#content scraping defense

[themorningnewsinformer]

Cloudflare AI Bot Blocker: A Game-Changer for Web Publishers

Introduction The digital publishing world is fighting back against unauthorized AI data scraping. With the launch of the Cloudflare AI bot blocker, over a million websites—including media giants like Sky News and Buzzfeed—can now block AI bots from collecting content without consent. This transformative tool gives creators the control they’ve long demanded over their digital work. Why Is…

[arolesbianism]

I have been playing beastieball and first of all very good game second of all smth smth Olivia Broussard

[barnesonly]

Round Two

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: Tension explodes in the training room when Bucky walks in on you sparring a little too close with Walker. He doesn’t say much but when he takes over the session… well. Jealous!Bucky Barnes it is.

word count: 3397

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, degrading kink, dry humping, fingering, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, semi-public sex, breeding, overstimulation, possessive behavior, jealous af, fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated.

A/N: Sigh. I had this in my head ever since watching Thunderbolts* and recent work of @iamthatonefangirl pushed me into finally writing it down. Do not expect much plot from it… or any plot at all. Writer has no regrets.

The training room was filled with the rhythmic thud of your boots against the mat and the sharp, quick breaths you shared with Walker. His presence was overwhelming — tall, broad-shouldered, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, mixing with your own rising warmth.

You circled each other warily, muscles taut, eyes locked like predators. Walker’s grin was cocky, but there was an edge of respect in it. “You’re stubborn,” he said, voice low and teasing.

“Yeah, well,” you shot back, dropping into a defensive stance, “you’re slow.”

His laughter was rough as he lunged forward, grabbing your wrist and twisting, forcing you down toward the mat.

You fought against him, every inch a battle — but he was strong, and before you knew it, your back hit the padded floor.

Walker was on top, chest pressing against yours. You could feel the solid heat of him, the strength beneath his armor. Your arms were pinned, but your eyes stayed locked with his, breaths mingling in the tight space between you.

“You holding back?” he whispered, his breath warm on your face.

You smirked, muscles flexing as you pushed against him, trying to twist free. “Not a chance.”

His hands slid down your arms, skin to skin, the contact electric, and for a moment, the fight faded into something else — a tension thick enough to choke on.

Walker shifted, lowering his mouth to your ear. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding loud in your chest, and the taste of his breath — spicy and close — sent a thrill racing through you.

With a quick movement, you twisted, trying to flip him off you, but Walker caught your wrist and held you fast.

His face hovered inches from yours, the faint scrape of stubble against your cheek making you shiver.

“Almost had me,” he murmured, voice rough.

Your fingers brushed his jaw, accidental but electric, and his eyes darkened, holding you captive in that intense gaze.

Neither of you moved. The room was silent except for your ragged breathing and the thudding of your heartbeats, syncing in the small space where your bodies met.

You felt the heat pooling low in your belly, the line between fighting and wanting blurring with every second.

Walker’s hand slid up your arm, fingertips trailing lightly, sending sparks where they touched.

Your lips parted, breath hitching.

The door slid open, and Bucky Barnes stepped inside. He paused, taking in the scene: you pinned beneath Walker, bodies close, breaths heavy and mingling.

His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

You pushed Walker off with a quick grunt, breathing hard but flashing a grin. “Round two?”

Walker gave a lazy shrug, stretching one arm. “Wish I could, but I gotta run.”

You frowned in disappointment. “Already?”

“Yeah,” he said, smirking. “But maybe Bucky here can take over.”

Walker clapped Bucky on the shoulder before heading out, leaving the two of you alone.

Bucky’s eyes locked onto you, sharp and cold like ice cutting through steel. His jaw clenched so tight you could almost hear the grind.

“I guess I’m stuck with you now,” he growled, voice low and rough - no hint of warmth.

You blinked, caught off guard by how harsh he sounded. “Stuck? It’s just training, Bucky.”

He took a step closer, his gaze burning holes through you. “Yeah, well, sparring with him? That looked less like training and more like… whatever that was.”

You frowned, heat creeping to your cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky’s lips curled into a bitter smirk, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, come on. You don’t get that close with Walker — arms locked, skin on skin and expect me to not notice?”

Your heart thudded loud and fast. “We were sparring, Barnes. You’re reading way too much into it.”

Bucky scoffed. “Whatever.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Bucky lunged forward, his movements sharp and aggressive — like a storm about to break loose.

His fist came at you harder than necessary, forcing you to scramble back and dodge. This wasn’t training. This was punishment.

“You getting cozy with Walker?” His voice was low, clipped, cutting like a knife. “Don’t think I’m just gonna stand here and watch.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your arm with a grip that was rough and unyielding. You winced but didn’t pull away. Not yet.

“Not on my watch.”

Bucky closed the space between you, chest pressing against yours, fingers digging into your arm like a silent command. No words explaining it. No apologies.

Just the cold, hard truth of his possessiveness, raw and undeniable.

He dropped back into stance, voice sharp. “You want to spar? Fine. But don’t expect me to be gentle.”

Every strike was laced with frustration and something harsher — a need to remind you who was in control, without ever saying it.

And the tension between you? Thick enough to choke on.

The second Bucky’s hands locked around your waist, pulling you flush against him, your breath hitched, heart pounding. His metal hand closed over your wrists behind your back, holding you captive with a grip that was equal parts demanding and possessive.

You could feel the hard, unmistakable press of him — his arousal, firm and urgent against your lower back, the weight of it making your breath falter.

“Thought you could get close to Walker and not have to deal with me?” His voice was a low growl, rough with something dark and dangerous.

His breath ghosted over your ear, warm and intoxicating, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. Your body burned where his pressed against you, every nerve screaming with need.

Without warning, Bucky’s metal fingers tightened on your wrists, tilting your hands upward so he could lean in, lips brushing over your neck, trailing a rough kiss down to your shoulder.

You gasped as his body pressed harder, hips grinding just enough to make it impossible to ignore what was between you — the undeniable proof of how much he wanted you.

“Not so fast,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “You don’t get to tease me like that.”

His touch was rough, needy, his control slipping as his hands slid from your wrists to your waist, fingers digging in possessively. You could feel his arousal straining against the fabric of his pants, pressing into you with a hunger that matched your own.

Your skin tingled where his metal hand traced slow, demanding lines along your ribs, igniting a fire that burned hotter by the second.

You let out a soft gasp as his hips pressed into you again, the hard length of him undeniable. Heat flooded your core, your thighs pressing together instinctively. His breath was right against your neck, lips just barely grazing your skin.

You could’ve leaned into it, let him take what he clearly wanted — but instead, you smirked.

Then you twisted.

With a sharp pivot of your hips, you slipped out of his grip, ducking beneath his arm and spinning away. Bucky stumbled half a step, blinking like he hadn’t expected you to escape.

“Thought you were gonna teach me a lesson,” you said, breathless but smug as hell.

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing, jaw flexing hard. “You think this is a joke?”

You shrugged, backing into a loose stance. “I think you’re wound a little tight. What’s the matter, Barnes?” You tilted your head, letting your eyes flick deliberately down his body — right to the straining bulge in his pants. “Need a break?”

The fire in his eyes ignited.

He was on you in a flash.

This time when he moved, it wasn’t just precise — it was brutal, desperate, controlled only by the thinnest thread of restraint. His fists came hard and fast, forcing you to block, deflect, move. He wasn’t holding back anymore.

You ducked, landed a light kick to his thigh, then laughed when he caught your ankle mid-move and yanked, dragging you closer.

“Still think this is a game?” he hissed.

You were breathless, heart pounding, adrenaline and arousal tangling into one intoxicating buzz.

“Depends,” you teased, lips curling. “What do I win if I pin you?”

He growled and shoved you back, body surging forward to slam you to the mat. This time, it was no accident when his hips landed flush against yours.

No pretense. No holding back.

Just his hard cock pressing into your core, and his hand pinning both your wrists above your head.

His breath hit your cheek, ragged and heavy.

“You want to play?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Then fucking play.”

Your breath caught in your throat as Bucky hovered above you, pinning your wrists down hard against the mat. His chest heaved, muscles tense and trembling with restraint, but it was the weight of him between your legs that really made your head spin.

You shifted — just barely and that was all it took. Bucky’s hips snapped forward, grinding his cock against your clothed core with a force that stole your breath.

“You like teasing?” he growled, the sound rough, ragged. “Keep fucking squirming. See what happens.”

You did. Of course you did.

You tilted your hips up with slow defiance, grinding back against the thick heat of him beneath his tactical pants. The friction was maddening, perfectly filthy — your underwear soaked instantly as you dragged yourself along the length of him.

A dark, broken sound ripped from Bucky’s throat, and then he was moving — grinding into you with a rhythm that had your head rolling back and your thighs trembling.

His metal hand kept your wrists pinned above your head while his flesh hand gripped your hip, hard enough to bruise, dragging you into each thrust like he needed you to feel every inch of him through the layers.

“You don’t get to look at him like that,” Bucky hissed, rutting harder. “Don’t get to give that to anyone else.”

You gasped, back arching as his cock rubbed right where you needed it, again and again, pressure building fast and tight in your gut.

“Bucky—” you started, but he cut you off with another deep, grinding thrust.

“No.” His voice cracked, low and dangerous. “You wanna act like a brat, I’ll fuck it out of you right here.”

Your moan was shameless, head spinning as his cock rubbed against your clit just right, over and over, your core clenching around nothing, desperate and soaked and grinding back without shame.

His lips were at your jaw now, rough stubble scraping, breath hot as he fucked into you with relentless rhythm.

“You feel that?” he growled. “That’s what you do to me.”

And god — you could. Every thick, heavy inch of him dragging over your leggings and your throbbing clit, every possessive grind claiming you without a single word of affection.

Your back arched beneath him, body on fire, every nerve burning where his cock ground against your soaked leggins. The sounds you made — ragged, breathless, needy — only pushed him further.

“Fuck,” he growled, his lips grazing your neck. “You’re dripping. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

You nodded and before you could answer vocally, his grip shifted — your wrists still trapped in his metal hand as his other slid down, slow and rough, until his fingers curled beneath the waistband of your leggings.

And then — rip.

You gasped as the fabric tore in his fist, panties along with it, shredded like paper. Cool air rushed over your soaked pussy, your thighs twitching at the sudden exposure.

“Bucky—” you breathed, but the way he was looking at you — eyes dark, jaw clenched, starving— shut you right up.

“Look at you,” he muttered, fingers gliding through your wet folds, spreading the slick mess you’d made. “Grinding all over me like a desperate little thing.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Two thick fingers slid inside you — deep. The stretch sudden and perfect, dragging a cry from your throat as your walls clamped down.

“Fuck, that’s tight,” he hissed, burying them knuckle-deep, his thumb brushing against your clit with brutal precision.

Your body jolted, legs shaking, and he just smirked.

“This what Walker gets?” he growled, curling his fingers just right. “Or is this all mine?”

You couldn’t answer — you couldn’t think. Every pump of his fingers sent sparks through your spine, your hips lifting, chasing more, chasing everything.

“Say it,” Bucky demanded, voice low and threatening. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

He pushed in harder, rougher, hitting that spot that made your thighs quake.

Your moan broke into a whimper.

“It’s—” you choked. “Fuck—yours, Bucky—it’s yours—”

His thumb circled your clit, slow and punishing. “Damn right it is.”

His lips found your neck again, biting down just hard enough to mark you, all while his fingers fucked you open—relentless, possessive, and dripping with control he was seconds away from losing.

Bucky’s fingers pumped into you hard and deep, curling just right as your hips rolled helplessly beneath him. Your body was slick, trembling, pleasure coiling fast and tight in your belly. You were so close it hurt.

And just when you were about to fall apart—he pulled away.

“No—fuck, Bucky—” you gasped, reaching for him, hips twitching.

He didn’t say a word—just grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide, dragging you down the mat until your soaked pussy was right in front of him. You barely had time to breathe before—

His mouth was on you.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, collecting every drop of wetness before diving in, deep and hungry, like a man starved.

Your back arched, a cry breaking from your throat as he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue circling with maddening pressure.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

He groaned against you, the vibration sending a shock through your spine.

Then he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice low, dark, mean.

“Tell me,” he said, breath hot against your dripping pussy. “Could Walker ever make you feel like this?”

Your thighs trembled around his head, body burning with shame and arousal all at once.

“I—no—fuck, Bucky, no—”

He smirked, just barely, before burying his mouth between your legs again, licking and sucking like a man obsessed, like he was trying to drink every sound you made.

His hands held your thighs open, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin as his tongue fucked into you, slow at first, then faster, messier.

You were soaking his face, writhing under him, hips lifting off the mat in desperation.

“You’re fucking mine,” he growled, voice rough against your soaked heat. “No one else gets this.”

Then he sucked your clit hard and you shattered.

Your orgasm ripped through you, a scream tearing from your throat as you came on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head, whole body twitching uncontrollably.

But Bucky didn’t stop.

He kept licking, kept sucking, dragging every last wave from you until you were shaking, a broken mess beneath him.

Finally, he lifted his head — his mouth wet with your slick, eyes dark and burning.

“Next time you think about sparring with Walker,” he said, voice wrecked, “remember what I do to you.”

You were still shaking from the orgasm he pulled out of you with his mouth — slick, breathless, your body twitching as he rose up over you, his face glistening with you.

Bucky’s hands slid under your thighs, lifting them roughly as he shoved his tactical pants down just enough to free his cock—and fuck, he was thick, flushed, leaking at the tip, already hard and twitching.

He didn’t give you a second to breathe.

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, coating himself in your slick before lining up at your entrance.

“Walker wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he growled, dark eyes fixed on your ruined body beneath him. “He couldn’t handle this.”

And then he slammed into you — deep.

You choked on your breath, nails digging into the mat as his cock split you open, stretching you so full you thought you’d lose your mind.

“Bucky—” you gasped, but he just grabbed your waist, pulling you into another brutal thrust.

“Say my name again,” he growled, snapping his hips forward. “Let the whole fucking tower hear who’s making you feel like this.”

“Bucky—oh my god—”

He fucked you like he meant it. Like every thrust was a punishment and a reward all at once. Deep, fast, grinding into you so hard your whole body shifted up the mat.

One hand pinned your hip while the other—the metal one—gripped your throat, not tight enough to hurt, just enough to hold.

“Mine,” he hissed, thrusting deep and slow now, cock dragging over your g-spot. “You understand me?”

You were crying out with every stroke, legs wrapped around him, back arching as the head of his cock hit you just right again and again.

“I said—do you fucking understand me?”

“Yes—yes, Bucky, yours—”

“That’s right,” he grunted, voice wrecked. “This pussy, this body — all fucking mine.”

He pulled out almost completely — just the tip barely inside — then slammed back in with a growl that sounded like it came from deep in his chest.

You shattered again, coming hard around him, clenching so tight he cursed loud, barely holding on.

He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, fucking you through it, grinding his cock into your spasming walls like he needed to burn your name into his skin.

And then he snapped — hips stuttering, breath ragged, and with a broken, desperate grunt.

He came inside you. Deep and hot. Filling you up.

He didn’t pull out. He stayed there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours, cock still twitching as he spilled every last drop into you.

The mat beneath you was soaked. Your legs were trembling. And Bucky?

Still didn’t move.

Still inside you.

Still possessive as hell.

Your body was limp, fucked-out and buzzing, still quivering around the load Bucky had just spilled deep inside you. You were warm, stretched full, his cock still hard as he stayed buried in you for a few long, heady moments.

Then, finally, he pulled out with a thick, wet sound — your walls clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making you gasp.

You felt it almost immediately. The slow, sticky drip of his cum sliding out of you.

But Bucky didn’t move away.

His gaze dropped between your legs, jaw clenched, and you could feel the way he was watching it—the way he watched himself leak out of you.

And then he looked up at you. Eyes darker than sin.

“Not done,” he muttered.

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant — but then his metal hand slid down your stomach and between your legs.

Two fingers — cold, slick, thick — pushed into your still-sensitive cunt.

You cried out, hips jerking, but Bucky held you down, his flesh hand gripping your thigh as he pumped those fingers deep inside you, slow and deliberate.

“Keep it in,” he growled, curling his fingers. “You think I’m gonna let it go to waste?”

Your head dropped back against the mat, spine arching as he fucked you with his fingers, thrusting everything he’d spilled back into you.

“Made you take every drop,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear now. “And now you’re gonna hold it. You hear me?”

Your cunt fluttered around his fingers, overstimulated and soaked again already.

He pushed deeper, scissoring you open, fucking his cum back inside like it belonged there.

“You were made for this,” he murmured, tongue dragging slow and hot against your neck. “To take me. To be filled by me.”

You whimpered, trembling as his thumb found your clit and circled it — lazy, almost cruel.

“God, look at you,” he rasped. “Still so fucking tight. You think Walker could do this to you? Make you this full? This messy?”

You moaned his name, your legs shaking, your body giving in all over again.

“Say it,” he said, voice sharp against your throat. “Say who this pussy belongs to.”

“You, Bucky—fuck—yours—”

“That’s right,” he growled, fingers curling just right.

You came again — a raw, desperate sound tearing from your throat as you clenched around his fingers, body rocking helplessly as he fucked you through it, never letting a single drop escape.

He didn’t stop until you were crying — sobbing his name, broken and full and so far gone you didn’t even know where you ended and he began.

And even then, his fingers stayed buried in you, possessive and proud.

“Next time you even think about sparring with Walker, remember how I filled you first.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

[lumosflairr]

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐭

welcome page

summary: You and Theo have always had silent tension, until one day you both finally break.

warnings: making out. thats about it

word count: 1.6k

if you want to know when i post more theo content, please join my taglist!

It started with the way he looked at you. Or maybe it started long before that—before the stolen glances, before the lazy smirks and low-voiced jokes, before you even realized Theodore Nott had a voice that could make your name sound like velvet.

You were both Slytherins. That should’ve made you allies by default. But no—he wasn’t the kind of housemate you exchanged greetings with in the common room. You weren’t exactly friends. You weren’t rivals either. You were something in between—always orbiting one another, never quite colliding.

He was always in the background. In the corner of the room at late-night study sessions, draped over an armchair like he was carved into it. At breakfast, quiet and unreadable, swirling his coffee while the rest of the table buzzed with chatter. You’d pass each other in the dungeons, exchange dry comments in the common room, occasionally get paired for group work.

He wasn’t loud like the others. Didn’t try to charm, didn’t posture. He was observant, precise, untouchable. And it irritated you—the way he always seemed ten steps ahead, as if nothing anyone did could touch him.

You didn’t expect him to start speaking to you.

The first time was in Defense Against the Dark Arts, sixth year. You were both assigned to demonstrate shielding spells together, and he didn’t even glance up when Snape announced it.

You squared off in front of him, wand raised.

He finally looked at you, one brow lifted. “I’ll try not to obliterate you. Wouldn’t want to bruise that pride of yours.”

“Please,” you scoffed. “If anyone’s pride needs bruising, it’s yours.”

That was the beginning.

From then on, something shifted. He’d make offhand comments in the common room when you passed. Sit just close enough during study hours that you could feel the edge of his presence. He never really talked—not in the way others did—but when he did, it always left an echo.

After a long Potions lab one evening, you were trudging back to the common room when he fell into step beside you. He didn’t say anything for a moment—just walked, hands in his pockets, eyes forward.

“Stanchi ma belli, huh?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Tired, but beautiful.” He glanced sideways at you. “You look it.”

You glared at him, even as your cheeks burned. “Is that your idea of a compliment?”

“No,” he said easily. “That was just honesty.”

The tension built slowly. Not obvious to anyone else, maybe not even to you at first. But it was there—in the way your eyes lingered a little longer when he walked into the room. In the way you found yourself choosing the seat across from him at the long green-glass tables in the common room. In the way he looked at you like he was cataloging something he wanted to keep.

It wasn’t until the night in the library that everything truly changed.

You were both working late on your essays—separately, of course. You’d claimed a table near the back, close to the Restricted Section, surrounded by open books and half-finished notes. You were hunched over, quill in hand, when you heard the familiar scrape of a chair pulling out across from you.

You looked up to see Theo sitting down without asking.

“Burning the midnight oil, amore?”

You scowled. “I’m not your amore, Nott.”

His lips curled slightly. “Not yet.”

Your jaw clenched, heat blooming at the back of your neck. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed lazily. “Just observant.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Only to those who look at me like that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Like what?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze didn’t waver—it held yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

“Like you want me to stop,” he said softly, “when you don’t.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You hated how still you went. How the words hit too precisely—how they exposed something you hadn’t dared admit even to yourself.

And he knew.

Of course he did.

That was the worst part—he knew exactly what he was doing to you. The long looks, the quiet comments, the way his fingers drummed against the table just loud enough to pull your attention, the way his eyes traced your face like he was memorizing it.

The game wasn’t subtle anymore. He’d cracked the silence between you open, and neither of you made an effort to close it.

You didn’t even try to ignore him anymore. When he leaned in with that lazy smirk and those damn velvet-lined words, you leaned right back.

“I’m trying to work,” you muttered, eyes locked on him.

“Mm.” His voice was low. “And I’m trying not to think about how good you look when you’re pretending you don’t like me.”

You raised an eyebrow, daring to glance at him. “Who said I’m pretending?”

His eyes lit up with that unmistakable spark. “So you admit it, then?”

You shut your book slowly, eyes meeting his across the table. “I didn’t admit anything. You’re just hearing what you want.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table now, eyes scanning your face like he was reading a very interesting sentence.

“Tesoro… you think I don’t know the way you look at me?”

“Like you’re an inconvenience?” you shot back sweetly.

“Like I’m the best part of your day,” he countered, not missing a beat.

You swallowed, pulse quickening.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Nott.”

“Oh, I don’t have to.” He grinned, teeth barely visible. “You do it for me.”

You rolled your eyes, standing abruptly and gathering your things. “You’re exhausting.”

“Yet here you are, still sitting with me at midnight,” he said, voice trailing into a dark, amused hum. “Should I be flattered?”

“Or concerned for your ego,” you muttered.

As you turned to walk away, he stood too, suddenly close—closer than he’d ever been. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, “and I will.”

You turned back toward him, slowly.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

Instead, you looked up at him through your lashes, lips curling into the smallest, most dangerous smile you’d ever worn.

“Don’t look at me like that, Nott.”

He laughed softly, and it wasn’t smug—it was dark and low and full of heat.

“Too late for that, bella.”

His voice was low, silken, barely more than a breath—but it hit you like a spark to dry parchment.

You didn’t move. Neither did he. The air between you pulsed, heavy and electric, thick with all the tension you’d both let simmer for far too long. And now, it was boiling over.

Theo’s eyes dropped to your lips.

That was all it took.

One moment you were standing toe to toe, and the next, his hands were in your hair and his mouth was crashing against yours like he’d been holding back for years.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was everything you’d both been biting back—every glance, every smirk, every brush of fingers in the common room, every almost-touch, every smug comment that lingered just a little too long. It exploded all at once.

His kiss was hot, hungry, all tongue and teeth and hands pulling you in. He kissed you like he was starved—like he’d been aching to taste you, and now that he had, he couldn’t get enough.

You gasped into his mouth, and he groaned—deep and low—and that sound alone made your knees buckle.

He pushed you back, guiding you into the nearest bookshelf until your back hit the wood. One of his hands gripped your waist, the other sliding up your spine to fist gently in your hair as he kissed you deeper.

Your hands clutched at his collar, tugging him closer, anchoring yourself to him as his body pressed against yours—solid and warm and demanding. His tongue slid against yours and you let out a soft whimper you didn’t mean to, but the way he growled in response told you he liked it.

He kissed like it was personal. Like it meant something.

He pulled back just an inch, lips brushing yours, breath hot.

“Been wanting to know…” he murmured, eyes flickering between your mouth and your eyes, voice thick with desire, “what those pretty lips taste like.”

Then he was kissing you again, harder this time, rougher, like the truth of it had only made him hungrier.

Your fingers tangled in his hair and his hand slid beneath the hem of your jumper to rest against the bare skin at your waist. He groaned again—quieter this time, but no less intense—as if just touching you sent a shiver up his spine.

You could feel it in the way his body trembled slightly against yours. The way his mouth broke away only to return a second later with more urgency. Like he physically couldn’t stop.

“You have no idea…” he whispered between kisses, “…how long I’ve been thinking about this.”

He kissed your jaw, your neck, just under your ear, and your eyes fluttered shut as your head fell back against the shelf.

“You—” Kiss. “Drive me—” Kiss. “Absolutely mad.”

His lips returned to yours with a bruising intensity, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, pulling him in like he was oxygen.

The kiss went on and on, like you were both making up for all the nights you’d walked away instead of leaning in. All the times you’d looked at each other across the common room and said nothing. All the unsaid things that had finally found their voice—in your hands, your mouths, your gasps between kisses.

Eventually, he pulled away, just barely. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless and flushed, hearts pounding.

His lips brushed your cheek, then your jaw again, softer now, and he whispered, “Say something, before I kiss you again and forget my own name.”

You looked up at him, dazed and grinning and completely undone.

“Then forget it,” you whispered back. “Just kiss me again.”

And Merlin, did he ever.

[quinnsdesk]

objection, your honor

tim bradford x lawyer!fem!reader

synopsis: tim bradford and you never got along. as a no-nonsense cop and a sharp-tongued defense attorney, your encounters were always tense and crackling with friction. but after a blurry night at a legal conference ends with the two of you tangled in bed, what should’ve been a one-time mistake becomes a regular escape. the arrangement is simple, no strings, just tension relief. until you mention you're going on a date, and tim suddenly shifts. colder. moodier. jealous. he says it doesn't mean anything, but his eyes say otherwise. you were never supposed to catch feelings, especially not for the man who drives you crazy in and out of court.

requested by: @mrsmaugic

content warnings: mdni, enemies with benefits, blowjobs, almost getting caught in tim's office, phone sex, cunnilingus, mutual masturbation, angst if you squint, i decided to end with some tooth-rotting fluff to balance the filth <3

word count: 10.4k (WHAT? i'm so sorry guys but i'm obsessed with this idea, also not proofread because i'm so damn lazy)

You peeled your eyes open, your head throbbing like a drumline had taken up residence in your skull. The taste of stale whiskey clung to your tongue, and your skin felt too warm, too close. You blinked against the dim light filtering in through the crack in the curtains, trying to get your bearings. The sheets were tangled around your legs, and something heavy, solid, and undeniably human was wrapped around your waist.

A big, warm, comforting arm.

What the actual fuck?

Your heart skipped, then stumbled into overdrive. Slowly, carefully, like lifting the lid off a bomb, you inched your gaze to your side.

Tim Bradford.

Naked.

Correction: you were both naked in the bed.

"No. No, no, no. Fuck no." The words left your mouth in a dry whisper, more prayer than protest.

You sat up slowly, the movement making your head reel. You clutched the sheets to your chest as if they could somehow shield you from the reality in front of you. Your bare shoulder brushed against the wall as you turned, wide-eyed, trying to put the pieces together.

Hotel room.

Dim lighting.

Wrinkled clothes—both of your clothes—strewn carelessly across the carpet like breadcrumbs to a very bad decision.

Tim shifted beside you, letting out a soft groan, his arm sliding off your waist. You froze, eyes darting to him as he rolled onto his back, the blanket dipping dangerously low on his hips, his beautiful sharp v-line in your view. He looked peaceful in sleep, unfairly handsome for someone who'd probably been just as drunk as you last night. His brows furrowed briefly and then relaxed again. You watched him, heart pounding, pulse racing in your ears like sirens.

Of all the people.

Tim Bradford.

The man who constantly had something to say about how you did your job, how you carried yourself. The guy you argued with when you represented a client, the guy who smirked when you get flustered, the guy who drove you crazy in every possible way.

The same man whose mouth had clearly been everywhere last night, judging from the painful hickeys you saw when you glanced down at your bare chest beneath the sheets.

You clamped your eyes shut, as if doing so would erase the flashes now surfacing in your mind, his hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck, the feel of his stubble scraping against your thighs. Heat flooded your cheeks, horror mixing with the shameful curl of something dangerously close to satisfaction.

You fucked Tim Bradford. And what had made it worse is that you enjoyed it.

Your eyes flew open, and you scrambled for your underwear like it was a lifeline. You fumbled with your bra, hopping on one foot as you tried to tug your jeans on without making a sound. But fate, cruel as ever, had other plans.

Tim stirred again, this time slower, heavier.

You paused mid-button, bracing.

He turned his head toward you, eyes still hazy with sleep. “Mmm… you always get dressed this fast after sex, or is it just with me?” he murmured, voice low and gravelly, thick with amusement.

Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

He cracked one eye open, then the other. A lazy smirk stretched across his face as he took in the sight of you, half-dressed, clearly panicking.

“Nope. Not kidding. Morning.”

You picked up the nearest pillow and chucked it at his chest. “We’re not talking about this.”

“Pretty sure we already did a lot more than talk.” He stretched, arms going over his head, and God, why did he have to look that good first thing in the morning?

You scowled, running a hand through your tangled hair. “This was a mistake.”

He sobered a little, propping himself up on one elbow. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Probably.”

The word hung in the air between you, heavier than it should’ve been. It was a mistake—right? One night, a drunken lapse in judgment. Nothing more. Just two people with unresolved tension and too much tequila in their system. It didn’t mean anything.

But as your eyes locked with his, something passed between you—something that made your stomach twist.

Regret? Longing? Curiosity?

You broke eye contact first, tugging your jacket over your top. “Let’s just forget this happened.”

Tim leaned back against the headboard, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he muttered, finally realizing the severity of the situation. He just slept with one of the most irritating women he knew. Not to mention a defense attorney, sharp-tongued, in more ways than one.

____________

“Is this a violation of human rights, right in front of my eyes?” you asked with mock horror as you strolled into the interrogation room, your tone dripping with dry sarcasm.

Tim Bradford didn’t even look up as Lucy Chen muttered, “Please, the real violation of human rights is your client’s involvement in fentanyl-laced heroin he was going to sell.”

“Alleged involvement,” you corrected, arching a brow as you walked further into the room. Your heels clicked sharply against the cold tile floor, drawing Lucy’s attention. She stood and closed her notepad, Tim's gaze briefly flicking to your hips where your briefcase rested against your pencil skirt. Lucy didn’t say anything, but the way her eyes lingered felt like a silent jab, she’d clearly noticed the extra edge in the air between you and Tim.

Your client, a twitchy man in his late twenties, was practically shrinking into the chair between the two officers. You gave him a glance but said nothing to him yet. This wasn’t about him. Not yet.

Tim finally looked up, jaw tight, his expression unreadable. "You're surprisingly late. Usually, you're the first one through that door, ready to sink your claws into us and make sure some drug dealer gets home in time for dinner."

“Traffic. And lunch. Both equally tragic,” you replied coolly, pulling out a chair and settling into it with the grace of someone who had absolutely nothing to be nervous about, even though your stomach had flipped the second you walked in and saw him. The echo of last night still haunted you in the worst way.

His mouth on yours.

Your nails on his back.

His voice rasping out your name like a confession and a warning all in one breath.

You shook the memory off like water and opened your file with deliberate calm. “So. What’s he supposedly done now?”

Tim didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at you, eyes narrowed slightly. He looked tired. Edgy. Like the night hadn’t left him either.

After a beat, Lucy cleared her throat. “We were just finishing up. No need to derail the interrogation.”

You didn’t so much as blink. “Trust me, I wouldn’t waste my energy.”

The rest of the session was brief and frosty. Your client offered vague answers— “You don’t need to answer that,” you cut in, voice firm and measured. Lucy handled most of the questioning, while Tim said very little, but his gaze flicked to you far too often. You pretended not to notice.

When they wrapped up, you walked your client out into the hallway and gave him your standard list of instructions: don’t talk to anyone else, don’t make any stupid decisions, and if he had so much as a gram of anything illegal on him, he'd be cuffed in a blink.

Once he was handed off to holding, you turned, ready to head back to your office until a familiar voice called out behind you.

“Can we talk?”

You turned to find Tim standing in the corridor, arms crossed, posture stiff. His tone wasn’t aggressive, but it wasn’t casual either. He wasn’t asking as a cop. He was asking as him.

You glanced toward the bullpen, then at the closed door of the interview room. “Now?”

“Now.”

You followed him in silence down the hall to an empty break room. It smelled faintly of burned coffee and whatever sad lunch someone had microwaved earlier. He shut the door behind you.

You didn’t lean on the counter. You didn’t sit. You kept your spine straight and your face unreadable, even though your skin was starting to betray you, a flush rising slowly up your neck.

“Well?” you said, voice carefully neutral. “Something on your mind, Seargeant Bradford?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “About the other night…”

Your lips pressed into a tight line. You didn’t speak, letting the silence push him forward.

“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page,” he said finally. “It was a mistake. One-time thing. It’s not going to happen again.”

You nodded once. “Good. That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

He studied you for a second, like he didn’t quite believe how composed you were. Like he expected something else, maybe regret, maybe embarrassment.

“I’m still the pain-in-the-ass defense attorney who's criminally amazing at her job, and you’re still the pain-in-the-ass cop who thinks I get criminals off too easily,” you said, forcing a light smirk. “Nothing’s changed.”

Except everything had. The air between you was heavier now. More charged. You could still feel the imprint of his hands on your skin, even if you refused to let it show.

Tim nodded slowly. “Right. Nothing’s changed.”

You moved toward the door, pausing only when your hand touched the knob. “We keep this professional, Bradford.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

You were so damn naive.

You thought you could keep things separate. That you could waltz into the precinct with your tailored suits and quick wit, play defense for people who didn’t deserve it, and walk out untouched. But the cracks were starting to show.

The following week, yet another one of your clients got dragged in—this time, the charges were more serious. Concrete. Messy. You spent nearly two hours in the interrogation room with Officer Nolan, Detective Harper, and the infamous Mr. Evers.

“Counselor,” Harper leaned back, arms folded, clearly unimpressed. “You don’t seriously expect us to believe your client didn’t stab a man.”

You let out a dry, mocking laugh, standing up and adjusting your blazer like you were on stage. “Detective, you don’t seriously expect me to believe you think this case is airtight. No prints, no witnesses, no body. Just a bloody knife and a wild theory.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with the kind of smirk that made cops itch.

“You’re welcome to try your luck in court, but if you’re smart, you’ll drop this circus act before it becomes embarrassing.”

The room was silent, thick with tension, before you turned and gestured to your client. “We’re done here.”

Without another word, you led your client out, your heels clicking like gunshots against the tile. You didn’t even bother hiding the grin on your face. Winning felt good, even if it came with a side of moral whiplash.

As you made your way down the hallway, finally free of the cold stares and fluorescent lighting, your phone buzzed in your hand. You glanced down, heart skipping when you saw the timestamp.

Bradford: My office. 5 mins. (2:45 PM) You: For? (2:55 PM) Bradford: Don’t make me wait. (2:56 PM)

Shit.

You slowly turned on your heel, making your way toward Tim’s office, heels quieter than usual on the tile. You pretended to check your phone, fix your hair, anything to avoid the eyes in the bullpen, though no one seemed to be paying attention. Still, you looked around for the fifth time before you reached his door, your heart thudding like a warning. One last glance down the hallway… coast clear.

You gave a soft, deliberate knock.

“Come in.” came the familiar, deep voice from inside.

You slipped inside, carefully closing the door behind you. The soft click of the lock echoed louder than it should’ve. Tim didn’t look up, he was at his desk, flipping through a manila folder like this was just another day at work. The tension in your chest tightened.

“You wanted to see me?” you asked, tone light but cautious.

He looked up at you finally, eyes flicking from your face to the door behind you, then back again. “I told you not to be late.”

You rolled your eyes slightly, arms folding across your chest. “I was mid-interrogation. Harper wouldn’t stop circling like a damn shark.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing just enough to make your stomach flip. “You manage to get your client out of it?”

You smirked. “Like I always do. No prints, no witnesses, no case. Honestly, they should thank me for clearing their schedule.”

He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Yeah, I’m sure the stabbing victim would be thrilled.”

You stepped closer, tossing your bag down by the chair opposite his desk. “If this is about the case, you could’ve just emailed.”

“If this were about the case,” he said, voice dropping a tone, “you wouldn’t have locked the door.”

You blinked, caught.

“Touché,” you muttered, lifting a brow. “So what is this about? Another lecture? You gonna scold me?"

Tim didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you for a long, heavy second, eyes full of something dangerous and unspoken. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk, voice low and deliberate.

“Get under the desk.”

Your lips parted, surprised, confused, and already burning.

“I—what?”

“You heard me.” He didn’t smile. “You like playing games in this station? Keep pushing me with those smug little courtroom speeches? Time to see if you can keep that mouth quiet where it counts.”

A beat passed.

You stood there, frozen in place, pulse hammering through your ears.

Tim sat back in his chair, like he had all the time in the world. “Unless you’re going to start disobeying orders now, Counselor.”

And just like that, your knees felt weak for an entirely different reason.

Your throat went dry. He had that look in his eyes, calm, unreadable, dominant, the same one that undid you every time. Still, you hesitated, fingers twitching at your sides as the weight of what he said settled over you.

“I thought we agreed this wouldn’t happen again,” you muttered, even as your heels clicked quietly against the floor, step by step taking you toward his desk.

Tim didn���t blink. “We agree on a lot of things in this office. Doesn’t mean we follow through.”

Your eyes narrowed, part in challenge, part in self-preservation. “You said we needed boundaries. That we had to keep it professional.”

“I also said not to make me wait,” he shot back smoothly, his gaze burning through you, voice a husky low growl that cut through all your better judgment. “And here you are—ten minutes late, smug as hell, acting like you don’t know exactly what this is.”

You reached the edge of his desk; hands braced lightly on the wood. For a second, neither of you spoke, just the charged silence of a hundred unspoken moments between courtrooms and case files.

He tilted his head, slow and measured. “On your knees, Counsellor.”

You stared at him, breathing shallow, pulse racing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still standing.”

Something between a curse and a whisper escaped your lips as you finally knelt down, slipping beneath the desk, heart pounding in your throat. The space was narrow, confined, his legs brushing yours as you settled in the shadow of his authority.

Above you, the creak of his chair shifting as he leaned back.

“I have about twenty minutes before I’m due in Grey’s office,” he said casually, flipping another page in the file like this was just business as usual. “Think you can behave that long?”

You looked up at him from under the desk, defiance flickering behind your eyes even as you nodded.

“Good girl,” he muttered.

And damn it—you hated how much you liked hearing it.

The sound of his voice, commanding, just above a whisper, it sent a shiver down your spine. There was something about the way he spoke to you here, in the silence of his office, behind a locked door, like you were the only person that existed in his world right now.

You slowed your pace, letting your tongue trace deliberate paths, pulling another sharp breath from him. His thigh tensed beneath your palm, the only visible crack in his otherwise stoic armor.

“God,” he hissed, barely audible. “That mouth…”

You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel the effect you had on him in every shift of his body, every shallow breath, every muted sound he was trying too hard to contain. His hand found the back of your head, not forcing, just resting there, fingers tangling softly in your hair. A silent encouragement. A subtle claim.

Somewhere down the hallway, footsteps echoed, faint but present.

Your eyes snapped open, and the adrenaline shot through you like lightning.

“Don’t stop,” Tim muttered under his breath, his grip tightening just slightly. “They won’t come in.”

You should’ve cared more. About the risk. The possibility. But all you could think about was the way he sounded when he was trying not to lose control.

Your movements grew more confident, your pace more deliberate. His other hand gripped the edge of his desk now, knuckles white, jaw probably clenched tight above you. You imagined the look on his face, the one he got when he was trying to win a fight without throwing a punch.

“Damn it,” he whispered, a rare crack in his voice. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

And right then? You didn’t mind going down in history for it.

You kept your rhythm steady, focused, every movement slow and deliberate, like you were trying to memorize the shape of him. Tim’s hand stayed tangled in your hair, not controlling, just anchoring himself to the moment, to you. His breathing had shifted, deeper now, heavier. More uneven.

“Just like that…” he murmured, voice thick with restraint. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”

The praise sent a fresh wave of warmth through your body; it was strange coming from Tim. Your cheeks hollowing tighter around him in response. You felt the way he twitched slightly, the way his leg jerked under your hand. You were unraveling him, one slow, sinful second at a time.

Knock knock knock.

Your body froze.

“Bradford?” came Sergeant Grey’s voice through the door, deep and authoritative. “You in there?”

Tim went rigid above you, every muscle tensing like steel. His hand gently but urgently pulled back, guiding you off him with one silent motion. You sat frozen beneath the desk, eyes wide, breathing hard, your mouth still tingling.

Tim cleared his throat, adjusting himself quickly with a quiet hiss of frustration. “Yeah,” he called out, his voice impressively composed despite what he was clearly fighting back. “Give me one second.”

“I need that Harper file before the briefing. Now.”

You quickly scrambled out from under the desk, doing your best to make the movement look effortless, though your knees cracked in betrayal and your skirt had definitely ridden up too far. You smoothed it down in one swift motion, running your fingers through your hair and trying to tame the chaos that came with... well, being under Tim Bradford’s desk.

Just as you took a breath, steadying yourself, before quickly walking to the door, unlocking it and opening it for Grey.

“Counselor?” Sergeant Grey’s deep voice filled the room, laced with calm authority. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You turned to him, already conjuring a smile it was tight, polite, just short of believable. “Sergeant,” you greeted smoothly, voice honeyed. “Well, you know how it is, someone’s got to make sure Seargeant Bradford doesn’t accidentally sign off on anything unconstitutional.”

Grey raised a brow, stepping into the room slowly. “Is that so?”

You gestured to the folder still open on Tim’s desk, praying he wouldn’t notice the slight tilt of the chair, or the fact that Tim looked like he was holding his breath. “Mm-hmm. He flagged a case I worked last week, had a couple inconsistencies. I stopped by to… clarify.”

Tim gave a sharp nod behind you, clearing his throat. “Didn’t want to pass it to you, sir, until I was sure the paperwork lined up.”

Grey’s eyes flicked between the two of you.

Then to the door that was locked a few minutes ago.

Then back to your slightly flushed cheeks.

He wasn’t an idiot. He was far from it.

He folded his arms across his chest, expression unreadable. “You locking the door for clarification now?”

You laughed, bright, fake, bold. “Habit, I’m afraid. Defense attorneys don’t survive without a few healthy boundaries.”

There was a beat of silence. A long one.

Then, with the faintest twitch of his lips, more disbelief than amusement, Grey exhaled through his nose. “Well… as long as it wasn’t anything unethical.”

You smiled innocently, like you’d been accused of something as harmless as jaywalking. “Never. I’m one of the last remaining ethical lawyers in all of Los Angeles. An endangered species, really.”

From beside you, a dry, mocking scoff rumbled out of Tim’s chest. You didn’t even have to look to know he was smirking.

You fought the urge to shoot him a death glare, instead clenching your jaw slightly as you straightened your blazer. Professionalism first. Always. Even when your favorite thorn in your side was clearly enjoying himself a little too much.

Grey looked to Tim one last time, eyes narrowing, lingering, but ultimately, he said nothing. He simply held out his hand. “Harper file. Now.”

Tim passed it over silently, posture military-straight.

Grey took it, gave you one last long look, then turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

You stood frozen for a second, still catching your breath.

____________

You hummed, content and relaxed, as you sank into the comfort of your couch, a freshly brewed cup of coffee cradled in one hand and a thick client file balanced on your lap. Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, casting golden streaks across your living room floor. For once, the world felt quiet.

It was your day off, your first in what felt like forever, and you'd promised yourself a little balance: a little rest, a little work, a little coffee, maybe a face mask or two. The hum of a classical playlist played faintly in the background, and you actually felt… human.

You flipped through the case file with a focused expression, occasionally pausing to scribble notes in the margins or highlight a passage. It was an assault case, messy, full of contradictions, and exactly the kind of legal puzzle you secretly loved solving.

Still, after about forty minutes, your eyes began to wander from the text. Your mind drifted… not to the case… but to Tim Bradford.

You hadn’t heard from him since your little “clarification session” in his office the day before. Not a call, not a text, not even one of his trademark passive-aggressive grunts.

You took another sip of your coffee, arching a brow as your lips curved into a smirk.

So he was going to act like nothing happened?

Fine.

Two could play that game.

You leaned back into the couch, legs stretching out as your thoughts took a deliciously devious turn. Your phone sat on the coffee table, screen lighting up briefly with some boring email notification. But all you could think about was Tim, probably sitting at his desk right now, focused, unreadable, brooding, and absolutely not expecting to be disturbed.

Especially not by you.

Your smirk widened.

Slowly, you set the file aside and picked up your phone, thumbing over to your camera. You angled it just right, legs crossed, coffee in hand, nothing but a silky robe barely clinging to your body. It showed just enough skin to make it obvious what you weren’t wearing beneath. Your cleavage was sexy, your nipples perked, guaranteed to drive Tim insane.

You took the shot.

Reviewed it once. Twice.

Perfect.

You tapped out a short message to go with it, deliberately casual:

You: Hope you’re enjoying paperwork as much as I’m enjoying my morning off. (9:22 AM)

Then you hit send.

You tossed your phone down beside you, heart racing just a little, that smug satisfaction already blooming in your chest.

It didn’t take long.

You were barely two sips into your now slightly colder coffee, flipping half-heartedly through the next page of the case file, when your phone buzzed against your thigh. You glanced down, already anticipating his name lighting up your screen.

Bradford: Don’t fucking test me, doll. I’m at work. (9:28 AM)

A grin tugged at the corner of your mouth before you even finished reading it. You bit down gently on your bottom lip, teeth dragging across the skin as you leaned back into the couch. The warning in his words only made the little flutter in your stomach grow stronger.

Curious, you scrolled down.

The image filled your screen, instantly making your mouth go dry and your thighs shift. A picture taken from above: Tim’s broad hand resting possessively on his thick thigh, his fingers splayed just enough to draw the eye downward, right to the unmistakable outline pressing tight against his LAPD-issue pants.

You blinked, pulse kicking up as your eyes lingered.

His bulge was impossible to miss, hard and heavy, the fabric of his slacks doing a poor job of concealing the effect your little photo had on him. He was clearly sitting in his office.

And hard.

For you.

You shifted on the couch, your silk robe sliding slightly along your skin as your body responded without permission. The coffee was long forgotten now, the file on your lap discarded to the side table. Your fingers hovered over your phone, unsure whether to play innocent or double down on the tease.

Because he’d given you an opening. A very tempting one.

Your thumbs moved before your brain could catch up.

You: Not testing. Just... encouraging. You looked tense yesterday. Thought you might appreciate a little stress relief. (09:29 AM)

You hit send, your heart thudding harder in your chest as you stared at the image again, replaying how flustered he must’ve been the moment your photo landed in his inbox. You imagined him shifting in his chair, adjusting himself beneath the desk, biting back a groan.

Seconds later, your phone buzzed again.

Bradford: If you don't quit it now counsellor, I'm gonna do something we're both gonna regret. (09:30 AM)

Your body reacted immediately to that message, heat pooling low and fast. You pulled the robe tighter around you out of instinct, like it could somehow contain the growing ache you were feeling.

Still, you couldn't help yourself.

You: Only one way to find out if I’ll like it or not… isn’t there? (09:30 AM)

You sat back, grinning wickedly, completely abandoning the idea of work now. The case file could wait. The law could wait.

All you could think about was how hard he was, how much tension was now simmering beneath the surface of every interaction you two would have the rest of the week. Barking orders like it could cover how flustered he was.

And you? You’d smile sweetly in meetings, legs crossed just so, knowing exactly what you’d done.

Your phone buzzed once more. Then again.

You looked down, expecting another message, but instead, his name lit up your screen.

He was FaceTiming you.

You ran your fingers through your hair one last time, smoothing the strands before picking up the call. His face appeared on your screen, tense and unreadable, a faint crease between his brows. The muted bustle of the station buzzed behind him, but his eyes locked onto yours with a magnetic intensity.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’m at work.” His voice was sharp, tight with barely concealed frustration.

You smirked, your voice dipping low and teasing. “No hello? Tim, did no one ever teach you manners?”

His lips twitched as his gaze darkened. “Show me what you’re wearing.”

Slowly, deliberately, you tilted the camera down, revealing the red silk nightgown hugging your curves, delicate straps slipping off your shoulders. No bra beneath, the sheer fabric outlining the hard peaks of your nipples.

His breath caught audibly. “Fuck,” he muttered, eyes lingering as his hand slipped beneath his desk out of view.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, voice rough and commanding. “I want to hear you.”

You set the phone down carefully on the coffee table, propping it up against a mug so he had an unobstructed view. Spreading your legs slowly, your fingers traced a path between your wet folds, sliding down your hips as your panties slipped away.

The wet, slick sounds filled the quiet room. His pupils dilated in the glow of the screen, breath hitching. “That’s my girl,” he growled low.

Your moans grew softer, breath catching as your fingers moved with more confidence, circling, pressing deep. You felt the heat pooling, the burn building.

You could see his arm moving up and down out of frame. You let out a raspy moan as Tim cursed under his breath. Suddenly, the camera shifted, his cock came into view, thick and slick, hand wrapped tight around it as he stroked slowly, eyes never leaving you.

"Wet for me huh baby?" He coos watching as you pump a finger in and out of your sopping cunt. "Add another." You paused glancing at the phone, "Did I stutter? Add another finger honey." He groaned as you added another finger, curling them at the spongy spot the way Tim did, making you moan his name. "There she is. There's my perfect girl." He hummed with pride as you arched your back.

"You gonna cum f'me?" His voice was raspier now, heavier, like he was approaching his orgasm as well. You nodded, fast and vigorous before glancing down at your phone, Tim's eyes were shut, his head resting on his office chair as he jerked himself off to your moans.

"God, I could listen to those sweet noises all day baby." He grunted before opening his eyes to see your legs shaking. You were overstimulated and so damn close. "Cum on those pretty finger baby, say my name." He groaned, he was close too, he was waiting for you. "Tim!" You yelled as the coil you felt in your belly came undone. "That's it. Attagirl." He praised before grunting a few more times and releasing his load on his lower belly. His shirt was unbuttoned in preparation.

You huffed finally closing your shaky legs before looking down at your phone, Tim was cleaning himself up with a cocky smirk. "What?" You cocked a brow before picking up your phone, glaring into the camera. "Can't believe I can make you cum without even being there." He smirked buttoning his shirt again. You scoffed, "If I remember correctly, you came too." He couldn't help but let out a slight chuckled at that.

"Hey, Tim."

You heard a voice behind Tim’s phone. It was faint, but familiar, not too high-pitched with a hint of amusement. Lucy. You could tell immediately.

Tim’s eyes flicked up, clearly startled. “Who are you talking to?” she asked, the sound of her boots drawing closer.

With a barely-there twitch of his lips, Tim subtly angled his phone downward, just enough to hide the screen from view. “Genny,” he said smoothly, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You raised an eyebrow at the name drop, mouthing a silent wow to yourself. He really said Genny?

“Oh?” Lucy’s voice got a little more curious. “Can I say hi?”

You could almost see the shift in Tim’s expression. His smirk dropped faster than a suspect under interrogation. His jaw clenched, brows pulling together as panic settled across his features in the most delicious way. You bit back a laugh, covering your mouth with your hand as you leaned into the phone camera, amused.

Tim’s voice hardened. “No, Chen. What do you need?” The Sergeant was back.

Lucy didn't miss a beat. “Grey wants us to follow up on that lead for Angela. Says you’ve been cooped up in your office for a suspicious amount of time.”

Tim’s face flushed. Just slightly—but enough to catch. His eyes darted away from the phone, almost guilty. “Yeah. Okay. Got it,” he mumbled, voice clipped.

“Bye, Genny!” Lucy called out with a grin, clearly not buying a word of it but choosing not to press further. She turned on her heel and walked out of frame.

There was a moment of silence before you said anything. Then, with a sly tilt of your head and a smirk tugging at your lips, you leaned in again. “Bye,” you said sweetly, drawing the word out just a little too long.

Tim’s eyes snapped back to the screen. He groaned softly, scrubbing a hand down his face before fixing you with a narrowed look. “You're enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, definitely,” you grinned, practically glowing with mischief. “Caught lying about me? That's priceless, Sergeant.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving into something almost affectionate. “You're a pain in the ass.”

“You love it,” you shot back.

And before he could reply, he hung up, but not before you caught the faintest ghost of a smile as the screen went dark.

You stared at your now-black phone screen, lips pursed in amusement. Caught lying and blushing? You were going to be milking this for weeks.

You tossed your phone onto the couch beside you and stretched out. You knew what effect you had on him. And you knew he knew it too, even if he pretended otherwise.

Meanwhile, across town, Tim was pacing behind his desk, jaw clenched, hands on his hips. That damn smile on your face was still playing on loop in his head. So smug. So confident. So knowing.

He’d tried to be subtle, tried to keep it professional, compartmentalized, as Grey would put it, but then Lucy had to walk in at exactly the wrong time, and now he’d officially lied to his partner about you. About you of all people.

His phone buzzed again. One look at the name flashing on his screen and he sighed like he was preparing to defuse a bomb.

You: You lied, badly. (10:07 AM) You: You really thought of you sister? Gross, Bradford. (10:07 AM)

He groaned, knowing that you're back behaving like your usual annoying self.

Bradford: I panicked. (10:08 AM) You: That's adorable. (10:08 AM)

He stared at that word for a moment, jaw tightening. Adorable. That wasn’t something he got called often. He was used to “intimidating,” “cold,” “Sergeant Buzzkill.” But you? You looked at him like he was a puzzle worth solving, and damn if that didn’t scare him more than anything else.

Lucy peeked her head back into the office briefly, arching a brow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Tim muttered, stuffing his phone in his pocket like it was radioactive. “On my way.”

As soon as she left again, another message came through.

He let out an audible exhale, running a hand through his hair. God, you were a menace. Flirty, relentless, and always two steps ahead. And worst of all? He liked it.

Liked you.

Too much.

Back at your place, you were still staring at your phone, chin resting on your knuckles. You hadn’t heard back. Not yet. But you didn’t mind. Watching him squirm for once was reward enough. The big, bad Sergeant Bradford had just fumbled a lie because of you, and while you probably shouldn’t be as gleeful as you were… you were.

You locked your screen and whispered to yourself with a quiet, smug little chuckle.

____________

It’s been about a week since your FaceTime with Tim. You haven’t seen him around, not at court, not even in passing at the station. And you haven’t heard from him either. Not that you cared, that man was a walking headache. Always knew exactly how to get under your skin, especially because he was so damn good in bed. You’d convinced yourself you were better off without the distraction. Still, as you sat in your office, half-heartedly flipping through your client’s case file, your mind wandered more than it should’ve.

You sighed, shifting in your chair. The hard leather dug into your back as you leaned forward, narrowing your eyes on the paperwork. This one wasn’t like the others. Most of your clients were textbook cases, minor possession, procedural slipups, easy loopholes to exploit. But this one? This one felt different. It was messier. Riskier. Personal, almost.

Name: Mason Willis. Age: 23. Charges: Possession of heroin with intent to distribute. Arresting Officers: Detective Nyla Harper & Officer Aaron Thorsen.

You clenched your jaw as you scanned the report. Mason had been caught with over fifty individual baggies of heroin stuffed into a duffel bag in the trunk of his car, parked outside a run-down motel near Koreatown. According to the arresting report, Harper had been tipped off through a confidential informant. Thorsen backed her up on surveillance. They'd been watching Mason for three days before they made the move.

You flipped the page, mugshot stapled to the corner. He looked scared. Young. Like he’d made a stupid mistake and didn’t know how to get out of it. Still, the facts were damning. There were surveillance photos of Mason handing off small parcels in parking lots. Video footage from the motel's security camera. Fingerprints on the baggies. A digital scale. Even a notebook filled with scribbled names and numbers that the DA was calling a dealer’s ledger.

And worst of all? He talked. Not much, but enough to hurt his own case. Claimed the drugs weren’t his, that he was just “watching” them for someone else, an argument juries hardly ever believed. You’d tried that defense once. Lost in under an hour.

You leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples with your thumb and forefinger. There was a pounding headache threatening to split your skull in two, and this case wasn’t helping. What made it worse was the fact that it was Harper who made the bust. You respected her, dare you say you even admired her. She was calculated, unshakable, clean. She didn’t leave procedural errors behind to give defense attorneys like you an easy in.

And Thorsen? You’d gone up against his arrests before. Young, sharp, and annoyingly by-the-book. If he’d backed her up, you could bet your reputation there were no missteps in the chain of custody.

But something still didn’t sit right.

The timeline in the report didn’t fully match up. They claimed Mason was under surveillance for seventy-two hours, but there was a two-hour window on the second day where Harper and Thorsen were both logged in on a separate call across the city, something about assisting with a robbery suspect.

So who had eyes on Mason then?

You circled the discrepancy with a red pen, tapping it as if doing so would magically reveal the answer. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was a clerical error. Or maybe… it was the kind of thread you could pull to unravel the whole thing.

You turned back to the front of the file and stared at Elijah’s mugshot again. He wasn’t innocent. You knew that. But being guilty didn’t mean he didn’t deserve a fair trial. And that was your job, to make sure the state didn’t bulldoze his rights just because he made a stupid decision.

Your head shot up when you heard a knock on the door. You assumed it was your boss’s secretary, probably dropping off another cursed stack of case files you’d have to drown in, but when the door opened, you were met with a surprise.

“Tim?” You stood quickly, nearly knocking your chair back.

“Wow,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Didn’t expect such a warm welcome.”

You rolled your eyes, smoothing your blouse as you closed the file on your desk. “Didn’t expect you either. Thought you were too busy playing hero on the streets to darken the halls of defense.”

He smirked, eyes scanning your office like he was assessing it for weaknesses. “Didn’t realize your ego extended to entire professions.”

“It does when the cops involved keep dragging my clients in like fish in a net.” You crossed your arms and leaned against your desk. “To what do I owe the honor, Sergeant Bradford?”

“I was sent to deliver a few supplemental files from Harper’s case. She got caught up in a debrief with Thorsen.”

“Figures,” you muttered under your breath.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You always this charming when someone does your job for you?”

You walked over and snatched the manila envelope from his hand, brushing his fingers just slightly, too slightly, too briefly. He didn’t move away. Neither did you.

“Forgive me for not bowing at your feet,” you said dryly, flipping through the documents. “But unless you’ve suddenly become a paralegal, I don’t need your help.”

He didn’t leave.

You glanced up, catching the way his eyes lingered on you. Not your outfit. Not your curves. You. The stress written across your face, the tension in your jaw, the fatigue sitting beneath your eyes like bruises.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” he said, softer this time. The teasing edge dulled.

You blinked, surprised by the shift in his tone. “That obvious?”

He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “You’ve got that look. The one you get when a case is eating at you.”

You hesitated, then exhaled slowly, the weight pressing heavy against your shoulders. “This one’s messy,” you admitted. “And airtight. Harper and Thorsen are too damn careful. There’s barely anything to argue. And the kid, my client, he’s not innocent. But he’s not a kingpin either. He’s scared. He messed up. The kind of mess up that’ll haunt him for life.”

Tim nodded, moving closer, but not too close. He wasn’t crowding you, just there. Present.

“You know I don’t say this often,” he started.

“Oh, this should be good.”

He gave you a sideways look. “You’re good at your job. Too good. You fight hard for people who wouldn’t last five seconds without you. That kind of pressure? It’s gonna crush you if you don’t step back sometimes.”

You swallowed, feeling the flicker of something unfamiliar in your chest. Vulnerability, maybe. Or just the fact that Tim Bradford—your walking headache—was being almost… decent.

“You came here to tell me that?” you asked, folding your arms again, this time more guarded.

“I came to drop off files,” he said, that smirk crawling back across his lips, “but you’re obviously wound tighter than a snare drum. Figured I could stick around… help you relax.”

Your brows shot up, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips. “Relax? You?”

He shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “I’ve got a few talents outside law enforcement, believe it or not.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He held up his hands in surrender. “You’re the one who looks like she’s about to burst into flames. I’m just offering… assistance. No badge. No attitude.”

You paused.

The room was quiet except for the rustling of papers on your desk and the faint hum of the air vent. You could feel his eyes on you—steady, unwavering, irritatingly sincere.

Maybe he was annoying. Arrogant. Self-righteous.

But maybe… just maybe… he was right.

You finally let out a sigh of defeat. "Fine, what're you gonna do? Rub my shoulders?" He almost let out a chuckle at your suggestion. "Sit down, counsellor." He ordered, and like muscle memory, you obeyed. He followed you, walking over to your desk before moving your desk chair back, giving him space to move in between your legs."

Then, he got down on his knees.

"Tim what are you-" You let out a gasp before you could finish your sentence, Tim pulled your panties down after shoving your pencil skirt up. "Shh, just make your notes, I'll take care of you." He licked his lips as he ran his fingers over your cunt, collecting your juices before slowly shoving a finger inside you. You let out as gasp as his lips met your clit, gently sucking, not to stimulate but to relax.

His moans on your clit made you arch your back a little, before calming you down to flip through the case file. Soon his tongue was pumping in and out of you, his nose brushing on your clit. "Tim..." You whined, closing your eyes for a brief second before looking back at your notes and running your hands through his hair. He hummed on your pussy as you let out a sigh of relief.

One thing you could give to Tim Bradford is that this man knew how to eat pussy like a champ. He knows it's not to make you writhe above him but to rather relax and let go. One hand held your pen, making little side notes on statements witnesses and officers gave while your other hand rested in Tim hair. Not tugging, just to feel him, to acknowledge his calming presence. He was enjoying himself, he could sit there and devour your sweet pussy for hours.

You began to clench around his two fingers. You arched your back a little as he lapped at your swollen cunt. "That's it, doll. Let go f'me." He hummed as you let out pathetic, weak, exhausted little pants. You tugged on your hair as you did what you were told, you finally let go, letting your orgasm wash over you.

"That's it." He hummed as he placed one final kiss on your clit before licking his lips and standing up. "Thanks." You muttered, your chest heaving, you look down at your desk to see all your notes, notes you wouldn't have been able to do without Tim's help. "You're welcome." He smirked before helping you fix your skirt. You gulped, still trying to catch your breath.

That's when you felt it. A pang in your chest, the way it swelled when you looked at Tim, like you enjoyed his presence beyond the sex.

Tim must've felt it too because suddenly his stance was sterner. "I'll uh- see you around." He hummed in reply. "Yeah." He gave you one last look before walking out of your office. A look of longing, like he wanted to say something that would sound like gibberish if he tried to verbalize it.

____________

Mid-Wilshire’s bullpen buzzed around you, phones ringing, officers exchanging case notes, the familiar creak of uncomfortable chairs and worn boots on linoleum. You stood leaning against one of the desks, flipping absently through a file while your mind wandered… specifically to him.

To yesterday. To the way Tim's tongue had been so relaxing and so amazing on you. To how he left without a word, like he always did. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like you didn’t mean anything. To how he left you with a pang in your chest and a sudden empty feeling.

"Counselor."

You looked up, startled from your thoughts, and found Ethan Cole standing a few feet away. Immaculately dressed in a tailored navy suit, tie just loosened enough to make it feel casual, but still polished. He looked like he belonged in a courtroom, not among cops and criminals.

"Ethan," you said, masking your exhaustion with a smile. "Didn't think I'd see you down here. Mid-Wilshire isn’t exactly your scene."

He grinned. “I go where my clients go. Some of them like to commit crimes in new zip codes.”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes. “You always did keep a colorful clientele.”

He stepped a bit closer, arms folding casually. “I was actually hoping I'd run into you.”

You arched a brow. “Really? Why’s that?”

He shrugged, almost shyly, a rare expression for him. “Just thought… maybe we could get a drink sometime. Unwind. Talk about something that doesn’t involve bail or broken alibis.”

The offer hung in the air. You opened your mouth, ready with a deflecting joke—but then you saw him. Out of the corner of your eye, just past Ethan’s shoulder.

Tim.

He was standing by the front desk, paperwork in hand, eyes locked on the two of you. His expression unreadable. But you knew that look. You felt it. The stillness. The storm brewing beneath.

Your chest tightened.

You hesitated. Every cell in your body screamed he’s watching. But you also knew exactly how this would go: Tim would sleep with you again. Maybe tonight, maybe next week. He’d kiss you like you were the only person left on Earth, then vanish again before the sun came up. You weren’t his. He’d made sure of that.

So why did it feel like you were about to do something wrong?

"Yeah," you finally said, your voice softer than you'd intended. "Sure. Why not?"

Ethan smiled like he’d just won a case he didn’t think he could. “Great. I’ll text you.”

He gave your arm a brief, warm touch before he left.

And then the air changed.

A shadow fell over your shoulder before a word was even spoken.

“You said yes.”

You turned slowly, already knowing who it was. Tim stood there, arms crossed, blue eyes narrowed, body rigid like he was holding himself back from something, or someone.

You folded your arms in return. “Were you eavesdropping now? That part of your patrol duty?”

He ignored the jab. “You said yes to him.”

You blinked, feigning confusion. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t. I just… didn’t think that’s what we were doing.”

Your stomach twisted. “What are we doing, Tim? Enlighten me. Because from where I’m standing, we don’t do anything that isn’t in the dark or behind closed doors.”

“You know it’s not like that.”

“Do I?” You tilted your head, voice sharp. “Because you show up, eat me out from under my desk, maybe some phone sex if you're feeling generous, and then you’re gone before I can even remember what your cologne smells like. You never stay. You never call. We don’t go out. We don’t talk about us. So yeah, maybe I don’t know.”

His eyes darted, like he was trying to find the right words, but nothing came out. Silence. Again. Just like always.

“You mad I said yes to him?” you asked, stepping closer. “Or mad you didn’t ask first?”

His mouth opened slightly, like he was about to answer. But all that came was a rough, “That guy doesn’t deserve you.”

You laughed bitterly. “And you do?”

That one landed. His lips pressed into a thin line, gaze darkening.

“I never promised you anything,” he said quietly.

“No,” you whispered. “But you made me feel things anyway. That’s worse.”

The tension between you crackled like a live wire. You could see the conflict in his face, he wanted to say more. Needed to. But whatever war he was fighting inside, it kept winning. Like always.

“I have a date, Tim,” you said, softer this time, almost like an apology. “It’s one drink. Maybe it won't go anywhere. Maybe it will. But I’m tired of pretending that I’m okay with being nothing more than a late-night escape.”

You stepped past him, brushing his shoulder. He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t even move.

But just before you reached the door, you heard him, voice quiet, strained, like he couldn’t stop the words from escaping.

“I don’t want to be nothing to you.”

You froze.

But you didn’t turn around. You continued walking, your heels clicking against the floor as you walked out of the Mid-Wilshire station.

That night, you couldn’t stop thinking about your encounter with Tim.

It replayed on an endless loop in your head, the sharp, bitter tension, the way his jaw clenched when you told him you had a date, the way you’d all but snapped at him in front of half the Mid-Wilshire station. But most of all, it was the words you’d said. Words that didn’t sound casual or cool or detached. Words that revealed something you'd worked so hard to keep buried.

“You made me feel things anyway. That’s worse.”

God. You squeezed your eyes shut and groaned into your pillow, mortified.

You basically admitted you wanted more than office blowjobs. More than being the secret he texted after hours. More than half-dressed makeouts behind locked doors and quick, desperate touches before reality caught up. You’d told him, in no uncertain terms, that you wanted more.

Dates. Movie nights. Dinners where you weren’t pretending this thing between you didn’t exist.

And what had he said in return? Nothing. Not really. Just stood there with that unreadable expression, like you’d kicked the air out of him but he didn’t have the guts to ask for it back.

You felt pathetic.

You sat curled up on your couch in the dark, the only light coming from the glow of your phone screen. You hadn’t texted Ethan back. You weren’t even thinking about him. Not really.

Because no matter how hard you tried, Tim was still there, haunting you. In the way your skin still tingled where his hands had held you. In the echo of his voice when he used that low, gravelly tone only you ever got to hear. In the hollow ache in your chest that came from wanting him and knowing you couldn’t have him. Not in the way that mattered.

You pulled your knees to your chest, silently cursing yourself.

He didn’t owe you anything. That was the deal. That was what you both agreed on. You let him touch you, claim you, ruin you, and then watched him leave like it never meant a damn thing. You were the idiot who caught feelings. You were the one who got too close to fire and acted surprised when it burned.

And yet, for all the reasons you should’ve walked away… you hadn’t.

So when the knock came at your door just after midnight, your heart dropped into your stomach.

You knew it was him.

Of course it was.

You padded barefoot to the door, pulse hammering against your ribs. You stood there for a second, just breathing, trying to decide whether to open it or not. Whether you could handle seeing him again—looking into those eyes and pretending you were fine.

But something in you couldn’t resist. Couldn’t not open the door.

And there he was.

Tim stood under the flickering hallway light, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, looking every bit as wrecked as you felt. His hair was messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes met yours, and for the first time in a long time, there was no wall. No shield. Just raw, exposed vulnerability.

You stayed silent.

So did he.

Until finally, he spoke, quiet, low, like he didn’t trust the words to come out right.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

You swallowed. “You should’ve tried harder.”

He winced a little. “I know. I deserve that.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to stay upright when everything inside you felt like it was falling apart. “Why are you here, Tim?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped forward, slowly, like he thought you might slam the door in his face.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said,” he said, voice rough. “About me… about us. About what we’ve been doing.”

You forced a shaky laugh. “Right. That embarrassing little monologue where I basically confessed that I’ve been deluding myself into thinking I could handle being your secret.”

His expression softened. “You weren’t deluding yourself.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what the hell was I doing, Tim? Because I sure as hell wasn’t being treated like someone you care about. I wasn’t even being treated like a human half the time. Just a- a- fuck buddy”

“Stop,” he said, stepping in. “Don’t say that.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes made you freeze.

“I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted. “To pretend this thing between us wasn’t real. That it was just physical. That you were just someone who made my life more complicated.”

His gaze dropped for a moment.

“But it’s not just that. You’re not just that. You never were.”

Your breath caught, but you stayed still, silent, afraid to believe it.

He finally looked up again. His voice was softer now, barely above a whisper.

“I want the dinners. The movie nights. I want to fight about takeout and fall asleep on your couch and wake up next to you instead of pretending I’m better off leaving. I want to learn how to stop running when things feel too good.”

You blinked, your vision blurring slightly.

“I want you,” he said. “All of you. Not just the parts you give me when we’re alone.”

A long pause followed. You didn’t know what to say. You’d spent the entire night telling yourself not to get your hopes up, that he wouldn’t come, that it didn’t mean anything.

And now he was here, saying everything you’d waited to hear.

Slowly, cautiously, you stepped aside.

He didn’t ask if he could come in. He just did.

You closed the door gently behind him, your hand lingering on the handle like it grounded you. He stood a few steps into your apartment, eyes soft but hesitant, like he didn’t want to scare you off by pushing too hard.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him. Because God, he came back.

But that didn’t erase the months of confusion, of blurred lines, of you pretending not to care when he left your bed without a word. It didn’t undo how small you felt when you confessed what you really wanted, and he didn’t say anything.

Now he was here, and your heart didn’t know whether to leap or scream.

“I meant what I said,” he said gently, hands still shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie. “About wanting more. About you.”

You exhaled shakily and crossed your arms, hugging yourself.

“I believe you,” you said softly. “I just… I don’t know if it’s enough.”

That made him flinch, just barely, but he didn’t run.

You walked past him slowly, pacing toward your couch but not sitting. You couldn’t. You needed to move, to do something with the flood of emotion threatening to break you open again.

“I’ve spent months telling myself I could handle this,” you said, your voice quiet but thick with feeling. “That I could be the person who didn’t care. Who didn’t want more. That I could just enjoy you when you showed up and forget you when you didn’t. But I can’t. I’m not built that way.”

He was quiet. Listening.

“I’m a defense attorney,” you continued, “you’re a cop. It’s not just complicated, it’s risky. One wrong headline and I’m the girl sleeping with the arresting officer. My credibility goes out the window. So does yours.”

Tim took a careful step closer, voice low. “You think I haven’t thought about that?”

“Then you know how messy this could get,” you said, almost pleading. “You know how people will talk. How every time we’re seen together, they’ll wonder what rules we’ve bent. How fair the game really is.”

“I do,” he said without hesitation. “But I also know it’s worth it.”

Your breath hitched.

“Angela and Wesley,” he continued, “are on opposite sides too. She arrests people, he used to get them off. They argue, they fight, they don’t always see eye to eye, but they love each other enough to figure it out. And if they can do it…”

He looked at you like he meant it—like he wasn’t just reaching for an excuse.

“…why can’t we?”

You wanted to say something. Anything. But your throat felt tight, like you were holding back tears you didn’t even realize were there.

Tim took another step forward.

“You’re the most brilliant, impossible, infuriating person I’ve ever met,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And I’ve been pretending that being with you was about convenience, about blowing off steam, because I was scared of how real it started to feel.”

Your lips parted slightly, your eyes locked on his.

“But I’m not scared anymore,” he whispered. “Not of this. Not of you.”

And then, slowly, giving you time to stop him, he leaned in.

His hand slid up to your cheek, calloused thumb brushing your skin like it was something delicate, sacred. His other hand hovered at your waist but didn’t pull you in, didn’t assume.

You didn’t pull away.

You closed the space between you.

The kiss that followed wasn’t like the ones before.

It wasn’t hard or frenzied or breathless with need.

It was slow. Careful. Intentional.

It was a kiss that said I see you. A kiss that said stay. A kiss that tasted like the beginning of something neither of you had been brave enough to name until now.

His lips moved against yours gently, savoring. His hands found your waist, grounding you, holding you, not like something he wanted to take, but like something he wanted to keep.

When you finally pulled back, your breath was shaky, but your heart was steady.

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, like he was breathing for the first time in weeks.

“I know I can’t undo what we’ve done before,” he murmured. “But I can start doing better now.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Tim…”

“Can I take you to dinner?” he asked softly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “A real one. Sit across from you at an actual table. Ask about your day. Not just sneak into your apartment when the lights are out.”

You stared at him for a moment.

You’d dreamed of this. Hoped for it. And you never really believed it would come.

But here he was. Standing in front of you. Asking.

You nodded slowly, a real smile beginning to curl on your lips. “Yeah. You can.”

He smiled too, small but honest, like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

He didn’t kiss you again, not yet.

Instead, he just wrapped his arms around you and held you there—solid, quiet, steady, like a promise waiting to be kept.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like home.

tags: @sleepymissy <3 @simplyhale <3 @jessewesmitchellfan @w1ldf1owers @spxcekru @mrsmaugic @jaded222 @starlightduchess @cosavuoi-me @im-feeling-blue-today @yourgirlcarol @jades-archive @Soleillunar @winchestersbgirl @bradleybeachbabe @whatasadlittlelife @thesupersecretboyband22 @vinos-things

[ellipsus-writes]

Ellipsus Digest: March 18

Each week (or so), we'll highlight the relevant (and sometimes rage-inducing) news adjacent to writing and freedom of expression.

This week: AI continues its hostile takeover of creative labor, Spain takes a stand against digital sludge, and the usual suspects in the U.S. are hard at work memory-holing reality in ways both dystopian and deeply unserious.

ChatGPT firm reveals AI model that is “good at creative writing” (The Guardian)

... Those quotes are working hard.

OpenAI (ChatGPT) announced a new AI model trained to emulate creative writing—at least, according to founder Sam Altman: “This is the first time i have been really struck by something written by AI.” But with growing concerns over unethically scraped training data and the continued dilution of human voices, writers are asking… why? 

Spoiler: the result is yet another model that mimics the aesthetics of creativity while replacing the act of creation with something that exists primarily to generate profit for OpenAI and its (many) partners—at the expense of authors whose work has been chewed up, swallowed, and regurgitated into Silicon Valley slop.

Spain to impose massive fines for not labeling AI-generated content (Reuters)

But while big tech continues to accelerate AI’s encroachment on creative industries, Spain (in stark contrast to the U.S.) has drawn a line: In an attempt to curb misinformation and protect human labor, all AI-generated content must be labeled, or companies will face massive fines. As the internet is flooded with AI-written text and AI-generated art, the bill could be the first of many attempts to curb the unchecked spread of slop.

Besos, España 💋

These words are disappearing in the new Trump administration (NYT)

Project 2025 is moving right along—alongside dismantling policies and purging government employees, the stage is set for a systemic erasure of language (and reality). Reports show that officials plan to wipe government websites of references to LGBTQ+, BIPOC, women, and other communities—words like minority, gender, Black, racism, victim, sexuality, climate crisis, discrimination, and women have been flagged, alongside resources for marginalized groups and DEI initiatives, for removal.

It’s a concentrated effort at creating an infrastructure where discrimination becomes easier… because the words to fight it no longer officially exist. (Federally funded educational institutions, research grants, and historical archives will continue to be affected—a broader, more insidious continuation of book bans, but at the level of national record-keeping, reflective of reality.) Doubleplusungood, indeed.

Pete Hegseth’s banned images of “Enola Gay” plane in DEI crackdown (The Daily Beast)

Fox News pundit-turned-Secretary of Defense-slash-perpetual-drunk-uncle Pete Hegseth has a new target: banning educational materials featuring the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. His reasoning: that its inclusion in DEI programs constitutes "woke revisionism." If a nuke isn’t safe from censorship, what is?

The data hoarders resisting Trump’s purge (The New Yorker)

Things are a little shit, sure. But even in the ungoodest of times, there are people unwilling to go down without a fight.

Archivists, librarians, and internet people are bracing for the widespread censorship of government records and content. With the Trump admin aiming to erase documentation of progressive policies and minority protections, a decentralized network is working to preserve at-risk information in a galvanized push against erasure, refusing to let silence win.

Let us know if you find something other writers should know about, (or join our Discord and share it there!) Until next week, - The Ellipsus Team xo

[angelicoffins]

obsessive ♱ choi "thanos" su-bong

sum. thanos fucks you backstage before one of his performances, wanting to show you who exactly you belong to.

pairing. choi "thanos" su-bong x fem! reader

song. obsessive by chase atlantic

cw. yandere! thanos, dom/sub powerplay & dynamics, se-mi public, half clothed, vaginal fingering + rough sex, creampie, overstimulation, teasing, groping, multiple rounds, praise kink.

wc. 3,136

extra note; my asks/requests are open btw! feel free to request for other squid game characters!

Thanos’ obsession with you wasn’t just a quiet hunger simmering beneath the surface, it was a wildfire, a ruthless, all-consuming blaze that left nothing untouched. It clawed at his insides with a desperation that made him reckless, made him want to unravel you thread by thread until all that was left was raw, exposed flesh and the frantic pulse of your heart beneath his palms.

He was never satisfied with just touching you. 

No, he needed to own every inch of you, to imprint himself so deeply that you would carry pieces of him with you even when you weren’t near. 

The way his hands mapped your body was brutal and worshipful all at once, fingertips digging into hips, thumbs tracing the hollow of your neck, palms flattening against your ribs as if trying to squeeze the breath from you just to remind you he was there, always there.

But it wasn’t just physical. Thanos craved the power to make you unravel from the inside out. He lived for the subtle ways he could dismantle your defenses—those brief, merciless moments when your eyes flickered, that small catch in your voice, the tremble of your hands. He studied you like a predator stalking its prey, knowing exactly when to strike, how to bend you just enough without breaking.

He ruined you not with careless force but with the precision of a sculptor, chiseling away the armor you so carefully built around yourself. The teasing glances that lingered too long, the dangerous smirk playing on his lips when he pressed too close, the whispered provocations that scraped against your skin like barbed wire—each was a calculated weapon in his relentless siege.

And when you thought you were finally safe behind your cold, indifferent facade, he’d find a way to slip through the cracks. His voice—a low, dark rumble that vibrated in your chest—would invade your thoughts at the worst possible times. A simple name, a shared joke, a look that burned with unspoken promises. He made sure you never forgot him. Never stopped wanting him.

He craved not just your body but your submission, the surrender of control that terrified and thrilled you all at once. The way you clenched around him when he pushed deeper, the way your breath hitched and your fingers curled into fists as if trying to anchor yourself against the storm he dragged inside you. Each shudder, each desperate plea, was a testament to the hold he had over you—a hold he tightened mercilessly.

Sometimes, in the dark aftermath, when your skin still glowed with the heat of his touch, he would trace slow, reverent lines over the bruises he left behind. The marks were like his signature, a permanent reminder that you belonged to him—mind, body, soul. He whispered promises into your hair, promises that were equal parts threat and devotion. Promises that you would never be free of him, that you didn’t want to be.

Because Thanos wasn’t content with just being a secret pleasure. He wanted to be your ruin and your refuge. The storm you ran to and the fire you burned in. He needed you tangled in his chaos, lost in the fierce gravity of his obsession.

And you, even when you fought it—when you pushed and yelled and tried to carve out your own space—found yourself surrendering, again and again, to the inescapable pull of him. Because there was a dark kind of beauty in being broken and rebuilt by someone who saw every scar, every crack, and claimed it as his own.

Thanos didn’t just want to touch you. He wanted to consume you completely, to drag you down into his world of shadows and fire until the only thing left was the wild, raw, desperate truth of your need for each other.

Which is how the two of you found yourselves backstage, before one of his performances. Backstage was where the noise of the outside could no longer reach you, where time slowed down to a desperate, ragged pulse. Here, in this narrow corridor lined with scuffed walls and stacked equipment, Thanos cornered you with the kind of possession that left no room for resistance.

His hands were thunderous on your skin, gripping your waist with a pressure that blurred the line between pain and pleasure. The heat radiating from his body was suffocating, a furnace burning through every layer you wore—clothes, pretense, control. You could feel the taut muscle of his chest pressing hard against your back, the rough scrape of his light  stubble along your jaw as he bent to whisper, voice a dark, cruel promise.

“You’re mine,” he breathed, lips ghosting over the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “No one else gets you like this, baby..”

His fingers splayed wide over your hips, pulling you impossibly closer until your back arched, your palms pressing into the cold wall  in front of you. The world outside the narrow corridor didn’t exist anymore. The sounds of the distant crowd, the faint buzz of the stage—they all faded into nothing, swallowed whole by the overwhelming storm that was Thanos.

Without warning, he slipped his hand beneath the hem of your skirt, fingertips trailing over the bare flesh of your thigh with a deliberate slowness that made your pulse stutter. Your breath hitched sharply, chest tightening, the tight knot in your belly loosening just enough to let a shudder slip free.

His touch was a merciless tease—too light, too close to the edge—like a blade tracing your skin, demanding reaction but never giving release. You clenched your jaw, biting down hard on the inside of your mouth to silence the whimper that threatened to escape. The ice-cold facade you wore like armor began to crack, fine fractures spiderwebbing through the calm you’d cultivated so carefully.

Thanos didn’t let up. His hand traveled higher, the pads of his fingers ghosting just above the thin fabric of your underwear, teasing you in the most exquisite way. There was something so terrifying about his patience, how he made you wait, begging for a taste you hadn’t even realized you craved. The heat pooling low in your core swelled, pooling into a fierce ache that threatened to consume you whole.

His mouth found the delicate curve of your neck, teeth grazing the skin with a predator’s hunger. The sharp press of his lips sent a shock of fire rippling down your spine. You tilted your head back instinctively, exposing the vulnerable skin of your throat, the pulse fluttering wildly beneath his lips. His tongue flicked out, tracing lazy, cruel patterns that made your knees weaken.

Thanos was relentless, his breath ragged as he whispered against your skin, “Say it, cariño. Tell me you want this.”

You could barely think. Your mind was a haze of desire and shame, craving and resistance entwined so tightly you could no longer separate them. The wall that your fists were bunched up against was the only anchor you had as his hands roamed freely, claiming, marking. The scratch of his nails digging into your hips was a brutal reminder that this was his territory, his conquest.

“Thanos..” You muttered, almost breathless, aching for him to do something, to get on with it. To take you, claim you– whatever he wanted, if it meant that you could just etch his touch into your skin and commit it to memory. “I want it. I want you, so bad.. Please..”

Then, the moment snapped—he caught your wrist, yanked you around with a force that left no room for hesitation. His lips collided with yours in a savage kiss, teeth scraping, tongues clashing in a chaotic dance of hunger and dominance. Your hands found their way to his chest, fingers digging into the firm planes of muscle, desperate for something solid to hold onto as his body pressed fiercely into yours.

His hips pushed forward with a brutal urgency, grinding against your heat, and you gasped, body arching instinctively to meet him. The friction was maddening, a cruel reminder of all that was denied. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he backed you against the wall. The sharp scrape of your skirt caught on rough paint as he pulled it higher, bare skin meeting bare skin.

Thanos’s touch was fire and ice, cruel and reverent all at once. His fingers curled into your flesh, leaving angry red crescents, only pulling away to shrug off his pants and his boxers, revealing his cock, flush and hard, pre-cum already leaking at the tip. His hands resumed exploring you, pushing your panties aside, his fingers began to brush against your clit, smirking at how sopping wet you were for him, gliding his fingers in-between your folds. His mouth found yours again, claiming, demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with a possessive greed that left you breathless.

Then, without warning or prepping you thoroughly enough, Thanos readjusted himself in between your legs before pressing into you—slow at first, testing, grounding, easing his thick cock into the warmth of your heat, inch by inch . The exquisite stretch, the exquisite fullness, the way your body clenched around him, both a plea and a warning. A high pitched moan escaped your lips at the fullness, and jis hips stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel the full weight of him inside. Then, with a low growl that vibrated deep in his chest, he began to move.

At first, it was slow, deliberate—each stroke measured, precise, a pounding promise that he was here to own you completely. The friction of his hips meeting yours sent electric jolts shooting through every nerve ending, and the tight grip of your hands in his hair told him everything he needed to know. You were his, utterly, completely.

But soon, his pace quickened, brutal and unrelenting. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed sharply in the narrow corridor of the backstage, mingling with your ragged breaths and the low, guttural growls rolling from his throat. You were drowning in sensation—the searing heat of him hitting the spot that makes you tick, the desperate ache blossoming deep inside, the wild pulse racing through your veins.

Your nails raked down his back, dragging skin and muscle as you clung to him, moaning his stage name, the lines between pain and pleasure dissolving into a reckless blur. The tight, clenched rhythm of your body matched his brutal thrusts, each one driving you closer to the edge you barely dared to glimpse.

“Tell me,” Thanos snarled against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin until you shivered. 

“Tell me you can take it, baby.”

You barely managed a broken, breathless whisper, “I—can–”

He pulled you tighter, hips slamming hard enough to steal your breath, hands digging into the curves of your body like he was trying to tear you apart and put you back together all at once. The world spun wildly as your body trembled on the verge, the overwhelming tide of pleasure crashing through you in waves.

His name fell from your lips like a prayer, a curse, a desperate plea all at once. And he gave you everything—harder, faster, deeper—driving you beyond reason, beyond control, beyond anything you’d ever known.

When you came undone beneath him, creaming around his cock, covering the base of his length in a thick ring of creamy white, shaking and helpless, he didn’t falter. Thanos’ arms wrapped around you, pulling you impossibly close as he rode out his own storm. His breath was ragged against your ear, the heat of his body grounding you even as you floated in the aftermath of release.

“Fuck, my angel, you feel so good.”

The world was silent except for the thundering beat of your heart and the rough sound of his cursing breath. His forehead pressed to your shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy, possessive circles over your skin as you both caught your breath. The rough scrape of his nails against your spine was a fierce reminder, you were his. 

No one else had you like this.

Thanos held you there, his body a weight and a shield, anchoring you to the harsh reality of the backstage shadows. Your breaths mingled in the stale air, thick with the scent of sweat and something darker, something possessive, raw, unyielding. His fingers traced patterns along your spine, rough and commanding, a slow reclamation after the brutal storm of flesh and fire.

But even in the quiet aftermath, Thanos’s hunger hadn’t dulled. His eyes, dark like the abyss, never left you—they searched, devoured, claimed. There was no tenderness here, no soft aftercare you might imagine from another man. With Thanos, everything was edged with obsession, a dangerous craving that clawed beneath skin and bone.

He moved you with deliberate slowness, pushing you back from the wall just enough to watch the way your chest rose and fell, the way your skin glowed under the dim backstage light. Every shiver, every stray strand of hair clinging to your damp forehead, fed the hunger in his gaze. You tried to steel yourself, to hold onto what remained of your defenses, but it was useless—he had already torn them to shreds.

“Look at you cariño,”  Thanos said, voice low, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So fucking cute when you think you’re in control.”

His hands slid down your sides, teasing along the edges of your panties with cruel precision. You shivered again, a mix of anticipation and something darker—fear, maybe. It thrilled him, knowing he could unhinge you with just a touch, knowing that you still, despite every warning, craved what he gave.

“You don’t get to run from me,” Thanos whispered, voice thick with promise. “Not when I’ve already got you like this.”

He pressed his mouth to your jaw, teeth grazing with the sharpness of a blade, and you gasped—half in pain, half in want. Your nails dug into his back, desperate to ground yourself, but his fingers curled into your hips and pulled you forward, crashing his mouth against yours with feral need.

His cock was hard once again and unforgiving against your thigh, the heat of him scorching you.  His hips rocked with a slow, punishing rhythm, each movement designed to drive you mad with longing.

“You’re mine,” he growled against your lips, voice a low rumble that shook you to your core. “Every inch, every breath. You belong to me.”

His teeth bit down on your lower lip, tugging it between them, and the sharp sting sent a tremor through your body. You clung to him, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer as the hunger between you flared hotter than ever.

Thanos didn’t waste a second, nor did he bother to care with how much time was left until his performance. His hands were on you again—now stripping away at the rest of your clothes with an impatient fierceness that left you bare and trembling. His gaze roamed every inch of your exposed skin like a man desperate to memorize the landscape of your body, to carve his possession deep into flesh and bone.

When his mouth descended on your collarbone, sucking bruises into the soft skin, you moaned—raw and unfiltered, a sound that thrilled him beyond reason. The grip of his hands on your thighs tightened as he lifted you once more, pressing your body against his with a force that stole your breath.

His cock slid inside you once more  in one relentless thrust, filling you completely, stretching you open in the most exquisite way. You arched, riding the waves of overstimulation, as his hips began to move—slow and brutal at first, each stroke a calculated torment designed to break you down and build you back up again.

The pounding of his cock was thunderous, echoing in the confined space, the wet sound of skin sliding over skin mingling with your ragged breathing and desperate cries filling the tiny corridor once more. He fucked you like a man who would never be satisfied, driving deeper and harder, demanding more even as your body trembled on the edge.

Your hands roamed his body, tracing the sharp lines of muscle, the scars that told stories of battles fought and won, and lost. You felt his teeth nip at your earlobe, the sharp pain adding to the dizzying rush coursing through your veins.

“You like that, don’t you, angel?” Thanos growled, voice rough and dark. “You like how I ruin you.”

You didn’t answer with words. Your moans and your body spoke for you—arching, clenching, desperate for more, falling apart beneath him like you’d never fall apart before.

His pace quickened, hips slamming into yours with a ferocity that left you breathless and trembling.

When your body shattered around him as he ripped a second orgasm out of you—soft cries breaking free, limbs trembling, heart racing—Thanos held you tighter, never slowing, driving you to that desperate edge again and again, filling your cunt full of his cum until the only thing left was the wild, raw pulse of release crashing through every fiber of your being.

His lips found yours again, kissing away the fire and the madness with a rough tenderness that contradicted everything else about him. You clung to him, lost in the aftermath, the only thing certain in a world that felt like it was spinning wildly out of control.

Thanos’s fingers trace lazy patterns down your back as you both came down from the storm, his breath slow and steady against your skin. You wanted to stay in that moment, there with him, panting against him, that is, until you heard the footsteps of one of the event managers, the sound of her heels clacking against the wood. 

The two of you immediately began to fumble to put your clothes back on– and once you finally did, you heard a voice call out from further backstage, seemingly under stress. “Thanos! You’re up in five!” had echoed throughout the halls, earning a snarky giggle from the man himself. He leans in to finish buttoning your blouse, his dark eyes seizing up your disheveled form, proud of his work. 

“You better watch me, baby,” he whispers, the corners of his mouth curling into a smirk as he smooths your skirt back down. “Because when I get off that stage, we’re picking up from where we left off.”

Leaving you backstage, disheveled and utterly breathless,  just like that, Thanos is gone—leaving behind the heat of his breath on your skin, the slick ache between your legs, and the quiet, unbearable promise that he always keeps.

©angelicoffin, do not repost, copy, and/or translate my works on any platform without permission.

[lotuswish]

˗ˏˋ what loving you feels like to them (pt. 2 - savanaclaw) 𓃭 .ᐟ

synopsis: have you ever wondered what falling in love feels like for each twisted wonderland boy? this series explores love from their perspective-how their personalities, experiences, and desires shape what loving you means to them.

featured character(s): leona kingscholar, ruggie bucchi, jack howl.

content warning(s): none.

a/n: what loving you feels like to them might occasionally use the same words, but those words mean something a little different for each of them. it might sound familiar, but it's still their own!

link(s): (masterlist) (pt. 1 - scarabia) (pt. 2 - you are here) (pt. 3 - heartslabyul) (pt. 4 - ignihyde) (pt. 5 - pomefiore) (pt. 6 - octavinelle) (pt. 7 - diasomnia)

leona kingscolar

loving you feels like a storm to leona kingscholar—wild, consuming, and impossible to ignore. it’s not soft or gentle; it’s raw and powerful, shaking the foundation of the walls he’s spent his life building. leona has always been a man who distances himself, resigned to the shadows cast by others’ expectations and his own bitterness. yet, loving you feels like being dragged into the sunlight, where he can’t hide from how deeply and fiercely he cares.

for someone as proud and guarded as leona, love feels like vulnerability, and vulnerability feels like weakness—something he’s spent years despising. but with you, it’s different. it’s infuriating at first, how you manage to slip past his defenses, see through his sharp words and careless demeanor to the soul beneath. it frustrates him because you make him care when he’s tried so hard not to, when he’s convinced himself it’s better to want nothing than to risk losing it all. yet, at the same time, it’s impossible for him to resist you. your presence becomes the one thing he craves, a rare oasis that cuts through the arid emptiness of his cynicism, bringing a sense of life he didn’t realize he was missing.

loving you feels like a battle he didn’t ask for but can’t walk away from. it’s the quiet war between his instinct to keep you at arm’s length and the overwhelming desire to hold you close, to make you his in every sense of the word. it awakens something in him he thought long buried—a longing not just to be wanted but to be truly seen, understood, and loved for who he is, flaws and all. you don’t expect him to change or prove himself, and that unconditional acceptance both humbles and enrages him, because it feels too good to be true.

loving you also feels like a challenge, one that pushes him to be better, even when he resents the effort. you inspire him to fight—not for power or recognition, but for you, for the life he dreams of building by your side, even if he doesn’t admit it out loud. it’s a quiet kind of ambition, one he keeps close to his chest, but it drives him more than he thought possible.

for leona, loving you feels like discovering something he never believed could exist—a place where he isn’t judged for his flaws or dismissed for what he’s not, but truly valued and deeply cherished for who he is. it’s a kind of peace he’s never known, a calm he never thought he’d deserve. it’s not perfect, but it’s real, and to him, that makes it irreplaceable. he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

ruggie bucchi

loving you feels like both a risk and a reward to ruggie bucchi, like daring to believe in something that feels almost too good to be true. for someone who’s spent his life scraping by, fighting for every scrap and opportunity, love is something he never thought he’d have time for. yet, here you are, proving that love isn’t a luxury he has to earn—it’s something you offer freely, and that alone feels like the biggest miracle to him.

to ruggie, loving you feels like warmth in a cold, unforgiving world. it’s the kind of comfort he never thought he’d get to experience, like the feeling of a hot meal after a long day or the rare quiet moments where he doesn’t have to worry about tomorrow. it’s unfamiliar and almost disorienting to feel safe with someone, to trust that you won’t turn your back on him when things get hard. at first, he finds himself holding back, keeping his guard up because he’s used to people taking advantage of him. but with you, the walls come down, bit by bit, as you show him that your love isn’t conditional.

loving you also feels like motivation, like the fire that keeps him going even when the odds are stacked against him. ruggie has always been a survivor, driven by the need to make a better life for himself, but with you in his corner, his dreams feel a little closer, a little more achievable. you believe in him, even when he struggles to believe in himself, and that belief makes him want to work even harder—not just for himself, but for you too. he wants to give you the world, even if it means pushing himself to his limits to make it happen.

at the same time, loving you feels grounding. you remind him of the things that truly matter, of the joy that can be found in the little things—shared laughter, quiet moments, and the simple fact that you’re there. with you, he doesn’t feel like he has to put on a show or prove his worth. you accept him for who he is, and that kind of unconditional love feels like the rarest treasure he’s ever come across.

for ruggie, loving you feels like a gamble that paid off in ways he never imagined. it’s not always easy—he’s used to relying on himself and struggles to fully open up—but the reward of having you in his life is worth every moment of uncertainty. you make him feel like he’s found something worth fighting for, someone worth sharing the best parts of himself with. loving you feels like coming home after years of wandering, and it’s a feeling he’ll hold onto with everything he’s got.

jack howl

loving you feels like growth to jack howl—steady, natural, and deeply rooted, like a tree that grows stronger with time. for someone as disciplined and driven as jack, love doesn’t come easily or suddenly. it’s not a whirlwind or a grand revelation; it’s something that builds slowly, shaped by trust, respect, and countless little moments. it surprises him, how deeply it takes root in his heart, but once it’s there, it’s unwavering.

to jack, loving you feels like a quiet kind of strength. he’s always been proud of his independence, his ability to handle anything life throws his way, but with you, he learns that letting someone in doesn’t make him weaker. instead, it makes him stronger, giving him someone to lean on when he needs it, someone to protect and fight for. you don’t expect him to be perfect or unshakable all the time, and that acceptance is something he treasures more than he can say.

loving you feels grounding, like a steady presence in his life that keeps him balanced. jack values honesty and loyalty above all else, and with you, he feels secure in a way he’s never felt before. you’re not just someone he cares for; you’re his partner, his mate, someone who stands by his side no matter what. he doesn’t have to hide who he is with you—you see him, flaws and all, and you love him anyway. that kind of trust is rare, and it’s something he holds onto fiercely.

but loving you also feels like a challenge, one that pushes him to be better. jack’s always been hard on himself, striving to improve and never settling for less than his best. with you, he finds new reasons to grow, not just for his own sake but for yours too. you inspire him to step outside his comfort zone, to take risks he might otherwise avoid. whether it’s learning to be more open about his feelings or letting himself be vulnerable, you make him want to reach higher, to be someone worthy of the love you give so freely.

for jack, loving you feels natural, like something that was meant to be. it’s not flashy or dramatic—it’s steady, enduring, and unshakable, just like him. you’re his anchor, his motivation, his reason to keep moving forward. loving you feels like the pull of the earth beneath his feet—natural, stabilizing, and something he relies on without question.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

[heldbybarnes]

The Tank Top Incident

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+; smut/sexual content (vaginal penetration, dirty talk, slight dom!bucky, oral implications, light BDSM dynamics); strong language; reader aggressively thirsting over bucky; bucky in a wife beater (which should be its own warnings)

----------

You’re not expecting it.

Which, in your defense, is kind of fair. Bucky Barnes has worn the same three outfits for as long as you’ve known him. Black jeans. Black t-shirt. Maybe a charcoal henley if he’s feeling crazy. Tactical boots that look like they’ve seen war—because they literally have. You’ve lovingly called it his “grayscale era.” He's dependable like that.

So when he walks out of your shared bedroom on a random Wednesday afternoon wearing—

You choke on your coffee.

“What?” he says casually, eyes flicking toward you like nothing is out of the ordinary.

You blink.

Then blink again.

It’s a white tank top. Thin, ribbed, hugged to every muscled inch of him like it was sewn on with thirst in mind. His dog tags rest against his chest, catching on the fabric. His hair’s still damp from his shower, curling slightly at the ends. There’s a faint pink scratch on his neck from training.

“Bucky.”

He frowns. “What?”

You stare at him, stunned, lips parting in betrayal. “Honey,” you say, slowly standing, “you’ve never looked so slutty.”

His brows shoot up. “Slutty?”

“So slutty.”

“I’m literally wearing a shirt.”

“You’re wearing a tank top, Bucky. A white one. With no shame. You’re walking around here with those arms out, those veins doing God’s work, that fucking collarbone, and you expect me not to react like this?”

A beat.

He smirks. “You like it.”

You point accusingly. “I love it. I’m furious. How dare you leave the bedroom looking like that and not immediately climb back into bed with me.”

He steps closer, and you can smell his shampoo—mint and cedar and sin. He grins, smug as hell. “Didn’t know I was dressing like a whore today.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I really didn’t.”

“Then it’s accidental sluttiness,” you say breathlessly, pressing your hands to his chest. “Which is somehow worse.”

His chest rises under your palms. He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “And what do you plan to do about it, sweetheart?”

Your thighs clench.

You grip the front of his tank, tug him closer until you can kiss him slow and hard. It starts hot—hands greedy, tongues deep—but ends even hotter when he hooks his arms around your thighs and lifts you onto the kitchen counter like it’s nothing.

You gasp as your back hits the cold surface. “Bucky!”

“I warned you,” he says, dropping kisses to your neck, the scrape of stubble making you squirm. “You say I look slutty in this thing, but you’re the one grinding on me like it’s prom night.”

You grab his jaw. “Take it off.”

“No.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You said the shirt was working for you.” He smirks. “Can’t take away your inspiration now, baby.”

You groan.

You’re still in your pajamas. You hadn’t planned on needing to change—or, you know, be ruined—before noon. But Bucky in this tank top has you weak. Weak in ways that should be illegal.

“You’re really going to fuck me in this?” you breathe, voice hitching as he trails a hand beneath your waistband.

He nips your earlobe. “What do you think?”

Ten Minutes Later

Your pajama bottoms are on the floor. Bucky’s tank top is still on—somehow—and now damp with sweat. You’ve never been so obsessed with an article of clothing in your life.

“Fuck,” you whisper, head tipped back, as he thrusts deep and slow. “You—god, Bucky—you have to burn that shirt after this.”

“Burn it?” he laughs, breath hot against your neck. “I was planning on wearing it every damn day if this is the kind of reaction I get.”

“You’re evil.”

“And you’re dripping.”

You whimper, clenching around him, nails dragging across his back. “Don’t you dare say that while still wearing it.”

He grinds into you with purpose. “This shirt got you this worked up?”

“Your arms are—god—your arms are rude, Barnes.”

He laughs again—low and breathless—and suddenly grabs both your hands, pinning them above your head with his metal hand. “Let me take care of you, baby.”

And fuck, does he ever.

You cum twice. The second time with his dog tags hitting your chin and your eyes rolling back. You barely register him muttering that’s it, sweetheart, let go for me before your legs tremble around his waist.

Twenty Minutes Later

You're sprawled on the kitchen floor, a sweaty mess. Your head is in his lap. He's got one hand in your hair and one casually resting on your thigh. The tank top is wrinkled and definitely stretched at the collar now.

“I can never look at that shirt again without getting horny,” you mutter.

He grins, smug and lazy. “Guess I’m wearing it to brunch with Sam this weekend.”

You prop yourself up. “You wear that in public, and I will follow you into the bathroom.”

His eyes darken. “Promise?”

You groan and throw your hand over your face. “I’m going to be arrested because of you.”

He leans down, kissing your temple. “Worth it.”

Later That Week

Sam walks into your apartment unannounced. Bucky greets him with a casual wave. He’s wearing the tank top again. A fresh scratch sits just above the collar.

Sam pauses. Blinks.

“You okay, man?” he asks slowly. “You look like you’ve just escaped a lion’s den.”

Bucky grins. “Nah. Just got dressed.”

Sam eyes the tank. “You do realize that’s not normal, right? That’s not a you outfit.”

Bucky shrugs. “Guess I’m branching out.”

From the bedroom, you yell:

“DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM, SAM. HE’S A SLUT NOW.”

Sam blinks again.

“…Y’all are disgusting.”

Bucky just grins wider.

[chvoswxtch]

epilogue

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: you and frank start a new chapter together.

warnings: swearing, angst, mentions of pregnancy, the world flooding from my tears bc this is the final chapter, explicit sexual content (minors dni)

word count: 3.8k

a/n: i'm not going to get emo in this section (there will be a separate post for that when i've processed my feelings about this ending), but i want to say again from the bottom of my heart to all of y'all, thank you. this is for you.

[previous chapter] | [series masterlist]

One year later.

Stepping through the familiar threshold, a light breeze entered behind you, bringing with it a crisp chill of autumn and the lingering smell of impending rain. There was a soft clink when you tossed your keys into the small emerald green ceramic bowl on the side table in the foyer. Slipping your long gray wool coat off your shoulders, you can smell freshly brewed coffee wafting in the air, and there was a murmur coming from the kitchen of two distinct voices you’d recognize anywhere.

A tiny smile graced your lips catching snippets of the conversation, and you shook your head with a light chuckle, hanging up your coat on the hook by the front door before making your way down the hallway adjacent to the spacious living room.

“This could be a huge bust. I mean, it’s five years worth of intel, and there’s a small window of opportunity here-“

Leaning against the entryway of the kitchen, you crossed your arms over your chest and cleared your throat.

“Dinah.”

Both heads of dark hair suddenly turned in your direction. Upon seeing you, Dinah straightened up, a fleeting expression on her face resembling that of a child getting caught doing something they’re not supposed to. Arching one of your brows, you barely suppressed an amused smile that briefly tugged at the corner of your lips.

“My husband is retired.”

Dinah’s lips parted to speak, and then she abruptly closed them. Her brown eyes flicker over towards Frank sitting across from her at the dining table, silently asking him for back up. Catching her eye, Frank gave a subtle shake of his head, bringing his mug of coffee up to his lips with one hand, and making a gesture of surrender with the other, attempting to hide his smirk.

“You heard the woman.”

Dinah gave him a pointed, exasperated look and pursed her lips at his lack of cooperation.

“I’m just asking for a consult-“

“You got the whole goddamn CIA under your belt, ask one of them. You want a consult ‘bout a remodel, you let me know.”

Frank set the mug of coffee down on the table, shrugging his broad shoulders covered in worn dark green flannel. Dinah faintly narrowed her eyes at him, letting out a deep exhale through her nose. 

“Fine.”

As she stood, the chair scraped against the hardwood, and she looked down at him in subtle defiance with an arch of her dark brow as she buttoned the middle button on her navy blue blazer.

“I’m thinking about redoing my kitchen. Let me know when you’ve got time in that busy schedule of yours, Castle.”

A deep rumble of laughter sounded in Frank’s chest at the dripping sass in her voice, and his eyes crinkled in amusement as he gave her a faint nod.

“See what I can do.”

Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes and turned around to leave the kitchen, her heeled boots clicking against the hardwood floor. When she reached you, she paused and gave you a light smile, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder gently.

“Good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Hearing the front door open and shut, your eyes drifted over towards Frank, narrowing your gaze with a look of faux accusation. Frank’s hand paused midway in bringing his mug up to his lips, and his dark brows furrowed as his face scrunched slightly. 

“What?”

Arching one of your dark brows, you bite back a smile as Frank set the mug back down and leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight, bunching up his shoulders and loosely gesturing with his large hands in a show of defense of his innocence.

“She called me-”

“Mhm.”

Frank pursed his lips in lighthearted annoyance, scrunching up his face adorably, and you finally broke. Your laughter filled the kitchen, and he shook his head and rolled his eyes, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he turned to look at you again, his dark eyes wandering over your figure.

“You ever not gonna be a pain in my ass?”

“Nope.”

Grinning, you walked over towards where he was sitting, and a grin stretched across his own lips as he reached out immediately to grab your hips, pulling you down onto his lap to straddle him.

“S’pose I signed up for that, yeah?”

Frank nuzzled his large nose against your neck, and the coarse dark hair of his beard brushed against your skin, tickling and sending a shiver down your spine as you laughed.

“Legally.”

Leaning back slightly, you gazed at him adoringly, bringing your hand up to brush back some of the loose dark curls that were laying against his forehead, carding your fingers through his grown out hair. Your hand slowly slipped down his temple, caressing the full beard covering his cheeks and the lower half of his face, a smirk spreading across your lips.

“You know, this whole…hipster thing is really working for me.”

Frank blew out a puff of air through his lips, shaking his head and rolling his eyes in moderate annoyance. Pursing his full lips, he looked at you, his warm brown eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes.

“Yeah? Think I should go full man bun?”

A deep laugh escaped you at the dryness of his voice, shaking your head as you ran both of your hands through his soft hair from the thick roots down to the loose curls at the base of his neck. Leaning in, you brushed your lips against his gently.

“I like it just the way it is.”

Frank’s large hands splayed against your back as he pulled you further against his firm chest, but before he could kiss you, suddenly you perked up and leaned back.

“Oh! I have something for you.”

Patting his chest, you untangled yourself from Frank’s arms and got off his lap, slipping down the hall. Frank’s dark brows knitted in confusion, glancing down at his lap where you just were and then flickering his gaze towards the entryway of the kitchen you’d just disappeared down, craning his neck as he listened to your footsteps.

“I’d rather have what you were just about to give me.”

Hearing his grumble from the kitchen, your laugh echoed from down the hall, and as you reappeared in the kitchen, you couldn’t contain your grin seeing him sitting in the wooden chair and pouting like a petulant child. Shaking your head slowly, you resumed your position on his lap, placing a soft kiss to his large nose.

“Hey, the role of the impatient one in this relationship is already filled, thank you very much.”

“Has been since the beginning.”

Rolling your eyes at Frank’s sassy remark, you smile as you pull your hand out from behind your back, holding out a small velvet black box in your hand. Frank glances down at it, his face contorting in an expression of pure puzzlement. He glanced between it, the ring on your finger, and the band on his own left hand before looking at you, arching one of his dark brows.

“You know we’re already married, right?”

“Just shut up and open it.”

Rolling his own eyes in return, Frank grabbed the small box in one of his large hands, keeping one of his arms wrapped around your waist. Flipping it open with his thumb, you watched in amusement as the temperate confusion previously on his face shifted into pure convoluted perplexity. Frank stared down at the little T-shaped plastic device displayed upright in the slit of the velvet square.

“Oh…wow. That’s…this is…it’s a…really nice-“

Frank blinked a few times, eventually lifting his head to look at you in a mixture of apology and uncertainty.

“-sweetheart I got no idea what the hell this goddamn thing is.”

Letting out an amused laugh, your lips spread into a soft smile as you brush his curls back with your fingers. 

“My IUD.”

Frank blinked a few times, his face a blank canvas. There wasn’t a shred of recognition in his eyes.

“My intrauterine device.”

His dark brows rose up his forehead slightly, glancing between the small plastic device and you, eyeing you curiously as he spoke hesitantly.

“And…you’re givin’ me this…because…?”

Realizing that Frank genuinely had no idea what the significance of the small thing he’s holding was, you decided to take mercy on him.

“Frank, it’s my birth control device.”

Frank’s rugged features were twisted up in confusion as he repeated your words slowly.

“Your…birth control…device?”

“Modern medicine has come a long way, big guy. Birth control isn’t just pills. It’s also that.”

When you pointed to the small box in his hand, his dark eyes flickered down between it, your patient gaze, and the tiny plastic device again.

“And it’s…in this box.”

You could see the gears turning in Frank’s head, piecing the new information together. Nodding, a smile leisurely spread across your lips as you suppressed your laughter.

“Which means it’s not inside of me.”

All of a sudden, it was like a light bulb went off, and you could see Frank’s eyes light up with understanding.

“Wait, you mean-“

Hearing the hesitant hope and excitement in his voice felt like a fist tightening around your heart, squeezing it in a vice. 

The idea was still new. Over the past year, you’d seen that desire steadily building in him. Whenever the two of you went somewhere, the sound of a child’s laughter would grasp his attention and hold it captive. At first, you thought the look in his eyes was lingering grief, reminiscing on that sound in his memory that had come from his own lost children once upon a time. 

But in the last few months, you’d come to realize that the emotion in his gaze wasn’t just nostalgia, it was also longing. You saw the way his eyes softened as he stood at the sink, watching the neighborhood kids playing in the street out the window, his eyes faintly crinkled as a tiny smile graced his lips when he didn’t think you were looking. All the kids in the neighborhood were drawn to him, and he was all too eager to fix a bike chain, or demonstrate a perfect football spiral.

The interactions granted you a glimpse of what Frank had been like as a father, and it sent a crack through your own chest that he’d been robbed of something he was so good at, something he should’ve had more time to do. You could see that it was something he wanted, but you could also see the hesitance. You didn’t know how to bring it up. Frank was happy, and he’d found a semblance of peace in this new life, but that void of loss would always be there. That pain would never truly go away.

You wanted Frank to know that it was okay, that it wasn’t wrong to want to try again. You wanted him to know that moving forward didn’t have to mean forgetting. You’d eased him into the idea of visiting the cemetery, something he hadn’t done in years, and you’d held his hand tightly as he placed three sets of flowers on the headstones, encouraging him to talk to them, to get out all the words he never got to say. 

You’d hung up the worn photograph of Maria and the kids he’d been carrying around for the last few years, the only one he had left, in the living room so he could see them everyday instead of hiding them away in his memory. You wanted Frank to know that they had a place in your shared home, that they were still a part of his new life, even if they weren’t physically here. That he could talk about them, share fond stories of them, and include them.

“We don’t have to start trying right away, but-”

“The hell we don’t.”

Frank grabbed your hips with renewed vigor and stood up, setting you down on the edge of the dining table he’d built himself. A bubble of surprised laughter erupted from you, but was quickly cut off by Frank’s lips as he kissed you deeply, slotting himself between your parted thighs as his calloused hands hiked your skirt upwards. When his thumbs hooked into the sides of your panties, brushing the pad along the skin of your hips, you shifted them upwards to assist him in slipping them down.

Your fingers swiftly sought out the buttons of his flannel, popping each of them with growing urgency, shoving the worn green fabric off his broad shoulders and down his arms. While you reached for his belt buckle, Frank untucked your blouse, tugging it up your waist and over your head, carelessly tossing it onto the hardwood. Your heels slipped off your feet, falling to the floor with a soft thud, and the sound of his zipper being undone echoed in the kitchen as Frank pushed his hips forward against your welcoming hand, cupping your breast and squeezing as his lips latched onto the juncture of your neck.

Feeling the blunt head of his cock nudging at your slick entrance, you pressed your palm against his firm, warm chest and panted breathlessly.

“Frank.”

Pulling his head back slightly, his warm brown eyes darted back and forth between your own, dropping to your lips before looking at you with hooded lids.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

Letting out a soft breath, you brought your hand up to cup his bearded cheek, biting down on your bottom lip gently as you gazed into his eyes and spoke softly.

“If…if you’re not ready-”

Frank gave a faint shake of his head and dipped down to kiss you tenderly, murmuring against your lips.

“I’m ready.”

Pushing his hips forward, Frank filled you in one swift thrust, and your head dipped back as your mouth hung open, your eyes fluttering shut at the euphoric sensation of being so full. Frank let out a quiet grunt as your tight warmth enveloped him, wrapping his arm around your waist to hold you firmly to his chest, slipping his other hand in your hair to cradle the back of your head as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

Wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, you grabbed onto the back of his neck, slipping your fingers into the loose dark curls as you brought your legs up to lock around his waist. Frank nuzzled your neck reverently, flexing his hips forward, thrusting in slow and deep strokes. Letting out a desperate moan, your lips brushed against Frank’s bearded cheek, seeking out his kiss, and he turned his head to capture your mouth passionately, gliding his tongue along the seam of your lips and seeking entry.

He swallowed every noise of pleasure you spilled into his mouth, sensually caressing your tongue with his own the same way his hands caressed your body in dedicated worship. The wooden table creaked as Frank pushed you to lay flat on your back, bending to press his chest flush to yours, grabbing your wrists gently to guide them upwards and pin them above your head. He interlaced his fingers with yours and squeezed your hands, pressing his forehead against yours as he gazed deeply down into your eyes, his warm breath caressing your lips as he panted.

“Frank-”

“I know.”

Your eyes fluttered shut and your back arched as he nuzzled his nose against your throat, trailing warm open mouthed kisses along your jawline and neck, dripping praises and sweet nothings into your ear like honey. You gripped onto his large hands, using them as an anchor to his moment, tightening your legs around his waist to eliminate any space between you.

As your breathing got quicker and more shallow, and your moans grew in volume and pitch, Frank increased his pace in tandem, grunting into your ear. Feeling the tremble in your thighs and the contraction of your tight walls signaling your impending release, he brushed his lips against the shell of your ear.

“I love you.”

You never got tired of hearing those three words in his deep gravelly voice. All at once, they made you shatter into a million little pieces, and your body seized up as an intense wave of gratification crashed over you, nearly knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your eyes rolled and you writhed beneath him as your prayer of his name echoed in the kitchen, repeating those same three words back to him over and over and over again.

Frank was right there behind you, his hips stuttering as his rhythm faltered, letting out a guttural groan and holding his hips still against your own as the seed of a new beginning was planted deep within you. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, both of you panting heavily as you clung to each other tightly. Frank felt a buzzing bliss spread throughout his body, reveling in keeping himself buried within your comforting snug warmth, but he also felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

Hope.

»»———　　———««

Laying in bed with the sheets draped over your naked figure, your head was propped up on your elbow, and you watched as Frank stood in front of the sink in the bathroom and brushed his teeth. Your eyes wandered over his body slowly, taking in his tan skin littered with various faded scars. When you’d first met him, you hadn’t known how many were still healing internally, but you could see it now. There was a lightness to him, in the way he carried himself now, brick by brick of trauma and grief slowly being lifted from his shoulders. 

Frank didn’t have nightmares anymore. Attending Curtis’ Veterans group had given him the space to divulge the things he didn’t know how to say to you. As hard as you tried, there were just certain things he’d been through you couldn’t fully understand to offer comfort, but they could. He still had his moody moments, and that familiar brooding expression would shroud his features, but it wasn’t as hardened as before. That impenetrable steel guard had been slowly dismantled over time, and now it was nonexistent. You knew that broken man was still in there, still healing from wounds you couldn’t see, and maybe he always would be. There would always be that jagged piece of him that had donned a bloodstained, bullet filled white skull and waged a one man war on a world that had taken everything from him, but the curvy edges were softening to fit somewhere. 

It was such an interesting dichotomy, that Frank could be so familiar to the stoic broody bodyguard you met two years ago and yet so different as the loving husband that built you a dining table with his bare hands on his day off because you couldn’t find one you liked.

Shutting out the light in the bathroom, Frank turned to walk into your shared bedroom, and he raised one of his dark brows when he caught you staring at him.

“What?”

Lifting your gaze from the tantalizing view of his gray sweatpants draped low across his bare hips, you looked up at him with a faint smirk, lifting one of your own brows.

“I can’t admire my husband?”

Frank’s lips always split into a goofy grin hearing you call him that. In two short strides, he was crawling onto the bed, climbing on top of you and placing his hands on either side of your head as he leaned down to nip at your bottom lip playfully.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, you’re gonna be pregnant by sunrise.”

Letting out a soft laugh, you leaned up to brush your lips against his teasingly with a grin.

“Promise?”

Frank gave you a wide, tooth-bearing smile as he leaned in and captured your lips in a soft and sweet kiss, letting out a deep exhale of content through his nose. After a moment, he pulled back slowly, caressing your face tenderly with his knuckles before he brushed your hair back and cupped your cheek. For a minute, he just stared down at you, taking you in like it was the first time he’d ever seen you.

“Thank you.”

A soft furrow nestled between your brows, and you placed your hand on top of his gently.

“For what?”

“Givin’ me a second chance.”

Frank’s voice was so soft and quiet, full of genuine gratitude and admiration, and it tugged at your heartstrings. Gently grabbing your left hand, he gazed down at the ring on your finger, and slowly lifted your hand to press a soft kiss to it.

“I don’t…I don’t know how much of this I deserve, and I don’t know what I did to…to get here after…ya’know. I just…I wasn’t plannin’ on makin’ it this far, or makin’ it here ever. And I don’t know why you didn’t give up on me, God knows I gave you many reasons to, but you didn’t. And I…I don’t know if I've ever thanked you for that. I mean…all of this…I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

The vulnerable honesty in Frank’s voice had tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You understood the deeper meaning behind his words. He didn’t just mean here in this bed with you. Frank hadn’t cared about living since the day he lost everything. Everyday that followed, he’d been prepared to join his family. From the day you first met him, and even the night everything went down with Billy, he had been ready. You couldn’t even bear to think about a world that Frank Castle didn’t exist in.

Frank gently brushed a stray tear away from your cheek that had slipped, gazing down at you with nothing but pure and honest adoration and commitment. To you, to your marriage, and to this next chapter of your life together. By some cosmic force or grace of a merciful deity, he’d been granted a second chance, and he wasn’t going to waste a second of it. He was all in.

“Thank you, for all of it. For bein’ patient with me, seein’ me, puttin’ my ass in check when I need it.”

Both of you shared a small laugh, and Frank gently brushed the pad of his thumb along your cheekbone.

“Thank you for lovin’ me the way you do.”

Staring up into the warm brown eyes of this magnetic force of a man you were lucky enough to love, and to be loved by, you gently cupped his bearded cheek and brought him down for a reverent kiss, allowing your lips to linger before slowly opening your eyes to look at him, a gentle smile gracing your lips.

“It’s my job, baby.”

tags:@thyme-in-a-bubble @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @avengerstower-houseplant @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed @fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @polskiperson @imperihoe @v4leoftears @harperdoodle @spideyvibez @joalslibrary @cherry-berry-ollie @sorrowfulfragmentation @kdogreads @sumo-b98 @blackhawksfanatic @gloryekaterina @whistle1whistle @starbritestarlite @callmebrooklynbabes @hallway5 @scarletfvckingwitch @bifuriouslatina @soupyspence @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @wonwoosthetic @linguist-breakaribecca @nerdytreeflower @mrs-bellingham @smhnxdiii @s3riou2 @slavic-empress

[scarletcomalies]

may i request something??. nat having f!r in all fours, taking her w her strap. all soft, vulnerable. please? need her domestic possessive side (you can create a plot if you're up to, but that's pretty much it!!)

all of you, all of me

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word count: 1,608

Warnings: 18+ content, strap-on usage (R. Receiving), fluff.

A/N: Thanks for the request, anon! Hope you enjoy <3

After a dangerous yet successful mission, Natasha Romanoff returned home to you, her loving partner.

Your thumbs gently ran over the once smooth skin of your beloved, now stained by a few scrapes and bruises to which she gave very little importance.

The woman before you was immune to any stimuli, except your caresses, or you as a whole, for that matter. It was obvious from the way she sighed and closed her eyes as soon as you had placed your hands on her cheeks.

After each life-risking mission, the only thing she needed was to feel your touch, and she wouldn't let some silly superficial wounds to deprive her of this delight.

"Oh, baby," you cooed, tracing a path with your hands from her cheeks to her ears, ending at her red hair. It was tangled, and you could even feel the powdery texture of dirt within. "Would you like me to run you a hot bath? Or would you prefer me to bring the first aid kit? Or would you rather rest?"

"Don't 'baby' me," Natasha grumbled, pulling you closer and wrapping her hands around your waist. "I'm not fragile, I don't need to rest," her tone indicating irritation, as if it was an insult that you simply offered to give her the care she deserved after such hard work. “I just want you, okay?” She added lowly.

You hummed disapprovingly, scratching her scalp in circles to soothe her usual high-defense demeanor. She rolled her eyes slightly, and threw her head back so your hands could continue to run through her scarlet locks.

"You're like a kitten," you commented with a chuckle. "A kitten that needs a bath, a massage, and a good night's sleep."

"I don't need any of that, you know I've had worse," she protested, stubbornness shining through. And it's true, Natasha's been through worse. Much, much worse. "What I need is to get you out of these clothes in the next five minutes...—" she stated, her lips moving to kiss your neck as her hands gripped your hips, pushing you tighter against her.

"Whatever makes my love feel better," you agreed, and it was your turn to tilt your head back to give her more access to that area, to let her slowly give in to the intoxicating need for more of you.

Natasha had given you a fair share of small heart attacks whenever she returned unexpectedly from missions at the most ungodly, unpredictable hours known to human kind. The first time, you had given her a bruise on her torso when you felt an extra weight on your shared bed, thinking someone had broken in.

It took some time for you to become accustomed to the fact that an additional weight no longer signified danger, but it rather indicated the return of your partner from another successful mission.

"I want to touch you," she pleaded, mewled against your ear.

"Well, nothing's stopping you," you whispered, your voice full of desire.

"Damn right!"

One of the things that characterized your relationship with the redhead was her ability to elicit a strong physical response from you, regardless of whether you had been sleeping, or had experienced a rough day, she just had to say the word, and that was sufficient to prompt a readiness on your part to comply.

Natasha's hands exerted pressure on your shoulders, guiding your back against the matress. She observed your body from an arm's distance, her eyes tracing the outline of your skin.

"You have no fucking idea how badly I've longed for this," she murmured.

Her lips captured yours for the first time in three weeks, her tongue exploring your mouth passionately. Said kiss was deep and hungry, chanelling all the longing that had built up during her absence. Her hands desperately traced the contours of your skin beneath your shirt, roaming up and down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

As the kiss intensified, Natasha nibbled at your bottom lip, pulling it gently between her teeth before releasing it with a soft pop, proceeding to begin a journey southward, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck. She paused at your pulse point, sucking the sensitive spot, and in consequence, eliciting a soft moan from you.

Her hands, meanwhile, had found their way to the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing it upwards. As more of your skin was exposed, the redhead's kisses followed, intending to cover every inch of your upper body with her touch.

She paused for a moment, looking up at you with a brief vulnerability.

"I've missed this," she whispered, her voice raspy with need. "And I've missed you."

With a gentle but quick maneuver, Natasha gently turned you onto your stomach, her hands caressing your back as she did so. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of your pants, slowly sliding them down your legs.

When the fabric pooled at your ankles, her hands returned to your hips. She leaned down, pressing a trail of kisses along your exposed skin, from the small of your back up to your shoulder blades.

"You're beautiful," she murmured against your skin, her breath warm and even comforting in comparison to the already present winter. "So perfect,” she added, as she lifted your hips to position you on all fours.

Natasha sat back on her heels, her eyes never daring to leave your ready body as she slowly began to undress. She started with her sweatshirt, pulling it off to reveal her toned abdomen and the simple black bra underneath. Her fingers then moved to the clasp behind, unhooking it with ease as the garment fell down.

Subsequently, she stood up, taking out of her pants, letting them pool at her feet before stepping out of them. Her underwear followed, sliding down her toned legs to join the rest of her discarded clothing on the floor.

Now fully naked, Natasha stood before you, her soft skin adorned with a few bruises and scratches. Perhaps it was wrong to admire the marks of such physical exertions such as her soul-draining missions, but there was something undeniably magnetic about the way she wore those bruises with pride.

She allowed you a moment to appreciate the sight of her, a small smirk playing on her lips at the obvious hunger you displayed shamelessly.

She then reached for a strap-on dildo from the bedside drawer, and fastened it around her hips, your all-time favorite black silicone perking up and adding to her already alluring form. And so, like a lioness eyeing her prey, she positioned herself behind you.

She started slowly, easing the toy into your hole with gentle, shallow thrusts. Your body welcomed the intrusion, already primed and prepared due to her earlier teasing.

Her hands then gripped your hips firmly as she began to thrust with more force, each movement driving the toy deeper. The room filled with the sound of your combined moans and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

"Mine, mine, mine," she remarked accompanied by each thrust, making you cry out in response.

They became deeper, more forceful, each movement causing waves of pleasure to drown you more and more, threatening to leave you breathless and defeated. The only sound present in the room was that rhythmic, familiar one of skin meeting skin.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" You cried out, followed by high-pitched gasps.

Your eyes were shut tight, your hands gripping the bedsheets with such force your knuckles turned white, anchoring you to reality.

Your back arched involuntarily, pushing you further onto Natasha, seeking more, always more. The clenching on your walls, and the tension on your core built to an almost unbearable level, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

Hers, hers, hers. Utterly and completely hers. With each thrust, each caress, each burning kiss, she once again branded you as her own.

“Nat! M’ gonna…” You weren't able to finish the sentence, for your body went rigid, as the pleasure of release overcame you.

Nevertheless, her hips continued to move, albeit slower and gentler as she helped you ride out your orgasm.

Her lips found the sensitive skin of your back, trailing soft kisses along your spine. This moment, this connection with you, was what she had craved during every lonely night on during her mission.

The feeling of your skin against hers, tte sound of your voice, your addictive scent that was uniquely you, it all reminded her of why she fought so hard to come back home in the first place.

As the aftershocks subsided, you collapsed onto your back, and Natasha took the opportunity to snuggle against you, the last bit of energy gone.

She had the presence of mind to be slightly embarrassed by how quickly and intensely you'd managed to affect her, excessively so, if she was being honest. But she was too drained, too satisfied to care much about it.

"Feeling better, baby?" You asked, your voice soft and filled with affection. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on her back, soothing and filled with tenderness.

Instead of a verbal response, Natasha managed a weak nod against your skin.

Her hands moved languidly, cupping your breasts in a delicate manner that contrasted with her earlier fervor. She let out a contented sigh as she settled her face more firmly between them, nuzzling against your soft skin. She could perfectly fall asleep right there and then, all spent and completely at peace.

Natasha pressed a soft kiss to your chest, right above your beating heart. It was a wordless expression of gratitude, of love, of coming home. No matter where her missions took her, no matter what dangers she faced, you would always be her sanctuary, her safe haven in a world of disaster.

[therobotmonster]

On that recent Disney Vs Midjourney court thing wrt AI, how strong do you think their case is in a purely legal sense, what do you think MJ's best defenses are, how likely is Disney to win, and how bad would the outcome be if they do win?

Oh sure, ask an easy one.

In a purely legal sense, this case is very questionable.

Scraping as fair use has already been established when it comes to text in legal cases, and infringement is based on publication, not inspiration. There's also the question of if Midjourney would be responsible for their users' creations under safe harbor provisions, or even basic understanding of what an art tool is. Adobe isn't responsible for the many, many illegal images its software is used to make, after all.

The best defense, I would say, is the fair use nature of dataset training and the very nature of transformative work, which is protected, requires the work-to-be-transformed is involved. Disney's basic approach of 'your AI knows who our characters are, so that proves you stole from us' would render fair use impossible.

I don't think its likely for Disney to win, but the problem with civil action is proof isn't needed, just convincing. Bad civil cases happen all the time, and produce case law. Which is what Disney is trying to do here.

If Disney wins, they'll have pulled off a coup of regulatory capture, basically ensuring that large media corporations can replace their staff with robots but that small creators will be limited to underpowered models to compete with them.

Worse, everything that is a 'smoking gun' when it comes to copyright infringement on Midjourney? That's fan art. All that "look how many copyrighted characters they're using-" applies to the frontpage of Deviantart or any given person's Tumblr feed more than to the featured page of Midjourney.

Every single website with user-generated content it chock full of copyright infringement because of fan art and fanfic, and fair use arguments are far harder to pull out for fan-works. The law won't distinguish between a human with a digital art package and a human with an AI art package, and any win Disney makes against MJ is a win against Artstation, Deviantart, Rule34.xxx, AO3, and basically everyone else.

"We get a slice of your cheese if enough of your users post our mouse" is not a rule you want in law.

And the rules won't be enforced by a court 9/10 times. Even if your individual work is plainly fair use, it's not going to matter to whatever image-based version of youtube's copyreich bots gets applied to Artstation and RedBubble to keep the site owners safe.

Even if you're right, you won't have the money to fight.

Heck, Adobe already spies on what you make to report you to the feds if you're doing a naughty, imagine it's internal watchdogs throwing up warnings when it detects you drawing Princess Jasmine and Ariel making out. That may sound nuts, but it's entirely viable.

And that's just one level of possible nightmare. If the judgement is broad enough, it could provide a legal pretext for pursuing copyright lawsuits over style and inspiration. Given how consolidated IP is, this means you're going to have several large cabals that can crush any new work that seems threatening, as there's bound to be something they can draw a connection to.

If you want to see how utterly stupid inspiration=theft is, check out when Harlan Ellison sued James Cameron over Terminator because Cameron was dumb enough to say he was inspired by Demon with a Glass Hand and Soldier from the Outer Limits.

Harlan was wrong on the merits, wrong ethically, and the case shouldn't have been entertained in the first place, but like I said, civil law isn't about facts. Cameron was honest about how two episodes of a show he saw as a kid gave him this completely different idea (the similarities are 'robot that looks like a guy with hand reveal' and 'time traveling soldier goes into a gun store and tries to buy future guns'), and he got unjustly sued for it.

If you ever wonder why writers only talk about their inspirations that are dead, that's why. Anything that strengthens the "what goes in" rather than the "what goes out" approach to IP is good for corps, bad for culture.

[juneofdoom]

What up, whump fam?!

June of Doom 2024 Prompts!

We've brought back some old favorites/ popular prompts from last year with a healthy dash of new!

Please feel free to participate with original or fan works of any kind (writing, photos, gifs, mood boards, videos, songs, whatever creative medium your heart desires!). You can do one or all of the prompts on any given day, and if none are to your liking, check out the alternate prompts!

Two rules this year!

As with last year, tag your stuff with appropriate warnings, plzkthnx.

AI-created content is highly discouraged and frowned upon. I have no way of "checking", but I respect the time and effort people put into their crafts and encourage everyone to do the same. This isn't a contest for best written or prettiest art — it's a challenge, so challenge yourself.

[AO3 Collection] - "JUNEOFDOOM2024"

Text list below the cut for easier crossings-off. And don't forget to tag @juneofdoom so I can reblog your awesome here! Have fun!

“Help me.”                                        | Failed Escape | On the Run | Fetal Position |

“It didn’t have to be this way.”             | Scream | Double Cross | Made to Watch |

“Well, well, well…”                            | Hiding | Ambushed | Stalking |

“Does that hurt?”                               | Impalement | Fracture | Punishment |

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”                 | Bite | Swelling | Disfiguration |

“They don’t care about you.”               | Flinch | Broken Promise | Abandoned |

“What happened?”                            | Nightmare | Isolation | Stumbling |

“This is your last chance.”                    | Drowning | Chair | Prisoner Trade |

“I made a mistake.”                            | Accident | Acceptance | Blame |

“Can you hear me?”                           | Fear | Smoke | Phone Call |

“We’re out of time.”                           | Bleeding Out | Collapse | Flatline |

“I can’t stand seeing you like this.”        | Dehydration | Grief | Coma |

“Wait!”                                             | Sacrifice | Adrenaline | Cornered |

“What were you thinking?”                  | Surrender | Human Shield | Outmatched |

“Get me out of here!”                         | Rescue | Chainsaw | Presumed Dead |

“At least it can’t get any worse.”           | Secret | Stranded | Setback |

“You don’t want to do that.”                | Struggle | Blackmail | Desperate Measures |

“I’m fine.”                                         | Self-defense | Allergies | Headache |

“This can’t be happening!”                  | Sobbing | Straitjacket | Dissociation |

“I can handle it.”                                | Scrape | Panic Attack | Neglect |

“Let’s play a game. “                           | Stairs | Pressure Points | Trap Door |

“What’s the bad news?”                      | Poison | Bedridden | Cauterization |

“You’re doing great.”                         | Trembling | Gaslighting | Rules |

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”                  | Blankets | Stitches | Bandages |

“I should have listened to you.”           | Guilt | Backseat | Failure |

“Don’t lie to me.”                               | Rage | Choke | Paranoia |

“Or what?”                                       | Defiance | Display | Last Resort |

“Say something.”                               | Numb | Cold Shoulder | Gag |

“I’m so cold.”                                    | Delirium | Fever | Exposure |

“Breathe, damn you!”                         | Shock | Asphyxiation | Emergency Room |

ALTERNATE PROMPTS

“Who did this to you?”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not okay.”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“You poor thing.”

Attending Your Own Funeral

Broken Glass

Mask

Whip

Obedience

[locomoqo]

stuffed

ft. gun park & goo kim x f!reader [separate]

details: NSFW under the cut, fem bodied reader, p in v, creampie, breeding kink

A/N: hi to the 2 anons who made those requests, for the gun rq, i hope i did it right (literally could not think of any other way to have soft but nasty sex except for breeding) and for the goo rq, i hope i did urs justice too!! :DD (lolol call it lazy, i call it maximizing content)

extra++ GUNGOO SUPREMACY!!! BRING BACK MY DUO

ᯓ★—GUN

Gun wouldn’t consider himself a family man. Sure, when he was younger, he dreamed of having a normal family, but wanting it and actually having one are entirely different. He could never imagine himself as the type to be a father or a partner, given his rough childhood and the nature of his work.

And then there’s you.

The one person who managed to shake his resolve. Gun had always kept his walls up, and somehow, you found a way through them. Yet, even after that, he tried to keep you at a distance—not because he thought he didn’t deserve you, but because he loved you too much. He wanted to protect you from the dangers surrounding him. But you stood firm, seeing right through his defenses, refusing to back down.

He’s thankful. Thankful that you stayed with him, even after learning about all the dark things he’s done. You became one of the few people he could rely on when the weight of it all grew too heavy. The words "I love you" feel foreign to him, much more than any language he’s learned. He doesn’t say them, not because he doesn’t feel them, but because expressing emotions in that way is hard for him. Instead, he shows you through his actions.

Sometimes it’s by spoiling you with gifts, letting you splurge as much as you want. Other times, it’s through physical affection. Like now.

You’re tucked under the blankets, reading a book, the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminating your face. Gun approaches quietly, slipping beneath the covers and pulling you close. “Trying to ruin your eyesight?” he mumbles into your hair.

“I wasn’t reading in the dark,” you reply defensively, “I just wanted to finish the last page.”

You close the book and set it back on the bedside table. “Did you eat dinner?” you ask, turning to glance at him.

“No,” he answers, nuzzling into your neck, his hands wandering across your body. “Hungry for something else.” His large hands begin massaging your breasts, and the deep rumble of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling in your core. You let out a soft moan.

When your eyes meet his, there’s something in his gaze that tells you tomorrow’s going to be rough—you’ll be waking up with sore legs.

Your knees are nearly pressed to your chest, and Gun’s thrusting into you with a relentless rhythm. The pace is so intense that your nails scrape down his back, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t even feel it—pain is something he’s long been accustomed to. You’ve lost track of how many rounds you’ve been through; your mind has been lost to the pleasure ever since the third, which was only with his fingers.

“Yuuu…” you whine, the overstimulation making every nerve in your body feel like it’s on fire. You’re torn between exhaustion and wanting more. “What’s wrong?” he asks, lifting his gaze from where your bodies are joined, his eyes drinking in the sight of you.

“I want you t’cum in me,” you murmur shyly, your cheeks flushing as you look up at him.

His movements stop abruptly, leaving you confused. “What did you say?” His voice is sharp, serious.

“Why’d you stop—”

“What did you say?” he repeats, more forceful this time, almost like an order. 

You swallow nervously. “I said…I want you to cum inside me.”

For a moment, Gun just stares at your stomach, and you can’t help but worry if you said something wrong. “Or just…forget I said that,” you mutter, trying to close your legs, but he pushes them further up against your chest.

“Forget that?” he echoes, suddenly thrusting into you again, his tip hitting that perfect spot inside you. The air in the room shifts. “You think you can make a request like that and expect me to just ignore it?” A small, dangerous smile plays on his lips. Your moans fill the room once more, mixing with the sound of skin slapping against skin.

“I’ll make you the prettiest mother around,” he whispers into your ear before capturing your lips in a deep kiss, one hand sliding down to rest on your stomach, his thumb brushing softly over it.

Let's rewind to what I said earlier, Gun had always thought he wasn’t cut out to be a father. But then, you came along. As he gazes at your stomach, the idea of filling you up with his seed suddenly doesn’t seem so unthinkable. In fact, the thought of seeing you swollen and pregnant with his child excites him, surprisingly.

Your arms drape loosely around his neck, and as your tongues dance in a gentle but passionate kiss, you realize only you have the privilege of seeing him like this—soft, vulnerable. And Gun intends to keep it that way. No one else will ever see this side of him.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, lightly scratching his scalp as moans slip from your lips into the kiss. The obscene, wet sounds of your bodies only spur him on. One of your hands moves to cup his cheek as you break the kiss to catch your breath.

Gun takes that moment to glance down at where your bodies are connected, watching as his cock disappears inside you. His movements become sloppy as his climax approaches. With gritted teeth, he finally releases inside you, ropes of hot cum filling you. One child would be nice—a son or a daughter, he doesn’t care. Either would make him happy.

But that’s not enough. You’re leaking, and if he’s trying to breed you, he can’t have that. Looks like he’ll just have to try again.

After all, his beautiful wife is waiting to be knocked up, and he can’t keep you waiting, can he?

ᯓ★—GOO

Originally, Goo hadn’t planned on attending his distant cousin’s wedding. After all, he barely knew the guy. His clearest memory of him was from when his cousin was still in middle school and had hired Goo to beat up some kids who were bullying him. That was years ago. But then, when Goo told you about the wedding, you looked so excited. How could he say no after that?

And now, here you are, having the time of your life. You’re bouncing a baby in your arms, laughing with the other women at the wedding. You glance over at Goo, say something to the baby, and wave its tiny hand at him. He gives you a small wave in return.

You’d make a cute mother.

That’s when it clicks.

Goo, much like Gun, has never imagined himself as a father. Given his line of work, it seems impossible, maybe even dangerous. He’s the last person anyone should want as the father of their children. But watching you hold his cousin’s baby stirs something inside him. He’s always been vocal about his love for you, showing it in various ways—gifts, words, and even through intimacy. But now, a new idea forms in his mind. What better way to express his love than by creating something lasting, something physical?

That thought consumes him for the rest of the wedding reception, and even more so during the drive home. He’s almost too lost in his fantasies, too focused on imagining you with a round, pregnant belly. You snap him out of it by waving your hand in front of his face.

“Goo?” you call his name, concerned.

He blinks at you.

“You okay? You’ve been so quiet,” you ask, your voice soft. “Seriously, I haven’t gotten anything from you but ‘mhms’ and grunts.”

Before you can say more, he interrupts you with a kiss, his lips crashing against yours, his tongue already pushing its way in. Whatever plan he’s been brewing, he’s ready to set it in motion right now.

It’s no surprise when, not much later, he’s pounding into you with fervor. The bed sheets are sliding off with every pull of your body toward him, and he’s standing at the foot of the bed, your legs spread wide. One of his hands presses down on your stomach while the other props him up on the bed for balance. “Gonna fill this pussy up nice and full,” he chuckles.

“Mhm! Please cum in me!” you sob, your mind too clouded with pleasure to realize just how much your words are fueling him.

“I hear you, sugar,” he leans down, voice soft in your ear. “Can’t say no to my sweet girl now, can I?” His thrusts quicken, your toes curl, and stars fill your vision.

“Just look at how greedy this fucking pussy is,” he teases, letting his hand trail down your stomach to the back of your legs. He spreads them a bit more to get a better view of how your pussy takes him in with every thrust. The lewd squelching sound of your arousal only makes him harder, his cock twitching inside you. All you can do is moan in response, too lost in the sensation to speak.

“Say,” he pants, “what do you think—mmh, shit—about having two kids? One boy, one girl?” His imagination runs wild as he talks, and it only makes him go harder. “Or—ngh—two girls, maybe?” He’s thinking out loud now, and all you can do is nod.

With a groan, Goo empties himself inside you, thick ropes of cum filling you up. But some of it begins to leak out, dripping down his length. Goo clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Don’t waste it,” he says, using his thumb to push the escaping liquid back into you.

“I’m not trying to—!” you gasp, only to be cut off by a sharp thrust of his hips. He’s already sliding back into you easily.

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, wiping away the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes. “We’ll just have to make sure you’re stuffed until I can’t give you any more.” His voice is a low purr as he presses a kiss to your cheek.

He’s made up his mind: you’ll make an incredible mother, and he’s determined to make that happen.

[writeriguess]

If you’re not comfortable writing this I completely understand it’s a sensitive topic but my ed is getting bad again especially with summer coming up I feel like I’m spiraling every time I think of having to wear a bathing suit or something like that.

I kinda like shinsou atm. Where he notices your eating habits are becoming poor beforehand, could you do him catching his girlfriend forcing herself to throw up after someone makes a not so nice comment about how much she ate at dinner that night. She kinda just threw away her plate and disappeared upstairs and when he goes to look for her and comfort her he finds her in the bathroom yk.

My sister called me fat the other night and I got upset because I thought I was looking skinny that day but I got told that she was just joking and that I need to stop being so sensitive about it but I just can’t help it. It’s caused me to get back into really poor eating habits again. I mean at least I’m acknowledging that it’s happening this time around so I feel like it’s a slight improvement. I feel like I’m over sharing atp so I’ll just stop and submit this lol.

author's note: You're not oversharing. I promise. I’m really proud of you for recognizing what’s happening and being open about it — that takes strength, especially when you’re in a vulnerable place. It makes perfect sense that a comment like that would hurt, and I’m really sorry someone made you feel that way. You’re not being too sensitive. You’re just being human.

Especially Like This

Dinner had been fine. Or at least it looked fine, on the outside.

You had tried. You’d taken your seat, plastered on a smile, even filled your plate more than you usually would — a quiet, personal win, even if it didn’t feel like one. You were already on edge, your brain running calculations behind your eyes the moment the food hit your plate. But you were trying. That had to count for something, right?

Then she said it.

“You’re really gonna eat all that?” Your sister, with a laugh that didn’t sound entirely mean, but didn’t sound harmless either. “Didn’t think you had the room in you.”

It dropped on you like a stone. Heavy. Unmovable. And everyone else just kept talking like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

You laughed, hollow and automatic. “Guess I was hungrier than I thought,” you muttered.

No one followed up. No one came to your defense.

Except Shinsou, who sat quietly next to you, his fork paused halfway to his mouth, eyes flicking toward your face. You didn’t meet his gaze. You couldn’t.

The rest of dinner blurred. The food sat on your plate like a threat, and you couldn’t look at it anymore. When no one was paying attention, you got up, scraped the contents into the trash, and muttered something about being tired.

You felt his eyes on your back as you walked upstairs. But you didn’t stop.

You shut the bathroom door. Locked it.

It wasn’t about the food. Not really. It was about control. It was about the heat crawling up your skin and the tightness in your chest and the way your own reflection looked like a funhouse distortion of how you thought you’d looked earlier that day. You thought you’d looked okay. Thin, even.

But now?

Now you couldn’t tell. Now you hated every inch of yourself.

You dropped to your knees on the cold tile. Hands shaking. Breath shallow.

And then— Knock, knock.

You froze.

“Babe?” Shinsou’s voice, muffled through the door, low and soft. You could hear the concern in it — the way he always could tell when something wasn’t right, even if you hadn’t said a word.

You stayed silent. Maybe if you didn’t answer, he’d leave.

But he didn’t.

“I know you’re in there,” he said, gentle but firm. “Can you open the door for me?”

You bit down on your lip. Hard. You didn’t want him to see you like this. Not on the floor. Not with red eyes and a sore throat and shame clinging to your skin like something you couldn’t scrub off.

“I’m fine,” you choked out. “I just… needed a minute.”

“Baby,” he said again. Slower this time. “Please open the door.”

You stared at the handle.

“I saw what happened downstairs. I saw her say that shit to you, and I saw how you looked after. I’ve seen how you’ve been eating lately — or not eating. You don’t have to pretend with me. I’m not here to judge you, I just—” his voice broke a little, barely noticeable unless you knew him like you did—“I just want to help.”

You hesitated. Everything inside you told you to keep the door shut, to bury this, to hide. But another part of you — the one that loved him, trusted him — reached out. Slowly. Uncertain.

Click.

The door cracked open just enough for him to slip inside.

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t push. He just quietly stepped in, locked it again behind him, and sat down on the cold tile across from you like he had all the time in the world.

You kept your eyes on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice raw. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“I don’t care about how I see you,” he said gently. “I care about you. And I care that you’re hurting right now.”

Your throat tightened. You tried to speak but the words caught.

He scooted closer, not touching you yet, just offering his presence. “I get it,” he said softly. “When people make comments like that… it sticks. And it’s worse when it’s someone you care about. Someone who’s supposed to protect you.”

You nodded, barely.

“I thought I looked okay today,” you said finally. Your voice cracked on the word okay. “I actually thought I looked skinny for once. And then she said that, and suddenly everything just felt… wrong. I felt wrong.”

Shinsou reached out, slowly, waiting until you gave him permission with your body language. When you didn’t flinch, he gently placed his hand over yours.

“People who say things like that? They don’t understand the damage they do,” he murmured. “But I do. I know where your mind goes when someone makes a comment like that. I know how hard you’ve been working to just get through meals, and how easy it is for one sentence to make it all unravel.”

Tears welled in your eyes again.

“I don’t want to fall back into this,” you whispered. “I feel like I’m losing all the progress I made.”

“You’re not,” he said firmly, but without judgment. “Slipping doesn’t erase progress. It just means you’re human. And you’re fighting. That matters more than anything.”

You pressed your face into your hands. “It’s so hard, Toshi. I feel like I’m never going to be normal about food. Like I’m always going to see it as this… enemy.”

He moved closer, pulled you gently into his arms.

“I don’t need you to be normal,” he said against your hair. “I just need you to be safe. And I want to be there with you — even on the days it gets ugly. Especially on those days.”

You curled into him, letting his warmth soothe the tremble in your bones.

“What if I mess up again?” you asked quietly. “What if I keep messing up?”

“Then we keep trying,” he said. “Every time. I’m not leaving you over this. I love you. And loving you means standing beside you when things are hard — not just when they’re easy.”

Your voice came out small. “Even like this?”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, brushing a tear from your cheek with the back of his knuckle.

“Especially like this.”

You broke then, sobs escaping your chest in waves you couldn’t stop. He just held you tighter, grounding you. Letting you fall apart without shame.

When you finally calmed enough to breathe again, he was still holding you. Still here.

“We’ll get through this,” he whispered. “One day at a time. And when the voice in your head starts lying to you again, I’ll be here to remind you of the truth. That you are so much more than what you see in the mirror. And that you’re worth loving. Exactly as you are.”

And in his arms, even with your shame still lingering, something in you believed him.

Just a little.

But it was enough.

[pascalissmoked]

Tender Bruise

previous part <--> next part | series masterlist

Summary: In an AU where joel never met Ellie, he shows up one day to his brother’s town, unannounced, unwanted. Though he keeps to himself, you seem to have caught his attention. Word Count: 2.3K Content Warnings: Blood & gore, graphic violence, infected attack, psychological manipulation, implied Stockholm Syndrome, possessive!Joel, kidnapping, stalking, implied noncon elements, age gap (reader early 20s / Joel late 50s), morally gray dynamics A/N: Sorry that it's been a while, senior exams are coming up and i'm pretty much dying from stress. But enjoy this piece of crap!

The trees thin just enough to let the sky bleed through. Two more days of aching feet, blistered silence, the scrape of boots on old asphalt, and now—finally—something gentler. The mountains still crouch behind you like wolves waiting, but the air softens. Smells green again. Alive.

Star Valley lies just ahead, Joel says. You don’t ask how far anymore. The word “close” has stopped meaning anything.

The road narrows into a path swallowed by tall pines and broken fences. You walk until the weight in your legs becomes unbearable, until your breath rasps thin in your chest, until you stop caring if the next step is your last.

Then there’s the lake. Wide, still, dark enough to reflect the clouds in bruised streaks. Cattails sway along the banks, their edges furred with damp rot. The air is thick with the scent of moss and water that doesn’t move. Joel drops his pack beside yours and exhales like something inside him’s been pressing down too long. He rolls his shoulders, the joints popping quiet like old wood warping in the heat.

You sit. Not near him. But not far, either.

He watches the lake, jaw tight, expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he bends and picks up a rock—flat, smooth like it’s been waiting here for this moment—and holds it out to you.

“Ever skip one?” he asks.

You look at the stone, not him. Don’t speak. But you reach out, take it. The tips of your fingers brush his.

It shouldn’t matter. But it does.

The first throw hits the water like a mistake. A single plop, graceless. You don’t look to see if he’s watching.

But he is.

He crouches beside you with a grunt, joints protesting. His presence sinks into the air around you, heavy as wet wool. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then. “Wrist, not arm. It’s in the angle.”

He adjusts your grip. Gently. Not guiding—just offering. His knuckles skim yours again, dry and rough, the skin there textured like paper that’s been crumpled and straightened too many times. You hate how warm he feels.

You hate how you don’t flinch.

This time, the rock skips. Once. Twice. Then vanishes.

Joel makes a sound in his throat. Not quite approval. Not pride. Just... something. A human noise you haven’t heard from him before. Something less guarded.

You say nothing. But your body leans a little closer to the fire of him, unthinking.

The lake stills again. The ripples fade.

Something has shifted between you, subtle as a hairline fracture beneath the surface of glass. He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t touch you again. But he stays close. And you don’t move away.

The silence is no longer oppressive. It stretches now like a bridge, spanning the space between two people who have survived something bloody together. Who’ve seen each other covered in death.

You remember the gore. The sound of the machete. The way he moved like an animal in defense of you. You shouldn’t feel safer for it.

But you do.

You turn your head. Watch the side of his face—shadowed, weathered, exhausted. His hands resting on his knees. No weapon drawn.

For the first time, you wonder what his hands would feel like if they weren’t killing.

The thought sickens you. And still—you let it sit.

Because the part of you that still fights is quieter now. And the part of you that watches him—sees him—is louder than it used to be.

The water goes still. The sky sinks low. And the two of you sit there on the edge of something too large to name.

You hike again.

The land shifts beneath your feet—less wild now, less teeth and bark and blood. The trees thin out like they’re giving up, like they know they’ve lost the right to keep the world hidden. Civilization—or whatever's left of it—bleeds through in splinters. A road emerges, cracked and silver with frost. A rusted sign groans in the wind: Welcome to Auburn, Star Valley.

The town doesn’t look alive, but it’s not dead either. Just… holding its breath. Waiting.

Snow’s collected in the sunken roofs, draped over broken mailboxes, curled around the edges of old cars abandoned like bones. You walk past a swing set crusted with ice, a child’s shoe filled with dirt. The silence is too complete, like even the ghosts got tired and left.

Then Joel says something that knocks the rhythm out of your step.

“Pick one.”

You blink at him, not understanding.

“A house,” he says, nodding toward the street. “Whichever feels right.”

It takes a second for the words to make sense. You stare at him like he’s offered you a gun or a prayer—something too dangerous to trust.

But he just stands there, watching. Waiting.

You drift away from him without answering. Move like something weightless down the broken pavement, your fingers trailing along the splinters of doorframes and torn siding. The windows you pass are all shattered or clouded. You peer inside each one like they might tell you who you were, or who you’re supposed to be now.

You pick the house on the edge of town. Two stories. A porch leaning like it’s too tired to stand straight. Green paint curled into gray. The steps groan under your weight, but it feels solid. Alone. Removed from the center.

Joel nods when you point it out. That’s all.

Next, you ask him to visit the music store. Its front is half-collapsed, but the inside still smells like varnish and mildew and dust-heavy silence. There’s something about it—sacred and forgotten.

You walk the aisles slow. Run your fingers over empty guitar racks and shattered keyboards. He waits near the back, hands in his coat pockets, watching but not pushing. You find one guitar that isn’t completely destroyed. Strings warped, neck cracked, but it feels warm in your hands. Familiar.

He says nothing when you take it. Just holds the door open as you walk back into the cold.

You don’t know why it matters. The guitar. The house. But it does.

Inside, the bedroom has one bed that hasn’t collapsed under mold or time. The sheets are musty, but not shredded. Joel says he’ll fix it up, clear the rest of the place. You nod, too tired to question him, too numb to wonder what the catch is.

“I’ll be in the other room,” he says. “Just rest.”

You don’t argue. Don’t look him in the eye.

The bathroom is small, cracked tiles veined with old mildew. But it’s warm enough. And there—on the edge of the sink—is the soap.

That soap.

The one you’d grabbed when you tried to crawl out that window. The one he let you keep, like it meant something. He must've put your stuff in its place already.

You pick it up. Your hands are shaking and you don’t know why.

You wash.

The lather is weak but fragrant. Something floral, faded. Not quite roses. Not quite lavender. Just soft. Gentle. Something that doesn’t belong in a world this ruined.

You press your palms together beneath the water and close your eyes. Breathe it in.

It lingers.

And you realize, suddenly, how quiet the house is. How still. No wind. No voices. Just you. Alone.

The silence creeps in. Wraps around your ribs.

You step back into the hallway, the floorboards whispering under your feet. Joel’s down the hall, dragging something heavy, adjusting a doorframe, muttering to himself low under his breath. You don’t mean to walk toward him, but you do.

The house isn’t that big. You find him in what used to be a study, hammer in hand, patching something with leftover boards. His coat’s off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms corded with tension. He looks up when you enter but says nothing.

You don’t speak either. Just… sit. On the edge of a chair with stuffing leaking from one side. Watch him work.

And he lets you.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. Doesn’t ask why you’re not resting. Maybe he knows better. Maybe he understands that rest is a lie when your mind’s still pacing in circles.

You stay like that a while. Just watching.

And then he does something that twists your stomach.

He dissapears into the house and returns with dinner. On a real plate.

Rabbit, again. Cooked over the fire he made in the fireplace. He sets it in front of you like it’s normal. Like this—him feeding you, making beds, fixing the broken corners of this dead place—isn’t the most unnatural thing in the world.

You eat. Slowly. Carefully. Like your body remembers the rhythm of being cared for before your mind can protest.

And when he tells you to go lie down, you don’t resist. The words come out quiet, gruff. “Go on. Get some sleep. I’ll finish up.”

You go.

The bedroom is warmer than before. Blankets spread over the mattress. One bed, cleanest in the house. You sit on the edge and let the softness catch your weight. The guitar leans against the wall. The soap still clings to your skin.

You don’t think about your friends. About Jackson. About escape.

You think about him. Still in the other room.

Hammering.

Fixing things.

And for a moment—just one flickering moment—you wonder what it would feel like if he lay beside you again.

Not because he made you.

But because you asked.

Joel worked in the dark, the last light gone from the sky, the moon just a sliver over the pine trees. The air was sharp, the cold creeping up through his boots and into his bones, but his hands stayed steady. Always did when it mattered.

Wire strung low across the yard. Tin bells, rust-bitten but still able to sing. A trip line hidden just beneath the snowpack—enough to jingle if someone, or something, got too close.

Just in case.

Always just in case.

He made the rounds after, like muscle memory. Locked every window. Shoved what was left of an old dresser in front of the back door. Front door too. Checked them twice. And then once more after that.

Then, finally—finally—he went back upstairs.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. His boots felt too loud, so he left them at the door. The hallway groaned under his steps anyway. The kind of house that made you feel like you were being watched, even when you weren’t.

He eased open the door to the bedroom and saw you there—already under the blankets. Turned away, your breathing steady. Not deep enough for sleep, but close. You didn’t move when he entered.

You didn’t flinch.

He stood there for a moment. Let himself look.

The room smelled like firewood and soap. That soap. Faint and floral, clinging to the air like a ghost. You’d used it again. He knew the second you passed him in the hall earlier, something warm and clean brushing his skin like a trick of memory.

The same scent from the cabin. When you ran. When you bled.

Now you lay quiet. Pliant.

He lay down beside you slow, careful. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. One bed. Just the one that wasn’t crawling with rot. That was all it took, sometimes.

You didn’t move. Didn’t inch away. He was close enough to feel the warmth coming off your back, the heat of your skin through the blanket. Not touching. Not quite.

He stared at the ceiling.

The dark pressed in, heavy and thick, but his thoughts were louder than anything outside.

You didn’t fight anymore. Didn’t spit. Didn’t look at him like he was the monster. Not tonight. Not when he cooked for you. Not when he told you to rest, and you listened.

He didn’t know what it meant yet. What it would become.

But it was something.

Something dangerous.

Joel felt it like a bruise in his chest, pulsing with a heat that had nothing to do with anger. Nothing to do with guilt. He told himself it was relief. That you were safe. That he’d done his part.

But that wasn’t it.

What he felt now—that thing crawling up under his ribs, scraping his throat like a hunger—wasn’t pride. Wasn’t anything clean.

It was want.

The way you’d stood next to him in the music shop, fingers curled around that busted old guitar. How your voice caught in your throat when you picked the house. Like it mattered. Like home still meant something to you.

The way your eyes hadn’t narrowed when he fixed the bed.

The way you didn’t pull away when his hand brushed yours handing over that plate.

And maybe, maybe, you didn’t hate him now. Not fully.

Not openly.

That was enough. It had to be enough.

Joel swallowed hard, the ache in his jaw tight and constant from clenching all day. He stared into the dark. Felt your breath soften. Heard the wind shift outside, the faint rattle of a branch across the roof.

And still—still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Because the truth was brutal. Ugly.

He liked having you close.

He liked that you’d let yourself be close.

And if you ever looked at him with softness—if you ever leaned in instead of away—he didn’t know what he’d do with himself. What would be left of him.

Joel closed his eyes.

Told himself he was tired.

Told himself this was fine.

But as sleep dragged at the edges of his mind, pulling him under, he could still smell the soap in your hair.

And for the first time in decades, he dreamed.

A/N: Thank you for reading, don't heistate to leave a comment or ideas on how to continue this series x