#I could have done better with the lighting..

[farfromharry]

Summary: Lando’s girlfriend broke her leg and obviously he had to be the first to sign it

lando norris x reader

w/c 963

A broken leg, that was Y/N’s diagnosis. That and being incredibly clumsy. And she had been sulking about it for the better part of a day.

Lando had been scared to overstep. He knew she was upset, her movements for the next 2-3 months were limited, of course she would be upset. But he missed her. Being a boyfriend had taught him a lot about himself and one of those things was that he was extremely clingy when the right person was involved. He just wanted to spend time with her.

He gave it till 2pm the day after they left the hospital before he broke. He needed bribes and a smile and hopefully everything would go to plan.

The man knocked on the bedroom door, getting no response just as expected. “Are you still moping or can I come in?” It was a dangerous game he was playing. Poking the bear. Luckily for him, this bear had a soft spot. That soft spot was named Lando Norris. She was just as gone for him as he was for her. A match made in heaven.

A huff came from beneath the blankets. It made him smile. “Depends. Did you bring ice cream… or chocolate?” Her voice was quiet, like she was being shy about it. He knew her too well though.

“Chocolate ice cream okay?”

She lifted her head like she was checking he was being honest. The man waved the tub where she could see with a spoon in his other hand. For the first time in a full day, she smiled. “You beautiful man, get over here.”

That was his green light. He basically jogged over to the bed, throwing himself in beside her. He offered the ice cream and a kiss, both doing wonders to lighten her mood.

“How you feeling?” He brushed her hair from her face.

She frowned, curling into his side. “Like I can’t go anywhere without burdening someone.” Considering she had never used crutches, everyone agreed it was best to accompany her places in case she stumbled or fell. It was out of love. No one wanted her to hurt herself more than she already had.

Now it was his turn to frown. He couldn’t even begin to tell her how much of a burden she wasn’t. “I will literally carry you everywhere until it’s healed. You’re not allowed to be sad anymore.”

Unfortunately she knew he was being serious. “Lan, you can’t just—“

“Yes, actually, I can.” He raised an arm, pulled up his sleeve and flexed. “I have incredible biceps. It’d be a breeze.” He winked for good measure and she hated how it made her a little flustered.

It all started with his finger tracing shapes on her leg. That was probably where he got the idea from. Then it graduated to him shuffling down the bed, deciding he had to make his mark on her cast.

She didn’t know where he got the pen, probably in one of his many pockets for some random reason. It did take her by surprise though that he was just blindly helping himself. She might not have minded if he had written her a nice message or something. “Did you just sign my cast?” She blinked, blankly.

“Obviously, that’s what you do with casts.”

Her eyes flickered down to the ink now soaking into the plaster. It was there clear as day. The squiggly lines that somehow made up ‘Lando’ with a little 4 beside it. “No, Lando, you literally autographed it.”

He looked down with a furrowed brow, like he hadn’t even realised what he’d done. It was sort of a reflex. When a pen was put in his hand and he was supposed to sign something, that’s exactly what he did. His signature was scrawled mindlessly across the cast because that’s what he was so used to doing. Over the years he’d signed everything from skin to wrappers. Apparently now he even signed his girlfriend.

“Shit.” Any normal person would have felt guilty or even feigned it, but not him. Lando laughed, like, full belly laughed at his mistake. “I’m sorry, baby.”

The woman rolled her eyes. Admittedly she couldn’t help but feel slightly amused herself.

“I’ll fix it.”

“How?”

There was that evil grin on his face again. “You just eat your ice cream. Let me work my magic.”

She didn’t even want to know what he had planned. When it came to Lando sometimes it was better to turn a blind eye and let him do his thing. She sighed, doing as he said. As long as he didn’t draw something phallic like the child he was, she supposed she could get over it.

The man was concentrating hard. Every now and then she would glance at him, find him with his head practically buried in her thigh and his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. It was adorable.

10 minutes must have gone by before he finally announced he was done with his masterpiece. “All done.” He sat back with a proud smile on his face.

When she finally took a look, it was like something a crushing teen might draw in the margin of their high school notebook. Hearts, everywhere, followed by a ‘Lando <3 Y/N.’ It was silly, but it made her smile and that was all he wanted to do. Plus now that he’d dedicated his love to her, at least everyone would know she was his.

“I love it, you’re a real artist.”

He beamed. It would be with her for the next 3 months so he was glad she liked it. He stole a quick kiss and then a bit of ice cream when she wasn’t looking. “Good, ‘cause I love you.”

[that-faerie-in-the-corner]

you know what I find fascinating about how Helen is talked about in the works in the epic cycle?

everyone has argued to death over whether she was kidnapped, went willingly, was influenced/controlled/threatened by Aphrodite, whatever, but the thing is the actual TEXTS can't seem to make up their minds on Helen. everyone will be cursing Helen's name as an unfaithful wife and destroyer of men in Agamemnon but then Paris will be called a "robber-rapist" which would obviously heavily imply that he stole and assaulted her (plus the part where Clytemnestra basically says "shut the fuck up about Helen she didn't force you to do all that", although how much we're supposed to agree with her is debatable). In Iphigenia In Aulis we're going to war to get REVENGE on the Trojans AND HELEN but then Agamemnon will accuse Menelaus of "lust(ing) only to hold a lovely woman in (his) arms", calls him crazy for wanting her back, and then when Menelaus changes his mind about killing Iphigenia to get the winds back he says "Could I not obtain A perfect marriage elsewhere, if I longed for Marrying? But a brother whom I should Most cherish, I was about to forfeit To gain a Helen, so bartering excellence For evil" which is still pretty spiteful towards Helen but also really fucking weird to say if he only wanted her back to kill or otherwise punish her. Then, in the same play, the Greeks are described as wanting to sail to Troy so "That they may halt the plunder of marriage beds And the rape and seizure of Greek women" which would also imply Helen was, in fact, raped and seized, otherwise why would it be phrased like that and not like, "seduced" or "whisked away" or whatever? In Orestes Elektra and Orestes interpret Helen's actions in the worst possible light while when Helen actually speaks she seems generally sympathetic towards them, distraught and grieving over the whole situation, and claims that she went because Aphrodite made her mad, which could absolutely be a lie, but the thing is we just don't know who's the unreliable narrator here Is this a translation thing? Indicative of a really weird idea of what rape is? Is this an intentional writing choice? This got me to thinking and then I realized that if Menelaus was away when Helen left then he almost certainly doesn't actually know what happened. He didn't see or hear what happened, he doesn't get a chance to talk to Helen and have her explain until after the war, and obviously none of the other Greeks would know for sure either, right? And I just think it is kind of a missed opportunity that adaptations don't really do anything with this kind of unspoken conflict at all. Paris the Musical kind of does (Menelaus believes Helen was abducted when she ended up begrudgingly going with Paris trying to help him to escape) but like, why do all the greek men have one idea of Helen in adaptations? Why don't they argue about it? Why don't they question Menelaus about his motivations more? What if (especially if Aphrodite fucked with her head, as I am one to believe) Helen doesn't even trust herself on her own intentions? What if Menelaus tears himself up debating this with himself every night? Like, could I trust that she wouldn't do this to me and our daughter? Is it better that my wife doesn't love me anymore and is safe with her new lover, or that she does but is trapped against her will having who knows what done to her? Do I know my wife anymore? Did I ever know her in the first place? What if he lays eyes on Helen, his Helen, for the first time in ten years and his sword slips from his grasp as he realizes that yes, of course he knows her, how could he have ever doubted? Or maybe he still doesn't know if he knows her, but maybe he doesn't need to, because he knows that she is tired and scared, and he still loves her, and he just wants to take her back to their home? What then? Hm?

[cameronsbabydoll]

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER SEVEN

WARNINGS — Oral (f receiving), consensual silence kink, light gagging (hand over mouth), control kink, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, sneaking around, risk of being caught, 18+ only.

You’re not supposed to be out this late. The base curfew is 10 p.m. sharp, a rule your dad made clear the day you arrived, his voice booming about discipline and safety. “No exceptions,” he’d said, his eyes fixed on you like you were one of his soldiers. You’d nodded, promised to be good, because that’s what you do. You follow rules. You stay safe. You don’t sneak out.

But Rafe doesn’t care about rules.

It’s 12:43 a.m., and you’re crouched behind a storage crate near the barracks, your breath hitching in your throat. Your sundress catches on the rough wood, and you tug it free, heart hammering so loud you’re sure it’ll give you away. The night is humid, heavy, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes your hair stick to your neck. You’re shaking, not because you’re cold, but because you’re terrified of getting caught.

And Rafe? He’s loving every second of it.

“Keep moving, sunshine,” he whispers from the shadows ahead, his voice low, teasing, like this is a game. To him, it is. He’s leaning against the barrack wall, half-hidden in the dark, his dog tags glinting faintly under the moonlight. He’s in a black t-shirt and cargo pants, boots silent on the gravel, looking like he belongs in the night. Like he owns it.

You hesitate, glancing back toward the officer’s quarters, where your dad’s probably asleep, oblivious. If he knew you were out here—if anyone saw you—you’d be done. Grounded for the rest of the summer, maybe worse. You swallow hard, your sandals scuffing softly as you dart toward Rafe, keeping low like he told you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs when you reach him, his hand catching your wrist, pulling you against the wall beside him. His body’s warm, solid, and you can smell him—sweat, cologne, danger. His thumb brushes your pulse, and you know he feels how fast it’s racing. “Scared?”

You nod, biting your lip. “What if someone sees us?”

His grin is sharp, predatory. “Then we better not let ‘em.”

You don’t have time to argue. He’s already moving, tugging you along the wall toward a side door to the barracks. It’s unlocked—probably his doing—and he pushes it open just enough for you to slip through. The hallway inside is dim, lit only by a flickering exit sign. It smells like metal and boot polish, and every creak of the floor makes you flinch.

“Rafe,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “This is a bad idea—”

“Shh.” He turns fast, his hand covering your mouth, gentle but firm. His eyes lock on yours, dark and intense, and you go still, your breath hot against his palm. “You trust me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But you nod anyway, because it’s Rafe, and he’s got you wrapped around his finger, and you’re too far gone to turn back now.

He drops his hand, smirking. “That’s what I thought.”

He leads you down the hall, past closed doors where soldiers are sleeping, their snores muffled through the walls. Your heart’s in your throat, but Rafe moves like he’s untouchable, like he’s done this a hundred times. Maybe he has. The thought makes your stomach twist, but not in a bad way. In a way that makes you want him more.

His bunk is at the end of the row, tucked in a corner where the overhead light doesn’t reach. It’s sparse—a thin mattress, a folded blanket, a pillow that’s seen better days. There’s a photo taped to the wall, too faded to make out, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes on the locker beside it. It’s so… him. Rough, temporary, like he could pack up and disappear any second.

He pulls you inside, shutting the curtain that passes for a door. It’s not much privacy—just a thin sheet of fabric—but it’s enough to make you feel like you’re in his world now, cut off from everything else.

“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the bunk.

You perch on the edge, your hands smoothing your dress over your thighs, your knees pressed together. You’re still trembling, every sound outside—a distant cough, a creak of springs—making you jump. Rafe watches you, leaning back against the locker, his arms crossed, like he’s got all the time in the world.

“You’re cute when you’re nervous,” he says, voice low, almost tender. But there’s something darker in it, something that makes your skin prickle. “Makes me wanna fuck it out of you.”

Your breath catches, and he chuckles, soft and mean.

“Relax, sweetheart. We’re not there yet.” He steps closer, dropping to his knees in front of you, and your heart lurches. He’s so big, even like this, his shoulders broad, his hands steady as they rest on your knees. “Just gonna make you feel good. You want that, don’t you?”

You nod, because you do, because you always do when he’s looking at you like that, like you’re the only thing that matters. His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, exposing your skin inch by inch. You’re burning under his touch, your panties already damp, and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

“Spread your legs,” he says, and it’s not a request. It’s an order.

You hesitate, just for a second, and his grip tightens, his fingers digging into your thighs—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who’s in charge.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he murmurs, his voice soft but edged with steel.

You obey, your legs parting, your dress bunched around your hips. He groans low in his throat, his eyes fixed on the damp spot on your panties, and you feel your cheeks heat, embarrassed but thrilled, because he’s looking at you like you’re his.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, and it’s the first time he’s sounded anything less than in control, like you’re doing something to him. His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slow, deliberate, until they’re around your ankles. You step out of them, your sandals squeaking faintly, and he tucks the fabric into his pocket like a trophy.

Then his hands are back on your thighs, spreading you wider, and you gasp when you feel his breath against you, warm and teasing. “Rafe,” you whisper, your voice shaky, “what if someone—”

“Shh.” His lips brush your inner thigh, soft at first, then a nip of teeth that makes you yelp. “Told you to keep it quiet, sunshine. You gonna be good for me?”

You nod, frantic, your hands fisting the blanket beneath you. He smirks, satisfied, and then his mouth is on you, and the world stops.

It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s better. Worse. Overwhelming. His tongue is slow at first, lazy, like he’s savoring you, and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood, trying to stay silent. But it’s impossible, because he’s good at this—too good—and every flick, every suck, every swirl makes you unravel a little more. You’re whimpering now, soft little sounds you can’t hold back, and he growls against you, the vibration sending a shock through your body.

“Quiet,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at you, his lips slick, his eyes dark. “Or I’ll stop.”

You shake your head, desperate, your hands reaching for him, tangling in his hair. “Please,” you whisper, “don’t stop.”

He grins, wicked and proud, and then he’s back, his mouth relentless, his hands pinning your thighs so you can’t squirm away. You’re close, so close, the pressure building like a storm, but the sounds you’re making are getting louder, and you can’t help it, you can’t—

His hand clamps over your mouth, hard.

Your eyes widen, but he doesn’t stop, his tongue pushing you closer to the edge, his palm muffling your cries. “Told you,” he mutters against you, voice low and rough. “Keep. It. Quiet.”

You try to nod, but you’re too far gone, your body shaking, your hips bucking against his mouth. His hand stays firm, gagging you, controlling you, and it’s that—the control, the secrecy, the risk—that sends you over. You come hard, harder than in the supply closet, your vision blurring, your body arching off the bunk. His hand smothers your scream, his tongue drawing it out, making you shake until you’re limp, gasping against his palm.

When it’s over, he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming like he just won a war. He drops his hand from your mouth, and you suck in air, your chest heaving, your body still trembling.

“Good girl,” he says, soft but smug, and you whimper, because those words again, that tone, they own you now. He stands, towering over you, and you’re too weak to move, too wrecked to do anything but stare up at him, your dress still bunched, your thighs still slick.

He leans down, kisses you, and you taste yourself on his lips, salty and strange and him. “You did good, sunshine,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Kept it nice and quiet for me.”

You nod, dazed, and he chuckles, pulling you to your feet. Your legs wobble, and he steadies you, his hands firm on your waist. He picks up your panties from his pocket, but instead of giving them back, he tucks them away again, smirking.

“Souvenir,” he says, and you flush, mortified but too overwhelmed to argue.

He leads you back to the door, checking the hall before nudging you out. “Go,” he whispers. “Before someone notices you’re gone.”

You stumble into the night, your heart still racing, your body still humming. You make it back to your room, slip inside, and lock the door, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You collapse onto your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece yourself back together.

Your notebook’s on the nightstand, but you don’t touch it. You can’t write about this. Not yet. Not when you can still feel his mouth, his hand, his voice telling you to be quiet.

You’re his now, more than ever.

And he knows it.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Pretty Annoying

Pairing: Azzi Fudd x Reader

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Summary: you and Azzi go live to review a PR package….

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom , @let-zizi-yap , @latenighttalkinqwp , @fairyblossomsav , @liloandstitchstan , @kaliblazin

I should’ve known going live with Azzi while trying on a PR package full of outfits was a dangerous idea. Not because she was chaotic—she was honestly the calm one between us. But because she had a one-track mind when it came to me, and it was always stuck in the gutter.

Still, I had promised the brand I’d do a little live try-on and review, and I figured it’d be cute to have Azzi on with me. Give her some fashion commentary duties. She agreed too quickly.

Our shared apartment had great lighting in the living room, so I propped up my phone on the tripod, arranged the box of clothes beside me, and set a few pieces aside I already knew I wanted to model. Azzi sat cross-legged on the couch in a cropped UConn hoodie and shorts, hair in braids, looking effortlessly fine. She had her iPad ready for chat-monitoring, but I could already tell from her smirk that her attention span would be short-lived.

“Alright,” I said into the camera as people poured into the live, “we’re doing a little PR unboxing slash try-on haul. I roped Azzi into being my personal commentator.”

Azzi raised two fingers in a lazy peace sign. “Hi guys. I’ll be rating her outfits. Totally professionally.”

“She’s lying,” I muttered, pulling out the first piece. It was a silky, champagne-colored mini dress with spaghetti straps. I held it up for the camera. “This looks fire already.”

I ducked into the hallway to change and came back out, adjusting the hem slightly. “Okay, what are we thinking?”

Azzi looked up and went quiet for a beat too long.

I turned to the side, then looked back at her. “Hello? Judge Judy?”

Her eyes flicked up to my face, but she was clearly trying not to laugh. “Sorry, what was the question?”

“The dress, Azzi.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s…fine.” Her voice cracked mid-word.

“You suck at this,” I snorted, spinning once for the camera, showing how the back dipped low. “She’s drooling, y’all.”

“She is,” someone typed in the chat, and I could see the username: azzisgfclub.

Azzi rolled her eyes and tried to look serious, tapping on the iPad. “Y’all need to behave.”

I went back to change and heard Azzi say into the mic, “She knows what she’s doing,” like I wasn’t in the next room grinning.

The next fit was a two-piece set—a fitted ribbed crop top and matching midi skirt in dusty blue. I walked back out, adjusting the top a little, then posed with one hand on my hip. “Better?”

Azzi looked me up and down and licked her lips before she caught herself. “Mhm.”

“That’s all I get? Mhm?” I asked, smirking at the camera.

“She’s not even looking at the clothes,” someone else commented. “Azzi is analyzing the body.”

Azzi scoffed but said nothing. I watched her trying to keep a straight face and failing.

I walked past her toward the phone to read more comments—and that’s when it happened.

Unintentionally, as I turned to adjust the camera angle, I bent slightly to fix the tripod leg and ended up sticking my butt right in Azzi’s face.

I didn’t even realize what I’d done until I heard the loud smack that echoed on the mic.

“AZZI. JAZLYN. FUDD!” I turned, eyes wide, half laughing, half scandalized.

She just shrugged, eyes twinkling. “It was right there.”

The comments exploded.

“SHE JUST SMACKED HER ASS???!!!”

“Azzi said idc if we’re live 😭😭”

“Y/n: models Azzi: loses religion”

“Nah she’s focused on everything BUT the outfits”

“Azzi is TOUCH STARVEDEEE”

“Y/n gon’ need a new PR package AND new cheeks 💀💀💀”

I covered my face, laughing so hard my stomach hurt. “Y’all are doing TOO much.”

Azzi, smug as ever, leaned into the mic. “They’re not wrong.”

I pointed a warning finger at her. “You’re supposed to be professional.”

“I was trying,” she said, tossing a pillow onto her lap like she needed a distraction. “But then your whole ass came flying into my face, and I made a reflex decision.”

I gave the camera a fake-annoyed look and said, “This is what I deal with. Every day.”

More laughs in the comments. I retreated to change into the last outfit, a sleek black jumpsuit with a deep V and fitted waist. When I stepped back out, I saw Azzi’s eyes immediately drop to my waist.

I was mid-spin when I caught her hand reaching out to tug on the tie at the back of the jumpsuit. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing it. Totally innocent.”

The chat wasn’t buying it either.

“Azzi’s like lemme just—adjust 😏”

“She is FOCUSED. Not on the jumpsuit tho.”

“Azzi you’re embarrassing yourself. (Keep going.)”

I laughed and turned toward her. “You know, you could at least try to look at the fabric, not my ass.”

Azzi tilted her head and said, deadpan, “It’s a really nice ass, though.”

I gasped in mock offense. “That’s not the point of the haul!”

“You’re distracting me on purpose.”

“You agreed to be my judge!”

“I thought I was judging you, not the clothes.”

I stared at her, grinning, as I read more of the comments aloud. “Azzi is drooling. Azzi’s girl looks too good. Azzi is focused on everything but the fashion. Damn, I feel so supported.”

Azzi side-eyed me. “You’re pretty annoying.”

I blinked, playing it up. “Oh my God… you think I’m pretty?”

She groaned, scrubbing her hands over her face. “And that’s the annoying part.”

The chat exploded again.

“AZZI STOPPP THAT WAS SO CUTE”

“PRETTY ANNOYING 😭😭😭”

“Just propose already omg”

“That was the most sapphic hate-to-love moment ever”

I dramatically clutched my chest. “You know what? I’m gonna start doing these hauls solo. Next time, I’ll call Paige.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “She wouldn’t survive.”

I laughed and walked back into frame, grabbing the next piece. “Okay, we’ve got a few accessories left. Can you focus now?”

Azzi looked me up and down again, then shrugged. “I’ll try. No promises.”

Halfway through showing off a bag, she reached up and brushed her hand down my arm like it was nothing.

I looked down. “Ma’am?”

“Just admiring the…uh…texture. Of your skin.”

“The texture?” I deadpanned.

Azzi just grinned, knowing she was caught.

I wrapped up the haul with a final wave to the camera. “Thank y’all for tuning in. This PR haul has turned into thirst hour for Azzi, but we love that for her.”

“Love is a strong word,” Azzi muttered.

I reached down and kissed her forehead. “She loves it here.”

The comments cheered and flooded the screen with hearts and “SHIPPP” and “AZZI IS WHIPPEDDDD.”

Before I ended the live, Azzi leaned into the camera, gave it a mischievous look, and said, “Thanks for watching. She’s mine, by the way.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “Possessive much?”

“Pretty annoying, remember?”

And she winked.

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                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

[ssentimentals]

Hi honey, first I want to congratulate you on your 1.8k! ♡ Next, I want to ask you for number 11 with Seungcheol and angsty. But could I add anything else? Something like Cheol doesn't want to sleep alone in the bed because he's gotten used to sleeping with you, and also, the bed smells like you. Thank you so much ♡

hi, dear! thank you soo much 💜 of course you can add it, i'm always happy when you guys make your request specific, at least that way i have more hope that you'll like it in the end :') thank you for requesting!

prompt: 'i'm not letting you sleep on the couch in your own house'

'i swear to god, seungcheol, one more word and i am getting out of here.'

seungcheol stills. it stings; the fact that you're so mad at him that you better leave your own house than stay here with him stings, but he knows he deserves it. the truth is, seungcheol is just as lost at the whole 'we will figure out this life together' shit as you are and sometimes he trips and makes mistakes and falls.

'go,' you say in a tired voice. all your anger faded away and you look so fragile that his heart squeezes. 'i can't be in the same room with you.'

these words are horrible. the way they hurt him make seungcheol wonder how bad he fucked up, how irreversible the damage is; has he lost you? for good? 'don't do it,' he croaks out. 'let's talk this out-'

'i don't want to talk anymore,' you interrupt, shaking your head. 'i am not breaking up with you, but i am telling you that i am done for tonight, alright? and if you won't leave then i will do it myself.'

without saying anything else you grab your pillow, blanket and storm past him to the living room. seungcheol turns and watches as you throw everything on the couch, seemingly ready to sleep there. he turns back and stares at the bed in the middle of the room like on a foreign subject - what he is supposed to do with it? he can't sleep alone anymore, not after he got together with you. so many months of falling asleep and waking up with you in his arms spoiled him, he can't possibly get on the bed without you. why would he? any bed in the world is made for you two, not for him only. and it hurts - the notion of you not wanting to share the bed with him, not wanting to stay in the same room with him - it hurts. seungcheol's throat tightens as he tries not to lose his mind. with slow steps he goes to the living room, where you're tossing and turning in futile attempts to get comfortable.

'i'm not letting you sleep on the couch in your own house', he says, stopping two steps away from you. 'please go to bed. i will leave, but please go to bed.'

you turn, eyeing him with a frown. seungcheol sighs, squatting until his face is right in front of yours. he grips the edge of the blanket, looking at you with regret: 'i'm sorry for being such a mess.'

seungcheol can add many more things. he can add how he never ever wanted to hurt you, how life without you is a life with no light or love, how he will kneel and beg for your forgiveness if he knew it'd help. you stare at him in silence before muttering: 'why are you acting like we're breaking up?'

'because it feels like it,' seungcheol lets out shakily.

you sigh, sitting up. you are not even close to forgiving him, but you can't let him think that this is it. 'i told you that we're not breaking up, cheol. i just-'

'i can't sleep without you,' he says, looking up. 'i can't- it's wrong. it's so wrong.'

when your hand wraps around his, seungcheol's breath halters. his eyes glimmer with hope as he looks at you. 'you, big baby. let's go to bed then.' you stand up, grabbing your pillow. 'i'm still mad though.'

seungcheol grabs your blanket and follows you to the bedroom, holding his breath. 'we will talk tomorrow?' he asks hopefully, hovering by the edge of the bed, not getting in.

you nod and smile weakly. 'yeah, cheollie. we will talk tomorrow.' you pat the space next to you. 'get in now.'

when seungcheol cautiously wraps his arms around you and your body goes lax, leaning on his, he finally breathes again.

a/n: i hope you liked it!! very random, but cheol is one of the easiest members to write these kinds of scenes for, idk why :D - nini

my other seventeen works are here

request your own here

[formulafanfics13]

Three Fingers and a Fucking Problem - LN4 & MV1 🔥

masterlist

Request

The press room smelled like hot lights, cold coffee, and tension. Five drivers. One row of chairs. Cameras flashing like lightning. Lando. Max. Lewis. Charles. Oscar. All dressed in team gear, all pretending to be professionals. But only two of them looked like they were about to start swinging. And the entire media team knew it.

The girl? She wasn't there. But her name lingered in the air like perfume.

Toto Wolff's daughter. Brains, beauty, a smile that could end careers. And a history, private, intimate history, with more than one driver on the stage.

Lando tapped his foot. Max cracked his knuckles. The entire front row of reporters smelled blood. Then it came.

A voice from the back of the room: "Max, last night, you were photographed at dinner with Toto Wolff's daughter. Anything you want to share?"

The silence hit hard. Even Lewis blinked. Charles made a sound halfway between a cough and a Jesus Christ. Oscar lowered his mic and visibly turned his head to stare. Max didn't flinch. He leaned into the mic, voice low and almost bored. "We had a nice meal. She's excellent company."

Lando made a noise. It was tiny. Barely audible. But every journalist caught it.

Max's eyes flicked sideways. "You got something to say, Lando?"

Lando didn't look at him. "Nope."

"Sounded like a scoff."

"I just choked," Lando said sweetly, eyes fixed dead ahead. "Thinking about how many people have had 'a nice meal' with her."

Oscar shifted uncomfortably.

Charles audibly muttered, "Fuck's sake."

The PR rep cleared her throat. "Next question-"

But no one was listening anymore. Max smiled. "You seem tense, mate."

Lando smiled wider. "You seem obsessed."

And that was that.

The rest of the conference passed in a blur, fake laughs, vague answers, a few soundbites for Sky Sports. But as soon as the last journalist filed out, and the cameras were off, the atmosphere cracked wide open.

Max was the first to speak. "You still seeing her?"

No one moved.

Lando didn't blink. "None of your business."

"That's a yes," Max said.

Lewis stood slowly. "I'm not listening to this."

"Sit down," Max said. Lewis raised a brow. "Please," Max added. Lewis sat.

Oscar sighed. "This is going to be awful."

Charles put his head in his hands. "So awful."

Max turned fully in his seat now, eyes on Lando like a fucking hawk. "You fucked her?"

The room dropped ten degrees. Lando didn't move. "Yeah."

Max exhaled sharply through his nose. "When?"

Lando grinned, slow and venomous. "Last week."

Max's jaw clenched. "Did she like it?"

"She came."

Oscar groaned. "Oh my God."

Max wasn't done. He leaned forward, voice lower now, vicious with jealousy masked as curiosity. "How many fingers did she let you use?"

Charles made a sound like he'd just been shot. Lando licked his bottom lip. Met Max's stare. And said "Three."

Max didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Just smiled, not nicely. "Only three?" he murmured. "Hm."

Lando narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Max leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms like he had a crown on. "Means she's still holding out on you."

Charles stood. "Nope. I'm out."

"Same," Lewis muttered, grabbing his water bottle.

But Max and Lando were locked in. No escape. "You think she gives you everything?" Max asked.

"You think she hasn't?"

"She moans louder when she's on top," Max said casually.

"She scratches deeper when she's on her back," Lando shot back.

"She bites my neck when she's close."

"She rides me until she's close."

Oscar looked at Charles like he was about to pass out. "Are they... are they in love with her?"

"I think they're about to start biting each other," Charles whispered.

Lewis just sighed. "We should've let the journalists stay. Would've made better TV."

The room was quiet now. Too quiet. Just five men in a post-press conference haze, surrounded by empty chairs, discarded water bottles, and the lingering scent of media stress. But the tension between Max and Lando? It had solidified into something physical. Something dangerous.

Lewis, Charles, and Oscar were still sitting on the same sofa, one long bench of varying shades of fuck-this, too uncomfortable to leave, too nosy to stay out of it. Max sat with his arms folded, eyes locked on Lando.

Lando lounged sideways in his chair, like he wasn't three seconds from getting socked in the jaw. And it was silent. Until-

"She lets me pull her hair," Max said, tone casual, like he was discussing tyre pressure.

Lando scoffed. "She begs me to."

Max raised an eyebrow. "She calls me sir when she's on her knees."

Lando tilted his head. "She calls me baby when she comes."

Charles made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Oscar looked straight ahead like a soldier trying not to hear war crimes. Lewis rubbed both hands over his face. "You two need therapy."

"Don't speak unless you've fucked her," Max snapped without looking away from Lando.

Lewis held up both hands. "Didn't say a word."

"I didn't just fuck her," Lando said, eyes gleaming. "I kissed every single freckle on her back. I made her laugh mid-orgasm."

Max sat forward slowly. "I fucked her on her dad's balcony."

Charles clapped a hand over his mouth. Oscar choked. Lando blinked. "You didn't."

Max's grin was lethal. "I did. After she argued with him on the phone. She dragged me outside and said she needed to feel like herself again."

Lando opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Max didn't wait. "She scratches. You know that, right? Not just the skin. The soul. She'll fuck you until you forget your name, and then she'll laugh while fixing her hair."

Lando recovered fast. "You ever watch her touch herself?"

Max narrowed his eyes.

Lando smiled. "She looks at me when she does it."

Oscar whispered, "I am not old enough for this."

Charles nodded solemnly. "None of us are."

"She calls me when she's lonely," Lando said, cocky again.

"She calls me when she needs it," Max shot back. "There's a difference."

"She likes my hands."

"She lives for my mouth."

"I've had her in my car. Twice."

"I've had her in Toto's office."

Lewis got up. Left the room. Didn't say a thing.

Charles leaned in toward Oscar. "You keeping count?"

"I stopped after the third time one of them said come."

"I'm invested," Charles whispered. "I want to know who wins."

Oscar stared straight ahead. "The girl wins. She already won."

They turned back to the scene like they were watching the last act of a Shakespeare tragedy. Max was on his feet now, pacing slowly, hands clenched. Lando leaned back, legs spread, smug.

"She told me I feel like safety," Lando said softly, deliberately. "She told me I was home."

Max's jaw clenched. "She told me she'd never felt that scared."

Lando's smile faltered. "What?"

Max's voice dropped. "She told me I made her lose control. That she hated it. Loved it. That I scared her because it was too much."

Silence. Charles shifted awkwardly.

Max kept going. "You made her laugh. Cute. But I made her cry. Not from pain. From feeling."

Lando stood. "You're so sure you ruined her."

Max stepped closer. "I know I did."

They were nose to nose now. Breathing hard. One second from throwing punches. And then,  "She let me keep her underwear," Lando whispered.

Max didn't blink. "She wore mine on a plane."

"She wears my hoodie to sleep."

"She wears my bruises in the shower."

Charles stood up. "Okay. That's enough. That's enough. You're both unwell."

Oscar looked like he might pass out. "I need to go to church."

Max didn't move. Neither did Lando. The air between them crackled. She wasn't even in the room. But she was everywhere.

Lewis found Toto pacing near the Mercedes garage. Calm on the outside. Bluetooth in one ear. iPad in hand. Reading telemetry or God, or maybe both. "Hey," Lewis said casually, trying not to sound like someone who just walked in on a verbal threesome and wanted to vomit.

Toto looked up. "Something wrong?"

Lewis hesitated. Then exhaled. "You should probably head to the press conference room."

Toto's brows pulled together, instantly alert. "What happened?"

Lewis rubbed the back of his neck. "Let's just say... you might want to go put your daughter on a very short leash."

Toto froze. Silence. Then a blink. "Excuse me?"

Lewis just nodded once. "Trust me."

And walked away. Toto didn't ask any more questions. He turned. Walked. The kind of walk that people in the paddock got out of the way for. Measured. Heavy. Deliberate. Like he could sense something was rotting in the walls and he was going to cut it out himself.

It took him exactly two minutes to reach the press room. And thirty seconds to realize Lewis hadn't been dramatic enough. He opened the door. And froze.

Lando and Max were still standing in the center of the room, flushed, panting, shirts tugged, faces millimeters apart, mid-bicker, their voices loud and explicit.

"She came when I said her name," Lando was saying.

"She came when I bit her thigh," Max growled.

"She told me I was her favourite."

"She told me you were the warm-up."

"Yeah?" Lando snapped. "Then why did she ride me for forty minutes and beg me to come inside-"

"ENOUGH."

The room went silent. Not quiet. Silent. Every breath vanished. Oscar nearly fell off the sofa. Charles physically flinched. Max blinked. Lando's throat clicked.

Toto Wolff stood in the doorway like the fucking grim reaper, six foot five and made of steel, his gaze flat, cold, murderous. No emotion. No confusion. Just nuclear fury barely hidden beneath Austrian restraint. His voice, when he spoke, was low. Controlled. Deadly. "I suggest," he said softly, "you both shut your fucking mouths before I make sure you never sit in a Formula 1 car again."

Max looked away first. Lando followed. Toto stepped inside, letting the door shut behind him with a final click.

Charles and Oscar were still frozen on the sofa, backs ramrod straight like they were waiting to be drafted into war. Toto didn't speak again. Not at first. He just looked at them. One by one. Max. Lando. Oscar. Charles. Back to Max. Then Lando again.

Then finally, his voice like ice,  "Someone explain. Now."

No one moved. No one breathed. Until, in the smallest voice he could manage, Oscar said, "They were... having a disagreement. About... um."

"Who's... uh..." Charles coughed. "Who's better with your daughter."

Toto blinked once. "Better... at what, Charles?"

Charles's soul left his body. "Sex."

Silence again. Dead, cold, career-ending silence. Toto stared at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention or a meteor. Then he turned slowly toward Max. "You fucked my daughter?"

Max's jaw clenched. "Yes."

Toto turned to Lando. "You fucked my daughter."

Lando nodded. "Yeah."

Toto exhaled. Closed his eyes. Held very, very still. For ten seconds, he didn't speak. Then, in a tone that sounded terrifyingly reasonable: "Why. In. God's. Name. Are you discussing her orgasms in a press conference room?"

Lando opened his mouth. Max cut in. He asked how many fingers I used."

Oscar audibly gasped. Charles slapped a hand over his mouth.

Toto stared at Max. Just stared. Then said, in a whisper so quiet it hurt, "I am going to kill you."

Lando stepped forward. "Okay- hang on- we weren't trying to be disrespectful-"

Toto turned to him with a look. "Lando."

"Yeah?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Lando immediately shut the fuck up. Toto pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing through it. "I have managed some of the most difficult drivers in the history of this sport," he muttered. "I have stared down team principals, sponsors, fucking governing bodies. But this?" He gestured between them. "This is fucking insanity."

No one spoke. No one could. Then quietly, Toto asked, "Does she know?"

Lando blinked. "Know what?"

Toto's eyes bored into him. "That she has both of you acting like goddamn teenagers in a locker room? Measuring dicks? Using her name like a fucking trophy?"

Neither of them answered. Toto shook his head. "She deserves better."

Max's jaw clenched. "She's not yours to protect like that."

"She's my daughter," Toto snapped. "She is exactly mine to protect."

Then softer. More tired. "And clearly, she needs it." No one dared speak. The room hung in it. Until Toto said, like the sound of a sword being unsheathed, "If I hear one more word about what you've done with her, to her, or inside her, I will end you."

And just like that, he walked out. Leaving four drivers and one corpse in the shape of Lando Norris behind.

[sungchansdimple]

Manon oneshot please? 🙏

say no more 🫡

happy birthday to manon!!! i hope u all like friends to lovers again :)

…

Manon pulls you by your hand towards the arcade. “C’mon!’ She laughs as she drags you through the doors. You nearly trip over your feet, not caring as you’re too caught up laughing with your best friend. You both find your way to the counter to pay for your tokens, Manon pulling her wallet out as her gaze wanders across the various prizes you can exchange for tickets. You gently push her hand away as you shake your head. “Let me pay, it’s your birthday.” You say as you step forward to pay. “Girl I can pay for myself you don’t need to buy me anything; I just wanted to spend the day with you.” She says as she steps forward with you. You shake your head once more as you buy the tokens and a small “birthday girl badge” from the counter. An embarrassed smile spreads across her face as you attach the badge to her top. “Thank you...” She says as she links her arm with yours and walks you towards the games.

“You’re terrible at this, let me try.” Manon lightly pushes you aside to try a racing game you had done 3 times now, ending in last place, or very close. She climbs onto the stationary game bike and puts two tokens into the game slot. You can’t deny how easily she races past the other players and bots in the game. She’s always been effortlessly good at everything and effortlessly beautiful. You wonder why you've never felt envy towards her, but you could never feel anything bad towards Manon. She’s everything to you.

“Ha! First!” She hops off the bike and hands you a pile of tickets she had won from the game. You smile as you put the tickets into your bag to redeem later. “As always.” you say as you high-five her. As your hands collide, she links your fingers together before moving your now-joined hands to her side and leading you to the claw machines. “Oh! They have teddy bears!” Manon says as she points to the stuffed bears in the machine. Without a word you pay for the machine and start moving the claw. “Thank you but don’t waste any more money on these, they’re always rigged.” Manon says as you press the button to drop the claw. The claw picks up the bear and drops it into the slot. You grab the bear and hand it to your best friend with a proud smile. She stares at you with a shocked but happy expression before grabbing the bear and hugging you. “I love you.” she says into your hair as she tightly squeezes you. Laughing, you hug her just as tightly. “Love you too.”

As it gets later, you get to the end of your tokens, and with a bag full of tickets, you get in line at the prize counter. You feel around your pockets for your lip gloss, the dry arcade air making the usual soft skin of your lips dry. You check your bag as the line slowly moves forward, giving up when you realize you must’ve forgotten it in the car. “Dry lips?” Manon asks as she looks up at you with curious eyes. You nod and laugh softly. “Forgot my lip gloss in your car.” You say as you touch your lips. “Does it look bad?” Manon tilts her head as she observes your lips. “Mmm, no but they could use a little...” She gently cups your cheek and presses a feather-light kiss to your lips. Her lips are soft, her gloss a sweet vanilla flavor. Once she pulls away with rosy cheeks and a smile, she looks at your lips again.

“Much better.” She says as the line moves forward again.

[quinnsdesk]

QUINN DOES TIM GET JEALOUS? maybe more in a protective and possessive way OOOO

Ahhhh yes yes yes I love this!

I'm thinking Tim definitely gets jealous, while you're his patrol partner it's totally protective but when you're finally his AH HE'S SO POSSESIVE!

all x fem!reader || mdni under the cut ✭

Before you two start dating:

✭ Tim Bradford definitely gets jealous, but not in the obvious way. Not at first. While you're just his patrol partner, it manifests as protectiveness. He's territorial about your safety, your reputation, and your performance. He says it's just because you're a fellow officer, just part of the job, but it’s more than that.

✭ I can totally imagine him, when he was your T.O, not liking it when other officers call you “boot” like they own the word. He gets weirdly stiff when you share inside jokes with anyone else.

✭ If another cop tries to flirt with you at roll call, Tim's standing closer than usual, shoulder brushing yours, cutting in before the conversation can go anywhere. "It's called professionalism," he says when you tease him about it later. "You're my responsibility out there."

✭ Oh and when you're on patrol and a drunken civilian makes a comment about how he's always had a thing for ladies in uniform? "Damn, girl, I never knew cops could be so sexy." Tim lights up in flames, internally. "Watch it." He demands before positioning himself between you and the suspect in a protective manner. "It's not 'girl'. It's officer to you." He barks before cuffing the man and being a little too rough when putting him in the shop.

✭ When Nyla and Angela finally notices how Tim gives Aaron death stares as you and Aaron talk about the latest ClipTalk trend they confront him. "I don't know what you're talking about. I look out for all my rookies like this. Even though she's P2 now." Man is lying through his teeth; he's never done such.

✭ And when he's really pissed, he'll channel out all his frustrations in the shower. Tim's got a large ego, so he can't help himself but to run his hand over his hard length imagining you and your wide, beautiful eyes. You're in the bathroom of the bar, your "date" only a few feet away, as you take his cock like the perfect girl you are. Only for Tim to open his eyes to be disappointed once he cums in his fist, he misses your touch.

✭ When you're in interrogation, a guy who may be connected to Elijah Stone can't help but glance down at your chest every once in a while, before asking for a glass of water. You happily leave, leaving Tim and the suspect alone in the room. "When she gets back you better talk to me and not her chest, or else I'll cut your eyes out and feed them to my dog, Kojo." The man is understandably terrified.

✭ I see him never letting you approach a hostile suspect alone. "Tim, I'm not your rookie anymore." You whine in protest, "I don't care, stay behind me." His voice deep, a raspy, sending shivers down your spine.

✭ Tim absolutely hates it if anyone, even Grey, raises their voice at you. A detective was just about to chew you out for not firing your weapon at an unarmed suspect who in turn got away. "Hey! You got a problem with my partner? She did her job the way I trained her, so if you got a problem with her, you got a problem with me." The detective shuts up leaving both you and Tim in an awkward silence.

✭ If you're searching an apartment and the suspect checks you out. Tim will wait for you to leave the room before grabbing the guy's collar. "I will blow your fucking brains out. Try me." Before letting him go and waiting 2 minutes before turning his body cam back on.

✭ "Who's that?" He asks pointing to your date who's picking you up at the station. "Oh that's just Jake, my date." You smile watching the hair on the back of Tim's neck stand up. He waits for you to go clock out before walking over to him, gripping his hand a little too hard when he goes for a shake. "Take care of her. I don't want to have to console her when they take you away in a body bag." The man gulps as Tim smiles before you walk back and say goodbye to him.

✭ "Officer Pretty." The words clung to Tim's thoughts like a leech as you bandaged his knuckles, "You really need to start boxing with gloves." You chuckled, of course he felt bad for lying to you, but you can't know how he puts he career at risk every day when a suspect calls you hot.

When you guys are finally together:

✭ Tim sees a guy look at you too long at a bar and suddenly his arm is around your waist, voice low in your ear: “You want me to handle that or are you gonna smile and let him keep staring?” You smile at him teasingly before he grabs your jaw and pulls you in for a deep and possessive kiss right in the middle of the bar, making the man's mouth go dry.

✭ The phrase “You’re mine” gets a lot more airtime when he’s feeling jealous. It’s not even meant to be sexy sometimes, it’s territorial. "I was wondering if I could get your number?" A rookie from another division asks. Tim walks over, his metro shirt clinging to his chest, "She's got my number and that's all she needs." He barks before giving the rookie his signature death glare. "You know you don't need to be so possessive over me?" You kiss him on the cheek. "Everyone is this station needs to know who you belong to."

✭ No more then 5 minutes later he has you bent over his desk in his office, the sweet squelching noises of your pussy making you whine as he rams himself into you. "That clown thinks he can make you feel this good? Tell me who you belong to." He grunts with each thrust. "Yo- You Seargeant Bradford." You gasp as a sharp stinging sensation forms on your ass cheek. "That's right. You're mine, pretty girl."

✭ Tim will see you talking to other male officers, but he wouldn't mind. Knowing that your panties are in his pocket will give him a peace of mind. He knows you're uncomfortable, your thighs are sticky, leaking of his cum but he loves it. You glance over to him watching his hand remain in his pocket, fiddling with the fragile fabric before running that exact hand over his face. You knew what he was doing. Reminding you who you belong to. That fucker.

✭ Oh he gets so pissy when you call another guy handsome even as a joke. "Can he fuck you like I do? Huh?" He groans into your neck with each thrust, "Fuck you so good, you can't even form a coherent reply." He mocks as you whimper. He places your hand on your lower belly where you feel his cock ramming in and out of you. "Feel that? That's me baby, not him." He spits before speeding up.

✭ Imagine you spotted your ex at the precinct’s fundraiser. It was harmless, just small talk. But the second Tim noticed, you felt his energy shift across the room. His jaw clenched, drink forgotten on the nearest table as he stalked over like he owned the place. “Hey,” your ex said, smiling politely. “Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.” Before you could reply, a hand found the small of your back. “She is,” Tim said, stepping up beside you. His voice was calm, but cool enough to make someone freeze. “With me.” Your ex extended a hand. “Tim, right? Good to finally meet you.” Tim didn't take it, he just looked at him. You tried to cut the tension. “We were just catching up. It’s not a big deal.” Tim didn’t take his eyes off him. “No, of course not." Tim smiles, but it's not genuine, it's cocky, egotistical, rude even. Your ex coughed awkwardly. “Right. Uh… well, good seeing you." As he walked away, Tim leaned in, voice low against your ear. “He doesn’t get to look at you like that anymore.”

@sleepymissy @whatasadlittlelife @jessewesmitchellfan @w1ldf1owers @winchestersbgirl @vinos-things

[virginreprise]

J U N K Y ' P R I D E

joel miller x reader

" ARE WE JUST DUST, ON THE FLOOR AGAIN? I THOUGHT WE WERE ON THE MEND " ✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

WARNINGS: suicidal ideation, angst, smut, panic attacks, emotional whiplash, joel sucks but then sucks less, emotional constipation, slight emotional manipulation, there are many emotions, light fluff, joel miller has a big cock, joel gets physical and not in a good way but its only briefly mentioned, joel miller is an asshole, i think it woiuld be appropriate for a joel miller is his own warning tag right about now

WORD COUNT: 10k

CHAPTER ONE ✦ CHAPTER TWO

AO3 LINK

CHAPTER THREE—WESTBOUND

BROKEN GLASS, MISSING HANDS, THE ABSENCE OF A TICK AND THE LOSS OF TIME.

Always and forever, there would never be enough time. 

There was no time for apologies, for healing, stitches snapping open every time they were replaced—every time arms were raised above heads in protest of the loaded pistol pointed at an already cracked open skull. Blood trickled down foreheads, parting like the red sea as it reached noses and ran for glistening, wet eyes in a desperate bid to blind the man on his knees; hoping he wouldn’t have to watch the quick, callous silence that followed the bang and gunsmoke. 

All: harsh displeasure, laughs ringing in his ears like a taunt, cackling and screaming, “You couldn’t save her,” whilst he begged on his knees and gripped his head to will them away. 

It was crawling in, on all fours like a temptress in the night, slinking around corners, using his cries as the music of her soul and wrapping her arms around his neck. A gentle kiss to his lips, distracting him from the cool metal against his stomach, dragging upwards until the point reached his neck. Pressing in, drawing blood, smiling softly and then reaching inside his mouth and pulling his heart right from his open fucking chest. 

Joel saw you—every night. Felt you around his cock every goddamn night. When he lay face first into his pillows, half-drunk from the whiskey he’d given up pouring, preferring to suckle from the bottle whilst visions of you smiling up at him, the drip of slick from your pussy that stained the bed sheets, danced in his peripheral—begging him to burst through the door and hold you tight against him. To apologise for leaving you curled in on yourself and wondering what you had done wrong. 

Always: staring at the cracks on the watch’s surface, blonde hair in the edges of his eyeline, blood-stained blonde—red dripping from his hands as he shook. 

You were supposed to make it better. Taking care of you was supposed to make him feel better. But he’d cum on your stomach like a fucking pussy and was already halfway through the door before you could convince him that his hands weren’t dirty; that he wasn’t tainting anything by touching you. 

There had been a flash of red on your cheeks, the imprint of his palm branded against your skin and dripping onto your tongue—you lapping up the sickly sight like you wanted to consume every part of him. Eyes welled with tears when he’d pulled away; leaving you red and wondering. Those questions that were etched along your lips: What happened? Why did you leave me? Why did you leave her? Why do I feel like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and find you with a gun in your palm and your brains all over the fucking wall? 

How did you know him so well? How did you manage to convince him of everything and then cause him to go spiralling headfirst into his deepest hallucinations and feel regret coursing through his stomach on a tidal wave of penitence?

He did not sleep until the alcohol poisoned his mind and left him desperate for someone to fuck up, for someone to cross him so he could beat them bloody. Senseless violence: all he conceived in his fucked-up head that hadn’t been the same since her—the name spluttering and stuttering against his tongue. Unable to come out. 

Pathetically, he wanted Tommy. He’d been so close after he’d left you bleeding, hand on the receiver, fingers shaking as he pressed button after button. That piece of yellowed paper that housed his little brother's chicken scratch—the Wyoming area code blotched and smudged from the continual worrying of Joel’s calloused fingers. He had hovered over the last number, lip quivering as he realised he couldn’t do it. That even if he was a selfish bastard, unable to think before making his decisions, he couldn’t call after fifteen years and bother the one person who had at least tried. 

Tommy who had stuck by him for as long as he could bear, before the self-pity and wallowing was too much for anyone, even Jesus Christ himself, to tolerate. 

All-consuming, self-conscious, doubt. Doubt in his ability to continue onwards, doubt in his strength, in his slowly dwindling figure that shadowed the sobbing, thirty-two-year-old him that clung to her. Limp and lifeless in his arms, losing everything that he had fought for—everything that had given him purpose. 

He’d gone to sermons when he was younger, dressed in his Sunday best and holding onto his mother’s hand. They had told him of the telos—that fellowship and eternity with God was entirely central. Even then, he had denied it, looking over at his brother who yawned in the pews and kicked his feet in boredom; Joel knew that that kid was who he was supposed to live for. Mother and father who had given him his blood: he bled for them. His only child who he held in his arms, endeared by the crying and the clench of her little hands as she whined in protest: his sole reason. 

Never, had he felt more strength than when he was with his family. There was no other reality in which he could feel a greater allegiance. 

But the anchor had been pulled from the bottom of the sea, lifted out by the force of God, and left him hurtling towards the rage of a storm—pulled under and decomposing with the shipwreck. 

He’d crawled his way to a lost island, screaming their names before realising that they were on the other side of the earth. 

Alone. 

What a thing it was to live alone in a world that was unkind to the solitary. 

It had been years, goddamn years since Joel had had anything as meaningful as the merging of bodies that you two shared weeks before. That nervous flip in his stomach he got when he felt undeniable pressure to perform well; hope that his age hadn’t caught up with him yet. That post-orgasm haze that he’d taken a few minutes to recover from—something he’d usually be able to ignore after a night with some woman he’d found down at The Esquire after he couldn’t stand the bruising quiet any longer. It’s why he’d kissed you before he’d let you go, why he’d given you that final flash of comfort before stripping the mattress from under you and leaving you asleep on the floor—cold and shivering. 

Your face had almost killed him. In the dead of night, when that expression flickered behind his closed eyes, he began to think that you’d poisoned him. That something so heart wrenching and painful was not kind enough to kill him on the spot. It waited. It festered. Until it seeped into his blood and had the veins in his forearms protruding until they burst wide open and left him bleeding to death on the bathroom floor. 

He’d meant it, when he’d said that he’d be there for you. If you needed anything, he would be waiting. Joel had been searching, for a very long time, for someone to look after. He was restless when he had no family, when he had no one to protect and caress. His family was his oxygen, his purpose, his entire reason for existing. 

He did not have a family. Not anymore. 

His mama had died shortly after his dad, too heartbroken to carry on without the man she’d dedicated so much of her life to. Tommy had been gone for so long that Joel didn’t even know if he was alive or dead, married, divorced, kids or just that echo of his nephew crying over the phone during those last conversations. He’d conjured an image, a pretty picture of everything that his brother had gained and he had lost. They’d stripped so much from him: one by one. It started when he was thirteen and his grandpa had died—listening to his mom sobbing as she hung onto the words of the person on the other end of the phone. The brusque way his father had clapped him on the back when he’d broken the news, how Joel had comforted his little brother as he cried—telling him harshly to keep it down because he’d upset Mama and dad wouldn’t be happy with his blatant display of emotion. 

That cycle of loss continued years later. A wife that he had loved dearly: running away from the possibility of having to fulfil vows that they had uttered in the courthouse after their rushed marriage—too afraid of what people would say if they found out he’d knocked her up and ruined the poor girl's life. Holding a baby in his arms as he willed himself not to cry, those traditional male values he’d been instilled with since he was a child rushing around in his head. Unsure of what to do when she bawled, holding a bottle to her lips whilst balancing a phone between his ear and his shoulder; listening to Tommy babble about his latest hardships as if a girl rejecting his advances was the biggest loss man could acquire. 

He’d taken it for granted, he understood that now. He wished, ardently, almost furiously, for those days back. A tension headache forming behind his eyes as he finally got a two-year-old Sarah to sleep, whispering down the phone as he tried to remedy a job gone wrong, ready to yell at Tommy for fucking up until he looked at her sleeping, the hand stroking her hair that he wouldn’t remove in fear she’d wake up, and felt that complete sense of calm. The fulfilment that she provided him. 

She’d been taken too. 

That glowing in his chest, the smile he couldn’t push down when he looked at her, when she came racing home from school to tell him about the A she’d gotten in her math test, or when she reached those middle school days and he couldn’t stop the ache in his heart as he realised how quickly she’d grown up. 

All of it: over. 

Ruined by the harshness of life and the awful happenings that landmarked every one of the unfortunate events that spread the length of his timeline. 

It was childish to believe that someone was out to get him, he knew that. It didn’t stop the feeling, however as he gripped his kitchen counters and waited for the aches in his back to go away, the stabbing in his heart that occurred every time he brushed his fingers over that godforsaken thing on his wrist and thought of the blood on his hands and the blood all over her pretty hair. He’d cradled her with that hand, cradled you with it too. 

However, no matter how much he tried to convince himself it had been a bad idea, that you were bad. He could not. He wanted to make you nasty, make you evil so he could give himself a reason to feel such blind hatred towards you. 

You’d fucked with his head and he didn’t appreciate it. Left him aching and grasping for a reason to keep surviving. If you weren’t going to be it then nothing would. 

Perhaps, it was self-destructive. Maybe, he wanted to die—a morbid desire for it all to just end. It wasn’t as if anyone relied on him, like he was needed or wanted in the community. He’d jumped off that horse a long time ago, been trampled by heavy hoofs and left everyone lingering behind him. 

You gave him a strange sense of purpose. Someone that he was genuinely interested in talking to. 

All those people who called him their “friend,” he could not give two fucks about. Those who used him for their personal gain; he, in turn, used them. It was a game of survival in this life, not camaraderie. He had learnt that the harsh way. When they saw that he was getting too comfortable—too happy; it had to be stripped away. 

Acceptance of the melancholia came easy; a space to reconcile it was much more difficult to come across. 

There had been a flash with you, however. A sharp, blinding spark that transformed itself across the backs of his eyes and then left when he let go of you. That moment of euphoria and he was done. Completely fucked because no matter how much he wanted to, he would not get it back. 

He’d exiled you and sent you flying over the border—the opportunity in the foliage much more substantial than the tumbling wasteland Joel resided in. 

The weeks that preceded that fateful day were some of the most miserable of your life. 

The tension between the two trailers was thick, a stalemate ravaging no man's land every time you stepped onto the dewy grass in the midst of dawn and breathed in the sickly scent of tobacco. The lingering smell told you he had been there. Elbows resting on rotting wood and fingers playing with the end of a cigarette—filter dirtied and yellowed by the constant touching and breathing. 

The stubbed end that lay, still smoking. You had missed him by a second. 

You missed him. 

Missed seeing that grimace, the determined smoulder in his gaze when you walked by and smiled softly at him. You missed his annoyance when you’d come knocking and ask him for another favour—still expecting nothing in return. 

You missed his hands on your skin, lips on your neck, whispers in your ear as he wiped away the tears. 

For a while, there had been no notice of him at all—nothing to indicate that he was still alive. You’d thought, with a churning stomach, that maybe he’d gone and done it. All that time spent mulling had finally come to fruition. One Friday night, you had worried yourself so much that you’d stomped out of your trailer, one foot on the first step towards your misfortune, when the light had flickered on and you slinked away with a finality—a decision that you were not obliged to save him. 

Until one Saturday evening, sitting on the broken steps, gazing at the stars, he came calling. Sparkling and broken in the dim light, stumbling and groaning as he tripped over his own feet, not recognising your presence just a few steps away from him. The discordance of his movement had a flash of light burning along your skin, the chill of the night air gone, the hiss of the snakes in the tall grass, stopping in companionship—letting you ponder over the situation that had presented itself. 

“Joel?” you called from the lone step, watching his head flick upwards in confusion—attempting to stand straight, square his shoulders, and act tough when he realised that your eyes were on him. 

Your name came stumbled from his lips—an attempt to not seem as drunk as he was. It seemed he had wished the day away with cheap whiskey and warm beer. Perhaps, he just had a low tolerance that you had not anticipated from someone so intimidatingly large. 

“Are you okay?” you asked as he stepped onto the grass, purposefully avoiding your watchful gaze as he pushed his hand into his pocket and searched for his keys—jangling in the solitude and passivity of the night's reclusion. “Joel?” 

“M’fine,” he mumbled. If it wasn’t for your questions, you would’ve thought he was talking to the walls, eyes firmly forward, back turned to you as he tumbled up his steps. Reticent in the way he always was—unable to allow vulnerability to push him against a heart-shaped bed and present love on a bloodied plate.

“Are you drunk?” you pushed. 

“Why does it matter?” he slurred. 

With a sigh, you stood, crossing your arms across your chest to stop the cold from seeping in, and stepped towards him. He’d stopped at the top of the stairs, perched on the porch like a starved vulture hoping to morph the dry sand into fresh meat. He could smell you: the warmth of your flesh, the deepness of your blood. If he turned around, you were prepared to let him feast. 

“I’ve never seen you like this,” you observed, eyebrows furrowed in concern as you hesitantly advanced, pushing out a breath as you stood on the step below him. 

Joel twitched when you halted, his porch light blaring in the background, illuminating his featureless face—obscuring the wet of his eyes that he blinked at furiously. 

“I ain’t drunk,” he huffed and his rejection burned fresh through the jerk of his shoulder when you placed your hand atop it. Fist clenching by your side, hand scorched and blistering, you stepped back. 

“Okay,” you muttered sympathetically. “I’m sorry.” There was something brewing in that mind of his. The brilliant torment that ravaged the war fumbling and relentless in the depths of his being. If you had to, you would step into the middle of the battlefield, white flag raised, and settle an agreement between the rage and the tenderness. “If you wanna…” A pregnant pause permeated the space as you gazed at the expanse of his back—the dust on his shirt, the scratches on his neck. It clicked all of a sudden. “Are you hurt?” 

Eyes honed in on the red streaks along his broad neck, seeing a tendon twitch as he slowly began to turn. 

It was an unshakeable disappointment when he faced you, and stood on his porch throne—haloed by the yellow glow of the lights of angels. Crusted blood under his nose and a gash along the bridge. A bruise was forming on his cheekbone. Eyebrow split open. 

“Jesus Christ, Joel,” you murmured, taking in the sight of his pillaged body. His skin: scorched earth. He looked defeated and sick. Man and violence: you could not comprehend. The willingness to destroy: an inescapable commonality between the species. 

Woman: born to serve and nurture. Matrimony and matriarchy. 

Just as you had been taught, sympathy soaked your throat, the urge to care building tall inside of you. 

You stepped forward with a swiftness he could not attempt to dodge in his state, and instinctively grabbed his wrist. 

“What’d you do?” 

His truculence was clear through the violence in his eyes as he gazed at your grasp—unintentionally tight and bruising. It disappeared when you softened, grip loosening, eyes dragging to the marks on his face. 

“Just a bar fight.” He shook his head dismissively, pulse pumping like the beat of a parade drum under the heat of your fingers. 

“What about?” you pried, part genuine concern and part curiosity as to how he’d found himself in this predicament—what God had allowed you to touch him again after so long without the desperation of his kisses. 

“Nothin’.” 

“Joel-” 

“It was nothin’.” He grabbed the hand clasped around his wrist, pulling it away, holding it in suspense and forcing you to gulp down a mouthful of sand. “Please,” he murmured. Sweeter this time. “I don’t want you worryin’ ‘bout me.” 

“But I do.” It was an easy statement to make, the words slipping from your throat and diving straight for his chest. A bullet hole on his shoulder and the acceptance of defeat as he let your arm drop to your side. 

Another shift in dynamic pulsated through the air like the aurora borealis; hopefulness in the colour. 

Joel offered you no response, just stood with his eyes locked on the turf and his lips twitching downwards in pensive passivity. 

A flourish of deep compassion warmed the stitchings of your flesh and pulled you into a role disparate from the ones you had held previously in the man's presence.  

“At least let me fix you up.” You began to turn, allowing him to follow if he wished. Up the steps, carefully ascending one, then the other, then pushing your door open and leaving it ajar. 

He followed moments afterwards. 

You both rode on a mare with glistening skin, demanding acceptance from the wild plains and the cackling hyenas. Both with only one journey to reach eudaimonia. The threshold lay just ahead of him, the jut of the doorframe that you had tripped over countless times, bordering the golden gates. Joel pushed them open, closing them behind him with a softness that had become familiar to you in these quiet moments of gratitude for his commiserations.

A light glow illuminated the kitchenette, lamplight streaming through the rest of the trailer and the TV that you had left on, muffled in the background. Your feet were bare against the carpet, shoes haphazardly lying near the front door where you’d kicked them off whilst Joel deliberated. You briefly diverted your course to switch the TV off, the late-night slop burning in your ears and then disappearing with a click and a thump as you threw the remote back down on the couch. 

The comforting roughness of the carpet disappeared when you stepped against the tile, the material cold on the soles and you hastily reached into the bottom corner cupboard to pull out your first aid kit. Hands trembled as you undid the clasps, a gentle vibration through your fingertips that almost caused you to drop the antiseptic wipes you acquired from the messy little box that you had filled when life only needed a band-aid to fix. 

He was hovering behind you. You could feel him. Eyes firmly on your back, watching you work. 

“Sit down,” you said simply and the scrape of the one wooden chair that sits lonesome under the kitchen table rattles in your ears like the call of bone whistles. 

There is a moment where you allow yourself a second to breathe, to regulate the undeniable draw you have to the man sitting drunk and waiting for you to fix him. As if you had the ability to fix Joel Miller. Every piece of him was stashed way out west down the Oregon trail, hidden in the Californian mountains, deep within a cavern—you were not brave enough to venture forward, only buying a slice of courage from an entity unknown as you turned around, antiseptic in hand and stepped towards him. 

There’s a simple carefulness in the way you settle yourself above him, breath held, eyes refusing to catch his as you hesitantly hold his face and begin to wipe away the filth from the nasty gash on his eyebrow. 

The silence was almost unbearable, his eyes fixated on your face as you wiped and tried not to show so much surprise at his compliance. He sat, letting you touch him, heal his bruises and staunch the blood flow with a soft touch and shaky exhales. With seemingly no irritation, nothing to indicate he would be disappointed if you were to question, you pressed. 

“What happened?” 

There was a pause, a held breath and a confession that shook you steady—hand pausing its movement and lips parting in poorly contained shock. 

“They were talkin’ bout you.” He sniffed, jaw set and eyes sad. “I couldn’t listen without sayin’ something.” 

After the initial, stomach-lurching waves of nausea and uncertainty, you held his jaw tighter, and began to wipe again—wound clean but so deep you couldn’t help but wipe and weep and hope that he wouldn’t confess another heart-skipping sin. 

Pathetically, you thanked him, hands shaking, breaths coming steady and controlled as you tried desperately to stop yourself from crying. Frustration: an undeniable churning. There were a million things you wished to say, spurt curses at his face as you pushed and pushed until he was just a ball of matter begging for mercy. To leave him as he left you—curled in on yourself, waiting for God to help you make sense of his departure. His rejection. But God had left long ago, his lingering presence unfelt in the doorways of a time long past, the bastard no longer the lone star on the Texas flag. 

When you felt his hand reach your wrist, pulling you away from his face, you began to tremble, lip quivering as you blinked away an onslaught of tears. 

“Baby-” 

“Don’t,” you begged softly, all fight gone as you basked in the burn of his fingers around you, hoping to see the scar when he finally peeled them off. “Please, Joel.” 

Those sad southern eyes looked at you with a despair unknown to you—a deep, lingering pit in the darkness that tugged on every fibre. That made you pity this man who had ripped you fully in two. 

“Okay,” he appeased. “Okay, honey, I’m sorry.” He began to rub the inside of your wrist with his thumb, waiting for the welling tears to fall, just so he could wipe them away and lick the salt of you off his skin. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you said when the tears finally fell, sniffing in a display so piteous and pathetic. 

And Joel had no reply—the silence was an agreement. 

He knew. Had known for a very long time. He could not blame it on her forever; he could not blame it on the loss. At a certain point, there had to be a common denominator and the only answer was him. 

“I just-” you scoffed, ripping your wrist from his hand, rubbing at the phantom bruise that wrapped purple and blue like tendrils of poison. “I just wanted to help you. I- I feel sorry for you, Joel-”

“I don’t need you to.” 

“But I do,” you interrupted, desperate to make him listen, to pull down the defences for once. “I can’t help the way I feel.” 

“I ain’t good for you-” 

“Would you please give yourself some credit? Stop being such a self-pitying asshole and maybe you wouldn’t be so miserable.” 

He stopped, stunned by your insistence, chewing on his next words before spitting them at your feet. 

“You ain’t got a clue.” 

You sensed the rage, the brewing red heat that bubbled in the pits of his pupils. The thunder clapped overhead and the rain began to pour as you looked in his pitying eyes. The windows to the soul: a dark soul that searched for something sacrosanct in a time where everything reigned unholy. It begged to take the body instead of the mind, let the crowd part and the shouting cease as he knelt before them with stigmata displayed—the crown of thorns digging, dripping. Blood-soaked. 

He waited for you in the haze of the desert and his soul flickered and died when you refused to bow. When you forced once more, the object of your essence, the need to heal something broken. 

“Let me have a clue then.” Your voice was quiet. The summer rain beat down on the windowpanes and he quieted with the muffled sound of running water. 

The silence stilled the tension and his eyes hung low as you pulled away from your spot between his legs to throw away the dirtied alcohol wipe. There was comfort in the rain as you fumbled around your first aid box and ripped another wipe open. No resistance came when you began to wipe his cut again, and you worked quietly, comfortably in the cataclysm of your growing companionship. 

When you finished, you dropped the evidence of your communion in the trash and, with your arms crossed over your chest, rested on the counter. 

Joel stayed at the table, just watching. 

It was you who broke the joining of your solitude. 

“I didn’t think it would rain here in summer.” 

Your eyes fell on the windows, the patterns that the rain made against the glass. It was soft on your ears and a welcome reprieve from the dry ground. You hoped the birds were enjoying the feel of the water on their feathers. 

“It happens sometimes,” he said gruffly. He looked exhausted, and you twitched with the itch to touch him. “It’s not regular, but it ain’t all dry down here.” 

“I like it,” you murmured, eyes fixed on his tired ones, and with a rush of adrenaline that spread to your shaking fingers, you advanced the short distance between you. He shuddered when your fingers reached his hair, a jerk movement that had him tensing with the unpredictability, but then, he relaxed. He softened as the shower ceased to a gentle thrum of rain. 

His head pressed against your stomach, the cut on his eyebrow brushing the fabric of your clothes—the wound irritated and raw as it began to bleed again. 

Dextrous fingers worked through his hair, throat dry as you struggled to whisper words of comfort in the face of such evil. He took the comfort better than you expected, softened quietly and let you stroke his scalp—let himself lean on you. 

“You’re so sweet,” he muttered as his hands slid to your waist, pulled you tighter to him as his heat seared into your skin. “Sweet thing.” 

You wanted to cry, but decided it was better to be brave for him, that you deserved so little comfort when he had spent so long desperate. So you swallowed away the ache and let his blood soak your shirt. You let him stay until he couldn’t bear the vulnerability anymore and cut through the atmosphere with his bruising force as he pulled you down onto his lap and brushed your hair from your face. 

“You got sad eyes, babydoll,” he muttered wistfully, and you were too caught up in his affections to be bothered that the change came from his discomfort at his blatant display of his conceived weakness. His thumb came to play at your lip, and you talked through the movement. 

“You’re bleeding again.” You reached for him, but he simply shook his head.

“Don’t you worry about me.” There was a sigh as he held your chin, eyes heavy, hands tight around your waist. “I’m a goddamn asshole and you’re…you’re sweet. I don’t know where you fuckin’ came from, but you scare me, honey.” 

You convinced yourself that he was still drunk, that the spew of affection was bred from the alcohol coursing his veins yet there was so much conviction in his stare, so much truth and power as he leant up to kiss you, so soft you barely felt it, that you couldn’t reconcile his actions with your doubts anymore. 

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop it.” 

He silenced everything with another kiss, flesh on flesh, the glorious union of your sweet pandemonium. You felt like you were on fire, embarrassed and confused at his insistence. You worried, beneath the pleasure of his mouth moving against you that this was another ploy. What was stopping him from leaving you again and then coming right back when he decided that there was something inherently wrong with you that repelled him? Everything he did was inherently wrong. The hypocrisy sickened you. 

“Joel,” you breathed as he began to kiss your neck. “Joel, stop it.” His tongue was rough as he flicked at your skin, his hands around your waist pulling tighter. “Joel.” 

Your insistence was lost on him, his eyes closed, his grip bruising as if this moment would determine every future interaction, like if he could not have this once he would never have it again. But your brain was churning, you were struggling with the fight between physicality and mentality and his hands felt cold as stone when you pushed at his chest and slid gracelessly off his lap to distance yourself from him. 

There was a guilty look on his face that signalled the softening of your disgusted countenance and you wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Sorry, I—” he began, but the words got lost somewhere in his throat and they got pushed back down with the acridity of all his lies and deceit. 

“You can’t just—” you struggled with your emotions, thrusting your hands in the air like the answer would form in your ears. “You can’t just kiss me and hope it makes everything better. It’s been three fucking weeks, I didn’t invite you in with the hopes that you’d fuck me.” 

The hum of the wind battered your ears alongside his silence, the whistle of tension as he tightened his fist, knuckles blistering white and then unclenching again as his eyes darkened and lips twitched. 

“No, you were just worried about me, ain’t that right?” Suddenly, he stood, hulking around the space as his rage materialised under all the careful depictions of the true nature of his soul. “Just wanted to make sure I was okay?” 

“Yes!” you exclaimed, entirely exasperated and let your chest heave as every unspoken word threatened to spill. “Jesus Christ, Joel, I thought you killed yourself the other day. You had me worried sick.” 

“Am I that pathetic to you?” 

“It’s not pathetic to feel—” 

“I don’t fuckin’ feel!” he shouted. All of a sudden, an outburst of anger and a shiver of fear as he closed in on you. “I don’t feel shit about this place, any of those people and especially not you. I had a family, and now that’s gone. I had a life and I ain’t bout’ to let some dumb little girl bury me in my own sadness because she can’t keep her goddamn nose out of that life.” 

Your breaths were coming fast and hard, your body immobile as you gripped tight at the kitchen counters. Your feet were cold. Your toes hurt with how numb they’d gone, and yet the sweat from your soles imprinted the linoleum like the brand of his kiss on your swollen lips. Pathetically, you felt scared. Pathetically, you did not say anything else, just let out a disgusting whimper as your throat closed and let the tears slide down your face. 

You were running before he could convince you to stay, running from your own trailer. In hindsight, it had been a stupid move, terribly juvenile, but he lorded your space as if it were his kingdom, and not even home felt safe anymore. So, you left. The rain beat deep and heavy against your body like the bass of concert speakers, bare feet numbing to nothing as you stomped across the grass. 

There were brief shouts of your name, lost to the wind as they were taken by the sky, and you trudged forward with words caught in your contracting chest and the promise of everything melting to nothing beneath the soil. You would walk to Oklahoma if it would get you away from him. 

“Goddamnit,” you heard, harsh and bitter, behind you. He was quicker, strides longer, anger larger. You were a fool to think he would let you go wandering. 

The hand around your wrist was warm, inviting against the cold wind, and you couldn’t afford the pleasure of such comfort, so you shunned it away, ripped the offending thing from your body and whipped around to face him. 

“Go away,” you said hoarsely. “Please, just leave me alone.” 

He reached for your wrist again, and you jerked away. Madness in his eyes, he reached again, this time for your exposed bicep, hairs standing on end from the chill of the rain, and tugged you close.  

“Makin’ me go out in the goddamn rain,” he muttered, as if dragging you back to where you’d ran from wasn’t offending. As if his insistence wasn’t shattering your soul as he pulled you along. 

With a pathetic whine, you began to sob brokenly, a sound he absorbed, mulled and let dictate his actions as he stumbled to a stop and loosened his grip on your upper arm. 

“Just let me go,” you pleaded between cries, breath hard to come by, head spinning as you clutched at your chest with your free hand and cursed your mind for forcing you into such a vulnerable position. The doctor had called them attacks, but no doctor could label the affliction of your soul. Your mother called them pathetic, and you were more than inclined to agree with her. 

“Jesus Christ.” Joel shook his head, a look of disgust plastered across his face as he let you go. “What is this? What are you doing?” 

“Just leave me alone,” you managed to get out between breaths, not forgetting your manners as you fumbled out a broken “please.” 

But he did not go. Your eyes blurred from the tears yet you could still see the outline of him, haloed by the light coming from Jimmy’s trailer that brightened as the bastard pulled open the curtain to see what the commotion was and whether by his own selfishness at being caught, or your delusional need to make it seem like he cared, he carted you away. “Babygirl” was on his lips again, and you could not help but fall into his chest and let him pull you back home. 

When you arrived back at the trailer, the grass was soggy under your feet. He set you down on his porch, mumbled “wait there,” and went over to close your door, which had been left ajar in your escape. Upon his return, there was conflict in his gait, a set furrow of his brow as he opened his door and pushed you inside. 

You still couldn’t breathe, could barely hear his words as he set you down on his recliner and left to get you a glass of water. You couldn’t gulp down the liquid when he handed it to you, too settled with the panic to care when the water dribbled out of your mouth and he took the glass from you with a sigh. 

“Stand up,” he commanded, his care concealed by his harshness and you heaved and shook as he guided you to a stand and you were shocked into submission when he wrapped his arms carefully around you, pulled you tight to his chest with your ear pressed against his heart and began to take consistent breaths. All in, and all out. One big breath, the feel of his chest expanding, then one big exhale, and his heart slowed beneath you. “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just breathe, babygirl.” 

It was hard not to listen to him. The desperation to be good was bigger than whatever disorder pervaded your sense and it was easier than it had ever been to sing away the discomfort and let him hold you. You breathed, then cried, and then apologised as if it was your place to say sorry for his misgivings. As if he were not the entire reason you had deteriorated into solemnity. 

He shushed you with a kiss to your head, arms coming round tighter as he had done when he’d sat you down against his lap only minutes previous, yet you did not feel this time that he would ignore you when you asked him to let go. You felt comfort in the knowledge that he was dangerous no longer, caged and chained, and when you removed your sticky, crusted cheek from his chest to gaze at him through misted eyes, you felt yourself soften and slip. 

You were leaning up to kiss him before you could decide your assumptions were wrong, and he fell down against your lips like the wind of a thousand summers. 

Neither of you spoke as he kissed you to the bedroom and there was no sound aside from the smacking of lips and the springs of the bed when he clambered over you. There was no time for you to contemplate the fact that you were in his bedroom, sprawled out against his bed as he suckled a mark against your neck. No time to think of the repercussions, the likelihood of him banishing you again once the night was over.

And yet, he was apologising into the junction of your neck, mumbled apologies that you couldn’t decide whether they were genuine or not. His fingers slid down your damp body, peeling the soaked clothes from your skin with a gentleness you couldn’t understand. It was whiplash. It was cruel. He was cruel and yet so sweet the moment the guilt overtook him and he couldn’t live in the stubbornness anymore. So, you just wrapped your legs around his waist and tugged him close, pulled his face back to your own and kissed him with the reverence of the summer breeze. 

Still, he worked diligently at your wet clothes, peeling the fabric from your chest and shushing your whine as he pulled away to get it over your head. You would’ve laughed at the sound it made against the floor if it wasn’t for how enraptured you were with him. You were hot, all over, fire in your loins when he tugged off your bra, ripped off his own shirt and pressed your bodies together. His skin against yours was paradisical, a plain so Godly you couldn’t even perceive it as sexual in your hazed mind. It was so dauntingly intimate, so separate from your last encounter that it felt like your soul was merging, entwining, all from the blessedness of his warmth atop yours. 

Everything else came off slower then, the kisses sloppier, shuddering in their rhythm as you lay naked. When he rolled onto his side, you went with him, leg cocked over his hip, and cunt knocking against the length of him with the movement of your lips against one another. But you were too tired to feel him fully, too locked in the escape from your mind, that you just wanted the kiss to last forever and his body against yours until the day you died. He made you feel so small, so delicate as his hands skated across your waist, over your hip, down then up again to brush his thumb on the underside of your breast.

You whined when he finally parted, a string of spit connecting you to him—snapping when he uttered slurred words. You could only assume his body was tingling as much as yours, that his brain was as addled and hazy. 

“Go to sleep, baby.” So soft through his lips, your heart twitching when he forced a smile. 

“But you—” you began to protest, eyes suggestively looking down at his cock which hung half-hard and heavy, jumping with every brush of your thigh. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” he interrupted. “Don’t you ever worry about me. I ain’t worth it.” 

You were too desperate to please him to disagree, too wrapped up in how perfect the moment was to break it by talking back, so you nodded, eyes so heavy, body sinking against him. The world went dark when you slipped, but his inviting hands kept you grounded. Then, you felt his lips against your eyelids and you let your mind fall completely blank. For the first time since you had become aware of your own mortality, you felt safe as you drifted. In the arms of danger, you felt comfort. 

The two of you fell asleep naked, no promise of anything more, just the simplicity of the present. The predicaments would come when the sun rose, and you were content to let the night shelter you from the promises of dawn. You did not dream; you just kept the pleasure of unconsciousness, which stopped the maddening thoughts of the future and the constant skipping of your heart as his fingers dragged along your skin, and his soul twitched towards the hole in yours. 

You woke to mumbles, half-words that hummed against your hair. The sun was bleeding through the curtains, the light against the bedspread swimming along the shape of your calve that peeked from under the covers. Your skin felt dry, your mouth the same, and you could feel the mat in your hair from where the rain had dried the knots in place. Yet, he was there. He was still alive and breathing next to you, still as close as he was when you had fallen asleep prior, but this time, twitching and talking in his sleep with a tremor.

When you moved to touch him, his eyes shot open with the instinctiveness of a man used to the dangers of unconsciousness, and you retreated with the burn of the brown against your face. There was a stark silence, only broken by the bark of Jimmy’s dog, who tended to roam on his lonesome, then he pulled away from you to scrub a hand across his face and murmured a soft, “Mornin’.” 

“Morning,” you replied, feeling cold when he peeled himself away from you and leant up to sit on the edge of the bed. 

You hadn’t expected him to kiss you and hold you with the morning sun blessing your entwined bodies—you hadn’t expected him to stay at all. However, it didn’t lull the sting when the bed shifted with the loss of his weight and he groped for his sweatpants, thrown over the back of a chair in the corner and tugged them on. 

Yet, there was hopefulness in the dew and you gazed reverently at his figure as he reached into his drawers to grasp a flannel and turned to question you. 

“You want coffee?” he asked, jaw twitching at your eager nod. Then, he threw the flannel on the bed, the item landing softly beside you and he gestured to you with a gruffness that warmed your heart. “C’mon then.” 

There, he disappeared from the room, cracking his neck as he went, and his footsteps muffled along the carpet, pausing in the kitchen. 

You waited a fair few seconds before you pulled his shirt on, fully overwhelmed by the scent of him as you swung your legs over the side of the bed and trembled over to the doorframe. It seemed oddly domestic, strangely comfortable in the wake of such discomfort. But you retraced the footprints he had left behind and made the short walk to the kitchen, feeling awkwardly exposed without panties, despite the flannel covering you. 

Joel was busy making coffee, his back to you as he pulled two mugs from his cupboard, each mismatched and novel. Awkwardly, you swayed in your spot, arms crossed tight against your chest, mulling in the quiet as the ceramic clinked. 

“How do you take it?” he asked softly, mind occupied as he left the coffee to brew.

“Cream and two sugars,” you answered, and he scoffed amusedly. 

“Shoulda’ known you liked it sweet.” He turned then, arms mirroring yours, biceps bulging, and you thought of how those arms had cradled you just hours previous. You honed in on the bruise around his eye, the redness of his wound, but he was still beautiful, and it didn’t matter. There was no reason to give notice to his violence when that hostility had protected you. 

It was instinct, when you reached out to feel his strength again, feet moving of their own accord, trembling as you got closer and then sighing in contentment when he reached out too. He held you, tight as anything to his chest, your chin tickled by the hair there, and he leant down with something akin to adoration in his eyes before kissing you. 

His lips were plump and malleable underneath, no bruise to his touch, just the simplicity of the morning as his hands gripped your waist, trailed down after a harsh squeeze and pulled the fat of your ass into his palms. You yelped when he pushed you back to the counter, laughing against his lips as he lifted you onto the worktop and shoved his way between your legs. 

Amusement quickly gave way to carnal desperation, and every sensation pent up from the night before when you’d gone to sleep wet, came pummeling to the surface when he trailed his fingers across your thighs and kissed the space below your ear that had you keening. 

“J-Joel,” you fumbled out, hands gripping his shoulders and tugging him tight against you. He was teasing along the skin of your inner thigh with his fingers, suckling and nipping in a manner against your neck that would surely leave a mark and you jerked with a choked moan when he pressed his fingers against your clit. 

It was a slow glide towards your slit, calculated and clumsy all at once and he struggled to stifle his groan when he found the slick of you. 

“Jesus, baby,” he uttered, head falling into the crook of your neck. “Can I have you now?”

The question had you clamping around his hand, thighs joining together as he softly brushed your clit, breaths hurried against your skin as he pressed hard into the counter. Joel Miller was desperate, and it was blissful. Joel Miller wanted you with a desperation you finally felt mirrored your own and you were struggling to keep your rationale. 

So you nodded, pulled his face up to yours and breathed out a “fuck yes, please,” before he kissed you hard and began tugging on his sweatpants. You didn’t look when his cock sprang free, his appendage already disappearing between your legs as he tugged you closer to him and ran the tip up and down, up and down until he notched at your entrance and began to sink in. 

It stung with the stretch of a thousand cuts, breath catching in your throat, hands gripping against his shoulders, driving him closer to you so you could breathe in every breath he expelled. Your haste had been your downfall in those first few moments where he pushed in further, forgetting in your desperation how big he had been the first time—how much you ached afterwards. But the pain seemed welcome, your body responding in kind with a gush of nectar, the sharpness of you cutting through and salving the wounds of your insides. Then, it didn’t seem so bad, and you let your mind go blank as he pushed to the hilt and held himself there whilst he caught his breath. 

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Been dreamin’ about this pussy.” 

The crudeness was back and you couldn’t help but smile against his mouth as he kissed you again. 

“Been dreamin’ about you…” He pulled away and you prepared yourself for the stretch again as he hugged you tight, arms wrapped around you, hands sliding along your bare back as he shoved his hands under your shirt and he pushed back in with a groan before monologuing again.

“Fuck, been dreamin’ about you every night. Can’t get you out of my head.” 

You just whined, worried that if you said too much, he’d realise what he was confessing and stop. 

Another thrust, a heavy breath you sucked up and let posion your lungs—grabbing hard onto his shoulders, feeling against the bare muscles of his back. You would never forget how smooth his skin felt under your fingers, that even as you passed over the hardness of his age, he still felt like silk. He still emanated a youth that polarised how old he really was; the amount of life he had lived thus far. 

Then, his movements came more consistently, his words less measured and fabricated. The truth came there on the counter in the midst of summer morning, where everyone else seemed to be resting—where your souls entwined under the coming sun. The air shifted, and the ground split, and you were dragged to hell with him whilst performing the carnal sin that belonged to heaven. 

“You’re so pretty,” he said, breathy and soft, uncharacteristically sweet as he forced your eyes to his, placed a hand on your cheek and supported your lolling head. “Look at me.” You tried with wet eyes as he continued to thrust, so deep inside you yet frustratingly not deep enough with the position he’d locked you in. You wanted to ride him there on the floor, wanted to feel him splitting you open. You would be happy to die with the feel of his cock inside you—would be happy to die with his words ringing unceremoniously in your ears. 

“There she is,” he uttered into the space between your lips, eyes locked with his, trying your best not to let them flutter closed. “My pretty girl. My girl…all mine, right?”

You didn’t answer immediately, trying to understand what his question meant, whether the betrayal would come after he did, or he’d keep the covenant you were about to make as his fingers found your clit again and he began to rub with intention. He watched with reverence in his eyes as yours closed and your back arched, thighs jerking as his slapped against yours. He was inside you, asking for you, implying in the most explicit way he knew how that he wanted you. Whether it were to be temporary or not, you couldn’t care, not when he was being so sweet, so soft as he fucked you on his kitchen counter and watched, waited, expectantly for your answer.

“All yours,” you breathed out before you could bother to mull the implications of your words, not bothering to read over the terms and conditions before signing along the dotted line. 

But he choked out a moan, head falling into his neck and fingers faltering against you as he thrust and pushed and gripped you as tight as he possibly could. Your thighs were trembling, your head lolling to the side as you floated with the sensation of his rocking. 

The revelation you came to there, a revelation that should’ve been obvious to you, yet you had unconsciously tried mightily to deny, was that you cared about him considerably. The attachment that you had to him created an environment you were unsure you could leave. It was your Eden, it was the bliss of the freedom of Adam and Eve, so many passages unexplored; forbidden fruit to eat. The only way you would leave would be if he banished you, and even then, you would dream of Eden and its prosperity whilst you shook, ashamed of your nakedness and sin. 

Joel’s hips stuttered, and he breathed heavily to ward off the oncoming feeling, desperate in his movement against your clit, to make you come before he did. 

As the heat began shining through the window, the sun rising in conjunction with the rise of the sensation in your stomach, you fought back the urge to rip into his skin—to hold him there against you, flesh under your fingernails, and not let him go until he was skeletal, limp and dead. 

In an entirely hypocritical acknowledgement, you realised how much you adored him. In a way that rendered you disgusting and simultaneously amused at your head, you realised how much you liked his harshness. He was mean, but didn’t you deserve such a firm hand? He was eager to build you up and then let you go, but wasn’t that push and pull exactly how you lived in your head—teetering between happy and sad. Uncomfortably, somewhere in the middle of those feelings. 

But you fought your urges, just let your hands tug at the ends of his hair, nails along his scalp and focused hard on the feeling brewing inside you, the one that twitched along every nerve and tingled tantalisingly in the hedonism of your mind. 

“Joel, “ you managed to choke out. “Joel, please.” You consistently felt like you were repeating yourself in these moments, not witty enough to reply to his dirty mouth, not brave enough to disagree with his accusations when he degraded you, and then seemed to love you when he gave you every piece of himself he had left. 

“Go on, baby,” he murmured, pressing his lips against your neck as his hips sped up, jaw clenching as he tried to ward off the same sensation currently brewing inside you. He let out a few measured breaths, licking against your collarbone to appease himself and muttering words into your neck that almost became unintelligible against the ringing in your ears. “My pretty baby,” he said. “I’m sorry…so sorry, angel-girl.” 

Tears streamed from your eyes against the pressure of his cock inside you, trying to steady your stuttering breathing as you held him painfully tight and focused hard on the feel of adrenaline coursing to your overworked heart. 

“Look at me, angel,” he requested softly, his forehead pressing against yours, palm resting against your cheek and thumb brushing away the tears. When your eyes met, you struggled to dispel the insurmountable feeling that was churning inside you. 

With his eyes on yours, you came, sweat pooling on your back, body jerking when he came too—warming in your stomach as he stuttered and settled. 

For a few solid minutes, you both breathed each other in, breaths mingling, tears sipping from his eyes too from the overexertion and your thighs tightened around him as if the cum coating you was a promise of seperation rather than union. 

Then, the spell was broken as his dick slipped from you and the evidence of his misgivings spilt. 

“Shit,” he muttered, a flash of panic in his eyes that seemed to fall away when he gazed at the white glint along your cunt. “Sorry.” 

You were too warm to care, too full of him to worry about the thing pouring from you—the way that it could implicate your life. So you just shook your head and pulled his face back to yours, kissed him hard and then let him go, breathless and sated. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you assured. “It’ll be fine.” 

With a set stare, a determination in his countenance that showed he trusted you, he nodded. Then, he pulled you off the counter, muttered a “Don’t get any of that shit on my carpets,” humour in his uncomfortability, and patted your ass as he sent you on your way to the bathroom.

You waddled, cursing the lack of care from him, but still smiling as you heard the clinking of mugs again—the scraping of metal spoons against the ceramic. He was still taking care of you, but ultimately allowing your independence. He had also not told you to leave. He had not left, and it was enough for you to consider skipping like an over-eager schoolgirl to the bathroom. 

Softly, you closed the door behind you, met with the bleeding sun through the frosted windows and slumped down onto the toilet—wiping diligently after you’d ripped a few squares from the roll. 

As you sat, pondering the situation you’d been presented with, you felt the lingering doubt rise again like bile in the throat. There were no guarantees. This was not a promise, his cum saturating the thin paper was nothing more than the working of a man unable to control himself. What if that was all this was? What if it was just the action of Joel’s lack of constraint? He was not a man who loved easily, who gave himself up so willingly, yet it seemed, as you flushed the remnants of him away, that the moment in the night, the moment in the kitchen, was exactly what you hadn’t expected it to be: a promise. 

It would be foolish, to think that it was some kind of declaration, that you’d be holding hands and getting married before the month was out—in truth, the longevity of the relationship seemed just as blurred as the possibility of what would greet you when you walked from the bathroom—but it was something. There was an essence in his domesticity, a skip in your chest when you washed your hands, detoured to the bedroom to pull your panties back on, and went down the hall to see him sipping on his coffee; your mug sat next to his. 

He did not smile when he saw you, didn’t open his arms like a loving partner, but you didn’t expect him to. Everything about Joel Miller was subtle—all implied, not blatant—and you were content with the meaning of your steaming cup next to his, the way that he placed his down to hand yours to you.

You took the coffee gratefully, fingers brushing, but without the tension that used to cloud such muted touches. The contact settled with the prospect of easement, and you followed him like a loyal dog when he gestured to the door and muttered a soft “C’mon.” 

On the way, he snatched up his pack of cigarettes, his zippo going with it, and held the door open for you like a perfect gentleman when you walked past. 

The wood of his porch was rough under your bare soles, and you honed in on the lonesome garden chair that symbolised so much more than a place to rest. You had stared at that chair for weeks when he had left you waiting, gazing out the window and wishing to sit stubbornly in the empty space and give the plastic purpose. 

So, you hesitated when he went to sit in his preferred seat, gazing at the scratched white and hypothesising in your head what it would mean when you followed his action.

Joel looked at you funny when you didn’t mirror his movements, a cigarette hanging unlit from his mouth—his coffee mug placed on the table that sat between the two objects. 

His questioning gaze moved you, and you were shuffling to the seat, shaking as you planted yourself down and forced to put your mug next to his on the table in fear you’d spill it. 

There was the click of a lighter, and he handed you the smoking stick silently, another click as he lit his own, and the scent of tobacco permeated the space alongside the scent of coffee and dew. 

“Gon’ be humid today,” he huffed out, shifting in his seat, legs spread wide, still shirtless, and you couldn’t help but stifle a giggle. His head snapped towards you, a smirk curling at his lips. “What you laughin’ for?” 

You smiled wide, puffing carefully on the cigarette and expelling the smoke with a scoff. 

“We’re gonna talk about the weather? Really?” 

He returned your scoff and replicated the drag, tapping away the ash with his forefinger. 

“What else you wanna talk about?” 

In truth, you didn’t know, you didn’t have a goddamn clue where you would start a conversation with Joel. When you conversed with him, it ranged from mind-numbing small talk to the weightiest of confessions and equivocations. There had never been moments where you just sat and discussed whatever was on your mind, so you shrugged and looked him in the eye. 

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “We don’t really talk, do we?” 

He left your eyes then, gazing at your trailer, at the window he used to peer through so often and stubbed his cigarette out on the chair, melting the plastic before throwing the end over the porch bannister. 

“No,” he said monosyllabically. “I guess we don’t.” 

Silence overcame you, then, and you settled with it—settled with the rising sun against your face and the pounding of your heart when he placed his hand, palm up, against the little table. The invitation was clear, his intentions solid, and you reached out your left hand to his, letting the cigarette burn away in the right. He squeezed the flesh when you touched, just a brief tightening of his grip before he entwined your fingers, and let them rest together. 

The weight of something unidentifiable settled on your shoulders when he did not pull away—when he let the coffee go cold in favour of feeling your touch. He did not remove himself when people started to wake, when the park bustled, and they all looked as they walked past. You just settled in silence, unmoving, unblinking, let the angels fly around your head like a crown of lilies and repeated his words, mumbled them quietly in your mind: “I’m sorry…so sorry, angel-girl.” 

There, they rang true. You gripped the apology like you gripped his hand and closed your eyes, safe with the inaudible promise of prosperity.

© virginreprise

A/N Well...I'm back with this after I said it was finished!! I did not expect to come back to it but the TLOU fandom at the moment has been a shambles and I was hoping that by revisiting the first fic I ever wrote for Joel, I would get my love for writing back again. And I guess it worked because I'm here and posting and the vision for this part was so clear in my head. I can't promise any more after this so I'm going to keep it as complete but with enough convincing I might be able to make something up.

[nyc-tophile]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 | Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x fem!reader

After a desperate fight for your life in the snow, Steve rescues you and Bucky, bringing you both back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Steve explains that you and Bucky need to go into hiding before Hydra finds you again. Now, as you’re sent to a safe house in the mountains, you have to sit down with Bucky and explain everything.

Warnings: OOC Winter Soldier, fluff, kind of sad coming down to the end, reader comforting Bucky, mentions of torture.

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how I feel about this, as I wrote it while half asleep. I love you all, though, so I managed to finish it. ENJOYYYYY <3<3<3

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟒 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟔

Morning came quietly. Soft light slipped through the small window of the med room, painting pale stripes across the walls. You stirred, the unfamiliar smell of antiseptic and clean sheets reminding you that you weren’t in your bed. The ache in your leg was still there, but duller now.

The room was still except for the soft hum of machinery and the faint creak of a chair. You turned your head and spotted Bucky, seated near the door. He hadn’t moved; his posture was rigid, eyes fixed on the floor like he was lost in thought, or lost somewhere far beyond the walls of the base.

Before you could say anything, the door opened quietly. Steve stepped in, the smell of coffee and something warm trailing in with him. He looked tired, but there was a small smile on his face when he saw you awake.

“Hey,” he said softly, crossing the room. “You’re up. How’re you feeling?”

You shifted, testing the stiffness in your leg. “Sore. But better.”

Steve handed you a steaming cup and set a tray with food on the bedside table, simple, but it smelled better than anything you’d had in days. He passed another cup to Bucky, who took it slowly, his fingers curling around it like it was an anchor.

“Figured you could both use this,” Steve said, sitting down at the foot of your bed. His voice was calm, but you could hear the worry just beneath it. “We’ve got time to breathe now. Just for a little while.”

The room settled into a quiet stillness again. The kind that felt like the eye of a storm, peaceful, but not for long.

Steve took a sip of his coffee, his gaze shifting between you and Bucky. His expression softened, but there was a seriousness behind his eyes that made your chest tighten.

“We’ve got to be careful,” he began, voice low. “You and Bucky need to lay low for a while. Hydra’s not done coming after either of you. We’re setting up a safe house, somewhere quiet. Somewhere off the grid. S.H.I.E.L.D. will be close enough to help if anything goes south, but not so close that it draws attention.”

You nodded slowly, glancing at Bucky. He hadn’t said much, but his grip on the coffee cup had tightened. His knuckles had gone white.

Steve noticed it too. His gaze softened as he looked at Bucky, the weight of everything they’d been through etched in the lines around his eyes.

“We’ll figure this out,” you said, eyes looking at Bucky, “But you need to trust us.”

Bucky finally spoke, his voice rough like he hadn’t used it in days. “Where?”

“There’s a cabin,” Steve said. “Up in the mountains. An old friend of mine used to use it for missions that went off the books. It’s stocked, isolated. No one’s gonna find you there.”

You swallowed hard, the reality of it sinking in. The running, the hiding. The fact that Hydra wasn’t going to give up. Not this time.

Bucky set his cup down, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest moment. There was fear there, but also determination.

“When do we leave?” you asked.

Steve didn’t hesitate. “Tonight.”

The three of you sat in heavy silence for a beat longer, the sound of the wind outside filling the space where words failed. Then, with a nod, Steve rose, the leader again, ready to do whatever it took to protect the people he cared about.

“Pack light, only what you need. I’ll handle the rest.” Steve finished.

The room remained quiet except for the soft sounds of distant footsteps, the murmur of voices, and the low hum of equipment coming to life for the day. Morning light spilled across the floor, warmer now, but the tension between the three of you kept the air heavy.

Steve glanced toward the window, as if gauging how much time you had before leaving. “We’ve got a few hours before we move,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “We’ll leave tonight, when it’s safer. Less chance of being spotted.”

You nodded, the thought of waiting both a relief and a weight. The idea of one last day in relative safety was comforting, but it also gave your mind time to race, to worry about what came next.

Bucky stayed by the wall, silent, but his eyes were sharper now, more present. He seemed to sense your unease and crossed the room to stand closer, not saying anything — just there. It helped.

Steve set his empty cup down, his expression softening as he looked at the two of you. “Get some rest while you can. Eat something. We’ll need to be ready tonight.”

He hesitated for a beat, like there was more he wanted to say, but instead he gave a small, reassuring nod and turned for the door. “I’ll check in on transport and supplies. We’ll be ready.”

The door clicked quietly shut behind him, leaving you and Bucky in the soft, quiet hush of morning. He glanced at you but didn’t say anything.

A sigh escaped you as you lay back down, your eyes fixed on the ceiling’s dull, cracked paint. The ache in your leg pulsed beneath the sheets, a dull reminder of how close you’d come to losing everything. The quiet in the room was heavy, almost too heavy, like the calm before a storm no one could stop.

Your eyes found Bucky, his eyes flicked up, meeting yours for just a moment, tired, guarded, but maybe a little hopeful. No words came, but that small connection was enough to steady your racing heart.

-----

The day stretched ahead, slow and heavy with waiting. Around lunchtime, Steve returned quietly, carrying a bag with food for both you and Bucky. Alongside it, he set down two packed duffel bags carefully on the floor beside your bed.

“These are packed with everything you’ll need for the safe house,” he said, his eyes shifting between you and Bucky.

Your eyes met Bucky’s. He didn’t say anything, just glanced down at the bag by his feet. “I’ll be driving you guys, but I won’t be able to stay,” Steve said.

“How are we supposed to contact you if something happens?” you asked, reaching for the fork beside the bowl of mac and cheese.

“Burner phones,” Steve replied, pulling his phone from his pocket. “There’s one in each bag. You can use them anytime, just be careful with them.”

You nodded, mentally kicking yourself, you should have known that.

“Since it’s already four, I’ll come back around eight-thirty for you guys,” Steve said, standing up and stretching his legs.

He lingered for a second, like he wanted to say more but decided against it. Then he gave a small nod, more to Bucky than to you, and walked out without another word. The door clicked shut behind him.

The room fell silent again, save for the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the clink of your fork against the bowl. Bucky hadn’t touched his food. You glanced at him, he was still staring at the floor, knuckles resting on his knees, his jaw set like he was bracing for impact.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then he nodded. You let the silence stretch, not wanting to push.

-----

Before you knew it, it was already eight. You glanced at the clock, then leaned over to grab the duffle bag at the edge of the bed. Bucky was sitting in the corner, eyes closed, completely still.

You moved as quietly as possible, swinging your legs off the bed and setting the bag beside you. Unzipping it, you rummaged through until you found some sweats and a plain t-shirt.

As you stood up, a soft groan escaped your lips. You couldn't help but glance back at Bucky, his eyes were still shut, head down, hair falling over his face.

You moved slowly, opening the door, moving to close it behind you as you looked around before walking down the hallway looking for a bathroom.

The hallway was dim and quiet, lit only by the sterile glow of overhead lights. You walked slowly, muscles stiff, leg aching more than you let on.

You found the bathroom at the end of the hall, slipping inside and locking the door behind you. For a moment, you just stood there, gripping the edge of the sink, staring at your reflection.

The person in the mirror looked like you, but worn down, eyes tired, skin pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. The bruises had started to fade, but the tiredness behind your eyes hadn’t. You splashed cold water on your face, the coldness of it grounding you, reminding you that you were still here. Still alive.

You took your time getting dressed, pulling on the sweats and shirt. Tonight, everything would change again, a new place, a new routine, and a fragile, unspoken partnership with someone who barely seemed to recognize himself.

When you returned to the room, Bucky was standing now, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, staring out the small window. He didn’t turn when you came in.

“Nice view?” you asked lightly, closing the door behind you.

His shoulders tensed slightly, then relaxed. “Just clouds,” he said, voice quiet. “But... yeah.”

You sat back on the edge of the bed, watching him. The light caught the edge of his metal arm, dim but reflective, like a weapon waiting to be drawn. 

A knock sounded at the door.

Steve’s voice came through. “It’s time.”

You both stood in silence, grabbing your bags. The air in the room felt heavier now, but not with dread. With the possibility.

The walk through the base was silent.

You, Bucky, and Steve moved silently, heads down, footsteps quiet. There was a tension in Steve’s jaw, in the way his eyes kept scanning every hallway like he expected something to go wrong. You understood.

When you reached the garage, Steve typed in a code, and the heavy metal doors groaned open, revealing a plain black truck tucked into the shadows. No markings. No weapons in view. Just a plain vehicle that could camouflage in a sea of vehicles.

Steve opened the back door and looked at Bucky first. “You good to ride up front?”

Bucky gave the faintest nod and slid in without a word. His duffel sat in his lap, like it was something precious. You climbed into the back, settling in with a sharp inhale as your injured leg stretched out along the seat. Steve shut the doors and walked around to the driver’s side.

The engine started quietly. No roar, no drama. Just a low, steady hum.

As you pulled out of the compound, no one spoke. You watched trees blur past in the dark, frost glinting off their branches like tiny daggers. The farther you got from S.H.I.E.L.D., the quieter the world became, and the city faded behind you.

-----

As the hours passed in near silence, occasionally broken by the soft shuffle of Bucky adjusting his seat and the occasional sigh from Steve, Steve said quietly, “You’re not alone up there. Not really. There’s a contact nearby, an old S.H.I.E.L.D. safe route through the woods. If something happens, follow the river downstream. It'll lead you to a logging road. Someone will be watching it.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. In front of you, Bucky didn’t react.

Eventually, Steve pulled off onto an unmarked trail that twisted up into the mountains. The road narrowed, the trees crowding close on either side. When the truck finally rolled to a stop, the cabin appeared like a ghost out of the dark, a simple, wooden structure tucked deep in the trees.

“This is it,” Steve said quietly.

You all got out without a word. The cold bit hard, and your limp had returned, worse now after sitting so long. Bucky grabbed both bags before you could reach for yours and started toward the door. He didn’t say anything, but you caught the smallest glance back.

Steve followed you up the steps. The porch creaked under your weight. The cabin was silent, dark, but remote.

Steve unlocked the door and flicked on the lights.

It was simple. One main room with a small couch, a fireplace, and a tiny kitchen. One door to the bedroom. Another to the bath. Wood walls, worn furniture, and the scent of dust and pine.

You stepped inside, letting the warmth of the space chase the cold from your skin. Bucky stood near the fireplace, scanning the room like it might still be a trap.

Steve lingered at the doorway, his face unreadable.

“I’ll check the surroundings. You’ve got about two weeks’ worth of supplies here: food, medicine, basic gear. There’s a satellite radio, but don’t use it unless it’s life or death. I’ll check in when I can.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

Steve hesitated again, then his eyes settled on Bucky.

“Take care of each other,” he said, and you knew he meant more than just survival.

He stepped back into the dark and shut the door behind him. A moment later, the truck pulled away, its headlights disappearing into the trees. You were alone now.

-----

You sat on the couch, your eyes fixed on the fire flickering in front of you, your hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea. Across from you, Bucky sat quietly, his gaze distant and lost in thought.

“Hey,” you said softly, setting your cup down on the side table. “You okay?”

His voice came out low, uncertain. “I don’t know.”

You gave a small nod. “Fair.”

Shifting slightly, you turned fully toward him. “Do you… Remember anything? About your past? Anything at all?”

Bucky’s voice was hesitant, almost fragile. “Sometimes. Bits and pieces. It’s all… jumbled.”

You took a steadying breath, keeping your voice gentle but clear. “After the train… after Hydra found you, things got dark. They experimented on you, tried to erase who you were, and turned you into the Winter Soldier. A weapon.”

Your mind flashed to the videos you’d seen, him strapped down, screaming in pain as they whipped his mind.

Leaning forward slightly, you spoke gently. “Steve was your best friend. More than that, he was family. He never stopped looking for you. Never stopped believing you could come back.”

For a moment, a flicker of something passed through Bucky’s eyes, hope, maybe, or the distant echo of a memory.

“He talked about you all the time,” you added softly. “Every chance he got, it was always about you.”

You met his eyes, steady and calm. “It’s okay to be scared, Bucky. What they did to you was cruel. But that’s not who you are anymore. You’re here now, with us. And you’re safe.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find solid ground. “I don’t know who I am,” he admitted quietly.

You shook your head softly, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “You’re Bucky Barnes. Steve’s best friend, a good man who’s been through hell but is still fighting to come back. And you’re not alone in this. We’re going to figure it out together.”

“Steve won’t let you down. He’ll be with you through everything, me too. Just trust us. We’ll help you find your memories again. We’ll get you back to being Bucky Barnes, not the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped, his fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion. The weight of your words seemed to settle over him, a fragile hope threading through the uncertainty.

“I want to believe that,” he said softly, voice rough like it hadn’t been used in a long time. “But it’s hard. Feels like I’m lost and I don’t know if I’ll ever find my way.”

You nodded slowly, understanding all too well the battle raging inside him. “It’s okay to feel that way. You’re not expected to have all the answers right now. What matters is that you’re here with us. And every day, little by little, things will get better.”

He looked up, eyes searching yours again. “And if I can’t?”

You gave him a steady look, soft but firm. “Then we’ll keep trying. Together. You’re not alone anymore, Bucky.”

The fire crackled beside you, the room warm despite the chill outside. In that quiet moment, you could almost feel the weight on his shoulders lighten, just a little.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You smiled gently. “No need to thank me. Just focus on being here now. We’ve got a long road ahead, but we’ll be with you all the way.”

He nodded once, slowly, and for the first time in a while, there was something like peace in his eyes.

join my тαgℓιѕт -

@avgdestitute, @chimchoom, @xoxo-moonlight

[cherrieshalo]

Something More

k.bakugo x gn!reader | slight angst, friends to lovers? | 1.4k words

You couldn’t sleep. 

That you ever really could, but tonight was a degree worse that it usually was. 

You sat in the common room of the dorms, knees pulled up to your chest as you scrolled through your phone. The time read 3:56 am and despite the looming dread of the upcoming day and intense training, you just couldn’t get yourself to sleep. 

Very little light filled the room, the small amount of moonlight seeping through the windows just enough for you to see the outline of a figure approaching you. 

“Why the hell are you awake?” 

You looked up to see him. 

The first words he greeted you with after ghosting you for almost a month, accompanied by the signature snarl he always wore. 

“Couldn’t sleep, Bakugo. Rather not lay in bed like an idiot if I can’t fall asleep,” you replied simply, attention shifting back down to your phone. 

“Don’t fucking call me that. It’s Katsuki to you,” he scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. “And scrolling your phone isn’t any better.” 

“You’re up too, you know.” 

“Yeah, because I was hungry. Wasn’t going to get a small snack and then back off to bed. Or is that too much for your simple mind to comprehend?” Katsuki’s voice was still gruff, despite the quietness of the night. 

“God forbid, geez…” 

“Whatever. Get your ass back to bed. Mina made me come hunt you down because she heard you leave but not come back.”

You let out the biggest eye roll of your life. The fucking audacity of this man. “Really? Hunting for me? After ghosting me for three weeks?” 

“I did not ghost you-” 

“Yes, you did!” You were a lot louder than you intended, muscles tensing up as you glared at him.

It wasn’t either of your faults that you ended up making out at the last party. It was a dare, and you can tell that he was definitely a little too into it. You felt like your soul was sucked from you after, his hand that rested on the back of your neck tightly gripping onto your hair and the nails of his other hand digging into your waist. He wasn’t a bad kisser, but you were most certainly not expecting the outcome. 

You also hadn’t expected him to get up and leave the party immediately after the dare. He ignored you for  weeks up until now; never read your texts, ignored you in the halls, and took specific routes to not be near you. It was horrific. Were you really that bad of a kiss? 

You felt your stomach churn. God, maybe he hated you… “Are you mad at me?” 

“I’m not mad,” Katsuki spoke with a shake of his head, avoiding your gaze as his tone was soft. “What we did was stupid, that’s all. Shouldn’t have taken the fucking dare. It was a mistake, never should have happened.” 

“Was my kissing really….that bad…?” Your voice came out in a hushed whisper as your shoulders sank. You knew it would be pathetic to try to defend yourself in a situation like this, but he was the one to overreact. Not you.

“The kiss was fine! I was just stupid and drunk,” he spat angrily. “I wouldn’t have done something so stupid while sober.” 

“Have a good night, Katsuki,” you said in a dull voice as you stood up from the couch. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” 

“Back to my room. Your presence exhausted me enough.” 

“Sit your ass back down. We’re not done talkin’ yet,” his hand reached out and grabbed onto your wrist, not enough for it to hurt but enough to keep you in place. 

“Talk?? After three fucking weeks?” You pulled your hand away with a scoff. 

“I know, I know. But…That night was stupid. I should have never taken that dare and it was a horrid mistake to kiss you like that,” Katsuki’s fist clenched as you pulled away. He wanted to pull you back in, he really did, but was too afraid to hurt you. 

“Was it really? I've kissed Denki and Hanta countless times but neither of them made a fuss out of it. We laughed about it, joked, and moved on. So do you think you’re special enough to be a drama queen about it?” You turned to him with a glare, nails digging into your palm as you resisted the urge to slap him across the face. 

Friends don’t kiss. 

But friends also don’t ghost the other after the kiss. 

“Don’t you fucking dare compare me to those damn extras, you hear me? This is different,” Katsuki snapped, voice laced with anger and jealousy.

“The point is that neither of them ghosted me after!” 

“Doesn’t matter,” he spat. His brows furrowed, muscles bulging as he tried to keep his voice down. “You shouldn’t be messing around with those idiots, you hear me? They don’t deserve you.”

It was comical, really. You tried not to laugh but a small snort escaped your throat. “And you think you do?” 

“Damn right I do,” Katsuki shot back almost immediately without hesitation. “I'm better than those useless extras, and you know it. You should be with me, not them." 

You stared at him in shock, mouth agape and eyes wide. 

This was practically a confession…right? 

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. Kissing you without hesitation, even though it was a dare and he was drunk…ghosting you after…it didn’t make sense. 

“Oh come on, don’t look at me like that. I know I'm probably the last person you want to be with romantically, alright? But damn it, don't you realize how I feel about you, dumbass?” Katsuki looked nervous. Too nervous. A look you never saw on him. It seeped through the cracks of his confident demeanour, sheltered by the late night intimacy present in the room. 

You couldn’t lie and say you didn’t think about Katsuki in a romantic light from time to time. He was strong, goodlooking, well-mannered, and refused to take bullshit from anyone. He had many admirable qualities, and it wasn’t like he’d be a terrible romantic partner. 

You just never thought about actually dating him. 

“Ah…cool…” 

Katsuki pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath to prevent himself from lashing out. "I'm trying to pour my damn heart out here and you just give me a 'cool'? Come on, give me something here."

“Sorry…” you shook your head. “I just…wasn’t expecting that. Of all things.” 

“Why not? Don’t think you’re worthy of being loved?” 

“I never said that!” You shot back with a small scoff. “I just…didn’t think it would be you of all people.” 

“Problem?” He shifted his weight to one leg, brow cocked up. “Or do you just not see me in that way?” 

You nervously picked at your nails. God, you really didn’t want to be mean. He wasn’t awful, but then again…how did he like you?  

“I just feel like we’re in different leagues, you know? You laughed awkwardly, hoping that you could move on and just go back to your room. 

“So you don’t like me-” 

“I didn't mean it like that!” 

Katsuki rolled his eyes as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Chill, I’m not angry. Disappointed? Fuck, maybe a little. But that’s it.” 

“I’m sorry…I just didn't think you’d want me to view you like that. You’d make a great boyfriend for someone else, though…” you whispered. 

“Nah. I can wait,” he shrugged. “Let you think about it for a bit. Let it simmer.”

“Kats…” 

“Nope, you’re gonna think about it, yeah? I don’t want you to only have feelings for me just to appease me. Think about it for a bit. Good night, (name),” he gave you a small wave before disappearing out of the common area. 

Fuck. 

You trudged back to your dorm, flopping back onto your bed as you stared at the ceiling. At Least he was nice enough to tell you to put yourself first…

Maybe something could happen. There was potential, after all. Stolen glances, the way he always helped you up during practice battles, and the friendship teetering on the edge of being something more. 

Maybe you did think about him romantically after all…

© property of cherrieshalo 2025 - please do not steal or copy my work to post elsewhere

[revolvingsaturn]

omg PLEASE write more for aizawa🙏 literally anything

ask and you shall receive- little longer than last time, but I promise it’s worth it!

Summary: Aizawa eats you out on your kitchen counter. Stress relief?

🫧🌱

You’re just about folding up the patterned oven mitts and dusting the remnants of flour from your powder covered hands, reaching for the timer on the side with your free hand while the other closes the oven door, when Aizawa makes his sleepy way into the kitchen.

“Cookies.” You say, gesturing vaguely towards the oven as you start to wipe down the kitchen island of your shared apartment.

“Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?” He responds. It comes out as a tired grumble, but you know better than to feel offended- behind the facade, he appreciates the late night cooking really.

It probably is a little late for baking, though, considering the only light inside the kitchen comes from the lamps dotted sporadically around the open plan apartment. But you’d just come back from a long few hours of a UA staff meeting, followed by two months worth of lesson planning, trying not to daydream while nibbling at the end of your nails; a bad habit, as Aizawa is constantly reminding you, and you hop up onto the kitchen island while you gaze over at the cookies inside the oven.

You’re just starting to chew the inside of your cheek absentmindedly in silent stress when you feel large hands on your hips and you jolt in surprise at the sudden contact. You look up, and his eyes meet yours. Drowsy, certainly-when are they not- but you think the way his eyes are half lidded has nothing to do with tiredness and everything to do with the way your thighs rub together when he starts to massage your hips lazily.

“Stay still.” He says, when you try to stand up from the island to kiss him. He leans down instead, lips meeting yours while Japan hums outside. The kiss is slow, reverent, until it isn’t- until he’s nipping at your bottom lip and you’re gasping into his mouth when one of his warm hands snakes from your hip under the sweater you’re wearing to cup at your chest over your bra.

And suddenly, too agile for you to even process it, he’s on his knees in front of you while you sit on the island and then he’s cupping your ass and yanking you towards him, manhandling your legs in such a matter of fact manner you’d think it happens everyday. A series of shaky breaths leave your parted lips as you gaze down at him while he peels your pyjama pants away from your legs and tosses them over his shoulders, your underwear quick to follow.

“Shota…” you whisper down at him as he starts to lazily kiss his way up your thighs while his fingertips grip you and you start to squirm on the counter.

“I thought I told you to stay still.” He takes his time, nipping and kissing at your inner thighs like he hasn’t done this before; you’re just considering tugging at his hair when his mouth finally makes contact with your slick and you almost squeal at the sudden sensation.

He’s good, almost so good it annoys you- he’s good at everything, a fact that you’re reminded of again when he licks the first slow stripe of many up your pussy and you have to bite your knuckles to stop yourself from gasping. He pauses to lightly kiss at your clit, an action which draws a moan from you. You sound wrecked, and he hasn’t even started.

He grins against you.

He spends a while simply alternating between sucking at your clit and kissing over the marks he’s left to blossom unattended over your inner thighs, holding you in place with the hands that switch between massaging your thighs or gripping at your hips. He explores you selfishly, like he could stay in between your legs forever and never get tired. He’s straining at his underwear, you can tell, but he doesn’t move a hand to palm himself; he just lets his cock stay stubbornly hard as he continues his ministrations with you on the counter.

You lean back on your elbows at some point, eyes fluttering shut and head tipping back while you let Aizawa tear more slow sighs from your throat with every movement. He’s got his eyes shut too, although you barely process when he starts moaning into you too- your thighs tighten around his skull but he pays it no mind. Slowly, so slowly you barely notice, one of his hands drops from your hip to work two fingers inside of you and you gasp. He’s crooking his fingers lazily, letting you feel the stretch.

“You needed this.” It’s not a question, but a statement- it’s disconcerting how well he can read you sometimes, a thought that’s periodically struck you since your first meeting with him all that time ago.

“Y-yeah.” You reply, moaning unabashedly into the kitchen. If you could play it back afterwards and hear the noises you’re making, you know you’d be embarrassed- the noise of Aizawa licking at your pussy while his fingers scissor inside you, coupled with the lengthy moans you’re both letting out, are certainly enough to make you want to bury your face in a pillow and smother yourself but at the moment you don’t care.

He knows you’re getting closer when you start clenching around his fingers, and he redoubles his efforts. Fingers pump in and out of you, curling, while he sucks at your clit and you know you won’t hold on much longer. You’re vaguely aware of him muttering something against you but it’s so muffled you can’t pick up on it- whatever it is, though, you know it’s filthy. Your moans increase in volume as you squeeze around him, and he’s still whispering low praise into you as you cum around his fingers and tongue and practically scream.

Your elbows give out until you’re lying slumped on the counter, staring at the ceiling until your eyes roll back and your spine curves away from the cool marble below you. When you finish squeezing your thighs around his head like you’re trying to dislocate his jaw, you feel Aizawa slowly withdraw his mouth from you and remove your thighs from around him. He stands up- still hard- and moves to help you sit up, so tender in his movements you almost forget the amount of bruises on the inside of your thighs.

“Holy shit.” You say blearily.

He chuckles lowly, looking down at you as you rub at your eyes. His lower face is still glistening with remnants of your own slick but you don’t care as you pull him in for an appreciative kiss before pulling back to gaze up at him and smile.

“Shota-“ you say, until you’re cut off by the piercing ring of your timer. You both wince at the sudden intrusion into your intimacy, but you’re glad of it later when you’re lying on the couch, feet in his lap, chewing on a cookie.

“You want one?” You ask, dusting crumbs off of yourself.

“I already ate.” He says back.

You throw a pillow at his head.

🫧🌱

thanks for reading!

As always, comments appreciated and suggestions welcome! :)

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

(Accidentally posted this as a draft, then deleted it)

Florida man is a state of mind. One that shows how we all want to live. He exists without shame. Without hesitation. And most importantly, without a single thought. If you say you don't want to be like Florida man, you're lying.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Julie, Frank, Wally & slightly unhinged/eccentric Reader

Julie

★ You and her make all sorts of new games. One afternoon, you "borrowed" a shopping cart from Howdy. And tried to see how fast you could go with her inside. Julie cheered. Howdy screamed. Now you owe the shopkeeper a new cart.

★ Somehow, you function on three hours of sleep and a bag of chips. Like a teen that got a hold of energy drinks for the first time. Julie just assumed it's normal for you to live like this. When you finally crash, she watches you. Amazed you stayed up this long.

★ She drew the line at "homemade fireworks." Because Julie really doesn't want you to destroy stuff. "You're gonna blow up that mailbox!" She warned you, wide eyed and a little scared. But you lit the fuse anyway. And all she did was watch.

Frank

★ Frank started questioning natural selection after meeting you. Not for being a good example. But because nothing you've done has killed you. The catalyst for this thought was when he saw you lighting... what looked like a pile of cardboard tubes? Followed by an explosion.

★ You must be doing something right if you've made it this far. Even though he's tried reasoning with you to make better decisions. "Please don't." He says while pinching the bridge of his nose. You grin "What if I do?" Sometimes, Frank makes you wear a helmet.

★ Despite everything, he likes having you around. He may tell people "They're going to be the death of me." But Frank still has a first aid kit stashed away. Just for you. As history suggests you'll need it again.

Wally

★ He always thought life was best lived carefully. Then you came along. With your scraped knuckles and busted knee. And Wally was charmed! He doesn't understand most of the things you do. Which is why he can't stop thinking about it.

★ You climbed the tall clock tower without safety gear. It wasn't damaged, but you were after losing grip. He didn't lecture you after. Just said "You should be more careful." While Frank, on the other hand, gave you an earful.

★ When somebody complains about your recklessness, he's the first to defend you. Saying “They think it's fun.” And nothing else. Because that might start an argument. And Wally doesn't care for those. 

[maomao-words]

Was in the mood for some bratty pranks, so I wrote these! ＼ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ／

I received some cute scenarios in my ask box, so you can look forward to more fluff and crack.

Wind Breaker: How the boys react to you giving them a big portion of food while eating a small one (Kiryu, Umemiya, and Endo).

Kiryu Mitsuki:

Kiryu's face was frozen in a dreamy smile while he watched you dance your way around his kitchen. With light steps, you hummed under the soft rays of sunshine, twisting every now and then out of your way to place a soft peck on Kiryu's cheek whenever he jokingly whined about missing you.

Every now and then, Kiryu would sneak behind you and pop his head above your shoulder to steal a mouthful or two from the pot you were nursing. His laughter would ring out in delight once you shooed him away with the ladle in your hand, leaving you filled with affection and warmth toward him.

Your fluffy apron, chosen and bought by Kiryu himself two months into your relationship, fluttered about as you exited the kitchen and slightly bent down to place Kiryu's plate first on the table. Beaming at the beautifully decorated dish, Kiryu started rolling up his sleeves, but still waited for you to properly sit down with your own plate before beginning to eat.

The instant Kiryu's emerald eyes glanced at you, honeyed praise on the tip of his tongue, his spoon stilled in the air at the sight of your small portion.

"Sweetheart," Kiryu's voice was light, "did you forget to fill the rest of your plate? I can get the pot for you!" Your boyfriend abandoned his utensils and started to rise, but you quickly extended a hand and caught his wrist before he could stand up.

"It's okay, love! This was all that was left." You lowered your head in mock-sadness, stifling your laughter and avoiding Kiryu's concern-filled eyes, before you whispered the rest of your rehearsed speech to him, "You have to eat well. After all, you work really hard to spoil me."

You finished your words with a light tap on Kiryu's wrist, still within your hold, as you gently smiled up at him. Kiryu's lips parted to respond to you, eyes rapidly gazing between your two drastically different plates. "But if you eat like this, I'm not spoiling you, am I?" Kiryu's eyes widened with indignation, his voice carrying a hint of deep anxiety at his own potential lack, all while gazing tenderly at you.

His hand caught yours, his gentle words filled to the brim with affection and worry, going straight for the beating core within your rib-cage. You could swear that your heart was purposely racing harshly against your chest, chastizing you for putting your sweet lover in this state for a prank.

But before you could even begin to salvage the situation, Kiryu was already holding his own plate upward, piling the majority of the food it contained onto yours. Once done, his green eyes flickered to yours, and he grinned. Wide, open, and ever so beautiful. Kiryu nudged the plate closer to you, silently urging you to start eating before the food grew colder.

You swallowed back your words at the sight of his smile and lifted your untouched utensils. You really had a keeper by your side, you thought quietly to yourself, as you watched him devour the few spoonfuls left on his plate and praise your cooking to the moon and back.

Your dishes only grew better and more customized to fit Kiryu's tastes in the upcoming days, in hopes of erasing the guilt that ate you up for the prank you had pulled.

Umemiya:

Your little prank was almost over before it even began when Ume insisted, all puppy-eyed and gentle smiles, on helping you cook. Only after you threatened to withhold his daily dosage of kisses did you succeed in kicking him out of the kitchen and into the living room's sofa.

Your boyfriend remained glued to the edge of the door, not daring to go inside and risk angering you, but not bearing the thought of leaving your side for long.

His over-protective behavior got the door of the kitchen slammed (as gently as you could while laughing your ass off) in his face.

Ume's eyes were still shining with unshed tears when you bent down to place his plate on the low table. The sadness in his face was soon gone as soon as he glimpsed his favorite food in front of him, piping hot and seasoned to his tastes. You giggled in satisfaction, seeing his reaction, before turning around to grab your own small bowl.

Once you sat down next to Umemiya, you instantly felt his hand wrap around your waist, and his lips kissing your cheek in a tender thank you kiss. Feeling famished after an entire morning spent on patrols, Umemiya dug right in, humming at the flavors under his tongue and complimenting your amazing cooking skills.

Turning his head to the side, Ume leaned to kiss you again, only to spot the bowl you filled for yourself. Umemiya blinked his eyes once, twice, and then frowned once he realized that he was really seeing a barely half-filled dish.

"It's fine, baby," you laughed at your lover's reaction, your hand coming up to rest on his arm in a comforting gesture, "this was all that was left, and you need your energy for this afternoon patrol, so I gave you the bigger portion." You kept your smile tender and sweet, carefully watching as Ume's eyebrows lifted higher in shock, before his blue eyes took on a hue of sadness.

You felt your heart squeeze painfully at the sight, seeing your boyfriend turn his head left and right between his plate and yours, looking for a solution with absolute determination.

With one swift move, Ume's strong arms wrapped further around your waist and lifted you into his lap. You barely had time to yelp before Umemiya was piling a good portion of food on his spoon and lifting it to your mouth. You gazed at him in bewilderment, but your boyfriend simply placed the spoon nearer and nodded at you to take it.

Not wanting to leave him hanging, you parted your lips. For a while, Ume simply focused on gently spoon-feeding you each bite, heaping your favorite vegetables, garnishing the dish, and leaving out any of those he knew you disliked.

For more than once, you tried to shake your head and deny your boyfriend, but Umemiya simply smiled and cooed at you with the gentlest of voices, until your cheeks went aflame and you were back at being spoon-fed.

Ume didn't let up until all of the bowl was wiped clean. Only then did he switch his spoon toward the small portion on your plate and fed himself, humming again at the delicious food.

You never had the heart to pull any other pranks on him ever again.

Endo Yamato:

"Now, now, doll," Endo's warm breath was near your ear as he whispered his words, "this just won't do."

You shivered. The prank had started moments ago, with you placing a full plate in front of Endo, warm, spicy, and seasoned to his preferences, before you skipped over to the kitchen to bring your own meal.

You could hear Endo humming across the room, his husky voice mingling with the low sounds of the television in the background. You quietly giggled to yourself while putting the smallest portion size you could manage on the plate, before finally holding your cup of water in your other hand, and bringing both back to the low table in the living room.

Sunshine was softly filtering through the gaps left between the curtains. Endo was sprawled in the exact same position you left him in, his plate untouched, and a familiar smirk dancing on his lips.

Once you reached close enough for him to touch, Endo's hand was instantly extended, taking away the items in your hand, and nodding at you to sit down. You smiled at your beloved and plopped down right next to him. Clearing your throat in anticipation, opened your mouth to put your treasured prank into motion, only to freeze when you noticed Endo already gazing at your plate.

A heartbeat passed. Then another. Endo's gaze moved, now locked with your own, giving you a full view of his now-wider smirk.

Fuck. You could recognize that smirk from miles away; a prelude to the mischief Endo was just about to unleash. And you were right. Within a second of whispering a few words in your ear, Endo's left hand was sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

You placed your palms against his chest and summoned your sweetest smile. You locked eyes with Endo, tilting your head adorably just the way you knew he melted for, before a soft hmm? left your lips. Endo's eyes glistened at your act, his arm tightening its hold around you.

"I didn't know you to be such a pranker, doll," Endo retorted back at your adorable display. His right hand, unoccupied with embracing you as close as possible, moved to grab at the plate in front of him and drag it to his own lap. "Have it your way, then. I can feed you myself if you won't confess to your crime."

You gasped and moved to block his attempt, but your boyfriend was predictably faster. A spoon was soon hovering near your mouth, filled to the brim with the plate's contents. You glanced at Endo, mirth displayed all across his handsome features, and pursed your lips in stubbornness.

Your prank was already ruined, but that didn't mean you were going to play by Endo's rules, especially now that he was laughing his ass off at your reaction.

"Aw, baby," Endo's voice was now back near your ear, low, husky, and ever-so slightly mocking, "adorable and headstrong, you're messing with my heart, aren't you?"

Heat rose instantly all over your cheeks, and you pushed at Endo's chest with your palms, feeling no resistance as he started laughing again.

"DON’T ‘AW BABY’ ME!" The minute your lips parted open, the spoon was inside, gently feeding you its contents. You gasped, reeling from how quickly Endo moved. Your boyfriend's eyes gleamed in pure happiness as he moved to make you another spoonful.

Accepting your defeat, you finished chewing and opened your mouth to be fed again. While you didn't mind being pampered by Endo this way, the heat across your cheeks didn't fade away for a long time.

[crowfish-brainrot]

Mistakes Were Made Part 4

Adrenaline can make people lusty, and that's what inspired this fic. Also, if I was MC, my sexy self would be fuckin' all five of these men until I got into a relationship bc I am weak and they are too hot to not. Soooo, this might get kinda messy, but it'll end in a good (poly?) place.

CONTENT NOTES FOR ALL PARTS: 18+ MDNI. LaDs men x MC (you), Casual Sex, Pre-relationship, Complicated Feelings All Around. Smut & Angst. Smut with Feelings. No use of Y/N. Possibly ooc bc I'm still getting back into fanfic. Oral f&m receiving, p in v, unprotected sex bc its fiction, creampies, softdom!Xavier, brattamer!Zayne, brattyswitch!Rafayel, switch!Sylus, dom!Caleb brattyswitch!MC, but it's all fluid imo. light bond*ge, sp*nking, size difference, overstimulation, improper use of evol, semi-public sex. Nicknames used in all parts: canon nicknames as well as bunny, princess, love, & darling. F reader. MC is described as being curvy and strong with some fuller titties bc I love titties. Possibly MMF if I get to a part 6 Unedited. You get this raw (just like our Lads!)

Xavier | Zayne | Rafayel | Sylus (this part) | Caleb

Every fucking time you went anywhere with Sylus, danger followed close behind. It was by a miracle of the gods themselves you hadn't sat on Sylus' cock yet. It helped that you could make an excuse about needing to return to Linkon abruptly. Your mission partner got a call about some wanderers, you have to go give him back up. You had a doctor's appointment in a few hours you couldn't miss, or your secondary employer needed your protection for an event. Sylus never questioned you out loud, as long as you promised to return to the N109 Zone.

This time, however, you went on a trip with him halfway across the world to chase down a lead tied to Ever, so none of your flimsy excuses couldn't help you now. After a fight like that, you desperately needed some excuse to leave before you added yet another too-handsome-for-his-own-good man to your roster.

The fight was brutal. You were pitifully outnumbered, but you and Sylus fought alongside one another like you'd done so your entire lives. In perfect sync, you rarely had to speak before you two resonated and caused a swirling storm of energy. You both made it out of the fight, neither too injured. The blood covering him wasn't his, and he looked every bit the intimidating leader of Onychinus that he was. Instead of being terrified at the sight like you should've been, you found him downright enchanting. Covered in the blood of your enemies and sweat-slicked from battle, he never looked better.

"Everything alright, kitten?" he asked.

"Yeah," you said, your voice too high to be normal. "I'm just checking for injuries. Are you sure you didn't get hit?"

"Worried?"

"Maybe."

He chuckled. "I'll let you thoroughly investigate once we get back to the safe house."

Your heart thrummed under your breasts at the sound of his rich laughter, and you could already tell you were doomed.

The ride back to the safe house didn't help your situation. The motorcycle purred beneath you and your arms wrapped tightly around Sylus' bulky body. He was so strong, so stable, that your head spun. The vibration of the bike and the heady leather and spice scent of him, now tinged with the copper tang of blood, all sent more need curling low in your belly.

You arrived at the safe house, a large manor house hidden somewhere in the woods far beyond the city lights and a long way down a dirt road. Sylus left you on the bike as he quickly checked to verify that the location hadn't been compromised in the time it took for you to complete your mission. He gave you the all clear, and on trembling legs, you stumbled off the bike.

A long tether of black-red mist wrapped around your waist to stabilize you. The now-familiar feel of his Evol was a welcome one. Slightly warm, it buzzed against your skin with raw power. You hummed softly as your mind wondered if there were other ways he could use this power of his. If it was tangible enough to touch you, what would it feel like inside you? Nope. Stop it! Your thoughts would get you in trouble, especially around him. You avoided eye-contact with him after battles for a reason.

You looked up to see Sylus' smirking face and the flush on your cheeks creeped all the way back to your ears. Damn it. You pushed past him and hurried inside, trying to put as much distance between you as you could. You brought a small vibrator with you, you did know yourself after all. It was a quiet thing, and even his safe houses were massive. You picked the bedroom farthest from his to give yourself some privacy. Hopefully it was enough.

"Running away so soon, sweetie? I thought you were worried about me." Sylus appeared in the archway between the kitchen and the stairs. He leaned against the frame and raised a silver brow at you.

"We're both covered in blood. Hard to see if you're wounded if we're both a mess," you said. It was a lame excuse Sylus saw right through. Lying to him was pointless, but he always smiled when you did. Like it entertained him when you tried to slip past with unspoken truths.

Sylus stood up straight and slowly undid the buttons on his blood-stained shirt. Your eyes followed his deft fingers as he slowly exposed the open expanse of his chest. Your throat closed, but you couldn't look away. Buttons undone, he shrugged the shirt off. It fell to the floor in a whisper, and he smirked down at you.

"Does this help, kitten?" he asked, his voice low and full of challenge.

Dear fucking gods, this man was so hot it bordered on unholy. His voice, the sharp lines of his face, his hair, and every line of his muscles all could've once been marble. Gorgeous didn't seem like a strong enough word to describe him, and he knew it, too.

He let you drink him in, and you made sure to keep your eyes off his face. If you snuck a single look, he'd know the hunger pooling low in your belly. You never desired Sylus. You hungered for him. Wanted to consume him, and be consumed by him.

Xavier wrapped you in safety, protected you. Zayne took care of you and stabilized you with his presence. Rafayel spoke to your heart and brought you to new depths. If you crossed into something sexual with Sylus? You'd consume one another whole. He spoke to your very essence. Being so close to him, the heat of battle still boiling in your blood, with his bare chest on display? It bordered on torture.

You swallowed. "Let me take a look."

Evol-suppressing bullets didn't last long, but you didn't want to risk Sylus' health. The mere thought of him bleeding made you dizzy for a reason you couldn't explain, so you didn't think about it too much as you checked him over. A bullet grazed his ribs, and your Evol recoiled at the strange energy emanating from it. The wound wasn't deep. His Evol could fix it in a second without much fuss, once the suppressant effects ebbed. Still, the sight of red blood dripping down his pale skin?

Your mind filled with the memory of blood -- his blood?-- staining your palms. You breathed through it, and turned back into the kitchen, digging under the sink for the first aid kit. He kept one under every sink, and in every bedroom, in all of his safehouses. First aid kits didn't usually come so well stocked with so many extras within, but he was a criminal, and it wasn't like he was going to call for help.

You dragged him by his wrist and plopped him down on a bar stool so you could clean him up. Sylus said nothing, but his eyes never left you as he obediently sat down. You cleaned the wound and placed a large bandage over it to cover it until his Evol could address it.

"Anywhere else?" you asked, as you ran your hands down his arms, to his fists. They often got bloody after fights, he did prefer them as his usual weapons -- despite owning multiple armories-- and usually they healed instantly. Still, you checked him over to be sure.

"I'm fine. I didn't realize I'd been hit at all until you rubbed alcohol over the wound," he said, taking your hands in his. "Are you okay? You haven't looked me in the eye since we got here."

"I'm fine," you said. It sounded like a lie to your ears, so you knew he didn't believe you either. "I don't like seeing you hurt, is all. I know it happens, but..."

You looked down at your threaded fingers. You touched Sylus often. Always casual. A brush of shoulders, grabbing his hand, the brush of your knees when you sat next to one another. Wrapping your body around his when you rode on his bike. It felt natural to reach for him, and it seemed he thought the same thing. Since you started reaching for his hand outside of battles, his found yours, too. Never more than you could take, and never anything but respectful. Just warmth and steadiness that comforted something deep within you.

"It will take far more than some simple bullets to hurt me, kitten." His voice was soft, gentle in the tone he only ever used on you. He drove you insane sometimes, but some new level of trust took root between you. Then, his voice took on a different tone, one more playful. "Though, I didn't realize you cared so much about my well-being."

"Shut up or you'll ruin it," you said.

He chuckled softly. The sound rich and warm, it filled the space between you both. You needed to get to your room, shower, come, and maybe figure out what type of food he stored here. If you stayed this close to him the heat of his body and his shirtless chest would do you in faster than you could talk yourself out of.

"Well, you're fine. So I'm going to go clean up," you said, too fast to be casual. "Let me know if we get attacked!"

"Look at me," he said. Not harsh, but it was a command all the same. One you couldn't ignore.

You drew your eyes up to his face, focusing on his nose so you wouldn't accidentally meet his eyes. Your heart fluttered the way it always did around him. Too loud, too fast. His fingers rested under your chin, but he didn't pull your face up further. Not yet.

"After every fight, you're always in such a hurry to leave. I thought by getting out of Linkon you'd settle after a fight, or at least tell me what gets you so jumpy." Sylus' thumb rubbed over your chin, and his ruby gaze dropped to your mouth. "I have my ideas, of course, but I want to hear from you. Why do you always run away from me, sweetie?"

Your pussy throbbed at the low, rich tone of his voice, how it burned with information he held back. He let you squirm for long enough, waited so patiently, and your half-truths and scattered lies wouldn't be enough to save you this time. His free arm reached past you and rested on the counter, pinning you in place. You could escape if you tried, probably. But, did you want to?

No. No, you didn't want to escape at all. His proximity and warmth silenced the voice in the back of your head that screamed "do not fuck the actual fucking boss of Onychinus!" You'd thought about it. Oh great fucking gods had you thought about it. Since you met him, really. Those thoughts you had about him, from tantalizing to downright fucking filthy filled your mind, and warmth pooled in your lower stomach.

"I get...needy after battles," you quickly said. "Really any time something gets my adrenaline spiking. I need to work it out, somehow. Otherwise I can't calm down. I make a quick exit so I can blow off some steam."

"And these other men you mention, your hunter partner, your doctor, and your employer, they help you calm down?"

Oh fuck. He knew?

"I never said they were men..." you whispered.

"You didn't need to," he said, his voice soft. "Do you think I'd leave you unprotected as you left my territory? You keep interesting company, kitten."

Fuck.

You cleared your throat. "Yeah, well..."

Your cheeks flushed and you struggled to find the words. What could you say to that? Sylus sent Mephisto to your apartment a few times a week, relaying intel or inviting you out. Had he caught you in your apartment with Xavier? Seen you out with Rafayel, or stumbling into Zayne's place?

"I'm not judging you," he laughed. "Call it...curiosity. I know you desire me. I sense it. Feel it. When the Evol linkage put us in that hotel closet, I felt your emotions. Your fear, your desire. I thought you'd ask me to stay after that. But your hunter partner was waiting for you at the event, wasn't he?"

You swallowed around the thick lump in your throat. "What about it?"

Xavier was waiting for you at the event. He asked you five times why you were late, and you told him that your coat was in the closet, and it was stuck shut. You had to ask hotel maintenance to fix it. He didn't seem like he believed you, but Lois corroborated your lie and all was well. You spent the night in his room as you tried--and failed--to not think about Sylus. That was months ago, and now you were here.

"I told you, curiosity." Sylus' hand dropped from the counter and settled on your waist. His other hand tilted your head up, forcing your eyes to meet his. "How many times have I told you to use me? Why not ask me to help you with your problem, sweetie?"

You couldn't look away from his carnelian eyes. There was no malice there, no look of burning jealousy. He asked like he wanted to genuinely know, and fuck, if you hadn't asked yourself the same question.

"First, I didn't know if you wanted me to use you like that."

"That's cute. Here I thought I was being obvious."

Your cheeks burned, but you continued. "Second, or relationship is already complicated. Given our jobs, and the fact that you are literally the most wanted man by the Association, crossing that line didn't seem wise."

"Yes, because the Association will be very understanding with you if we're found out. As long as we haven't had sex, it'll all be fine, won't it?" Sylus grinned as he poked holes in your logic, and damn it, he was right. Of course he was.

"Our relationship is still complicated" you said, continuing on. "Our connection, how our Evols keep linking up, how I go between finding you charming and thinking you're the biggest pain in my ass. That makes this complicated, too."

"Is it? I thought that added a bit of fun." His eyes flickered from yours, to your lips, then back up again. Mirth danced in his eyes, like he loved watching you squirm like this. He probably did. You didn't hate it either. Something about finally confessing this under his heated gaze sent your core to burning temperatures.

"Third, I already have people who can help me out. One of them is almost always available, and I already set expectations with them. Having sex with you would make me feel, I don't know, greedy, I guess?"

"Have I ever judged you for being greedy, or told you that you should want less?" Sylus' tone suddenly went serious, stern.

"No," you said. "But other people have."

"Other people don't matter, and if the people who do matter to you judge, let me handle them." He dropped your face and took both your hands in his. "Our connection is one of souls. Your desires are mine, and mine often reflect yours. The only people who will judge you for being greedy are the ones who fear they won't have enough, which isn't your problem. It's theirs."

"I thought you'd be mad if we had casual sex and found out about the others," you said, your voice soft.

"The idea didn't thrill me at first. I sulked in my office for a few days, but I discovered the feeling wasn't anger. It was jealousy. Not jealousy that other people got to feel you, but jealousy that I hadn't." Sylus shook his head and brought his gaze down to your connected palms. "It's your body. It's your life. You'll never face any judgement from me, but we both know if we have sex, it's not going to be casual. Nothing about us is."

He was right. Nothing about you and Sylus could be defined as "casual". From the first moment you met him, something seethed under your skin in desire to consume him. To take him. To feel him. He saw you to your essence. He infuriated and intoxicated you. Nothing with him would ever be casual.

Not that you succeeded in being casual with Xavier, Zayne, or Rafayel, either. Zayne was the best at it, but even those lines blurred when you spent the night at his place and you brought him lunch on the days you had the time. Xavier's intensity only got more prominent, diving in front of wanderers or into danger to keep you from getting hurt. Sometimes he asked you to care for him when he was sick, and you did. Rafayel became needier. Clingier. Texting you both goodnight and good morning, telling you he missed you, often with suggestive photos attached. You tried to keep it casual, but maybe it was pointless all around.

"Our relationship is predestined," Sylus said, calling your attention back to his face. "Unless you command me to leave, I'm here. We're both busy, however, should you want me, you can have me. In any way you need."

Gods, who knew an adult conversation like this could turn you on instead of make you want to run for the fucking hills? He made it seem so simple. Easy. Like you could have this, have all of them, and it would be okay. You'd be lying to yourself if you said you didn't have feelings for the men closest to you. Some more complicated than others, but the feelings existed all the same.

You stepped between his legs and wrapped your arms around his neck. He returned the embrace with a sigh pressed into your hair. Tension melted out of your muscles and he held you. Warm, safe, and steady.

"I want you, Sylus," you murmured into his neck. "Even if it makes me greedy."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear so he could cup your face in his hands. "My love, I will show you what it means to be greedy."

His lips slotted over yours and suddenly you were lost. His lips were soft and decadent, and his kiss mirrored the hunger in yours. He stood, and your legs wrapped around his waist. Your hands tangled in his hair, and you lost yourself to the heat and presence of Sylus.

He pulled away only when he set you down. Bleary-eyed from the pleasure-soaked kiss, it took you a moment to realize you were in the bathroom. Sylus turned on the water in the massive shower, and hot water rained down from above.

"We're both bloody, and I didn't get to check you over for injuries. Trust me to take care of you, hmm?"

Your pussy pulsed in time with your racing heart. "Yes, sir."

His eyes darkened at your words, and he slowly unbuckled your gear. Careful fingers lifted your shirt up off your body, and his knuckles grazed over your ribs. You swallowed hard, but you didn't stop him, entranced by the way he handled you. Careful, but certain. Your top fluttered to the floor, but you didn't bother looking where. He made quick work of your bra, unclasping it with one hand. His gaze devoured your tits as they bounced free.

Now at the same level of undress that he was, you made quick work of his belt. Your eyes never left his face. It was impossible to look away from him and his reaction to you. Seeing a man as stern and serious as Sylus with an expression so needy it bordered on pain sent your stomach into flips. You unbuttoned his pants and shoved the material down. You brought your attention down his massive body, to the tent in his boxers.

Gods, you always imagined he'd have a massive cock, but even without getting up close? It seemed like he was even bigger than Zayne. Your knees trembled as you took a step closer and pulled the waistband down. His cock sprang free, rock hard and throbbing. You clenched around air. That might've been the biggest cock you'd ever seen in your life, and you wondered how you were going to take such a fucking monster.

Sylus took your momentary stunned expression in, and made quick work of your pants, pulling them down and off your hips. Your panties were soaked through, and he hummed as he ran a finger between your thighs. The soaked fabric clung to you, and you whimpered when his finger traced over your clit. He slipped them down over your thighs, then steadied you as you stepped out of your clothes.

He led you into the shower and the hot water washed over your body. Perfectly scalding, you hummed a contented noise as you settled under the spray. Sylus came in a moment behind you. "May I wash you off, love?"

"Yes please," you hummed.

He immediately got to work. He started off by washing your hair, his talented fingers gently working in the shampoo and scrubbing off the blood and grime from the fight. You melted in his hands, turned into mush by the way he touched you.

He worked the conditioner in with the same level of care as he shampooed your hair with, then he started the slow process of washing your body. His fingers worked the muscles in your shoulders, and your arms, and you hummed softly.

"Do I get to wash you after?" you asked, your voice teasing.

"If you'd like," he said. "I'm yours to play with, kitten."

You giggled and leaned into his touch. His hands went lower, over your breasts, and he took them in his grip. He squeezed them in his large palms and groaned at the weight of them. Your nipples hardened under the stimulation, and he rolled them in between his fingers. You moaned, and Sylus cursed.

"Fuck yes, love," he praised. "That sound is better than I imagined."

"Sylus!" you cried when he rolled your nipples between his fingers a second time.

"I told you, I'll show you what it means to be greedy." He pulled you back against him as he kneaded your tits in his large hands. "You should know by now I never say something I don't mean."

Goosebumps rose all across your body and you whined, high and desperate as he continued to play with your nipples. His cock throbbed at your back. He was so much taller than you, you wondered if you could even take his cock standing up without your feet leaving the ground. He continued washing you, moving on from your tits, down your sides, your stomach your thighs, until he was kneeling on the shower floor. There, he washed your calves and feet, scrubbing every inch of you clean.

In the same way you took baths with Rafayel after a night at his place, there was a sense of devotion in Sylus' actions. You were a fool to believe that any of the men in your life could be casual, not when everything they all did for you spoke of quiet devotion that bordered on reverence. Even now, Sylus did nothing but tend to you with pure tenderness and devotion in his beautiful red eyes.

Freshly clean, the body wash smelled something like cherries and the scent filled the room. Sylus pressed a kiss to your stomach, and then his hand went between your thighs. You were so wet he effortlessly slipped one finger inside you.

"Look at you, so wet for me," he said, his voice husky and deep. "You won't run away from me again, will you kitten?"

"No, sir," you panted. "I won't run from you again."

"Good girl," he cooed. "Let me take care of you."

You moaned as your hands slipped into his white hair, clutching tight as a second finger slipped inside you. His long fingers curled forward as his thumb rolled over your clit and your knees trembled. His free hand steadied you as he continued the slow, deep fucking of his fingers.

"You're so tight, sweetie. You won't be able to take my cock like this."

"I want to! I want your cock so fucking bad!"

He chuckled into your skin, the sound rich and warm. "I know you do. You just need to open up for me a little more. I don't want to hurt you."

He pushed you back toward the shower wall and lifted your legs over his shoulders. Black-red mist wrapped around your waist and pinned you against the wall. He settled between your thighs and smiled up at you, the glint in his eye similar to the he gave you when he nipped your palm after you held his chin. His fingers applied more pressure, and he hummed.

"I'm starving. Can I taste you?"

The way he looked at you, this massive, powerful man on his knees? That did you in. You'd give him anything he asked for in that moment. You understood his hunger. It mirrored in yours for him. Your fingers threaded through his hair and you pulled him closer to your weeping cunt. "Please."

Sylus groaned as he dove into your pretty pussy. His tongue lapped from your entrance to your clit, then back again. His scarlet eyes rolled in the back of his head. His lips found your clit and he sucked in perfect time with the pressure he applied to your sweet spot.

You clutched onto his hair for dear life as he ate you out like he truly was starving and you were his sustenance. Your walls fluttered around his fingers and he growled into your skin. The vibrations rolled through you, and the pleasure building low in your stomach went taut.

He pulled his lips away from your clit for only a moment. "Come for me, love. As many times as you want. Be. Greedy."

Sylus punctuated his words with deep thrusts of his fingers inside you, and your thighs trembled. His lips suctioned back around your clit, and you were lost. You came with a sharp cry of his name on your lips, your back bowing off the wall. His evol held you steady, keeping you in place as he continued devouring you.

Slick with release, he slipped a third thick finger inside you and your vision went white. Blinding. Too bright with pleasure and sensation as he stretched you out.

"Good girl. You're taking my fingers so well," he praised. "Just a little more, kitten."

"Sylus!" you whined, grinding your hips into the thrusts of his fingers. The stretch burned. His fingers were enormous, like the rest of him. You'd taken plenty of thick cock in recent months, but this? This bordered on too much.

"You can take it. I know you can," he said. "Breathe, sweetie. I've got you."

You made some sort of whine of protest, words too hard to formulate. How you could stretch more than this, how you could take more than what he already gave you, you had no idea. You already felt split open, and you hadn't taken his cock. Yet.

His mouth went back to work, slowly bringing you to another peak. While hungry, he didn't rush you. He savored you. Sucked your clit and drank you in like you were the finest wine he'd ever tasted, the most delicious meal he'd ever had. He devoured you with patience, letting you ride the waves of pleasure closer and closer to your second release.

Hot water rained down from above, and your eyes fell closed as you lost yourself to the slow build of pleasure he pulled from you. Each curl of his fingers and suck on your clit pulled more wetness from you, which made the stretch more manageable.

You gushed around his fingers as you came a second time, and Sylus growled. The sound low and rich as he drank you in again, working you through your release with the steady thrusts of his fingers. When you came down, he slowly pulled out of you and brought his fingers to his mouth. He licked each one clean, and your come-drunk mind could only manage to moan.

"You taste divine. I'd stay here on my knees all night if you'd let me." Sylus planted a kiss on either thigh and steadied you on your feet as his evol slowly released you. You clutched onto him until your wobbly legs stabilized. His cock throbbed against your stomach and your head spun when you took in the sheer size of him again.

"I might let you one of these days," you said. "Right now, I need a break. Get down here."

He handed you the shampoo and leaned down, waiting for you to wash him as you requested. With a soft, lust-drunk giggle, you began the same slow process he started on you. He purred like a cat when you washed his hair, and when your hands traced down his taut muscles. His breathing went shallow when you sank to your knees to continue washing his body. His cock was right at face level, and he hissed when your soapy hands gripped his hard, hot length. You tested the weight of him in your palms and shuddered. Sylus ran warmer than most, and his cock was almost scalding as you stroked him. The harder he got, the hotter his cock became.

"Sweetie," Sylus rasped. "Unless you want me to come all over your pretty face, I suggest stopping."

You pouted slightly, but you stopped your strokes on his massive shaft. He helped you stand, and you both rinsed off the soap that still clung to your skin. He turned off the water and wrapped you up in a towel, then himself. He took his time drying your hair, before he turned his attention to himself. The moment he deemed you both dry enough, he lifted you into his arms and carried you into the bedroom.

Your lips met in a heated kiss as your back hit the silken sheets. His massive body pressed against yours, the heat of his skin near scalding. His mouth trailed down your jaw, to your neck, and you whimpered when he sucked on the sensitive skin. Your legs wrapped around his waist, keeping him close as you rolled your hips up to meet his.

"Sylus, please. I need you inside me. Now. Please," you whined.

"Are you certain you're ready for my cock, kitten?" Sylus leaned back just enough to reach between your bodies. He slipped his massive length between your lower lips and slapped the thick head against your clit.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your back arched off the bed. "Yes! I'm ready, give it to me, please!"

He kissed you once. "If that's what you desire, I'll give you everything."

Sylus notched the head of his cock at your entrance, then slid in slowly. You both hissed at the massive stretch. Despite how wet you were and the aid of his fingers, the stretch still burned slightly, but you welcomed it, welcomed him, as he slowly sank inside you. Inch by glorious inch, he stretched you out. Slow and steady. You clutched his arms to ground yourself, and breathed with him as you encouraged your body to relax around his massive size.

He was so hot, his cock almost burned as he stretched you out. The heat eased the stretch some, but you already burned with desire. Feeling his, hot and throbbing as he stretched you out melted your mind from the inside out.

It took several minutes of slow, steady pressure but finally, you took his cock in to the base. Every inch of him was buried inside you. You were beyond full, stuffed was more accurate. It felt like he was in your lungs. There was no room for anything but him. No thoughts, no worries, only the pleasure and sensations he gave you. You moaned his name, high and breathless as he held himself there.

"Can I move?" he asked, his voice tight with restraint.

"Please."

That was all it took. His hips rocked back, and the drag of his cock along your walls made you cry out his name. He groaned above you as his hips rolled forward, stretching you out all over again. Working you open wider with every powerful thrust of his hips. Your nails dug into his forearms, clutching to him to ground yourself so the pleasure wouldn't make you float away entirely.

"Look how well you take me, sweetie. What a good girl you are, taking every inch of my cock," he praised, his voice like velvet in your ears.

"You feel so good, Sy!" You whimpered after a particularly hard thrust, his cock hitting against your cervix with enough pressure that your lungs seized. "Fuck, you're so deep. Feels so good!"

Sylus cursed under his breath as he picked up the speed. He sat back on his knees and wrapped his hands around your waist. He was so massive that his long fingers nearly met across your middle. Your shoulders rested flat on the mattress below as he lifted your hips. The new angle allowed the head of his cock to hit your sweet spot every time he thrust in.

He held you in place while he pounded into your depths. Each thrust shook through your body, the clap of skin on skin loud in the room. Your high-pitched cries, needy and broken melded with his low, panted groans. You clenched around him as your peak came ever-closer.

"Where do you want my come, kitten?" Sylus asked. "I feel your desire, but I want to hear you say it. Tell me what you want."

You'd been tested, and your birth control held up so far. Sylus wanted you to be greedy, told you to take what you wanted. Right now, all you wanted was the feel of his come deep inside you.

"Inside me, please. Please come inside me, Sylus!"

"Good girl, telling me exactly what you want." Sylus thrust in deep, punctuating his next words with firm rolls of his hips. "I'll. Give. You. Everything. You. Ask. For."

His pace picked up again, his massive cock punching the air out of your lungs with every stroke. One hand left your waist to settle over your hip, and his thumb rubbed circles over your clit. Tension coiled low in your stomach, and your whines pitched higher. He thrust in deep, and your back bowed off the bed as white-hot pleasure seared through your body.

"Sylus!" you screamed as you came all over his cock.

Sylus' large hand found yours and he threaded your fingers together. He came a moment behind you, squeezing your hand as he pumped his come inside you. "All this come is yours, kitten. Take every. Last. Drop."

You clutched him with your thighs, keeping his cock buried deep. Hot, thick come filled you, and every throb of his cock shook through your stretched pussy. He lifted you into his arms, letting you settle over his lap, and he kissed you. You returned the lazy, satisfied kiss, getting lost in the heat of his touch and taste of his lips.

He pulled away just far enough to let you catch your breath. He stroked your cheek and rested his forehead against yours. "Are you too sensitive to take anymore, or can come for me one more time?"

You giggled softly. Your body buzzed, and your brain was fucked-out. Hazy with lust and lingering pleasure. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, then moved lower down his neck. "I can take one more, if you can give me one."

"If I had my way, I would keep you coming for me long past sunrise."

"Let's see if you can tire me out before the sun comes up."

"I'll rise to the challenge." Sylus bounced you up and down his rapidly-hardening cock, and all you could do was clutch onto him. "I'll show you just how greedy I can be, especially when it comes to you."

A/N: I didn't expect this part to go this way, but honestly? I love this. Sylus, the man you are. 😌 Our dragon is tied for #1 with Rafayel for me, so obviously I love him & had so much fun with this part! I want to do one of these with each LI before we start getting into overlap territory, and if we get there or not really depends on how much y'all want that. So, lmk! Either way, the next part of this series is going to be all about our favorite Pilot. Caleb is the LI I'm least familiar with, but my sister is a Certified Caleb Girlie so she helped me with his part. I'm so excited for you to read it next!

Masterlist | Next Part

[theinheriteddutchess]

Like Fate

Summary: Steve seemed perfect. Until he didn't. And now you're not sure if you'll ever be safe because he does not accept your breakup.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

Word count: 2.002

Warnings: stalking, non-con vibes, ex-boyfriend Steve, possessive Steve, mob!Steve, threats, controlling ex.

Notes: I forgot I had this done for a bit, sorry, just been busy on other Stories, but right I thought, why not? Make room, vol that masterlist. So here it is, enjoy.

Masterlist

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The lights were so bright it was disorientating, blinding you at times, making it difficult to see your surroundings clearly. But you could have sworn you saw him.

When you looked a second later, he wasn’t there.

You tried to calm your racing heart. No need to panic. It was your paranoia. You were out of town, visiting your friend. He didn’t know where you were. That was the whole point. To be away from that smothering tension that his presence left in you. You ex-boyfriend.

Steve Rogers. The picture of perfection. Boy scout good manners, eager to help. That’s how you two met. You, stranded on the side of the road when your car suddenly gave up, and him, stepping up to help you out.

He had asked you out before you parted ways and you had accepted immediately. He had been so kind, and you weren’t too ashamed to admit that his good looks and dazzling smile didn’t make your heart flutter.

He seriously gave you the best sex you ever had. It’s like he knew your body better than you did! There were times you lay limp on the bed, not knowing how to ever get back to normal again.

He was perfect. Well, he had seemed so anyway.

You knew he had been thinking of proposing. His best friend let something slip and winked when you stuttered nonsensical words in your total surprise. It might’ve been fast, you didn’t even know each other a year, but you already knew you’d say yes.

And then you had accidently been at the wrong place at the wrong time. And you had watched as Steve shot a person.

He had looked nothing like the friendly man you’d come to know. But that this wasn’t the first time he had killed, that was sure. And the way he had spoken, about the man messing up a delivery, it didn’t take a fool to know he was in some shady business.

Shaken, you had packed your stuff - thanking whatever entity was out there for looking out for you and you having been undetected so far - and decided to leave everything you  couldn’t carry. No word, no note. Just ran as fast as you could.

He called after an hour. Then rapidly several times when you didn’t pick up. He drove to your apartment, but you refused to open. He got agitated then, but obeyed your wishes to be left alone. For a few days. Then he demanded to talk. When you told him you wanted nothing to do with him, that you knew he was a murderer, he let out a chuckle.

“Oh honey, I’m much more than that.”

It had chilled you, afraid he was going to kill you right then and there, cursing yourself for being so dumb to tell him you knew, but he hadn’t come near, he didn’t force his way into your home. He had told you to think about it for a few days, and that you would come back, he was sure.

He seemed to be under the impression you would take him back. And you spend a few days and nights terrified he was going to show up again and force his way into your apartment to either murder you or abduct you. None of these things happened, but you felt watched. Sometimes you saw his face in the crowd. Or your car was suddenly filled up. Your sister received an expensive gift for your niece under your name. You never shopped in that store, you couldn’t afford it. 

Weird things like that kept happening. A filled fridge. Money into your bank account, your male friends rapidly refusing to hang out with you anymore. It was his doing, you knew it. You had no real proof. And what could you say? My ex is trying to take care of me? I just don’t want him to? He murdered someone? You had no proof and you were sure the body had disappeared long before. 

You couldn't sleep, and you couldn’t focus, and your neck hurt from twisting it so much while walking outside, to see if you spotted him. Sometimes he was nowhere in sight, but you did not let your guard down. You refused to go to your favourite coffee shop, because they told you everything was paid for, indefinitely.

You thought for a moment if it was easier to give in. But you couldn’t condone his lifestyle. You could not deal with seeing anymore murders. And Steve had proven he had a possessive streak. How did you not notice it before? Were you so blinded by infatuation?

So when your friend had offered you to come over for a few days, to get pampered while dealing with a break up - and that’s what you told everyone, not anything more -  you took it.

It was supposed to be a few days away from it all, to be able to let go and figure out what to do from there. Move? He would know before you made one step. The only thing you could think of was to disappear, but that meant leaving your family and friends behind, and you did not think it past Steve to use them against you. You wouldn't expect any decency from him after what you witnessed him to be capable of.

It was your first night here in this place, and yet you thought you spotted him. It couldn’t be possible. You had told no one. You grabbed a bag and just left. If anyone wanted to contact you, they had your number. It was the safest way you could think of.

But as you looked around frantically, he was nowhere in sight. A figment of your frightful illusions. You took a deep breath, told your friend you’d be right back. Off to the bar, ready to drink and forget your problems, even if only for a few hours.

As you waited to be helped you felt someone press against you from the side. Maybe a drunk clubber, maybe an interested guy, maybe both. You weren’t looking for any attention though, so you peeked up to check what situation you might be in and froze.

A sparkling smile shone down upon you. He was wearing a deep blue shirt, hair styled to perfection. As usual, it always looked like he had a personal hairstylist with some kind of secret serum to make it lay on his head that way. His sleeves rolled up to show his impressive muscles - and you weren’t the only one who ogled them -, eyelashes casting a mysterious shadow on his cheeks with how long they were.

God, he looked perfect. And you were a dumb hoe to fall for it!

“Hey baby, having fun?”

“How?” You only managed to stutter, your eyes not leaving his frame even once.

“How did I find you? Baby come on, I always know where you are and what you are doing. I’m a little hurt you’ve tried to flee from me, but I get it, you’re scared. You saw something I never wanted you to see and now you’ve got it in your head I'm not the man you fell for. But you don’t need to be so frightened around me. I don’t hurt the people I care about.”

LIke it was going to make you feel relieved to hear it. “Just everyone else.”

He shrugged, looking unapologetic. “When they get in my way. Or steal from me. I really hate liars.”

He brushed some sweaty hairs from your forehead. Almost lovingly. “But you are different. I knew it when I first saw you. Special. I knew I couldn't let you slip through my fingers. And we were perfect weren’t we?”

“It was all a lie,” You told him, trying to whisper but the loud music made you raise your voice at the same time. “You were never that person.”

“Of course I am, I’m just also a little more.” He signed at the bartender to come over, and of course the man came over immediately even if you tried to catch his attention for minutes before. “She'll have a sea breeze cocktail. And give me a beer, okay?”

Then he turned to you again. “We’re going to have a drink and we’re going to talk things out, and after, once I answered all your questions, you’re going to tell your friend we’ve made up. Just a silly misunderstanding.”

“I will not!” You hissed. “There’s nothing you can say that will make me change my mind.”

His eyes narrowed, even if the smile never left his face. “If you’re worried about her getting bored without you, don’t worry. Bucky will be happy to keep her company. Look, it seems they're getting along already.”

You recognized him after a second. Bucky. His best friend. He was smiling down at your friend, and his hands were on her hips and she peaked coyly from under her lashes at him as she let her finger trail over the opened collar of his shirt.

He turned you and pointed into the direction where you had left your friend on the dancefloor. She wasn’t alone. A big dark haired man was dancing close to her. Your friend was looking at him with that expression she used when she tried to lure men in, before they realised they’d be limping from her bed the next morning.

You stepped forward, or were going to, fully intend to put a stop to this, to get her away from him safely, when you got pulled back, and into a firm chest. You felt him lower himself so he could talk into your ear.

“Don’t. He won’t hurt her. He actually might be a little interested in her. Maybe you should let them get to know each other. It will give us time to work things out, and as long as we are talking, he’s got no reason to get to work. So what is it? Does Bucky get to have his well deserved day off, or do I need to put him to work and give some orders?”

You felt bile come up watching them and hearing Steve's words. You didn’t want to do this, you didn’t want to be near Steve, he terrified you. But your friend was in danger, that was sure. Tears sprung in your eyes and you tried to prevent them from rolling down and alerting anyone. It would not end well.

And even if you managed to escape now, what about your friend? And what about after? Steve had already proven he wasn’t going to let you go, and now he knew where she lived. And you knew he could get to any one of your family or friends. The only reason he hadn’t was because he wanted you to play along. Maybe hoped you would come to be okay with who he was. 

You wouldn’t be. But as much as you were frightened by him and by everything that was still a mystery to you, you didn’t think you could put anyone else in trouble.

You sighed, feeling the breath shakily come out.  “I, I think we can talk.”

His smile brightened. “Good, I’m glad baby. You’ll see, we can work this out. You have nothing to worry about. All you have to do is just hear me out. I’m sure we can get back to how things were, right? Although….I'm sure you know about my plans, Bucky was a little eager to spill, wasn’t he? He’s always been a sap. Romantic at heart. And who knows, maybe next year he’s going to be the lucky man at the way those two are eyeing each other right now. Reminds me of us. Like fate.”

He dragged you to the VIP area. Secluded. Alone. Your heart beating quicker with every step you took further away from your friend, further away from backup, further away from the freedom of what your life had been.

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