#TW: Drugging

[snail-day]

Tw: Yandere Behaviors, Drugging, Implied Captivity, Suggestive, unedited, MDNI

I know I said no drabble today, but I gotta get this one little thought out of my noggin. Maybe I’m just tired, but I’m thinking: Yandere! Bruce Wayne is not above drugging you the first few times you stay over at his place.

Not maliciously, well, not in his head, anyway. No, in his head, it's just... precautionary.

Because once you start getting a little too curious for his liking - asking why his knuckles are always bruised, why he disappears in the middle of the night, why he keeps you at such a frustrating, arm’s-length distance - he panics. He lives a dangerous life. And he’s not quite sure how you’d handle knowing the truth. So instead, he plays it safe.

He slips a sedative into your water. Right after love-making, of course. Aftercare is always important to him especially when you’re with a monster like him.

Your skin’s still flushed, slick with sweat and thighs trembling from the amount of orgasms he dragged out of you. He’s so gentle in the aftermath. Obsessively so. Fingers combing through your hair, coaxing you into one of his shirts. His lips graze your shoulder, murmuring praise between each feather light kiss.

Then comes the glass of water.

He holds it to your lips with that same tenderness, thumb stroking along your jaw as he watches you drink. Condensation beads along the sides, catching the light, there’s a slight fizz at the bottom, a shimmer of something off, but you don’t notice. You’re too dazed or blissed out to care.

He offers you a ride home, one you agree to with a nod, lips parting for another sip, unaware that your legs are already growing heavy. That your body is already surrendering again, just not in the way you think.

You won’t make it to the front door. He knows that.

And when your eyes start to flutter, your head tilting against his chest, he just smiles, placing the glass on the nightstand.

He thinks it’s cute, the way you drool a little on his chest when it kicks in. When your words start slurring, and you try to apologize for being tired. When you mumble something about needing to get home, but you never really had that chance, not after he brought you here, silly.

And when he slips out of bed, hours later, to suit up and bleed for the city, he makes sure the dosage is just right. Strong enough that you won’t wake up and wander. Strong enough that when he slips back into bed before dawn, smelling like smoke and iron, you'll just blink up at him sleepily and think it was all a dream.

He curls beside you, lets you burrow into his side, and smiles when you sigh against his chest. You’re so sweet like this. So soft and safe.

And you have no idea what kind of man you’re really sleeping next to.

[buckets-and-trees]

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

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

Take My Hand

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

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

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

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

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

The taste in your mouth is wet coins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scratch that.

You are thirsty, but not uncomfortably so.

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

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

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

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

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

At least you won’t have chapped lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky Barnes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coolness spreads through your veins.

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

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

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

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

“Bucky,” you say, “let me out.”

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

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

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

"It’s already done," he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t.

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

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

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

He shrugs, as if that’s the point.

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

“Why?”

“No one was listening to anything else anymore.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Does Sam know it’s you?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there’s anger there now, too.

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

“You can’t stop me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brow furrows.

“He will disappoint you,” Bucky says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had been content with Sam.

You still were.

You look away, throat raw.

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

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

And he does.

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s only response: a shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We good now?” Sam asks.

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

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

But what would winning mean here? What would losing?

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

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

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

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

So it’s more than mere glass.

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

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

“Damn you, Bucky Barnes!”

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

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

Bucky then nods toward your glass enclosure.

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

“Stop, Buck!” Sam cuts him off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you were right.”

“I wasn’t going to say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have to make a choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[merakiui]

Tying fully clothed azul down and placing a dildo on his crotch and riding that instead of him. You get to watch as he goes feral trying to break out of his bonds. That should be him! Not some piece of silicon!

👁️ 👁️ omg…….. tying him up, legs spread, wrists bound above his head. Sticking the dildo right between his thighs and bouncing on it while you watch his pathetic dick strain against his slacks, neglected and soaking through his underwear with so much pre-cum. >:) ooooo even worse if it’s something like a tentacle dildo,,, watching you fall apart on a subpar piece of silicone is an insult!!!!! He could do so much better and give you much better than that! It doesn’t help when you’re putting on such a show, too. Moaning his name in that breathy voice and begging for it deeper, for more, and he can’t even touch you!!!!! T^T

He’s so feral trying to break the restraints that maybe it has him reverting back to mer form a bit……….. his pupils are horizontal and you can see how much sharper his canines get. Azul is strong enough to break out, so eventually after enough struggling those restraints will give and you’ll be in for quite the revenge. Then it’ll be his turn to toy with you,,, if he can even think about doing so when he’s so desperate to be inside you. ^^;;;; maybe he just tosses aside the idea of immediate revenge (for now) and just drags you onto his cock. He’ll prove to you right here and now that he’s better than that useless dildo, holding you down against the mattress and fucking all the breath right out of you.

Or maybe he can’t break free. Maybe you’ve drugged him a bit so he’s sloppy with his movements and considerably weaker. All he can do is beg and cry and try to bargain with you for his release. Real tears and everything. He’s such a spoiled tako,,, so frustrated he can’t be the one giving you the best loving of your life that he coughs up some ink even……. 🫣 gritting his teeth,,, on the verge of throwing a fit like a baby!!! No more composed, cordial Azul. You get to see the clumsy, messy sides of Azul when he’s brought so low. <3

[neowonderland]

Bully! Haechan + Breeding

Pairing: Bully Haechan x reader Warnings: 18+, smut, noncon, drugging, babytrapping, breeding Wc: 0.9k

Dark Content, Minor please DNI

Disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. I do not condone the actions of any characters in this story and the actions do not reflect the idols in any way.

Haechan swears he hates you.

He swears he hates everything about you, from your full cheeks to your lips that you bite in concentration, to your soft voice, to the way you’re such a pushover for others, to the way you stumble over your words when you get nervous. 

Haechan makes it apparent he hates you too, from the way he complains about you to anyone near him to the way he insults you. Haechan complains that you’re too much of a pushover, you’re too weak, you’re too annoying, you’re too pudgy, you’re too ugly. Of course Haechan makes it known that he thinks that way to your face too, always stating that your existence is an inconvenience to him, something that can’t be solved unless you were to fully disappear from this world because even if you transferred universities you’d still exist and inconvenience him.

 You don’t remember much, remembering being dragged to a party by a couple of friends, spotting Haechan with his friend. You’re not sure which one of his friends had been flirting with you and handed you a drink that you had drunk. Maybe that’s when you had started feeling strange, head beginning to get dizzy, body burning up, memory blanking. 

You can’t really remember how you ended up in Haechan’s bed, memories and head spinning as you lie and stare at the ceiling trying to ignore Haechan on top of you.

Haechan feels cold, his ice cold hands running across the expanse of your stomach and body, squeezing and groping at your flesh. It would feel nice against your flushed skin if it wasn’t Haechan. But, your heavy limbs and fuzzy head made it hard to fight back against his touches, leaving you pliant in Haechan’s hands. 

“You’re such a slut, going to that party and flirting with Jaemin. Do you not get fucked enough? Is that why you went for my friend?” Haechan says mockingly.

You try to shake your head to no avail, leaving you to only stare at him. 

Haechan lets out a laugh, hand gripping your cheeks and forcing you to nod, “That’s the correct answer. You’re lucky I’m great at doing charity. You know how many people would kill to be in your position?”

Haechan moves to run his tongue against your nipples, tongue laving over your sensitive skin before harshly sucking. Haechan works to mark the skin of your chest with red splotches and marks, teeth sinking into your skin alongside his sucking. He only stops to pull his shirt over his head, hands work quickly to take off his clothing and throw them to a corner of the room. 

It’s not until Haechan’s marks run up your neck that Haechan stops, sitting back and proudly admiring his work. His hands reach for his phone halfway before freezing and withdrawing. You can hear him mumble “not this time.” 

Haechan’s hands grip your legs, uncaring of the yelp you let out when he folds you in half. He presses against the back of your thighs with his arm while he lines himself up with your entrance. Haechan teases your entrance and your clit, covering his head with your slick. Alarm bells ring in your head and you try to tell him to stop, to use protection, to do anything but this but everything comes out unintelligible, garbled and slurred. 

The stretch is painful without proper prep and it feels like you’re being divided into two when Haechan enters you. You’re in hell, helpless, burning up and in pain while it looks as if Haechan is in heaven. His eyes flutter shut while he lets out a loud moan. Haechan’s head dips down as he forces his eyes open to drink in your pained facial expression. 

“If I knew your pussy would be so tight, I would’ve fucked you sooner.” Haechan says through gritted teeth as he begins to thrust into you shallowly. You can feel the drag of him in your walls and your body producing more slick, easing his thrusts. Whatever you had drunk seemed to be wearing off, allowing your fingers to dig into your palm to ground yourself. 

“Look how wet you are, so ready for me. I knew you were a slut, getting off on me.” Haechan says as he increases his pace. You can feel him putting his weight on you, crushing you between him and the bed. You can feel the head of his length bashing against your cervix, his drooling tip crushing it in every thrust. 

“Fuck I’m going to cum, going to breed you, going to knock you up. You’re going to be full of my cum and my kid. You’re going to look so much better round with my kid. You’ll be all mine. Everyone will know you’re mine. You won’t even think of leaving me.” Haechan babbles, shifting his weight completely on you.

It’s not until tears begin dripping down your face that Haechan cums with a shiver and whine, filling you up. Haechan moves your legs out of the way, collapsing onto you and burying his head into your neck. 

It’s not until he rises and flips you on your stomach that you realize he wasn’t just babbling, that you’re in for a long night.

[justadeadreaper]

okay so I'm curious- puptrapping you say? That you'd need another post to go into? I'd like to encourage this please

Puptrapping?

You want to hear about puptrapping, you say?

Anon, your wish is my command.

Just so you know, this is like you encouraging a crack addict by finding them a new dealer. I am not joking because this is my obsession at this point, but I do encourage you to send in more asks about Omega!Makarov or ideas you want me to write about because I will. I never originally thought of puptrapping; instead, it was my dear friend @frogchiro who said that she thought he would based on a comment I made about him tying you down to make sure you cum in him. Also, do thank @frogchiro because she helped me form these ideas in our late-night rants, and she is my biggest encourager.

Now that I have written this, I am tempted to write about Omega!Makarov with pups or a fic based on this idea if anyone wants it.

Obvious warnings for puptrapping (omegaverse version of babytrapping) and all the shit that goes with it, Omega!Makarov spiking your drink with an omegaverse version of Viagra (that sounds so fucking weird), but also a big misunderstanding between Omega!Makarov and reader.

This whole idea is based on it being a misunderstanding. Omega!Makarov is a feared man; no one even knows he is an omega; you were only allowed that grace of knowledge due to being his alpha -specifically chosen for being the most desired for your size and strength-. Knowing how secretive he was about his second gender, you presumed that he would never want pups as it would reveal his identity to the world, and he could not have that, could he? Hell, you did not even think he loved you; he only used you to satisfy his natural instincts that come with being an omega so that he would not be on a constant edge from having his subconscious desires not be fulfilled. You enforced the rule around using some form of protection as you did not want to force or pressure him into having pups that he would never want in a million years.

But oh, you poor, dumb alpha. How wrong could you be?

Omega!Makarov is infatuated with you. As soon as he saw you, he knew that you had to be his; no one else would be able to satisfy him after he saw you. Yes, he may be a cruel, heartless man but he loves you in his own special way and let me tell you he loves you with all his heart! He genuinely does! Now, being that he loves you so much, it is only natural that he wants your pups; it is only made worse by him being an omega and having the natural instincts to breed and have pups that poor omegas like him have. He knew he wanted pups from a young age, even if he knew that he did not love like a normal person does. Another part of him wanting to have pups is his own relationship with his father. A narcissistic, bullheaded alpha that abused Makarov and his poor brother for being omegas, Makarov had to watch as his poor mother was abused for not giving that asshole the alpha sons he desperately wanted. His father was never nice to him; he was a horrid father who chickened out at the last minute instead of suffering the consequences of his actions. Makarov does not want to be like that; he instead wants to be the best father he can be and have as many pups as he can to shove it to the old man who damaged him so much, to embrace the one thing his father abused him for and always forced him to hide.

So, for you to say that you need to use birth control? That is the biggest insult to him! Do you not love him? Do you not think he is a good enough omega to have your pups? Are you just using him to get yourself off? Are you planning on just dropping him off one day? Why do you not feel like him? He wants your pups so badly, why do you not want to give them to him?

He damn near hissed at you for suggesting such a thing, but he decided to hold his tongue as he knows he will get his way, he always has.

Now it just. depends on what type of birth control you force him to use for what he does to still be able to have your pups.

Condoms? Expect every single one to have multiple puncture holes from the set of pins that used to belong to his mother. Small enough for you not to notice but just big enough to allow enough cum to come through to give him a nice litter of pups. But that is only if you are stupid enough to allow him to be the only one to supply the condoms or allow him to be around the box by himself for longer than two minutes. If you buy them and never let him near them, you can be sure that those things will rip because, for some reason, your knot was a lot bigger than it normally is causing the condom to rip.

Birth control? He is lying about being on it. The prescription he showed you was a fake he forced a poor pharmacist to make as the pills inside that he showed you were nothing more than sugar pills mixed with the omegaverse version of Viagra known as an Amplifa that helps people knot while also increasing their fertility that he forced the drug dealers he hires to make. Each day, he will take them in front of you, knowing that they do not work. But if you are the one to supply the pills, then he is finding any pill or herb known to man to counteract it so that the birth control fails.

The Amplifa he uses to spike your drink and his own have a few side effects. I imagine omegas to have a reverse knot to match an alpha’s knot, which means they are doubly bonded. How it works is by inflating the sides of the passage like how, for an alpha, the base inflates to lock inside; it is to make sure that the alpha is being milked of all their cum and that the omega is too tight for the alpha to pull out. Since both he and you have been spiked with it, it causes your knot to inflate beyond the point of it being pulled out while he is too tight that it hurts to try and pull out. It also makes the knots last for hours upon hours instead of the normal half an hour to an hour, as it makes you cum so much. Not to mention it makes you incredibly more horny so you could fuck for longer.

With everything prepared, he has sex with you.

Once you are close to cumming he leg locks you making sure you can not push him off as you cum. Your knot inflating inside him as he milks you dry, all while he is still moving his hips in a specific motion to cause more friction that stimulates you and makes you hard yet again. Wiggling his hips and whining as you have yet another orgasm while the two of you are stuck together as his reverse knot will just not let go. Watching as his tummy begins to form a bump already as it grows from how much cum you have stuffed inside of it with every orgasm. He puts on the “I’m innocent, I swear!” act; he uses all the manipulation tactics he knows, the fake tears, the lies, the everything. He is just a simple omega who was trying to enjoy sex with his alpha; he has no idea what is going on. Whining over how worried he is since with this much cum he is most definitely already pregnant, even if you were being safe. All of this while he continues to move his hips as you cum once more.

And as soon as you are asleep from exhaustion and overstimulation he is gently caressing his stomach as he purrs. He can already imagine the litter of pups he will be having in a few months and how much of a happy family you all will be...

[ghostgirl-22]

you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to but..

patrick spiking arts drink with like viagra or an aphrodisiac and then “helping him out” because he’s such a good friend <3

Oh but I want to!! <3

This is post Artrick and Patashi break up and Patrick and Art end up in Vegas at the same bachelor party for a high school friend. Maybe Art has it coming? Maybe Patrick is like the best friend he’s ever had <3

Heed all warnings cause Patrick is totally remorseless and unlike everyone who does something bad in those old black and white movies I’ve been watching lately, he absolutely gets away with it. Sorry not sorry!

CW: intoxication, secret drugging, cnc, dub con (in the sense that Art doesn’t have all the information, but he wants it, he told me). This is pretty much what it says in the ask. Obviously don’t read if this makes you uncomfortable. Not proofread.

—-

It’s bad and wrong, and wrong, and so fucking wrong.

Patrick might tell the truth later. Might let Art get back at him because even for him this is kinda fucked up. But to be fair, he only did it because he was horny. And maybe he wanted a little revenge.

It all started at the bachelor party. It’s the first time they’d seen each other since Tashi’s injury and everything. 

Both of them trying to put it all aside for their high school buddy Addison’s Vegas bachelor party. He’s hosting it with his husband to be…this older, rich tech company guy. Patrick thinks it’s a bit annoying. Even if he was gonna marry some dude he wouldn’t want the guy crashing his bachelor party— he should have his own and hang out with his own friends. but that’s beside the point. 

Patrick thought Art wouldn’t dare show up because Patrick was always closer with Addison. Art probably thought the same thing about him. And yet…surprise. 

Thankfully they barely have a minute alone together sober. Sober, Art is so cool. 

Cool. 

Cold. 

Icy, even. 

Totally Remorseless. They make small talk. He’s dating her now, the little shit. She’s coaching him. He’s playing Indian Wells in a few months. Patrick ponders hating Art. He doesn’t know if he’s quite there yet but it feels like he’s close. 

He still looks so pretty though. 

It’s a reunion of sorts. A lot of their old teammates came. Addison rented the penthouse suite in the Bellagio, private elevator, crazy views… fifteen guys… seven rooms, not that anyone plans to sleep.

Art and Patrick had been known to read each others minds in the past and it feels like that hasn’t changed. Apparently they’ve silently agreed that the last thing they want is people asking things like… “what the fuck happened? you two used to be so close.” Which is how they end up in this unspoken truce pretending like it’s all normal between them. All the way down to the expectation of them sharing a room. Which is fine because, again, no one is really planning on sleeping.

Everyone meets up in the afternoon and they start in the casino. Getting tipsy on watered down liquor while they all spend way too much money. All of them rich kids, or recovering rich kids. Patrick’s not using his parents money but he’s still reckless like he is, so certain he’s gonna make it all back on the craps table.  Art doesn’t gamble so Patrick decides to make him blow on his dice, as a joke the way girls do in movies. of course he wins it all back and quite a bit more on a real risky bet. It’s annoying in the way. He’s glad he won but it feels like it’s Art that can’t lose. Suddenly everyone at the table is asking him to bless their dice. Like he’s just so fucking lucky all the time. 

Patrick doesn’t push his own luck. Whatever the fuck is left of it.

The whole group cleans up and goes out to dinner in the evening. They catch up on their lives since school and tell silly, fun, embarrassing stories to Addison’s husband to be. Afterwords they go to a show. A magic show. Tipsy and cheering at the tricks like they’re back in 6th grade. It’s easy. It’s fun, actually. He barely has to be alone with Art.

By 11pm they’ve started bouncing around the strip from club to club. Bar to bar. Party to party. Mostly gay bars and drag shows which no one minds because honestly they all just love Addison so much. They’re getting properly drunk now. 

It’s then when Art begins getting attention on a level that even he’s not used to from all these really hot guys… that’s when everything gets messy. Drunk and flushed, Art has no idea how to receive any of it except to turn all his repressed homosexual energy back onto the safest target. Patrick.

“We’ll just pretend to be together, you know? So they stop…touching me.” He explains loudly in Patrick’s ear.

Patrick smiles, just about drunk enough to put up with this bullshit. “Okay…fine… whatever… fuck it.”

It doesn’t feel pretend though, especially when they end up soaking wet at this all night foam party just downstairs in their hotel. It’s way too late at night, so many guys jumping up and down all sweaty and hot. Boys kissing. Touching. Shirts unbuttoned, the music too loud, skin too soft. Art hanging all over him, so drunk they actually start grinding to the music. The bass competing with Patrick’s heartbeat for which can go faster.  Feelings so complicated Patrick might need 24 hours in the psych ward to sort it all out. 

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas right? 

Patrick needs a minute. He leaves Art alone, barely able to take anymore. He uses the excuse of needing the restroom. It’s not even a second before at least two guys are swooping in, competing to take his place, one of them their other teammate Lachlan who’s got a wife at home and a child on the way. 

God. 

Patrick needs another fucking drink. Addisons already at the bar and Patrick leans in next to him. 

“What’s that?” He asks Addison as he’s adding powder to his glass.

“It’s a magic pill,” Addison laughs.

”Magic?” Patrick hiccups. 

“Yeah like… like horny candy.” 

Patrick pouts, brows raised in confusion. maybe he’s a little too drunk for this game.

“Viagra. Sometimes i spike my boyfriend— my fiancés drink with it. See.” He holds up a little pill and crushes it under his glass on the bar

Patrick laughs. “Isn’t that kinda fucked up?”  

“Well…I mean… probably yes… but you know he’s older. So I feel like I’m doing this for his ego.” Addison explains.

“Hm,” Patrick ponders. “Have you ever tried it?”

“I’ve had a sip of his drink before when i didn’t want him to know i spiked it. We ended up going at it all fucking night.” Addison grins. “It’s not necessarily for guys our age…but there’s no harm in it as long as it doesn’t last more than four hours i guess. which is easy if you just fuck. Here. You can take one with your… boyfriend? girlfriend?”

the way Patrick feels right now, his dick is so hard he can’t even fathom the point of viagra but he lets Addison drop the pill in his hand anyway. who knows? He’ll be 24 in six months. A proper grown up. maybe his dick will be the next part of his body that will lose the will to live.

“Are you still bisexual Pat?” Addison leans in stroking Patrick’s bare chest. “Cause we’re kinda open and wouldn’t mind trying it with you tonight, and you know… the more the merrier if you want blondie to join us.”

They both glance at Art, dancing all drunk and unabashed between both guys. their hands all over his lithe figure while the speaker blares Bad Romance by Lady Gaga.  

Patrick rolls his eyes and looks back at Addison. “He may be a fucking tease but we both know he would never. But I think I need more to drink before I get back to you.”

“Well…You know where to find us… preferably before this kicks in!” Addison raises his glass. 

Patrick waves to the bartender, fingering the pill in his other hand. Then it sort of hits him like a ton of bricks. This nasty idea. More than a little fucked up. He almost wants to touch himself just thinking about it. 

He orders two drinks. Rum and coke. Nothing crazy different than what they’ve been drinking all night. Crushes the pill into dust under the cold glass and swirls his finger with the powder into the glass he wants to give to Art..

Oh he feels a little gross. Most people around him too drunk… the bartender too busy to notice what he’s doing. 

Art doesn’t think twice; he trusts Patrick so much. What a wonder to betray someone and still think you can trust them so completely. like none of it matters. Art let’s Patrick “save” him from the other boys touching him.

“I swear i feel like Lach was turned on,” he hiccups, swallowing the drink down. “Like I could feel his… you know what.” He continues in Patrick’s ear. 

”Really? Could you?” Patrick asks, dryly. Stupid. He still acts so… innocent oblivious. Patrick just wants to fuck shake him. He’s beyond hating Art. He doesn’t hate him. Could never hate him. He does hate that after all this fucking time he’s still not over him. 

It doesn’t take long for Art to feel it. He’s back to clinging to Patrick. All over him as a way to keep the other boys away. Patrick starts to notice him adjusting himself, getting breathy, getting anxious. Gripping a little too tightly.   

“Uh I need um…um…  is it too hot in here?” He says in Patrick’s ear. “I need water.” 

“What?” Patrick asks like he didn’t hear him. Keeps his body pressed close, hot breath in Patrick’s ear.

“The room… I think I need to go back to the room.” 

Patrick shrugs. They tell a couple of the guys they’re leaving. And of course get teased for being lightweights at 4 in the morning. Only in Vegas. 

Art has his eyes closed, knees knocked together, too drunk, so aroused. He’s resting the side of his head against the wall of the private elevator as they make their way up to penthouse.

”Sleepy?” Patrick asks, standing in his space. 

Art’s all glassy eyed, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide when he gazes at Patrick. “Um… yeah… yeah.” He stammers.  

Patrick smirks, tangles his fingers into Arts damp hair. He hums, eyes closed immediately, lips parted. And then the elevator dings and Patrick lets go. Arts eyes open and he stumbles out behind Patrick. 

In the room Art’s trying to hide it from Patrick. Trying to keep himself together. He drinks a lot of water from the mini fridge. Tries to go in the bathroom but Patirck gets there first. Not to pee or anything, he’s too fucking hard for that. Probably just to keep Art from jerking himself silly over the toilet. 

Patrick strips down to his boxers for sleep. Brushes his teeth in the mirror. The whole time he’s tenting, so ridiculously aroused, thinking of Art squirming, Viagra unknowingly coursing through his system. 

Patrick decides he’s probably not a good person but right now he doesn’t fucking care. 

He reaches inside his boxers to adjust himself before returning to the bedroom, but he has to touch himself just a little first. A few gentle jerks over the length of his dick and he’s catching his breath. He tucks himself up, snug against the waistband of his boxers and takes a few deep breaths. 

When he walks back in the bedroom, Art is sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand down his pants, tugging himself, little soft moans escaping his lips. He panics when he sees Patrick and tries to save face but it’s kinda too late. 

“Uh sorry… uh… it’s not—” 

“You like boys Art?” Patrick teases.

“No… I just… I think I’m overstimulated.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah I… I… it was a lot of touching. I was…” he takes a deep breath. “I mean I know I was a little bit um… turned on when they were…when the three of us were…when I could feel…” 

“When they had you sandwiched between them?”

”Fuck.” He whispers. “yeah a little…i guess more than I thought.” He admits. 

Patrick sits next to him on the bed. “Yeah me too.” He pads his palm over the outline of his own cock. 

Art staring, fingers gripping the sheets as he whispers a barely audible, “Jesus.”  

“We could… maybe… help each other out,” Patrick suggests.

Art looks up at his face, eyes narrowed.

”I mean nothing would change. It’d just be a one time favor between… old friends.”

Art looks down again, knee bouncing. Desperate enough to say: “Okay um…you mean like jerk off together? Like in high school?”

“Or…” Patrick gets on his knees on the floor in front him. 

“Patrick I—I’m not gonna do—“ he stammers. 

“I’m not asking you to… do you want me to do it to you or not?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath and then he nods.

Patrick moves between his thighs and tugs his zipper down further, eases his boxers down and hears Art let out a gentle gasp as his cock is released. Oh it’s painfully full. Poor thing he’s practically humping into Patrick’s mouth the moment he gets contact. 

“Mm, fuck,” Art sighs relieved to get the sensation. Patrick almost wants to touch himself. Can feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears while licking all along the base. Taking his time, swirling his tongue around the tip. He looks up at Art as he does it. He’s got his eyes closed, one hand holding himself upright on the bed and two fingers of his other hand shoved deep into his mouth as he moans around them. 

Oh. Right. Fucking oral fixation. Patrick’s drunk brain vaguely supplies. 

He’s distracted for a minute while kissing along the tip, licking, teasing, sucking and watching Art slide his fingers into and out of his mouth. Gorgeous little thing. 

Patrick severely underestimates how close he is.  And suddenly his face is getting painted with heated pearly liquid. “Oh.. ohfuckfuck’msorry… fuck.” Art groans around his fingers, hitching his hips involuntarily as more and more spurts out. 

Patrick opens his mouth and catches some on his tongue, he can’t help laughing a bit at how fucking crazy all of this is. On the floor of the penthouse suite at the Bellagio and he’s on his knees for his ex best friend who’s all drugged out on harddick medicine, and probably just gave him his first ever facial.

Patrick wipes a lot of it off on his arm and thumbs some of the excess off his cheek and nose, licking it into his mouth. “Well fuck.” He breathes. “You got a lot of that in you.” 

“Oh god…I didn’t mean to…Jesus, Pat look….” Art whines. Somehow he’s still almost as hard as he was before. 

Patrick runs his fingertips gently over the length, still spasming lightly. “You really had fun tonight huh?” 

“Oh fuck… this never… this never h-happens.” He stammers.  

“Really? You don’t get this turned on for women?”

Art presses his lips together, like he doesn’t want to admit to anything. He sits on his hands. “I um…” 

“Why don’t we try this,” Patrick says. “Don’t freak out…”  He goes to his travel bag for lube. 

“What—“ Art begins when he sees it. 

“I said relax,” Patrick says. 

Art leans back on his elbows as Patrick straddles him. “What are we doing?” 

“You already fucking jizzed in my face, just relax. You owe me this.” 

Art takes another shaky breath. Patrick covers his palm in lube and covers Art’s heavy, swollen cock. Art groans and shivers at the feel of it. So fucking sensitive. Patrick eases his own out and then takes them both in hand, lined up he starts jerking. Both of them moaning immediately, like a chorus, the sound filling up the room.

It’s sinful actually. The way it sounds. It’s probably something that would’ve made Art cry when he was 14 and so very afraid of drinking alcohol and swear words and sex before marriage. 

Now he’s moaning like a whore  around his fingertips, hips jerking up into Patrick’s fist, both of their cocks heated and swollen. Patrick is barely hanging on. He wonders if anyone else came home. If they can hear them fucking, neither of them holding back as Patrick moves faster and faster. 

Art falls apart seconds later, come coating Patrick’s palm, dripping between his fingers. and then Patrick’s following shortly after. Shooting spurts of come, aiming some at Art’s bare chest maybe as a little bit of payback. “Take them out of your mouth,” Patrick hisses. Art gazes up at him and slowly pulls his fingers out.   

Patrick pushes him all the way down on the bed and kisses him roughly. Art drawing his knees up, socked feet flat on the bed and arching into it. Tongues and spit everywhere. Patrick taking a minute to replace his lips on Art’s mouth with his come stained fingers. just to feel the eager way Art sucks them in, pulling hard with his tongue. If Art realizes he’s tasting himself, tasting Patrick, he isn’t complaining. 

Patrick pulls out, wet and sloppy and turns Art’s pretty face back into the kiss, deepening it till he’s moaning into Patrick’s mouth. Doing everything he can for more of the sensation. Grinding his hips up, his still heavy cock sliding along Patrick’s bottom. 

“Oh fuck,” Patrick groans because it’s still so hard. “You wanna fuck me?” 

“mm, my god,” is all Art can manage. 

“I won’t tell your girlfriend.” 

That draws him out of whatever messy trance he’s in and Art pulls away from Patrick, panting. “Oh god… why won’t it go away? ‘m is there something wrong with me?” He whines, suddenly teary eyed. 

“Like what?” Patrick asks, carefully. He doesn’t want to over do it.  

“I dunno… I dunno. I’m so… did i drink too much? I just… i just wanna… i feel so fucking horny…and I can’t calm down. I just… i wanna just… fuck. I’m… I’m so sorry, Patrick.”

Tired and drunk and overstimulated from all the sex he starts getting emotional. “I’m so sorry for everything. I think I love you. I think I’m fucking in love with you, Patrick. I think about you all the time when I’m fuck—”

”Okay shut the fuck up,” Patrick snaps gently, because the last thing he wants is to feel bad for him on a sentence like that. The last thing he wants is to spiral thinking about the two of them together getting everything they want without him. “You want my help?”

”Yes,” Art sniffles.   

“Here…” he hands Art the rest of the lube. “put this on and just… you can fuck me till you’re all fucked out. just imagine I’m a fucking fleshlight or something.” 

“Really?” He hiccups, and he looks so grateful like he’s gonna cry again. 

“Hey… come on, stop man. Just… I’m doing you a favor. Don’t fucking cry about it.” 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and wipes his nose on the back of his palm. “I’m sorry. you’re right. Thank you so much. I’m sorry.” 

Patrick rolls his eyes and settles onto the pillow. he’s going to hell probably. Art is so fucking drunk, thinks he’s just trying to come down from some normal night where he got too overwhelmed. He thinks Patrick is just being such a good friend. 

It’s so fucking messed up but honestly it also feels really fucking good. Covered in lube. His unbearably repressed ex best friends dick, the same dick he’s been dreaming about since the first time he saw it. That pretty dick pumping in and out of him over and over again. 

“And don’t worry,” he whispers to Art. “it’s not even gay” because Patrick is just helping him relax. “It’s not even real sex I promise.” Even though Patrick can’t count how many times Art comes. Maybe 4, maybe 7. How many times Patrick’s nutted all over the pristine hotel sheets. He knows he’s managed to spill at least 3 times before Art is finally done, done. And Patrick is covered in his come and sweat and spit and tears he couldn’t be happier.

Art nearly wets himself in his rush to get to the bathroom after it all. Probably just relieved to finally be able to go. 

Patrick is so pleasantly sore and drunk and warm. He’s still covered in the sticky mess of it, knowing it’ll be much grosser on waking but he can’t bring himself to move. Art stumbles, back into the king sized bed, moving away from the wet spot but still burying his head near the crook of Patrick’s head and shoulder. So yummy.

He’ll probably tell Art at some point, maybe. Possibly. But right now the city is hungover, the sun is peeking in through the black out curtains and Patrick hasn’t felt this satisfied in a very long time. So easy… he drifts off into a peaceful sleep. 

(Flop era going strong. Sorry so long y’all. I couldn’t stop yapping.)

[revehae]

weak (r. fantasies)

warnings: smut, noncon, virgin!jisung x (f) anemic!reader, drugging

wc. 990

i been writing this on and off for 24 days and youre telling me its only 990 words im not a serious person at all… fake news its longer now cause i suddenly added one (1) sentence. thank you @neocentral for holding a gun to my head

for two entire days, jisung was antsy. even the mere thought of you, no matter how brief, made a cool wind sweep over his shoulders and his gut tighten uncomfortably.

he knew what he was going to do, and he knew how he was going to do it, but even more so, he knew that it was wrong.

but if he knew that it was wrong, then why did he resolve himself to do it anyway? why did he smile in your face as if he didn’t know that he was about to hurt you? why didn’t he give jeno back his stuff, instead of holding onto it all this time?

jisung didn’t have any idea what it was, other than what jeno had told him while pressing the tiny bag into his chest. colorless, odorless, tasteless, and she’ll be out long enough for you to do all the dirty, perverted stuff you’re too scared to do while she’s awake.

but the truth was that compared to the thought of doing it while you were awake, this terrified jisung tenfold. would it still hurt you, bother you? would you feel the soreness between your thighs and instantly know what he had done? would you hate him more because you wouldn’t remember?

those were the thoughts hurtling through his head when you got up to use the bathroom. but if he was going to do it, he had to act quickly. your nightstand was littered with prescriptions pills and jisung knew you took the iron supplements every night. he poured the powder into your water bottle, watching it disappear as he shook it.

jisung’s heart raced at a rhythm he never knew could be possible when you came back and grabbed a hold of your water bottle. you didn’t make a face, drinking it like nothing was the matter. and he was surprised by how quickly you were out. in the few minutes it took to take effect, you didn’t even have time to become sleepy.

for a long minute, jisung didn’t even seem to remember why he had done this anymore. he was staring at your face, poking your cheek to see if you would react, but you didn’t stir. he worried that maybe you were dead, but when he put his finger to the base of your neck, there was still a normal pulse.

jisung’s breath quickened when he realized all of the things he could do to you right now. he didn’t dive in headfirst like he thought he would, his fingers absentmindedly trailing your soft skin first. he started with your neck, since his hand was already there, gently tightening his fingers around it. he wanted to mark you so badly, but he couldn’t.

he brought his thump up to your bottom lip, overcome by the formerly suppressed urge to kiss you, and with nothing to stop him, he pressed his lips to yours. he was mildly annoyed that you couldn’t kiss him back, but on the bright side, he still had the opportunity to touch you.

to do all the dirty, perverted stuff he was too scared to do while you were awake, as jeno put it.

his words always echoed in jisung’s head, influencing him in ways that were less than healthy. you could easily take her, if you weren’t so weak in the knees, jeno would tease, nudging jisung painfully. she’s anemic, for fuck’s sake. she can’t be that strong. 

jisung pulled back to gape at you in your night gown. he always thought you looked good in them. the way they gave away your collarbone and the little lace ribbon where your cleavage stopped, and the way the cute sleeves cuffed at your wrists was endearing to him.

but right now, as he gingerly bunched up the dress and caught sight of your lilac, cotton panties, the only thing he could think about was how desperately he ached to be inside you, to feel your sticky, throbbing walls cling around his virgin cock. to prove that he wasn’t a coward, that he wasn’t weak like you were. 

and for that reason, he couldn’t be slow and steady anymore. he knew there was no clock on him, nothing pacing him and nothing threatening to tear him away from the warmth of you, but his self-restraint had already worn thin and he was running on empty.

jisung convinced himself that you wanted him as he sheathed himself deep inside you with a guttural groan, every impatient inch of him. it may not have come from your mouth, but the slick somewhat facilitating his entry was answer enough. you may not have known what was happening, but your body was hyper aware.

god, jisung’s was, too. he couldn’t resist the tight squeeze, the way your pussy gripped him for dear life, and he tipped his head forward as his hands gripped your thighs to anchor himself before he fell too deep. even they were warm, the most cute and supple pair.

his eyes were completely closed, winced shut at the first pulse of your warm and tight cunt around his dick. he knew you would have loved him, if you could feel him. he knew he was big enough to please you. the guys too often teased him, saying he had all those inches, but not a hint of what to do with any.

but jisung knew right now. driving his hips passionately into yours, big hands clasping at your soft, moisturized skin, he knew he could make you feel things unimaginable. the sounds you were unknowingly yanking out of his throat, he could easily pull out of you. the way his face tensed with pleasure, he was certain he could make short work of you, too. 

“so weak,” jisung whispered into deaf ears, burying his face in your neck, and breathing in your ravishing scent. he imagined you calling him sungie like you always did, and it only made him grunt. “it’s okay. i’ll protect you. like i always have.”

[crybaby-bkg]

Choso has always been kind to you, his neighbor. always fed your pets when you were gone for long periods of time, watered your plants, left you home cooked meals he and Yuuji made together when you worked a double.

it’s why you don’t find it odd when he comes over one night with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. he tells you that Yuuji is gone over a friends house for the night, that he bailed on him the moment the cookies were done baking, that he didn’t want them to go to waste.

you don’t comment on how you passed Yuuji in the hallway after returning home two hours ago. nor how the cookies are still hot, as if just being brought freshly from the oven to your countertop. don’t find it suspicious really; you just think that maybe Choso’s lonely, or a bad flirt, and wanted an excuse to hang out with you.

which is partially true. and partially untrue, because he was hoping that the aphrodisiac chocolate that he put in the cookies would encourage you to want to do more than hang out. and it works, with no surprises from him; he did dump the entirety of the chocolate bag into the mix, even though the direction only called for consumers to eat just a small piece to feel something. and you had three cookies.

it hits you faster than he expected. you’re hot suddenly, pawing at the collar of your shirt as you fan yourself. your nipples harden against the fabric, and you can’t hide the tightness of them from Choso’s wandering gaze. your thighs are slippery, your hole clenching and unclenching with every minute that passes, makes your eyes teary.

“You need me to help you?” Choso asks, his voice low, his eyes pleading to take the ache away from you, his hand squeezing your knee in his cold, hard grip. and that’s all you want; relief, blissful, heavenly, heart stopping relief. and he gives you just that.

(he leaves the rest of the cookies with you, and over the course of the next three days, you jump his bones more often than you can count. it doesn’t help that the cookies are divine, and his dick makes you see stars behind your lids.)

[snail-day]

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Pet Play, Drugging

Suguru would absolutely lace your food with aphrodisiacs. After all, it’s for your own good. You've been awfully stressed out since he's forced you to be a little pet. Watching with a practiced look of concern as your body betrays you, heat pooling in your core, leaving you restless, desperate even. A large, rough hand cups your cheek, thumb grazing your burning skin.

“Oh, sweetheart,” a soft murmur as his voice drips with mock sympathy. “You’re burning up… Are you feeling unwell?”

The way you squirm, rubbing yourself against him like a desperate little thing, only makes his lips twitch upward. However, he feigns a pout as he clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“Tsk, tsk. Good little puppies don’t hump their owners,” he chides, as if you’re the one misbehaving as if this isn’t exactly what he wanted. Suguru's fingers tighten in your hair, forcing you to look up at him, wide-eyed and needy. “I can’t just let you act like this, now, can I?”

And just like that, he pushes you away all cold and distant, despite the heat rolling off you “Time-out,” he hums, watching as your eyes fill with tears, your lips trembling as you beg, telling him how much you need him, how sorry you are. But it’s all so useless.

“This is for your own good,” a soft sigh leaving his lips as if he actually meant it. As if he’s not reveling in the way you struggle helplessly just for him. It’s adorable, really. He almost feels bad.

[itsabouttimex2]

I hope this isn't an odd question

But, do you think Wukong or Macaque would act or treat different their "cub" if they genders were swapped or being a female version? This is also for a Yan behavior

I don't know too much about how is the raising of a monkey from the father and mother so I was curious with this since they're both mystical demons

I was thinking about this when I saw some fanarts from the artist @/car_nimbus on Twitter, they made a neat versions of the characters with another gender

Monkey Mama

(Hmm okay let me build a hypothetical OG “Female Monkey King” to work off of here and then I’ll try to translate that into LMK’s SWK. Also, I’ll probably make a second variation of this afterwards with other characters, haha. This got a little long to do both SWK and Mac!)

Sun Wukong as a character is already heavily defined by rebellion and personal choice, so I think that making him a girl only really compounds that layer of his character.

In many older narratives, female characters are often expected to be more obedient or modest than men, and very frequently only exist as prizes or, more rarely, villains. A female Sun Wukong; assuming she plays the same role as her original incarnation, defies the expectations of how “traditional” women should behave, shirking the demure and passive “ideal” and adding another layer of rebellion to her character.

(JTTW is actually pretty great in terms of female representation, with characters ranging from the perpetually good Quanyin, the eventually repentant Princess Iron Fan, and the straight up evil White Bone Spirit. I’m a big fan of how the women aren’t slid into any one “role” throughout the story.)

I think: in story, she’d likely be viewed as a sort of “anomaly”—a woman too strong, too outspoken, and too unwilling to conform to typical feminine ideals. Her defiance and arrogance might be viewed as even more scandalous by the Celestial Realm.

Instead of being made a “stable-keeper”, I think probably she’s sent to whatever Heavenly Scullery exists in that divine realm, and put to work very quickly. She would treat this “job” with indifference or even amusement at first-after all, physical labor or menial tasks don't diminish her self-worth or confidence! She’s had a life of hard work, leading an army of Yaoguai, cultivating Flower Fruit Mountain,

So she’s fine with this… at first. Then it turns out that the food she makes with her fellow low-class workers isn’t distributed amongst the people making it, but plated up nice and pretty for a bunch of “stuffy old gods” who didn’t lift a finger! Bullshit!

So obviously, the prideful Monkey Queen goes on a destructive rampage in regards to the unfair disparity of treatment, then storms back down to Earth to throw a “feel-better” party with her fellow Yaogaui.

(Which isn’t just a party, but a symbolic reclaiming of joy and community, with her monkey tribe representing the freedom she craves and the earthly bonds she prefers over heavenly authority. It's not just an escape, but a statement of independence.)

After an extensive set of repairs, the Court sends down someone to drag her back, because, you know, the local super-powered monkey is back on the loose, and that’s not exactly great for them. This time, they offer her a “better” role- she gets to become an official Peach Maiden, lucky her!

Of course, it’s just another form of entrapment, but within a prettier cage. Even though she's given a cushier position, it's a veneer- she's still being silenced, controlled, and stripped of her freedom. The role played by a Peach Maiden is an inversion of Wukong's essence, as these women are happily serving the role of passive caretakers, nurturing with gentle smiles—a direct contrast to the free-willed, brash nature of the Monkey Queen.

(And while there’s nothing wrong with being demure, passive, and feminine, having people try to force her into that role is where Sun Wukong draws her line.)

Here, she is expected to watch in silence as others revel in the freedom and power denied to her. It's a different kind of prison, one that quietly erodes her spirit. When the Celestial Court tries to reintegrate her as a Peach Maiden, they are once again attempting to place her into a docile, decorative role, one that strips away her power and independence. Those immortal peach orchards, a symbol of immortality and divine favor, becomes a prison for her.

Surrounded by "ideal" women who embody the quiet, submissive role she despises, the Monkey Queen finds herself chafing under the pressure of conformity. Her energy, once boundless and chaotic, is now caged, and the simmering resentment builds.

The buildup to her inevitable rebellion after being made a Peach Maiden, then, becomes a very sympathetic moment because it's not just a rejection of the role forced on her, but a rejection of the very system that tries to diminish who she is at her core. Her rebellion isn’t about anger and shame- it’s about reclaiming her true self after having been suffocated by the expectations of the Celestial Court. Her rampage becomes an assertion of her identity as something that can't be confined by heavenly rules or social mores.

The Court, in its attempt to “contain" her, only fuels her defiance further, leading her once again to rebel.

It was never going to end well. But it ends all the same, and punishment is to be levied to the Queen, just the same as any other rebellious rule-breaker... actually, probably harsher.

There’s “you broke our rules and tried to lead a coup”, then there’s “you did all that, and we also find your very person to be wrong on a fundamental level”, and then she gets the book thrown at her twice over.

But! Then she meets Tang Sanzang, who sees something in her that neither the Celestial Realm nor her own band of Sworn Brothers saw. Not a heretic simian savaging a holy realm. Not a Queen to rally behind for their own gain.

But a lost soul in need of guidance.

And from there the Great Monk works on building Sun Wukong up as a person instead of leading her astray or trying to cut massive chunks of her personality out? And talks to her about the things she cares about? And teaches her about all the things she missed after spending five hundred years under a rock?

And then she meets Zhu Baije, who starts out a little too happy and carefree about having a beautiful woman around, but eventually comes to smash open heads when Wukong is disrespected, because that’s not just a hot woman, that’s his sister?

Or Sha Wujing, who helps her with even the smallest things, from trimming her claws to cutting her wild hair to preparing meals for the monk? And lets her perch on his shoulders and head so the queen can get some skinship in?

Then Ao Lie, who is every bit the “disappointment to the world at large” that she was considered? And they take turns braiding each other’s hair and wiping the mess from the other’s face, and sleeping in the same tent and same bedroom because it’s less effort?

She gets a dad and three little brothers?

She gets a family.

And then loses it and is alone again for several hundred years more.

So if we go with this theoretical “My natural existence has been rejected for being seen as ‘improper’ by a court of stuffy traditional assholes” and then “I dearly love/miss my dead found family” angle, I think she’d be portrayed as a very different sort of character in LMK.

She’s quicker to lash out and defend herself, and much less willing to sit around and let the world pass her by- because that’s what was demanded of her by the Celestial Realm.

Be good. Be quiet. Be demure. Be obedient. Be anything except you.

I don’t think she’d be as willing to “rest on her laurels” as her canon counterpart, given that a “quiet boring life” was what she had fought so very hard to escape in the first place, so instead of isolating herself from the world in the first place, she probably sets up a little “souvenir shop” at the foot of Flower Fruit Mountain, taking a human form to sell little knick-knacks that herald to the journey she undertook with her old friends.

In part, this is how Wukong works to honor them. To spread their legacy. To ensure that they aren’t forgotten, left as a footnote in the annals of history. To remember them.

In part, it’s how she justifies all the mistakes she’s made and the suffering she’s been through. Settling in to a pointlessly relaxed life is exactly what she fought against, after all. She’s heavily fallen into the “sunk-cost fallacy”, where giving up and settling in, to her, means “losing”. It means “everything I went through was all for nothing”. So she keeps at this little store instead of just retiring and isolating herself from the world, even though she’d be happier to ditch it and lounge about.

So when MK and his eccentric bunch of friends comes around with their boundless energy and mischief, she immediately goes, “Oh, okay! This is what I wanted!”

(It’s not. All she’s ever wanted is her friends back. How could there be anything else?)

The Monkie Kids are vibrant, eccentric, and full of qualities that immediately resonate with Wukong. They remind her of the energy, camaraderie, and sense of adventure that she once shared with her old companions. She sees MK's arrival not just as a chance to teach someone a few of her old tricks, but as an echo of her own life—a life she hasn't been able to truly let go of.

So she starts projecting- on the surface, MK is very much like her. He's spirited, good-natured, and curious- and reckless. Just like she was. Wukong latches onto this quickly, sort of using the kid as a proxy for herself. After all, if she can't go back to her old life, why not embrace a new one that feels close enough? In some ways, this marks her refusal to accept the passage of time, a desperate clinging to the hope that, through MK, she can rekindle the connections she once cherished.

However, underneath that initial enthusiasm is the repressed understanding that MK, despite his similarities to her younger self, cannot truly replace what she lost. The friends she fought beside, the battles they waged together, and the lessons they learned are unique, irreplaceable moments in her life. No matter how much MK’s gang reminds her of the past, he and his friends a stand-in for the companions she still longs for. But her deep desire to reconnect with her old friends clouds her ability to see MK for who he truly is: his own person, on his own journey.

It takes her a while to get to that point, though. So she’s more doting and affectionate, in a way that somewhat stifles her student’s training because she wants to be both her old carefree self and also a good mentor, and the two just get jumbled.

Sidenote: I think with the difference in actions and behavior, MK would be more open to viewing Fem!Wukong as a parental figure than the OG, especially since he doesn’t really have someone to fulfill that “mom” role.

For their dynamic, I think something like this would be the outcome:

———————————————————————-

The afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, painting the landscape in hues of varied orange and blue. With a tired hand, MK wipes the sweat from his brow.

He’s perched on one of the rocky spires dotting Flower Fruit Mountain, gazing at the view with a small smile of accomplishment. Training had been intense lately… if only because he had been doubling down on the time he spent practicing, without giving as much care to rest or aftercare.

After all, even though his powers were blooming steadily… his enemies also were growing in power and quantity, leading to the ever-creeping edge of fear that anything less than a constant one-hundred percent just wouldn’t be “enough”.

And right as he reaches back to grab the golden staff he has inherited from the Monkey Queen-

“MK! I told you to take a break, not run off to do more training!”

Her voice, uncharacteristically sharp, cuts through the formerly tranquil air, causing MK to jump. He turns just in time to see Sun Wukong strolling toward him, her hands on her hips and a look of mock annoyance on her face.

MK grinned sheepishly, shifting his grass-stained boots against the dirt. “I was just, you know… checking out the view.”

She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement as her eyes narrowed in annoyance. This kid... “Uh-huh. Checking out the view or sneaking in some practice when I wasn’t looking?”

Caught fast in his lie, MK rubbed the back of his neck, face scrunching up in embarrassment. “Maybe a little of both?”

In spite of herself, Sun Wukong quietly laughs, the sound echoing like a chiming bell through the mountain. Her long, golden hair flowed behind her in the wind, each strand catching the light like molten fire. Despite her legendary status- the rebellious warrior who’d fought the heavens and nearly won!- there was a warmth to her that MK had come to cherish.

“All work and no play, MK,” she said, sitting beside him on the rock and ruffling his hair with a fondness that always made him feel like a little kid again. “You’ll burn out before you get anywhere.”

He looked at her, eyes shining with admiration. “But you never stop training. You’ve been at this for centuries! I just…”

A pause, as his chest turns over, unsettled by the notion of opening up. But… it’s the Monkey Queen. So it.. should be okay, right?

“I want to make you proud.”

Sun Wukong’s expression softens, and she wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling the boy close in a tight embrace. “You already make me proud, kid. You don’t have to prove anything.”

MK leaned into the touch, feeling a wave of comfort wash over him. Even from the start she’d been like this with him- protective, nurturing… and maybe a bit overbearing at times. But he didn’t mind. It made him feel safe, like no matter what challenges lay ahead, he wasn’t alone.

MK chuckled, turning his face up to meet his idol’s eyes.” I’ll keep up,” he triumphantly declares, pumping a fist.” I promise.”

“Good.” Wukong shifted, her clawed hand lightly missing his spiked locks. “Now, how about we head back to the shop and grab something to eat? You’ve earned it.”

MK’s stomach growled at the mention of food, and he nodded so eagerly that she wondered if his head wouldn’t ache from the motion. “You know, I won’t say no to a good meal.”

The Monkey Queen stood up, dusting off her mentee’s clothes before offering him a hand. “Of course you won’t. C’mon, my treat.”

———————————————————————-

Now, to answer your question about how she acts in regards to her own cub… in general I think she’s much more doting than the OG, willing to express herself through constant displays of physical affection, in ways that are far more varied.

Constant forehead smooching, cuddles, grooming sessions, all of it! Mama Wukong never wants to let go of her baby! Sit down and let her paint your nails! Let her comb and braid your hair! Let her make you a nice lunch (loaded with mystical drugs to keep you nice and sleepy for extra cuddles), or at least a filling snack! Let her pepper your face with kisses as she spins you in her powerful arms!

Lots and lots of indulgent fluffy days of binging unhealthy foods and watching cozy reruns of old shows, your head in her lap as she hums and does up your hair with her lazy hands.

Lots of reminiscing about old suitors as she considers the quietest and quickest ways to kill anyone who makes the futile attempt to pursue you in the same way.

Despite her obsessive behavior, Wukong struggles with conflicting feelings about wanting her child to be strong and independent, just like her! She pushes you to train hard and become powerful, but when you inevitably seek their own freedom or autonomy, she’d experience a mix of pride and heartbreak, pushing her deeper into possessive tendencies.

If you ever tried to leave or even just start to break away, Wukong’s worst traits would bubble up like hellfire. Just as she fought against an entire realm’s authority, she would absolutely wage a war to keep her child close, all while justifying her actions as love.

The Monkey Queen is also more willing to take routes outside of brute force if it means securing extra protection for Y/N. If Macaque or maybe Azure (or someone else like Erlang Shen) wants to try and play “suitor”, well, she’s not too interested… until the thought arises that having him around makes you extra safe! And then she’s willing to think on it.

(That’s assuming that you aren’t one of their biological kids to begin with, in which case there might be a sort of “yandere triangle”. Azure/Macaque/Erlang Shen doing his damndest to reclaim his wife, before he learns that she’s had a child while he was gone... or maybe Pigsy and Tang decided that MK needs his mentor in a more ‘accessible’ position, and plot to drag her to Megapolis…)

Lots of potential monkey mama shenanigans, basically!

[merakiui]

Mera... Mama Leech has a hold on me. She is so pretty yet has an eerie air about her. I know you talk about her setting up darling with her sons but take that a step further: she wants darling to stay and wants grand-eels.

Mama Leech inviting you to family dinner and making a homemade meal. Her sons on either side of darling as they have pleasant conversations. As the dinner goes on its harder and harder for darling to stay present and the room gets hotter and hotter. Out of concern, Mrs. Leech offers darling one of the spare rooms, there is no way she could drive home in this state, let her take care of you!

She has Jade and Floyd take you to the room with explicit instructions to "Help her feel at home,"

The boys know what their Mama has planned, she said whoever gets darling pregnant gets to marry her! It's what's in best interest of the family!

Darling is still in a haze from whatever was in her food and drink. She is uncomfortable and hot! But the hands touching her are cold and make her see stars of pleasure! Why resist when the kisses, the touches, the thrusts all make her feel so good!

The next morning, Darling wakes up in an unfamiliar bed sandwiched between her Jade and Floyd. Darling tries to escape but they are sore and their grips are tight. Mama leech comes in to wake everyone up and has some tea for her poor future daughter! Expecting mothers need to make sure they are eating and drinking enough!

Oh, and don't worry about leaving! Your family now! Why would you leave! Your carrying the next head of the leech family, they can't risk that, not at all...

Sorry, Mama Leech and Jade have a hold on me- I can't wait to see all you do with them! I already love how you right the twins so I can't wait to see what you do with their Mama!

- Nerd Anon

👁️ 👁️ Mama Leech drugging your food……. now we know where Jade gets it from. (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

So out of it that you can hardly find your voice amidst the wandering hands. You try to tell them to wait, that this is all moving so fast, that you’re not ready, but they just shush you and tell you they’ve got you. Before you know it your ankles are yanked up onto Floyd’s shoulders while he eats you out, and Jade is leaning down to steal all of those cute, little moans of yours in messy kisses. Whatever was in your food must’ve been extra strong because you’re practically begging for dick, salivating over it in all of your drugged inexperience.

You’re definitely walking (read: they’re carrying you) out of that room pregnant. >:) and how groggy you are in the morning, the last of the drug ebbing away like the tide. You’re smushed between two bodies, warm and cozy and so tacky, and it’s to your horror that you slept with both of them, all with their parents probably knowing. You’re so embarrassed. Mrs. Leech must think so poorly of you now!!! >_< what a sleazy impression you must’ve left…

Little do you know, she’s the reason you’ve ended up wrapped around two clingy eels. There’s no need to leave. Why, you can just live here alongside them. They all love you. Plus, if you’re here all the time, Mama Leech can impart her maternal wisdom and help you through all the stages of pregnancy she went through. Mother knows best and all that. <3 she’s incredibly supportive but also refuses to let you leave. You don’t need to. You have everything you need here. Two (future) husbands and loving in-laws.

[neowonderland]

kidnapping renjun pleasee he’s so cute i need him traumatized

Sorry it took me a while to get out! Hope you enjoy my first Renjun fic and thanks for the request! Here it is:

Pairings: Camboy! Renjun x Reader Warnings: 18+, smut, noncon or dubcon, stalking, kidnapping, drugging Wc: 0.6k

Your obsession with your newfound camboy isn’t exactly subtle. 

Renjun is the prettiest man you’ve ever seen, his body so elegant and pretty, his face looking like an angel, paired with his soft voice and pretty cock, you think he’s perfect. 

You have hard drives upon hard drives of Renjun. It’s neatly organized, separated into different folders: Renjun’s entire streams, favorite moments of Renjun’s streams, risque pictures of Renjun he sends out on his Twitter, and then pictures he posted on his Instagram. You’ve proudly never missed a stream, always finding yourself on his page, absentmindedly checking his schedules. And you’re his top donor, too, splurging on the pretty boy in front of the camera, spending hundreds upon thousands to have him say your name as he cums.

And those streams, clips, photos, those interactions are enough to satisfy your craving for him at the beginning, but with enough time, you start wanting more. 

You want to get to know your favorite camboy, you want to know his dislikes, his likes– you want to know everything you can about him, what he fears, what he wants, what he hopes for. And so you start digging. 

You find his hometown. You find his old school, his awkward yet cute yearbook photos from when he was young. You find his personal Instagram account along with his personal Twitter account, finding out he’s a college student struggling to pay his tuition. He had started streaming as a way to pay for it, but college is expensive, and bills are high. You find his current neighbor, then the apartment he currently lives in, a shabby place in an unsafe area with cheap rent, unfit for someone like him. 

And so you formulate a plan, a plan to rescue Renjun from his current circumstances. He’d be safe and happy living with you, in a modest place, in a safer area, away from everything that could harm him. He wouldn’t have to worry about the bills, since you’d be the one covering them. He would never have to lift a finger with you here; his only job is to sit still and look pretty.

 Renjun is a fighter when you take him, refusing your help even when he could no longer walk in a straight line, slurring the words “no” and “I’m okay” as you offered to help take him back home. He tries his best to fight you off as you drag him into the back seat of your car, preparing to drive away. 

But Renjun looks so tempting like this, eyes droopy and slurring his words in the backseat of your car, so helpless and vulnerable as he pleads with you to let him out. You’re a person with needs after all, and your body was screaming for Renjun. 

Renjun doesn’t try to fight it when you take his length out of his pants, the drugs fully taking effect and rendering him completely at your mercy. He’s soft, like you expected, and you have to pump him to full mast before you can finally ride him. 

You can feel yourself getting aroused as you move your hands up and down his length, feeling his cock harden and come to life as you continued to work on it. It felt nice, made you feel powerful, like Renjun was enjoying this and getting aroused from what you were doing to him. You could see him biting his lip, trying not to make a sound as you pleasured him. 

When he finally slips inside your welcoming heat, you can see his eyes roll into the back of his head, his eyelids fluttering as he feels you around him. And when you start to bounce up and down, he lets out little choked-out moans, seemingly lost in the pleasure. One of his hands even tries to move to your hips, almost as if he wanted to help guide you while riding him. 

And when he finally comes with a high-pitched moan, watery eyes glazed over, cum spurting into you, you decide he’s the prettiest like this, fucked out and ruined. 

[nottsvampire]

theo who fucks you while you’re drugged out and unconscious and records it to watch later…. hmmmm

tw noncon/rape. drugging. unconscious reader. recording and sharing a sex tape (nonconsensual)

and not just to watch it later on his own… but to proudly show it off to all his friends, because he knows they’d kill to be in his place. yeah, you were unconscious and unresponsive. but that doesn’t fucking matter to him. he got to feel you, he got to feel your tight pussy around him, and that’s all he cares about. why? because him and his friends even had a little competition— whoever fucks you first wins.

“mate, she was fuckin’ unconscious. nice try, but this doesn’t count.” enzo lets out a dry, humourless laugh, more air than sound coming out as he shakes his head. he doesn’t even seem fazed by the fact that he drugged and raped you— all he’s focused on is keeping theo from taking the crown.

“so what? i fucked her first, i win. simple as that.” theo retorts, a devilish smirk plastered on his face, arms crossed, radiating self-satisfaction and pride. the boys’ reactions are mixed— enzo is still brainstorming ways to win, mattheo mesmerized as replays the video on theo’s phone, draco silently aggravated as he rolls his eyes, and blaise amusingly watching it all play out.

“shit, if i were him i would’ve done the fuckin’ same. pussy’s pussy— passed out or not.” mattheo chuckles, eyes glued to the screen, scanning every part of your lifeless body, already plotting how he’ll ruin you next.

[tallulah477]

Playing Dirty

Survive the Night Day 3: Drugged

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Warnings: AgedUp!Neteyam, Dark!Reader, Toxic!Reader, Jealous!Reader, ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Alien Genitalia, Drugging, P in V, Slight Thigh Riding, Oral (male receiving), Creampie, Knotting, Size Difference, Sex while one person is under the influence of drugs, Kuru/Queue Play, Belly Bulge, Obsessive/Possessive Behavior, Manipulation/Gaslighting, Toxic Relationship, Brief Body Shaming (Reader body shames another female out of jealously - not to her face, but in her thoughts), Name Calling (significant use of the word "bitch"), Forced Cheating (not on Reader - Neteyam is kinda dating someone else although you can argue they aren’t together yet), Reader is a straight up bitch and completely unhinged ngl, She is horrible

Word Count: 10.3K

A/N: For more about how I picture alien genitalia, see here.

Summary: Neteyam is supposed to be yours. Your mate. So who the hell does he think he is running around with someone else? You need to do something. In this game, you'll be the victor - not her. Even if that means you have to play a little dirty.

**PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS - DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ**

Translations:

Kuru - Neural Queue

Kaltxì - Hello

Tanhì - Star, bioluminescent freckle

Swoasey - Kava bowl (constructed from seed pods, used for drinking intoxicating beverages), handsized

Teylu - Beetle Larva, food and source of protein for the Na'vi

Tsahìk - Spiritual Leader

He’s starting to piss you off.

Nope. Wrong. Too late. You’re already pissed. Beyond pissed. 

Who the hell does he think he is? Running around with another woman like that right in front of you. What does he even see in her anyway?

Iäle. What a stupid name.

She’s not even pretty. And her tits are way too small - nonexistent actually. Neteyam wants someone with a little more to give. Like yours, for example. Although, it’s not very hard to have more than her. You may be smaller, the comparison of a human to a Na’vi structure is very stark, but you’ve got a lot to compensate for that. Plenty of bounce and soft curves for him to play with and enjoy. You’ve seen him appreciating the view before, when your v-neck t-shirts or tank tops ‘accidentally’ ride a little too low to be considered modest and his pretty golden eyes follow the movement, tracing the curve of your breasts and lingering on the hardened peaks of your nipples where they poke through your top on the days you forget to wear a bra.

You’ve been forgetting a lot more recently. Wow. Crazy. 

And since you’re smaller, your pussy is clearly going to be tighter too. You think about it all the time, taking Neteyam’s thick cock between your slick walls, feeling him spear you open and filling you up so much you hope you feel him in your throat. He needs someone who’s going to treat him right, squeezing around his length and working him up like it’s your sole purpose in life to be his personal living fleshlight. Iäle can’t give him that. She has ‘selfish lover’ written all over her. She’d probably just chase her own release, make him get off just to say she did and then that’s it. You, on the other hand… you would milk him dry - pulling orgasm after orgasm from his gorgeous muscular body like he deserves until he’s a twitching and overstimulated mess. 

You want to see it so bad - the way his spent cock would shrink and retract back into its sheath in protection from your oh-so-giving hands and mouth and pussy. You want to see the goofy and satisfied smirk on his face as he shivers from the aftershocks, just like the one he gives you when you race through the forest and he pretends like you can keep up with him only to completely demolish you in the final stretch. 

Only this one would be better, with his amber eyes so dazed and hazy and not able to focus on anything at all. You’d fuck him so good you think there might even be drool trailing down his cheek from the corner of his mouth, visual proof of a job well done. 

The point is you have more than her. Would be a million times better than her. Duh. 

You see it clear as day every time you close your eyes. You and him taking the next step and moving from just best friends forever to mates - a bond stronger than forever, an eternity bonded together in an unbreakable connection that can never be severed. You’d be his and he’d be yours. Permanently. You know Eywa would agree with you. You may not have your own kuru, but she would find a way to unite you both. 

And if she won’t. You will. 

So now here’s the riddle: If you see what the future will be every time you close your eyes, then why the fuck is it that when you open them right now… he’s with her. 

Smiling at her, holding her hand, their tails flicking behind them and occasionally brushing against each other as they walk towards you. 

Bitterly, you close your eyes and open them again. Nope, still there. You do it again. Still here and closer. You do it again and again, rapid frustrated blinks make your eyelashes flutter as you hope that the next one will show just him. That she will disappear and cease to exist, stop even breathing the same air as him, but she never does. The quick blinks just serve to tire your eyes and make the couple flicker in and out of sight, getting closer and closer to you with each blink. 

“Kaltxì, tanhì.” Neteyam says with a grin. “What’s wrong with you? Something in your eye?”

Iäle smiles at you too, sending you a small wave with the hand not currently on trial and being threatened to be cut off for touching what’s rightfully yours. “Kaltxì, y/n,”

You force a bright smile on your face as you look up at them. “Hi, you two! No, yeah. Just something in my eye, I guess. It’s out now though,” You eye them suspiciously, gaze unable to help but fall to where their hands are still joined together. “Where are you off to?”

“We were going to head to the river,” Iäle responds, and you just barely hold off a wince from how her voice grates on your ears. How can Neteyam stand to hear her speak without wanting to pluck out his own eardrums? “There’s a spot there that’s really nice that has a view of the whole length of the water.” You let out a small hum of acknowledgement instead of rolling your eyes the way you want to. “But Mo’at has called for me. She was going to prepare the paints for tonight’s celebration, but some of the little ones have become ill and she needs to tend to them, so the task falls to me, I guess.”

“Aw, too bad,”

Iäle shrugs, small smile still present on her lips. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. Anything I can do to help is an honor,”

Ugh, spare me. 

“Okay, well, I’ll be heading over there now,” She says, finally. To your relief she lets go of Neteyam’s hand, but your perceptive gaze doesn’t miss the way she squeezes it as she does. Nor do you miss the way Neteyam grins at her in response. “I’ll see you both tonight at the celebration!”

“Byeee,” You respond. Neteyam doesn’t look at you in confusion or pinch his lips together at your tone, so you suppose you were successful at making it sound friendly. 

Your eyes follow Iäle as she heads back towards the center of the village, disappearing behind the group of training warriors on her way to the healer’s tent. As soon as she’s out of sight, Neteyam turns to you and crosses his arms across his chest. Your eyes zero in on the corded muscle of his arms, pulling taut as they flex with his movement, but your ogling opportunity is cut short when you spot the knowing look on his face as he stares down at you. 

“What?”

“Go on,” He prompts. “Say what you’re going to say.”

“How do you know I was going to say anything?” You reply, sass heavy in your voice. Neteyam just raises a hairless brow in response. “You two seem close.”

“There it is,”

“I’m just stating a fact,”

Neteyam sighs. “I like her. That’s what happens when you like someone,”

“Is that right? Then maybe you should hold my hand more often,” You grumble, turning on your heel to walk back towards the lab. He’s quick to follow you just like you knew he would. 

“I hold your hand all the time,”

“Is that right?” You repeat. 

“Y/n,”

You stop suddenly and turn to look back at him. He towers over you like this, so close that if you just took a step closer you would be face to face with the little (yeah fucking right) funzone hidden safely underneath his loincloth. You don’t, instead choosing to crane your neck back to look up at his face, your own brows furrowed as you snap your fingers together twice and point down towards the ground. 

“Really?” He asks, exasperated. Your only response is another rapid round of snaps and an aggressive point downwards. 

Watching Neteyam crouch down in front of you at your beck and call makes heat spark in your core. He’s such a good boy - would be such a good, good boy for you if he could just get his head out of his ass. In the crouch he’s closer to your height, still taller but not so much so that you're craning your neck to see his face, and he holds your gaze as you glower at him. 

“Serious time now,” You say. “Eyes on me.”

“They already are,” He shoots back, and grins in satisfaction at your glare. “Fine. Yes, ma’am,”

And Eywa, it’s like he’s trying to get you to cream your pants saying it like that. 

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again–hey!” You shout, watching as his amber eyes roll upwards at your words. “I. Do. Not. Like. Her. I don’t trust her.”

“So you say, but I still don’t know why–”

“I have my suspicions, Teyam. I don’t trust her intentions with you.” Like intending to take you away from me when you’re MINE. “She’s no good.”

“Why is she no good?”

Cause I said so. “Don’t you trust me?”

Neteyam sighs again, eyes softening as he looks down at your serious face. “Of course I trust you, tanhì,”

“Then trust me now,” You say, voice soft with sympathy as your hand reaches out to caress his arm. His big and muscle packed toned arm. “She’s going to do something to hurt you.”

You want to grind your teeth into dust at the way Neteyam clearly wants to argue with you, but the corner of his mouth just lifts into a pacifying smile. “I know you’re looking out for me. I promise I’ll be careful,”

Liar. 

“You’re such a good friend,”

Fucking ouch. 

Your eye twitches at the words, a grimacing smile pulling at your own lips. “The best friend! Of course,”

“Hm,”

He stands up from his crouch and you turn to resume your walk back towards the lab. Neteyam is a gentleman through and through, so even though he needs to go home and prepare for tonight’s festivities, he walks you home to make sure you're safe. He would do it for anyone - his daddy raised him right like that. But it makes you feel all warm and gooey inside to think that he would only do it for you. You’re his best friend, his future mate, and it’s his job to keep you safe from anything and everything that might try to hurt you. He loves you. You smile smugly at the thought. Neteyam, the mighty warrior - your own personal protector. 

It’s mighty dangerous in the Pandoran forest for a human. Anything could happen. You could break your mask and die of suffocation in a matter of minutes. A thanator could lunge from the dense treeline and gobble you up like you were no more than a midday snack. You could trip and twist your ankle, maybe even sprain it, and Neteyam would have to pick you up in his strong arms that could toss you around like a ragdoll if he wanted to and carry you all the way back to the lab, cradled against him for safety.

Hm. 

You yelp as you quickly catch the toe of your sneaker on the slightly uneven ground on your next step, purposefully throwing yourself onto the ground with a pained gasp as you clutch at your ankle.

“Shit!” Neteyam curses, crouching down and looking at you with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Ow,” You whine, hands still wrapped protectively over your ‘injured’ ankle. “Teyam, it hurts!”

He studies your ankle carefully, his hand reaching out to brush gently across the soft skin to check for tenderness or swelling.

“OW!” You squeal, tears welling up in your eyes at the imaginary pain. 

“Okay, okay,” Neteyam relents, pulling back his hand so he doesn’t accidentally hurt you further. “It doesn’t look broken, but we should probably still get it looked at.”

“No,” You say, voice wobbling as your lower lip trembles. “No, I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

“Tanhì, it’s their job. We need to make sure its not–”

“No,” You interrupt. No way. The nurse would take one look at your ankle and bitch you out for wasting her time. No thank you. “It’s fine. I promise. Just twisted and hurts right now. But…”

Neteyam looks unsure. “But what?”

You can’t help how your eyelashes flutter at him. “Can you carry me? I don’t think I can walk right now,”

“Of course, tanhì,”

He picks you up bridal style, which is fitting considering you’ll be his bride one day, and effortlessly cradles you against his chest. You tilt your head to the side, leaning your head against his shoulder as you look up at him with a small smile and a sweet ‘Thank you, Teyam,’ on your lips. His chest is hard and warm against your ear as it presses against his skin, and you wish that you didn’t have to wear this stupid mask to survive outside so you could press your entire face into the solid wall of muscle and inhale his scent. 

The walk back to the lab nearly puts you to sleep with how comfortable you are against him. His steps are careful and smooth, barely jostling you at all and making it feel more like a gentle rocking as it soothes you into a peaceful state. You haven’t felt this calm in a long time. Neteyam has been stressing you out - courting that bitch and parading her around right in front of you. You don’t know why he’s trying to make you jealous, but it’s making you more angry than anything else. This is making up for it though. You think you could forgive his little games and lapse in judgment if he just carries you around pressed against his body a little bit each day. 

He’d have to do other things too, of course. But this would be a start. 

He carries you through the airlock, taking your mask from you and placing it with the others along the attached shelf before grabbing a carbon mask for himself all without letting you touch the ground. He moves with a flawless confidence as he loops the mask around his neck, feet barely pausing in their journey as he takes you all the way up to your room. It’s like something out of your dreams when he lays you on your bed, and for a couple blissful seconds you have the soft mattress at your back and Neteyam’s large hulking figure overtop you just like it’s always meant to be. You wish that he would kneel down on it too, hold himself over you as he sweeps his pretty golden eyes along your sprawled out frame. You’d stretch out even more, putting the entire length of your body on display for him, maybe even let out a small enticing moan just to give him a little show - a little taste at what was to come.

But he’s off the bed and kneeling at your side all too soon, fingers reaching out again to brush against your ankle in concern. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks. “I can still get Jane to come look at it.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine. Just twinged it a bit, that’s all. Jane would just get pissed we wasted her time,”

“If you’re sure,”

“I am,” You insist. “Thank you though, Teyam. For carrying me. You’re really strong.”

Neteyam hums, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah, I guess I am,”

He stands up, taking a breath from his mask, and you can tell he’s gearing up to leave. The selfish part of you doesn’t want him to. He should be around you all the time. The thought of leaving your side shouldn’t even pop into his head. And if he has to, if he really has no other choice, you should see pain burning in his amber eyes - the feeling of sorrow so overwhelming that he feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest just to have to leave you for a moment to go on a hunt or use the bathroom.

Annoyance sparks when you don’t see that pain evident in his face. He looks fine. He’s getting ready to leave you, while you’re hurt, and he’s fine. 

“You’re coming to the celebration tonight, right?” He asks when he pulls the mask away, and you plant another sickly sweet smile on your face in response.

“Yeah! I’m gonna be your plus one, of course,”

“Yeah, okay,” Neteyam chuckles. “I’m going to head back. I have some things I have to do before tonight, but I’ll be back to come get you in case you’re still having ankle pain.”

“Sounds good! Thank you, mighty warrior,”

He smirks at the nickname, but doesn’t reply. And then he’s walking out of your room, beautiful expanse of back curving as he ducks under the doorframe, tail flicking out lazily behind him, and wow…

You hate to watch him go, but love to watch him leave. 

The more you think about it, the more you determine that no - you’re not going to stand for this nonsense anymore. 

This little game has been going on for far too long, and it’s about time that this victor claims her prize. That doesn’t mean you have to play by the rules though.

Besides, what fun is a game without playing a little dirty?

The people in the lab are more than helpful without even realizing it. You listen, enraptured, as they tell you about a new plant discovered just off the side of the Hallelujah Mountains. It’s a rare find, and they tell you that the effects when ingested are shockingly similar to some other drugs found on Earth. 

Despite the similarities to some not-so-nice Earth drugs, the scientists in the lab are excited about it. 

“Mo’at says it might be useful for the children that have been sick recently. They’ll be groggy and probably not remember anything, but it will force their bodies to relax and recover instead of them wasting energy being uncomfortable or in pain,” One of them tells you, opening the small jar of powered plant. “It’s potent as a powder so it only takes a small amount to be effective.”

Frankly you don’t know why they’re telling you all this. You don’t have anything to do with the science side of anything here, but you listen with rapt attention as they unknowingly tell you the answer to all your problems. You can practically see the little invisible label on the side of the jar now:

Mating Powder for the Hardheaded Na’vi

Side effects may include dizziness, confusion, mental fog, memory loss, or unconsciousness. 

Warning: For best effects, keep bitches named Iäle away from the consumer so that the provider may have the night of her life that she deserves. 

“Oh, how intriguing,” You tell them. “Very interesting indeed.”

Yeah. Sounds pretty damn perfect. 

You wait until everyone goes to dinner before sneaking back into the lab. They said the powder is potent, just a little bit needed to have the effect on the Na’vi children, so you think that amount plus a little extra should do the job for your stubborn Na’vi male. Slipping some into a small plastic baggie you steal from one of the tables is easy enough, and you're in and out of the lab with no one the wiser to the small little pouch of wish granting power stashed safely in your pocket. 

By the time Neteyam arrives back at the lab, the baggie is already hidden away out of sight, tucked between your breast and the cup of your bra. You don’t want to wear one, it would be so much better to tease Neteyam with the sight of your unbound tits through the thin material of your pretty party dress. But alas, you’ve also chosen to forego panties and you need a place to keep the baggie. So bra it is. 

You’ve made sure it’s at least a sexy lacy one though. You’re gonna get fucked in it tonight, you’re sure of it. 

“What do you think?” You ask him, twirling in your spot and posing to give him a little show of the outfit. “You like?”

Neteyam nods. “Yes, you look beautiful, tanhì. You always do,”

“Do you think I look sexy?”

The slight flush visible on Neteyam’s cheeks is confirmation enough despite his silence. 

“Mate worthy, one might say?” You continue, and this time his hairless brows shoot up. 

“Mate? Are you searching for a mate?”

You hear it in his voice. The jealousy. It’s very subtle, barely even noticeable - most people wouldn't have even caught onto it. But you’re smart, you’re brain in tune with all things Neteyam and Neteyam-like, so all you need is the smallest hint and you can tell it’s there. You just barely hold off a smirk, instead choosing to stare at him with wide eyes. “Jealous?” 

“No, I just didn’t know you were interested in finding one. Is it someone I know?”

“Maybe,”

Neteyam lets out a harsh rush of air that you think could be a laugh. “You’re not going to tell me?”

Eywa, you made this man so… beautiful. 

“Nope,” You smirk, coyly. “Guess you’re just gonna have to wait and find out.”

The walk back to the village is a slow one. You need to be gentle on your ankle, it’s still pretty tender after your fall earlier after all. Plus the longer alone time with Neteyam is an added benefit. You’re going to have to see her at this celebration, so you’re going to need a little bit of extra incentive to get through it. 

By the time you make it to the village’s center, The People are dancing. A flurry of bodies flowing and twisting to the steady beat of the song take up most of the site. The fire sparks at the center of it all, bright and sparkling as it shoots out crackles that arch over top the heads of the dancing Na’vi. There’s people crouched or sitting along the outer ring of the celebration, indulging in food and drink rather than dance and you nudge Neteyam’s thigh, smiling as you point to a small opening of the circle just perfect for the two of you to claim as your own. 

This is how it’s supposed to be - just you and Neteyam enjoying the pleasures Pandora has to offer, side by side like a true mated pair. 

But the moment you sit down on the seating log, your irritation floods your content peace of mind. She’s here. 

She’s got such an attitude about her, pushing her way through the barely there space of the dancing clan and the resting members in the outer circle. What makes her think she’s good enough to make that space for herself? Just go around like a normal person. 

When Iäle makes it in front of you, you notice she only has one swoasey in each hand. 

“Kaltxì,” She smiles, handing one of the cups to Neteyam. She keeps the other one in her hand though, curling her now free hand around the rounded shape to cradle it. “Y/n, I thought to bring you one but I wasn’t sure how you would handle the stronger alcohol as a human, but you can have this one if you want.”

This fucking bitch. How disrespectful. 

“Oh,” You say, and if you add a little more disappointment and sadness into your voice than you actually feel, that’s your business. “That’s okay. I’ll just go get my own.”

“I’ll go get you one, tanhì,”

“No,” You insist. “It’s okay. I’ll be back in just a minute.” 

You ignore Neteyam’s responding frown (and Iäle completely) as you make your way around the outside of the edges of the gathering. Your heart is pounding in your chest, anger boiling there like a pool of molten lava even as you try to keep your features neutral and smile at the Na’vi you pass. You’ve had enough - enough of this. You’re not going to let her embarrass you anymore. 

Wasn’t sure how you would handle the stronger alcohol - fuck off. 

The drink that finds its way into your hand is just as big as the ones Neteyam and Iäle are holding. It’s too much alcohol for you, that’s true, but fuck her for saying it out loud like your size is an insult. You take a sip from the cup, face twisting in disgust as a harsh shiver rocks your body at the taste. Gross, but much needed. 

Your eyes flicker around, searching for wandering eyes as you reach your fingers into your bra. The small baggie is still there and the opening pulls apart easily with a quick swipe of your thumb and pointer finger. Finding no prying eyes, you dump the contents into the cup. The powder dissolves into the drink almost as soon as it touches the liquid, and by the time you’ve shoved the empty baggie back into its hidey spot and swirled the cup a little in your palm, all remaining evidence of what you’ve just done have disappeared completely. 

When you return to the seating log you claimed, Neteyam and Iäle are still there too, and it seems they’ve found some food while you were gone. They’ve switched seats too - Neteyam taking up crouching facing the seats while Iäle has taken the space he was in when you left, leaving you to sit next to the absolute eye-roll of a Na’vi on the log. 

“Here, tanhì,” Neteyam says, handing you a small leaf holding some cooked teylu. You thank him with a pretty smile, pleased with the small declarations of loyalty he has shown for you despite his games. If he’s going to try to make you jealous, at least he’s man enough to still take care of you while he plays around. 

“Y/n,” Iäle says as she bites off a piece of her own teylu. “I hope I didn’t offend you earlier by not getting you a drink. That wasn’t my intention. I just thought—”

“No, it’s okay,” The forced brightness in your voice makes you want to throw up. “Of course it’s okay. No harm done.”

And you wish you could smack her responding smile off her face. 

Iäle’s voice grates on your nerves as she speaks, telling you both about her afternoon of painstakingly mixing together the paints for the newly passed warriors to wear. You pretend to sip at your drink throughout dinner, listening with rapt attention when Neteyam talks about how the day’s training session went and then with barely concealed boredom when Iäle mentions the sickness plaguing a few of the kids. 

“Mo’at thinks they should be well enough in a few days. Especially with the new medicine we are trying out to help keep them calm and rested as they recover.”

“That’s good,” Neteyam says and you quickly nod in ecstatic agreement when his eyes flick over to you.   

He’s done his first drink, the swoasey empty on the ground beside him, so you feign one last sip of your own before shoving it in his direction. 

“Teyam, you wanna finish it for me? Guess it was a little too much for me to handle after all,”

“Oh, okay,” Netayam says, taking the cup from your outstretched hand. “Thanks, tanhì.”

You watch in barely contained satisfaction as he takes a few large gulps of the drugged drink. You wonder how long it will take for it to start affecting him. It can’t be long, maybe just enough time to make up some excuse to leave and then make it back to the lab before it hits. And you can’t be around people when it happens. Especially not her. 

It’s just another confirmation that Eywa wants you and Neteyam to be together when another of Mo’at’s healers-in-training runs up and taps Iäle’s shoulder. Mo’at is busy with the celebration - the Tsahìk is needed to give her speech and blessing for the new warriors - but a few of the little ones are fretful and need an experienced healer’s attention. There are stars in your eyes as you watch Iäle solemnly get up from her seat and wave goodbye to you and Neteyam. You can tell she doesn’t want to leave, wants to stick around and possibly try to dance with your man, but luck happens to be on your side and now you have him all to yourself. 

You’re almost sad you can’t stay and enjoy the celebration as a couple. But there’s no rush. After today, he’ll be yours forever and every celebration from now on will be spent with you in his arms as his girl. 

Neteyam gulps down the rest of the alcohol as he shoves the last bite of teylu in his mouth, and you decide that that’s your sign to move this night along. 

“Teyam,” You whine, eyes wide as you reach down to gently touch your ‘injured’ ankle. “My ankle is starting to hurt again.”

Neteyam’s hairless brows furrow in worry, eyes shooting down to your ankle for just a second before meeting your own again. “You should really see Jane so she can make sure it’s nothing serious,”

“It’s fine,” You say. “Just too much walking on it too quickly I guess. Can you carry me home?”

Instead of answering, Neteyam licks his fingers clean and moves the two empty cups against the log so they’re out of people’s way before scooting around so that his back is to you. You happily wrap yourself around him, arms locked around his neck while his big hands catch your thighs as you jump to wrap your legs around his torso. 

You dig your face into his back as he walks, Neteyam hissing lightly as the cold glass of your mask presses into his spine. You ignore him though, instead enjoying the feeling of his muscles shifting against your front as you press yourself harder against his sturdy frame. Your dress is too long and not being a team player right now - because if it was, it would be hanging differently. As it is, the little excess fabric it has is settling between your thighs and acting as a barrier between your bare pussy and Neteyam’s sculpted back. 

Which is a problem, obviously, because Neteyam’s back muscles should be massaging against your clit right about now. 

Neteyam makes it about three-fourths of the way back to the lab before the drug starts to hit him. He stops suddenly mid-stride, swaying slightly as one hand drops its grip on your thigh to press against the side of his head. 

“Teyam?” You say, voice soft and full of concern. Oh nooooo, what could possibly be wrong? “You okay?”

“Yes,” He grumbles, breathing coming out just a little bit shaky. “Just dizzy.”

“Maybe you had too much alcohol. Let’s hurry up and get back and you can lay down in my bed.”

You watch as he shakes his head as if to clear it, hand coming back down to hold your thigh as he forces himself to continue the rest of the journey. But once the drug starts to take effect on your large Na’vi, it shows no mercy as it wraps him tighter under its powerful grip. His first dizzy sway soon turns into another, and another. 

“Neteyam!” You shout, your grip around his neck tightening as you brace yourself against him when he stumbles forward.

“S-sorry,” He gasps, hands trying to hold you steady as he rights himself. “Sorry, tanhì. Sorry. I-I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“It’s okay,” You soothe, gently reaching up to brush your hand across his damp forehead and swiping a few braids out of his face. “Just a little farther and you can rest.”

The last trek of the walk takes significantly longer than it should have and Neteyam is not doing well by any means. His breathing is harsh now, nearly panting as he struggles to fight off the nearly constant dizziness that he’s feeling. His skin is hot to the touch, sweaty as he stumbles through the Pandoran forest, mumbling obscenities to himself in between nearly incoherent sentences as he pushes forward. You feel a little bad seeing him this way. You love him and you would never want him to suffer, but he brought this on himself. 

When another one of his stumbles nearly throws you from his back entirely, you think that maybe you gave him a bit too much. Maybe you should also get off of his back since it would probably be easier for him to walk without your additional weight on him and having to make sure you don’t fall off every five seconds, but that would mean not feeling the stretch and shift of his hard muscles under your body and, well… you never said you weren’t selfish. 

“I was thinking,” You start, voice low in his ear as your hand once again finds the expanse of his forehead, pressing against it to help keep his head up. “We didn’t see where Iäle got the drink from. Maybe she did something to it.”

“W-what?” Neteyam whispers, brow scrunching under your touch. 

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. You’re not even sure if he’s really going to remember this all anyway, but you smile to yourself regardless, pleased at the seed of doubt you’ve planted. 

The door to the lab is just in sight when Neteyam collapses for the first time. It’s a testament to how strong the Na’vi are, truly, because you know that you gave him a hell of a dose and he was still able to make it all the way back from the village before his body completely gave up on him. You do fly off his back this time when he goes down, landing heavily on your side as he crumples beside you. 

He’s not in his right mind now, so you don’t have to worry about keeping up pretenses with your imaginary injury. Instead, you scramble up, grabbing hold of his arm and urging him to stand back on his feet again. “Come on, big guy. Almost there.”

He collapses again at the door, his body falling into the thick metal of the airlock with a loud bang, and you let out a startled gasp at the sight of his head nearly colliding against it too. Fuck, that would have sucked. You want him lax and vulnerable, susceptible to your desires as you guide you both towards becoming one - you don’t want him knocked the fuck out by taking an accidental blow to the head. 

He mumbles something when you help him up again, and even in his disoriented state he’s still a gentleman as he tries his best not to put too much of his weight on you. Your hand smacks against the open button, ushering Neteyam inside the chamber as it depressurizes from the carbon filled Pandoran air to breathable oxygen. Neteyam takes a knee to rest as you pause next to the mask station, replacing your mask and pack on the shelf and grabbing a carbon mask for Neteyam. You loop the carbon mask around your own neck, worried that taking the time to try to fit it around Neteyam’s might mean the difference between making it to your bedroom and dealing with a passed out Na’vi in the middle of the hallway. 

“Come on, baby,” You say, cupping his cheek and tilting his head towards you. His big amber eyes are glazed over. You think they look so beautiful. 

It seems like forever by the time you finally make it into your bedroom. Neteyam collapses on the bed, large body taking up the entirety of the mattress as he sprawls out, legs dangling off the edge. You pull the carbon mask from around your neck, smiling softly down at Neteyam as you place the mask over his parted mouth. Your hand slips underneath the back of his head as you try to lift it up. It’s heavy in your hold, and Neteyam does nothing to help you as you try to work the strap of the mask underneath it. It takes some adjusting, but a brief moment of perseverance and you’re able to get it under and looped around his neck.

The mask itself is fogged up with Neteyam’s quick breathing and, after a few seconds, you pull it off and rest it on his sternum. 

“I feel heavy,” Neteyam slurs, golden eyes closing for just a second before opening back up, but they’re still unfocused - seeing things, but maybe not actually seeing things. 

“I know, baby. I know,” You coo, a slight pout pulling at your lips as you squeeze reassuringly at his shoulder. “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise. I’m here.”

You know the drug is supposed to put him to sleep, and that’s fine - that’s the goal actually - eventually. But it’s not ideal for right now. Things have to happen first. And with the way Neteyam is looking… well, you don’t know how much time you have left so you need to work fast. 

You climb on the bed, tossing one of your legs over Neteyam’s thighs so you can straddle it and fuck. Oh God, fuuuuckkk. The feeling of his muscular thigh against your bare pussy already makes you want to cum. You’re so wet - have been for a majority of the walk back from having Neteyam’s irresistible body pressed against yours for so long, his muscles teasing their strength as they ripple under his skin. His thigh is no different. Just a block of hard, solid, corded muscle that presses just perfectly against your throbbing clit. 

You allow yourself one experimental rock, dragging the swollen bundle of nerves across his skin. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, hands subconsciously gripping onto his waist to hold him close. You hear Neteyam let out a noise similar to a hum at the movement, too, and the sound shoots straight to your core. 

“Fuck,” You whimper. Get it together. You need to focus on the prize. 

You force your hips to stay still and move your hands inwards, slowly caressing the flat, toned plane of his stomach as you go before tracing the bottom of Neteyam’s cummerbund with the tips of your fingers. 

“Let’s get you comfortable, okay?” You say, softly. “So you can relax.”

Perhaps you should have thought this through a little more. Neteyam’s laying down and the cummerbund ties at the back, so it's another game of ‘shove your hands under the massive amount of deadweight and see if you can fanegal your way around it’. You do, of course. You're persistent in getting what you want. But it takes longer than you would have liked and more effort than you wanted to give, especially given that you have your drenched pussy pressed against his thigh right now and you want nothing more than to hump him like a thanator in heat.

But when it’s finally off, it’s worth it to see that little extra strip of skin. You can’t wait to trace every single one of those exposed bioluminescent freckles scattered around his waist with your tongue. 

“So much better, huh?” You say, tossing the cummerbund to the floor. “Not as restricting.”

Your hands find the hem of your dress, pulling it up and over your head, leaving you in nothing but your pretty lacy bra as your dress joins Neteyam’s cummerbund on the floor. Neteyam’s hazy eyes do their best to follow your movements, and even though the confusion you see in them, they can’t leave the sight of your scantily clad body.

A satisfied smirk pulls at your lips as you lean forward, pressing your hands against his belly as the tops of your arms push your breasts together. The movement makes your clit brush against Neteyam’s thigh again, and you want to whine, want to do it again and again and again until you drench his gorgeous blue skin in your juices. But you’re caught in his gaze as his large golden eyes track your movement, unable to help tracing the curves despite his current state. 

Slowly, your hands drag down his belly, curving to his sides and messaging his hips for a moment before your fingers find the knot at the side of his loincloth. 

“Let’s get this off too,” You whisper. The knot stands no chance against your prying fingers and comes apart easily with just a few flicks and pulls. 

It feels like unwrapping a present as you pull the loincloth from Neteyam’s hips. You’ve seen down there before. The Na’vi aren’t as body conscious as humans are. Plus he’s your best friend, and there’s no need for modesty between friends. If you’ve taken a few extra peeks while he’s changing or bathing then that’s your business, just like you’ve caught him returning the favor more than a few times. 

But it still feels brand new as you stare at the flat space between his thighs. Excitement courses through your veins at the sight of it, your mouth watering at the thought that soon it’s gonna be glistening and puffy and parting at the center to make way for the real prize to come out. 

“Tanhì,” Neteyam mumbles, but you’re quick to shush him.

“Just relax, Teyam,” It hurts to pull your pussy from his thigh, but you have something more important to sit on soon. You just need to coax it out first. “Just feel.”

You settle between his legs on your stomach, hands pressing against his inner thighs and urging them apart a little further to give you better access to his center. You bite your lip to hide your smile, running a teasing finger along the slit before your lips replace your finger with a gentle kiss. 

The first drag of your tongue along his slit already has your eyes rolling back into your head. You’ve never gotten to do this before. You probably could have had other Na’vi lovers before if you really wanted to. You’re gorgeous and Neteyam isn’t the only sexy blue alien who you’ve caught staring at your assets before. But why would you ever want anyone else when you have your mighty warrior right here in front of you. Finally. 

Neteyam grunts above you as you lick at him, long and thorough swipes of your tongue across the slit, again and again, laving the area and coating it in your saliva until you taste the first signs of his arousal seeping from inside. You hum as the first bit of slick touches your tongue, coating your tastebuds and making your thighs clench together in pleasure. Your thumbs press into either side of the slit, pulling it apart slightly so your tongue can push in deeper, desperate for more of Neteyam’s delicious taste. 

Your tongue is relentless as you eat at him and you know that if he had control of his body, his hips would be canting up towards your face. You can picture it now - how next time will be. You’ll be between his legs again, mouth teasing at the flat alien space he has between his legs as you coax his cock out further and further out of its protective sheath with each swipe of your tongue. He’d have one hand clutching at your sheets, fisting them so hard you would probably have rips in them from how hard his fingers would dig into it. His other hand would be on the back of your head, large palm cradling the entirety of it as he presses you harder against him, moaning for you to lick faster, harder, deeper. You wonder how sensitive this part of him is. He’s moaning so much already, quiet punched out sounds that serve to urge you on, and you wonder how much louder he would be if he wasn’t so tired and drugged up. 

The taste of his slick makes your pussy gush, the more you lap up the more your body feels like it's on fire. You’ve heard about the Na’vi having something in their slick that’s intoxicating - your head feels fuzzy, feels good, like you're levitating on air and Neteyam is the only focal point you can see. And when you feel the first poke of Neteyam’s cock peeking through the now puffy and soaking opening of his slit, your hips can’t help the way they grind into the mattress.

You’re quick to wrap your lips around the protruding head, suckling gently at the exposed tip as your thumbs continue to rub soothingly up and down the sides of the now open slit, using the slick there to help the glide. Neteyam grunts at the feel of your lips around his cock, and he has just enough movement of his body left to be able to give a slight arch as you suck a bit harder. 

“Y/n,” He groans, and the sound of your name falling from his lips like that makes you want to scream. 

That’s right, baby. Say my name. 

It’s a blissful experience - Neteyam’s cock slowly filling your mouth more and more as it emerges from its sheath. Another inch and then another, each new barb and bump sliding across your tongue until the very tip of it hits the back of your throat. Despite him not being able to move much, you pin his hips down anyway - a dual combination of your own intense desire for him mixed with the increased need brought on by whatever is in his slick. 

His cock feels so good in your mouth, the texture along his length dragging against your tongue as the cone shaped tip of his cock bumps the inside of your cheek. You adjust again, opening your throat and forcing your head downwards. You gag when his cock breaches your airway, sputtering and choking yourself on him as you do your best to take him in. Fuck, he’s so big. You can’t breathe, can’t even think he’s so big, but you don’t want to move away. You’ve wanted this for so long so if you have to ruin your throat a little bit to make it happen, then so be it. 

The need for air cuts your plan short, and it takes the knowledge that this isn’t the last time you’ll be able to do this to allow yourself to pull off. Neteyam’s cock is shiny and glorious as you free it and allow it to slap against his lower belly. The base of his cock is the same gorgeous pattern of blue stripes that adorn the rest of his body, littered with bumps and barbs and tiny bioluminescent freckles that you know are going to feel magical inside of you. The tip is a pretty lavender color, the colors blending together almost artfully as it spreads towards the slight cone shaped head. Finally being able to look at it properly has you feeling feral, and you can’t resist the temptation to give one last sloppy lick along the entire length of it, the tip of your tongue gently teasing the ridges on the underside of the head before pulling away for good.

Neteyam’s panting is matching yours - deep, heavy, and quick as you both try to catch your breath. You climb up his body and straddle his waist. Your fingers are still a little wet from his slick as you cup his face and tilt it up, bringing his lips in alignment with yours. You press your own against his and you feel so small compared to him. His lips are twice the size yours are and wonder what it would feel like if the positions were reversed right now. You think you would burst into a ball of flames if you had him on top of you like this - his large, heavy body covering you completely and pressing you into your own mattress. Your tongue slides between his lips and glides against his own, and you moan at the rough feel of it.

“Next time we do this,” You murmur against his lips. “I want you to eat my pussy, okay?” You pull back, thumb caressing his bottom lip briefly before you bring the carbon mask back up to his mouth. “Wanna feel what that textured tongue of yours feels like.”

Neteyam gulps down the carbon like it's the only air he’s ever gotten, hazy golden eyes locked on yours as you scoot your hips back without ever breaking eye contact. Your ass meets his cock and you greedily drag your pussy along the length as you let him sip from the mask. The bumps along his length feel like heaven against your drenched cunt, the additional texture so foreign and blissful on your swollen clit. 

When you deemed he’s had enough, you drop the mask back on his chest and place a steadying hand on his stomach. Your other hand reaches behind you, guiding his cock up until the tip of it is nestled against your entrance. 

“Fuck,” You giggle, nervously. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You’ve been waiting for this moment for so long. You’re ready, you’re so so ready. He just feels so big. He is big. He’s going to stretch you out so much. His cock is going to bully its way into your guts and you’re going to feel so full. The very thought of it makes you as terrified as it does excited. Maybe there will even be a bulge. You want to know - you want to know so badly.

With a deep breath, you start to lower yourself down on him. The stretch as the head of his cock penetrates your slick walls has you gasping. Fuck, it feels so intense, so much as his thick girth spears you open. You’re so wet, so ready for him, and the added slick from his slit and your saliva still coats his cock so the slide is as easy as it ever could be. The pressure is there as you bear down on him harder, desperate to feel more of him inside you, but to your complete shock, there is little actual pain.  

The barbs decorating his length scrape deliciously against your insides, dragging across your sensitive walls and pressing into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had. You let out a relieved laugh when you finally fit in all that you can take. You’re so full, so amazingly full that you feel like you want to cry. There is a bulge - you can see it clear as day, pressing from the inside of your belly, and your hand caresses the bulge lovingly. 

That’s your mate’s cock inside of you. 

Finally.

When you look back up at Neteyam, you see that his eyes are rolled back in pleasure, just the bottom of his golden irises and his blown pupils are visible underneath his hooded eyes. 

“Feel so good inside me, Teyam,” You whisper, and you think the slight grunt he lets out at your words is him agreeing. “So, so good.”

His cock feels even better when your hips start to move, slowly raising up until only the tip is left inside you before sliding back down, your own pussy becoming its new protective sheath. You keep it safe inside you, cradled and protected within the loving hug of your slick walls as you ride him faster. Harder. Each push of his cock inside you feels like you're being blessed. You’ve been a good girl, you’ve earned this. And now, despite you having to play a little dirty to get to this point, your efforts are being rewarded. Neteyam is your god and you’ll worship the ground he walks on until the day you die. And from this day forward, he’ll worship you in return. 

The bulge in your belly disappears and reappears with each movement of your hips, and your clit throbs, pulsing with need and begging for you to give it some attention. You don’t want your own fingers. You’ve had more than enough of your own touch over the years. Your eyes land on Neteyam’s hand still lying limp next to him. His long fingers are curled slightly against the bed, his best attempt at clutching the sheets just like you know he would be now if he could, and you’ve imagined those fingers playing with your sensitive bundle of nerves more times than you can count. 

Your hand goes to reach for it, set on feeling Neteyam’s beautiful fingers between your thighs even if you have to guide his movements yourself. But then your eyes fall on the carefully maintained braid lying just a few inches next to that hand and your priorities change.

Yes. 

He’s your mate. He’s yours. You deserve this. You get to touch it. 

Your hips slow to a careful grind as your fingers clasp gently around the bottom of his kuru. It feels good in your hand, the hair covering the neural queue feels glossy and perfect against your palm. A small smile creeps onto your lips as you flip open the very tip of it, and you stare greedily as the hair falls away revealing the bright pink wiggling extensions of Neteyam’s nervous system. 

From behind the wriggling tendrils, you see Neteyam’s head shift towards you again, his golden eyes hooded and a little bit teary from pleasure as he watches you hold onto the most sacred part of him. 

“You’re mine, okay?” You tell him. “Only mine. Forever.”

To seal your words, you bring the pretty pink tendrils to your lips, pressing a featherlight kiss to them before caressing them with the flat of your tongue. You watch Neteyam react to the feel of your tongue licking against them. His pupils blow out more than you ever thought was possible, black overtaking his eyes and leaving only the thinnest band of gold around the edges. The sounds leaving his mouth now make your pussy clench around him tighter, and you’re again cursing the fact that you’ve even had to do this because they could be louder. He could be screaming right now, but he can’t because of the stupid drugs hold on him. 

Next time, y/n. Next time, you have to remind yourself, or you think you might go mad.  

You lick them again, already obsessed with the way they feel against your tongue and the giddy thought of ‘I licked it so it’s mine’ has you grinning in victory. 

You pull the tendrils away from your tongue and start to drag them slowly down your body. They slide wherever you take them, still wiggling and searching for purchase but never finding any as you drag them down your neck, over your collarbone and the tops of your breast. You want to pull down the cup of your bra and see if it would latch onto one of your nipples, desperate to know what they would feel like and how Neteyam would react to it, but the pulsing need between your thighs refuses to be ignored. They wriggle along your belly, over the bulge still present there, and tickle the inside of your thigh as you guide it closer and closer to your intended bonding zone. 

When they reach for your clit, the feeling has you squealing. They’re relentless, determined to find something to wrap around and latch onto, but the wetness between your thighs has them sliding and squirming and unable to bond to you. It feels so weird, so weird and so good as they try to wrap themselves around your clit. Your hips move again on their own accord, riding him harder and faster while the tendrils inadvertently play with your clit, and holy fuck - fuck fuck fuck you think you might be going insane. 

Somehow the tendrils find purchase through the wetness, a few wrapping themselves around your clit while the others stick themselves to the inside of your folds. And you can feel it - can feel the energy radiating from them. 

It’s not how it’s usually done, but you’re not the usual couple. You don’t have a kuru so it shouldn’t be possible for you to bond fully with Neteyam, but you never believed that. And now you’ve proven that you were right. You can feel the bond forming from where you’re connected - from his most intimate part to yours. 

Neteyam’s eyes are rolled back into his head again, so far gone that you can only see the whites of his eyes at the bottom. His chest is heaving under your palm, small grunts and moans spilling from his lips and even though his body can barely move, his cock twitches and pulses wildly inside you. 

You can feel his knot forming at the base of his cock, the thick ball of tissue swelling and expanding with each thrust. It’s starting to catch at the rim of your pussy and each pass over it gets harder and harder to not get caught on it. 

“Ooooh fuck,” You whine. It already feels so big. “Teyam, fuck,”

You don’t have to take it. You could pull off now and wrap your hand around it to help finish him off. But why the fuck would you do that? He’s yours. You were made for him. Meant to take him. All of him. And you’re not letting this opportunity pass without taking everything. 

The next downward push of your hips is the last one you’re able to make. Neteyam’s knot is so big and you push your hips down on it harder, making it force its way inside you under your bodyweight. You can’t help the small scream that tears from your throat as it locks inside you, tethering you to Neteyam for who knows however long - and then you’re cumming.

Your orgasm tears through you relentlessly, body shaking and spasming as your hands reach out and hold onto Neteyam for dear life. Neteyam’s cock pulses inside you, warm ropes of cum painting your insides as he pants beneath you. When your orgasm is through and you’re done shaking enough to lift yourself up again, you notice Neteyam’s eyes are closed.

He’s sleeping now and you’re exhausted, so you lay your head down on Neteyam’s chest and try to get as comfortable as possible.

His knot stays locked inside you and the tendrils of his kuru remain wrapped around your clit as you drift off to sleep with him. 

By the time Neteyam wakes up, it’s almost like nothing has even happened. 

You’re free from his knot and his cock has since retracted back into its sheath. You’ve cleaned you both up a little, wiping away the evidence with a damp cloth and even though you know he’s going to be able to smell everything still, it’s not like that matters. You’re not trying to hide what happened between the two of you - just how it happened. 

You’ve disposed of the baggie which is the important part anyway.

Somehow you’ve managed to get Neteyam’s loincloth back on. It was tricky given his sleeping position, but you’ve always been a little crafty. His cummerbund is still on the floor though along with your dress, but you’ve decided to go for a more comfortable t-shirt look after wiping yourself clean.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed playing with Neteyam’s songcord that was at one point looped around the band of his loincloth when his eyes flutter open. He groans, one hand coming up to press against the side of his head as he looks around the room in confusion. He seems to relax a bit when his eyes land on you. 

“Wha–what happened?” Neteyam asks, voice no louder than a gruff mumble. 

He still looks a little out of it, the drugs not quite completely out of his system yet. When you look into those big beautiful golden eyes of his, they’re wide and confused. But, more importantly, they’re clear and haze free. He’s himself - he’ll remember this.

So you say your next words carefully with the confidence that he’ll remember them. 

“Iäle drugged you,” You tell him. “She drugged your drink and tried to take advantage of you. But she got called away before she could.” You reach out and cup his cheek, thumb sweeping across his cheekbone lovingly. “I took care of you.”

You hate the spark of doubt you see in his eyes at your words, no doubt thinking that Perfect Iäle would never do such a thing, but you know he trusts you. You’ve never given him a reason not to. You’re the perfect friend - kind, loyal and trustworthy. You wouldn’t say something like this if it wasn’t true. 

“I knew she was no good,” You add. “I felt it in my heart. But it’s okay. I’m here, Teyam. I’m gonna take care of you.”

Neteyam’s lips part like he wants to speak and you know there’s probably a barrage of questions on the tip of his tongue, but the leftover drug still in his system forces him to be silent. You watch, pleased, as his eyes slip shut again, sending him into another round of haze filled sleep.

You hope he dreams. Maybe he’ll dream of what you just told him - see a different version of reality in which Iäle really did drug his drink instead of you and believe that that is this reality. Or maybe he’ll dream of you - your smile, your voice, your touch.

He’ll feel it now. When he wakes up again, he’ll feel it. The undeniable pull towards you as his mate. He’ll realize that he’s been a fool, wasting his time messing with another girl when he’s had you here, perfect and pretty for him this whole time. 

Bye, Iäle, you think smugly, resting your upper body out along Neteyam’s hips and propping your chin up against his stomach.

I win.

**Special thanks to @quicktosimp and @itchaboi-itchyboy for the prompt!

Taglist: @eywaite @loaksulluyswife @erenjaegerwifee @f-cklife @beautiful-brown-skin-05 @minnory @localjasmine @skywonder @neteyamswillow @luvv4j4ybe11 @vampirefilmlover @aria-tempest @pocky444 @bambithewriter @xylianasblog @anemonelovesfiction @criticallybella @sbrn0905

**Comment here to be added to/removed from my taglist!

[revehae]

warnings: noncon, drugging

wc. 837

repost. i found this in my docs accidentally (which is silly because when i intentionally looked for it i couldn’t find it…?)

the night feels mistier than it looks, the moon marveling down at itself as it reflects in the water and a bridge of light gleams gently across the still lake. jeno’s car isn’t parked too far. if you tried to walk there in this state, it wouldn’t feel that way, but it’s just shy of the edge.

mark and jeno would never let you make that journey though, not without their support. you never used to think that you were a lightweight, but considering mark and jeno have to nurse you every time you drink together, it was safe to say that you couldn’t hold your liquor.

they’re such good friends, you always tell yourself the morning after, helping you take care of yourself and still inviting you back the next time. you tried to tell them that you wouldn’t be upset if they didn’t want you to come, you wouldn’t want to babysit a drunk grown woman either, but the two insist that you are far from a nuisance.

tonight is no different from any other friday night that you spend getting drunk with your trustworthy friends. you each have a couple of drinks, downing shots in between laughter and chatter. nothing’s out of the blue, really. until it is. until that strange, familiarly unfamiliar feeling creeps up on you, the isolation of your debilitated senses, the lack of control altogether.

it always goes like this. a few shots, some jokes, some stumbling around. mark and jeno crack the jokes now, laughing at how drunk you are, but nevertheless holding onto you. jeno’s holding onto your left while mark’s got your right, their distinct touches peculiarly familiar to you for whatever reason. you know mark’s calloused hands and hardened palms when you feel them, as you do jeno’s strong grip, because he never not fails to remember his strength.

they guide you to the car, assuring you that they’re going to sober you up with some water mark brought to jeno’s car but for whatever reason didn’t think to bring out with the the drinks. and then it’s blank, foggy and unclear.

you don’t remember jeno’s unforgiving hold on your wrists, his merciless pace as if he’s trying to squeeze you into his leather seat. you don’t remember his degrading little words as he breaks character, going on about how you’re so, so stupid. so trusting. too trusting. you don’t remember mark’s toughened hands on your hips as he bulldozes your pussy, nothing but, “fuck,” leaving his mouth.

hell, you don’t even remember hearing them play rock paper scissors to decide who gets to have their wicked way with you before the other, mark being the lucky guy tonight.

because when your senses are restored, the sun is up and you aren’t at the lake anymore nor are you inside of jeno’s car. given that mark’s place is closest, they took you there for the night, and it’s his spare room that you wake up inside of.

when you meet mark and jeno in the morning, they even have breakfast going, and everything’s so overwhelmingly normal in spite of the strange feeling that possesses you.

because when mark wraps his arm around you in a sweet hug, his hand brushes a sliver of your exposed skin even though you’re fully dressed, and it feels strange. when jeno whispers something in your ear about mark’s cooking skills or lack thereof, his tone and the little chuckle that follows is too familiar.

and it starts to occur to you, the memories of what happened the night before, through a thick, blurry haze. mark’s mangling weight on top of your body and rough fingers. jeno’s harsh words that are hardly jokes, violent and sweaty skin sticking to yours.

it’s so distant that you can’t tell if it’s a dream or a memory, but to your horror, it feels so real. it explains the stinging around your wrists and the bruising at your hips, the sticky stuff in your underwear.

but you don’t want to believe that mark and jeno are capable of hurting you. not when they take care of you so much more than they have to, not when they’re always so sweet and kind, so loving.

you ask mark and jeno if anything happened last night a couple of moments into breakfast, an unsettling feeling like bile in your throat. it’s different than an average hangover, it spreads all over and wrecks through your whole being like an implacable virus.

mark and jeno play dumb, as if they’re totally oblivious to what you’re implying, even if they remember in detail what you would never be able to recall as descriptively as they do amongst each other. they say that you passed out in the car, and it’s so convenient, almost too convenient, but that’s their story and they stick to it.

and really, you don’t press for the truth, because you wouldn’t know how to accept your friends being anybody but who you think they are anyway.

[woobiedoovo]

I think Ford should totally rape Stan. How is he supposed to resist when Stanley is... well, Stanley? He's threatening to knock him up too because I think we ALL know that Ford would find a way to make it possible. Stanley definitely knows Ford would, so he gets scared (he'll never admit to being scared, though. How cute!) and tries to fight Ford off. But Ford has gotten strong throughout the years. Maybe even TOO strong, because he just shushes Stan and tells him to take it.

Anon I’m looking at you with my big ol’ eyes and fluttering my lashes like a young maiden. I ended up making Ford a bit more delusional and less aggressive, but I hope you like it still!!

Let’s get some TW’s out of the way!!

TW: Non-con, creep/condescending Ford, drugging, slight feminization(kind of? There are some inklings of it, so I’m putting it just in case), mentions of body modification(like one sentence), FORD IS NOT VERY GREAT HERE GUYS JUST A WARNING

“Really, Stanley, you should’ve seen this coming.” He really should have, honestly. Ever since they’ve set sail on the Stan O’ War Stanley has done nothing but try to seduce him. Stanford, at the end of the day, was but a man and his twin was nothing but short of a seductress. With his coy smiles, tight shirts, and teasing smirks, it was a miracle he hadn’t jumped his twin sooner. He trailed his hands up Stanley’s torso, over the swell of his belly and up to his covered chest, tight shirt strung taught against his twin’s chest. Stanley’s glassy eyes watched him, drool dripping down his perfect pink lips. He tried to say something, but his word’s came out slurred and undistinguished, making Ford smile softly.

“Ah, yes. That would be the effects of the paralyzing agent I slipped into your beer. Don’t worry dear, it should wear off by morning.” Stanley let out a grunt, his body wiggling in protest underneath him. Rolling his eyes at his twin’s stubbornness, he readjusted their positions, pulling Stanley back towards him as his twin tried to get away. “Don’t fight it Stanley, you’re only making this harder for the both of us.” He tutted, rolling his eyes as his brother glared at him through foggy eyes.

“Really, you’re acting like a child.” Ford sighed, his hands groped at his twin’s generous bosom, punching at his erect nipples. He raised an inquisitive brow as Stanley threw his head back, the sound of Stan’s head hitting the wooden floor of the Stan O’ War drawing Ford’s eye. “Does that feel good, Stanley?” He question was met with a growl, one that he assumed was supposed to come off as threatening but resembled more of a frightened dogs. Adorable. His brother was simply adorable.

His eager hands gripped the hem of Stanley’s shirt, pushing it up and under his armpits, revealing his hairy pecs. His brother’s chest heaved, short and hurried breaths making his chest bounce in an almost hypnotic manner. Two stiff peaks, dusty and swollen, called to him, making his mouth water. Another sound burst forward from Stanley’s lips as he pressed his lips against his nipples, a high-pitched whine that made Ford’s cock twitch in his briefs. He bared his teeth, feeling Stan’s eyes on him, and gently bit down. Another whine.

“So sensitive.” He whispered, pulling and teasing with his teeth as his other hand wandered downward. He switched, now sucking gently on the other, less abused nipple as his hand gripped at Stanley’s crotch, feeling the outline of his twin’s erection. In a feat of admirable perseverance, Stanley moved one sluggish hand down to push away his. He pulled away from his twin’s nipple, a string of spit following him as he sat up to give Stan an indulgent look. “Impressive, Stanley. Most people at this point are fully paralyzed. You really are amazing, my dearest.” Taking Stanley’s hand, he moved it away with little fanfare, unzipping his younger’s twin’s jeans.

Stanley’s boxer’s were damp, his erection desperately trying to escape the confines of his underwear. “You can pretend all you want, Stanley, but your body can’t lie to me.” He pressed down, listening to Stan’s delightful squeak as he put pressure against his clothed cock. With just a little teasing his younger twin looked completely debauched, his chest littered with bite marks and eyes full of unshed tears. His twin’s lips were moving but no sound came out. Disappointing, but it was for the best, he reasoned. Once they copulated and Stanley understood just how much he loved him he wouldn’t have to put him under like this. Though, of course, his twin did look simply adorable while under his mercy like this.

It took a moment to shuffle Stanley’s jeans down his legs, his twin being little help and acting more as a dead weight then anything, as if trying to make it harder for Ford to remove his jeans. He patted Stan’s thigh encouragingly once he finally got them off, throwing the offending item off to the side. The underwear came off much easier, the clothing significantly less tighter than Stanley’s jeans. His twin’s cock, tip flushed and beading with precum, popped up and greeted him. Stan’s legs closed around Ford’s waist, a sad attempt to hide from Ford’s hungry eyes.

“No need to be shy, Stanley. You look beautiful.” Ford reassured him, knowing just how self-conscious his twin felt about his appearance. He found it feather ridiculous, really. His brother was a rather handsome man, rugged and manly in every sense. His hands carded through his twin’s chest hair, pulling at it lightly. Very manly.

Finally, he reached for his own zipper, not bothering to fully undress and only pulling out his erection. He watched as his twin’s eyes widened, the gorgeous brown being swallowed by the black of his pupils. He smiled. As hard as Stanley tried to act like he didn’t want this, the desire in his eyes was hard to hide. Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he pulled out a small travel sized bottle of lube he had hidden away in his pants for just this moment. He popped open the cap, spreading the slick substance against Stan’s fluttering pucker in slow, circling motions. He slowly dipped his finger past the ring of taught muscle, letting out a quiet tsk as Stan tensed up around his pointer finger. He slapped at Stan’s thigh, giving his twin a disapproving look.

“Don’t tense up, Stanley. You’ll hurt yourself.” A mumbling groan from Stan was the only response he got, but he was met with no more resistance as he continued to stretch his twin’s hole with a second finger. He slipped in a third, caressing his twin’s silky walls as he searched for his prostate. He knew he found it when Stan let out a loud moan, the clearest sound his twin had made the whole night. He pulled out, wiping his fingers against Stan’s stomach absentmindedly, patting his stomach apologetically when Stan let out an offended grunt. He shivered at the cold feeing of the lube against his aching cock, spreading the lube with a few eager strokes.

He pressed the head of his cock against Stan’s hole, watching with lidded eyes as the tip sunk in easily. He let out a low groan, slowly rocking back and forth as his cock sunk deeper and deeper into Stanley’s warmth. Stan wiggled underneath him, making him grab at his twin’s soft hips to stop him from pulling away. “You’re doing so good for me, Stanley. If only you could see yourself like this.” He panted, thrusts increasing in intensity as he gained his footing. It was almost overwhelming, the feeling of Stanley wrapped around him, his twin’s soft walls clinging to his penis desperately, pulling him in.

“You look so perfect, my love. It’s like you were made to take me and my cock. You’ll look even more beautiful full of my cum.” His words seemed to gain a reaction from Stanley, his molten walls squeezing against his cock, milking him. “Do you like the sound of that, Stanley? Me cumming inside of you? Breeding you?” He picked up his pace, the sound of their hips meeting echoing in the room. Stan groaned, head shaking. “Don’t be coy, Stanley.” He brought his hand to Stan’s cock, stroking up and down. “You like the thought of carrying my child, don’t you?” The image of Stanley, round with his child made his hips stutter.

“I could make it happen, Stanley. I know you miss the twin’s. You were always more maternal than I was.” His voice became strained the longer he talked, hands gripping Stan’s hips as he hammered into him. “I would take care of you. Make sure you never wanted anything ever again. You would look so amazing pregnant, full of life.” Stan’s legs kicked weakly as he rambled, pumping frantically at his erection.

His stomach tightened, pleasure overwhelming him as he came. He rolled his hip’s against Stanley’s, filling him with his release. Stan was pliant under him, staring up at the ceiling with tear-stained cheeks and red bitten lips, his own cum staining his stomach. He leaned forward, kissing him gently. “Don’t worry Stanley, next time I’ll make sure it takes.”