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jaegerbby · 2 years ago

Text

➳ inculpatus

--͙[satoru gojo x female! reader]-͙-

╰┈➤ word count; 5800

╰┈➤ rundown; satoru is everything you want and more, it is time you gave him a little more of you.

╰┈➤ caution; virgin! reader (also described as having small breasts), established relationship, corruption kink, cunninglingus, size kink, cum eating, ball sucking (?), handjob, dry humping, fingering.

not proof read!

he is pretty, way too pretty for you to think properly.

"can i suck your dick?" satoru flinches once the words leave your mouth. he is perched on the quaint white sofa in your apartment and maybe you should not have spoken so loosely because his eyes slightly widen as he turns to you.

"sorry! it's just... you haven't tried anything with me." you unsurely speak, avoiding his gaze. satoru is respectful, overly so. you thought inviting him to your place would at least give him a hint without you having to spell it out for him.

sky blue eyes flit over your features before he licks his lips. they are so pink they look doll like. "i don't want to push you." he pauses. "because you're a virgin." while he does not admit it, it undeniably makes him hard.

"i'm not ready for sex but other things." you trail off, "you can do other things with me."

he jaggedly nods, his head feels dizzy after hearing you say he can have his way with you. "i'll do anything you want."

you perk up immediately.

"how do i get it hard?" he follows your gaze as you focus on his crotch. where the grey fabric of his pants are futile in concealing his bulge.

you are too cute. satoru surges forward to press soft wet kisses to the right of your neck before shifting to give the left the same treatment.

your breath picks up at his proximity, you feel the softness of his hair but it is a lot different in this atmosphere.

his large palm cups along your jaw. "you don't have to do anything. i could look at you and my cock gets so hard it hurts. it's worse cause these clothes are so skimpy." his gaze has darkened now, your mouth feels sticky with spit and your stomach turns in an unfamiliar way.

he grips your wrist to bring your hand onto his stiffened erection. "feel that?" he urges your touch along him, it feels hard, long and hot. so hot.

it does not take long before you are caressing him without any assistance, he puffs air into your face. "i didn't make a move cause i didn't want to scare you but i wanted to touch you. whenever you leaned over i saw your titties, i saw how small they are and your puffy nipples. got such cute tits, babe, wanted to suck on them so bad, would you like that?" you mewl at his low voice, his thumb strokes over your bottom lip.

"toru." his expression looks almost pained at how airy you sound, your voice is sexed out already. when you call him like that how is he supposed to stay sane?

he tugs the straps of your vest down, you practically writhe like a cock is in you as your breasts are revealed. you squeeze along his length, your little hand working him despite your lack of experience.

"i want to lick them up, see how much you squirm or if you'd cum from that alone. just from your little tits getting sucked" he paws at your chest, there is barely a handful for him to grope.

he tweaks your nipples, his eyes narrowing and his tongue flicking over his lip. he is so close you can see the sky within his eyes, the thickness of his lashes and the blush along his skin.

"you didn't wear a bra, what about panties? what kind do you wear, ones with little bows, pink, white? what's a virgin like you into? you keep your tight cunt covered in cute ones or do you dress her like a whore?" you moan at the vulgarity, your forehead leaning on his while you lose your bearings.

your pussy is a soaking mess and if you could, you would press your thighs together to relieve the ache that is building up the longer satoru invades your space.

your insides clench and clamp down, they feel like they are begging for something. satoru tugs your hand away from his heady cock and you whine.

"why don't you show me? show me what you have under those slutty shorts." he pinches at your nipple hard enough to make you wince, his teeth flashing as he smiles. he looks so pretty, far too perfect to be real.

your palm slowly strokes your pussy over your shorts, satoru's eyes hold yours before they flit down to look at you touch yourself.

his hands reach for your waist, bunching up in the fabric of your vest. he is so big and strong, his muscles flex and pulse. your fingers prod the waist band, biting your lip as you slip further in.

the soft skin of your pussy meets your fingers and the wetness pooling from your slit drenches them after. it is hot and syrupy. he can see bare skin where your hand keeps the fabric pulled taunt.

"i didn't wear any. cause you'd be here. i thought about you seeing my pussy through my shorts. did you, toru? when i answered the door or when i sat down did you see it?" he groans, rolling his head against yours.

you stroke down your slit, you are wetter than usually. you are so much wetter now than when you are touching yourself to the thought of him.

"you're driving me crazy. yeah i saw it. i saw your little cunt. you need to be careful, i'll start thinking you're telling me to take your pussy when you do things like this." you face contorts, satoru's hand trailing along your sides and his voice sounds like a wet dream come through.

you pump the underside of your fingers along your swollen opening. "i am, toru. it's already yours." your voice is all shaky and you do not sound like yourself at all.

you are all whiny and borderline desperate. you sound like you need to get fucked. you hurriedly tug your hand away to grip his face and press your mouth to his.

the slick from your fingers taints his skin and you hardly know how to kiss but satoru tilts his head to deepen it. he is a good kisser but you knew that already, you have kissed him before but never this exposed, never with this palpable tension.

he hums into your mouth, his hand cupping your throat as his tongue glides over yours. you feel like the saliva pools in your mouth, you suck on his bottom lip then you kiss him harder.

your fingers pull on his hair, your teeth gnashing. it is open mouthed and desperate. the kiss is all wet and sloppy and any time either of you pull back the other chases.

the other pushes forward to keep your mouths connected. wet smacks fill the room, his tongue claims every part of your mouth it already has and when you both lean back your chest is heaving

"fuck, oh fuck." you pant and your fists tangle in his shirt to pull him back in, your lips glide along satoru's, spit swapping and your cunt aching the more you kiss him.

you think you might give him your virginity this very moment.

his thumb strokes your throat, using his grip to draw you closer. your entire body is vibrating, you feel like every neurone in your system is firing off.

you whine, your mouth leaving his with a sticky smacking noise. "i think m'losing it." you breathlessly mutter, satoru drags his finger along your lips, smearing the saliva across the swollen flesh.

"i am too, you shouldn't have let me touch you. i won't be able to stop." you look so innocent, yet your hair is all messed up, your lips are puffy from kissing so aggressively, your cute little boobs are exposed and your pussy is so insanely wet, there is a wet patch through your shorts.

it drives satoru insane, how can you look like sin incarnate and still have innocence all over your face.

"i don't want you to stop." he groans at your admission, you need to stop before he is too far gone. you need to stop before satoru starts thinking about how the inside of your tight virgin pussy will feel. all hot, gooey and sticky. he just knows your leaky little fuck hole would take his shape so well.

he leans in to peck your lips, satoru needs to stop thinking. "m'not letting you suck my cock." you stare at him in disappointment. why are you doing that? satoru has half a mind to stick his cock in one of your holes and you are making it far too difficult not to.

his hands caress your hair, smoothening it down before he cups your face. he wants to bite your pouty lips and never stop kissing them at the same time.

"not today, not gna slip my cock in your tight baby throat and feel all those little muscles gripping me, no cause i want to eat up your pussy instead. i want to taste how sweet you are and stick my tongue in that virgin hole." your fingers paw at his body, feeling his hard stiff muscles beneath them. he tugs off your vest and you lay back as he reaches for the waist band of your shorts.

a deep sound rumbles in his chest when the material peels away from your cunt and he sees it for the first time.

"c'mon didn't you want me to see? spread your legs." and you do, without any fanfare. satoru's large palms coax along the back of your thighs before he cups under your knees to keep you open for his prying eyes. satoru wonders how long you had been thinking about showing him your hot sticky pussy.

he wishes you showed him sooner but he might have lost it since then. your cunt is dripping with slick, it leaks down your hole to your ass. you look all pink inside satoru wants to see it stretched around him, he wants to feel you gripping his cock and milking him dry.

"got such a pretty pussy, i'm lucky, so fucking lucky. my pretty girl is so gorgeous. look at this messy little hole, she's so wet, fuck." the tips of his fingers trail along your slit, collecting your wetness before he rolls your stiff clit. you jolt as he strokes your bundle of nerves. the mewl that escapes you is borderline pornographic.

he leans over to lap at your lips and then he is shoving his tongue in your mouth to roughly kiss you. his entire body is between your legs, he covers you completely. he is so big it makes you ditzy. he is hard and muscular all over.

when he is on you like this, all you can think about is how easily he could fuck you, it is all you want. you want him pounding into your pussy until you are brainless. he is so close he could take you right now if he pleased.

your hands tangle in his hair, trailing down his jaw and neck before you squeeze his broad shoulders. satoru moans into your mouth, propping his arm beside your head to crowd over you more.

your hips stuttering as he rubs your clit harder. you feel his bulge hitting the back of your thigh, hot on your skin beneath his clothes. you want to see it, you want to touch it.

"toru, i want to see you" a growl rumbles in his throat and he licks into your mouth. "take it off, please" you tug at his shirt, he does not want to stop kissing you. his expression is pained as he pulls away, hurriedly yanking off his shirt to reveal his narrow waist and the muscles all over his body.

you giggle when he shoves his pants down and almost falls over. he climbs onto you with an embarrassed smile on his face and blush coating his cheeks. "you laughing at me?" you hum. "cause you're cute and i like you." you brush the long hair away from of his forehead and wrap your legs around his narrow waist to tug him in.

when his covered erection meets your slit you both breathe heavily. "why didn't you take these off?" your finger prods the waistband of his boxers. your eyes are on his, the same ones that look like every sunny sky is held within them.

"i don't trust myself to not fuck you. if i take them off, you won't be a virgin for much longer." you shiver beneath him. that does not sound like a threat, it sounds like the solution to everything.

like something you need to keep breathing. satoru is big, every muscle in his body is defined, you can trace each one with your eyes. his shoulders, his abs, his biceps. you want to see how they flex and bulge when he is losing himself in your cunt. how they will pulse when he is fucking you.

he gropes your breasts, his tongue laving over your nipple before he sucks down on the perked flesh. your legs jerk when he thrusts his hips into yours. your stomach feels tight, you feel like there are too many butterflies within the small space.

your pussy leaks so much liquid it drenches the front of his boxers, it only makes it easier for him to hump away with your pussy. his bulky thighs are warm as they press into the back of yours to hold you open. satoru pants into your skin, you can see the ripple of his back muscles as he fucks his hips.

there are wet smacks of his cock colliding with your cunt, this alone feels so good, you know it would feel a million times better if he was actually fucking you. you want him to have you, you want the real thing. it turns your brain to mush, makes your cunt ache and your tummy tremble.

he is breathless when he kisses you, it is hard and sloppy. almost as hard as his cock grinding against you. it is thick and long, you want to have it in your hand, down your throat, inside you.

you never thought depravity would ruin you like this but it does and it is okay because satoru is the only one you will get like this for.

his hands desperately grip your cheeks and jaw. you moan as he pulls back to slam his hips particularly hard. hard enough to make your body jerk and your back arch.

"i want to eat you out. i need your pussy in my mouth, need to know how you taste." you whine, your nails dig into his nape, thighs squeezing on either side of his hips.

"anything, toru. anything you want." you mewl. the friction on your pussy has your head in a mess, more of a mess than the slick leaking from your untouched hole.

he presses his stuttering hips flush to yours, his hefty length digging into your cunt. "you don't know how much i thought about this, i used to rub my dick raw when i thought about getting my mouth on you. my tongue in you, wanted to smell and taste your pussy so bad."

he slowly kisses down your sternum, hands trailing over the heat his lips leave in their wake. his palms are so wide, just one spans your waist. just one covers the plane of your stomach. his mouth seems to water the closer he gets to your sex.

you tug your legs to your chest, your hands folded and resting over your mouth. you tense when satoru presses his nose into your slick and nudges the flesh. it is embarrassing, even after all you did, it makes you more flustered than you can explain.

"you smell like heaven, baby. fuck don't ever keep this cunt away from me." his tongue flicks out to lave over your buzzing clit and your eyes shut tightly. it is when he reaches your dripping hole does your body stiffen the most.

your toes curl as he licks you greedily, sucking at the sodden flesh. it is like he does not want to stop. he presses further, his tongue flattening over the expanse of your pussy as he licks it entirely.

"fuck, babe. your pussy's too perfect." his eyes flick upwards, they are blown out and predatory. he spreads your lips before wetly spitting a thick glob into you.

he drags it along your slit before plunging a finger inside. it is long and thick, a lot thicker than any of yours. you writhe at the intrusion.

"how am i supposed to fuck such a tight hole? won't be able to take it, i might just rip your cute little cunt apart." his mouth encloses your clit, sucking and licking as he fucks his finger into you. the pace he sets is fast and riveting, it has you moaning like a freaked up slut instead of a virgin.

you brokenly cry when he adds another finger and your insides are stretched more than they are used to. you can hear the soaked soppy noises of your hole being slammed into over and over, his slimy mouth on your clit.

it is so embarrassing. yet it feels so good, getting your insides stroked and having his mouth somewhere you never thought it should be made your entire body buzz.

his mouth wetly separates from your clit with a sticky pop. "you like that? yeah you do, got your pussy dripping all over me." he thrusts his fingers, deep and fast. like he has done it countless times before.

you dumbly nod your head, your insides squeezing his digits and your hips rutting to meet his movements. he pounds into your hole until the creamy liquid is dripping down his wrist and there are tears in your eyes. saliva webs in your mouth while you moan. he slowly pulls his digits out of you.

"you okay?" you hum, sniffling. your eyes trail along his glistening fingers, it is weird to think they were just inside of you. satoru looks at you as he kisses your abdomen, caressing your thigh before his tongue glides along your entrance.

the tip prods your cunt and you whine lowly when the hot slimy muscle finally sinks in, hips tilting at the strange sensation. he groans into your flesh, his jaw dropping to press deeper. the tip of his perfect nose nuzzles against your clit and your eyes flutter constantly.

your lids threaten to shut as his mouth drips saliva onto you and the muscle squirms within your gooey walls. the knot in your stomach pulls tighter and tighter, your thighs tensing at the sight of him bobbing his head between your legs.

your shaky fingers find purchase in fluffy white locks. the feeling of his tongue being pumped into you makes your mind go blank, it makes your mouth water and your insides tighten.

squelching sounds fill the room as he eats your cunt up. his tongue going so deep your vision blurs.

"toru, toru, toru." you did not realise you were moaning. blue eyes flick up to look at you, you who is so lost in pleasure your head is leaned back and your chest is heaving.

satoru thinks if he had to choose the happiness moment in his life it would be here, with you. you were intoxicating enough but having you like this meant he could never be without you.

your slick in his mouth drives him insane, he wants it on his tongue always, he could die happy if your pussy is the last thing he has. he sucks up your drenched hole before moving to your clit.

he laps at the mound, fingers filling your hole to replace his tongue. the faster he shoves into you the more you tremble, the more your body jolts and the tighter you grip his hair. they reach for his shoulders instead, nails digging into his flesh and it makes satoru think about you clawing his skin when his cock is buried balls deep in you.

your voice is all high pitched and whiny, your head writhes against the couch, hips bucking into his face. he does not give you a break, despite your moans being broken and shaky.

no, he slams his fingers into your creamy pussy, feeling your walls pulsing around him as he quickly thrusts into you.

your liquid splatters with the pace of his movements, his mouth alternating between sucking your clit and licking it up. your voice is all honey dew and dreamy when you cream.

satoru groans at the taste of your cum, still fingering your innocent hole as he laps at the evidence of your orgasm. your thighs tremble and you roll your hips into his face, breathless with the weight of your high.

satoru's jaw is covered with slick when he moves over you, his other hand still gently caressing between your folds after slipping out of your sensitive slit. "why do you know how to do that?" you mumble.

"i had to know just so i could do it with you." he flashes you the prettiest smile. you trace his jawline, your blurred eyes trailing over his messy hair, his lengthy lashes, his gorgeous eyes and the slope of his nose.

the pinkness of his lips is more swollen than usual and cum drips down his jaw. even so he lacked imperfections.

satoru pecks your cheek "you were so good, such a perfect girl." he presses his body flush onto yours, both of his arms hugging your figure.

your smile is flustered with his weight on you, you keep him as close as possible. you are overwhelmed in a good way.

you think you would do this countless times so long as it is with satoru. he buries his face into the crook of your neck and sighs softly.

"i don't think i could be without you." truly, he thinks it might break him. you press a kiss to his hair, your hand stroking down the toned bulked up expanse of his back.

"you'll always have me, toru." the sound that escapes him is something like a whine as he leans in to peck your lips.

"we should clean up." you slowly let go when he sits himself up. satoru's arm is resting along the back of the couch, one leg folded while the other rests on the tiled floor.

his dexterous hand adjusts his cock through his boxers. the thickness looks like it is struggling with the constricting fabric. your body feels lighter, the mess between your legs is a bit uncomfortable but you tug them to your chest and look at the male before you.

he is way too big, it makes you all tingly inside. like he could hurt you if he wanted to but he does not. like if he held you, his arms would be the most impenetrable fortress.

"what do you want to do after?" he leans his head back, his eyes turn to you and his adam's apple bobs. he is looking at you but you are staring at his evident erection.

the thin material of his boxers does nothing to hide the girth of his aching cock nor does it conceal the wet patch from his pre cum.

"so shameless." he slyly smiles, he reaches to nudge your chin but his resolve falters when your gaze flits between his crotch and his eyes and your cute little tongue trails along the seam of your kiss swollen lips.

he hopes you do not say what he knows you will because satoru cannot resist you. not a single ounce of him has the strength to refuse you.

"toru, i can take care of you too." his smile slowly drops and his mouth dries. his eyes go dark and he tilts his head.

"yeah?" he sees your little hands bunch into fists before you perch yourself on your knees and you lean closer to him.

satoru wants you this close forever, to always see, touch and have no matter what. your hair frame your face and your lips pouts with your words.

"if you want to use my mouth or anything else, you can." you are temptation. you are temptation in the form of an angel.

satoru swallows hard, he shifts closer to you, hands cupping either side of your head. he kisses your forehead before nuzzling your nose with his.

"today isn't about me, we'll do it another time." your eyes flit over his features, leaning in to peck his plush pink lips. you grips his wrists, stroking them.

"but i want to do it now, i really want to see it." satoru breathes heavily. he feels like there is no air in his lungs.

"okay." it comes out soft, you are too good for him. "i just need you to put something on if i'm taking my boxers off."

his large palm trails down your bare chest "you're too pretty, you're everything i want and i don't trust myself to not take you." you slowly nod before holding his hand. satoru follows you without a question, he would follow you to ends of the earth without any hesitation.

your bedroom is pink where your apartment is white everywhere else, it is like you were hiding all the colour in here. it is his first time in your bedroom despite the countless times you slept over in his.

you have plushies all over your bed, the sheets are pink, your fluffy pillows are pink, your closet is wide open and all that meets the eye is pink. your laptop, headset, desk. it is all pink.

you leave him beside your bed and he sits at the edge with an increasingly painful erection making his boxers tight.

his eyes trail over your room and he has to adjust his cock again. this should not be a turn on.

yet something about you, a pretty little thing like you touching yourself in such an adorable room, getting fucked by him in here.

the thought of him pressing your face into these pink sheets and rawing your cunt with reckless abandon. it makes him lose his mind.

he winces as he tugs his swollen cock. when you come back into his view, pink lacy panties are covering your pussy and the matching bra that conceals your tits makes satoru groan.

you draw closer to him and his large palms caress your hips. "now i know you wear cute panties." he jokingly says but there is a desperate undertone in his voice.

when you kneel down, satoru thinks he might be too turned on to think. he wants to keep you to himself.

your hand strokes along his happy trail before teasing the waistband framing his deep v line. he gently grasps your wrist, preventing you from going further.

"we'll leave the blow job for another day, okay? you can use your hand, i'll tell you what to do." you nod yet your eyes look all hungry. his abs tense, staring at your face as he tucks his thumbs into his boxers and tugs them down his thighs.

finally having his aching cock unrestricted has him grunting. your expression is so flustered yet you are pressing your legs together to dull that burning desire at the sight of him.

he grits his teeth, you are staring at it, from the pinkness of his swollen tip, to the dip where his head meets his shaft. the hefty girth with veins trailing down it, there is one particularly prominent one along the underside.

satoru wants to make you feel every inch of it inside, he wants to make you take his shape. maybe he is thinking too deeply, he jolts when your mouth surrounds the side of his ballsack and your little tongue is laved along it repeatedly. "don't- ohmfuck. okay, okay." he pants, fingers curling into his palms.

you need to stop before satoru shoves his entire cock down your throat without any care that you are gagging and choking on it. the gasp that leaves him is way too shaky. his tip goes past your face, it is over the crown of your head, it is too big for you. he is too big for you but he cannot not touch you.

he needs you like he needs air. he hums softly, he should stop you. he really should but he cannot when you are sucking at his balls. your little hands resting on his upper thighs and your mouth is draining him of any self preservation.

"you like it?" there is a sticky noise as your mouth pulls back, so much saliva on his skin. it is even webbed in your mouth.

"mm, you're so big toru." hearing those words in your soft voice makes his cock ache. he should not, he really should not but he needs to see it.

"keep that pretty baby mouth closed." he cups the back of your head, gripping his cock and squeezing it tightly before he presses it into your cheek. he curses, burning it into memory as he rubs his mushroom tip along your lips. his pre cum looks better than any lipgloss you own.

his fingers tangle in your hair to make you look up at him. having pretty little you, kneeling in nothing but laced panties chips away at satoru's restraint.

"want you to wrap your hand around it, can you do that for me?" you hum, when he lets go your fingers take his place. right around his base, your hand is so much smaller and so much softer. your fingers do not even reach around the perimeter of his cock.

his breaths are all laboured and hard, "don't put it in your mouth, just lick the head." his thumb strokes your cheek and you lean closer. your squirming slimy tongue trails over the slit and satoru throbs against the muscle.

"fuck, baby, you're so good at listening." he grips your hand to guide you up and down his length. "squeeze it a bit and move your hand like this." pre cum dribbles and he lets you do it on your own. it is jerky and unsure but somehow your hand feels so much better than his. he leans back on his arms, his hips moving slightly, his chest heaving and his dick begging for release.

"am i doing okay?" you mumble, begging for praise, feeling the ridges of his cock along your fingers while you slowly stroke up over his thick head and down his shaft.

the liquid seeping from his tip glides down along the sides and collects on your fingers, making it easier to jerk him off.

"more than okay, pretty girl. you're perfect." satoru's hand tangles in your pink sheets, the other reaching to tuck your hair behind your ear.

"faster?" you tilt your head, you are like a puppy. the cutest one ever.

"if you want." he grunts, when your hand starts pumping at his cock more, his eyes roll back. the muscles along his thighs flexing, all over his body in fact. he cannot help but fuck his hips upwards to meet your movements.

he is leaking incessantly, it coats your hand and it sounds all sticky and wet when you rub his cock. satoru curses, he feels like a virgin, maybe it was you, maybe it was your hand on him but it made his stomach all tight and his cock throb with no control.

you stroke at his base with a vigorous pace, your other hand surrounding his upper shaft and moving much slower. he jerks, teeth gritting when your tongue laves over the pinkness of his head before you take it in your mouth. it is so warm and wet, it makes him lose his mind.

your lips rest right before his shaft and the second you suck, satoru tightly grips the sheets, his head hanging and his jaw dropped to moan erotically.

"baby, baby what are you doing to me?" his unsteady palm caresses the crown of your head, petting you like the sight of his cock in your mouth does not tear him to bits. like it has not thrown him over the edge.

he wonders if you can feel him pulsing against your tongue. he wants to know what deeper in your little mouth would feel like wrapped around him.

"you're so fucking good, holy shit. never felt this good before." he groans and your eyes meet his, your wide innocent looking eyes despite how he has tainted you already. you look too pure for what you are doing.

"fuck m'gna cum. gna cum, take your mouth off baby." his hips stutter, muscles jumping. his toes curl into the fluffy mat beneath you both. you are still licking and wetly slurping around his head while you stroke his cock. the heated muscle of your tongue laving at his slit.

satoru's never came this quick before. his lids keep fluttering, he cannot stop groaning. his mind is too occupied with the thought of cumming in your mouth to stop you though he knows he should.

you keep touching and satoru has lost it already. he does not realise he is cumming in your little mouth until your hands have slowed down and you are teary eyed with milky liquid dripping down your jaw.

he curses. satoru is so sensitive and you are swallowing, why do you keep swallowing?

"baby, don't swallow. fuck, you don't have to." your hands shift to rest on his thighs, your brows furrowed and your little throat still bobbing.

you lean back and strands of cum are webbed in your mouth, still connected to his softening member. it drips onto the rug beneath you.

you sniffle, swallowing hard while you gaze up at him. your eyes are all glossy and pretty.

"i didn't think it would be that much." you are on your knees, right in front of him with your belly full of his cum, looking like the sweetest girl in the whole world.

you are his, you are all his. you have to be.

he cups either side of your face, leaning down to kiss you hard. he tilts his head, his tongue gliding over yours and the taste of his cum heavy in your mouth.

he reaches under your arms to lift you into his lap, nose nuzzling yours while he hugs you close. you are so much smaller you tuck right in along his large frame.

"i like you too much." he breathes into your shared air.

satoru cannot get enough of you.

11K notes · View notes

screampied · 1 year ago

Note

your writing is so amazing I’m begging you to write anything for nanami

❤︎ ໋𓈒 ex husband nanami who fucks like he can’t live without you

warnings. fem! reader, ex husband nanami, mating press, breeding kink, praise kink, slight whiney nanami. mdni.

an. thank u bb!! xo i want him so bad

ex husband nanami that’s completely infatuated with you. he’s never stopped fully loving you—you probably never stopped him either. his touch against you was gentle, he’d watch as you’d try to cover your face with your hand. beneath him, nanami lets off a grunt with a idle hand pressing against your tummy.

“nono, don’t do that,” he whispers, the feeling of his wedding ring he’d never take off skims against your skin. “i wanna see my wife before she makes another mess on me.”

wife.

a term he’d always call you, despite the two of you not exactly being together. yet you’d always find yourself back in nanami’s arms, in his bed.. vice versa.

“k-kento,” you’d gasp, each thrust he creates has the bed creaking and creaking. you gawk as nanami once he grabs your hand to kiss it. twice, the softness of his lips that ran against your skin made your heart swoon. “fuck, you’re so—big.”

“perfect size for you, sweetheart,” he sighs, and he picks the position specifically just to see your face…purely to study your facial expressions, planting a plethora of kisses all over your face. “god, you don’t know how much i’ve missed you.”

he was so thick, stretching you out with such ease like an elastic band—your walls forevermore clamped against him and you bit the inside of your cheek with your eyes rolling back. “so just let me show you, sweetheart.”

as nanami maintained a thorough pace, he was visibly sweating a bit.. not much to your surprise.

beads of it ran down the side of his partly arched eyebrows, his jawline was perfectly sharp each time he clenched his jaw and it was unintentionally sexy.

“w-woman, whenever you look at me like that…” he groans.

the way your walls gripped him oh so tight, it left him speechless. nanami had your legs just dangling in the air as he’s hitting against your cunt with such sloppy erotic thrusts.

your ears ring vividly as your lip trembles in pleasure. “makes me wanna give you another baby.”

“do it then, kento.” you moaned, and for a second the two of you make direct eye contact. his heart pounds and nanami gives you a soft glance.

a sheepish grin going across his pink lips. he lets off a moan right against your ear, “…baby, i just might. ‘m so pent up ‘n full for you. should give you triplets this time. i always adored how you looked with a pretty rounded tummy.”

his brutal hits against you, the way he pivots his hips each time, you’re left with your mouth dumbly dangling open, nails carving into his skin. “oh my g-god, kento. keep hitting me right there, pleasepleaseee.”

he’s plugging into you with such soft force, your legs nearly give out. nanami’s low husky grunts against your ear makes you throb for more.

“i will,” he mutters, grabbing your hand to give it another kiss. “you’re so pretty like this. am i making you feel good? speak to me, my love.”

all that escaped from your lips was a soft, “mhm.”

“that’s all you can give me?” he teases, leaning in to plant a soft kiss near your mouth. nanami’s fingers graciously ghosts against the middle part of your neck. he swipes a thumb against it, smothering you with kisses until he left you gasping for air. his dick reached the deepest parts of you, the curve he had fully expanding into you and you’re just a whiney mess. “my wife’s never been this soft spoken.”

“i— i’m gonna cummm,” you babbled, a sensitive cluster of nerves brewing up from the inside. “kento. ‘s gonna—”

as he’s buried into you, he lets off a soft whine at the way your cunt tugged against him. the filthy wet sounds between your legs created reverberated across the room.

“look at me, look at me.” your eyes dart towards him and his smile was so warm and gentle. you feel the way every few seconds his cock was disappear inside your folds, in and out and your eyes just rolled and rolled. “you drive me insane,” he grumbles, his thrusts began to become more unkept and dirty. his fingers intertwine with yours before he whispers in a broken voice. “marry me again.”

“kento,” you moaned, and he stares deeply into your eyes, bringing a few more kisses towards the center of your mouth. you found yourself speechless, forever being coddled with his warmth from how he’s just so gentle with you. his weight gingerly hovered against you before he lets off a sigh, stroking your cheek. “re-marry?”

he lets off a grunt once he feels your droopy legs just brush all against his back. you’re constantly moving all because of him and it makes him smile. “i’d give anything just to see you in a pretty white dress a-again.”

for a split second, his words gets cut off and he laments lowly at how your pussy gripped him tightly with much needed force. “sweetheart, ‘m gonna fill you…you want that?”

“please,” you whined, practically hugging his back. this position was so lewd — nanami always expressed his love for mating press, it was so affectionate not to mention intimate. he’d always have a good enough excuse just to see your cute expressions right when you were about to orgasm.

“anything for my girl,” he murmurs into your neck, and his voice gets a bit pitchy — whiney even. forlorn and almost desperate, he was trembling on his words from how sensitive you had him, a nanami you don’t think you’ve ever experienced this version with. “so full for you,” he whispers, licking a strick up your neck before claiming your hands against with his.

you feel his ring graze against your palm as he’s quickening his pace just a tad bit. “just for you though, j-just for you.”

once nanami cums, it’s so thick. lengthy ropes spew into your cunt and your legs were left twitching, just clinging onto his waist. nanami’s softly panting against your ear, murmuring how gorgeous you were, how pretty you looked, and most importantly….how charming you’d look with your tummy plump for him again.

“come here,” you’d moan, picking up nanami’s head so he could face you directly. you’d hastily bring him into a warm kiss and he returns in, swabbing a thumb across your cheek before he groans into your mouth.

nanami’s heart raced—you were forever perfect in his eyes, each second the kiss lasted, he craved more of you. still buried inside of you, you feel his palm softly press down against your tummy and you moan. the moment he pulls away, nanami takes off his ring before placing it inside of your hand, kissing your hand afterwards.

“think about it, for me?”

#★vegasbaby.#nanami kento smut #nanami x you #nanami x reader #kento nanami x reader #nanami smut #nanami kento x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #female reader #anime smut

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cayleeuhithinknott · 1 month ago

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— mafiaboss!matt has repurposed your ribbons. . .

the ribbon you’d originally used to delicately tie matt’s usual bouquet of white roses together is no longer on that pretty little bouquet. in fact, they’ve been repurposed, tied in a sloppy bow around your wrists behind your back.

your cheek presses into the table in the back office of your shop, matt having you bent over it as he pounds into you mercilessly from behind. you’d always been a sweet, soft-spoken girl—but who’s to say you don’t like being fucked like a slut?

matt was naked, while you simply had your panties and jeans discarded on the floor. matt’s hips slap into your bare ass from behind, the lewd sound filling up the entire room. he’d pulled you into the back room the second you tied the last ribbon, ignoring the customers still chatting just outside the door. you can hear the customers’ voices drifting in, but the risk only makes your pulse race harder. you’d hoped to God nobody was hearing this.

“such a good girl, takin’ my cock so well, hm? hope nobody hears you,” matt mocks, fingers digging into your hips bruisingly. usually, he was an absolute sweetheart to you, despite his cold, dangerous shell. but during sex, he was a whole different person. he knew how you wanted to be spoken to. how you wanted to be fucked. how you wanted to be treated overall. and you loved that.

your walls clamp down on his dick, eliciting a low groan from him. “matt—“ you gasp as he hits a deep spot inside you, so deep it had never been reached by anyone before him. so deep you weren’t even aware it could feel so, so good. he chuckles darkly, slamming into you even harder, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with a sickeningly sweet pressure.

“yeah, baby? y’like bein’ a little slut for me?” he rasps. you lift your head from the table, nodding frantically with a whimper as tears drip down your cherry-red cheeks. his large, veiny hand snakes it’s way around your hip, his flesh shockingly cold against yours as he trails it down to your tummy. he holds his palm flat on your lower belly, applying a delicious pressure against it. “say it.”

“yes—yes, i—mmph!” you’re cut off by your own pathetic moan, walls tightening around his length once again, earning a shaky chuckle from matt. he trails his hand down from your tummy to your clit, rubbing small, teasing circles right on it. your legs begin to tremble beneath you, now relying completely on matt’s single-handed grip on your hip and the table you’re folded over. your body’s in a state of pure bliss, hardly able to keep up with the intensity of his harsh thrusts. “r-right there—fuck—right there, matt!” you cry.

“mm, right there, baby?” matt removes his hand from your clit, placing it back on your hip. you whine at the loss of stimulation, but he quickly makes up for it when he lifts your hips slightly, earning a new angle for his cock to hit all the good spots inside you. he’s hitting your sweet spot dead-on now, and high-pitched, squeal-like moans flow out of your mouth, your body starting to tremble in his grip.

your ass stings, flushed red, as his hips slam into you again and again, his quick pace starting to affect you further. you note that familiar hot feeling pooling up in your lower belly and you know you could snap at any given moment with the way he’s fucking you.

“bet you feel so, so good, sweetheart, hm?” matt coos, his voice shaky with pleasure as you clamp down on his length once again, symbolizing how close you are. a string of desperate whines leave your swollen, parted lips, eyes hazily fluttering shut. “matt—i—please!” you babble, the string in your belly fraying, violently threatening to snap. your tied hands squirm behind your back, muscles tensing as the pleasure builds higher and higher.

“you wanna cum, sweet girl?” matt purrs teasingly. he leans over your body, connecting his chest with your back, his lips resting right next to your ear. you feel his labored breathing beside your ear, trailing down the side of your neck, sending goosebumps to pop up all over your body, despite your high temperature. the harshness of his thrusts have you seeing stars.

his arms rise from your hips, up to your waist, wrapping around it and caging you between them.

you nod fervently, needily. matt growls, the tip of his tongue ghosting over the shell of your ear, “words, baby,” you whimper, not sure if you were even capable of forming coherent words. “yes—please—yesyesyesyes!” you plea, squeezing his cock between your slick walls harder than any time before, sending a shiver down matt’s spine as his loud, hazy groan plays into your ear.

“good fuckin’ girl…cum on my cock, baby. know you can.” matt assures, tightening his grip on you as he nears his own climax. your orgasm hits you first, a white-hot bliss flashing over you as you writhe between him and the table, a string of high-pitched moans falling from your lips. as matt feels your creamy release coating his cock, his hips stutter, his own high crashing into him like a tidal wave, his seed painting your walls warmly white, mingling with your own release.

he pants into your ear, not daring to detach himself from you just yet. “fuck, you’re so perfect, baby.” he mutters, his breathing ragged and uneven. your lips softly curl up into a hazy, proud smile at his words, eyes fluttering shut. “for you only…” you mumble, clearly absolutely spent.

whis arms tighten around your waist, like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he lets go. his lips brush against your temple, pressing a quiet kiss into your skin. “mine,” he whispers, barely audible over the sound of both your breathing. you hum, blissed out and content, your fingers twitching behind your back as the ribbon digs into your skin—still tied, still his. outside, the faint chime of the shop door opening goes ignored. you’re too lost in him to care.

author’s note. . . hi! first actual fic for matt and petal…hm…not sure how i feel about this it’s really short, NOT PROOFREAD and nonsensical but whatever! IM GOING TO SLEEP NOW CAUSE ITS ALMOST 1AM AND MY PERMIT TEST IS AT 8:30AM GOOODNIIIIGHT!

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwritess @mattsgracie @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3

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bueckers555 · 3 months ago

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girl where is pt.2 of pazzi 😐 it’s been 2 years atp 😔

SUMMER NIGHTS 2 — paige bueckers x reader x azzi fudd

summary: in which, paige and azzi act like you don’t exist. until their teammate doesn’t.

warnings: smut, oral sex (r and a receiving), strap on sex, spitting?, fingering

authors note: HERE DAMNNN no jk, LMAOAO honestly this has BEEN finished i just needed to edit it and i got lazy 😔 sorry frens hopefully this filth makes up for it

Summer flew by after that night.

The night you were starting to think you imagined.

Not just because it had been days and nothing of the sort had happened again, but because they acted as if it never had. No glances when you were in the same room. No acknowledgment at the dinner table. Not a single word spoken to you, which made the short drive to the ice cream parlor feel unbearably tense, though your parents remained oblivious.

It pissed you off more than you wanted to admit. Because admitting it stung would make it real. And you weren’t about to give them that much power. So all you had left to feel was anger.

But summer was winding down, and you’d be damned if you let them ruin the cabin you’d loved since before you could talk. You were going to soak up every last bit of sun, every jump into the river, every warm breeze before classes started again.

Paige and Azzi clearly felt the same way. The UConn girls had practically moved in, knowing their days of sleeping in until 1 PM, late-night Fortnite marathons, and raiding your fridge were numbered. Soon, it’d be 6 AM workouts, midterms, and press conferences every other day.

You didn’t mind, though. You loved the team—well, most of them. And they loved you.

They weren’t just Paige and Azzi’s teammates. They were your friends too.

That’s what you reminded yourself as you sat on the hood of your mom’s sleek black car, watching them play a heated game of 3v3 in the driveway. Your hibiscus-print tube top rode up slightly, and you tugged it back into place as you snorted at Ice, who was rolling her hands to call a turnover. Paige, naturally, argued—but to no avail.

“Aight, aight, I’m gassed. Imma get waters. Y’all want one?” Paige lifted the hem of her shirt to wipe a bead of sweat from her forehead.

Any other day, you would’ve let yourself gawk at the sight of her abs peeking through her sports bra, the way it hugged her body just right. You would’ve let yourself think about tracing your tongue down the defined lines of her stomach.

Not today.

Azzi followed Paige inside to help, and Caroline, Jana, KK, Sarah, and Aubrey stood off to the side, deep in conversation.

Ice, on the other hand, strolled right over to you, placing her hands on either side of your thighs where they rested on the car hood. She smirked, easy and confident. “Tryna play a lil’ one-on-one?”

You snorted, clamping a hand over your mouth as you shook your head. “I live with basketball players. That don’t make me one. I don’t even know how to shoot the damn ball.”

Ice tilted her head, unimpressed by your protest. “C’mon, then.” She nodded toward the court.

You hesitated but reluctantly slid off the car, brushing past her as you followed her onto the pavement. She gently passed you the ball, then stepped closer—too close, if the way your breath hitched was any indication.

“Alright, first lesson—hand placement. It’s important when you shoot.”

You glanced down at your awkward grip. Ice didn’t hesitate, wrapping her fingers around your wrist, adjusting one hand so it rested more to the side of the ball instead of on top. Her touch lingered as she shifted your other hand.

“One hand here,” she murmured, voice lower now. “And the other here.”

Her breath ghosted over your cheek, her fingers light but firm as they brushed over your knuckles. It was unnecessary—she could’ve just told you what to do. But she wasn’t in any rush to step back.

And maybe you weren’t in a rush to move either.

“Now, bend your knees a little,” she continued, her hands settling lightly on your waist—again, unnecessary. “Loosen up.”

You sucked in a sharp breath but followed her instruction.

Ice hummed in approval, her grip squeezing slightly. “There you go. Now, when you shoot, flick your wrist—” she guided your arm through the motion, her body pressing into your side as she did, “—like that.”

The ball left your fingertips, arching toward the hoop. It hit the rim, bouncing around before finally dropping through the net.

“Oh, shit.” You blinked in surprise. “I made it.”

“Damn right you did.” Ice grinned, her hands still on you. “Might have to start calling you a natural.”

As you smiled back, something made you glance toward the house.

Paige and Azzi were standing just outside, holding water bottles, watching.

Neither of them said a word.

Paige’s jaw was tight, her grip on the bottle firm, knuckles pressing against the plastic. Azzi’s eyes flicked between you and Ice, her expression full of amusement, but something sharp lingered in it. Neither spoke up. Neither intervened.

They just stood there. Seething.

Not that you cared.

Not after the way they’d spent all summer pretending you didn’t exist.

So you let yourself soak in the moment. Let yourself smile as Ice’s hands stayed firmly on your waist, let yourself feel the warmth of her body pressed close, let yourself enjoy the attention—the touch, the easy flirting, the way she looked at you like she wanted to keep teaching you all night.

If Paige and Azzi had a problem with it, well…

They should’ve thought about that before they spent the last couple of weeks ignoring you.

It was late, the cabin dimly lit by the glow of the TV. Coach Carter played in the background, but no one was really watching. The UConn girls were sprawled across the couches, already having fallen in deep sleep, surrounded by bowls of popcorn, Capri Sun packets, and scattered bags of chips and candy.

You sighed, shaking your head as you started picking up the mess. The parents were gone for the night, but if they came back to this disaster, there was no way they’d allow another sleepover.

You heard the soft patter of footsteps behind you but didn’t bother turning around. After spending twenty-two summers in this cabin with them, you could tell exactly who it was without looking.

“You don’t have to do that. Leave ‘em,” Azzi’s voice came from behind, low and casual.

You rolled your eyes. Now she wanted to talk to you?

“Well, someone has to. Don’t think Katie, Amy, or my mom would appreciate seeing the cabin they pay for trashed,” you muttered, placing the last of the bowls in the sink before turning to face her.

Azzi was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted ever-so-slightly as she looked you over. And not just looked—scanned.

Her tongue swiped across her bottom lip before she spoke. “C’mere.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

Azzi had known you long enough to know you’d never act first, so she closed the space between you herself, her hands planting on either side of the counter—like Ice had done earlier.

“That was cute,” she murmured, voice low. “The shit you pulled earlier. Me and Paige, now Ice?”

You barely heard her over the way your pulse pounded in your ears. Your eyes flickered to her lips as she gave a breathless laugh—like this was funny.

But the way she held your gaze told you it was anything but funny.

You mustered up a slow smile, one that felt more like a smirk. “She was teaching me how to shoot. Probably better than you two ever could.”

Azzi gave a humorless laugh, nodding slowly before she grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the stairs. You barely had time to react before she was pulling you into her room, the door clicking shut behind you.

Paige was already there, lounging in a chair like she’d been waiting.

“Took y’all long enough,” she muttered, standing up, stretching, towering over you.

Your instinct was to turn toward the door, but Azzi was already there, leaning against it, her dimples deepening with amusement.

“Wanna hear sum funny, Paige?”

Paige hummed, blue eyes locked onto you as she raked her fingers up your side—slow, deliberate, sending a shiver through you.

“She said Ice was teaching her how to shoot,” Azzi continued, her voice dripping with something you couldn’t quite place. “Better than we ever could.”

Paige snorted. Her hand dropped from your side, and you almost whined at the loss of contact but held firm, refusing to give her that satisfaction.

You crossed your arms. “You can’t just ignore me all summer and then—”

Paige cut you off with a scoff. “Fuck, you wear these tight-ass clothes, your ass damn near hanging out—for what?” Her eyes dragged over your tube top, the curve of your hips, your way too short shorts. “You like the attention? That what you’re looking for?”

Your blood boiled. “Fuck you, Paige.” Your voice was sharp, but your stomach tightened at the way she was looking at you. “Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can and can’t wear? Who I can and can’t talk to?”

Paige exhaled slowly, rubbing her jaw as she looked to the side, like she was trying to keep herself in check. You watched every movement—the way her brows furrowed, how her tongue poked at her cheek, how her lips parted slightly like she was on the verge of saying something reckless.

Like you were pushing it.

And she liked it.

Paige always had a way of making eye contact feel like a game you were destined to lose. It wasn’t just the deep blue of her irises or how sharp her gaze was—it was the way she always made you feel like she was one step ahead. Like she already knew how this would play out before you did.

Like she was just waiting for you to break.

“You wanna fix that mouth before we do?”

Your pulse pounded in your throat.

But you weren’t backing down.

You stared straight into her eyes, unwavering. “You’re a bitch.”

Paige’s lips twitched—like that’s exactly what she wanted to hear.

“Paige!”

You don’t know how much more you can take, have already taken. Her grip on your hips is hard as she snaps her hips forward, fucking you into oblivion.

Paige’s hand cracks against your ass—sharp, sudden—jolting you forward, your tongue sinking deeper into Azzi, a gasp muffled as your sensitive core throbs.

“Fuckkk,” you blubber, voice shaky, her strap sliding in—slow, thick—stretching you open, sinking deep into your gummy walls, a delicious burn rippling through, your moan swallowed by Azzi’s heat—your tongue flicking her bud, circling, tasting her, her thighs trembling, her grip tightening.

“Flirtin’ with Ice—like a little slut,” Paige mutters, voice rough silk, her hips rutting into you—steady, deep—each thrust sending your ass quivering, the bed groaning under her, her fingers digging into your hips—warm, possessive. Your tongue works Azzi—sucking her bud, dipping lower—her juices slick on your chin, her moans rising—soft, needy—her climax coiling tight. “No fuckin’ respect—gonna fuck it outta you.”

“Mmm,” you mumble, voice thick, lost in Azzi—your tongue lapping, eager—her hips grinding down, chasing it, her breath hitching—“Fuck—right there—gonna—” and she breaks, a trembling cry spilling out, her juices flooding your mouth, warm and sweet, her body shuddering as you lick her through it—slow, savoring. Paige keeps moving—deep, relentless—your core fluttering, a quiet wave cresting, your moan soft, your senses drowning in Azzi’s taste, Paige’s rhythm.

Azzi slides off—panting, flushed—kissing you quick, her tongue shoving its way past your lips and into your mouth, tasting herself on your lips, humming low.

Paige pulls out—slow—leaving you empty, aching, flipping you onto your back with a nudge, your legs splaying—quivering, slick—your core tender, begging silently.

She kneels between your thighs—her strap discarded now—her tongue darting out, flattening against your bud—slow, warm—coaxing a jolt, your hips bucking, a whine slipping free as she dives in, licking through your folds, tasting your juices—rich, needy—her hands pinning your thighs wide.

“Paige—oh fuck—” you gasp, voice trembling, your fingers tangling in her hair—tugging—her tongue swirling your clit, sucking soft—her moan vibrating your core, your gummy spot pulsing, overstimulated, tears pricking as she eats you like she’s starving, her eyes flicking up—dark, ravenous. Azzi’s beside you—watching, smirking—her fingers brushing your chest, teasing a nipple—light, electric—your stomach fluttering wild.

“Cryin’ already?” Azzi murmurs, voice a soft taunt, her hand sliding lower—rubbing your bud now—quick, precise—while Paige’s tongue dips deeper, lapping your juices, her lips sealing over your clit—sucking, coaxing—your core vibrating, a fresh wave building, tears spilling—pleasure, surrender—“No dignity—lettin’ us use you like this.” Her words hit hard, your body arching—needy, wrecked—Paige’s tongue relentless, your climax crashing—sharp, trembling—juices soaking her chin, your thighs shaking, a sob breaking free.

“Fuck—too much—” you whimper, voice raw, but Paige doesn’t stop—her tongue flicking faster—overstimulating, ruthless—Azzi’s fingers circling, teasing—your core clenching, tears streaming, your mind hazing, fucked stupid. Paige pulls back—panting, grinning—wiping her mouth, climbing up—missionary now—her strap sliding back in—deep, smooth—your legs hooking her waist, your nails raking her back—soft cries spilling as she ruts into you, hitting your gummy spot—slow, punishing.

“Imma fuck you stupid,” Paige growls, voice husky, her hips rolling—deep, deliberate—each thrust sending sparks, your bud throbbing, raw—Azzi leaning in—her lips brushing your ear—“No self-respect—spreadin’ for us after flirtin’ with her—pathetic.” Her hand slips between—rubbing your clit—light, fast—your core tightening, another wave swelling, your tears hot—pleasure curling tight, your bratty spark gone, melted into their hands.

“Fuck—sorry—” you sob, voice breaking, your core clenching—hot, desperate—Paige filling you, Azzi’s fingers working you—your third climax hitting—sharp, wet—juices gushing, soaking Paige’s strap, your thighs, the sheets—your body quaking, cries loud—submission wrapping you soft and warm. Paige slows—gentle, deep—kissing your jaw—sloppy, warm—easing you down.

“Still not done,” Azzi says, voice firm—sliding off—kneeling now—her head dipping between your thighs—her tongue tracing your folds—slow, savoring—tasting your mess, your bud swollen, sensitive—your hips jerking, a whine spilling as she licks—soft, then firm—coaxing another tremble, tears falling—“Fuck—Azzi—I can’t—”—but she doesn’t care, her lips sealing over your clit—sucking, humming—your core vibrating, wrecked.

“Take it—useless little slut,” Paige murmurs, her hand resting against your cheek. Her thumb trails down and parts your lips, dragging your lower lip down. She lowers herself down, a ball of spit slowly falling into your mouth before lets your lower lip go and chases it, her tongue in your mouth and you sucking on it hastily.

“Cry all you want—gonna fuck you dumb.” Azzi’s tongue dives deeper—lapping, sucking—your juices dripping, your gummy spot pulsing, overstimulated—your fourth wave crashing—soft, shattering—your sob loud—juices soaking her face, the bed—your body limp, trembling, fucked beyond thought.

They settle—Paige curling beside—her hand resting on your thigh—warm, grounding—Azzi climbing up—her arm draping over—soft, possessive—her lips brushing your cheek—tender, lingering. “No more Ice shit—got it?” Paige whispers, voice rough, her breath warm—Azzi humming agreement, her fingers tracing your ribs—light, soothing.

“Got it,” you mumble, voice hoarse—fucked out—your body spent, fluttering—juices everywhere, tears drying, their warmth holding you—your bratty fire snuffed, fucked stupid, theirs completely.

#uconnwbb #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #azzi fudd #uconn #azzi fudd smut #azzi fudd x reader #wlw smut #smut #paige bueckers fic #azzi fudd fic

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ninikrumbs · 6 months ago

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Traditions

Basketball player geto suguru x reader. fluffy fluff. mostly geto's pov. pre-relationship-relationship. oblivious reader. suguru is down bad. minimal use of yn. satoru's nameless gf. connected with my other fic.

It was a stupid new tradition, that an even stupider idiot started. Suguru groaned inwardly in exasperation as he stared at the court. Satoru and Choso were going toe to toe against each other based on some dumb bet they had going.

While he sat on the sidelines wondering if giving or should he say loaning his jersey to some girl was really worth the hassle in order to keep up appearances.

But the again even their homicidal maniac of a Captain managed to rope a poor unsuspecting girl to wear his jersey.

Finding a girl would be no problem, they would line up in cues if word got out that he was considering it. It was the expectations they would have after. Most likely they’d expect him to ask them out or be his girlfriend which made him cringe.

That made him sound like an ass, but it was the truth.

But telling them right out on what he wanted would just open up another set of problems.

Gojo told him to find a girl he actually liked, to which he scoffed at. Its been a good while since a girl piqued his interest. “Come on, Suguruu” He spoke with that annoying drawl.”There has to be at least one girl”

His best friend’s usually dark glasses have been rose tinted ever since he met his girlfriend. Hes been practically floating on air. Its was still a mystery to Suguru how his girlfriend manages to tolerate such a menace to society but then again that’s like the pot calling the kettle black.

Still, he was happy for Satoru.

“Yo Suguru, heads up!” Choso’s warning floated through the air, along with the ball. It flew over Suguru’s head to the bleachers. His head turn to follow its course. He expected to hear multiple loud thumping noises as it bounces through the bleachers, strangely enough he only heard a soft thump and a startled gasp.

“Shit, my bad!” Satoru grimaced, voice apologetic. Sugurus eyes landed on a girl he recognized as Shoko’s and Satoru’s girlfriend’s friend. He thought you were pretty but you barely said two words to him so he never paid you much attention. Though currently Shoko and Gojo’s girlfriend were nowhere to be seen. All he could see was you crouching on the ground to pick up something- a book it seems.

A hand dragged Suguru up the bleachers, leading him up to the row where you were currently brushing off the book. Echoes of their footsteps made you glance up at them with an inscrutable expression.

Satoru spoke up first, his voice all high pitched and remorseful, dragging a embarrassed hand through his hair, “Forgive me, y/n! I didn’t know my own strength.”

His half hearted apology makes Sugurus eyes roll. Satoru’s looks and wealth makes him very popular, plus his basketball skills makes every girl cheer for him but sometimes his personality leaves a lot to be desired.

Suguru clamped a hand over Satoru’s shoulder before shooting you a charming smile. “I apologize for my friends lack of manners. Are you okay, sweetheart?”

A chill ran up his spine, making Suguru confused. He caught your gaze and he freezes up. Your glare could melt cement walls, you looked at him like he killed your dog.

What the hell?

“Here let me help you up.”He pushed forward, his tone dripping with honey as he offered you a hand. In spite of his efforts you merely stared at his hand with distaste as if he carried every germ in the world.

The fuck?

You visibly veered away from his body making Suguru drop his hand in embarrassment.

He heard someone snicker, making him turn and see Satoru shaking beside him, teary eyed and covering a hand over his mouth. Ha ha very funny.

There must be something in the air today. This never happens, not to him. Suguru was more popular than Satoru; with his charming smile, princely soft spoken demeanor and gentlemanly gestures. Girls swoon with just a smile from him, yet you looked at him like he was a cockroach who crawled into the wrong kitchen.

You stood up, disgruntled. “You made the spine crack.”

“Who’s spine cracked?” Satoru asked, confusion lacing his voice.

His response made you sighed in frustration at thankfully the both of them. “My book and now its ruined.”

Suguru began to open his mouth to apologize but closed them at the last second because first why should he apologize, this wasn’t even his fault? and second who cares than much about a book sine? You could still read it regardless and why were you even reading in a basketball stadium?

Seeing both of their skeptic faces, you sighed in resignation, not bothering to explain the importance of your book spine, “Whatever, I’m gonna go. Tell Shoko that I’m leaving first.”

You walked away grumbling, hugging the book to your chest.

Leaving Suguru dumbfounded and Satoru’s back hunching, hands on his stomach as he laughed.

“I can’t believe she just-”

“Shut up.”

“And the way she stared at you? pfft!”

“Shut up or Ill punch you.”

“Here let me help you up~”

“Satoru!”

Days passed and Suguru eventually hears from Satoru’s girlfriend about you.

“Oh? y/n, she loves love books. She’s a history major you know. So its not a surprise that she reacted that way.”

“The spine? Breaking it is damaging so it won’t last long. She just really treasures them.” “

But I swear she’s actually really nice and sweet!”

That’s what she said, but there was nothing nice about you completely ignoring his existence when you pass by each other at the corridor, you’re nose in a book. Or how you immediately stand up to leave not even sparing him a glance whenever Suguru shows up in the same room as you, which was often ever since your friend started dating Satoru.

He couldn’t deny that you were getting under his skin. He wasn’t even the one who threw the god damn ball yet he was getting the brunt of your anger- if he could even call it that when you don’t exactly speak to him to showcase said anger.

You were a mystery. But what frustrated him the most is why did it bother him so much? was it his ego? finally getting turned down by a girl? or that he couldn’t figure you out? he didn’t know.

The incident at the lunch hall was the last straw for Suguru, though not in the way he expected.

There was only one last piece of that cheesecake Satoru adores, and while Suguru doesn’t care much for sweets, he usually gets it for Satoru.

He reached out to take the last plate before he noticed another smaller hand reach for it simultaneously. His eyebrows raised in surprised as he caught the pleading expression on your face; eyebrows slightly scrunched, lips curved into a cute pout and bright eyes directed right at the cheesecake.

He blinked. You were actually really cute.

As if noticing him for the first time, you glanced at him. Recognition flitted through your eyes making you drop your hand as you looked away from him. “Sorry.”

“No. Here,”Suguru picked up the cheesecake plate and placed it on your tray. “Its all yours.”

“Really?” You stared at the cheesecake like he gave you a thousand dollar necklace and not a simple dessert.

The satisfied expression that danced on your face made Suguru’s stomach flip. Weird.

Then you glanced up at him, eyes all soft, giving him a small smile before dashing away but not before you managed to mumble your thanks, “Thanks, Geto.”

Shit, you were really cute.

—

Suguru tucked the heavy book under his arm as he began his search for you around the University. Texting Shoko would have been quicker, but he didn’t wanna give her any wrong ideas.

Not that there was something more to this gesture. Nope, he just wants to clear the air you know. A friendly gesture. After all the both of you are gonna see each other a lot whether you liked it or not. Definitely, not because he wanted to see you smile again. Yep, definitely not that

After 30 minutes of wandering around your usual hangouts. He gave up and texted Satoru’s girlfriend, the better option of the two. She replied a minute later.

“Hey Geto! Ya, she’s actually here at my dorm. Do you need something?”

He didn’t bother replying, and just started making his way dorm.

Suguru knocked on the door and after a moment, Satoru’s girlfriend came into view with her eyebrows raised.”Oh, you actually came here.”

He shrugged as nonchalantly as possible, “Yeah, I just need to give y/n something. Its nothing important.”

She hummed mischievously, a knowing glint in her eyes, “Hmm, sure sure. Come in.”

She opened the door wider to make space for Geto’s larger frame. His eyes land on your form on the sofa leaning on the arm rest with your legs propped, a duvet covering your thighs. You’re shoulders were shaking as you laughed quietly at some video on your phone.

For once your nose wasn’t in a book. He noted the popcorn and the paused movie on the TV screen.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your plans.” He apologized sheepishly.

Gojo’s girl just waved him off, “oh shush, its no big deal.”

Upon hearing Geto’s voice you looked towards the source, surprise flitted throughout your face then confusion as your lips parted a fraction. “Geto? What are you doing here?”

“Uh..” Its been awhile since he’s been rendered speechless and embarrassed. He has always had some smooth line that bordered between flirty and friendly, yet your curious gaze was enough make his head into a jumbled mess.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped some sense back into him. Gojo’s girlfriend opened the door before grinning mischievously, “Ill go get some soda. Back in a jiff!”

Silence enveloped the room, indicating it was just the two of you now.

Geto got some of his confidence and composure back as he pointed on the other end of the couch. “Can I sit?”

“Of course.” You answered, still looking perplexed.

Finally, he sat down and pulled the large book from under his arm and handed it to you.“Here, as an apology for breaking the spine of your other book.” He started, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so inconsiderate the other day. "

You stared silently at the hard bound copy of the same book that had its spine cracked. It was a limited edition copy that Suguru managed to track down with Satoru’s help. It did come with the price of Satoru’s incessant teasing.

“Well well ~ all this effort for a girl who was mean to you. You must be a masochist, Suguruu.”

“You got me a very expensive limited edition hard bound copy of one of my favorite books?” You breathed, voice laced with astonishment.

Expensive? Suguru didn’t know. He bought it without looking at the price. He doubted he would’ve care about the price either way.

“Satoru’s girlfriend told how much it meant to you.” Suguru gave.

Its was silent for a moment. Anticipation eating at Sugurus nerves for your reaction. Were you gonna through it at his face or-

He was pulled out of his thoughts when a full blown breathtaking smile bloomed on your face making Sugurus eyes widen. It was like time slowed down, the rest of the world was blur and all he could see was you. Your eyes sparkled with so much joy, it was contagious the even he couldn’t help but smile bit.

“Thank you so much, Geto.” You took the book from his hands.

Relief and satisfaction ran through his veins, making him relax into the couch. Your smile. He doesn’t think his gonna get the image off his mind anytime soon.

“Does that mean your not mad at me anymore?” He asked, smiling softly.

You tilted your head in confusion. “Mad? What do you mean?”

Suguru’s face mirrored yours, “Weren’t you avoiding me because you were mad we cracked the spine of your book?”

A pretty blush rose up your cheeks that Suguru strangely wanted to caress but he held back the urge. Your shoulders shrank as you avoided his gaze. “Not exactly..”

Suguru quirked an eyebrow as as he absentmindedly tucked a stray hair away from your face, “Tell me.”

His touch rose goosebumps on your skin which his observant eyes didn’t miss. You bit your lip in contemplation before letting out a big exhale, “I wasn’t avoiding because I was mad. I was avoiding you because I was embarrassed.”

“Of what?”

You looked at him incredulously, “What do you mean what? Don’t you remember the way I overreacted about my book?”

The memory of her staring at him like he killed her dog flashed through his mind making him chuckle. “I do recall someone looking at me like I was the scum beneath her feet.”

She groaned and knocked her head against the cover of the book, hiding her face from him, “I was so embarrassed! I realized I overreacted about 10 minutes after it happened. I know people don’t see things the way I do.”

So that was the reason of your constant wariness of him. He got so frustrated over nothing then. “You could have just talked to me, you know.”

“I know, but I barely spoke to you before and I didn’t know how to even begin a conversation with you. Talking to Satoru was a lot easier since I’ve been around him more-”

“Wait, you’ve talk to Satoru?” And why did it irked him that the both of your were at a first name basis.

“Yeah, A day after it happened.” You said innocently.

That little fucker. He watched Suguru go crazy over what happened and despite knowing the real reason, he just let Suguru grow into his frustration. He was gonna kill Gojo.

“Ah.”

After a beat you spoke, “Are you mad?”

“No. Not at you at least.”

“Oh, okay.” A bit of silence before you continued, “I really am sorry though, and you even bought me this book- I mean you weren’t even the one who tossed the ball.”

He wanted to be in your good graces but he wasn’t ready to admit why. A ghost of a smile formed on his lips. “Don’t apologize, please. To you, your books are precious and its normal to feel angry or sad about things that matter to you.”

Your lips parted a bit at his words before giving him a small timid smile, “Thanks, Geto.”

“Suguru.”

“What?”

“Call me Suguru. You’re on a first name basis with Satoru, its only fair.” He said in a matter of a factually.

Hesitation laced your features, “But we barely know each other.”

Suguru mouth tipped wickedly, “So if we get to know each other better you’ll call me by my name?”

“I..” You looked like you were balancing the pros and cons in your head. “I guess? I mean that’s how it usually goes.”

“I can work with that.”

—

A few weeks after the little mishap. Suguru and you built a steady friendship. You were no longer ignoring him with you see him along the hall. In fact you guys often walk together cause the both of you were coincidentally going the same way. During lunch, you constantly grow surprised when Suguru suddenly starts discussing about a book you like, and you’re too invested in the conversation to ask why his sudden interest in books.

You were so fascinating to him for some reason and he wanted to get even closer.

He learned a lot about your odd quirks and interest over time like how you like reading and walking at the same time. It was both endearing and a walking hazard.

“Stop.”

You stopped abruptly, pulling the book away.

“Look down.”

And you did, only to see that you were mere inches from crashing into a trashcan, “That wasn’t here yesterday.”

You turned to see Sugurus smirking face, amusement dancing in his eyes. “That’s because you were walking from another direction yesterday.”

“No way. I was not.”

A laugh crept up Sugurus throat, “Yes, you were and you didn’t notice but you knocked down an acapella group yesterday.”

“You’re hilarious, Geto.” You rolled your eyes.

The sound of his last name made him narrow his eyes. “Stop it with the Geto already.”

It was your turn to laugh at his annoyance, the sound of your laugh so light and bright like wind chimes. Your pretty eyes shining with mirth. Why was he annoyed again?

That’s another thing he realized, you were always pretty he knew that. But somehow you got even more beautiful. It was distracting to say the least. Especially when you talk about something you love and you get that sparkle in you eyes. God, he could stare and listen to you for hours. He was turning into such a sap and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to stop it.

—

“Now that’s just wrong.” You grimaced as you watched the gory scene on screen. Your cute expression made Suguru chuckle.

The both of you were watching a documentary on Greek history, specifically the great wars. It was for your paper but Suguru insisted he didn’t mind watching it with you. Though he knew it was just a lame excuse to hangout with you.

The urge to see you all the time got stronger and stronger by the day and he got tired of trying push it away. He had it bad, real bad.

He glanced at you so focused on the movie that he doubts you know about his mushy feelings about you due to your noted obliviousness.

“Can you pass me the popcorn, Geto?” You absentmindedly asked him. Your pajama clad legs were propped on his lap with his arm draped over it to pull you close.

It was cozy and intimate. His chest tingled with satisfaction knowing that you were comfortable enough around to initiate contact like this. Sharing your warmth with his.

He handed you the popcorn. “Here you go, pretty.”

You noticeably blush at the nickname, “Thanks, Geto.”

He’s been calling you cute nicknames all the time these days and you showed no indication of stopping him. The only thing that plagues him is you still calling him by his last name. That has got to go.

—-

“What are you looking for exactly?” Suguru heard holler you from the living room.

He was currently rifling through his closet.“Something important.”

Satoru invited everyone out to eat and the both of you were on the way there when Suguru remembered he forgot something in his dorm room.

Found it. He grabbed the shirt and hid it behind him as he made his way back to you.

“Did you find it?”

“Yep.”

He casually sat down at one of the armrests of his sofa which made you quirk a questioning eyebrow. “Aren’t we gonna go?”

“In a minute. I wanted to ask you something first.” Hopefully you didn’t catch the slightly nervous tone st the end of his sentence.

“Okay..?”

“Come here, princess.” He smiled reassuringly as he pulled closer to him, finding yourself in between his legs. Even sitting down, he was still at eye level to you. He really liked how taller he was than you were. The close proximity made that cute blush that Suguru adores appear.

“Are you coming to the game on friday?”

You tilted you head, clearly it wasn’t the question you were expecting, “Of course, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t show up to support you guys?”

“Good.” He took out the shirt from behind him. “Do you mind wearing this for me?”

You stared at the jersey on his hand with the word Geto along with his player number printed in a big bold font at the back. Geto watched as surprise, excitement then confusion passed through your face.

“Wha-why?” You sputtered. “Shouldn’t you be giving this to a girl you like or something?”

Suguru chuckled and stared at you with exasperated fondness. You were adorable and oblivious as hell. “I am giving it to a girl I like. And right now I’m just hoping she’ll say yes.”

After a second, it seemed you put two and two together. Your eyes met his.

“You like me?”

“I thought you knew.” He teased, smirking .

“How would I know that?!”

“I wasn’t exactly hiding it.”

“You didn’t exactly tell me either!” You exclaimed, getting a bit worked up.

Sugurus smile widened into a grin as he rests his forehead on yours, “Then let me tell you now.”

He took in a deep breathe, next words filled with warmth. “I like you, y/n. More than you know.”

The heat of your cheeks radiated from your face as Suguru nudged your nose with his before pulling away. “I don’t mind telling you that a couple more times if you want.”

When you didn’t answer Suguru did just that, “I like you. I like you a lot. For a while now actually-”

You cut him of by covering his mouth with your hands, “I get it!”

Suguru laughed beneath your hands before pulling them down. “So what do you say? You don’t have to of course if you don’t want to its-”

“I do! I do want to!” You blurted out hastily, mortification on your face at your admission. While Suguru could barely contain his happiness.

“You do?”Still Suguru couldn’t help but tease you.

You barely met his eyes as you spoke, “I do. Its just- I didn’t know you liked me that way and this caught me by surprised.”

A laughed escaped Sugurus throat as he put the jersey down and pulled you flushed against his chest, tucking his head on your neck with his hands finding a home on your waist. “You’re so adorable you know that?”

“Stop that!” You groaned.

“I can’t.”

Slowly, you relaxed into his hold as you wrapped yours arms around his neck, leaning your head on his. A comfortable silence wrapped around you two as you basked in the warmth of the moment.

Suguru breathed in your scent, holding you tightly like he didn’t want to let go. His body all warm and tingly

The moment was shattered when Suguru’s ringtone blasted in the room. He sighed grimly as he reluctantly pulled away from you, opening his phone. “Its Satoru wondering where we are.” He sighed heavily again, “We should get going.”

Before you could say anything, he stood up, handed you the jersey then lead you towards the door.

You tugged at his hand, “Suguru, wait.”

The sound of his name on your tongue made him turn back abruptly, “What did you say?”

You gave him a shy smile, “I like you too, Suguru.”

Suguru’s eyes widened as his heart soared. The world turned blurry once again and all he could see was you. A knot of emotion lodged in his throat. Damn, he didn’t think he’d be this affected by your words. He groaned and threw his head back at the door, voice hoarse as he spoke, “You don’t know what you do to me, princess.”

You intertwined your fingers with his as you grinned, looking so pretty it hurt. “I have a pretty good idea.”

Maybe, It wasn’t such a stupid tradition. After all it led him to you.

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eccentricallygothic · 8 months ago

Text

When Bf!Pedri comes back a winner from a Classico and you are a Madridista…

Warning(s): Painal, unprotected sex, dacryphilia, humiliation, spanking, mirror sex, body writing, kinda hate sex but not really because it's an established thing, football rivalry. MDNI.

Pedri eats you out and worships your pussy if Madrid wins, and he fucks your ass and then some if Barcelona does.

Meaning it goes his way if he comes home a victor.

That is the deal.

The room is engulfed in silence and the menace in the air seems to cut at the tears sitting on your eyes. Your gasps and hisses are lost on you due to how loud and heavy your heart thumps in your ears. Your fingertips are cold against the edge of the table that they remain curled around and your knuckles have turned white from the force you're putting into your grip.

When another one of Pedri's spanks bring you to a state of temporary coherence, you hear his cold chuckle as well as the humiliating smacking of his balls against your blushing ass that is gaping around his rock-like girth.

“I know, baby, I know” the white jersey that he makes you wear especially for the occasion scalds into your skin when he brushes your hair out of the way and smooths the pearly fabric down to make the name of one of his rivals even clearer to his lust-ridden, proud view. “It hurts to lose” his taunting coo burns into your cheeks and you clench your jaw in loathsomeness despite the unmeasurable love you hold for your cruel defiler.

You try to lower your head to avoid your view so he grabs your hair and pulls at it to make sure you are upright enough to see yourself in the full size mirror that he has placed before the table. The pathetic score with which your club lost to his is written on your forehead with a big, black, and bold marker.

“Look at how pretty you look bent over with your Madridista ass spread around my cock” the mat of his thick hair sticks to his forehead as the ends hang over his intimidating eyes that are so dark they appear almost wholly black. He is still wearing his kit, he never takes it off on nights such as this. One of his hands hold your tear stained face up towards the mirror and the other keeps one of your knees pushed over the table to make his destroying of your ass even deeper.

Now you understand why he gave you a cool snort and careless once over before reassuring you that it was okay when you revealed yourself to be a Madridista on your very first date. It had been surprising for you, because you had almost imagine him dumping you out of disgust. But he had told you it was okay. That you could love him and your club at the same time and the world would still be the same, if the two of you were good for each other.

And oh, the two of you were more than good for each other.

In a once in a lifetime kind of way.

Which is why this deal was a fun and mutual decision between the two of you.

“You pretend to be mad and embarrassed, but I can feel your tiny little pussy trying to greedily clamp down onto me everytime I graze by, tsk.” And now you are reminded of why it had come to be in the first place.

Because your lover that belonged to the enemy had not spoken one word false. You are a mess of burning wanton between your legs, your hips try to reach out to him with no regard to the stinging of your poor pucker each time his snap against yours. And you bite your lip before sucking down on it in sick anticipation of when he will lay you down under him and make you look at his face as he would take you over and over again until his name and face will be all that you know.

You cannot wait.

. . .

MASTERLIST

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buckets-and-trees · 5 days ago

Note

Imagine: villain (masked/hidden) choose one the city or your lover (y/n).

Hero leaves to save the city and y/n exposes themselves saying “you were right” to the villain (Bucky) if possible maybe a little angst abandonment and seeking comfort via buckyxreader with some smut if you have the time 👉👈 if you do thank you and please tag me I love your writing and I love saving to reread!

Take My Hand

Characters/Pairings: MMC x curvy Millennial female!Reader, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes Word Count: 13k Summary: You're brought into a plot that you never asked for, caught between two men, former best friends.

Content/Warnings: kidnapping; drugging; angst; explicit smut: vaginal fingering, oral (male receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, anal fingering

Notes: This was a the last piece leftover from the little request fest I threw when I hit 300 followers. This week I've just hit 3500. I've always had an idea of wanting to tell a story with this prompt featuring a post-Thunderbolts Bucky, and as time wore on and we got closer to the movie ACTUALLY coming out, it seemed better to wait and see what would happen. It only gave more for me to work into my original idea, and I'm really pleased with how it turned out now. I sketched out most of the outline and quite a bit of dialogue back in spring/summer of 2023, and the majority of that is still here, including the fic title.

Additional Note: Trotting this out for week WEEK FOUR of @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - it's free week, but I did use Anal Play and Aftercare here.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The taste in your mouth is wet coins.

For a long, soft moment, you assume you must have rolled off your own bed and onto the floor, but the linoleum—if it is linoleum—is too cold and too smooth, and the air had that sterile, metallic nip associated with hospital waiting rooms and broken lightbulbs.

And why would you have rolled off your bed onto the floor? You weren’t in bed the last moment you remember, and you wouldn’t have fallen asleep in your clothes.

No, the last thing you remember was softly closing your front door behind you, humming to yourself as you flicked the lock closed, and then a sudden sting to your neck.

There’s a sting in your eyes now because you realize the awful truth.

The worst case scenario you and your boyfriend had only ever spoken about once because it was a viable possibility, a hazard of dating him: you’d been kidnapped.

You sit up, gracelessly, and your teeth chatter. You let yourself feel the terror, but only for a heartbeat—your brain rings with it, a tuning fork of dread, and you clamp it down, hard, into the pit of your stomach where it radiates. Not now. You need to think.

You take inventory: arms and legs both work, hands still attached, no obvious wounds besides the soreness blooming at your neck like a thumbprint on a peach. You press the tender spot and wince.

The room is not what you would have imagined for a kidnapping. It’s wintry and lit too brightly. You’re inside a small cube, walling you off with thick, aquarium-grade panels of glass. The encasement is large enough for you to reasonably pace back and forth, but there’s no furniture, no cot or even a pillow or a bowl of water. Whoever has taken you must not plan on keeping you here long, and that could be either very good or very bad for you.

Beyond the glass, the room is cathedral-big, with a single wall of windows running from floor to ceiling. Daylight pours in, and by your best guess it’s afternoon sunlight. Probably the same afternoon you were taken as you’re not hungry or thirsty.

Scratch that.

You are thirsty, but not uncomfortably so.

You swab your tongue around your gums, tasting metal and something else—something faint and sharp, like ozone during a summer thunderstorm. There is no handle or aperture on your side of the glass, only a seamless plane, and you get the sense that were you to pound your fists on it, it would barely quiver. Still, you raise your hand and press your palm to the surface, feeling its chill seep into your bones.

Nothing. No movement, no sign of life in the luminous cathedral beyond.

It isn’t fear that keeps you quiet, exactly. You simply know, with a fundamental certainty, that if you were to scream or shout, no one would come. You’re a captive sentenced to solitude until someone deigns to antagonize or rescue you.

The silence is not total. There is a white noise, a faint thrum—ventilation, perhaps, or some slow machine grinding in the bowels of the building. If it is a building. You aren’t sure what else it could be, but it feels crucial not to assume.

You check yourself for tracking bugs, but you’re still clothed: a hoodie, jeans, your comfortable sneakers. You didn’t dress for comfort in case of kidnap, but at least that went well for you with what the universe apparently had in store for you today. You have your watch - an old piece from your grandmother, no smart capabilities there, which is probably why it’s still on your wrist. No phone, of course, and your pockets are nearly empty. Lint in one and - thoughtfully for whoever this villain and their cronies are - your lip balm in the other.

At least you won’t have chapped lips.

You pace the perimeter, mapping the enclosure with your steps. Six and a half paces by five, three full circuits before your limbs stop feeling groggy and your brain thundering with each heartbeat.

After the third circuit, you crouch, and then sink down to the ground, pressing your back up against the glass, facing forward to the wall of windows. Unfortunately you’re not even close enough to the windows to catch any of the sunlight - would’ve been nice to be able to bathe in it sleepily like a housecat.

You count your breaths. By forty-two, you’re over it. You slide down the glass a little further, legs splayed. You rest your head against the glass panel and close your eyes, just for the luxury of not seeing where you are.

You are almost comfortable, almost numbed into resignation, when the silence is broken by a blunt, echoing clank.

You shift on instinct, drawing your knees up to crouch defensively, ready to propel yourself in either direction or attack if needed, though there isn’t much direction to go.

There’s a second clank, sharper. A shadow falls across the threshold, and then a white panel in the wall slides away like a bank vault, soundless, on hidden rails. The cold is sharper now, and you catch the smell of winter through the climate-controlled sterility: iron, gun oil, something so clean it’s almost dangerous.

A figure enters, and your surge of adrenaline is strong and immediate, tinged with hope, and your heart soars. This is not your captor, not a faceless goon or a hissing cackler like you’d half-expected. This is someone you know.

Bucky Barnes.

It’s not your boyfriend, but one of his old trusty allies, though it’s been a long time since he and Sam have worked together or even seen each other.

He is broader than you remember, hair falling in dark, soft waves around his face. He’s not in tactical gear, instead wearing a charcoal suit that fits him too well, like he used to when he was a senator. That’s when you’d first met him.

His eyes are the pale blue of a glacier's heart, flat and expressionless, and for a moment you think maybe this isn't Bucky. Maybe it's the other him, the one people used to fear - the old Winter Soldier, not the one who was part of the New Avengers, not the one who had worked with Sam, not the one they called the White Wolf.

He stands behind the glass, and you realize the panel has remained opened in the outer chamber, but not for you. It's for him. Your throat closes, choking on his name.

"Bucky?" you croak, and then wish you hadn't. The sound is needy, broken. You weren't going to be that person—someone who begged at the first sight of a familiar face.

He looks at you, head tilting very slightly, as if he's listening to music only he can hear.

“Are you hurt?” His voice sounds normal, maybe a little raspier than you remember, but still warm enough to seep through the wall and thaw your panic a degree. You shake your head. The glass does nothing to blur your expression, so you let it hang open, let him see everything you’re feeling, the fear and the hope braided together into something that tastes as bitter as old coffee.

Bucky studies you with that same tilted curiosity, the kind that makes you feel like he’s already taken you apart in his mind and knows exactly how you’re put together.

You edge forward, still on your knees. “Where’s Sam?” you ask, and the moment you say it, the question feels both necessary and perilous.

Bucky glances at the panel behind him, lips pressed together as if considering whether to share the answer or let it fester.

He glances over his shoulder. You realize then he’s not alone in the cathedral beyond. Two figures—faceless in sleek black, like chess pieces—stand sentinel behind him. They don’t move, don’t even appear to breathe, and a cold animal part of your brain registers that they don’t need to. They’re just there to watch.

He steps closer, so close his breath briefly fogs a patch of the glass between you. “He’s busy, but he’s on his way.”

Coolness spreads through your veins.

Bucky’s eyes flick to the corners of the cube, where cameras you hadn’t noticed are now winking alive, the power inlet’s red dots glaring. You’re being recorded—filmed, archived, maybe studied—and the revelation lands with a dull, resonant thud. You try not to show your panic on your face, but your body betrays you: fingers curl, jaw tenses, pupils go wide.

He is not here for a rescue. You know it before you know you know it.

"Why am I here, Bucky?" Your question comes out too steady. You want to throw something at him—your shoe, your voice, your fear—but there’s not enough space in this box for anger, only the condensation of every instinct you have, crowding in, begging you to understand.

“The safest place for you right now is here.” He says it quietly, like he’s apologizing, but the immediacy of it, the lack of debate, has your mind racing, his words in no way soothing.

“Bucky,” you say, “let me out.”

He shakes his head, almost fondly. “I can’t. Not yet.”

You stand, legs trembling, and you press both hands to the glass when you say, “Please. Whatever this is, don’t do this.”

You expect him to sigh or look away, but instead Bucky studies you with that lethal patience you’ve seen before, the one that made you want to work for his congressional campaign when you first met him, the one that made him a shrewd negotiator in the House of Representatives. He waits so long you want to scream, but then he raises his hand—slow, deliberate—and presses it to the glass, palm-to-palm with yours. Despite physics, you almost feel the pressure, the almost-heat leaking across the boundary.

"It’s already done," he says.

You stare at him, a thousand implications creasing into your mind, none of them good. "What have you done?" you whisper, because you know it’s not only about the kidnapping, not really.

Bucky’s jaw flexes, and, again, he doesn’t speak right away. His fingers splay, as if wanting to catch yours on the other side, and then curl into a fist, knuckles whitening against the cold.

“Technically speaking, I haven’t done anything yet,” he says. A smile, thin and wintry, crosses his lips. “But I did send a message.” He says it with the offhand air of someone admitting to forgetting to water their plants.

Your brain scrambles. “A message to who? Sam?”

He shakes his head, though not in the way someone would if they were lying. “To enough people at the top - Sam, Valentina, government officials.”

He waits for you to catch up. Sam hadn’t been able to tell you about the message he’d received - common when he got called away to do Captain America work - but he’d looked more concerned than usual.

You watch Bucky’s face for hints, for the shadow of an old self or a new one. Bucky, who once avoided all but necessity, has always been the kind of person who made statements with action, not words. But this—this was theater.

He leans a shoulder against the glass, as if the two of you are just tired of standing at a long party, finding a quiet spot together. “Do you want to know what it said?”

You don’t.

But you nod, because not-knowing is the same as being powerless, and you can’t bear the cold feeling of helplessness.

He cocks his head, almost gently. “It said that unless certain demands were met, a biotoxin would be released at the heart of Manhattan. Three hours for it to spread across the borough. After that, containment would be impossible. The message detailed three drop points for the ransom, and a protocol for negotiation.” He says it without bravado, a recitation of fact, as if he’s reading it from cue cards in his head.

You try to laugh. It comes out as a dry, shuddering guffaw. “That’s—cartoon villain stuff, Bucky.”

He shrugs, as if that’s the point.

You rub your hands over your face, and for a moment you are tempted to laugh harder, because this is what Sam always used to joke about: that Bucky operated on logic so clean it seemed mad, his thinking a locked-room puzzle with only one solution.

“Why?”

“No one was listening to anything else anymore.”

You swallow, but your mouth is dry again. “You could’ve called Sam.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker, and for a second you see the old pain underneath, a wince almost too quick to mark. But in its wake is an emotionless frown. “You know I couldn’t.”

Your chest hollows at the words because you know he’s right. He and Sam haven’t spoken for months, and the last time they did, it went poorly.

Bucky is watching you with a steady, unblinking intensity. You get the unsettling sense he’s rehearsed this conversation in his head, every line and gesture.

“Sam has forty-seven minutes to show up here and deliver the payment,” Bucky continues.

“Does Sam know it’s you?” you ask.

He considers the question, lets his eyes drag up and down the box, your body, your face. “No,” he says. “Not yet.”

“And what then?” You press. “He comes, you do your villain monologue, and what, he hands over cash and saves the day?”

“Untraceable cryptocurrency. And it’s not money I’m after.”

Bucky stands there, his blue eyes eating the distance between you. There’s a hush like reverence, like the building itself is holding its breath. Both of you are silent, and for a moment the glass between you softens, your memories of him rewinding to that first campaign event in the corridor of the Natural Hisory Museum, when he’d looked at you so long and so full of yearning, but you’d just started working his PR team days before, and neither one of you had wanted to cross professional boundaries. You’d met Sam later that night.

But that look… He’s looking at you like that now, older and sadder, but somehow more intent.

He presses his forehead to the glass, and it seems less like a threat and more like a confession. "You know," he says, voice low, "I still think about the night I introduced you to Sam. I wanted to kiss you then. Think I should’ve. Instead, I decided it would be less complicated to let my best friend take a chance with you instead. I knew you’d be good for each other."

The ache in your chest shifts, nostalgia and fear suddenly indistinguishable. You stare at the space between you and try not to let it show, the old hunger, the regret.

But there’s anger there now, too.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you respond.

“You can’t stop me.”

You want to spit or hiss or stomp at him, say something sharp and scathing, but your own feelings are scattered and skittering as you try to make sense of this situation.

“Don’t try and say you did this all for me,” you finally manage, and you almost sound angry.

And you are. But you’re also tangled by a feeling you’d buried years ago when you committed to Sam, convinced yourself that your short stint of longing for Bucky was little more than a whim. But it is still there, uncovered from a place you forgot existed, reverberating in your bones, making you ache.

Something in his face flickers, another microexpression so brief you almost miss it. He leans back from the glass, folding his arms, the suit tightening across his chest. “I won’t lie to you. This isn’t all for you, and it isn’t all for Sam.” His voice turns quiet, almost uncertain. “But if I didn’t want you, I would have done this without you. You weren’t necessary for the plan, but you’re certainly worth it.” He lets the words hang between you, sees the way they knot your throat. “So don’t doubt how much I want you.”

That admission robs you of the breath from your lungs. You only realize your jaw has dropped when he smirks.

“Now,” Bucky resumes, beginning to pace casually in front of you. You know it’s a move to momentarily lower the stakes given everything he’s just said. “Once Sam gets here, I’m going to offer him a choice: save you or save the city.”

“He’s going to pick the city,” you respond automatically.

“Oh, we both know that’s not even a question for our dutiful Captain America, but I want you to observe and assess how long it takes him to make the decision.”

Your brow furrows.

“He will disappoint you,” Bucky says.

“Bucky, don’t say that. Don’t be cruel.”

His eyes flick back to yours, and for a second they’re raw, not glacial at all, but blue as bruises. “I’m not trying to be cruel. I want you to see the world as it is. As I do now.” He pauses. “You once said only the honest stuff matters. Remember?”

You do remember. On the rooftop of a hotel in D.C., debating a speech draft, Bucky had said honesty was the only way to cut through the noise. You’d laughed—knowing how honesty had almost destroyed him once—and now you wished you hadn’t. You wished you’d listened more closely.

He presses his hand to the glass again, his whole body vibrating with something that looks like need and restraint, and maybe a dash of childish hope.

You want to hate him, but you can’t. Maybe you could if it were anyone else, if the person threatening your life and Sam’s career and the largest city in the country, hadn’t seeped into your heart so long ago.

And why was that romantic ripple resurfacing now when you’d been so content to have him platonically exist in your life?

You had been content with Sam.

You still were.

You look away, throat raw.

"And if Sam doesn't come for me?"

Bucky’s laugh is soft, brief, and not as cruel as a villain’s should be. "He will.”

And he does.

Same bursts onto the scene when there are only twenty-seven minutes left to save the city.

“All of this was you? All along?” Sam thunders at Bucky.

He still has a hand on the glass, having rushed to you the second he saw you were part of this messy situation, too, but his full attention was now on the other man.

Apparently your kidnapping is something Sam hadn’t discovered until this moment. Which made sense. He’d left your apartment to take care of the world, and it was still the same day. He hadn’t even had time to reasonably have figured out you’d gone missing.

“That explains why this whole area is a dead zone for Red Wing,” Sam adds.

Bucky’s only response: a shrug.

He oozes such nonchalance you know it’s boiling Sam’s blood more than almost anything else.

“Come on, man, this isn’t you,” Sam insists.

Bucky cocks his head to the side. “Except clearly it is. And isn’t it inevitable? Just going back to my roots, right? Like everyone said about me and the rest of the New Avengers. Only a matter of time until we reverted to our nefarious settings.”

Sam’s jaw tenses. “That’s not what I said. I never said that about you.” Sam’s voice is tight, incredulous but not, you realize, surprised. “You think I ever saw you that way? After everything?”

“No?” Bucky’s lips tick up at the corners. “Could’ve fooled me. You remember the last time we talked, right? The argument over who had claim to the team, the name, the whole damn legacy? You know I never wanted any of that. Valentina made sure my face was on the front page for her own benefit, not mine. That was her power move, not mine.”

Sam’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You let her.”

Bucky’s hands flex at his sides; the metal fingers twitch and sing against each other. “I let her because I knew where the real threats were. I thought I could steer if I had one hand on the wheel, if I knew what was coming, turns out I was wrong. You want to talk about legacies, Sam? You got to choose yours. All I ever got was a list of people to kill that just keeps getting longer.”

You can see the hurt behind Bucky’s words; it’s so absent of melodrama that it slaps harder than any shouted accusation. Sam stands still, breathing hard through his nose, shoulders squared for a fight neither of them wants but both are already losing.

“Bucky,” Sam says softer now, “I know you think this is the only way, but there’s always another way. Give me the protocol. I’ll fix it. I promise. You can trust me. You always have.”

Bucky’s laugh is ugly and quiet. “You’ll fix it? That’s the problem. Nobody wants it fixed, Sam. The world is addicted to the circus.”

Sam stands very straight. His fist on the glass trembles, a visible effort not to lose his composure. “This isn’t justice. You don’t fix the world by threatening to destroy it.”

“Don’t I? The only thing anyone listens to anymore is a gun to the head. Or in this case a virus to the water supply.”

Bucky draws in a long, deliberate breath, scanning the cathedral-sized chamber as if taking the measure of human history. It’s another theatrical move. You can see so plainly now that Bucky’s pushing Sam’s buttons on purpose. "Now," he says, letting his hands drop to his sides, "I assume you came ready to make the drop. It's a big ask, I know. One point eight billion is a lot of zeros, even for Uncle Sam."

Sam doesn't flinch. "The money’s ready, untraceable transfer, just like you wanted." He threw a pointed look at the two sentinels waiting beyond Bucky, then back to him. "Now drop the coordinates and the codes. Let the authorities handle the rest. Hell, let me handle it if you want."

They exchange small drives - tossing them at the same time to each other from across the short distance. Sam is already pressing the one he caught to the technology face on the panel in the forearm of his suit, and you can see Bucky uploading his funds to a small device in his hand.

“We good now?” Sam asks.

Bucky looks up, one eyebrow raised. "You think I’d make it that simple? After all the theatrics so far? You’re still thinking in terms of clean beginnings and endings. But that’s not how any of this will work,” Bucky deadpans. “Obviously I’ve brought our guest of honor for a reason,” he shifts the focus back to you.

Sam’s eyes flick past Bucky to you, searching for some sign. You give him a small nod, as if to say: I’m okay, keep going, don’t let him win.

But what would winning mean here? What would losing?

Sam’s jaw tics. “You’re not going to do this. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Not really.”

“There’s always a choice, Sam. That’s what you used to say.” Bucky looks, for a moment, almost apologetic. “The system at the deployment site—the only way to access the control terminal is with a biometric confirmation. Yours, Sam. No one else on earth, not even me, could get past it once it’s locked. You’re the linchpin.”

You don’t see the move, not even the flicker of Bucky’s hand—there’s only a flick of light, an infinitesimal click, then a cold bite in your neck. Your hand slaps toward it by reflex; your fingers close over a dart, needle still vibrating where it breached skin. At first, you think it’s a threat, an empty goad to make Sam act, but then your chest constricts, heart stuttering, then galloping so fast you can’t count the beats. Your vision pulses, the color and contrast cranked up to a sickly, menacing degree.

Sam shouts your name. He pounds the glass, rips the shield off his back and tries to breach it with a throw of the titanium to no avail.

So it’s more than mere glass.

Unable to penetrate the clear walls of your cage, Sam round on Bucky. “So you’re going to make me decide. Save the city, or save her.”

“That’s the game.” Bucky finally lets his eyes rest on you again, and the sadness in them isn’t performative, though everything else about this situation is. “If you’re fast enough, maybe you could do both, but is that a gamble you’re willing to take?”

“Damn you, Bucky Barnes!”

Bucky shrugs again. “We can talk it out, if it will make you feel better.”

Bucky rotates his wrist, metal joints clicking. When he continues, his voice is matter-of-fact. “You go for the city right now, you have time to stop this, a win for sure, maybe have time to come back and save her.”

Bucky then nods toward your glass enclosure.

"If you choose her over the city, you can probably get her to a medical professional quickly enough that they can sort her out. You’ll probably miss the window to prevent contamination though. But there will likely be enough time for them to synthesize an antidote. I made sure to use something new. Not in the wild yet. They’ll quarantine and triage, and–”

“Stop, Buck!” Sam cuts him off.

Then your boyfriend turns to you, and his face is soft, the expression broken, pain in his eyes. Sam’s voice is rough as gravel, but clear: “I can’t make a sacrifice like that. Not ever.”

The words hang in the air, immense and echoing. Bucky’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the faintest tremor in the way he sets his jaw—more evidence than any confession that he’d always known what Sam would say.

Sam presses his hand to the glass, and you meet it with your visibly trembling hand. But the gesture seems to pain him as if there wasn’t a barrier between you. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s for you, not for Bucky or the world. “I have to.” The words come thick, strangled.

You want to say something clever, something reassuring, but the only thing that escapes in the clenched space of your chest is, “I know.” It escapes in a whisper; your lips barely shape the words.

You let yourself cry, and Sam watches, helpless, his own eyes shining with the effort of keeping himself together. You knew he would choose the city, he had to, but you wish he had shown even a moment of hesitation. Half a moment.

Then Sam turns back to face Bucky. “You won’t get away with this.”

Bucky’s mouth tugs to one side, almost a smirk, but more like something cracked and resisting the urge to bleed out. “Of course I will,” he says. “That’s the game, right? The dangerous former fist of Hydra goes berserk, but only in a way the right people see. If you pull this off, it all stays classified. Just another day of nothing in the files.” He looks at Sam. “You think anyone in charge wants the world to know this was me? This is a PR nightmare the government can’t risk right now.”

The simplicity of it is breathtaking. The threat never even had to be real—only real enough to get everyone moving the way Bucky wants. Only real enough to get the money and to get Sam to choose.

“Don’t think you can just disappear,” Sam says, voice low but iron-strong. “I’ll find you, Bucky.”

There’s the tiniest shimmer of mischief, or perhaps relief, in the crow’s feet at Bucky’s eyes.

“Will you, though?” Bucky’s voice is almost gentle, as if he’s breaking the news of a death to a child. “For decades I was Hydra’s untraceable and lethal assassin. For two years you couldn’t find me, and you were working with Steve who knew me better than anyone, and I was living off next to nothing. Now I have nearly two billion in untraceable cash, I have my mind back, and I know the ins and outs of the modern world. You won’t see me unless I want to be seen.”

Your heart claws at your ribs. The glass magnifies every sound—Sam’s breathing, Bucky’s measured steps, the pulse in your eardrums. You taste blood where you’ve bitten the inside of your cheek.

Sam’s lips curl in a snarl. “You’re not the only one who’s learned a few tricks.”

“Maybe,” Bucky says. “But you’re still too honest to win.”

“How could you do this to me? To Steve?”

Bucky cocks his head to the side. His eyes flick to you for the briefest of moments, and then he says, “You didn’t want me to run out the clock discussing the moral dilemma of saving the city or your girl, but now you want to go over me, you, and Steve? Steve who’s removed himself from the narrative?”

Sam roars in frustration, then turns to look at you again. “I’ll come back for you, I swear,” then races across the floor and leaps off the balcony, off to save the city.

It is, you admit, one hell of an exit.

You can see him��Sam, bright and audacious in the Captain America suit, wings extending like an exclamation mark, darting through the skyline beyond the tall windows. He is smaller, fleeting, a fleck of blue and silver against the impossible glass of the city.

But Bucky doesn’t watch him go. He is watching you.

You slide down the glass, and try to breathe through the chemical tangle in your system. It feels as though the world is going to start sliding off its rails soon; you feel it in the way your pulse speeds and slows, in the clotted shimmer at the edges of your vision. The dart, the toxin, was probably designed for maximum drama, but you don’t know what else it could do.

A low, hydraulic moan startles you from your trance. The glass panels around you shiver, then begin to disappear, sinking in perfect unison into the floor. You scramble to your feet, knees threatening to buckle, and stare at the sudden borderlessness of the room. For a heartbeat, you’re suspended—no cage, no line in the sand, nothing to keep you from collapsing right there.

Bucky advances, quick but cautious, hands visible and open. His silhouette blots out the cathedral lights, broad as a thunderhead. He stops exactly an arm’s length from you, looking at your face as though searching for a misplaced detail.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a scratchy hush. “You’re on a comedown, and it’s a big one.”

You try to say something, but your tongue is a fat, electric slug in your mouth. The cold coins taste returns, sharper than before. “What did you do to me?” you ask.

He crouches cautiously next to you, balancing on the balls of his feet.

“There’s a lot of adrenaline in your system,” Bucky murmurs. “Far more than is natural. It’s spiked everything in your system. As it crashes, you’ll be sluggish, maybe some chills or confusion, but you’ll be okay. I promise.”

You want to believe him. You do, but given what he’s just orchestrated, you’re naturally reluctant.

“What now?” you ask. You’re not even sure who you’re asking: him, the universe, yourself.

Bucky shrugs, all gentle fatalism, and then reaches out—slowly, like you’re a trembling bird that might fling itself into a window if startled—and helps haul you upright. He adjusts his grip to keep you steady, lets you take more of your own weight as you find it.

He leads you out of the big white, windowed theater and down a corridor to an elevator.

A pang needles your heart: he is good at this. At triage, at rescue, at caretaking. At the thousand tiny, invisible gestures that make a person feel seen. Always has been. You hate that you’re grateful for it, just as you hate that you remember the long-ago night of his campaign, that secret gravitational pull between you, the unspoken thing you both stamped down with the solemnity of professionalism.

You don’t want to face where that train of thought leads.

“You made Sam pick. I don’t know if he’ll forgive that.” You try to sound hard-edged, but the words slide out syrupy and damp.

“He doesn’t have to.” Bucky’s voice is almost gentle. “He just has to live with it.”

The elevator dings, and the two of you step in. He punches the top floor.

“And you were right.”

“I wasn’t going to say it.”

And because there’s no reason to hold back, you add, “You didn’t have to twist the knife at the end by pointing out what he was and was not willing to discuss.”

Bucky sighs and drops his head. “No. I didn’t. It was an extra cut of cruelty.” Then he looks up, meets your eyes. “I’m sorry for that.”

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the sort of opulent space that’s either a billionaire’s penthouse lounge or the bridge of a spaceship. You instantly recognize the place, even though you’ve only seen it on screens and in the background of photos: the inner sanctum of Avengers Tower.

Of course. It had to be here. Not a new base, not a black site, not some abandoned eco-bunker in Upstate New York. No, Bucky brought you to the one place that was once the center of the universe for people like him and Sam and all the rest. Even after Tony’s death, after the rebranding and the PR dust-ups and the slow, embarrassing dissolution of the first lineup, the building stood. It was a symbol, indelible and too expensive to demolish, even when all the heroes left in it were ghosts.

Bucky leads you to the counter of what appears to be a bar and helps you into one of the stools there.

The New Avengers had evidently converted it to a cooking area, as well, as you watch Bucky begin to pull out some food and pull together a plate for you.

You watch him, scrutinize him, and you’re sure he knows that’s what you’re doing. He merely endures it, allows it. You assume he knows he owes you that much.

He finally slides the plate in front of you along with a glass of water. “Eat. It’ll help stabilize you more quickly.”

You take a bite out of one of the strawberries on the plate, chew, swallow, then you ask, “There’s no biotoxin, is there?”

Bucky lifts his gaze from where he’s preparing a sandwich for himself. “No. It’s a placebo.”

You pop another strawberry into your mouth and let the silence be the answer for a moment. The water tastes sweeter now, the iron leaching away, leaving only cold relief behind. No biotoxin. Sam would save the world, the money will be untraceable, and Bucky—well, Bucky would get away, wouldn’t he? Or almost.

"So why all this?" you ask, and your voice is steady again. "If it was just about the money, you could’ve found a less theatrical way."

Bucky tilts his head, slicing his sandwich with surgical precision. "I needed to prove a point," he says, not quite looking at you. "To Sam, to Valentina, to whoever is watching the tapes. To myself, maybe. That I can still do the impossible. That I have a choice. Not just a finger on the trigger but a plan. The kind that changes things. To make it clear that I’m done playing their games."

He smiles, half-lopsided, and lets his long exhale fill the empty space between you.

“I could have done it,” he says, and for the first time he sounds almost frightened by the idea. “I thought about it, how easy it would be. Make them all beg, make every suit in D.C. panic. But I couldn’t.” His eyes dart up, meet yours. “I couldn’t risk you.”

You look down at your hands, which are barely shaking now, and rub your thumb into the tender crook of your elbow where the dart had hit. There’s no swelling, no mark, just the memory of panic and the aftertaste of adrenaline. No biotoxin, no threat to a city’s population that could endanger the world, just a glass of water and a plate of fruit in a room of too many old ghosts.

You finish the strawberries, then some of the grapes. It’s not enough sugar to counter the crash, but it brings clarity. The clarity is not comforting.

“Are you going to disappear now?” you ask.

Bucky wipes bread crumbs from his fingers. “Very soon. I wanted to see you safe, first.” He hesitates, leans his weight onto the heel of his hand, like he’s about to confess something with weight.

You push him in the direction you hope he’s going. “Why did you bring me into this? Did you really need to prove Sam’s more Boy Scout than boyfriend? That he’d sacrifice me for millions, for the greater good?”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “You knew he would. And so did I.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slid a grape off the stem, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, as if the answer might be contained somewhere in the slick green skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost mild, but there was a sandpaper edge under the calm.

“There’s something different about him. Over the years since he took up the shield, since he started making the world’s problems his own, he’s…” Bucky let the grape fall, steadied his hands on the counter, “He’s not letting anyone in anymore. Not even you. You can feel it, right?”

You wanted to protest, to say Sam was just tired, just carrying the weight of a world that had never belonged to him, a world that had only ever demanded and doubted. That he came home to you at night, sometimes wordless and aching, sometimes with a wild, generous joy that made all the distance worth it. But you did feel it.

The last few months had been like living with a shadow, the two of you orbiting each other in careful ellipses, sharing space but not gravity. You’d told yourself it was just the stress, that this phase would pass. But how long would you have to keep saying that?

You shrugged, unsure if the gesture was defensive or conciliatory. “He’s got a lot riding on him. They all do. It’s not like anybody’s waiting to see if Captain America screws up, right?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s losing too much of himself to the machine.”

You finish the food, drink all the water. Already, the fine tremor in your hands is dying down, and your vision is as sharp as it’s been in months.

“You said you didn’t have to involve me, but you did anyway. Why?”

Bucky comes around the counter to stand next to you before he answers.

“Take my hand,” he says, extending his flesh hand to you.

You study his face for another moment before hesitantly placing your hand in his. He pulls you gently from the stool, bringing you close to his chest, and you can’t help but cave into the comfort he’s offering on a platter in his arms. This is the closeness you wondered about years ago. And it feels even better than you thought it could.

His flesh hand encloses yours, and his metal arm wraps around your back, comforting, solid, while he maintains eye contact with you. Then he leans in and presses a kiss fervently to your forehead. “He wanted the idea of you, I want you.”

Those words steal the breath from your lungs, and you pull back. He allows it but does reach up to wipe more tears from your face.

“Now, he’ll come back for you,” Bucky says. “I’ll leave you here if you want to wait for him. Or…”

Bucky leans forward, slowly, but deliberately, eyes locked with yours, and there is no question that he will kiss you if you let him.

In those brief seconds, your chest swells and aches. It’s a yearning.

“Or you can come with me,” he murmurs against your lips.

You don’t remember who moves first, or if movement is even required—maybe it’s just the inexorable collapse of distance, of vacuum, of more than two years spent circling each other and pretending not to. Your mouth meets his in a kiss so light you might have missed it, a flutter of wings against glass, if not for the way he shudders and tightens his hold on you, molding your body into his with that impossible, titanium certainty.

You gasp, and he swallows it, and the taste of him is nothing like coins or blood or the clinical tang of adrenaline: it’s salt and memory, an old wound newly raw. His lips tremble with restraint, with the effort of holding back the full weight of want, and you feel it in the rigid line of his jaw and the knotted fist of his hand at the small of your back.

The first kiss is a question, but the second is an answer: you press closer, and the kiss goes from uncertain to dangerous, from a secret to a promise.

It would be easy to hate him, even now, for what he’s done, for turning to a villain’s playbook. But what you really feel, what you can’t help feeling, is the way your own hands seek out Bucky’s chest, feel the frantic pulse of him beneath the shirt, the way his heart seems to leap at every slight contact. You break only when your lungs demand it, and even then, you stay close enough that your noses touch, breath shared and erratic.

“I shouldn’t,” you say. You mean the whole thing: kissing Bucky, wanting Bucky, forgiving him, forgiving yourself the old feeling of being seen, truly seen, by someone who never really belonged to you in the first place.

He laughs, low and weary. “That’s why you should.”

Time feels syrup-slow and amplified, and the aftershocks of adrenaline jitter along your bones. You want to lay your head against Bucky’s chest and let everything else go glassy and indistinct, but this moment can’t last forever.

You have to make a choice.

As if to underscore that fact, the moment breaks with the sound of rotors thumping through the silent glass like a racing pulse. A black helicopter, all stealth and menace, settles on the old landing pad just outside the window. You watch its slow, predatory descent, and only then do you realize how little time is left for indecision.

You turn your face back to Bucky. "Where would we even go?" The bitterness in your voice is half challenge, half invitation. A plea for a story you could believe in.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t offer you a fantasy. "Doesn’t matter," he says. "With this much money, the right lies, and the right hands pulling the strings, you don’t have to vanish, we will just slide out of frame. Show up somewhere else, different name, different haircut, but us together. You just have to decide if you want to build that new life with me or not.”

He says it like a vow, not a seduction. You almost laugh at how simple he makes it sound. As if all the laws and all the wounds and all the history between the three of you could be severed with a haircut and a fake passport.

You want to slap him. You want to scream at him for making it sound so simple, so transactional, like trading one set of coordinates for another. But isn’t that the whole truth of it? Bucky Barnes had spent his adult years being a ghost wearing a name, a myth forced into the flesh, until the only thing that made sense was reinvention. If you followed, you’d never be more than a co-conspirator in your own vanishing act, but there’s a wild logic to it. There’s even a certain beauty.

It occurs to you, sharply, that you should stay—wait for Sam, let yourself be rescued, let him cry and rage and know that in the end he did what was right. You could handle the heartbreak, or at least pretend you could, because that’s what people like you do. The noise would settle, the scandal would pass, and maybe you’d even find your way back together, though at that moment the possibility seems to diminish more and more.

The real truth is: you don't know what will make you happy, or safe, or sane. You only know that for too long you've been waiting for more, even though you didn’t know it until Bucky pulled the wool from your eyes today.

“Let’s do it,” you say, before you can overthink the words or slip into complacent cowardice disguised as duty. “Let’s go.”

The look on Bucky’s face is less vindicated than startled, as if he hadn’t really thought you’d say yes. He doesn’t whoop or smile. He just takes a breath—deep, rib-rattling—and then his hand closes tight around yours, leading you out to the helicopter.

The pilot is a nobody, faceless behind reflective glass, but you know the kind of men who’d be waiting in the belly of a craft like that—mercenaries who could blend in at the Four Seasons or a funeral, featureless as mannequins until the masks came off.

You duck into the cabin. Bucky keeps a hand at the small of your back, guiding you with a care that feels out of time, out of place, as if this is not a high-speed escape but a date at the theater or a gallery opening. The interior is tight and dark: Kevlar seats, two jump seats with harnesses, a battered first-aid kit stashed in the mesh netting by the door.

He straps you in, efficient but gentle, and without warning the engine screams to life and the city falls away beneath you. The pilot takes you southeast, past the relit towers and the stitched-together parks, past the city’s neat wounds and its ugly repairs.

You don’t ask where you’re going. You’re not sure you want to know. Since you’re all in, you don’t need to know. There is something exhilarating about that, the permission you have given yourself to not care for the first time in … maybe ever.

The chopper banks east, the city’s sprawl dissolving into ribbons of freeway and then the sparse, snow-blotched fields of Long Island. When you spot the airstrip you’re almost disappointed by its ordinariness—just a pair of runways, a wind-wracked row of hangars. The chopper touches down so softly you barely feel it, but Bucky is already unclipping your harness, moving you out with a minimal set of gestures.

He guides you across the tarmac, his grip on your hand steady as he leads you to a small, sleek, white jet. A thinly mustached pilot nods to Bucky as he shepherds you up the stairs. The jet’s interior is cloaked in tasteful leather and woodgrain, the sort of hush money aesthetic that comes with bespoke crimes. Bucky deposits you onto a wide seat and follows with a duffle bag you only now notice slung beneath his arm.

Bucky stows the bag in an overhead bin, then returns to you, sliding into the seat across the aisle. His eyes flick to the window, scanning the tarmac for threats, but his left hand—your hand—remains anchored between you, thumb tracing tight, distracted circles over your knuckles. The door seals with a quietly pneumatic hiss. The engines ramp up, the world narrows to the pressurized silence of the cabin, and you feel a flutter in your chest that is not entirely terror.

In the window’s glass you catch the afterimage of your own face, drained and wild-eyed, and behind it the ghost of Bucky’s reflection—softer, maybe, than you’ve ever seen, as if the act of running is its own absolution.

You’re so tired. You let your head tip sideways, resting against his shoulder—not as surrender, but as a declaration: you are here, you are staying, you are more than the sum of your panic and your decisions good or bad.

Bucky turns to you, the crumple in his brow arranging itself into a question, one palm rising to hover along your jaw. “Hey,” he says, a hush inside a hush. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast, and then press his hand to your cheek, making sure it’s real, it’s flesh, it’s here. He holds your face, thumb slipping beneath your eye, gently searching for evidence of regret or fear or whatever else he’s ruined in you. But all you feel is the burn of anticipation in the hollow of your throat.

He leans in, slower than before, and brushes your lips with his, brief, reverent. Another. Another—each one less careful, less patient. You open for him, cup the back of his head, tangle your fingers deep in his hair, and he looses a sound like a confession; he lets the restraint drop, mouth insistent and hungry, hands finding your waist, your ribs, the sweetly bare patch where your shirt has ridden up. His breath is ragged, the rasp of stubble on your jawline making your skin prickle in a way that borders on pain, but you want that, you want more of it, and you arch into him, letting the seatbelt cut into your hip as you all but crawl onto his lap.

The jet is barely airborne when his metal hand skims under your shirt, cold electricity against the bend of your back. You gasp, half laughing, then bite his lip, tasting the salt and copper, the promise of scars. His flesh hand is at your nape, anchoring you, and you realize this is how you always wanted him to hold you—hard enough to bruise, but gentle in the moments between.

Before you can process how you went from catatonic hostage to this wild, reckless person, you’re straddling him in the narrow jet seat, breathless and laughing into his mouth, kissing him like you’re kissing a different future into existence.

You kiss until your lungs burn, and when you part, your lips are wet and swollen, and he’s looking at you like you’re the oxygen his lungs need. You can feel the restraint it takes for him to stop, even for a second.

When he speaks, it’s against your mouth, so soft and low you have to strain to catch it. “I wanted you for so long.” He nips your lower lip in punctuation, then kisses the sting away, chasing the shape of your mouth as if memorizing it.

His hands slide under your shirt, confident and unhurried, a slow drag of heat and cool along the ridge of your back and then the soft, uncertain slope of your side. He maps you like new terrain, reverent, deliberate, his palm broad and rough as river rock where it skims above your waistband. You’re conscious, absurdly, of the way your flesh yields and gathers beneath his grip, the fold at your waist, the plush seam above your jeans. You brace for the recoil—the pause, the flinch, the embarrassed withdrawal that men as fine as Bucky Barnes always seem to have in their DNA when faced with anything that doesn’t fit the platonic ideal of a lover’s body, the first time they touch you intimately—but it doesn’t come. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t even hesitate. If anything, the way his hands frame you, hold you together, suggests he’d prefer more of you, not less.

You’re all nerves and need, the pulse in your throat so present it’s almost embarrassing, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You want this. Want him. Want the mess and the wrongness and the chance to hurt and heal in ways you’ve only ever fantasized about, in the long blank nights when Sam was out saving the world and you were left with the ghost of a life you didn’t remember choosing.

You don’t remember unbuttoning your jeans, or how his hand gets under the waistband, but it’s there—skin on skin, soft and cool where the metal arm braces your spine and the flesh hand moves against your belly. He shivers when you wrap both arms around him, as if the pressure of your grasp is the only thing anchoring him to the world.

There is a hush in the jet, the kind that lets you hear your own blood roaring, lets you hear the catch in Bucky’s breath as you grind against him, slow and unashamed, letting him feel the sum of your want. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t try to fill the silence. His hands do the talking instead, every gesture translating what words never could: careful, desperate, worshipful.

The way you undress—it’s not hurried, but it’s not shy. You peel yourself out of your shirt, shivering in the cool pressurized air, but you catch nothing but hunger and awe in Bucky's gaze. It’s as if he’s been waiting in a Siberian cave since the forties to see you like this, and there is something almost holy in the way he runs the backs of his fingers over your clavicle, your breasts, the jigsaw of you that’s both familiar to yourself and entirely new. For a brief flash, you wonder how you look—are you beautiful to him in the brash daylight of the aircraft, or is it more like a study in imperfection, in odd shapes and old bruises and the vulnerable, workaday flesh of someone who’s never been anyone’s ideal for very long. But his breath catches, and his pupils blow wide, and he says your name so softly it sounds like a benediction. That’s answer enough.

The feel of him is just as you’d imagined—no, it’s more: the impossible tautness of muscle beneath cool skin, the way he holds you so precisely you never for a moment doubt your own safety. The metal arm is cold at first, its ruthlessness pressed along your ribs, but the warmth of his body as you mold to each other chases the edge away. He kisses down your neck, slow, never rushed, as if marking time on a clock only you share. When you arch into his mouth, when you let him finally cup your breast, you’re rewarded with a sound from deep in his chest—a wounded, yearning, making it clear you’re all he wants.

He doesn’t hurry. The world is burning behind you out the window, somewhere Sam is fighting for a city that will always need him, but here, inside this tiny, moving sanctuary, Bucky gives you an unhurried exhale, ritual slow, as if neither of you have ever had a single moment in your lives to spare for pleasure before now. His palm slides along your thigh, then the inside of your thigh, then waits, patient as a dog in winter, for you to open further. You do, knees bracing on either side of his.

His hand makes its way between your legs, and it’s devastating—how lightly he touches at first, just the pads of two fingers drawing lazy circles along the seam of your underwear, as if reacquainting himself with the geometry of gentleness. You are slick and shockingly warm, and when his thumb circles your clit, the jolt of pleasure is so keen you dig your hands into his shoulders, hard enough for the flesh beneath to yield. He watches your face, noting every tremor, every catch in your swallowing breath, mapping the arc of your wanting. You want him to devour you, but he worships instead, building you slow and slow and never letting you fall all the way down. Every time you shudder or gasp or roll your hips, he radiates a pride so profound it makes you want to cry.

You come with his metal hand splayed across your back and his living hand cupping you, his mouth open against your neck, whispering your name and then fragments of words: “beautiful,” “always wanted,” “don’t believe it”. You shake and quake around his fingers, a hot flood, and you laugh out loud because you can’t do anything else—your body is burning alive and Bucky Barnes is the only cooling agent in the universe.

After, he tucks you close, skin to skin, and listens to the staccato drum of your heart as if it’s telling a secret. He brushes damp hair from your temple and studies you like he’s afraid to blink, lest you vanish with the throb of the engine.

“I wanted you for so long,” he murmurs again, and you want to say, me too, but your tongue is thick and slow and all you manage is to grip his wrist, pinning him to this reality, to this moment run wild on the clock.

You slip from his lap when the urge surges past all reason—not because you do not want to be held, but because you want to see what he looks like when you take him apart. The carpet beneath your knees is soft and plush, but you are not thinking of the carpet, you are thinking of the way Bucky’s breathing shears out of him in a rush as you settle between his legs and glance up.

His pupils are blown, making the pale blue more starless sky than glacier. His lips, wet and a little bitten, are parted in shock, and there’s something so starkly boyish in his awe that you nearly laugh. Instead, you run your hands up the inside of his thighs, not missing how his legs tense and shudder under your grip.

You unbuckle his belt, and for a second you’re all thumbs, nerves having gone to static in your head, but Bucky just sits with hands open and breath held, watching you like you might ghost away if he looked elsewhere. The rough newness of the situation—doing this with him, in daylight, on a moving plane—sends a flush crawling up your body, heat prickling in your scalp. You want to be perfect for him, but you settle for real. You unfasten him, you work his jeans down enough, and he springs against his own belly, more than you’d realized, heavy and flushed, and your chest tightens with wanting.

You feel a spike of victory at the way he swells in your hand, the living pulse of him, velvet-hard and as hot as a fever.

You taste him, first with your lips pressed soft against the tip, then with the slow, savoring press of your tongue along the length, and Bucky’s head drops back, the tendons in his neck cording. He doesn’t make noise, not at first—he’s too disciplined, too careful—but when you increase the pressure, take more of him in, he grits out your name, a rattle of consonants, like he can’t bear up under it any longer. You commit to the rhythm, fast then slow, enjoying the play of pressure and the way his thighs brace in agony and pleasure under your hands. The metal one pets your hair at first, then fists in at the nape of your neck, holding you still for a second while his hips buck minutely, then he curses and releases the grip, as if reining in some inner avalanche.

You’re delighted—delirious almost—by how much you’re able to make him shake. How much you’re able to unmake the man of precision. You want to keep him at this edge forever, but you can also see how hard he’s working not to tear you apart with need. You let the rhythm go ragged for a moment, using your hands to cup him, stroke him, take him deeper. You revel in the way his restraint crumbles, in the way he murmurs pleas and fractured sweet nothings and dirty wants and promises.

He rocks his hips once, twice, then pulls back with a warning—a rough, strangled sound that you recognize as care, as wanting not to overwhelm or take—so you press your hand to his thigh and keep him still, refusing retreat. You want all of it: the taste, the heat, the salt and the proof. When he spills into your mouth, every muscle in his body shivers and the shuddering pulse of him fills you, thick and sweet and endless. You swallow, and his thighs buckle, and he drags you up, mouth to mouth, tasting himself on your tongue and growling in approval.

You expect him to collapse, to flop boneless and dazed into the seat, but instead his cock is still hard, red and slick and angry-looking in the open vee of his jeans. You look down, then up, and the expression on your face must be famished and raw, because Bucky’s answering expression is a wolf’s grin—hungry, delighted, and you’re so glad for it, so mindless with wanting, it almost hurts.

You want him inside you, want him to push every thought from your head. He licks his thumb and traces your lower lip, then presses it past your teeth, not forceful but insistent, and you suck without a second thought.

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me,” he says, but the way he says it, it sounds like he’s eager for the mutual ruin.

He coaxes you up, not with a command but a gentle tug of your wrist; you let yourself be arranged, his palms guiding your hips and then gently coaxing you up, angling your body so you're kneeling, braced on the plush seatback, spine arched, ass tilted toward him. There’s nothing clinical or hasty here; he positions you like an artist with a marble he’s spent decades yearning to carve. You feel the raw, predatory focus radiate off him, and you can’t help but turn to catch the look in his eyes—eager but almost reverent.

His cock nudges against you, then slides up the seam, gathering wetness, and for a moment he lingers, thumb stroking the base of your spine, the cool metal of his hand anchoring your shoulder. The first push is slow, deliberate, the kind of pressure that makes your whole body tense and then open for him. He fills you with an unhurried inevitability, and for a moment you can’t breathe for how big he is, how much he fills your most intimate space.

He groans at the feeling, deep and sin-worn, and the sound shoots heat up your back, makes your thighs shake. He holds you steady with both hands, one flesh and the other a cold star at your hip, and waits for you to tell him to move. Your own voice is gone to glass, so you just tip your hips, a silent plea, and he obeys, rolling into you in a series of slow, tidal thrusts that let you feel every inch.

It’s impossible to be quiet, and Bucky clearly prefers you not to be. He leans over you, his chest hot along your spine, and bites your shoulder, not hard enough to bruise but just so you know he’s there, and you cry out at the dual sensation—sharp and yielding, ache and relief. His rhythm is slow at first, but when you reach back and dig your nails into the firm cut of his thigh, he hisses and snaps his hips with a force that borders on brutal, but never spills over into cruelty. It’s want, not violence; hunger, not harm. You want every bit of it, every relentless stroke, every scrape of his teeth on your skin, the bruise of his hand as it sprawls between your shoulder blades and pins you to the world.

You have the sudden, feverish sense that Bucky wants to own every part of you, not just the places you expect to be touched, but the boundaries you never thought to keep. His hands—both of them, vibranium and flesh—roam your hips, your back, the trembling crease where thigh meets ass. When he pushes in deeper, it’s with a precision that feels engineered; he wants to draw something new from you, to find the note that will finally split you open.

You’re so wet you can hear it, the slick wet music of skin on skin. His flesh hand is anchored at your hip, fingers digging into the softness there, holding you steady as he fucks you, each thrust deliberate. But the cold of his metal hand is more curious; it traces up your spine, fans across the nape of your neck, then drops down again, palming the globe of your ass with a hunger that feels almost greedy.

He shifts, altering the angle of his thrusts so each one drags a new, devastating friction along your inner walls, and his hand, the metal one, snakes lower, cupping your mound so your clit is pressed and circled in perfect tandem to the building rhythm. The world telescopes to the points at which he touches you, and then just when you think you can’t take more, that the heat will level you into unconsciousness, his finger—cool, slick now with your own wetness—traces the forbidden line between your cheeks. A barely-there touch, a slow, teasing swirl around the tight, neglected ring, and you startle at the contact, gasping out a word that could be “fuck” or “please” or both, pulse stuttering with the shock of it.

He doesn’t force, doesn’t press, just circles, gentle and patient, letting you acclimate to the possibility, the threat. With each swirl you feel yourself open more—this hunger, this trust, this dumbfounding desire to let Bucky give you something that nobody else ever has. When he finally presses in, just the barest tip of a finger, the line between pleasure and pressure melts and you keen aloud, startled at your own reaction. He groans at the sound, his cock twitching inside you, and the next thrust is deeper, more desperate, as if he’s as ruined by you as you are by him.

There is nothing for it but to surrender. You arch into every sensation, let Bucky fill every blank in your vocabulary of want. Each time his finger moves, gentle and relentless, you feel your body respond with such wild, involuntary gratitude that you want to weep. You reach between your legs, questing for your clit, greedy for more and not caring if you break apart in his arms.

He pistons into you, relentless and sure, and somewhere in the haze you catch yourself thinking: this is what it feels like to matter to someone so much they lose their mind. Bucky coaxes every sound from you, every plea, every curse. When you clamp down around him hard enough he nearly loses his grip, you hear him choke out your name in a shattered, breaking way, and he plants his palm to the curve of your ass and drives you into the seat with a bruising finality.

You come again, and this time the sound you make is so raw you’re embarrassed, but he only groans in reply, matching you stroke for stroke, as if the louder you are, the more it means. You shake, legs threatening to go, but he holds you, refusing to let you slip through his grip. You ride out every ripple, every quaking tremor, and when you finally slump forward, breathless and wrung out, he chases your high with his own, hips jerking in a wild, arrhythmic staccato as he empties himself in you with a deep, almost haunted sound that echoes in your lungs for ages after.

He collapses over your back, breath damp against your neck, arms caging you in. For a moment, the world is nothing but the drum of his heart, the shockwave of your own afterglow, and the faintly ridiculous realization that you’re at cruising altitude over the Atlantic, sweat-soaked and boneless and impossibly, impossibly alive.

It takes a long time before you find words. It takes even longer before you can turn to look him in the eye.

“So that happened,” you say, voice soft but rooted in satiation, and the hint of a question behind it, craving his thoughts, his impressions.

Bucky is still inside you, softening, but when you laugh at your own understatement, he laughs too, the sound honest and unselfconscious and bright enough to startle you out of the receding fog. He nuzzles your hair and bites your shoulder, just once, in a gentle, feral way. “You say that like it wasn’t inevitable,” he says. “Like I haven’t been thinking about you since the first time you told me off in front of the whole comms team.”

You twist in his lap, wince a little at the sticky ache between your legs, then kiss his jaw, his pulse point, the soft curl of his ear. You want to say something perfect, something to thread all this pain and elation together, but your mind is losing the war with your body’s demands. You just want to be held, and he seems to know it, because he wraps those impossible arms all the way around you and tucks you close to his chest, bringing you into his lap.

You burrow in, cheek pressed to the racing engine of his heart, your legs folded up to your chest as a drowsy quiet settles in the cabin. The hum of the jet, the soft huff of Bucky’s breath in your hair, the double warmth and chill of his touch—it’s all a nest, a chrysalis, and you’re content to lie there for however many thousand miles it takes to put the old world behind you.

You lose track of time. The hum of the engine, the proximity of Bucky’s bare skin to yours, the way your heart replays every inch of what just happened: it all floats you through a corridor of warmth and contentment that you haven’t felt since you were young.

The world out the window is seared gold, the last of day sinking past the wing as you cruise east. At some point Bucky stands, balancing both of you as if his balance is unassailable, and fetches a blanket, a hand towel, and a glass of water from the service cabinet before returning you both to the comfortable leather seat.

You drink it down in greedy gulps while he wipes you off with practiced, delicate swipes of the towel, his touch less clinical than worshipful. He tucks the blanket around you both, creating a cocoon for the coming moments.

You pull the blanket up to your nose, tuck your chin and watch him above the rim, eyes wet and still trembling from what you’ve both done. He doesn’t try to explain it. Instead, he finds your hand beneath the blanket and holds it, thumb stroking slow circles over the pulse at your wrist.

You spend the next hour drowsing in and out, stolen moments of sleep lurching you awake with the latent fear that this is all a fever dream, that you’re actually still in the glass box in the cathedral, or floating in some post-toxin afterlife. But Bucky is always there when you surface, his arm warm across your shoulders, the scars along his shoulder catching beneath your fingers.

You and Bucky share quiet conversations during the waking moments. It’s so easy to fall into this side of intimacy with him, too, not only the physical you shared earlier.

He tells you about the safehouse you’re going to in Paris, the bank accounts, the names and legends already prepared for both of you. It sounds almost routine, except for the faint blush in his cheeks, or the sheepish smile when he admits, “I even have a cat, for appearance’s sake.” He says this with a half-smirk, daring you to mock him. Instead, you ask about the cat. Its name is Alpine; it’s white and sassy and already edging toward overweight now that she’s been rescued from the streets. Somehow, that makes the plan feel more plausible, more fit to live in and real.

When you ask about Sam—where he’d go, how long before he finds both of you—Bucky’s face softens into a sort of loving regret. “He’ll do what he’s always done: fight the good fight. Even if that means chasing after us for the next few years.” He says it not with bravado, but with the sigh of someone who’s accepted the cost of his actions.

Bucky’s thumb drew a few more circles over your hand, and you watched with the drowsy clarity of afterglow as he studied you, the long focus of a man who still had something left to say. He let you sleep for most of the flight, let you curl and sprawl across his lap and the seat, but somewhere over the dark green quilt of the Irish Sea, he angled your face up to his with a touch so gentle you almost missed the gravity behind it.

“You know,” he said, “I didn’t do any of this–bring you into it–because I thought Sam was a bad person. Not even because I thought he was a bad partner to you.” The words were slow, deliberate, like he meant them to lodge somewhere deep and stay. “I just wanted you to see the thing he never lets you see—how, in a pinch, he’ll always run toward the fire. Even if you’re the one burning.”

It was a monstrous thing to say, but Bucky didn’t hold back from the full measure of his meaning.

“He did love you,” he says. “Still does. You know that, right?”

The words land heavy and soft, an ache buried under the warmth of the blanket, the pressurized hush of the jet. You want to nod, to agree, but something in Bucky’s expression dares you to challenge that, to perhaps ask for more.

“He did,” you echo, your voice shot through with all the hurt, relief, and confusion you’d stored on a shelf in the back of your mind that you’d ignored. Because sometimes that’s just what couples do. “You don’t have to defend him. Or me.”

“He’s better in so many ways than me,” Bucky says, not so much conceding as saluting, as if the point is a living monument somewhere between you. “But he’s been Captain America so long, he’s started to believe the only way to love anyone is to protect them from everything, even himself. Maybe especially himself.”

You catch the twinge in Bucky’s voice, the jealousy and the admiration braided together so tightly you can’t tell where one leaves off and the other picks up. You tried to find the flaw in this logic, some hidden malice or manipulation, but the words rang too true. The last year with Sam had been a string of empty nights in his apartment or yours, half-eaten dinners, phone calls cut short by emergencies with names you never learned and crises that belonged to the world.

“You deserve someone who’ll always pick you. Even if it’s selfish. Even if it’s not the end the story wants. And I never want you to wonder–I didn't do this because of him, I did it for me. It's the only truly villainous thing I did today.”

You open your mouth to reply, but there is something inside you, a molten sorrow or longing or both, that makes words taste foreign. For a moment, you just look at Bucky—the long, tired face of a man who’s lost nearly everything more than once, and yet still offers up his devotion, his heart, his everything.

There is a comfort in that. Not the comfort of fairy tales or sunny brunches with friends, but the comfort of an old wound that’s finally healed over, ugly and permanent, yes, but proof you survived.

You nestle in, letting Bucky wrap you tighter, and the two of you pass the last leg of the flight in an unspoken truce with your ghosts, listening only to the lull of engines and the steady, intermittent thump of his heart. A heart that you know is yours and yours alone. It’s not a magic ending. It’s a messy beginning. But it’s tangible, real, something whole that you know you can grasp and hold without hesitation.

This villain is yours, and if your full embrace of this new alternative makes you villainous, too, at least you know it’s the two of you all in, hand in hand, together.

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x y/n #female reader #thunderbolts bucky #tw: kidnapping #tw: drugging #curvy reader #aspen wrote something #hotbuckysummer2025

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bumblesimagines · 9 months ago

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Winner Takes It All

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Whether she can admit it or not, Rhaenyra has always been given everything she has come to desire. Except for one boy whose always been just out of reach. Envy and resentment rears its head when the boy becomes a man and marries their childhood friend.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, canon divergent/AU where Rhaenyra is crowned, minor suggestive/sexual content, alicent is finally happy but rhaenyra is not, uno reserve to my last love triangle ig

~~~

"Lord Jason is going to say something he believes is funny and Lady Ellisha will pretend to laugh behind her fan."

Rhaenyra watched with a wide, eager smile as Lord Jason spoke and laughed heartily, obviously finding whichever jest he made funnier than the lady standing before him. Lady Ellisha raised her feathery fan to cover the lower half of her face, her eyes crinkling as if she were smiling but her red-tinted lips remained turned downward.

"And now, she will excuse herself and he'll return to the other lords with the belief he's wooed her over."

Lady Ellisha curtsied and spoke to the lord with a polite smile before whirling around on her heel and walking away from the Lannister with an exasperated stare directed toward her giggling friends. Lord Jason smirked smugly, just as predicted, and strolled over to the small group of men consisting of his twin and other eligible bachelors making use of the celebrations to search for a wife. Rhaenyra laughed when he gestured in Lady Ellisha's direction and the other lords gave impressed nods.

"Truly, Rhaenyra, you will find all sorts of entertainment at these sorts of things." (Y/N) told her with a pleased chuckle, swirling a goblet full of wine while his keen eyes flickered around the room hosting a feast in honor of Prince Aemond's first nameday in search of other courtiers making fools of themselves. "The newly man-grown and widowed lords always offer the best sights. Lord Jason has irritated most of the ladies he's spoken to thus far. Rumors say the Westerlings may offer up their Johanna to him for a taste of that Lannister coin."

"Poor girl." Rhaenyra shook her head and clicked her tongue, searching the crowds for the young woman with a head of brown ringlets until she spotted her standing near the rest of her family. "Lord Jason is..."

"Something."

The two shared a laugh and buried their noses into their cups when the other courtiers glanced in their direction, giggling like children and nearly choking on the wine when they accidentally inhaled some. Rhaenyra coughed into her fist and wiped a droplet of wine off her nose, her lips outstretched into a wide smile that made her cheeks ache and flush when others gave them questioning looks. (Y/N) shook his head through snickers and dapped at his lips with his handkerchief, his eyes drifting away from her and locking elsewhere. Rhaenyra barely had to glance in the direction to know who had captured his attention when his smile and gaze turned to resemble a lovesick puppy.

Ever since the Freys had sent their son and heir to ward at King's Landing at the age of eight, his attention had been completely captured by Lady Alicent Hightower, even as the three of them grew and more ladies expressed their interest in becoming Lady of the Crossing. There'd been a time Rhaenyra had found his interest amusing, if not understandable, but when their trio became a duo, Rhaenyra found her heart fluttering each time they spent time together without the company of the newly made queen. Her amusement faded and twisted with bitterness when (Y/N)'s opinion of Alicent remained despite the glaring circumstances.

When his attention lingered on Alicent enough to gain a disapproving frown from Otto, Rhaenyra clamped her hand around his wrist and tugged on his arm with a forced smile. She dragged him through the crowd swiftly and out into the hallway where few courtiers lingered, gossiping away from prying ears and taking in the fresh night air. Rhaenyra dipped into the closest hallway before they could be spotted together by them and ushered back where they'd be under supervision, her unrelenting grip forcing him to follow her through the halls of the Keep until she found a lonesome hallway devoid of any courtiers and servants.

"Come now," Rhaenyra laughed breathily, spinning around to face him with twinkling eyes. "There are... other ways to find entertainment, are there not?"

His head cocked to the side and the smile she'd grown to love stretched across his face. "Certainly."

And despite his attention insistently lying elsewhere, she found joy when it focused solely on her. Especially when it involved her palms pressing into the rough, chilled wall with the skirts of her dark red dress pushed up around her hips and her dusted pink cheek brushing against the wall with each jerk of his hips; and whilst she knew despite the fact it was her skin he squeezed and her neck he kissed, the knowledge it was Alicent he likely thought about bitterly lingered in the back of her mind.

A hint of metallic landed on her tongue when she dug her teeth into her bottom lip when he pushed within her fully, his shaky breath fanning against her shoulder. She released a shuddered gasp, feeling the bumps on the wall imprinted in her reddened hands as she pulled them away to adjust her dress once he slipped out of her.

"You grow too emboldened these days, Nyra." He murmured, his hands working on straightening his clothes and ensuring nothing looked amiss.

"You never complain." Rhaenyra peered over her shoulder at him with a cheeky grin, her fingers brushing the strands of silver clinging to her forehead. She turned on her heel and leaned back against the wall, her chest still rising and falling with heavy breaths. "If it bothers you so," She continued, her tone threatening to shake with her words. "I'm certain Father would not be opposed to a marriage with House Frey."

His lips pressed together, the corners of his brows twitching downward into a furrow. "You know as much as anyone else that I do not desire marriage, Rhaenyra, not now. I enjoy the freedom of doing whatever I please with whomever I please."

Her jaw ticked. "Do you desire freedom or do you perhaps lie in waiting for Queen Alicent to desire you?" She questioned sharply, unable to contain to stop the flush of anger from passing over her. "She's the Queen now, (Y/N). She has duties to uphold for the sake of the Realm- Gods, she has children with my father! She will never look at you the way you desire."

"And what makes you believe I'll look at you in the way you desire, Rhaenyra? You promised this would remain as nothing more than ventures of youth, that we'd laugh about it when we grew old and gray. I.. I do not know what I feel for you but it compares little to what I feel for Alicent."

Rhaenyra's lips twisted up tightly and a watery glaze passed over her eyes that she furiously blinked away. "Why must it always be her?" She spat, grasping the skirts of her dress and storming down the hall despite his calls for her.

His fruitless hope had always been as pitying as Rhaenyra's but the Gods always proved to have their favorites.

Sleep oozed out of his system slowly, his senses beginning to pick up the faint bustle of city life and the whistling wind. His eyes parted, vision focusing first on the intricate designs of the pillow smushed against his cheek before noticing his wife sat up on the bed. He released a quiet, tired sigh and licked his chapped lips, sluggishly shifting around to lie on his back before he reached out to press his palm into her bare hip, fingers tenderly massaging the flesh there.

"What is it?" He asked, still drowsy as he battled the urge to flutter his eyes shut.

"Nothing, darling," Alicent slumped back into the mattress with a soft exhale, her auburn curls sprawling out around the pillow beneath her and her eyes flickering over the familiar stone ceiling. She crinkled her nose at the exhaustion still clinging to her body and lolled her head to the side to peer at her sleepy husband with a tender smile. "Good morrow."

"Good morrow." He responded with a yawn and scooted closer to her, her body naturally drawing closer to the warmth of his skin and the sweetness of his touch. His fingers grazed the side of her face, tucking back a frizzy curl and watching the way she leaned into his hand. "Sleep well?"

Alicent exhaled heavily, her bottom lip slightly jutting out. "With each passing moon, comfortability becomes fleeting."

With a thoughtful hum, (Y/N) carefully moved and leaned over her, lowering down to press fluttering kisses down her chin and jawline to her neck and collarbone. She chuckled softly and ran her hands over his arms, sighing delicately when he pressed a kiss in the valley of her sore chest. The rest of her body ached dully, her ankles and feet especially, but the soreness and exhaustion would eventually fade, they knew that well.

Perhaps a little more eagerly, he moved further down and a twinkle passed over his eyes as he kissed her protruding belly. (Y/N) pressed his lips against the skin right below her belly button and waited a few moments before their little one rewarded him with a swift kick, his eyes immediately crinkling with glee. "Be kind to your mother." He scolded half-heartedly, his palms pressing against the underside of her belly. "She'll need all the rest she can get to welcome you into this world."

She sighed again. "After this little one, I'm afraid I'll only be capable of producing one more. I grow weary of laboring."

"Two is a fine number of children, and they'll hardly be lonely with their other siblings." He nodded, pressing another kiss to the belly and pushing himself upward to lie at her side once more. His arms curled around her, her strands of hair tickling his cheek and jaw. "Speaking of their siblings, Rhaenyra will expect us to speak with her after we break our fasts. Aegon must find his place in court before she loses her patience with him."

"Mmm," Alicent's eyes fluttered shut and he chuckled. "Yes, yes... and there's the dual wedding for the twins and her boys as well as the discussion of who Aemond should wed; one of the Four Storms or a Lannister girl." She lifted a hand and rubbed the bridge of her nose, her eyes parting when he gently kissed her cheek. It oft' felt as if she remained as Queen rather than the future Lady of the Crossing with each letter and plea that reached them in the Riverlands.

"At the very least, you will have enough time to spend a day with Helaena and her children." Her husband reminded her lightly, taking her hand in his and brushing his lips over her knuckles.

She smiled. "Yes, you're right."

Once they began their morning, the servants glided into their temporary apartments to begin their duties of bringing them food and helping them dress. (Y/N) drew his attention away from adjusting one of the rings on his fingers to peer over his shoulder, his eyes dragging over the gown Alicent wore in the muted blue color typical of House Frey. The tone brought out the auburn of her hair, making the delicate curls the servants carefully styled more apparent. A smile graced his lips and he cut the distance across the room to kiss the top of her head.

Before he could speak, the doors to their bedchambers parted and a guard stepped inside. "Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Your Grace, My Lord," The guard announced, dipping his head and waiting for Rhaenyra to step inside before he, along with the rest of the servants, swiftly stepped outside to allow them privacy.

It'd been exactly a year since either of them had laid eyes upon Rhaenyra; exactly a year since (Y/N) received Otto Hightower's begrudge blessing to wed Alicent without Rhaenyra's knowledge and announced his intentions before a council unaware of the tense stare he received throughout. The withering frown on her face when they departed for the Twins had been enough to keep him from visiting King's Landing, but with things having drastically improved between his wife and their old friend, he hardly wished to get in between their friendship.

"Alicent," Rhaenyra greeted softly, dropping her intertwined hands and approaching them with a gentle smile. Alicent rose from her chair with unsteady feet and clasped her hand over (Y/N)'s arm, using him as her support as she twisted around to face her friend. "How good it is to see you again." Rhaenyra took her hands into hers, her gaze dropping down to her bump and brows lifting. "And in... quite a state. I am.. so very pleased for you both."

"Ruling becomes you, Rhaenyra," Alicent told her warmly, her fingers squeezing around her friend's. "I look forward to a long and peaceful reign, and I certainly cannot wait to see what grandchildren the twins will bring forth once they marry the boys. I hear Prince Joffery has already been arranged to wed one of the Manderly girls. It is a blessing to see one's children experience the love of parenthood."

"Yes, well," Rhaenyra chuckled, brushing away a strand from her face and briefly meeting (Y/N)'s eyes. "Jace is all nerves right now. He desires everything to be absolutely perfect for the dual weddings. I cannot imagine how he will be once Baela falls with child."

Alicent laughed lightly and retracted her hands to curl them around (Y/N)'s arm, her head tilting up to gaze at him. "(Y/N) was quite nervous at the beginning, were you not, darling? Baela will grow to appreciate it as I did, I think. It feels nice to be taken care of, especially by one's husband."

In an attempt not to wince, (Y/N) offered Rhaenyra a smile instead. "How is the search for a husband, Rhaenyra? I'm certain the council has been urging you to wed for some time now. I hear you've had many suitors, Marq Ambrose and Jon Roxton among them. Mother believes a strong consort would do well for the Realm."

"I'm afraid most of the fine men have married and left the marriage mart looking rather bleak." Rhaenyra's tight smile made him bite his inner cheek. "I have little need for more children, regardless. I have named my heir and he will soon produce an heir of his own if the Gods are kind to us."

"I'm certain they will be," Alicent assured her, her eyes crinkled with fondness. "You should come with me to the Sept, Rhaenyra. We could pray to the Mother for the safe delivery of this babe and any future grandchildren we have."

"I'll certainly attempt to make time for it, but I believe your current grandchildren are eagerly expecting you." Rhaenyra reached out, running her palm over Alicent's arm and smiling sweetly.

With a gentle kiss to his cheek, Alicent bid her goodbye to Rhaenyra and strode past her, her once elegant and graceful walk now slow as she wobbled and kept close to the servants that quickly flocked to her side. (Y/N) watched her go, swallowing thickly when Rhaenyra flicked her hand and the guard shut the doors behind his wife. He turned his attention onto the new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the very one whose hand he'd forced before the Small Council.

"Alicent is right, Rhaenyra. Ruling becomes you." He spoke quietly, ears picking up the quiet scoff that slipped past her lips. "I know we parted on... uncertain terms but-"

"Uncertain? Is that what you call it? You gave me little warning, little time to process! When my father died, I needed you by my side but you were too busy courting a freshly made widow to pay me an ounce of care." Rhaenyra sneered, her long braid and dark red dress swaying with her movements as she spun around on her heels. "Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys were there but they were more keen on ensuring the coronation progressed swiftly and my ascension to the throne went without trouble; I needed you... and you weren't there."

His teeth caught his lip, digging and lightly tugging at the skin. There was a semblance of guilt in his chest, an acknowledgment that he had indeed ignored his duties as a friend to seek out Alicent instead. But he'd been worried an ascension to the throne would mean a marriage proposal between him and Rhaenyra would only be eagerly accepted by his parents. He'd used all the fuss over the coronation and ascension to keep himself out of Rhaenyra's sights, they both knew that well.

"You have my apologies, Rhaenyra. I did believe you'd find comfort in your children and the Velaryons, however. I hoped you would, I swear it. I believed leaving you in their hands would have been better. Alicent had no one but scheming men and children grieving in their own ways-"

"Were you not a scheming man as well? How long did it take for you to realize no one would stand in the way? Before you crawled to her doorstep like a mutt." Rhaenyra questioned bitterly as she tilted her body to look upon him, the accusation lining her tone making his jaw clench.

"I did not seduce her or- or take advantage of a grieving woman, Rhaenyra. I offered her a shoulder to cry on, to release all she held onto these years. I asked for her hand in marriage, yes, but I asked her first before the thought of asking Otto Hightower crossed my mind. If she had rejected it, I would have left it at that, but she did not. She accepted my marriage proposal; she agreed to move to the Twins instead of remaining here; she desired to have a child."

"I would have done all those things if given the chance!"

(Y/N)'s eyes squeezed shut as her voice ricocheted off the walls of the apartments and likely spilled out into the hallway for anyone passing by to hear. He heard her quiet pants, the muffled chatter outside the walls, the orders from the courtyards drifting with the wind. He parted his eyes to look at her when she moved, the ends of her dress grazing the floor until she stopped before him. Her fingers flexed with uncertainty before reaching out to brush over his hands.

"I waited." She said quietly, voice barely audible. "When Laenor died, I waited.. for a crow, a messenger, your presence.. I waited for you to return from the Riverlands and instead... you paid your respects and left it there. You did everything I desired from you.. but with Alicent. Why couldn't have it been me? What could she have possibly given you that I could not? You could have become King Consort! Your firstborn would have been a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms-"

"I am not Daemon, Rhaenyra, I do not care for what riches or victories one provides. Alicent is... Alicent is sunshine on a cool midday.. she is a cup of warm tea by the fireplace during the cruelest of winters.. she is a plate of freshly baked sweets or- or a tender embrace on a somber day. Rhaenyra, you are the lashing wind during a storm and waves bashing into rocks on a cliff. You are fun and exciting but I prefer calm over chaos. She is the calm to my chaos."

Rhaenyra stared at him silently, her violet eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "I am not a child anymore." She whispered shakily.

"You are Queen Rhaenyra of Westeros and mother to three excellent young men." His hand raised and pressed against her cheek. "And I will soon be Lord of the Crossing and father to the little one my wife is currently carrying. If I had desired to be King Consort or simply desired to be your husband, I would have pursued it years ago. It is best we leave this in the past, Rhaenyra. Nothing will come from it now."

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melanchoire · 4 months ago

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Free use with ningning🤤🤤🤤🤤

God she has such a slutty body my god please let reader full on mandhandle and use her like the fucktoy she is😩😩😩😩 just anytime and anywhere groping her and pkaying with her

girl you mentioned the bimbo and i couldn't help but write all my thoughts about her and there is a lot 😭 i hope you don't mind

cw: exhibitionism, fingering, humiliation, overstimulation, somnophilia, squirting, toys (dildos, fuck machine, nipple clamps, ropes, strap–on, vibrator.) idk if i'm forgetting something i'll check it later

ningning is one of my favorite bratty bimbo because she leads the squad of babygirls who just want to be fucked silly (chaewon, yuna and wonyoung have competition.)

ningning may look like a sweet girl but you know she’s the kind of girl who has an innocent face but is a complete slut 😭 the one you can see and think is just a happy and cute girl, or the one that with a simple look you know that in her mind her brain can only think about fuck and fuck

she acts dumb, pretending to have no idea whatsoever about sex until the giggles get the better of her and the dumb act fades away completely. I BET she talks without any filter about fucking or whatever, especially about her fetishes or kinks and it’s an endless list that includes almost all the kinks in existence

she is a big fan of being treated like a dumb and being humiliated to the point where she actually starts to feel ashamed of herself. ningning loves being treated badly and spoken to as if inside her head there is only a hamster running and going around in a rodent wheel

even ningning is the one who treats herself like a whore: she would spend days trying to convince you that it would be a good idea for her to use a remote–controlled bullet vibrator and for you to be the one controlling it, getting to the point of begging you on her knees because just thinking about the idea makes her more and more needy and she begins to see it as a basic need like eating or sleeping. the type who wears the tightest and shortest clothes possible to provoke you, “accidentally” forgetting to wear underwear when wearing tight shirts or skirts and it’s a coincidence that she realizes this when you mention it to her when a strong breeze lifts her skirt a little or when she bends over to pick something up and the fabric rides up her rear a little. but it was just a slip according to her words, she is so clumsy! the clear example that you can not be pretty and intelligent at the same time

and she is the one who asks and practically forces you to use her like a dumb doll whenever you want 😭😵‍💫

ningning sleeps in the most slutty pajama set possible, a silk tank top with matching shorts, again not bothering to wear underwear because she loves the feeling of the silky fabric against her soaking wet pussy 🥺 or sometimes she even dares to sleep without clothes. whatever the option, she always wakes up in the middle of the night feeling you fucking her pussy mercilessly, moaning loudly and whimpering uncontrollably at how rough you’re being with her

she has this fetish or whatever you want to call it of doing housework and in the blink of an eye finding herself being fucked 😭 it’s pretty stupid but tolerable just because it’s her

ningning kneels in front of the washing machine and puts her lower half inside the appliance while putting the dirty clothes inside it, smiling victoriously as she feels you standing behind her and you pull her shorts down to her knees, noticing that she surprisingly has no panties on today. she also enjoys cooking a delicious meal for the two of you, ending with her being bent over the counter and getting fucked silly from behind 🥺 although she will enjoy it more if you tell her to continue cooking while you take care of destroying her greedy cunt

the type who has countless toys

she loves to ride and maybe the only activity that can consume her energy and make her exhausted enough to stop bothering for a while… so what’s better than just sitting back and forcing her to ride your strap, handcuffing her hands behind your back and maybe even placing nipple clamps on her tits? she would start to get whiny because she needs to have her tits played with and her clit rubbed, so she would start moving her hips in a faster and more uncontrolled rhythm because she is chasing an orgasm that you’re not completely willing to give her

owner of countless dildos and her favorites are the tentacle ones. she would love to be kneeling on the floor riding a dildo and being watched under your gaze while you’re chilling on the couch, ending up becoming desperate and grabbing the toy by the base to slammer it violently against her pussy because she needs it 🥺

maybe using the fucking machine she loves so much 💗 making her lie face down on the floor, head down with her cheek pressing against the floor and her ass up and knees bruised due to how much they were scraping because her legs were shaking and hips threatening to fall down, but the stern look you gave her every time she tried to give up was something that only encouraged her to hold on a little longer

or something calmer like being tied up but you’re the one playing with her pussy, fingering her while holding a vibrator against her swollen clit, not wanting to stop even while she is cumming or crying

in short, ningning is just a girl who wants to be used like the cute doll she is 💗

#yizhuo #yizhuo x fem reader #yizhuo x reader #yizhuo smut #ning yizhuo #ning yizhuo x fem reader #ning yizhuo x reader #ning yizhuo smut #ningning #ningning x fem reader #ningning x reader #ningning smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #aespa smut

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gtgbabie0 · 4 months ago

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{Your girlfriend, Caitlyn, helps soothe your cramps}

!!-18//MDNI-!! TW// period sex, It’s not too crazy but it’s still blood, duh, so don’t it read if that grosses you out <3

“Is this good baby?” Caitlyn coos, her sweet, velvety accent wisps around you so gently in a way that makes you feel all heady. Her fingers curling deeper inside your wet cunt— blood-slick walls clamping around her digits. “Am I making those horrid camps feel all better?”

You nod your head against the silken pillows with a broken whine, meeting her hungry gaze with glossy almost pleading eyes— she leans closer, holding your stare with a smug expression. “Mhm, yeah— fuck Cait— you’re so amazing.” You whimper, eyes rolling back as she adds another finger, a hot, sticky mixture of blood and slick dribbling out of your greedy cunt.

Caitlyn’s lips part, mimicking the way your jaw has gone all slack with pleasure— her half-lidded eyes studying each and every twitch in your beautiful face. “Oh, yeah? Is that right baby, am I the best?” She purrs lowly, grinding herself down against your lower abdomen.

The slick from her cunt feels nice and warm over your stomach and the weight of her body soothed away the painful knots that had seized you not so long ago— now your body was prickling with that familiar tingle, a warmth that wraps around you, making you melt back against the bed with a small moan.

“Mhmm, the bestest, fuck— oh Cait, m’so close, please.” You breathe, hands clutching at her hips as she slowly thrusts her fingers in and out of you, curling her digits against that spongy spot that makes you writhe beneath her. “Needa cum so badly.”

“Sshh, I know, just let go f’me— you’re doing so good pretty girl.” She soothes as she continues to fuck her fingers into your blood-slick cunt, grinding her palm against your clit all while slowly grinding her pussy over your abdomen until you’re both cumming, moaning out each other’s name and other various breathless curses. Her mouth is instantly on yours, chest to chest, swallowing up every tiny noise you make— kissing you oh-so-greedily. Blood and slick dribbles out from you in thick globs, caught by the towel she had laid out beneath you earlier whilst she works you through your dizzying orgasm.

Caitlyn shuffles off of you carefully, her lidded gaze flitting between the sheen coat of her pleasure that glistens over the soft skin of your lower stomach and then down to her fingers as she pulls them out from you— coated in a sticky mess of blood and cum, that also covered the inside of your thighs.

“Oh— you made such a beautiful mess.” She giggles airily, admiring the sight of her shiny red fingers with a small smirk tugging at her lips. You turn your head to the side, hiding your face in the pillows with an embarrassed murmur. Caitlyn gently cleans you up with those soft wipes she keeps tucked away in her bedside table drawer before returning her attention to you. “Don’t hide, please?” Her tender words are spoken into the soft curve of your jaw as she noses at your flushed cheek.

With a small sigh and a whine, you turn your head to look back up at her with a lazy smile plastered over your face, completely relaxed and no longer in pain— just how she liked it. “Do you feel better now?” She asks in between loving pecks she peppers all over your face.

“Mm, yeah— feels so much better now, thank you.” You whisper, a content hum sounding out from the back of your throat as her hand slowly massages your thigh, caressing up to your hips.

“Good, I’m glad. You did so well princess.” She smiles warmly, fingers rubbing small circles into the small of your back. “I'll get you a drink and a little snack then I’ll run you a bath, yeah?” You immediately nod in agreement, hand finding hers with a thankful squeeze as she drops one last kiss to your lips.

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metaphorfordeath · 5 months ago

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Anti-Psychotic

A person living with schizophrenia finds that their delusions may have more basis in reality than they thought. Originally published in the Fall/Winter II issue of Diet Milk Magazine, available here. Content warnings for depiction of psychosis, violence, ableist language.

No one is watching me.

Julie has me write that down at our session. She never listens to me. She says, it can be comforting to realize that people don’t think of you as much as you think they do. I know this already. She asks, what evidence do you have that you are being watched? I say there isn’t any. Just a feeling. She writes something down, and asks about my meds again.

So fucking patronizing. Of course I take them. I have taken mine like clockwork, every day, for five years. Maybe I missed a few days, but who doesn’t forget sometimes. My meds are cleat spikes jabbing into the earth. Helping me keep my footing. Making sure I don’t slip.

Last week I started getting the prickle again. Like fingers up my back. Someone standing behind me, breathing. I live alone. When I felt it, I wasn’t scared at first. These things happen sometimes. I’ve been around the block. The prickle and I are old friends, practically. When it finds me, I have ways to forget it.

I drew the blinds, which helped a bit. I had a drink—nobody's perfect—but the prickle didn’t dull. So I peeked through the shades at the street below. Normal street stuff. The sun was setting, painting the world in shades of fire. Cars went by, all the usuals. Some kids were yelling in a driveway. A wasp tapped at my window, wiggling its feelers at me. No obvious source for the prickle. So, probably nothing. For the rest of the evening I puttered, read my book, ate some frozen nothing heated in the microwave, and took my meds. The prickle was temporary, I told myself as I lay down to sleep, the usual fog settling over me in a cool, clammy layer. No one was watching me. No one ever is.

That was a week ago. It’s only gotten worse since then. The prickle turned into a terrified stomach ache that kept me up for nights and nights. I called in sick to group, told Cheryl the caseworker that I have the flu. She sounded alarmed, but she’s only worried because of what happened to Devin.

Devin was like me: good at meds, good at therapy. We were friends, in a psycho kind of way. A few weeks ago, Devin started to get bad. Stopped showing up to group, didn’t even call. I haven’t seen him in a while, even when I went looking for him in his usual bad places. I miss him. I told Cheryl not to worry. I’m steady, just sick. I’ll see her again soon.

I keep taking my meds, but they aren’t helping like they should. The fog I count on to sleep is thin, or missing. Something scrabbles at my skin from underneath, and I keep catching myself scratching little bits off of me. When I lay down, a low, neutral voice whispers nonsense at me through the pillow I clamp over my head. I can’t shower; that’s when the prickle gets stronger. Someone standing on the other side of the shower curtain, someone looking down at me through the water stain on the ceiling. I hiss and babble out loud just to hear myself talk, to shut up the voices that aren’t mine. I get sicker by the day.

By now I haven’t been outside in over a week, but my meds are ready to pick up. I don’t want to miss a dose, so I put on shoes and the big jacket that makes me feel safe, and I go outside. Birds leer at me from the tops of buildings. Walking in the opposite direction, an old lady frowns at me.

“Hmph, same to you,” she snaps.

My stomach lurches, but I don’t say anything, just keep walking. I hadn’t spoken. Had I?

The drug store is brightly lit. It hurts to be inside. Too many things to look at. Faces on packaging look strange now. Confrontational. Interrogative. But at least they look like faces. When I look at anyone real, their features shift. Static snow eats at the air around their heads in a halo. It frightens me, so I keep my eyes on my shoes. The pharmacy tech who’s always there gets the packet for me, rings it up.

“Any questions about your medication?” he asks. I shake my head, pay with a card. He has glasses that give his face a sort of stability, so I look at it. His eyes are brown, beard gray, no hair on his head. He smiles at me. “Have a nice day, miss.”

“You too,” I mutter.

And then I go home, have to stop myself from running for safety. The walk is twenty minutes each way; harrowing, the passing cars huge and hungry, huffing and snorting at me. The prickle is more than a prickle by now. It feels like someone is pulling out the hairs on the back of my neck, one by one. My heart thuds against my ribs so hard that I’m afraid it will burst out, plop on the sidewalk and keep throbbing without me. The paper bag with my pills turns damp and tattered in my sweaty hand.

And getting home doesn’t even help this time.

Julie says too much TV can be a trigger for me, but I start leaving it on all the time. Noise beats silence, any day. No empty spaces that need filling. I can’t watch sitcoms or anything fictional, so I tune it to the news. The news is always. Steady, real, factual. There’s a story about a body they found by the freeway. Pushed out of a moving car. No one knows or cares who it was. There’s a picture of the scene, taped up yellow and covered in those little numbers that say where a bit of evidence is. A tattered jacket lays in a ditch, dark with blood.

I stand and race to the bathroom, cool porcelain against my hands, bile and nothing coming up as sweat pours down my back. My head pounds, edges of my vision sparkling. I can only see the jacket. Not dirty or bloody or ruined but the way it used to look. Devin’s jacket.

Something is horribly wrong. Men-in-black wrong. The-end-is-nigh wrong.

The prickle wasn’t imagination. It was intuition.

Someone got Devin. Who else did they get before him?

---

The next week, I force myself to go to group. I need to see faces. See who else is there, or not. Cheryl picks me up for these, since I don’t drive. I’m sicker than I can remember being, and try to remember to ask Julie about my dose on Tuesday. I sit silently in the passenger seat, feeling Cheryl’s eyes on me. Caseworkers all have the same eyes.

“Feeling alright today, X?”

My name isn’t the name she calls me. You don’t need to know it.

“Fine,” I say, pinching my hands between my knees. They shake if I don’t. “Still getting over that flu.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she says. Her sedan has beige fabric seats. The passenger seat is dark, stained with sweat and whatever else from all the people she’s ferried around. A vanilla air freshener dangles from the rear view mirror.

Someone shouts in my ear, so close I feel a little blast of hot breath on my neck, and I flinch. Cheryl looks at me suddenly.

“Everything okay?”

She didn’t hear that. “Yeah. Sorry. Weird itch.”

“Hmm.”

Group is fine. It’s usually fine. I don’t say much this time, just look around at everyone in their folding chairs. Their faces are wrong. It makes me nauseous to look, but I look anyway. I need to see who isn’t here.

There are no empty chairs, but there are fewer. One or two down from usual. All the other regulars are here, picking at their skin or looking at the clock or chewing their hair. I glance across the room and for a second I think I see Devin, sitting in his old coat. But when I look again, it’s just Tom. I almost hoped.

When it’s over, there’s bad coffee to drink. I suck on a red straw and let the bitter taste anchor me to my tongue. I inhabit my body, touch my fingers to the side of my face to know that it and my fingers exist. Sufficiently convinced of my realness, I go to Amber, our de facto leader.

She’s drinking water from a bottle with cucumber slices in it, cloudy with pulp and seeds. Ectoplasmic. It makes my stomach turn.

“Amber,” I say. My voice feels far away. She looks at me, expectant. “I missed last week. Have you seen Greg, or Mariah?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t. Greg was here last week, but I haven’t seen Mariah since like, last month. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

A crinkle appears between her eyebrows. I focus on that, since the rest of her features won’t stay put. “You’re worried because of what happened to Devin?”

“I think Devin is dead.” There is a sudden hush as other people in my vicinity overhear. “I saw his jacket. On the news.”

Cheryl appears beside me. “X, would you like to talk in the hallway?”

She pulls me out before I can answer. “Have you been feeling alright?” she asks again. “Taking your medication?”

“Yes,” I say, a little forcefully. She clicks her tongue.

“Really? Because if you need to move up your next appointment, I can make some arrangements for you.”

Despite the fact that I do want to move my appointment up, her tone hits a button in my brain and my face turns red. “No,” I say. “I’ll wait until the next one. I’m fine. I just need to know what’s happening.” A rancid taste creeps up the back of my throat. “Where are people going?”

“Honey, everyone’s here that needs to be here.”

“No—that’s not right. I need to know.”

I can tell from the way she moves that she thinks I’m getting agitated. She doesn’t understand what I’m saying. “People call in sick sometimes. You did, just last week. Mariah was having issues sticking with the program, so we’re working something out. No one’s gone.”

“Devin is gone. Devin is dead. He’s dead and no one knows it.”

Cheryl comes closer, her voice so low and venomous that it starts to meld with the others. “I’m going to give Dr. Bern a call and try to get you in with her sooner than Tuesday. If you can’t keep up with your regimen, we’ll have to consider another in-patient stay.”

Anger chokes me until my vision goes white. “Okay,” is all I can manage. I have some unsavory thoughts, which I won’t repeat to you now.

“Good,” says Cheryl, holding my leash. “Let’s get you home.”

I don’t sleep. I don’t even try. Someone is watching me. I think about Devin, the last time we spoke before he was gone. He got paranoid, too. He jabbered sometimes, when we would see each other. The same face, he said, with glass eyes. Looking at him. Following him. He said his pills were replaced, his furniture moved, nothing looked the same as he’d left it. No one listens to me, he said. I’m scared, he said. I’m scared of what will happen next.

“I’m scared, too,” I say to no one. A chorus laughs at me.

---

“So,” says Julie. “Cheryl told me you’ve been having some trouble sticking to your medication.”

“I stick to it,” I say, and set the pill bottle on the desk in front of her. “Count them and tell me I’m not.”

She doesn’t move to count them. I’d hoped at least that she would humor me. “It sounds like some of your persecutory thoughts are returning. Tell me about what you’re worried about.”

“I saw on the news that they found someone’s body in a ditch off the interstate. They showed pictures. I think the body was Devin.”

“Devin from your group?” I nod. “We actually just heard from him last week. His brother answered when we called his phone. Devin is currently in a private rehabilitation clinic in Cincinnati. He’s alright, X.”

A numb feeling falls over me all at once, like a sheet. Something crawls up my thigh and disappears into a deep hole in my flesh. “Oh.”

“Amber talked to us, too. She said you asked her about Greg and Mariah’s absences this week?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I followed up on those for you, too. Greg had an accident at home and was in the emergency room during your meeting time this week. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to reach Mariah personally, but her father informed me over the phone that her family has pulled her out of the program. She won’t be returning.” Julie leans across her desk. “X, can you please look at me?”

I look at her. Her face is twisted, like a mask, papier mâché, drooping strips of plaster bandage. The static threatens to consume her, and me.

“I’m going to increase your dose to eighty milligrams. For now you can take two of what you have at the usual time, but I’m sending in a new prescription to the pharmacy.” She scrawls something on a pad at hand, and I take the opportunity to look away. “I’ll see you again this time next week, okay? And if anything’s the matter, you can call the nurse’s hotline. We’ll take care of you.” She hands me the script.

“Thank you,” I say, and then someone brings me home. I am silent for the drive. Thinking.

Wasn’t Devin an only child?

I start doubling my dose. The fog doesn’t come. The prickle intensifies into ceaseless paranoia. I check the window locks three times a day to make sure, even though I live on the third floor. Chair under the doorknob, empty bottles stacked on it so I’ll hear if someone comes. I can’t stop thinking about Devin, and the others. Were they all really fine? Was this just a breakthrough-breakdown, pills ceasing their function and leaving me alone, spiraling?

I hadn’t tried calling Devin in weeks. He didn’t pick up the first few times, and anyone in that state doesn’t usually want to talk anyhow. But Julie said someone answered when they called. Maybe they would answer for me.

The phone buzzes. Surging forward and receding, like a tide. Devin could be there on the other end. Getting better. Being cared for. I close my eyes and wait to hear his voicemail, or something else.

Click. “Hello?”

The voice startles me so much I can’t speak. A stranger.

“Hello?” says the phone. “Who is this?”

“Um,” I say suddenly, “Devin?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice says. “Devin isn’t here right now. May I ask who’s calling?”

“I’m—his friend. X,” I clarify. My voice is not of me. “Can I talk to him soon?”

“No, unfortunately he can’t talk. But I’ll let him know you called, he’ll be happy to hear people are checking up on him.”

“What’s—who are you?”

“I’m Eric, Devin’s brother. I’m taking good care of him, miss. Have a nice day.”

The call ends. Something in my stomach shrivels. I run to the bathroom, but there’s nothing to bring up. I don’t know why that voice scared me so much. Why had I thought Devin was an only child? He hadn’t mentioned his family—maybe I’d just assumed, or forgotten if he’d said. Of course he had a brother. He was alright. They all were, now.

---

Days pass. Bugs make their homes in me. My medication runs out, the new pills ready for pickup. I’d rather die than set foot outside. But I need my stability. I steel myself to leave, and exit my apartment into the world.

Everyone looks at me. They all want to hurt me. A car drives slowly past me and I try not to look at the people inside. My head hurts. It’s hard to see where I’m going, but I go.

The drug store is bigger than it was last time. Brighter. Angrier. People avoid me as I shuffle towards the pharmacy counter. The pharmacist who’s always there smiles at me again.

“Do you have any questions about your medication?”

I shake my head, fumbling for my card. He’s staring at me through his glasses.

“Do you need me to call someone for you?”

His voice makes me want to puke. I shake my head again, take the pills and make for the door. A crowd of voices shout at me as I stagger out into the air. I miss the way things were. My cleats don’t fit anymore. I tear the bag open, pop the lid off the bottle and shake a pill into my mouth, force it down dry and sticky and hope it does its job. My mouth is sweet where it lingered. It didn’t used to be so sweet.

There is a dull shock of understanding that blooms at the edge of my mind. The prickle rises on the back of my neck, and I look over my shoulder again. The pharmacist is looking at me from his position behind the counter. His face ringed in static. He waves at me. And I take off running.

There is no one I can call. No one who will listen. There are only doors that will slam in my face, white speckle tile and fluorescent lights and needles. He knows that. He knew it for Devin, too. He knew it for the rest of them. The wind in my face feels like fingers grasping at me, tugging at my hair, slowing me down. I race home, up the stairs and lock the door, brace it with furniture and then I sit on the floor and cry and cry. They’re laughing at me. Trading whispers. Look how stupid. Look how gullible. Go on and cry, crybaby.

So I do. It’s all I have left.

The next time it’s group, I don’t come to the door. Cheryl calls me, but I don’t answer. There will be a wellness check if I don’t come. I want them to, now. When her calls finally stop piling up, I wait fifteen minutes, then step outside. I leave my door open, leave what I can to show that I am gone. I leave the pills out, and the script. Crush a few with my heel for good measure. I hope they can put the pieces together.

It’s dark, cool. It reminds me of the fog, makes me wish I could sleep. Eyes follow me through the evening. Headlights burn me as cars move past. I walk slowly in my big jacket, letting myself be watched. Letting the prickle come up my neck, creep over my scalp, trickle down over my face until it covers me in a thin layer and I prickle all over. The prickle and I are old friends. It tells me when to be afraid.

Then there are headlights at my back that don’t go away. The growl of an engine crashes into me. I stop walking, and someone gets out. I don’t turn to look. I can’t stand to look at faces anymore. Suddenly, I have a funny thought. Maybe I do have some questions about my medication, after all.

Something whistles through the air above my head, and the world disappears.

When I wake up later, I’m not sure if I have. There are stars. It smells like gasoline, copper and dirt. My jacket is gone. My mouth is gone, too. My hands. You’re caught, someone says in my ear, you let it happen. With my eyes, which I still have, I look across the floor. It hurts to look. There’s blood under me, sticky black. The prickle is gone. I discovered its source.

I’m alone for a long time. It’s hard to say how much. I realize that there’s a door behind me when it opens. Light falls across the floor, yellow tractor beam coming to take me away. I long to be weightless, but the earth won’t let me. Then the pharmacist who is always there puts his shoe against my face and turns me over. He doesn’t speak. He crouches down and looks into my eyes like he is trying to take something from me. Then he takes the tape off my mouth.

All I do at first is scream. It's all my body knows how to do. He sits and watches me. When I can see his mouth, it’s smiling, and I realize he likes it when I scream. So as soon as I can, I stop. Silence rushes back into the gaps, roaring in my ears.

“Good girl,” he says when I am quiet. His voice is a distorted growl, infrasound, rattling my eardrums. “Aren’t you such a good girl?”

I think about his throat in my teeth. I think about his blood on my face. For a moment it feels like I am lunging for him, jabbing thumbs into soft and fragile places. But he still has my hands, turning numb and purple at the small of my back. So I sit up as much as I can and spit at the floor near his feet. Faster than my eyes can track, he lurches forward. Fist in my hair, hauling me up to hip height.

He looks into my face with his glass eyes. His mouth is monstrous, all his white teeth sharp in a thicket of gray.

“I’ve been watching you,” he says.

I know this already. There is nothing satisfying in the confirmation of it.

He is not the man in black I always pictured. He could be anybody.

“Think of this as a favor I’m doing you.”

Then he hits me again. And other things.

When I’m alone, voices chatter in my ears. No one is coming, they say, you are alone. They will not find you. You and the ditch will be friends soon. So you amounted to this—better than nothing, we suppose. I shush them, rock myself against the cement floor and hum and think about grass, and birds. I try not to leave myself room to cry. I don’t want him to have the satisfaction.

A thousand years go by. Outside the room, there are voices. Not any of mine. His, and others. They start loud, and get quiet. His voice goes away completely. Doors open, distant, then closer. Light falls over my body again, and I feel the weightlessness. Real this time. My hands come back to me, but I can’t move them. There are faces, more than I’ve seen in a while. They scare me, but I can’t run, so I try not to look. Except at his. They take me past him, and I look. Through his glasses I see his eyes, still trying to take something from me. He has, by now. But not what he wanted.

I sleep for a long time, and when I wake up, the world is the way I remember it. My feet on the ground, cleats and all, not slipping. When I’m well enough they bring me to identify Devin’s body, since he didn’t really have a brother after all. They find Mariah’s, too. Greg really was in the emergency room, turns out. But there are others. Too many to think of.

Cheryl changes careers afterwards. Probably for the best. I find this out when she drives me to group the first time after I get out of the hospital. She doesn’t look at me much, but when she does, I can see her eyes are different. Not caseworker eyes anymore.

“Lauren is going to be taking over your case starting next week,” she says after a long silence. “So this will be the last time I see you.” I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

“Okay,” I say.

She never apologizes. No one does. They all say they’re sorry for what happened to me, but that isn’t the same thing. People who don’t listen never think to apologize for it. They think they were listening all along.

Things are mostly the same as before, except I get my pills mailed to me now. And I think about Devin a lot. When I pour myself a drink, I pour one for him too and pretend he’s with me. I don’t have any pictures, so mostly I think about his voice. The last time we ever spoke, he told me, no one listens to me, X.

What I said then was, I know the feeling, man.

But now I just tell him I’m sorry.

#writing #original fiction #writeblr #short story #mine #the magazine that originally published this story has gone dark but since this is no longer under exclusivity i am pleased to share it here #i'm still pretty proud of this one

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jasmines-library · 1 year ago

Note

Hi. Um... i have been craving angst

👀 and my angsty mind has been making up... scenarios, but like would love them typed out so i can read 💀 i live your work, p.s. <3

anyways, would like to ask for something along these lines:

reader is a batsibling

is kidnapped

fam cant find her for a few days and is panicked

they find her somewhere, blindfolded and tied up, on the ground and caked in blood

they get her some med stuff and whatever

and they're like how did this happen so they somehow get cctv or duke uses his powers or something and finds out that they've been beaten for info

and they get like really angry and all that jazz

:D rest up to you!

would be great if you did it 🥺

but i understand if it's too much

love youuuu 💖/platonic ehe

okay, i will excuse myself from your asks now. byeee

Loaded Silence

hello hello! Thanks for requesting. This was super angsty, but as you put I crave it too... ❤️

Warnings: Kidnapping, Torture (not very graphic), fear, medical scenes.

Word Count: 1.5k

⛤ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛤

It had happened unexpectedly. You were there one second and gone the next. In a blink of an eye. Nothing more nothing less. That was all it took for you to slip away. Damian could have sworn he was only gone for a minute. To stretch his legs and grab something to eat. But that was all it took for them to sneak in. Quiet as a mouse they crept in, splitting through the open window at the back of the room. Leaving it open had been a careless mistake, but who was to think that you would have been taken in the safety of your own home?

They grabbed you roughly from behind. A set of rough hands pinning you to the sofa, clamped tightly over your mouth as another worked to tie a heavy bandage around your eyes. You had squirmed feebly trying to gain some leverage. Your training desperately tried to kick in but at that moment, you were not a vigilante. You were Y/N Wayne: A citizen, child to the wealthiest man in Gotham and utterly fucked.

You had no choice after that than to allow them to drag you downtown, you had kicked and cried blindly, desperate for one of your brothers to chase after you. But whoever was gripping you tight enough to bruise was clearly experienced and you knew that they stood no chance so unexpectedly.

When they tossed you down on the ground, you thought it would offer some relief. The room was dank, dusty and smelt of water rot and mould. This was the part where they would send a ransom note to Bruce and he and your brothers would come charging in sooner or later. But you had never been more wrong.

“We know who you are, Wayne.” A voice spoke. Feminine but not soft spoken. Threatening. “Or would you prefer Raven?”

Your stomach dropped as bile burned the back of your throat. You knew you could fight now, but you were defenceless weaponless with your hands and feet bound together.

“The fuck do you want?” You spat, though the effect of the venom in your words was lost for you looked so helpless.

“Bold of you to speak to me that way, given your predicament.” The woman chuckled, prodding you with her foot. “You’re here as a sort of…payment.” She mused. “I suppose you could call it that.”

“What?”

“My husband.” She started, moving away from you. You could hear her pacing around the room but you could only conjure up images in your mind. “Leader of the greatest crime suricate in Gotham. And now, he’s dead. Rotting in some coffin in the ground, thanks to your father.”

She moved closer again. Her heels clattered against the floor.

“He took away the only thing that ever mattered to me!” She gripped your wrist, lifting you up off the floor and leaning into your face. “So now, I’m going to take away one of his toys until someone tells me how to get him out! His precious little girl. Oh how I can’t wait to see the look on all of their faces when they see you. That is of course…after we have a little fun.”

There was still no sign of you. And it felt as if they had searched every inch of the city. The high and the low but still nothing. No one had slept much in the three days you had been missing. Their nights were either spent searching for you on patrol or laying awake staring blankly at the ceiling as their minds conjured up the worst. None of them said it outloud but the possibility that you were dead loomed over them. But no one ever said anything. They just continued to search in silence. It seemed like Babs and Tim hadn’t torn their eyes away from the screens since Damian came barging into the room three days ago, doubled over and panting as he revealed the news. The only time they ever moved was to head to the bathroom or to make another mug of lukewarm coffee.

The rest of the family were out on patrol. That was what they were calling it anyway. Really they were looking for you. And still there had been no sign until Dick stumbled upon a window. It was low down to his feet covered by concrete as though the building had just sunk into the concrete. And when he tried to peer inside, it seemed to be covered by something on the inside.

It could have been nothing.

But Dick was desperate.

He called over the other vigilantes with a signal on his com. They all came tricking over towards him silently through the city. Some bubbling with hope and anticipation, but all dreading the worst.

Moving around the back of the house, Dick pushed open the door.

You had never been more scared in your entire life. Everything ached, burned or stung. From what you could feel there didn’t seem to be a single inch of your skin that wasn’t covered in blood. It clung sticky to your skin, cracking every time you managed to bring yourself to shift against the floor.

She had continued her onslaught for hours, trying to force answers that she knew you would never be able to give her from your chapped lips. She would leave every once in a while, returning silently to catch you off guard with another round of pain. You couldn’t see her: the blindfold still remained firmly around your eyes, so you had to anticipate when she would return as you cowered against the back wall in a pool of your own blood. You were unsure how long it had been since she tossed you into the room. Without the relief of sunlight, your woozy mind had lost track of time.

And then a pair of hands gripped your shoulders. And you screamed, trying to recoil away from them. You didn’t make it far. Your body was too weak.

“No! No please! No more!” You begged, tears dribbling down your cheeks to mingle among the dirt and blood. “I already told you I-I don’t know anything! Please!”

“Woah, woah.” It was Dick’s voice that broke through to you, though they had all called out to you. It was him who had reached out to you in the first place, hesitant that the smallest touch would break you. As soon as they were met with resistance they knew you were here. And they fought as fast as they could to get to you. Praying that they wouldn’t find you as you had. Sprawled out across the floor in a pool of your own blood as you struggled to breathe. “It’s us.”

“We’re here, Kid.” Jason leaned forwards to remove the blindfold from your eyes as Dick tried to support you in his arms. You squiremed weakly, still untrusting. But the minute the blindfold was off and you had finished adjusting to the onslaught of light. You broke.

You collapsed into Dicks arms, sobbing and shaking. He cupped the back of your head with his hands and held you, giving Jason and Duke a nervous glance. Your blood had already begun to stain the front of his suit as you whimpered in his arms, clinging to him tightly.

When he tried to shift you, you let out a sob and clung to him tighter. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had hurt you or because you were scared he was going to leave you. Probably both.

“Y/N?” Jason whispered, moving to crouch by your side. “ We’re here now. We’re going to get you home okay? Can you tell us what happened?”

You shook your head and buried your face into Dicks chest trying to block out the pain.

Eyes turned to Duke who watched you with sad eyes. They observed as he surveyed the room, taking in the horrors that the light revealed. And he couldn’t help the gasp that slipped out of his lips.

He paled at what he saw. Winced at the way your face contorted with pain as the woman towered over you, tossing you about the room like a ragdoll and slashing you with various tools as she screamed at you. He saw how she would catch you off guard by sneaking up on you in the dark as some cruel game to satisfy her sick amusement. He felt sick.

In the time it took for him to see the echo of your agonies, Dick had managed to coax enough for him to stand so they could bring you out of the room and get you urgently to medical attention.

The two looked at him expectantly. And once he had managed to stutter out what he had seen, Jason was tensely clenching his jaw and fists.

Someone was going to bleed tonight. He was going to make sure of that.

Taglist:

@aestheticdaisies

@hell-o-kittys

@xxrougefangxx

@mamapucket

@hearts4robs

@harleycao

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unlimitedlust · 2 months ago

Text

Bite Me - Eric Draven (AU) x Reader | Part. 7 (+18)

(The gif above does not belong to me, all credits belong to its owner)

Summary:

They were childhood rivals who hadn’t spoken in years, until a wedding reunion throws them back into each other’s orbit. With tension simmering beneath every glance, one weekend turns into a series of unexpected moments, sharp words, and almosts that linger long after the party ends. But when fate keeps bringing them back together, the line between hate and something far more irresistible begins to blur.

Author’s note:

Good evening everyone, I hope you like this next part! It's very late here so I didn't proof read it, so I'm sorry if anything is off or misspelled.

WARNING: this chapter has SMUT! All the way through! So if you don't like it, skip it. You've been warned. Unprotected p in v. Oral (f! receiving).

This is AU Eric Draven!!!

If you enjoy this, please let me know if I should continue this, your feedback is precious for me 🫶🏻

Tags: @malenoradgn @muchwita @witchofozz @wiseyouthinfluencer @a-differentbrandof-beans @laniirackssss

Masterlist

End of Author’s note.

The ride to his place is a blur. Wind in her hair, his body solid in front of her, arms wrapped tightly around his waist like she’s afraid to let go now that she’s finally allowed herself to hold on.

They don’t speak. Not when he parks the bike. Not when she follows him upstairs, her heels echoing softly on the stairwell. And definitely not when he unlocks the door to a dim, barely-lit apartment and lets her step inside first.

It smells like him. Leather, smoke and something irresistibly masculine she can’t place, but feels like addiction in a bottle.

He tossed his keys onto the counter and the door clicked shut behind them.

Still, no words. Just that pull between them, thick and electric.

“You sure you wanna do this?” His voice was low and rough. “Last chance to make me stop.”

She turned to face him, her chest rising and falling fast, lipstick smudged from their kiss outside the club, her eyes wild and pupils blown wide.

“I think we’re a little past that question,” she replied with a sly smirk.

Eric was on her in a second, mouth crushing hers, hands everywhere. The kiss was intense, consuming, like he was starving for her. She met him with equal hunger, fingers running through his hair as they dove into each other’s mouths.

She pressed closer without thinking, her body moving on instinct alone, and when her hips brushed against his, a low, guttural growl rumbled from deep in his chest, the sound, filled with so much need, her knees nearly buckled.

His hands clamped down on her waist, fingers digging in just enough to make her gasp as she felt the barely-leashed tension vibrating from him through both of them, like a wire pulled tight and ready to snap.

His hands then slid down to her thighs and with one firm grip he lifted her up on his lap, causing her legs to wrap tight around his waist instinctively as her back hit the wall next to the door.

She gasped into his mouth as his hips pressed into hers, already hard through his jeans, already needing more.

Her gasp barely left her mouth before he kissed her again, even deeper, rougher. His hands roamed up the back of her thighs and under her skirt, squeezing, feeling, pulling her tighter against him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between them.

She could feel him, hard and insistent through his jeans, pressing exactly where she needed him most. It was maddening, the friction, the heat, the way their bodies just fit even though they hadn’t really started yet.

His mouth tore from hers, trailing hot, desperate kisses along her jaw and down her neck, making her whimper as her head tipped back against the wall. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of her throat making her shiver.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been dreaming about this,” he rasped against her skin, voice strained, like he was barely holding himself back.

His hands slid up under her top, rough palms burning a path along her ribs until he found her breasts, squeezing just hard enough to make her moan softly, arching into him shamelessly as he teased and rolled her nipples between his fingers.

She clawed at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel him, to see him, and he must have felt the same because he leaned back just enough to yank the fabric over his head and toss it somewhere behind him.

She barely registered when he carried her away, the apartment a blur around her, until he placed her onto the cool surface of the kitchen counter.

Y/N sat there, breathing hard, hands clutching the counter’s edge for balance as she finally allowed herself to take a good look at him.

Her eyes raked over him greedily as he stood there, chest heaving, watching her with dark, heavy-lidded eyes, like he was giving her a moment to memorize him before he claimed her.

The sculpted chest, the tattoos inked across hard muscle, the faint dusting of dark hair trailing down from his navel and disappearing beneath the low-slung jeans. Her palms slid up his stomach first, feeling the rigid abs tense under her touch, then higher, up the planes of his chest, then sweeping down his strong, veiny arms. The muscles in his forearms twitched subtly, like he was fighting the urge to grab her, to pin her down and devour her.

His jeans clung low on his hips, the sharp V of his lower abs pointing straight into the denim, like the devil himself had left a road map designed to ruin her.

And still, he waited, giving her the space to touch, to look, to want him.

He was beautiful in that rugged, dangerous way that should’ve come with a warning label. And he was looking at her like he was about to tear her apart, slowly and completely.

They locked eyes as her hands slid back down, nails scraping lightly over his abs until her fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer. She crashed her mouth against his in a desperate, searing kiss.

Eric caught her easily, stepping between her legs, one hand tangling in the hair at the back of her head, the other gripping her thigh, holding her open, grounding her to him. He didn’t rush, he savored.

Y/N broke the kiss just long enough to pull her top over her head, baring her upper-half fully without a second of hesitation, dropping the piece of fabric blindly on the counter beside them, never taking her eyes off him.

His gaze darkened instantly, dropping to her exposed breasts like he couldn't help himself. His hands found her chest again, cupping her, weighing her in his palms. He kissed her again, slower this time and then let his mouth travel lower, dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, tasting her, marking her.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, baby,” he muttered against her skin, the rough scrape of his teeth dragging heat across her breasts as he palmed them and thumbed over her nipples, watching her arch into his touch, craving for more. His mouth closed around one peak, sucking, grazing it with his teeth just enough to make her cry out softly, her nails digging into his shoulders.

He played her like he knew her body better than she did, his mouth worshipping her while his hands wandered lower, tracing the curves of her waist, her hips, memorizing her shape like it was sacred. His fingers caught at the waistband of her skirt.

Without needing words, she lifted her hips for him. His teeth clamped gently around her nipple, a teasing warning, just enough to make her whimper as he dragged her skirt and panties down her legs, baring her completely to him.

Eric’s hands came down on her knees, spreading her wider with slow, unhurried pressure, until she felt fully exposed and at his mercy, entirely his.

The look he gave her made her shiver from head to toe. Raw and hungry, like he couldn’t believe she was real... and he was about to ruin her for anyone else.

"Perfect," he said, voice wrecked, eyes lingering shamelessly on her glistening core before dragging slowly back up to meet hers.

He crouched down, fingers deft as he unbuckled her heels, the soft thud of them hitting the floor echoing in the thick, charged air. Her heart pounded harder, breath catching as he rose back over her, tall, powerful, utterly focused.

His hands slid up the delicate curve of her calves, gliding over the sensitive skin of her thighs, lingering just enough to make her shiver, before traveling higher, tracing her hips, her ribs, the sides of her body, until he reached her shoulders. With a slow, deliberate touch, he urged her back, laying her down.

She laid flat on the counter with a shuddering breath, the coolness of the marble against her heated skin making her arch slightly, helplessly.

Eric hooked her legs over his broad shoulders, pulling her to the very edge of the counter, until she felt the hot fan of his breath exactly where she needed him most.

She choked on a gasp, thighs instinctively trying to close around him, but his hands gripped her hips, firm and unrelenting, holding her wide open for him.

“These stay open for me,” he murmured, voice rough velvet.

He kissed the inside of one of her thighs first, slow and maddening, teeth scraping lightly over her sensitive skin, then the other, avoiding on purpose exactly where she was aching for him, making her squirm, making her beg without a word.

The anticipation was unbearable. Every nerve ending in her body strained toward him, desperate and frantic. Until his mouth finally brushed over the edge of her folds, so light it barely counted as a touch, a tease that made her hips jerk and a broken whimper come out of her lips.

"God, you're already so wet for me," he growled against her skin, his breath hot and sinful.

Then, with a deliberate and devastating slowness, he licked a long, firm stripe up her slit, pausing to circle her clit with the tip of his tongue in lazy, featherlight strokes that made her thighs tremble against his shoulders.

She whimpered, writhing under him, the feel of her tongue against her so good she could barely breathe, but he just chuckled low against her, teasing, drawing it out and dragging her higher.

He moved with devastating patience, his mouth skillful and relentless, alternating between slow, maddening flicks of his tongue and deep, languid strokes that made her spine arch clean off the counter.

Y/N fisted the edge of the marble beneath her, the cold, smooth surface grounding her against the pleasure he was unraveling from her body with humiliating ease. It was too much, but it was not enough, she needed him fully.

Her childhood nemesis, the boy who used to make her grit her teeth in fury, now had her legs thrown over his shoulders, her body trembling and desperate, coming apart from nothing but his mouth.

She shouldn’t be letting him do this. She shouldn’t be loving it this much. She shouldn’t be teetering on the edge of begging him to ruin her completely, to never let her forget the way he made her feel right now, stretched out, helpless, adored and wrecked all at once.

His hands gripped her hips harder as she writhed underneath him, holding her down easily, like he could feel her slipping, like he wanted to drag every last moan out of her.

His tongue circled her clit in slow, tantalizing spirals before flattening against her, pressing and teasing until her thighs quaked around him. Every flick, every slow stroke sent sparks shooting through her bloodstream, a pressure building so fast and sharp she could barely form coherent thoughts anymore.

"Eric..." she gasped out, her voice hoarse and trembling.

He growled against her at the sound of his name coming out in such a lustful way from her lips, and she felt him smile wickedly against her skin. That man knew exactly how close she was, and had no intention of making it easy for her.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes from the sheer force of how good it felt, from the way he pushed her closer and closer to the edge only to ease back, teasing, tormenting, savoring every second of her unraveling.

"I can't…" She choked out, head tossing back against the counter. "I need… I need your cock, please…”

The words tore out of her raw and shameless. Eric lifted his head at her broken plea, and the moment their eyes met, it was like a punch to her chest. The look he gave her, dark, hungry, full of so much raw possession, nearly shattered her right there.

Her body jerked involuntarily, another wave of desperate need crashing through her. Before she could even catch her breath, he hooked his arms under her thighs, lifting her off the counter like she weighed nothing.

She gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, clinging to him as he carried her across the open space of his apartment. The room spun around her, the dim lights blurring, until he lowered her carefully onto a thick, soft rug that stretched across his living room floor.

Eric knelt over her, caging her in with his body, and crashed his mouth down onto hers. She could taste herself on his lips, slick and sweet, the taste of her own wrecked arousal making her moan into the kiss.

He kissed her like he wanted to consume her, messy and wild and so damn filthy it made her toes curl into the rug.

Before she could even think to move, he sat back on his heels, standing up between her spread thighs, his eyes dark with need as he looked down at her sprawled out, completely at his mercy.

His chest heaved with ragged breaths as his hands went to the button of his jeans, fingers working slowly, deliberately, popping the button free and dragging the zipper down with a slow, agonizing rasp. He shoved his jeans and boxer briefs down in one fluid motion.

Her mouth went dry and her heart stuttered violently in her chest.

Her jaw actually dropped, eyes wide, fixed on the thick, heavy length of him standing hard and proud between his hips, long and thick. Veins running along the shaft, the flushed head leaking a bead of precome that made her walls clench around nothing, desperate and aching.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips unconsciously, her whole body pulsed with need, every nerve ending screaming to feel him stretch her open, to fill her so deep she’d forget her own damn name.

A slow, devious smirk curled on Eric’s lips as he watched her reaction, pride and raw hunger flashing across his face.

He finished kicking off the last of his clothes, never once taking his eyes off her, letting her see everything, every inch of him that was about to take her.

He sank back down, bracing himself above her, the heat of his body bleeding into hers.

“There’s a reason I brought you here,” he rasped, his voice thick, the tip of his nose brushing against hers in an intimate touch. “Why I want you here,” he muttered again, his gaze dragging down the flushed, trembling length of her body.

Then his eyes flicked upward.

“Look up,” he ordered, voice dropping even lower.

Y/N’s head tipped back, and when her eyes found the ceiling, she gasped. A massive mirror stared back at her, angled perfectly above the rug where she laid spread out beneath him, naked and flushed. Her breath hitched, a flush of raw, shameless heat rushing through her.

Eric's mouth brushed against her ear, voice dark and full of promises that made her entire body tense with anticipation.

“You’re gonna take every fucking inch of me,” he said, low and merciless, one hand wrapping around himself, dragging the thick head of his cock slowly through her folds, teasing her clit as he coated himself in her arousal. “And you’re going to watch every second of it.”

Eric kept teasing her, sliding his cock through her folds again and again, getting himself even wetter with her arousal, until she was trembling under him, breathless and aching. Then, with a deliberate slowness that bordered on cruelty, he aligned himself at her entrance.

Their eyes locked, molten heat meeting frantic need, and he pushed forward, breaching her with a slow, steady roll of his hips. The thick, flushed head of his cock stretched her open, stealing the breath straight from her lungs.

She gasped, her back arching off the rug, nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor her against the overwhelming pleasure flooding her system.

“Eyes on me,” Eric growled low, his forehead pressing to hers for a beat as her eyes met his beautiful green ones, his hand sliding under one of her thighs to hitch it higher against his side, opening her even wider for him.

She whimpered, chest heaving, forcing herself to meet his gaze as he sank deeper, inch by inch, her body stretching to accommodate him.

His own eyes moved down to where their bodies met and she followed him. A new found wave of pleasure flooded through her as she watched him disappearing inside her, raw, how impossibly thick he looked sliding between her folds, how her skin flushed and her stomach fluttered with every slow, claiming thrust.

She saw Eric too, the hard cut of his muscles flexing, the tattoos spread across his arms and chest as he held himself over her, his face twisted in a feral mix of pleasure and possession as he drove into her.

And then his hand slid up to her jaw, tilting her face up.

"Now watch," he ordered, voice wrecked and shaking with restraint.

Y/N’s gaze lifted to the mirror and the sight stole what little breath she had left.

The sight of their tangled, naked bodies laid out on the floor made something inside her coil tight. Eric’s tattooed frame above hers, muscles flexing with every movement. Her own body, legs wide open as he pushed into her, flushed and gorgeous beneath him, hair fanned out like a crown, lips parted in bliss. She looked devoured. She looked divine.

Her eyes locked on the mirror again. She watched, panting, as his hips rolled into hers with a fluid rhythm, deep and devastating. His muscles shifted beneath inked skin, and when her manicured nails raked down his back, the sight of red trails across his tattoos made her whimper.

She was losing her mind in the best possible way.

Her fingers clenched into his arms, the need coming back sharp and unstoppable. She arched into him, pulling him down again, their mouths crashing with renewed hunger.

A loud, broken moan ripped from her lips the moment he bottomed out, the head of his cock nudging that devastating spot inside her that made her entire body quake. She felt so full it was almost unbearable, stretched so wide around his thickness she could feel every vein, every throb, every wicked inch claiming her from the inside out.

"Fuck, baby," Eric hissed through gritted teeth, rocking his hips slowly, deliberately, making sure she felt every inch of him dragging against her hypersensitive walls. "You were fucking made for me."

Y/N could only whimper, eyes glazing as she watched herself take him, the mirror showing every desperate, obscene reactions of everything she felt, the heavy drag of his cock, the way her body clung to him, the pink streaks marking his skin where her nails had clawed him, the way her toes curled and her thighs trembled with each slow, grinding thrust.

She didn't even realize she was moaning his name over and over, pleading without words for more, for him to go harder, for everything.

He buried his face in her neck, cursing under his breath, hips jerking forward again like he couldn’t help it, like bottoming her out wasn’t near enough. His hips started to move harder, faster and desperate.

Each thrust drove a filthy sound from her lips, the slick slide of his cock inside her growing louder, wetter, with every relentless push. Her body jolted under each thrust, helpless against the way he pounded into her, hips grinding into hers, his pelvis hitting her clit just right, making sparks shoot through her belly.

She could barely catch a breath between moans, whimpers, cries of his name that sounded wrecked and raw.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” Eric rasped, his voice shattering into a low, broken groan as her walls squeezed around him, sucking him deeper and tighter.

Eric's mouth found hers again, crushing their lips together, messy and hungry, all teeth and tongue and desperation. He kissed her like he needed her to breathe, stealing the broken little moans from her mouth and giving her more in return.

Then he tore his mouth away with a rough curse and flipped them over without warning, dragging her on top of him.

Y/N gasped, dizzy from the sudden shift, her thighs now straddling his hips, his cock dragging against her overstimulated entrance. She felt him, thick and heavy against her, glistening with her arousal.

Eric’s hands gripped her hips hard, guiding her.

"Ride me," he growled, voice so deep and filthy it vibrated against her ribs. "Show me how bad you need it."

Her hands splayed on his chest, feeling the wild pound of his heart under her palms, feeling the flex of his muscles as he held himself in check, just for her. The look in his eyes was dark, ravenous, devoted, and it made her clench around nothing, aching to be full again.

She rose up on trembling thighs and reached between them, wrapping her fingers around the thick base of his cock, guiding him back to her entrance. Eric’s jaw locked tight, a vein bulging in his forehead, as he fought for control when she teased the head against herself, circling, teasing.

"Don't fuckin' tease, baby," he gritted out, his fingers digging bruises into her hips. "Sit. Down."

And she did.

With a shuddering cry, she sank down onto him all at once, feeling herself stretch impossibly wide all over again as she slid him in completely. Her head dropped back, mouth falling open in a silent moan as she felt his cock buried to the hilt inside her, the new position allowing a new depth she wasn’t aware she could handle.

Eric’s head thudded back against the floor, his eyes squeezed shut, a broken sound ripping from his throat like she had just snapped something deep inside him as she started to ride him in a maddening rhythm.

Y/N gazed up to the ceiling again and the mirror gave her front-row seats to her own desire, the way she moved on him, hips circling slow and deliberate every now and then, the way she ground herself down against him, the bounce of her breasts, the way his hands gripped her thighs like he was holding onto sanity, she almost came right then and there.

She leaned back, bracing her hands on his thighs, the angle adding to their pleasure, making his cock rub against the sensitive spot inside her again. Her mouth fell open, a low moan leaving her throat.

"Fuck, look at you," he groaned, one hand sliding up her belly, between her breasts, gripping her throat lightly, not to hurt, but to hold her there, to make her feel everything.

"Look at yourself, baby," he growled. "Look how perfect you are, riding my cock like you were born to."

He tugged her forward by her neck as he sat up, muscles rippling beneath her. His eyes locked onto hers, intense and dark and so damn gone for her. And then he kissed her, but this time slower and claiming, as if to savor her as she sensually rolled her hips against him. Like they had all night, and no one else in the world existed but them.

Y/N’s body felt like it was on fire, the rhythm of her movements starting to blur, mind lost in the haze of pleasure. Her thighs burned, trembling as she bounced harder, faster, the pace increasing until she felt dizzy from the effort.

Every time she slid down, she felt the thick, burning stretch of him filling her, pushing deeper, making her whole body jerk from the force of it. Her nails dug into his chest, then his shoulders, anything she could grab to steady herself as her breaths turned into desperate gasps.

She was drunk on him. Cockdrunk. Her vision blurred, hips rolling, back arching, chasing the high, every nerve in her body strung out, too much, but never enough. She needed more.

Her eyes locked with his, every ounce of control slipping through her fingers, and still, she couldn’t stop. Her hips rocked harder, desperate.

"Fuck," Eric groaned, his fingers digging into her waist, helping her push down faster, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. “You fuck me so fucking good, baby. Can’t get enough of you.”

His voice was raw, rough, and she nearly came at the sound of it, and the way he looked at her, made her feel even more out of control. She was dripping, her body so sensitive it was torture.

Y/N gasped, her body jerking as she tried to keep her rhythm, but she was so close, her walls were fluttering, her body was trembling, ready to snap.

“Come on, baby,” Eric growled, voice rough and coaxing as his hands gripped her hips harder, guiding her. “Give it to me. Let me feel you.”

That was all it took.

With a sharp, broken sob of his name, her body finally gave in. The orgasm ripped through her like a violent wave, her thighs clamping around his waist, nails raking down his chest as she shattered. Her vision went white around the edges, her whole body convulsing as she sobbed through it, hips grinding desperately against him even as she came undone.

Eric cursed low and vicious under his breath as he jerked up his hips to meet hers, fucking her through it, dragging her higher and keeping her there, drawing every last tremor from her body before he caught her, arms wrapping around her body before she could collapse completely.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped and spread kisses from her jaw and along her neck as flipped them over again with effortless strength, laying her out beneath him.

Y/N barely had time to catch her breath before he grabbed her legs, lifting both and hooking them over his shoulders, folding her in half.

The new angle made her cry out, raw and overstimulated, as he slid back into her in one deep, devastating thrust. She could feel him everywhere, filling her even deeper than before, hitting spots inside her that made her vision blur with pleasure.

“God, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against her skin, his arms wrapping over her thighs to lock her in place, holding her against him. His thrusts were brutal now, hips snapping against hers, desperate, dragging out wet, broken sounds from both of them.

She clutched at the rug beneath her, sobbing his name, every stroke driving her higher again, even though she was still shaking from the first orgasm.

Eric’s mouth found the inside of her calf, pressing fevered kisses up her trembling leg, his voice a wrecked whisper against her skin. “You’re mine. Fuck, baby, you’re mine.”

She couldn't speak, couldn't think, only feel the way he took over her body, the way he worshiped it with every rough, punishing thrust, the way he was unraveling right alongside her.

His rhythm grew frantic, erratic, and Y/N felt him throbbing deep inside her, hips stuttering. His teeth scraped lightly against her skin as he groaned low and savage, pulling out at the last second.

She whimpered at the sudden loss, and then gasped when the first hot, thick rope of his release splattered across her belly and breasts.

Eric’s head dropped between her legs for a moment, breath heaving, forehead pressed against her thigh as he tried to pull himself together. His hand stroked up her trembling side, almost reverently.

When he finally looked up at her, his green eyes were softer now, full of something almost tender she couldn’t quite read through at that moment.

"You’re fucking perfect," he rasped, his voice wrecked.

Eric stayed there for a beat longer, forehead resting against her thigh, his hand still smoothing over her sensitive skin like he couldn't stop touching her. Like he wouldn't stop.

Neither of them spoke, the only sound in the room was their shattered breathing, the heavy, pulsing aftermath of everything they'd just done. Of everything they still wanted.

Y/N blinked up at the ceiling, at the mirror above them, seeing the wrecked, wanton version of herself sprawled out, glistening, legs still trembling, marked by him in every way. And Eric,fuck, Eric looked even worse. Wild, untamed, beautiful in the most devastating way.

When he finally lifted his head, his gaze pinned her in place. There was no teasing in his eyes now, no smug grin. Just a dark, burning possession that made her whole body tighten again in response, even though she was still trembling from the first round.

Something had shifted. Irrevocably. And it scared the hell out of her, but not enough to run.

Eric leaned over her, bracing his hands on either side of her head, caging her in with his body.

"You’re staying the night," he rasped, voice still ragged and low from what they’d just done. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath hot against her mouth. "Not done with you yet."

She gave a breathless, wrecked little laugh, her fingers curling into his hair as she whispered back. "Good. I’m not done with you either."

The look he gave her in that moment, wild, hungry and almost relieved, made her heart stutter violently in her chest.

And as he kissed her again, this time differently, slower and full of emotion, like he was imprinting her onto his very soul, Y/N knew one thing for certain: whatever this was between them, it was just getting started.

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