than anything.

- he would shut up about what he saw, but once he knew he could safely be with you, he’d bring up the feelings.

Toby

Toby was impulsive, he knew it, you knew it, everyone knew it. so leaving your sketchbook with him was an awful idea. But you did, and it took him a whole 30 seconds before he opened it up.

- his initial reaction was: “god they’re down bad. it’s fucking adorable”

- he knew you liked him, even if he was annoying and persistent, he wasn’t blind. he saw the way you lit up, the way you laughed at his jokes, the blush when he jokingly flirted with you. he knew there was something. but this? new level.

- he’d likely mess with you about it, make fun, tease, but he does like you. so he’d find a good point, and kiss you. see what happens, consequences be dammed.

[cozmowrites]

weight

tw: suicide implications

2 am. That's what the clock read when Bakugou entered the home. The home the two of you bought a few years back. The kind of home that was used as a safe place for you and him.

He had always worked late, coming home just as late. Working until 1 am, coming home around 2 am, sometimes 3 am if villains ended up around. He never figured out how to balance it. Maybe that's where he failed. He should've freed himself up more.

He stood at the door, looking at the untouched living room. Your blanket lays on the couch, crumpled the way it was left. The way you left it. On the couch. He wanted to fold it, but he knew you hated it folded because it was never quite as fluffy.

He took a deep breath and took off his boots to his hero costume, taking note of the way you would tell him to not walk on the floor with his dirty shoes. You never wanted him to track dirt. He remembers when you'd make him clean it up the first year you both moved in, and you'd get mad about it too. He... caved on cleaning up his mess. It was his fault anyways.

He removed the rest of his costume one piece at a time, which left him in some shorts and a tank. Slowly, he would move over to the kitchen, slow and sluggish. Another leftover that was left for him from you. You always cooked for him, especially when he would work late like this. It always fueled him when you would cook, even if it was simple foods.

Labels were on each tupperware. Ending with tomorrow. Has it been that long already? Time flowed differently for him. That week was passing in a blur for him. Work has been fine without him—he could honestly not go in at all. Something about keeping his mind off of it would be better though. That's what he's always done. Bury himself into work just so that he could get his mind off of it all.

The lingering smell of your scent wafted through the air and Bakugou was no longer hungry. He put the leftovers back into the fridge and walked his way to the bathroom. Your shampoo and conditioner was not for his hair, but he used them anyways. He used your body wash too. And left the shower in fresh clothes.

He made his way to your shared room. It was something he remembered as being your favorite place. He remembered all the lazy days, all the times you would beg him to make you breakfast. He does now. He wakes up early every morning and stares at your empty place on the bed, getting up out of bed for another day.

He made breakfast, your favorite, brought it to the bed and set it on a small table he unfolded. He sat in front of it—where you would lay—and ate him himself. As he did, he couldn't help the prick of his tears when he finished the food. It was his fault, he blamed himself. He was unavailable when you needed it most.

He didn't know you were struggling that much until it was too late. All those late nights you had stayed up, those "it's fine" and "don't worry about it". He couldn't will himself to work today. It hit him harder than he thought it would.

You weren't around anymore.

He sat there, setting the table aside, letting the tears just flow. "It's fucking my fault. Why... didn't you tell me you were struggling this much? I.. I could have helped take some of the burden." His voice was just as broken as he looked.

Echoes of grief spilled from his eyes. He was never emotional but he couldn't stop now. He didn't know what he was supposed to do with his life now. You weren't in it anymore.

The days had spilled into each other this week and they were finally catching up to him. His memory of you blurring into one big mess. The way you smiled at him so big and genuine, then your laugh would make his heart flutter.

You didn't cry often. Maybe he should have checked up more often. He should've asked what was wrong. He should've done more. He hated feeling this way. He didn't know what to do.

He didn't know how to be without you anymore. You were such a constant in his life, as much as he didn't want you to be in it, he was joking. He wanted you and him to spend the rest of your lives together.

You will never be able to live past twenty.

A picture of you sits on the living room nightstand. It was your favorite. A candid photo of you at your graduation. His mom took it when you weren't looking. A cherry blossom picture where your smile was incredibly big and warm.

And alive.

But you're not alive anymore.

And you had killed yourself a week ago.

+++

masterlist ⟢

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requests ツ

[onlypinkslut]

THE DOG'S DEFIANCE

CHAPTER TWO

EMPRESS F!READER X TOJI FUSHIGURO (AND MENTIONS OF NANAMI, GETO, SUKUNA, SHIU)

SUMMARY in the wake of betrayal, you the goddess finds yourself in toji’s arms his touch both a comfort and a trap, as devotion blurs into possession and pleasure becomes its own form of conquest.

CW smut/nsfw (18+), manipulation and gaslighting, virginity loss/first time, corruption kink, breeding and cum play with impregnation talk, power imbalance between divine empress and male dominance, misandry vs masculinity themes, voyeurism with a wife overhearing, mild violence and blood mention

DISCLAIMER this is a dark work of fanfiction. themes include heavy misandry, manipulation, and sexual degradation. all characters are adults. nothing here reflects real-life consent or relationships. read responsibly. do not steal, copy, or repost.

©️onlypinkslut

the room is too large for your sobs. the vaulted ceilings echo every sound, your grief bouncing back at you until you feel surrounded by your own pain. you lie in your huge princess bed, the silks cold against your skin, crown still heavy on your head, tears running hot down your cheeks. your wives had betrayed you, and you could not understand it. a woman betraying another woman it ripped you apart deeper than the blade that killed megumi.

“how,” your voice cracks into the emptiness, “how can a woman betray her own?”

the doors creak open. you do not give permission, yet he enters.

toji.

not crawling. not kneeling. he walks in like he owns the palace, shoulders broad, chest bare, his body glistening faintly from the bath. water still clings to his skin, beads trailing down carved muscle, his torso thick and cut like a greek statue. his scars only make him more brutal, proof of survival etched into flesh. a white silk towel is slung low around his hips, the fabric straining over the swell beneath. his cock presses against it obscenely, heavy, long, impossible to ignore.

your breath hitches, but you cannot rise. you are too weak with grief.

he does not ask. he comes to your bed, and the mattress sinks beneath his weight as he slides in beside you, the heat of his body swallowing yours. his arm curls around your trembling frame, pulling you into the wall of his chest.

“shhh,” he murmurs, lips brushing your damp cheek, kissing away tears. his voice is low, steady, filled with that dangerous calm. “you cry for women, but even women can betray. even they can falter.”

you shake your head against him, whispering brokenly, “but they are mine.. how could they do this to me..”

his hand slides up, big and rough, cupping your head. he hushes you softly, thumb brushing your temple. “not me. never me. i killed my own son for you. do you understand what that means? i gave up blood, flesh, legacy. all so your throne would be safe.”

he leans forward, kissing your cheeks, your wet lashes, kissing the crown itself. then, slowly, he lifts it from your head. the metal gleams as he sets it aside on the silk sheets.

“you don’t need this,” he whispers, tugging you closer until you’re flush against his chest, your face buried in the heat of his skin. “you need me. your dog, your man, your sword.”

you whimper softly, nodding, helpless under the weight of his words.

the towel shifts. his cock grinds against your hip, hot and swollen, the length of it pressing insistently through the silk. his breath grows heavier, lips dragging down to your ear as he moves his hips slowly, deliberately, letting you feel every inch of him.

“this cock,” he murmurs, voice ragged with hunger, “has been full of love for you since the day you took your mother’s legacy. i watched you rise. i watched you sit on that throne. and i was terrified, terrified that you would bind your womb to another man of royalty, waste your softness on someone unworthy.”

you whimper again, confused, your fingers trembling against his chest. “toji…”

he kisses your mouth then slow, damp, breaking you open. the towel slips lower as he grinds harder, the head of his cock pushing free, sliding against your thigh slick with pre.

“you don’t have to think,” he whispers between kisses, kissing your tears, kissing the corner of your lips. “just let me help you. let me take it all away.”

his hand closes around yours, guiding it to his cock, pressing your palm against the thick shaft, the heat searing. your lips part in shock at how big, how heavy he is.

“see?” his grin is soft, dangerous. “only this. only me. this cock is yours, goddess. it belongs nowhere else. i’ll kill anyone who touches you. i’ll kill anyone who whispers against you. i’ll kill every betrayer and lay their heads at your feet.”

he shifts, rolling over you, the towel slipping fully away, his cock exposed now veined, massive, curved like a weapon and a gift. your eyes widen, tears still wet on your cheeks, your lips trembling as he cages you beneath his body.

his hands stroke your sides gently, soothing, his voice low, coaxing, as if this were comfort, not conquest.

“let me inside,” he whispers, kissing your forehead, kissing your trembling lips again. “let me love you the way no woman, no man ever could. let me prove i am the only one who will never betray.”

you whimper softly, clueless, nodding against his mouth. and toji smiling like a beast who has finally cornered his prey parts your thighs and slides himself into the divine cunt no man has ever touched.

slow, deep, lazy.

soothing, as if he were healing you.

and with every thrust, every kiss to your tears, every word murmured against your skin, he wraps your grief into chains and locks them to his cock.

“only me,” he whispers, filling you deeper, voice breaking. “only my cock. only your dog who became your man.”

his towel is gone. the last veil between you torn away, leaving only the brutal weight of his body above you. his cock presses against your cunt, thick and hot, the head nudging at your folds as if it knows it does not need permission.

you tremble beneath him, tears streaking your face, whispering brokenly, “it’s too much, toji… too big.."

he hushes you, kissing your cheek, kissing the wet line of your tears. his voice is low, steady, soaked in dominance. “shhh. it’s your first time. it’s supposed to hurt. it’s supposed to break you open. but my cock is the only one strong enough to fit here. no other man deserves it.”

and then he pushes.

slow, deliberate, sinking inch by inch into your untouched cunt. the stretch is unbearable, a sharp ache that makes your nails dig into his back, your body arching as if you could escape. but he holds you down, one massive hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other guiding his cock deeper into your virgin heat.

you sob, tears spilling, your lips gasping out whimpers. “toji ahh, it’s too much, please.."

his mouth presses to your ear, his words twisting your cries into submission. “no, goddess. it’s perfect. your pussy was made for me. it was waiting for me. feel it how it grips me, how it cries for me. no one else will ever fill you like this.”

he bottoms out, thick cock buried to the hilt, your womb trembling against the blunt head. you cry out, loud, broken, the sound echoing off the high chamber walls.

his lips curl against your throat as he groans, “fuck… so tight. so untouched. taking me for the first time. i’ll carve my shape into your cunt so deep, no other cock will ever fit.”

he begins to move.

slow, lazy thrusts, dragging his cock out until your walls clutch desperately, then sinking back in until you’re stuffed full, moaning through the pain. his pace is steady, soothing, but each stroke is laced with absolute control. his hips grind into you with dominance, reminding you who owns the body you once swore no man would ever touch.

your tears mix with sweat, your body trembling beneath him as the ache melts into a strange, unbearable pleasure. every thrust scrapes against something deep, every push fills you until your womb feels stretched, conquered.

“cry for me,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, your jaw, the corner of your lips. “cry from the fullness. cry from the truth that no woman, no man, no servant could ever give you this.”

and you do. sobbing as you cling to his back, nails raking down the thick muscles, your legs wrapping around his waist as instinct betrays you and drags him deeper.

he groans, low and guttural, hips rolling slow. “good goddess. take it. take my cock. the strongest cock in this palace. the only cock worthy of your divine cunt.”

you whimper, broken, nodding, lost. “yes… yes, toji…”

his thrusts deepen, grinding until your body shakes, your moans rising higher, the first orgasm tearing through you with violent shock. you scream, tears spilling as your cunt clenches hard around his cock, milking him desperately.

toji groans into your ear, thrusting through your climax, his voice raw with triumph. “that’s it. cum for me. cum on my cock. cry, goddess. let every man, every woman hear you and know you belong to me now.”

he fucks you through it, slow and dominant, until you’re gasping, trembling, your crown abandoned on the sheets and your cunt claimed in the laziest, most brutal way by the cock of the man you once called dog.

his pace never falters. slow, steady, grinding strokes that drag his cock against every trembling inch of your cunt. your body is overwhelmed, stretched wide, the ache drowned in waves of sharp pleasure that make you sob into his shoulder.

his hand never leaves your wrists, pinning them above your head against the silk pillows. the other cups your jaw, thumb swiping away tears as he kisses your wet cheeks.

“good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “cry for me. cry from being filled. you’re so tight, so holy. my cock was made for this. your womb was waiting for me.”

you moan brokenly, legs locked around his thick waist, your heels digging into the hard muscle of his back. every thrust drags a cry from your throat, every grind pushes deeper into the softness no one has touched before.

“toji ahhh it’s too much..!"

he hushes you, kissing your mouth until your whimpers dissolve into his lips. “shhh. it’s never too much. your goddess cunt was made to stretch for me. only me. no man of royalty, no scheming priest, no servant dog. only me.”

his hips roll heavier, cock throbbing deep, the veins scraping your walls. you feel him swelling, his breath growing ragged.

“fuck,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours. “gonna cum inside you. gonna bless your womb with the first seed it’s ever known. no one else gets this. no one. only me.”

your body shakes, the words cracking you open more than the thrusts. “n-no, i.."

but your cunt betrays you, clenching, milking him greedily.

he growls, hips slamming flush as his cock pulses deep inside you. the heat floods, thick ropes spilling into your womb, filling you until your stomach feels heavy, until your thighs quiver around his waist.

you cry out, loud and broken, the feeling of being filled for the first time overwhelming you into another orgasm, cunt spasming as you soak the sheets beneath you.

toji groans against your lips, still grinding slow, making sure every drop stays inside. “that’s it. take it. take my cum. your womb belongs to me now. no other man will ever spill here. no woman’s tongue can reach this deep. only my cock. only me.”

he kisses your face, your neck, your damp lashes, whispering as you sob.

“you’re mine, goddess. your crown, your cunt, your womb mine. i’ll kill anyone who betrays you. i’ll kill anyone who even dreams of you. i’ll keep filling you until you forget every other name but mine.”

you whimper, helpless, broken, nodding softly against his chest.

he strokes your hair, soothing, while his cock still twitches inside you, his seed leaking deep into your body.

the crown lies forgotten on the sheets.

and you empress, goddess, virgin no longer cry into his chest as he whispers promises of blood and love into the ear of his new, conquered queen.

your thighs tremble, your cunt still stretched and pulsing around him, but you try to shift, to rise, the instinct to clean yourself clawing up through your shame. his arm tightens around you, pinning you down into the silks. his voice rumbles low against your ear, dangerous and steady.

“don’t,” he whispers, dragging his cock lazily inside you, his seed already leaking down your folds. “don’t wash me out. you’ll keep it. all of it.”

you gasp, your face burning, tears smearing your cheeks. “toji, i… what if what if i get pregnant?”

he laughs under his breath, slow and cruel, grinding his hips forward until the thick head of his cock presses deep against your womb. “then your womb will be mine twice over. you’ll carry me inside you every hour of every day. no court, no wives, no men will ever doubt who owns you when your belly swells with my seed.”

you shiver, crying softly, but his words melt into you, sinking past your resistance like honey over fire.

“don’t be scared,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, licking a tear from your cheek. “you’ll be safe. i’ll kill every man, every woman who tries to touch you. your cunt will never know another cock. your womb will never know another bloodline.”

he begins to move again. slow, heavy thrusts, grinding deep, stuffing his cum back inside you with each lazy push of his hips. your body quivers, overstimulated, the wet squelch obscene as his seed drips from your pussy, down your thighs, staining the silk.

“see how it leaks,” he growls, pulling out just enough for thick white to spill before slamming back in, forcing it higher. “your body tries to waste me, but i won’t let it. i’ll stuff you until you’re dripping for days.”

you cry out, legs locking around his waist, nails clutching at his shoulders. your cunt clenches, aching and messy, the feeling of being bred for the first time tearing another moan from your throat.

behind the door, unheard at first, a soft sob.

one of your wives. she had followed the sound of your cries, pressed her ear against the golden frame, only to hear your broken moans, his filthy promises, the wet squelch of his cock using you. her fingers clutch at her dress, knuckles white, tears streaking her face as she realizes what has been taken from her.

inside, you whimper again, voice breaking. “toji… it’s too much… i can’t.."

he hushes you with a kiss, never stopping the slow grind of his cock. “yes you can. you’re my goddess. you were made to take me. to carry me. to worship me the way your wives never could.”

the sheets are soaked beneath you, his seed smeared down your thighs, but still he moves slow, dominant, endless grinding you into his shape, binding you with cum and control.

and outside, your wife weeps silently, listening to the ruin of her goddess, powerless, jealous, broken.

your bed still smells of him. the sheets still cling to your thighs with his seed. your tears have dried on your cheeks but your body trembles with the strange fullness he left behind. you sleep in his arms, his heavy chest pressed to your back, while outside your wives are wide awake.

they gather without you in the inner chamber, faces pale, eyes red. the betrayal of one of their own has poisoned them, left a wound that only blood can heal. masako.

the youngest wife speaks first, her voice sharp as broken glass. “our goddess gave her womb to a man. do you not see? she is slipping from us. all because of masako.”

the others nod, some weeping, some snarling, all of them seething with the same jealous fire. they whisper that you were theirs, that they licked your cunt, that they scissored you in devotion night after night, and now you moan for a man because masako let nanami’s words poison the palace.

“we have to give her back to our goddess,” one hisses. “give her what masako stole. an apology made of blood.”

so they plan.

masako, foolish, pretties herself for her secret meeting, slipping into silks, painting her lips, ready to sneak toward nanami’s dorm. she thinks of his voice, how he told her she was more than your shadow, that her body deserved devotion too. her heart pounds with the thrill of betrayal.

but the door closes behind her with a heavy thud.

the wives are waiting.

they circle her, eyes glinting in the lamplight, voices like knives.

“slut.”

“disgrace.”

“traitor to royalty.”

masako stumbles back, her face blanching, but they crowd her in, spitting their words.

she screams, voice breaking, “nanami makes me feel different! he makes me feel seen! she she only cares about herself, about her own pleasure!”

your wives freeze, then rage surges hot. one slaps her, hard, another grabs her hair, another spits in her face. their voices rise into shrieks of fury.

“how dare you!”

“our goddess gives us everything!”

“you shame her with your filth!”

they drag her down, nails clawing, hands clutching, teeth even biting. the room fills with her cries, her pleas, her sobs for mercy. but their anger is a tide, unstoppable, drowning her beneath it.

and then the knife.

one wife holds her throat steady while another cuts. blood sprays the silks, her scream gurgles into silence, her body jerks before going limp. the wives breathe hard, faces painted with her blood, their eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of vengeance.

they work in silence after that. her head is taken carefully, hair brushed back, lips wiped clean. they place it inside the diamond-cut crystal box, arranging it like a jewel. a grotesque gift, shining with apology and devotion.

the rest of the body is left, a carcass on the floor.

until the men come.

geto, shiu, sukuna they appear as if summoned by blood. none of them shocked, none of them disgusted. they smirk, they laugh, they mutter among themselves as they strip the body, wrap it in cloth, and drag it away.

“a fitting fate,” geto says smoothly, wiping blood from his hands.

“traitors rot the fastest,” shiu mutters, smoke curling from his lips.

sukuna only grins, teeth sharp in the lamplight. “let her join megumi at the bottom of the lake.”

and they do. her body is tossed into the dark waters, eaten by the same silence that swallowed your chosen one.

back in the wives’ chamber, the box gleams on the table. ready. waiting for dawn.

in the morning, your goddess hands will open it. and their betrayal will be washed in blood.

the sun had barely crept through the curtains when the doors opened. your wives filed in together, faces pale but determined, robes still spotted with blood that only they knew the source of. their hands clutched the weight of the crystal box, carried like an offering, a holy relic.

and the sight that met them froze their hearts.

you were not alone in your bed.

toji lay sprawled naked beside you, scarred chest bare, his massive body stretched like a beast at rest. the silks clung damp to your thighs where his seed had dried overnight, your crown your crown tilted on his broad head as if it belonged to him now. his lips were still on yours, slow and lazy, kissing you awake like a husband instead of a dog.

their goddess their untouched goddess naked in a man’s arms.

they knelt anyway.

the box was placed carefully on the edge of your bed. their voices rose in unison, a trembling prayer, an apology laced with devotion.

“forgive us, our goddess. we bring you the head of the traitor. the one who betrayed your divinity. accept her death as our loyalty, accept our lives as yours still.”

toji’s head turned, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowing. annoyance darkened his face, the muscles in his chest flexing as if he might leap from the bed and throw them out himself. his presence radiated territorial irritation how dare they barge in, how dare they kneel before you while he still had your taste on his cock. but he stayed still. he stayed quiet. his hand only tightened on your waist.

you shifted, the sheets sliding, your body aching but warm. your eyes fell to the box gleaming on the silks. you sat up slowly, the crown slipping from toji’s head back into your hands.

the wives lowered their eyes as you touched the diamond lid.

you opened it.

her head stared up at you, lips pale, eyes glassy, braid still intact, the skin around her neck crusted with drying blood. silence hung heavy. even toji tilted his head, curious despite his irritation.

you did not scream. you did not gasp. you smiled.

your fingers reached for the necklace at your throat, the old pendant that had once belonged to your mother, your first crown before the throne. you held it tight, clutching it to your chest, your smile soft and cruel at once.

“my girls,” you whispered, looking down at them with wet eyes. “you are my girls.”

their sobs broke into the chamber, relief and devotion flooding them, their foreheads pressed to the floor, their shoulders shaking with prayers of loyalty.

toji watched, jaw clenching, lips twisting faintly. your wives kissing the marble, your smile painted in blood, the box shining like a jewel at your feet. he said nothing but the storm in his eyes told you he hated sharing even your forgiveness.

and yet you stroked your necklace, smiling through the thick stench of death, your women trembling at your feet, your man’s cock still drying between your thighs.

the palace had never looked holier. or more corrupt.

he leaned back against the pillows, still naked, still damp with you, his lips curling into something that only pretended to be a smile. the wives were still bowing, their heads pressed into the marble at the foot of your bed, trembling with their devotion.

“look at that,” he murmured, his hand stroking your thigh as though none of them mattered, his voice rough but steady. “they proved their loyalty. killed for you. good little wives.”

his tone dripped with passive aggression, but you didn’t hear it. you only touched his jaw, your eyes soft and wet, and he leaned down to kiss you again. slow. heavy. possessive.

when he pulled back, he whispered low against your lips, “i’ll be back.”

you smiled faintly, your hands closing the diamond box and placing it away, as if it were no more than another jewel added to your collection. your heart still throbbed with pain, but you smiled anyway, clutching your necklace. “my girls,” you whispered again, and their sobs deepened.

toji rose from your bed, muscles flexing in the light, scars catching the gold. he wrapped the silk towel back around his waist, covering the cock that had just conquered you.

you stayed in bed, glowing and soft, while your wives filed out quietly, wiping tears from their faces. he followed, his shadow filling the doorway, his towel hanging loose on his hips.

and when the doors closed behind you, his face changed.

the softness fell away. his smile twisted into a snarl. he stopped in the corridor, towering over the wives who had just offered blood to prove their devotion. his eyes were sharp, his voice a growl.

“don’t think i don’t see through you,” he said, stepping closer, making them shrink back though they tried not to show fear. “you killed one of your own, just to crawl closer to her. you think that makes you loyal? it makes you desperate.”

one wife lifted her chin, her voice trembling but sharp. “better desperate than filthy. better a killer than a man. we don’t mind sending you to join your son at the bottom of the lake.”

his eyes narrowed, and his grin split wider, dangerous. “then don’t mind me turning your goddess back behind you. back to me. back to my bed, my cock, my seed. you’ll stay where you belong kneeling at her feet, licking her cunt when she lets you. servants. nothing else.”

the air crackled. their eyes burned into his, spitting hatred, but their bodies shook. they couldn’t deny what they’d seen. they couldn’t deny the crown slipping onto his head as he kissed her.

he leaned down, close enough for them to smell his sweat and silk, voice low and venomous.

“try me. one step out of line, one whisper against me and i’ll remind you again whose cock she chose first. i’ll remind her every night until you’re nothing but toys at the edge of her bed.”

his towel brushed against their skirts as he passed, tall and manly and dangerous, leaving them frozen in the corridor, teeth clenched, nails digging into their palms.

the goddess smiled upstairs, clutching her necklace.

and below, her palace sharpened its knives.

the hours dragged without him. the palace felt strangely quiet in his absence, as if the walls themselves noticed the missing weight of his shadow. your wives filled the silence with laughter and fabrics, trailing silks across your skin as you stood before the tall mirror in your chamber.

“this one, goddess,” one cooed, smoothing the red gown over your hips.

“no, the coral,” another corrected, tugging the hem against your thighs.

the youngest giggled, pressing the white dress to your chest. “skimpy, but it shows your beauty the best.”

you twirled for them, giggling, the silk rustling around your body as you modeled each one, your bare feet padding over the cool floor. they circled you, pouting when you shook your head, tugging at hems, smoothing their hands over your curves.

“we miss worshipping you,” one whispered against your ear, her lips brushing your shoulder. “why do you keep us waiting?”

you sighed with a playful smile, tilting your head. “i know… but later.”

they pouted, cheeks puffed, eyes wide. you giggled again, soft and indulgent, and finally relented, sinking onto the bed as they followed like kittens. they crowded around, lips brushing your thighs, your stomach, your breasts through the sheer orange silk you finally chose. their mouths opened, wet and eager, ready to worship again the doors opened.

he filled the frame before any voice announced him.

toji. bare-chested still, fresh from the hunt, scars dark under the golden light. behind him, male servants carried trays piled high with meats, fruits, vegetables the best the land could give. the scent filled the room, rich and overwhelming.

your wives froze on the bed, lips inches from your skin. their eyes darted up to him. his glare burned through them like a blade.

his jaw flexed. his eyes narrowed. his body went taut with fury, as if he’d tear them away from you with his bare hands.

they glared back, protective, territorial, daring him to speak, to try and chase them from their goddess. the room crackled with hatred.

then he jerked his chin toward the door.

the servants hesitated, glancing between the spread of food and your body on the bed. his glare sharpened, and with one dismissive tilt of his jaw, they scrambled out, trays left behind.

your wives followed reluctantly, muttering their prayers as they bowed and left, the last one glancing back with fire in her eyes. the door shut.

silence.

then his grin. slow. lazy. sharp.

he strode to the table, his huge hands arranging the trays, placing the best cuts of meat, the ripest fruits, the softest bread within your reach. he turned back to you, his gaze sliding over the thin orange silk stretched across your tits, the hem barely covering the swell of your ass. the fabric was sheer enough that the curve of your nipples showed, the outline of your cunt visible when you shifted your thighs.

his cock stirred under the towel knotted low around his waist.

“you look hungry,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “your little wives never feed you right. they lick you, they play, but they never fill you.”

you giggled, cheeks warm, eyes sparkling as you sat back on the bed, legs crossed, hands folded prettily in your lap. “and you will?”

he chuckled, deep and rough, the sound vibrating in his chest. he crossed the room, sat beside you, his massive body sinking the mattress. his hand caught yours, lifting it to his lips, kissing it with a mockery of courtly grace.

“i’ll fill you,” he murmured, his lips brushing your skin, his other hand sliding to your cheek. he kissed there too, soft and warm, though his eyes glinted sharp. “with food. with my seed. with anything you want.”

you laughed, the sound bubbling out of you, soft and girlish, and it made his grin widen, made his cock twitch against the towel.

he pulled you into his lap with one swift motion, your giggles muffled against his chest, your silk gown riding up your thighs. he laughed with you, low and rough, shaking his head.

“adorable,” he growled into your hair. “my goddess… my little empress… you don’t even know how fucking adorable you are.”

his lips brushed your temple as his hand slid down your back, holding you tighter against his chest, his cock already pressing hard against your thigh beneath the silk.

his hands are too big for the delicate dishes. the fruits look small in his scarred fingers, the roasted meat fragile as he tears it apart with ease. he feeds you piece by piece, not with forks or plates, but with his own hand, pressing figs to your lips, slipping ripe grapes between your teeth, pushing cuts of tender meat onto your tongue.

you chew and swallow obediently, your belly warming, your lips shining with juice. he never lets you reach for anything yourself. every bite is his offering, his command.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his chest pressed against your back as you sit in his lap. “eat, goddess. eat until you’re full. you’re too soft, too delicate. i want you fed. i want you heavy.”

his free hand strokes your waist, rubbing the curve of your stomach as it grows rounder with food, massaging lazily like he’s already imagining it swollen with his child. when you moan softly from the weight in your belly, he only chuckles, kissing your cheek.

“beautiful,” he whispers, fingers sliding higher to cup your breast through the thin orange silk, rolling the nipple between his calloused fingers. “bloated and fed and mine.”

his towel has slipped again. his cock slides free, thick and veined, hard from watching you eat at his command. he doesn’t thrust it in, not yet. he presses it between your thighs, rutting lazily, coating the insides of your legs with heat and slick.

you whimper softly, shifting in his lap, the crown of his cock dragging against your cunt through the sheer silk. he groans low in your ear, his hand gripping your thigh, spreading you wider so he can grind harder.

you tilt your head back against his shoulder, your voice breaking into a giggle. “you spent all day for this? hunting and gathering just to feed me?”

he laughs, low and rough, his lips brushing your ear. “what i do for you isn’t a chore. you’re my goddess. feeding you is a privilege.”

you blush, giggling again, reaching toward the tray to pluck a grape. you turn in his lap, pressing it to his lips with your small hand.

he lets you feed him. his mouth closes over your fingers, his tongue brushing your skin as he bites down on the grape, chewing slow, savoring it. he swallows, then laughs deep in his chest, pulling you tighter against him, his cock grinding harder between your thighs.

“sweet,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “but not as sweet as you.”

he presses another kiss, deeper this time, his hand sliding up to your throat, tilting your head back as his cock pulses against your cunt.

“never as sweet as you.”

your belly is full, warm, round beneath his palm. you can feel the weight of every grape, every slice of meat he pressed into your mouth, every morsel chewed while his eyes stayed glued to you. and now his cock, thick and hot, slides up into you, stretching you again, deeper than food could ever fill.

he starts slow. lazy thrusts, rolling his hips, dragging the thick head of his cock over every trembling inch inside you. his hand strokes your thigh, pushing it open wider, his chest pressed heavy against your back.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, kissing your neck, the words rumbling into your skin. “so wet for me already. pussy puffy and dripping… feels like you were waiting for me.”

you moan, low and broken, head tipping back against his shoulder. he pulls a grape from the tray, pressing it to your lips even as his cock grinds deeper. you whimper, but he doesn’t let you refuse his fingers push it past your lips, his other hand pinching your breast until you chew.

“good girl,” he mutters, watching your throat work as you swallow. “eat for me. fuck for me.”

his pace grows heavier. the slow grind turns into deep thrusts, the mattress shaking beneath you, your belly bouncing from the force. juice drips down your chin from another grape he shoves into your mouth, mixing with your moans.

his free hand frees one of your tits, tugging the silk down until it spills into his palm. he squeezes, rolls the nipple between his rough fingers, groaning against your neck.

“so pretty,” he growls, biting your shoulder. “pretty little slut, stuffed with my cock and food, moaning in my lap.”

the word hits you, your moans stutter, your brows knitting as you pout. you whimper through a mouthful of fruit, chewing slow, turning your head to him. “t-toji… don’t call me that. it’s… it’s disrespectful.”

he laughs. a deep, warm, infuriating sound. his hips slam harder, cock punching into you until you gasp, eyes rolling.

“no,” he says easily, his grin pressed against your damp cheek. “not a bad word. it’s how a man calls his woman when she’s beautiful. when she’s dripping. when she’s perfect.”

he gaslights you sweetly, his tone almost soft, as if you were the one being silly. “don’t pout, goddess. slut just means mine. pretty and mine.”

his cock pounds heavier now, your wetness splattering down his thighs, your cunt clenching around him with every brutal push. he feeds you another grape as you moan, the juice spilling down your chin, his hand smearing it over your lips before kissing you messy, groaning into your mouth.

“my pretty slut,” he whispers, slow and dominant, fucking you harder with each word. “my goddess. my queen. mine.”

his pace shifts. the lazy grind that had you sighing melts into sharp, hungry thrusts, his hips snapping hard, his cock slamming so deep your stomach jolts with every push. the bed creaks, the trays rattle on the table, your cries echo against the tall walls.

“yeah,” he groans, voice dark, hand fisting your hair to yank your head back against his shoulder. “that’s it. take it. take it all, goddess.”

he reaches for another grape, shoving it between your lips while he ruts into you. you moan around it, choking on juice, your body convulsing as his cock stretches you brutally. your belly, already bloated from food, trembles with the force of every thrust.

“look at you,” he growls, biting your ear, “stuffed with meat, fruit, my cock so spoiled, and you still pout when i call you what you are.”

his hand slaps your tit, squeezing it rough, his thumb pinching your nipple until you squeal. his laugh rumbles against your back, cruel and amused.

“spoiled little slut,” he spits, hips crashing into yours faster, harder, the sound of your wet pussy squelching loud enough to drown your cries. “cry about disrespect all you want your cunt tells the truth. squeezing me, begging me, soaking me.”

tears spill down your cheeks, your voice cracking into sobs of pleasure as he pistons into you, cock thick and brutal, dragging across every raw inch of your pussy.

“ahh t-toji, please !”

“please what?” he snarls, snapping his hips faster, shoving another grape past your lips before you can finish. “please don’t fuck you so deep? don’t make your pussy puffy and swollen on my cock? too late, goddess. i’m already inside.”

his hand slides down to your waist, gripping the soft curve tight, pulling you back into every thrust until his balls slap wet against you. he growls low, sweaty chest pressed to your back.

“you’re mine. my woman. my slut. no man, no wife, no servant feeds you, fucks you, fills you like this.”

you sob, moaning into his rough palm as he covers your mouth, muffling your cries while he jackhammers your cunt. your thighs tremble, your pussy gushes wet down his cock, juice from fruit and cum soaking into the silks beneath you.

“gonna cum inside again,” he growls into your ear, pounding you harder, faster, until the whole bed shakes. “gonna pump you full till you’re leaking down your legs. let every bitch in this palace see you waddle with my seed dripping out.”

you break, convulsing on his cock, tears streaking your cheeks, your voice muffled in his palm as your orgasm rips through you.

he snarls, fucking you through it, until he buries himself to the hilt and groans loud, spilling hot cum deep into your womb. he grinds hard, making sure it stuffs inside, his hand clutching your tit as if to brand you.

then he laughs, breathless and cruel, kissing the wet tears on your cheek.

“see?” he whispers, still throbbing inside you. “not disrespect. just the way a man calls his woman when she’s this pretty, this ruined, this mine.”

[feastofdesires]

I’m sorry if no one else relates with this; this is entirely self indulgent. Made the decision to put my dog down before he inevitably got worse than he was already from old age and I’m just deep in my grief right now. I figured maybe writing something about Sylus being a comfort would help and maybe help others feeling grief too from loss.

—

You’re not new to grief. Grief has been your ever present companion for years now after such a monumental loss it now sits in your memory as the end of a simpler, sweeter life. A life where things were better.

You’ve learned to carry your grief; it makes your steps a fraction harder to take, your sleep just a minute shorter, your peace another inch beyond your grasp. It becomes manageable. You’re able to fit it in its own little box that you can balance with everything else. Sometimes it gets restless in its box, but not for long.

Now it has destroyed the box it once fit in. It’s impossible to handle- firm and solid enough to touch, too liquid and slippery to get a proper grip. It’s feeding off your tears and tempting you to lay down in its embrace. You know grief, but you forgot when it was strong.

It seizes you when you see the bowl you no longer need to fill twice a day, see the leash no longer having a collar to clip to, medicine that no longer serves a purpose. Half your life your dog was there for and now you’d have to keep going without him.

You needed to relearn how to carry your grief, but this time Sylus was by your side.

You don’t know how to let him help at first. You’ve barely gotten used to letting him help you with unimportant things. Letting him see the superficial pains.

You’ve already shut down when he comes. Everything is distant, the impulse to tell him you’re alright burning on your tongue. Your walls, thick and unyielding, built for your own sake and the sake of others aren’t easy for him to get through.

He doesn’t need you to cry or even speak to know you’re hurting. Sylus sees it in your eyes. The near imperceptible quiver in your bottom lip. The occasional thick swallow in your throat.

Sylus doesn’t try to fill the silence. Not yet. He lets it settle. While he does, he’s taking care of you. Cooking a comfort food for you, washing you clean in a shower, and dressing you in your coziest pjs. There’s not words that need to be said when each action eases the invisible tension coiled in every part of your body.

He’ll settle with you on the couch or in your bed. He’ll put on a show you love or music you subconsciously hum to. He’ll keep you close, in his lap or arms, and let you find your way to him in your own time.

Because eventually you can find your voice. Maybe you ask him to just talk so he’ll recite poetry for you or read aloud a book you’ve been meaning to start. Maybe you find your tears for the first time since you held your dog as he took his final breaths. Maybe you just cling to Sylus tighter because his hold was all that kept you from floating away. It doesn’t matter how you act or what you say, because Sylus will remain all the same.

When the immediate grief ebbs, he helps you find the joy in memories through pictures you’ve saved over the years. Each one you can share the memory with Sylus. The time your dog played in the snow or went crazy for a new toy. You share memories only you hold like the time when you were small and afraid of the dark, but you could see your dog on his back, belly up, snoring away and how that comforted you because your trusted your dog’s senses more than your own. If he was comfortable enough to sleep with his belly bare, then you were safe enough to sleep too. Sylus smiled so sweetly with each memory shared.

You ask at one point if it’s stupid for being so pained by the loss of a dog and Sylus corrects you. It wasn’t just “a dog”. He was your family. Your friend. Your ward against your fears. The loss of that, animal or human, is devastating, and he tells you to not downplay your pain.

He tells you to feel it. Feel it in whatever ways it comes, and he only asks that you let him be there too.

[citrinesparkles]

now we just sway part four.

jason todd x gender neutral reader. 3,540 words. notes: jason lives au continues. time for the gala. which means we're officially farther into this story than ever before! thank you guys for coming along with me- i hope you enjoy. happy birthday jason. good job not dying this time. warnings: minor feelings of being out of place. song insp | part one | previous | next (coming soon)

you turn your key, and the engine cutting out leaves you to meet your own gaze in the rearview mirror in silence. alone. at night. parked in bruce wayne's driveway. right by the side entrance to a manor.

no biggie.

no turning back now, anyway.

not that there was ever any turning back, not if you're honest with yourself.

(you'd tried. you'd almost canceled three separate times while getting ready, stopping just shy of hitting call and dropping your phone back onto your bed with a huff each time, because you gave jason your word.)

the cold air you step out into is a jarring change from the warm car, february still clinging to gotham and clawing its way through your coat to mix with the cold nervousness behind your ribs.

you make your way across the driveway, a beeline for the mudroom jason had suggested you use to avoid the barely organized chaos that is the main entrance tonight.

--

you let yourself in, just like he'd instructed the night before, to find him exactly where he'd promised to be: waiting for you by the umbrella stand in the corner, his head snapping up from his phone and towards the door as you open it.

waiting for you and looking absolutely gorgeous.

his suit is, predictably, perfectly fitted; hair neatly styled; tie charmingly askew, so slightly that you suspect that if you hadn't been looking for flaws you would have missed it. it's all gorgeous, and none of it holds a candle to the almost shy edge to his smile.

that alone is nearly enough to chase the last traces of winter out of your bones.

"hey," he says, pushing off the wall he'd been leaning against. "c'mon in."

you give him a bashful grin, clicking the door shut behind you and shrugging your coat off. "hey."

"you-" his eyes drop from your own to your outfit before he snaps his attention back up- "you look great."

you beam, his earnest tone making heat rise in your cheeks. "thanks. you do too, it-" a wave to his well-tailored ensemble- "suits you."

and then you wince.

his surprised laugh confirms that you had, indeed, made the terrible pun out loud. right where he could hear it.

awesome.

"thanks," he says, and you can't quite tell if the softness there is sympathy on his end or hallucination on yours. "alfred's got this whole network of tailors and stuff, like some kind of formal wear underground."

well, at least it's jason. he always gives you a toe-hold back into the flow of conversation when you say something stupid.

"must come in handy when you're mister fancy pants."

"they're not that fancy."

you huff a laugh, turning and hanging your coat up by the door.

as you do, he clears his throat quietly. "it really is great to see you. how was the drive?"

"drive was okay," you reply. "only got lost once- took a left when i shouldn't have about five minutes up the road."

"oh, at the hill? the one with that dumb looking rock? i should've warned you about that- even i get turned around there sometimes." it's quiet, for just a second, and then:. "not that that needs to be common knowledge."

you laugh again, a little more of the awkwardness leaving the room as you make a zipper motion over your mouth. "secret's safe with me."

"it's appreciated. the last thing i need is bruce having anything else to give me a hard time about." he pauses, running a hand through that neatly-styled hair and letting out a sigh that only sounds half-joking. "speaking of… i guess we should go mingle."

your face scrunches up involuntarily. "are you sure we can't just make fun of them all from here?"

"i'm pretty sure. but, hey, at least this time i have someone to make fun of them with- bruce always gets pulled away in the middle of my commentary."

"wow, so inconsiderate," you quip right back, ignoring the way your heart tries to be stupid about being the someone he does anything with. "don't the people know you have a duty as resident comedian?"

"i know, right?"

a soft hum slips from you and, after a beat, your smile fades.

you're not sure you should be nervous. it's just people. but it's a kind of people you've never been around, and even with jason giving you plenty of briefings going in about the etiquette and layout, you just can't help the hesitation.

glancing at the door behind him, you fold your arms in a way that totally doesn't telegraph every ounce of that concern. "...it's just people," you point out, more to yourself than to him. "not sure why i feel like i'm going swimming with sharks."

"not sure i've ever not felt that way," he admits wryly, softer than he'd been a minute ago. almost gentle. which… not really helping the whole fluttering in your chest thing. "it's loud, and busy, and the people are insuffera- er, let's just say they're not my ideal company."

"nice save, mister manners."

he gives a very unapologetic attempt at a guilty smile, adjusting his suit jacket. "maybe we can make it a little less nervous- nerving- nerve-wracking- together? safety in numbers, or something."

there it is again.

jason stumbling on his words. it's like spotting a unicorn, or something.

and you can't really help the little fond expression that sneaks up on you as you process it.

"what?"

"no, no, nothing at all," you say, somehow finding a playful tone again. "that was just sweet."

he grumbles, hints of pink hitting his cheeks. "i'm trying to be helpful, here."

"i know, i know! you're very helpful. you're doing great, champ."

"i should have forfeited that bet," he grumbles, and you watch as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

you can't help laughing, either, but you have the decency to half-heartedly try to mask it.

"and now you laugh at my suffering! incredible."

"maybe you shouldn't make your suffering so amusing," you grin, his theatrics making you give up on the whole subtlety thing.

"i can't believe this. in my own home," he exclaims, tossing his hands up helplessly. "you mock my pain!"

"life is pain, highness. anyone who says otherwise is selling something." 

he rolls his eyes, visibly fighting back a smile. "whatever. don't use movie quotes to hide your cruelty."

"don't make it so easy."

jason throws a half-hearted glare your way, and you smile innocently. "alright, now that you've watched me suffer and enjoyed my plight…." he trails off, eyes meeting your own as his hand rest on the door knob. 

but it doesn't feel like he's rushing you. not really.

no, it's that same patience he always has when you need it, even if he does cover it up with quips and banter.

part of you wants to stay here, in this mudroom, and just sit with his patience and charm. snark back and forth all night. stay in that familiar territory, where you poke fun at him and he's a theatrical asshole about it and you both end up entirely too amused.

but that's not why you're here. and he has other people to attend to, too.

"i'd just talk myself out of it. let's go."

he studies your face for a beat. he must not find anything concerning, though, because he opens the door and waves you into the hallway. "after you."

--

the ballroom is somehow even bigger and brighter than you expected.

it's beautiful. the whole space is flooded with warm, inviting light that catches on jewelry and champagne glasses, bouncing off of and sparkling its way through the crowd of people dressed like there's a red carpet.

there might have been, for all you know. this is practically gotham royalty.

the glittering light is accompanied by polite laughter and a sea of chatter and gentle classical music from the band in the corner. it's… a lot.

"woah," you mutter, stopping in the doorway with wide eyes and suddenly feeling very small as you watch people talk and dance and mingle. "...woah."

"you okay?" jason asks quietly, bumping your shoulder with his own.

"yeah! yeah, just- a lot. this is a lot." 

"yeah, i know what you mean. we can head over to the corner and just hang for a bit, let you get adjusted before-"

"jason!"

he grimaces. "or not," he whispers apologetically. "hang tight."

he slips past you and into the ballroom properly, and you just barely spot the plastered-on grin on his face before he plants himself like a shield between you and the source of the call. "mrs. mcdavis! it's so good to see you again."

there's that cologne again, you realize. cedar. and… mystery notes.

you're not sure. something woody. something jason. whatever it is, it's the same scent as from the shop where you made this stupid bet.

you've smelled it on him other times, too, you realize. when you'd see him after he had a big project due, or after he was doing something as a wayne kid. and now this. notable events, in your opinion. special, somehow.

he must have been somewhere before you two met up that day to go shopping.

"how are you, young man?"

right. mrs. mcdavis.

you tune back into the conversation, behind jason with a polite smile.

"you've grown so much since i last saw you. that was at arnold's big bash a few years ago, remember?" peeking around him, you find a woman in her mid-sixties with a strong jaw and impeccable posture that does absolutely nothing to disguise the fact that she is barely five feet tall. (how she manages to look down her nose at jason, a foot taller, is beyond you.) "with the dancing mime?" 

"how could i forget?" he asks with a chuckle that catches you off guard; it sounds hollow, lacking his usual warmth and vibrancy.

it's like someone drained the life out of his laugh.

it's… unsettling, you realize. yeah, you've heard his 'business voice' before, but this feels like a stronger dose of it somehow.

mrs. mcdavis barrels right along, clearly unaware that she had been cheated out of his actual laugh. a shame, for her. "yes, yes, quite memorable. as was the cleanup, i assure you. those caterers spilled nearly a gallon of chowder on the front steps," she says conspiratorially, before shifting her attention to you. "and who might this be?"

you step to the side, and jason shoots you a quick smile that you think is probably meant to be reassuring as he offers your name. "we're attending the same university. you're looking at the finest library assistant on campus." 

"oh, isn't that sweet," she coos, reaching out and patting your hand. "you know, my arnold and i met in college. have i ever told you the story?"

"i don't believe you have."

she claps her hands once, grinning broadly as she launches into the tale of the grand romance of her youth, and you brace yourself to be here a while.

a brief flicker of motion catches the corner of your eye, and when you look up, jason's perfect, polished grin is something almost apologetic. just for a moment. and then he's looking forwards, looking to all the world as though this is the most entertaining story he's ever heard.

--

"i would've just fallen asleep then and there."

"right? that's what i said!" you exclaim quietly, "but no, she's too busy for a nap, it's fine! the boss needs it done so it'll get done."

jason whistles lowly, before taking a sip out of his flute. "damn."

"exactly! it's ridiculous. she's exhausted all the time- gonna burn herself out by monday, at this rate."

"sounds like bruce," he mutters, giving you a sympathetic grimace. "sometimes i just want to lock him in his room and make him sleep, but knowing him he probably has a computer stashed under his pillow and would just work from there." he glances to the side, letting out a little hm. "speak of the devil."

you follow his gaze, finding bruce wayne on a path straight for the two of you.

which is a little disconcerting. yeah, he's just a guy, and yeah, he's just jason's father and mentor, but…

well, you're from gotham. this is bruce wayne. and also batman.

if your posture straightens up a little, who's to judge?

"i'm sorry it's taken me this long to greet you," he says, his voice smooth and deep and easily audible even through this room as he extends his right hand. "i've been tied up. bruce wayne."

you shake his hand. bruce wayne's hand. batman's hand.

no biggie at all.

you introduce yourself with a smile, too.

"thank you for having me, mr. wayne."

"it's my pleasure. jason speaks quite highly of you."

warmth blooms in your chest. jason does what now?

you respond on autopilot with a comment about having a wonderful time, paying much more attention to how jason shifts beside you. just a little. it's subtle, but it's there.

it's not that hard to imagine jason putting in a good word for a friend, you know that. but the idea that he's mentioning you, much less in a positive light, still sparks something beneath your ribs.

you swallow it, tuning back in to what bruce is saying.

"-as always. i don't know what i would do without him, really."

jason nods, the motion only making you more aware of him right beside you. "alfred is the real mastermind."

"now that is someone jason speaks highly of," you say, grateful for a toe-hold back into the conversation you'd missed. "alfred is one of the most reliable people in the world, if he's-" a nod to jason- "to be believed."

"in this case, yes, he is-"

"in this case?" jason interjects dryly.

bruce continues, unphased. "alfred is a wonderful man."

"bruce wayne!" a booming voice calls from your right, cutting through the din around you, pulling bruce's attention away.

"scott!" he calls back cheerfully, before looking back at you and jason. "i'm sorry to cut this short, but if you two will excuse me?"

"of course. it was a pleasure to meet you, mr. wayne."

"the same to you. i hope you enjoy the rest of the evening." he gives jason a small nod and smile, something shifting in his expression for just a moment- like when jason had looked at you while talking to mrs. mcdavis, when the jason you knew had snuck through his public persona- before it's quickly covered and bruce takes his leave. 

which leaves you and jason standing alone.

"...you told your dad about me?"

he groans quietly. "oh, don't start."

"what's there to start?" you ask playfully, the laugh you're holding back still very audible in your voice as you violently fight the urge to tease him. "i'm just flattered."

"mmm. c'mon, let's get some hors d'oeuvres or something."

--

you do find some hors d'oeuvres. and about four other people that each want to talk jason's ear off.

but he's good about including you when it makes sense and noticing when you need to be left out of it. which means you get to watch him as he navigates the evening with grace and poise, and then get to watch him turn to you after each conversation and try to resume your own.

eventually, you find a quiet corner and have a few minutes uninterrupted for quiet conversation.

well, until he catches sight of something over your shoulder, giving a quick nod before looking back to you. "looks like i've got one more song before duty calls," he reports quietly, nodding towards whoever had tipped him off. "want to put your training to use?"

"hm?"

he laughs, offering you his hand in a goofy bow and saying your name like it's a compliment. "may i have this dance?"

…oh.

oh, boy. somehow, you didn't actually expect to dance tonight. sure, he taught you and all, but that was just him being an idiot and making you do something out of your comfort zone.

this is in front of what feels like half of gotham.

and, y'know, his dad.

"what, didn't think i'd ask?"

you're not even sure if that's smug or not. you know you should respond, though, because the look in his eyes is definitely more you're leaving me hanging than got you!

so, you take his hand. "not really, no."

you let him lead you to the dance floor, tucking you both into a relatively quiet corner and resting his hand lightly on your waist. you feel his chuckle under your left palm as the music comes back in, violin prominent and sweet.

jason steps towards you, and you match him step for step, just as he'd taught you- and just as you had practiced on your own every night since, not expecting to actually use it.

"we wouldn't want your newfound skill to go unused, would we?" 

"oh, hush, let me focus so i don't step on you."

it's nice, honestly. even with the mild discomfort of being held and being all dressed up and being around a bajillion people, it's nice to have him this close.

it'll be worth the way it makes you want to kiss him. probably. as long as you don't look him in the eyes.

"hey," he says softly, ruining that plan almost immediately as you instinctively glance up at him. which is bad, because he looks sincere and sweet and warm and friend-shaped in a way that makes you want to be not-friends. "even if you do step on me, i'm glad you came."

luckily, the smile you can't help is probably a perfectly reasonable way to respond. so you lean into it. "yeah, me too."

and you are. his warmth has far outweighed anything else tonight, and you actually feel yourself relaxing into your little box step. simple steps, good company- and it's only weird to dance with a good friend if you make it weird, right?

--

as the song slows, jason does the same.

despite all of your grumbling about practice and worrying about showing up and stressing about being this close to him, you actually get a wave of disappointment as it comes to an end.

and if you were a little bit braver, you might hope he feels it too, because he does let out a quiet sigh. "well, guess it's time."

"go get 'em, hotshot," you encourage, matching his low volume and masking that traitorous feeling with a playful smirk up at him. "if i can dance, you can handle this."

he chuckles, which you can feel right beneath your palm again (and no, that doesn't help), and he pulls his hand from your waist. slower than you expect. "thanks."

"thank you for the dance," you tease, taking a half-step back and giving a goofy bow. mostly so you don't go looking for things that aren't there. "you're not a bad partner."

which gets harder when he brings your hand up between you, and you're stuck looking up into pretty brown eyes that are sparkling in the warm light. "the pleasure was all mine," he says, kissing your knuckles.

with that, he pulls back, letting go of your hand and turning to disappear into the crowd with a little smile on his face and what you think might have been color in his cheeks.

you stand, silent, stunned, hand frozen in midair as you stare after him. 

--

which about sums up the next half hour of your life, which is spent listening to bruce's speech to thank donors and the charity they're working with, making small talk with guests as they start to filter out, and keeping an eye out for jason.

which is harder than you would have expected.

you suspect he's somewhere near the center of the crowd of people slowly trickling out of the ballroom, but for once his height isn't really helping. there's too many bodies, too much motion.

so you, like a child lost in a grocery store, find a corner where you'll be easy-ish to see and stay there.

the thought of slipping out the door crosses your mind more than once, and gets more tempting each time- he's got to be exhausted, so why not save him one more conversation? you could just retrace your steps, slip out the side door, and shoot him a text to thank him for a good night.

…except that would probably be super lame. a text? really?

but as time passes, you get that out of place feeling start to creep back in, and you start to care less and less about being lame.

right up until somebody psssts behind you, and you glance back to find jason loosening his tie.

"been looking for you," he says.

"found me," you quip tiredly.

he smiles, a crooked little thing that looks a little like he's resisting the urge to give you a noogie.

(it wouldn't be the first time.)

"wanna go hide in the kitchen?" he offers instead, gently bumping his shoulder into yours.

and that answer is an obvious, tired yes.

[anonmousegosqueak]

Day 16 AUgust:

Rest au

It had been a long mission.

First they had to trek through dense swamps, then they had to sit in mud for hours on end, and then the target didn't even show up!

It was hot and gross and absolutely everyone was miserable.

Then, to add insult to injury, they couldn't even go home. They had to stay in a fucking *hotel* of all places as it was close to where they'd be going next. Sure it was fancy, but at this point? All four of them just wanted to go home and fall asleep...

The second they step into the room, Gaz makes a straight b-line to the bathroom. More specifically, to the shower. He's gross and he feels like shit, if he doesn't rinse off right this second he will actually kill someone.

Ghost makes the mistake of getting in his way and Gaz actually growls. Needless to say, no one tries to stop him from the shower he so desperately wants.

Once he's done, he comes out in just his boxers and passes the fuck out on the biggest and most comfortable bed. Price had technically claimed it, but seeing as how Gaz was in feral cat mode? It was fine. There were three other beds, so what if he slept in the second biggest one?

Soap was next, trying to climb into bed with Gaz. Poor guy, the second he put his hand near where Gaz's face was, he was immediately yelping in pain and scrambling back. Something about him being filthy and how there was no way he could cuddle with him unless he showered.

Before he tried again (which would almost definitely lead to another bite), Ghost was quick to swoop in and drag him to the shower, at least getting him a quick rinse. Enough so Gaz wouldn't murder him.

That's how they got a naked Scotsmen running through the room, immediately cuddling as close as he can to his fellow Sargent.

Ghost joined Soap not too long later, much more clothed as he wrapped around the outside. His hand interlaced with Kyle's, Soap in the middle.

The last to join was Price.

He had made sure they were all comfortable first, still a bit on edge. He needed to make sure he's boys were safe before he could go into another room. It wasn't until their breathing had settled and the quiet conversation had stopped that he could get up and wash off.

He also found his way to the bed. Sure there were three other beds, but looking at the cuddle pile? He would be a fool not to join.

Right on the outside, warm and comforting. Like a strong wall to keep them safe. That night they all slept like babies, keeping each other company throughout the night.

[galaxoshine]

i’m sitting in a parking lot and too lazy to drive so gimme a Riko headcanon pls and thank u

hello love <3

i wake up in five hours and can’t fall asleep so this is a perfect distraction

he’s always running hot

he doesn’t give two fucks abt history but he thinks it’s funny and endearing how kevin gets into it, so he’ll purposely mention smthg and say the wrong date or debate abt a fact calling it “hypothetical” or “a theory” just to see his eye twitch and his jaw tick

he’s obsessed w numbers. stats. kilometers. calories. kilograms. number of people in a room. number of tiles on the ceiling. he always needs to be calculating smthg, it gives him an illusion of control.

on that same train, he likes maths because they’re rational. they’re stable. and they always teach him anything complicated can be broken down to something simpler.

he sleeps on his back like a corpse. smthg smthg abt never being defenseless even in his sleep

he pops his back and cracks his knuckles all the time, it’s annoying af

he despises chewing gums

he has deep repressed homophobia and big gay feelings for kevin which creates a wonderful combo recognizing the look of adoration in jean’s eyes when he’s looking at kevin and translating that jealousy into brutal possessiveness ahem

he has very very bad mental health. he’s like the most lost, desperate for validation-kid with a world of expectations on his shoulders, no other choice but to be the great and no idea of what love is, so violence feels good, yes, it’s a rush of endorphins bc it’s the only thing that regulates his emotions and soothes the constant tempest in his head

I think he trained his voice to be lower bc it holds more power

after kevin left, he started getting eczema

additionally, after kevin left, riko spent a lot of nights in kevin’s bed bc his scent would soothe him to sleep

he thinks everyone rlly is inferior to him but at the same time, is his biggest bully towards himself and constantly berates himself

he hates religion and religious people, also hates art and thinks it’s a waste of time

he’s very observant and learns everything abt anyone to make little snide remarks here and there that make people uncomfortable.

the ravens are his family. in a weird way yeah but. i think deep down he seems them all as his.

he doesn’t trust women at all, and partly bc a side of him craves a feminine presence but he doesn’t understand it and hates it, partly bc he’s never truly been confronted to a lot of them.

riko is actually extremely fond of animals. they don’t talk, and can be trained to obey him, and coincidentally like him. he loves dogs especially. feels safe with them, and dogs love him in return, tame this craving for touch and tenderness. he had one growing up, but got too attached, too indulgent with it, and when the dog got sick, riko panicked and asked to bring him to the vet but the master, upon such weakness in the “king”, ordered him to shoot the dog bc that’s what you do to liabilities. riko did. and riko was not the same after that.

I think riko is actually an introvert and also that he’s flirty with everyone without even realizing it, conversations can be boring so flirting kinda turns them into a game and boy does he love a good game.

the first thing he does when he walks into a room is look for kevin. true no matter what, no matter when in his story.

I think his worst fear isn’t actually losing or not being first, but it’s being a nobody. bc if he’s first, he’s king, and that’s what he’s been training himself to be, but if he’s not, the real tragedy is the identity crisis that comes along w it.

[theawkwardterrier]

seven sentence sunday

Thanks to my bud @walkinginland for the tag! I did my 800 words for the day and now you get a preview of what feels like most of them, including a classic Leah run-on! From the modern AU I'm working on:

“Does that mean that you don’t care for Jamie? Because after we see the judge and they decide where I will live, it will not be the three of us together anymore. Even if I go with you, that means that you won't be able to look after him. After September, it will not be the same between us anymore.” And now Claire wishes he was not looking at her at all, that he would turn the searching blue of his eyes away. She scans the street before them, empty but for parked cars, as if she needs to be entirely focused to ensure that it's safe to cross. "I'll always care for Jamie," she finally manages, "but he's an adult, and perfectly capable of handling his own affairs, just as he was before he met me. No matter what happens, of course we'll keep in touch—" With Whatsapp messages that will inevitably grow briefer and farther between, without laughter around the table, or smiles as she passes over a cup of coffee now that he's shown her how to use the damned machine, or washing the dishes while he leans near the sink and talks about some trouble with the printers, without any of their small, actual touches or the sound of his breathing soothing her back to sleep from the other side of the bed. "—and we'll always be connected by wanting to make certain that you're doing well." No movie nights with Fergus in the middle, no long discussions about how to do the best with their shared responsibility, perhaps only the occasional picture or school report as one of them tries to go back to their life without the other two. She swallows. "But I don't want you worrying about Jamie and me. We'll be perfectly fine. We're here to take care of you, alright?" Staring at her as if he is seeing far more than she'd ever like him to be able to, he finally says, "D'accord." They have actually arrived at a busier road now and over the rush of cars, Fergus asks, "Do you hear that?"

Adding on another tag for @flyinghome-againstthewind, @gotham-ruaidh, my dear meme bestie @lavellenchanted, and anyone else who'd like to play!

[senka-mesecine]

Ok, i need your opinion! Ranking of the platoon boys in bed from best to worst and why?! I feel like Bunny would be lowkey horrible and Elias would be surprisingly good

I'll classify them from 'worst' to 'best', the quotation marks being there because all things are subjective. What is considered best / worst to someone, might not be considered best / worst to others and tastes and definitions may vary.

---

― Bunny is the worst not because he can't do it --- technically, one could say he'd be at youthful peak virility and hormonal axis in that regard; that guy has enough horniness (and violence) to fuel a smaller powerplant --- so much as he has a really skewed set of ideas as for what constitutes 'good sex', you see, which can be attributed to anything ranging from period typical attitudes towards intimacy, the kid getting his tips from other bigoted soldiers and material akin to adult magazines and the general hypermacho environment of the army itself. He thinks it should be rough, fast, that chicks like to get battered even if they profess to it not being the case, that the comically larger someone's dick is, the better, thinking that when someone's aroused they're extremely tight instead of sloppy and comfortably loose, his dirty talk almost overly crude and his set of really far out, unhinged fetishes and kinks create a potent cocktail that make it so that any experience in the sack with him will constitute as well...not good. He is young, overzealous, unnecessarily confident, cocky when corrected, does things he shouldn't out of spite (and revenge) and is generally a very selfish and greedy partner. Sex for Bunny is like the Indy 500 races. Loud, fast and done in a terrible rush, like someone's gonna win something at the end of it.

― Wolfe strikes me as fairly awkward in bed simply because he's fairly awkward everywhere else as well. One takes themselves with themselves everywhere...even to the bedroom. He's not inexperienced. Not terribly experienced. Nothing wrong with him. Not that he can't do it either. He's perfectly normal. Man is just so tight-wind and occasionally so tense and halfway clumsy, it is borderline detrimental to sex with him at times --- like, whenever the facade of a false bravado back and forth flirting foreplay in the making fades away and he actually has to get down into the sack and do it, he's all a flutter, all fingers and thumbs, awkward smiles and sweat beading his forehead, like he's holding his breath and about to run a marathon. Him playing to be in charge doesn't work either almost like his lived experiences and professional deformations translate to the intimacy and he deep down know he ain't it however much he pretends to be top dog, making it almost preferable if someone shuts him up and takes control every once in a while. Which is when the sex gets infinitely better. Hilariously enough, Wolfe is great at not being in charge...mostly because he isn't in charge in his professional life either. Not really. Not a bad lover overall --- he's a safe choice; just slightly better when someone more knowledgeable calling the shots.

― Realistically, Chris Taylor isn't a certified Casanova either. He's a college dropout suburbanite, possibly sheltered, possibly having lived in the bubbled world of privilege before leaving for the army and possibly not having had that many opportunities to accumulate immense amounts of sexual experiences during his educational years; maybe occasionally going steady with a college girl or two, some of which his folks intended for him to eventually settle down with, but suffice to say...Chris comes to Vietnam as more or less a fresh faced innocent in more ways than one. The one thing about Chris, though? While he doesn't have that much sexual knowledge under his belt, he sure has enough sexual tension and repression in him to make up for all of it. In fact, he has a lot of repression in general. Anger repression, freedom of choice being repressed, his search for identity being repressed...and sex too. So much so that when you actually get to that stage with him you might end up surprised (and startled?) how vivacious, hungry, eager and downright passionate he is. Perhaps even during certain occasions so much so he might just frighten you. Who is this guy, you could think and what the heck did he to do your Chris? You're laying there beside him staring at the ceiling wondering what just happened.

― Barnes is ranked so low for the simple reason that I firmly believe that sex with him isn't for everyone, plain and simple. 'Do this at your discretion and not those for the faint of heart' is a warning sign that should be written all over his forehead and he knows that --- heck, he might tell you so himself very openly. Why? Because he'll rattle you like an animal. It'll feel like you've been hit by a freight train or rammed by a bull in heat. That too, he might tell you outright. He is scary, overly intense, intimidating and he isn't for those with sensitive stomachs. He's a rough, mean, dirty bastard who doesn't care too much for the finer sensibilities of a lover's finesse because he's all in or all out and doesn't pussyfoot around fucking or anything else in life. Doesn't mean he's bad at it or doesn't know exactly what he's doing, but one has to understand he fucks precisely the way you'd expect a man like him to fuck; Like he means business, because he does mean business. He does it like he's at combat. In battle. Like he hates you. He does it with all he's got and it's like a lifetime's worth of anger just comes flooding through. There's bruising, there's biting, there's manhandling, domination, cuts, blood, spitting, choking and the full weight and height of him pressing down on you. It is sweaty, it smells of tobacco, gunpowder, liquor and it is undeniably raw. Okay, so you're walking bowlegged afterwards, but that's to be expected.

― You wanna know why I ranked O'Neill a bit higher than Barnes? Because he's slimy. He's a flatterer. A yes-man. He knows exactly how to slither and verbally butter someone up enough to latch unto them well enough to end up having access to their bed. He can flirt, he can smile, he can schmooze, he can be obnoxious, he can be, at times, fairly funny, he can egg you on and by extension, through the frustration and sheer annoyance he awakes in you trigger enough (unexpected?) sexual tension between you thanks to which you might just start considering him. Well, in any case, he's intrusively on your mind, at least, regardless if you like it or not. Most importantly, the man's persistent. He's that irritant who asked you whether you want to try it with or not enough times that you might just say 'Okay, lets, geez.' one time purely to shut him up or simply because at this point Red has helicoptered around you long enough and pestered you just as much to make you outright curious. And when you genuinely have sex? Turns out...he ain't half bad. That too might infuriate you. Because if it was all bad, you could've had a reason to write that idiot off, but now you have none. Which he pretty much realizes, making him even more cocky than before, obnoxiously chewing something in his mouth with a shit-eating grin every time you walk by. Great. Now you're accidentally turned on too.

― I'll just get out and say it; Rhah is a drug addict, which yes, realistically affects his mood and overall performance, making him either borderline hypersexually horny...or rigorously and vehemently against all things sex like he's some kind of strict preacher type. There's a clear lack of balance there because narcotics do affect him like they'd affect any living being; like something crucial slipped of its own axis, rendering him overly intense or chronically aloof. It really depends what kind of day you catch him on, because on one occasion he could be peppering you in a ricochet of worshipping, fevered kisses and borderline smothering you in love, in the most creatively impassioned and filthy dirty talk you've ever heard and making you see stars and on another occasion he's broody, he's gruff, he's in a dark disposition and totally against getting into the sack. Which means that when things suck...they really suck. But when he's good? The man's really, really good --- making it really difficult to rank him in general. One just needs to know when Vermucci's green light is on, so to speak. He knows what he's doing and he has the experience to back it up, he's just often times too cynical and begrudging of sex to even try. Other times? He's on a three day bender of nothing but getting high, fucking you and laying around, pleasantly drifting in and out of bliss.

― I think King is the guy chasing after your pleasure like his life depends on it; that is to say, he is the man with the magic tongue. He's the pussy-eating guy and he doesn't hide it either; fact is, he seems very proud of it. The one who almost giddily likes giving head any chance he gets, giving it often and furthermore, giving it skillfully. Giving it happily. Unlike someone like, for example, Bunny, King is a very selfless lover. To the degree he's more into satisfying you than himself, even though by satisfying you, he automatically feels satisfied too because that's his boo right there; whether you get down with him once or a hundred and once, whether this a brief tryst or a full blown relationship, being with being him doesn't leave a bad aftertaste in your mouth nor is it something you regret of feel bad about later because it just feels so nice. It is a good memory irregardless. Be you hairy down there, be you smooth, be you something in between, King simply enjoys the female form and that translates well to sex with him because this guy knows exactly how to make you relaxed, welcome and even smiley with him. It is perhaps less so about technical skill with him and more so that he is so positive and feelgood overall that it rubs off on you and influences you when you're together like that.

― Yeah, Elias could be considered the best of the bunch, but even that is a reputation somewhat overexaggerated and mainly fueled by himself so he'd have partially true, partially invented raunchy anecdotes to entertain his men with, and by extension, rouse their morale. Feeling good is good enough, correct? Even if what makes one feel good isn't always true, but see, people need these white lies and fantasies on occasion to survive. He isn't nearly as lasciviously debauched as he makes himself out to be; in fact, the man is more prone to making love rather than fucking without sentiment for its own sake and that is, perhaps, what makes him so good. The fact that he is a nice person. Because he is a kind and considerate partner, no matter if the thing he's indulging in is a one time adventure, a tryst or a long standing relationship. You could be a woman he met on the beach one time during R&R or you could be his twin flame; Elias is prone to treating every sexual partner with empathy and consideration, never leaving them wanting. It isn't that he isn't skill. Oh, he is. But, his skill perhaps seems more than it truly he is because he approaches everyone, and I do mean everyone with a sense of...well...something. Whatever this 'something' is, it makes one feel important and seen.