#drabble challenges

[hergan416]

Perhaps Von Herder and Moneypenny for the <100 words drabble prompt?

Since I know you like Q, and I think that there is a lack of Moneypenny in the world.

🤔 With the word "quirks"?

Unless that doesn't spark anything, I can always offer a different combination—

Alright! I'm not sure if this was your intention when you gave me that word but ... My Hero Academia AU! (But only in that the superpowers in that universe are called quirks, there are no MHA characters here)

It also turned out... longer than 100 words but I don't want to try to cut it. Hopefully you don't mind

--

Nerves coiled in Miss Moneypenny's stomach as she sat behind a silent Mycroft Holmes as the small steamboat putted its way through a series of underground canals on its way to the office of one that had thus far only been addressed as "Q." It was her first day since her unprecedented promotion to an agent in Britain's top military intelligence agency: MI5. She still could hardly believe that her efforts had paid off, and half-expected to find out that it was all a cruel joke.

The boat stopped in a large chamber. It was neat and organized, with several tables that served as work stations arranged in a semi-circle. These were covered with various components: plates of metal and cloth and screws. The remaining tables displayed a neat array of weapons in locked glass cases.

Perhaps this was, actually, not some cosmic joke.

As the boat came to a stop, Mycroft lowered the board and walked across the plank, gesturing for Miss Moneypenny to follow him.

She did, pleased that he had not offered her his hand, as though she were so weak as to need help to disembark the vessel. He paced towards an archway and led her through it.

Miss Moneypenny realized that the room they had seen was merely an antechamber, preceding the real office in which she now found herself. Massive machinery and high-tech gizmos filled the room in various states of completion. Upon a ladder, a man with sandy blond hair wearing a blindfold felt his way along the edge of a giant mech, power emanating from his hand.

"Q," Mycroft addressed calmly.

"Yes, yes Director," the man tutted, his words heavily accented. "I could hear you coming a mile away. I will just be a moment."

Mycroft shifted his weight, clearly annoyed, but did not speak. Miss Moneypenny followed his lead and remained silent as well. The man hummed tunelessly as he finished with his work, ignoring them while using some sort of telekinesis to speed the process along.

Finally satisfied, he began to descend the ladder, ceasing his notes in favor of speech. "You have brought me a new agent for outfitting, yes?" Q confirmed.

There was a beat of silence, during which Mycroft did not answer the question. Miss Moneypenny took this as her cue to take initiative. She stepped forward and extended her hand.

"Agent 9, Miss Moneypenny. Nice to meet you."

Q took her hand and shook it with a bemused expression on his face.

"Well, don't just stand there, step up," he said, gesturing towards a podium surrounded on three sides by armor and clothing. "Let's get you measured."

She nodded, feeling a bit foolish, although... without instruction, how was she to know? She stepped upon the podium and allowed him to begin wrapping a tape around her shoulders.

"Age?" Q asked.

"21."

"Blood type?"

"A."

"Quirk?"

"None."

Q's hands paused in their motions. There was a silence, and Miss Moneypenny found herself turning her head to look at the man nervously.

He was smiling.

"A quirkless female agent?" he commented, and the smile extended into his words. "What are you thinking director?"

Something in his tone made Miss Moneypenny feel like he very much approved.

Miss Moneypenny looked away from his face and back towards Mycroft. She had already pegged Director Holmes as being quite logical and most kind. He returned Q's grin twicefold, giving him an appearance of outright insanity.

"Something brilliant, or something quite stupid, I imagine," he replied. "I am certain that you understand."

"Indeed I do," Q replied, returning to his measurements of her upper arms. "What support items were you imagining that she needs?"

[marvelstoriesepic]

I Would Let the World Burn

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Non-superhero!Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You attend a public Avengers event as Bucky’s girlfriend for the first time, but things spiral from nerves to chaos in a matter of seconds. And when you’re caught in the crossfire, Bucky unleashes.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: violence; injury; PTSD elements; emotional distress; explosions; mass panic; allusions to death; protective!Bucky; nobody hurts his girl; seriously, he’s a little feral here

Author’s Note: I need protective Bucky all day and all night omg. Thank you so much, my love, for this absolutely amazing request!! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The lights are everywhere.

Glinting off skyscraper windows and camera lenses, bouncing off metallic armor and too-white smiles.

The voices are everywhere. They swarm like bees - the press, the fans, the murmuring of people watching people.

The flash of the cameras is a strobe light stinging the back of your eyes. Reporters shout questions like bullets, flinging them past your ears and into your chest.

You feel your lungs shrinking in your ribcage as if they’ve decided you’ve seen enough. Felt enough. Been too much.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not in this crowd, not in this dress, not in front of a hundred reporters and their glittering cameras. Not in the spotlight. Not on the arm of the Bucky Barnes.

You tug at the hem of your dress, fingers nervous, breath catching on a sigh you don’t release. Everyone here looks like they belong - as if they were born to walk red carpets and sip sparkling drinks under light that only blinds you. You feel like an ink smudge on a page of golden script.

It’s the first time you’re out in the public with him. The first time the press will capture who’s been speculated to be the former Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

Bucky spent the night whispering reassurances into your skin, but it seems you should have listened to his words rather than the feeling of his plump lips all over your body.

Your hand is in his, and his thumb traces slow circles against you, metal fingers warm from your skin. His other hand rests lightly on your back. He hasn’t let go of you once.

You look up at him.

And he’s already looking at you.

He looks perfect, tailored, controlled, dangerous in a way that makes people stare too long and then look away even faster.

His hair is swept back tonight, save for one defiant strand that keeps falling across his brow. You keep watching that strand as if it’s a lifeline. Like if you can count how many times it falls, maybe your nerves will shut the hell up.

You know he feels how tense you are.

He frowns, and it’s so soft it nearly breaks your heart. That Bucky Barnes can frown like that. As if you just told him you were fading into dust.

“Hey,” Bucky coos, voice soft, voice low, the world dissolving for a second into nothing but him and you. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You try to nod. But you can’t lie to him. Words jam in your throat, caught somewhere between the beat of your heart and the reality of who he is and who you are not.

“I just-” you manage, but it’s a little shaky, you look around. “I feel out of place.”

Bucky tilts his head, brow still furrowed tightly. “Why?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Try to explain how it feels to be ordinary in a sea of extraordinary. How it feels to be his, but not one of them. How terrifying it is to not have armor, or training, or anything more than love for a man who could kill with his pinky finger and kindness in his eyes just for you.

Bucky steps in close, crowding the noise out with the breadth of his body, his warmth, the familiarity of his scent - cedar and cold and something quietly him. His nose brushes yours, and it’s stupid how it grounds you.

“I’d rather be anywhere else,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I’d rather be nowhere. Just me and you. On a rooftop. Under the sheets. In the woods. I don’t care. Just not here. No noise. No cameras. No Stark in a tuxedo with a martini making bad decisions.”

You laugh, and it trembles out of you.

His smile is all softness and secret promises. His eyes are glinting. “But if I have to be here - then I'm glad it’s with you.”

The way he says it - quiet, low, as if it’s something he only ever told the wind - freezes everything inside you and sets it on fire all at once.

You blink, and the fear stutters. Collapses a little. Because it’s not you and the Avengers. It’s you and Bucky.

His lips graze your ear, then your temple, taking his time. He’s not bothered at all by the cameras flashing around you, capturing this moment, capturing the Winter Soldier going soft on his girlfriend.

You want to fall into him. You want to crawl into his chest and live there.

You let out a breath. It’s just beginning to feel okay. The world quiets just for a second.

Then it explodes.

There’s a metallic whine, a rumble like thunder swallowed by stone. The ground jerks beneath your feet as though it’s trying to shake you off. Screams tear through the air. A plume of smoke mushrooms in the sky as fire roars from the far end of the pavilion. People scatter. Glass shatters. Concrete buckles.

You don’t even have time to be shocked when Bucky already reacts.

He pushes you behind him so fast your teeth snap together. He doesn’t look back. His body shields yours, metal arm braced outward, flesh hand pressing you into his back, eyes scanning for threats.

Another explosion cracks through the sky, rips through the atmosphere like an angry god. And right after, the next explosion follows, punched through the sky like a fist made of fire.

You cough, eyes watering. There’s debris. Someone’s car door skitters across the ground like a dead insect. Tony’s suit whirs to life across the square. Natasha’s already sprinting. Sam is in the air.

Bucky is moving, dragging you behind a line of armored cars, his body is coiled with tension, his expression is deadly serious.

“Stay here!” he orders. It’s his soldier voice. Cold steel and no argument. He’s never used this voice on you before.

“Bucky-”

“Y/n, stay down,” he barks sharply, and you nearly flinch. But his tone is not filled with anger. It’s filled with fear. “Do not move until I come back for you.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might break your ribs. Your head is shaking from side to side so fast, you can’t do anything. “No- Bucky-”

He cups your face, his hands stiff, his hold almost rough. He leans in. “Stay. Here,” he growls. “I can’t do this if I’m worried about you.”

His eyes tell you he already is. He will be. But he doesn’t tell you.

He waits for you to nod, although he doesn’t have the time. An almost aggressive kiss is pressed to your mouth, then to your forehead, and he is gone. Thrown into chaos, lost in the smoke and fury and shouts.

You barely register the space he leaves behind. The smoke moves like a creature through the crowd, making people disappear wholly. Somewhere nearby, there’s another explosion. The screams rise again, louder.

You crouch lower, press yourself against the cold steel of the car, try to breathe through the hammer in your chest. You want to do what he said. You try to do what he said.

But the panic moves toward you.

You don’t see where it starts. Just feel it. A shove. A push. Someone collides with your hiding place, someone is behind you and suddenly you’re on the ground. White-hot pain at your side. You fall hard enough to see stars. A sharp ache slices down your shoulder where debris must have caught you. Blood runs hot and slick beneath your dress.

Disoriented, you try to push up on trembling arms but they shake too much, and everything is spinning.

You don’t see the soldier until you turn your head and there’s a flash of metal in his hand. A knife.

“Y/n!”

It’s your name. It’s Bucky’s voice. It’s not a shout. It’s a roar. As if it was ripped out of his chest. As if he’s afraid of what he’ll find when he gets to you.

From fifty yards away, across smoke and bodies and fire, he sees the blood blooming on your sleeve. Sees your fingers twitch as you try to sit up. Sees the man with the knife coming too close.

And he is barreling through the smoke like something unholy, eyes wild, teeth clenched, hands balled to fists. The light behind his eyes just snaps.

He moves as though he’s been set free. No hesitation. No fear. No softness left in him. His face is stone, is fury, is death, is Winter Soldier. His arm gleams under the flames, a ghost of his past resurrected in defense of his present.

Bucky hits the guy with bone-crushing force, enough to send teeth skittering across pavement. A scream echoes once before it’s cut off. Another blow. Another. Fist to face. Elbow to jaw. A crunch that sounds like death and rage all rolled into one. His vibranium hand wraps around the man’s throat, and you swear you see something flash in his eyes - something ancient and broken - before Bucky picks him up and slams him against a crumbling wall. Again. And again.

It’s not strategy. It’s not mercy. It’s pure rage.

Somewhere, Steve yells his name like a warning.

Bucky doesn’t stop.

“Bucky-” you croak, blood warm down your arm. You try to sit up.

In an instant, he turns back to you, easing up on his brutal hold and the soldier crumples to the ground. Bucky’s whole body is tight with adrenaline, his breath sawing in and out as though he ran through a warzone - which he kind of did. For you. His eyes find yours and shatter.

He’s at your side in half a breath.

“Baby,” he whispers, hands on your face, on your shoulder, trembling now. “No, no, no. You weren’t supposed to be- I told you to stay-”

“I tried,” you defend weakly, dizzy. “I didn’t- I’m okay. I think. Just- grazed me, maybe-”

But he’s not hearing you. Not through the panic tearing holes in his composure. His hands flutter, unsure where to land without hurting you more. His voice drops, gravelly and hushed. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. Shit, I should’ve known-”

“Hey.” You grab his wrists. “Bucky.”

He stills, but he won’t meet your eyes. Your thumb brushes the inside of his wrist. “I’m okay.”

But he’s too far in his head.

He wraps you in his arms in seconds, cradles you as if you’re made of moonlight and scripture, as if you’re hallowed and half-broken and held together by threads only he can see.

His metal hand supports your back, curved protectively around your spine. His other hand is pressing your legs into his chest.

The darkening sky is still full of smoke and sirens.

Colors smear across the sky like blood in water. Reds and blues. Shouting and static. Flashing lights and fractured ground. Somewhere nearby, someone is screaming. Somewhere farther, something explodes.

But not for him anymore. He doesn’t seem to hear anything. Doesn’t seem to listen to anything other than your breathing, your pulse.

He walks fast, but carefully. Erratic feet cut through rubble, his jaw is locked so hard, his body so rigid, he surely is in pain from holding all that tension. His eyes are storm-dark and unblinking. No one stops him. Not Steve. Not Tony. Not even the medics who see the look on his face and take a cautious step back as though maybe the devil borrowed his bones tonight.

He never trusted any random medic to look you over. It has to be someone he knows.

You whisper his name.

Soft. Breathless. Almost an apology.

And he almost drops to his knees.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, hoarse and urgent. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You know you are. But he doesn’t.

Your fingers curl in the collar of his suit jacket. His real name - James - lives on your tongue but never quite makes it out because he’s holding you too close, and perhaps saying his name might crush him completely.

He smells like smoke and ash and steel and blood. Your temple is tucked against the curve of his neck, where his pulse thunders beneath the surface. He’s warm and shaking.

He bursts into the quinjet that brought you here like a man on fire, like a man trying to outpace grief, and he yells something sharp. He lays you down - reluctantly, tenderly, surrendering - onto a stretcher, but his hands don’t stop touching you.

He’s a storm with a purpose, and that purpose is you.

You, safe.

You, whole.

You, alive.

“Bucky,” you try to ease, blinking up at him, face pale under flickering emergency lights. “I told you, baby. It’s not that bad.” Your voice is soft. Slow.

“You were on the ground.” His voice cracks.

“I was on the ground for like two seconds-”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It stopped, baby. Okay? There’s no fresh blood.” You are close to whispering.

Bucky doesn’t seem eased, though. He sits beside you. Big body bent in half, elbows on knees, one trembling hand reaching to gently - so, so gently - brush your hair from your forehead.

And then he says it.

“I would’ve burned the whole goddamn city to get to you.” Quiet. Like a vow. Like a confession. Like faith. Like a truth, he doesn’t know how to carry anymore. “I would’ve torn down buildings with my bare hands if I didn’t see your breathing. I don’t care who saw. I don’t care what they think-” his voice breaks, his breaths spill all over his words. “I can’t be okay without you.”

You stare up at him. Your throat is tight, eyes are stinging. Because he doesn’t say things like that. Not often. Not out loud. You see it in his eyes every day, in the way he looks at you, in the way he treats you. But it’s something else entirely to hear him form those words and let his tongue roll them out.

He presses his forehead to yours. His breath ghosts over your lips. His eyes are closed. His hand cups the back of your head.

He’s holding you so close to him, as if he’s never intending to let go ever again.

[ervotica]

hot rod — a.donaldson & p.zweig

pairings; art donaldson x fem!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader, art donaldson x patrick zweig

summary; patrick comes to visit you and art at college. he finds college life is a lot more adventurous than once anticipated

warnings; mdni, 18+ only, SMUT, threesome, overstim, oral (m receiving), sub leaning!reader and art, more dom leaning!patrick, established throuple, polyamory

a/n; i’m not so sure how i feel about this tbh. i love the dynamic though so i pushed through even when it got away from me a little🥲 there will be another drabble for older!art and his pretty girl soon!!

you and art fuck until you’re brain dead and passed out from exhaustion. always have. neither of you possess an off switch, and when patrick’s not there to rein the pair of you in, things get a little… messy.

his cum is dried in your hair, the sticky substance smeared across your cheek, his knuckles still wet with slick.

patrick walks in, full belly laughs and peels you from art’s sweat soaked form, gives your cheek a pinch when you stir and whine.

he doesn’t clean you up because he likes to leave you naked whenever he has the opportunity — which is more often than not. seriously, you two need close supervision.

he just carries you with him to that shitty little armchair in art’s dorm, the room still stinking of sex and the humid summer air clinging to your skin; art shines with perspiration where he’s face down on the bed.

pat makes do with the lack of room, hooking a bare leg over the backs of your thighs until you’re squeezed snugly against his torso, face smushed to his chest. you’re snoring, and it makes patrick smile, slumping down in his chair to rest his lips against your cheekbone.

you wake slowly, eyes sticky and crusted over with exhaustion. your face is almost nestled beneath patrick’s armpit where you’ve been writhing in slumber and you grumble at the scent of sweat, layered with cheap aftershave. his hard-on presses to the center of your stomach and you can feel everything— the curve it makes now it’s hard and weeping, the feel of the spongy head, the vein that runs through the middle.

“you smell, pat,” you grumble, reaching up blindly to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth and take a long pull from the stick.

“yeah, well you’re not so hot yourself, babe. the whole room reeks.” he reaches down to tug on a loose strand of hair at the crown of your head. “there’s cum in your hair.”

“not my fault.” you stretch upward like a cat, curling into patrick’s chest. “where’s art gone?”

“still sleeping, baby.” he lights another cigarette, sacrificing the first one to you - still resting between your lips - and the clicking of the lighter draws your head upward to gaze through heavy lashes at him.

“come to bed,” you murmur, kissing his knuckles. your free hand coasts a long line across his jaw and you dig your thumb beneath his ear, giggling when he scrunches his features and relents, and pushes you to stand with a swat to your naked backside.

art curls into you instinctively when you roll onto the mattress, your hand threading through the curls atop his head. you scrub sweeping circles across his bare back and he hums a pleased sound, smearing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. patrick splays himself over the pair of you, all long limbs that sit askew to cover as much of your naked frames as possible.

art squints through the yellow light that illuminates the room, bright and artificial on his sensitive eyes. your movements against him don’t halt, a slow, rhythmic, loving sweep of your hands that he’s come to look forward to in moments like this. his jaw tilts upward as he mouths at your neck like a starved man, like you haven’t just gone five rounds and collapsed from overstimulation.

“you two need supervision,” patrick snorts. you quirk a bemused brow. “i’m serious, look at what you’ve done to each other! you look like you’ve been mauled.”

“jealous, much?” art mumbles sleepily, the sound muffled through your skin. you’re laughing and it splits your expression in two, eyes crinkled with amusement as the strawberry blonde boy snipes at patrick.

“should’a come to college with us, pretty boy,” you giggle. “could’a had this twenty four seven.” you dip your head until your brow presses to art’s. “poor pat, with no one to stick his dick in. how will he ever cope?”

“you could help me out, sweets,” he deadpans, the nickname saccharine and sour on his tongue all at once. art watches you through heavy lids. you huff, biting playfully at art’s lip before you tilt your head to face patrick,

“okay,” you chirrup. art’s quick to sit up, separating from your warmth in favour of nuzzling against patrick. patrick tips his chin down, slanting his lips against the blonde boy’s.

meanwhile, you’re working his cock through his shorts, palming the muscle until it chubs up beneath your hand, drooling a wet patch through the fabric. patrick groans, hips rolling up into your touch when you hook your fingers beneath his waistband and tug his cock free.

he moans into art’s mouth and your mouth goes dry at the sight. you’ve always loved to watch them like this, the way they get lost in each other, the way they start fervently pushing into one another’s space until patrick inevitably makes the first move and sticks his tongue down art’s throat.

patrick turns to putty beneath art’s roaming touch, huge paws that squeeze and grope and push at every inch of skin they come into contact with, not stopping even as you press your face to the seam of patrick’s balls, inhaling the sweat-soaked musk that creeps up your nostrils.

art’s hand snakes downward, flicking over pert nipples and ridges of muscle before he’s flicking a thumb over the weeping slit of his cock. patrick’s back bows into an arch as you lave your tongue over his sack, humming into the sensitive skin, full and heavy and begging for release. his hips rock upward into you as you seal your lips over him, eyes heavy with lust as art comes down to meet your mouth over his mushroom head.

it’s filthy and messy, downright pornographic as art licks over patrick’s cock, tongue pressing flat against the corner of your mouth and letting his spit pool there. you’re moaning - unable to help yourself - pressing your face forward to slant your lips over art’s fully. it’s all spit and drool as you lick into art’s mouth, the heady taste of the brunette boy still on your tongue, and then patrick’s bracing a hand against each of your heads and easing his cock through the seam where your spit slick mouths mesh.

you gasp and your damp lashes flutter, heavy with tears, and art’s tugging you frantically by your waist, pressing your bare chest to his own as patrick throws his head back and groans, shallow thrusts deepening. his breath stutters out in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving when your face slides down, down, down, all the way to the base of him until your pretty plump lips are wrapped around his sack.

you suck it into your mouth just as art takes patrick down his throat, the head of his cock bulging through the hollow of art’s throat as spit stretches and bows from the corners of his lips and lands in globs across your face.

you’re too drunk on the pleasure to care, the vibrations of your little sounds shooting right through patrick until you feel his balls tighten; he groans, long and loud, pushing closer to the pair of you as his cock pulses rhythmically and he releases down art’s throat.

you push your way through until your mouth is on art’s again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste patrick, wanting to be marked, claimed by both of them. his lips part, nose pressing to your cheek, and then he’s lifting you into his lap, his cock an angry red and pressed to the seam of your thigh.

patrick groans. there’s no fucking way he’s hard again.

“no more, you horndogs!”

[graceful-ashes]

Hen and Chimney casually mentioned that Eddie doesn't get flustered. Buck who's sat nearby on his phone doesn't even look up when he offhandedly says 'Yeah, he does.' Hen and Chim look at him dubiously.

'When?' Chim asks.

Buck looks up, now. 'Like all the time.'

'Name one time' Chim challenges.

'I'm with Chim on this one. I've never really seen Eddie flustered.'

Now Buck is the one looking dubious. 'Um, like when...uh...' His mind suddenly goes blank.

'See. You can't even give an example.' Chim gloats.

'Hey, no that's not fair. You put me on the spot.' Buck argues. 'He...like yesterday! He made me a coffee and said he'd already put sugar in it, yeah? And I said that's so sweet of you. And he blushed!'

'Are you sure he was blushing.' Hen asks clearly not buying it.

'Yeah, maybe he was just warm.' Chim counters.

'I'm telling you, he blushed!' Buck exclaims.

Hen and Chimney continue to look at him sceptically.

'Prove it.' Chimney challenges

'What?'

'Prove. It.' Chimney grins.

Buck just stares in disbelief for a moment before he caves. 'Alright, fine. I'll prove it. I'll get him flustered and you can see for yourself.'

This is how Buck ends up making a fool of himself later in the day when they're just finishing up on a call and Eddie is just frowning at him, confused, not at all effected by Bucks lame attempt to get him flustered.

Buck walks back towards Hen and Chimney in defeat. 'We're out on a call, he probably just has his guard up.' Buck defends.

'Uh huh.' is Hen's response to that. Chimney just snaps his gum, grinning.

Buck attempts a cheesy one liner when they're back at the firehouse. This earns him a part way baffled and part way amused chuckle from Eddie when he responds with 'Alright.' looking to Chim and Hen with an ~Are you seeing this?~ expression. Hen and Chim just hide their amusement behind their mugs.

Buck tries a few more times before giving up.

'Fine. You guys were right. Eddie is unflappable. I clearly don't know what I was talking about.'

'Hey, at least it was fun to watch you try.' Chimney teases. Hen smiles in amusement.

And that was that until much later on when Buck is cooking dinner and Eddie is helping. Buck comes up behind Eddie to reach for something over his shoulder and without thinking says 'Man, you smell good!' He turns his head just shy of pressing his nose to Eddie's neck. 'What is that?'

The spatula in Eddie's hand clatters to the floor and in his panic to attempt to catch it he elbows over the salt shaker. A deep red creeps up his neck and settles in his cheeks as he rights the salt shaker. He clears his throat. 'Uh, it's, uh ,the cologne you...um got me for my birthday last year.' Eddie attempts to compose himself and bends down to pick up the spatula.

'Really?' Buck asks surprised and oblivious to Eddie's flustered state leans in for another whiff. There's a THWACK sound and Eddie winces as pain blooms in his knee from where he knocked it against the counter.

Hen and Chimney are staring slack jawed from the couch.

'You were right.' Chimney admits, shell shocked.

'Huh?' Buck lifts his head to look at Chimney and Hen. Eddie also snapping his attention in their direction.

'He does get flustered. So very flustered.' Chim says in a daze. 'Not unflappable. Not unflappable at all...'

Eddie frowns in complete bafflement, his face still beet red. 'What?'

[jesuistrestriste]

nsfw (18+) cw : switch(sub leaning)!art donaldson, switch!fem!reader, art is a sensitive softie, dry humping, cumming in pants, mutual orgasms, fluff, porn with some plot

wc : 3.3 k

"Did you have fun?"

Art's words sound out softly against the background hum of his car's engine. You rub your hands together between your thighs, trying (and failing) to properly warm them up after being in an ice rink for over an hour. You look to him from the passenger seat and smile at his slightly eager-to-please tone, your cheeks burning from the cold. You should have worn a scarf.

"Yeah," you hum, "I did.. I haven't been ice skating in forever, it's been years.."

He laughs softly and nods, almost sheepishly, "yeah, same.."

-

It's the end of November, nearing the start of December, and tennis season is well over. Art still goes to the indoor courts pretty consistently, but he's decided to shift all of his focus to you now that he has the free time to spare.

The two of you met about a month and a half ago; he'd been rushing to meet Patrick at some restaurant near campus, and he had slammed right into you when he'd been looking down at his phone to text Pat back. Wide blue eyes met yours and his tender hands had come up instantly to steady you on your feet as he stuttered out at least five 'im so sorry's. Somewhere in between those apologies, he'd gotten ridiculously lost in your features. The way your lashes batted up at him, the soft smile on your lips, the way you chuckled at his idiotic carelessness.

And you had forgiven him pretty quickly, so that helped.

The whole thing was incredibly cliche; the both of you could see that now.

He'd gotten your number that day only because he had practically begged to get you a coffee sometime to make up for the whole ordeal. His wind-swept blonde curls and furrowed brow made him look just like a dumb little puppy, pleading with you to keep him and collar him, so it wasn't hard for you to rationalize giving him your digits then and there. He seemed genuinely sweet, unlike so many other guys at Stanford. You'd give it a shot.

Seven dates later, and you two were officially toeing the line between "what are we?" and "let's move in together". Art, in particular, was completely infatuated. He would always look at you like you were the only reason he was breathing and moving. It was a little bit insane how hard and fast he fell for you.

And so he resisted the urges.

The ones that would coil in his lower stomach when he held your hand, and the ones that would throb in his veins when he pressed his lips to yours. All of them. He'd move at your pace. He wasn't one to push.

-

You nod and smile, before you pull your clasped hands from your lap and attempt to blow hot air in between them. Art's car was taking longer to warm up than normal.

He watches you for a moment before he shakes his head and tugs his hands out of his coat pockets.

"I told you to bring gloves," he jokes lightly, reaching over to envelop your hands in his warm palms, his calloused fingers curling over yours.

Your face heats slightly, and you chuckle as you look down to his grasp on you. After a long beat, your eyes raise to look up to his again, and he swallows thickly before his left thumb strokes over one of your knuckles. The little touch, the gesture, is so him. Always wanting to provide and comfort, but never wanting to risk shaking the foundation.

He’s never made the first move, it was always you.

"Thanks," you breathe out, your gaze darting just momentarily down to his pink lips.

It's hard for you to ignore the way he quickly wets them while the tense silence hangs in the air.

Art's feeling a steady thrum of tightness in his chest. How is it that he still gets nervous around you? He's kissed you lots of times before now.

And yet, here he was: still shy, still tense, still nervous.

"No problem," he whispers, hearing his heartbeat pound in his ears, "is.. is this better..?"

A gentle nod from you is all he perceives before he feels the warmth of your lips press against his own, and the tension that’s been brewing all evening finally reaches its boiling point.

He melts into it instantly, into you; leaning in to breathe into your open mouth when you pull back for just a moment to tilt your head the other way. His hands leave their position around yours, and move to clutch your waist as he pivots in the driver's seat to face you more. He's never felt so on-edge in his entire life, the sensation of a familiar sort of hunger starting to ignite in his belly.

Your touch moves to the back of his head, pulling off his thick beanie and tossing it to the back of the vehicle as you kiss him with rapidly increasing passion. You feel his tongue slip out to lick over your bottom lip, and you slack your jaw to let him taste you better. He laves his soft tongue over yours, moaning into your mouth. You swallow that noise down, and the next one that comes right after; just like you always do.

He tastes faintly like sweet peppermint gum, which he had been anxiously chewing earlier on this particular date in order to self-soothe. You had just looked so pretty with the cold first nipping at your skin when he came to pick you up; it scrambled his brain on the spot.

"Ahh," he whines shakily as he feels you tug his head back, your left hand tenderly fisting his curls, "hngh.."

You hum and smirk before you lean in to lick over his neck. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop any more needy sounds from spilling out, and his hands pull at the sides of your coat. Shit, he can feel himself swelling in his jeans. For a second he thinks the zipper might pop.

Once your tongue finds his weak-spot, right below his ear, he's jerking forward in his seat and letting out a choked moan. His hips rise desperately, trying to seek out some sort of friction, but all he can feel is his cock rubbing against the inside of his briefs — not nearly enough to put out the fire in his gut.

"You okay?" you breathe out lowly between kisses to his pulse, "this okay?

He nods feverishly. A reflexive buck of his pelvis follows suit.

"Can we... I dont know-" you whisper against his skin, and Art thinks he might die. He's so keyed up right now, he'd do anything to get to feel you under all of the layers.

"Please."

And there it is. He couldn't even stop himself before the word was already out and drifting into the minimal space left in between your bodies. You pause your lips and pull back to look to his eyes.

A hand moves from his hair to his cool cheek. "I- I'm ready to do more... If you are too, I mean.."

He's nodding before you even finish; and his pupils dilate into big, black, iris-eclipsing saucers as his brows pinch up and he whispers back to you.

"I want to touch you," he trembles, "I really, really, really wanna touch you..."

You feel a sticky heat cling to the inside of your panties.

Ugh, he's always good at making you feel this way, even if in the past it was relatively unintentional. Sometimes he's been too innocent for his own good.

"Can I?" he whispers, breaking apart your thoughts, like the very syllables have been beaten out of the depths of his desires.

You let out soft sigh through parted lips, taking in the look on his face before you're crawling over the center console and into his lap. Your body settles comfortably over his thighs, and then your head bumps up against the roof of the car. You make a slight noise of surprise, ducking down with a soft giggle, and Art's right hand instinctively raises to protectively cup the spot on your head that had hit the interior. He looks up at you, letting out a breath of a laugh before lifting his brows to wordlessly ask if you're alright.

You kiss him again instead.

He gasps and swallows as he feels you further straddle him, and his hands move to start unzipping your puffer as he kisses you back. It's easier said than done when his hands are shaking, but he manages and then helps you shrug off the coat before it gets tossed into the oblivion to meet his hat from earlier.

A string of spit connects your mouth to his as you pull back, and he drinks in the sight of you above him; your thermal long-sleeve clinging to your skin so tight that he can see the outline of your bra underneath.

You lean in once more and kiss his jaw twice before letting your hands wander down to help him take off his own jacket. Once it's off and on the car floor with the other pieces of discarded clothing, your palms move up under his shirt to caress his bare skin. You feel his abdomen shudder as your nails graze the pale flesh there.

"Where do you want me?" he asks breathlessly, his eyes already glazed over with arousal and a wish to please you.

"Anywhere.."

".. Here..?"

His hands reach up to palm your breasts over your top, and he relishes in the soft moan it elicits from you. The sound of it rings out in his head and then he can't help but whimper as he leans into your body, his cheek to your jaw. Art's hands slither hastily under your shirt and then to your back before he fumbles with the clasp of your bra. You smirk softly and fondly as you feel him struggle, and you decide to maneuver your touch up to the back of his neck. Your fingertips tease the back of his hair. Teasing turns to stroking, and suddenly you're petting him to ease his nerves. If he had a tail, it'd definitely be wagging; you can feel him buzzing with eager energy all over.

Once the bra is popped open, he gently pulls back to look up to your eyes and then he's huskily whispering up at you, "can I take this off of you?"

"Yeah, take it off-"

He doesn't waste a second once he sees you raising your arms, nearly tearing the top in the process of getting it up and over your head. The bra comes off quick right after; he doesn't even notice that it's red (his favorite color). With how much is going through his head, it's a miracle he can even manage to undress you without losing it...

The moment that you're bare in front of him from the belly-button up, he sags back in his seat and takes you in. His lips parted in a gentle 'O'. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." he moans lowly, his palms pressing to your lower stomach before they slide up and cover your soft tits, "you're so beautiful, oh my god.."

You moan when you feel him start to knead your breasts under his tender touch, nipples pebbling in response, and you roll your head back with pleasure.

"You're.. s-so sweet," you groan.

He squeezes your chest again before he leans in and presses a kiss to the right side, and a kiss to the left (it's only fair). He looks up to you through heavy lids before he surges forward with a renewed sense of passion and attaches his lips to one of your nipples.

"Shit-!" you gasp, and your hands tighten in his blonde locks, "ugh, don't stop, Art.. that feels nice.."

He moans around your squishy flesh and then his eyes flutter shut as he flicks his tongue over your bud and suckles. His mouth is warm and wet and perfect. His teeth brisk your sensitive skin.

A sharp moan slips from your lips in response, and then your hips jerk over his quickly. Just once; just enough. It's denim on denim, thick fabric dulling the sensations, but god- the pleasure bites perfectly at the both of you.

Art can barely process how good it feels before he's drooling around you over his tongue and rolling his own body up, trying to meet yours again. Wordlessly begging you to keep going.

Please, please, please do it again.

You breathe heavily and then rock down over his lap again, chasing the stream of electricity that it sends up your spine from your cunt. There's a mess of slick seeping from you as you push your clothed clit against Art's bulge, humping him like some sort of depraved teenager, but it's going to get you there.

Hell, it's getting you there quicker than you thought.

"Ooh, fuck," he hiccups out against your skin, releasing your breast from his mouth as his eyes fly open and then promptly roll back into his head, "ohh god, oh g-god.."

You rock a bit faster over him, a little moan escaping with each needy motion, and you move your hands to hold his shoulders for leverage. You feel him wrap his toned arms around your middle.

"Sh-Should I move too?" he gasps.

You can feel his thighs quivering.

If you really focus, you can even feel his dick throbbing in the confines of his pants.

"Yeah, ohh, yeah.. yeah, move, move.”

In an instant, Art's hips are grinding up to meet yours while his hands move urgently to hold your waist. He buries his face into your neck and tries to bounce you on his lap in his grasp. Up, down, up, down, over and over and over. Like he’s fucking you; buried deep inside your oozing pussy.

"you feel so good," he breathes out, hardly taking enough air into his lungs to get the words out, "this feels... f-feels so good.. ohhh-"

A few stuttered whines slip from your mouth and then you're working harder to press yourself further down over his erection, trying your best to relieve the scorching heat building in your core. More, more, more, you just need more.

"fuck me..!"

It tumbles from you unexpectedly, and the young man under you chokes on a guttural groan that's already halfway out. His nose crinkles with pleasure, and he swivels his hips harder to rub his boner against your crotch. He tries to speak, he really does, but all of the words get swept away on broken, strung-out whimpers that clog his throat.

You two are fogging up all four windows in his car, and anyone who's looking on from the outside will know exactly what's going on just from the shaking alone.

"Shit, you're gonna make me—“

Art cries out as he digs his heels down into the mat below the pedals; his toes curling as he registers the rapid feeling of boiling tension brewing in his balls, seeping out and pulling his limbs taut against yours. He's so close.

"—you're gonna- 'm gonna come—“

He tries to warn you, shuddering when he hears you squeal in response, and he has to force his eyes open and crane his neck back so that he can savor the sight of you falling apart on top of him when he tips over. A small part of him wishes he was being hugged by your tight, gummy walls; but this was perfect for now. It was what you wanted, so it was what he wanted too.

"Fuck, Art! I'm almost—!"

The sound of his name coming out of you like that sends him spiraling, his cock pulsing in his boxers with want.

"Me too, me too, oh god, pleasepleaseplease-"

You two are rutting and thrashing against each other like a couple of animals, breathing heavy and moaning as you both try to maintain eye contact in those split few seconds before everything fades away.

"Can I come?" he trembles, and you can see wetness glistening over his lash line, threatening to spill. He can’t say it now, but he's barely holding it all in.

For you, he'd wait.

Even if it felt impossible.

You speed up your humping, the seam of your jeans slotting perfectly against your swollen clit as the warmth of his cock sends you hurtling towards the finish line. You nod down at him, moving your hands from his shoulders to his flushed face, "yes, god, please come with me!"

It only takes three more snaps of his pelvis against yours before the both of you are gasping and crying out simultaneously as the hot coils burst loose; Art's back arching up from the seat as you curl over his chest and yelp. He's moaning, voice cracks and all, as his legs shudder under your seat over them. His hands fly up to hold you close, almost like he's scared you'll somehow slip away.

"fuckyesfuckyesfuckyes, please, god, i'm coming so hard..!”

He whimpers helpessly, feeling sticky heat bloom against his kicking length as each wave of his orgasm floods his system. It's wholly all-consuming, his vision whiting out around the edges before he has to squeeze his eyes shut and give up the sight of your face as you climax. He thinks he might legitimately pass out.

You're left wheezing over his lap, groaning pitifully as you feel a wave of slick and wetness drench your underwear while the height of your own peak ebbs, and you finish yourself off fully against his thigh as you come down. One of your hands reaches down to rub yourself over the soaked fabric, and you twitch before falling forward into his frame.

You both jolt a bit while the aftershocks keep you feeling pleasantly numb, but it's blissful.

It's completely and utterly blissful; it just feels right.

Him being so close to you, you being so close to him. Sharing something so deeply intimate and yet feeling so comfortable and so safe— it was like something clicked into place.

One of Art's hands reaches to your upper back, rubbing it comfortingly as he tries to steady his breathing.

".. Woah," he whispers in awe, fingertips tracing soothing patterns on your skin, "that was.. really.. haah.."

A little shiver passes through him and he then decides to cut himself off before he lets slip something dumb and ruins everything.

You gain some semblance of consciousness back and lift your head upright slowly, gazing down to him. His hair’s a mess, his blue eyes shining with low lids, and his bottom lip looks freshly bitten.

"That was really good," you chuckle breathily, finishing his sentiment for him. You were good at that- helping him feel whole.

He just nods and you get to watch his cheeks turn a deeper shade of red.

"I... I was thinking.." he starts, only to shy away from your gaze by looking down.

"Yeah..?"

You stroke his hair, pushing it back from his sweaty forehead.

"Well, I just, we've been, like, 'seeing each other' or whatever," his eyes reluctantly raise again to look up into yours, "and, I just thought that.. we might..."

"We might...?" you smile as you urge him to speak up for himself.

He can only muster a soft, shy chuckle at first.

"I just thought that we might be.. together.."

Your breathing catches, only for a moment, as the word—and the weight of it—sits heavily in the dense air being kept trapped in by the car's doors. Art swallows thickly.

"You wanna be together?" you whisper, barely audible.

He seems hesitant to answer that.

But he does anyway.

"Yeah, I do."

A soft smile creeps onto your face, and then you lean in to brush your lips against his. He closes his eyes in preparation for a kiss, but it doesn't quite come. They flutter back open, and his fingers twitch idly on your lower back.

Please say something, he thinks. He's holding his breath.

You murmur against his mouth, delicate and earnest, with a shrug almost gracing your shoulders as you speak to him. You want to let him know that he doesn't have to be scared to tell you what he wants.

That it's okay.

That you want the same thing.

"Okay.. then let's be 'together'.."

[musingsofheaven]

THAT QUIET THING.

dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader

nsfw. age gap. vibrator use. voyeurism-adjacent. ♡

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep right after he finishes. Of course not. Not every time. He’s not that kind of asshole. But he still does it.

But it’s not because he’s not interested, because he is very much so, it’s also not because he doesn’t care about your pleasure! He’s just… just because he’s exhausted. Between flights, matches, press, rehab, sponsors, events, and other things come with being a player, and the fact that his body doesn’t bounce back as it used to. So he gives you what he can. And most nights, that’s a few minutes of messy make-out, one hand between your thighs, a low groan against your neck, and the quiet relief of coming deep inside you before his body gives out.

He tells you it’s good, because it is. You feel good. You do. He enjoys it. So much. He says that you’re perfect. That he needs you.

And maybe he thinks that’s enough.

But you’re younger than him. You don’t say it, but you are. You are young enough to keep your hands busy when he feels still from tennis and everything he did for the day. Young enough that your body keeps hot long after his breathing evens out beside you. Young enough to start hiding a vibrator in your pouch when you realize this is just how it’s going to be… a quick, quiet, and over before you get close.

It’s not bitterness. Not at first. You are not mad at him. You understand it. You are aware of his career and his age. It just needs. Quiet and embarrassing and yours alone. So when he gets comfortable in wonderland each night, breathing deep and heavy with sleep, you slip out of bed, cross the hotel carpet barefoot and tiptoeing so you won’t wake him, and lock yourself in the bathroom with your face pressed to your forearm and your hips grinding into the tile.

The toy is small. Quiet. Sleek. Something you can bite your lip around. Something that doesn’t need electricity or heavy batteries. Something that is not heavy. Something that won’t get confiscated at airports. Something he doesn’t need to know about.

You don’t use it every night. Just the ones where it’s worse. Not worse worse. Maybe when you're really there, something is missing. Clue: your orgasm. Where you can still feel the ache of being full without the part where you fall apart. Where your panties stick wet to your thighs after he’s already asleep.

Tonight, it’s like that.

He came fast. Kissed your neck. Fell asleep face down with one arm slung over your waist and his breath slow against your shoulder. You lay there long enough to count it. Long enough to feel the minutes tick by while your body stayed bothered, and feel the itch that needs to be scratched. Long enough to know he wasn’t waking up anytime soon. Where you can be comfortable and get up from the bed.

So you left. Just like you always do.

Face down on the bathroom floor. Phone screen dim. Porn on low volume. Toy between your thighs, buzzing soft against your clit. One hand is placed on your mouth to shut you up. One hand wrapped around the end of the toy. Breathing hard into your arm like that might make it quieter. And then-

You hear the floorboard creak. Then the knock. It’s not even a knock- it’s just the click of the handle turning. The door opening.

The bathroom light spills into the hall as he opens the door. You look up too slowly. You feel your cheeks burning up. You can’t even hide it.

Art stands there, in nothing but his boxers, hair mussed, brow furrowed. His hand was still wrapped around the neck of a water bottle he didn’t even get to drink.

His eyes drop to the floor. The phone is still playing. To the tiny pink vibe glistening between your legs. To you. To your body. How ridiculous it looked how you are positioned. Frozen. Red-faced. Dripping.

His mouth doesn’t move. Not at first. He’s just quiet, calculated. He’s always like that. You couldn’t even figure him out sometimes. He just exhales slowly through his nose and leans against the doorframe like his body’s figuring out how to hold back every single thing he’s thinking.

Then, without looking away: “That for me, or for someone else?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer. You can’t. The toy’s still on, though. It’s still buzzing between your clit. You’re still shaking.

And he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t ask again. Just watches you for another beat- eyes trailing from your bitten wrist to the slick mess under you- and then says, “You do this every time I fall asleep?”

You shake your head, fast. Too nervous. “No- I mean, not- Art, I didn’t- ”

“You finish like this?” he cuts in. Calm. Flat. Too calm. Curious. Not mad. Just want to hear from you. “Face down on the floor while I’m sleeping ten feet away?” It’s worse because his words have a bite, but it’s not even mean.

You shut your eyes. You want to disappear. You want him to touch you. You want him to leave. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even blink.

He steps forward slowly and kneels beside you. His hand reaches down, curls around your wrist, and presses the toy deeper- not fast, not cruel, just firm. He moves it up and down slowly and precisely, just to earn your reaction.

“Show me,” he says, voice low. “How do you do it?”

You blink up at him, stunned. He’s hard. You can see it now, through the thin fabric of his boxers, the way he breathes like he’s not proud of it, like it hurts him to be turned on by this.

But he doesn’t stop. “Continue until you come for me,” he says, voice rough. “Or for the fucking screen. I don’t care which. I just want to see.”

Your stomach flips. You nod once. And you grind down again- slow, shaky, face hot, mouth open as you start to unravel. You do it like the way you always do it. The difference this time is you are wetter because he’s here.

He holds the toy there, tight, watching every twitch, every sound, every breath you tried to bury for weeks.

And he's still staring when you finally fall apart- shaking, soaked, tears caught in your lashes. Still hard. Still mad. Still calm.

“Next time,” he says, letting go, “you don’t sneak around to get off.”

You nod again. “You wake me up and tell me about it.”

And then, after a long pause, one more: “You’re mine. That means I finish you, too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[castiwls]

please - a.d

Pairing; art x reader

Warnings; None

Notes; working on reqs rn :)

masterlist

"I know you told me three times already,” Art shifted slightly, his chin resting on your abdomen. “but can you say it one more time please?" His eyes were soft as he gazed up at you, a small frown pulling on the edges of his lips.

His words pulled your attention from the book in your hands and you hummed softly. He stared up at you expectantly as you watched him for a moment, you honestly thought he’d fallen asleep soon after you’d opened your book but apparently not. 

Art watched you for a moment, his face hardening ever so slightly before he reached over to take the book from you. He placed it on the bed before gently grasping your hand which now lay limp at your side and pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

His lips lingered for a moment, the smell of your perfume invading his senses. “Please.” He murmured dropping your hand. Your other hand found its way into his hair as your fingers gently ran through it. A tired smile grew on his lips as he continued to stare up at you, his eyes full of adoration. 

“I love you.” Your voice was barely a whisper yet his smile only seemed to grow as a hand squeezed at your waist. A warm feeling ran through his body as your words played over in his head. You loved him.

Content, Art hummed before leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your hip.

Maybe his wife didn’t love him in the way he wanted, but you did.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 15: “what are you wearing?” “it’s laundry day!”

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

Reblog if you liked it!

When Spencer Reid opened the door to your shared apartment, he didn’t expect to hear the speakers in the living room blasting one of those modern songs he didn’t know the name of. You were home, that much was certain.

You had known each other for a few years, so it wasn’t difficult to agree to be roommates while Spencer found something permanent in the city. It was just his first year working for the FBI, and with the expenses required for his mother in the sanatorium, everything was becoming more financially complicated. Your parents, who already knew he was a good man, preferred to host that tenant rather than anyone else.

Your roommate tried to call out to let you know he was there, but thanks to the music, you had no hearing. Resigned, he tried to walk over to lower the volume, and that’s when he saw you.

You were holding a basket full of clothes, but the peculiar thing about the situation was that you were only wearing the bottom part of what he assumed was a bikini. Reid let out a scream at the sight of you, and you almost dropped the laundry you were holding, which would have completely exposed your tits.

“Jeez!, what are you wearing?”

“It’s laundry day!” you shouted back, as if trying to justify yourself. Spencer had already covered the side of his face with his hand, a clear sign that he didn’t plan on looking at you.

“And why are you naked?!”

“I’m not naked, Spencer. Almost.”

“It’s the same thing! Put… put on some clothes, please.”

“Have you never seen a naked woman?”

“No! I mean, yes! Just… put something on, will you?”

“You’ll have to lend me some clothes. All my clothes are in the washer.”

“Take whatever you want from my wardrobe, okay?” He couldn’t see you, but from the sounds he heard, he assumed you had dropped the pile of clothes and then headed to his room.

The young man felt his heart racing beneath his chest, and for a second, he wondered if it would be wise to leave, stay, lock himself in his room, and never talk about this again, or simply laugh at the situation.

A minute later, he heard footsteps coming back, and he hoped with all his heart that when he removed his hand from his face, he wouldn’t find you in an indecent state again. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case, but the image in front of him was still worse.

“You seldom wear these,” you observed slyly, extending the bottom of the oversized T-shirt you were wearing.

It had a faded print of a national park or something, and it was huge on you. Below, you were wearing joggers that Spencer doubted even belonged to him, as he had never dressed in things like that. He would probably donate them after this.

But Spencer didn’t feel shocked by the clothes; he was shocked by the person wearing them. The T-shirt made it clear that you were still wearing nothing beneath it, and just seeing you in something of his sent a shiver down his spine.

He lied when he said he had seen naked women. He hadn’t seen any—well, unless the beach and television counted.

“Do you know how dangerous it is for you to walk around like that? Some pervert could spy on you through the window, or if there’s an emergency and you have to leave, how will you do it?”

“Oh, calm down, honey. I knew you were the only one with keys to the apartment, all the curtains are closed, and I highly doubt that if there’s an emergency, anyone would notice me,” you laughed, as if it weren’t a big deal.

You watched him for a second, as if waiting for him to say something more, but you continued to receive that expression of disapproval.

“Just be more careful, okay?”

“I will,” you said calmly as you approached to hug him. “And I’d like you to come in with a: Hi, good afternoon, I’m back, how are you? Instead of that scream you let out.”

“I would have greeted you that way if it hadn’t been for your music blasting. One day you’re going to go deaf.”

“Oh, uh-huh.”

You had already started to walk in the other direction, but he, dissatisfied, followed you.

“I’m serious! There’s a study that proves it. Loud sounds can damage the parts of the inner ear that detect sound and send signals to the brain…”

“Do you want to wash your clothes too?” you interrupted, turning to look at him. He almost bumped into you. “There’s still space in my laundry load. That shirt you’re wearing right now looks a bit dirty.”

“You’re right, it is,” he reflected, looking down at a coffee stain. “Let me go change and I’ll be right back to give it to you, okay?”

He couldn’t see you shake your head, and he also couldn’t hear your reproachful words as if something displeased you. The matter was forgotten, at least for that afternoon, and you both continued with your usual tasks. Spencer ordered Japanese food for dinner, and you shared a pleasant time before going to bed. You had his clothes on the entire time.

The next day, when Derek and Elle approached to talk to him, Reid couldn’t help but tell them about the scandalous scene he had encountered upon arriving home, hoping to rid himself of the feeling of embarrassment that had arisen in him.

Unfortunately, it was quite the opposite because both agents increased their smiles as he progressed with the story.

“My boy, I think that was a pretty direct hint.”

“What do you mean?” he murmured, looking genuinely lost. Elle just gave him an amused look, almost pitying, for Morgan to continue speaking.

“She didn’t want to do laundry! She was probably looking for something more.”

Spencer frowned and showed a thoughtful expression. The woman beside him laughed and intervened to save him.

“What Morgan is trying to say is that maybe it wasn’t an accident that you found her in that state. She knows what time you usually arrive, right?”

“Yes. But why would she want to be naked when I got here?”

His two friends shared an amused and conspiratorial look, unable to believe that a guy as intelligent as Spencer could be so bad at picking up signals.

“Maybe because she wanted you to see her naked…” Morgan began, hoping he could connect the dots. “Because she likes you, maybe?”

The young man felt all the blood rush to his cheeks. I mean, that biologically wasn’t possible, or otherwise he would die, but for this case, a hyperbole is quite valid.

“You mean she wanted… to do it with me?”

“Bingo! We have a winner.”

He didn’t even know why he had told his work colleagues that. At that precise moment, he was quite regretful for having even opened his mouth.

“But… but she’s not like that. Why would she...? She can’t like me; it must be something else.”

“Oh, come on, Reid. Is it that hard for you to accept that that skinny body and your deer eyes can conquer a woman?” Elle murmured, entertained by how things had developed.

Those two could see the gears turning in the younger man's head.

“Do you think I should talk to her? Ask her?”

“Are you crazy or something? Of course not!”

“Then what do I do?” he implored Elle, feeling completely ignorant on the one topic he couldn’t study: women.

“Return the favor,” Morgan suggested with a shrug. “You know, the next time you do laundry, just stay in your underwear, wait for her to arrive, and voila. Maybe being on the other side, she’ll dare to do what you won’t.”

“Oh God, this is horrible,” the young man lamented, hiding his flushed face between his hands. At that moment, the three were called by Chief Gideon, and they had no choice but to get up and go to the conference room. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Calm down, kid. Who do you think we are?” Morgan reassured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. A second later, he saw Agent Aaron pass by. “Hotch! Guess what Reid just did…”

“Morgan!” he shouted, rushing forward to prevent his embarrassing secret from becoming public knowledge.

Feeling somewhat fearful, he followed the advice his coworker had given him, and he didn’t need to ponder much about the question he had in mind. You definitely liked him.

[yameoto]

thinking about mean tennis!coach art donaldson. u wanna throw a tantrum about whiffing your match? you wanna blame his coaching and not your lazy fucking playing? you’ll stop whining when he yanks your skirt up your tight little ass. bends u over the net like the good for nothing slut you are. forget tennis. could be a hooker with that pretty fucking ass. look at you, thighs quaking. cunt dripdrip dripping onto the tennis court. you’re just begging to be fucked by the handle. but only good girls get that, no? only winners. he’s gonna spank your ass so red and raw with the back of his racket you’ll have the crosshatching burned onto your skin. oh, don’t cry. it’ll look pretty. he hasn’t even started yet! now, ass up, sweetcheeks. unlike you, he doesn’t miss.

[fluffylino]

minho is felix's bestfriend and also happens to be your sworn enemy. he comes over one evening.

whats the worst that could happen...

-contains mature themes

frustration.

pure frustration was what you were feeling. was it really this difficult to operate a toy?!

a damn vibrator that too. a simple little vibrator. internally embarassed by your lack of 'skills' in using it.

maybe you were pressing down on the wrong setting. cause everytime it reached the highest vibrations, it would go back to the lowest setting, a few seconds after.

you didn't even feel like continuing because of how pissed of you were. what a bad way to ruin your fun.

it had been month since you last felt like you should treat yourself. get yourself off to be very specific.

and when you decide to finally try out your very first vibrator, the universe decides its not your day.

stepping out of the bathroom, still uncomfortable with the sensitivity between your legs. unintentionally edging yourself and eventually giving up entirely on trying to make yourself cum.

you blamed it on the vibrator. that darned cursed object.

flinging it on the bed in annoyance.

a small little sticky note is placed on the lamp on your bedside table. its from felix.

he had yelled goodbye while you were still showering (more like struggling). and you had yelled back, acknowledging him.

i'll be going out with chris for an hour or so. minho-hyung will be coming to our room in 20 minutes. im sowwy but he really needed a place to chill at...seungmin is studying and needs no disturbances....so i told minho he could stay in our room for a couple hours.

don't worry, bubssss i'll be back soon so things don't get awkward between yall!!!

MAYBE TRY AND GET ALONG?!

- lixie ☆

now this pisses you off even more. why the hell was everything going exactly the opposite of what you wanted.

lee minho was the last person you'd want in your shared dorm room. minho was literally gonna be coming here.

it had been almost 15 minutes since felix left. that means he'd be here anytime soon. before you even get the chance to hang your towel on the back of your chair, someone knocks on the door.

"fuckin minho of all people"

its real frustration at this point. nevertheless you open the door for him. taken aback by the attire he's in.

it was the very first time you'd ever seen him so...put together? dressed up?

what you meant was he was in semi formal attire ; a mixture of badboy or rather biker boy vibes.

"whats up with the outfit" you say, gesturing to him entirely. pointing out the leather jacket he had thrown on. it fitted him well. a bit too well.

the ripped jeans hugged his thighs. thick and muscular. a reminder that he works out and is a dancer.

"do i need a reason to wear what i feel like wearing?"

his cockiness has your fists itching to punch him straight in the nose. he huffs out a deep breath, walking right into the room. as if he owned the place. he had been here a number of times with felix. but it still pissed you off.

"fuck off" you mutter under your breath. closing the door and walking back to your bed.

that is until you see him plopping himself down on your bed. YOUR BED.

"what'd you say?" minho repeats. he has a few raspberries in his hand.

did he carry them all across campus..to eat them here ? you sometimes question his questionable habits and ways of thinking.

"don't feel like telling you" you cock back. placing your hands on your face and sighing.

were you that needy that for some reason his cologne made your breath fasten-

"what's gotten you so..." his voice trails off, beginning to question why you were so irritable. "...hot and bothered."

"i am not hot and bothered so kindly shut up"

you blurt out, blinking at him and thats when you realise.

where had you thrown the vibrator? did you put it back in your hiding spot or was it still in the bathroom...

"this says otherwise." and to your worst nightmare, minho is holding up the toy.

its like your blood runs cold. theres nothing you can say. or do. except go speechless and motionless.

"pretty cheap, don't you think?" observing it so casually. you feel yourself get wetter. his fingers catching it mindlessly.

"s-stop playing around with it" you stutter, suddenly feeling shyer than ever.

minho smirks and you unconciously press your thighs together.

"it doesn't work properly, does it."

switching it on. it buzzes loudly in the silence of the room. its vibrations are hardly anything.

you've had enough and you grab his wrist. pausing in shock when the buzzing becomes louder. you can feel it vibrating.

he presses down on it harder and it nearly vibrates out of his grip.

how had he managed to get it to its highest setting-

"did you cum? or are you just staining your panties right now as we speak." he snorts out, manspreading.

"cause this wasn't even switched on properly"

☆

you find yourself laying on your back. his hand slithered past the waistband of your pants. pressing it right over your cunt. teasingly moving the rounded tip up and down.

"needy pussy"

he's on top of you. smirking and observing every single change in your expressions.

"min-hho-" squirming under him. your hands flying down to weakly tug on his wrist. eyes struggling to stay focused.

"i must admit. hearing you say my name like that makes me want to see how you'll be if I fuck you"

sadistically keeping his pressure firm. nudging it under your panties.

"you're so much better like this, baby"

minho smirks. chuckling at the way you push yourself deeper into the bed. hips bucking upwards to escape his teasing. its cold when it comes in contact with your clit. the tips of his fingers rubbing into your folds everytime he played around with the toy.

"lee.minho a-ah" you writhe out, voice turning whiny. the familiar sensation builds up. except its more intense than ever.

he purposely turns the setting lower and you whimper in disappointment.

"maybe if i rub this..." pushing the vibrator all over your folds. a breathy gasp escaping his lips at how slicked up your cunt was.

"...or maybe if i touch this soaked cunt" dropping the vibrator and slipping his index finger through your slippery swollen lips.

"shit baby, did i get you this wet." and you know he's going to tease you for days if not months.

"you hate me, d-don't you" you whisper,shooting him a glare when he traces a digit over your clit.

eyes widening and breath quickening with how he maintains eye contact with you. bringing his head down to grunt in your ear. his fingers slapping your pussy meanly.

you whine, gripping his biceps. the leather jacket thrown on the edge of your bed.

"i hate you alright." he whispers, rubbing into your wetness slowly. minho chuckles. "filthy girl. you're throbbing on my fingers"

"i hate you so much that i jerk off to your pictures or that tone you use when you're pissed at me...i hate you to the point I cum so hard just picturing you taking my dick"

you can't control the fluttering feeling. coating his fingers even more so.

"i h-hate you more"

theres no heat in your words. gasping and legs quivering against his thicker thighs. keeping you open, unable to close your legs around his hand.

"hm, you do? tell me how much you hate me, kitten"

"i d-do...f-fuck" eyes rolling back in pleasure. desperately trying to chase your orgasm but he doesn't let you.

"yeah? you hate me so much that you're letting me touch you." minho says, voice going deeper. his ears are a shade of red and his lips parted.

"you're wet and begging for more under me. is that cause you hate me, sweetheart. or is that just you being you"

he quickens his pace. circling hard over your swollen and aching clit.

till you're throwing your hands around his neck. pulling him onto you entirely while you cum. its the hardest you've ever orgasmed.

maybe it was cause it had been so long...or you were sure it was because of him.

"there we go, good kitty" riding your high.

taking you by surprise when he presses a gentle kiss to your cheek. so you push a few strands of hair out of his face. not letting go of him just yet.

"don't call me that" you whisper, struggling to hold in your smile. his lips curve upwards into a subtle smirk. kissing your neck slowly..

"but now that I know you're so pliant, i claim you as one of my cats"

your legs giving in when he gets up. wiping his coated fingers on his jeans. it leaves a wet stain.

"again as I said." you lift your head up, confused.

"this thing is useless!" grabbing the vibrator like he had personal beef with it. flinging it casually somewhere behind you.

"choose me. customize, personal talk, boyfriend material, protection...all in one package, baby"

pointing to himself.

he reaches over to the abandoned raspberries on the counter. walking back to stuff one small red berry in your mouth. smiling when you savour it.

"good kitty"

.

.

"is that minho hyung's jacket you're wearing?" felix' eyes widen. wondering why you were wearing the leather jacket.

"yeah and he told me i could wear it when i meet him for dinner tonight" you reply, lacing your boots up.

"YOU'RE HAVING DINNER WITH HIM?!"

.

.

.

.

.

.

I wanna be his dinner- GOD HE'S SO ARGHSBSJAKJW HAHAHAHIWHEHSHS

[sweetestcaptainhughes]

93. “You didn’t just wake me up at 2am because you were ‘in the mood’.” ‼️ With Jack Hughes 😏

Thank you for requesting. 🫶🏻 this does seem very on brand for Jack

"You didn't just wake me up at 2 am because you were 'in the mood.'

Tossing and turning for hours, you always struggled sleeping when you knew Jack was actively traveling during his roadies. Something about knowing he was on a plane or a long bus ride kept you on edge until you got the text he got to where he was safe. So, not being asleep at 1 AM, you could easily blame it on that or maybe it was a little excitement knowing he was on the way home to you after a little over a week.

Somehow, even though you fully planned at this point to just stay awake until he got home, suddenly you're eyes were starting to get heavy and you started yawning. It felt like only a minute before you felt Jack crawling into bed.

"hi baby." he whispered knowing you were always a light sleeper and woke up every-time no matter how much your body needed sleep. He pulled you towards but somehow ended up on top of you, resting his weight on your body bringing that cozy feeling in the pit of your stomach spread.

"Hmm Jacky." you mumbled moving slightly to give him more access as he started kissing your check down to that spot on your neck, lightly nipping at you're collar bone. You felt yourself immidately react pulling him closer.

"missed you baby." he whispered in your ear before attacking ear and suddenly you were no longer floating between dreamland and being awake. Immediately, opening your eyes, turning your head to the little clock you kept on your bedside table. Shocked to find out you had only been asleep for about 30 minutes. Sighing and your voice heavy with sleep still, your eyebrows scrunched down in confusion, as you mumbled. "Jack whhyy are you on top of me?"

"I missed you is all." he mumbled, digging his face further into neck, softly rolling his hips, you could feel his fully hard dick as he sighed in relief.

"uhhh huh, yup you just missed me?"

"yup"

"So you didn't wake me at 2 am because you were 'in the mood'? Just cause you missed me?" you asked teasingly a small smile on your face.

"well if you're offering." he was quick to answer teasing your nipples through your thin shirt your nipples immediately hardening due to not wearing a bra.

You couldn't help but laugh at his response. "I wasn't offering." pulling him closer. "But I guess I can be a team player" you joke.

"I love you." as he sat up and removed his hoodie quickly.

"I know." you smiled up at him as he started pulling your shirt over your head.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[ervotica]

you’re an angel, i’m a dog — a.donaldson

pairing; older!art donaldson x fem!reader

warnings; roughly written, badly edited, not beta’d (because when is it ever?), allusions to smut, implied age gap (reader is early 20s, art is early 30s), slight tashi x fem!reader if you squint, infidelity (but tashi is kinda cool with it), just some thoughts about older!art and his pretty girl

a/n; this concept has been eating at me for daysss so i had to write it at least roughly! should we make this a series? (maybe get patrick involved?🫢) let me know what you think! ART & CHALLENGERS (poly!art & patrick) REQUESTS ARE OPEN! any questions / conversation starters about this particular au are highly appreciated and encouraged!! please come to my inbox 📥 <3

older!art is fucking obsessed with you— you, who comes to every one of his matches, who sits next to his wife in those adorable little tennis skirts you sport just for him, who whoops and cheers from the stands whether he wins or loses.

you’re forbidden fruit. so, naturally, he adores you.

tashi knows, because of course she does. she never pries, never so much as spares you a second glance when he wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck and huffs hot air against the shell of your ear. she doesn’t care — you’ve made art better at tennis.

his confidence has skyrocketed since having a pretty thing like you cheering him on, his biggest and most enthusiastic supporter. he plays better, he second guesses himself less, he’s more relaxed.

you’re what’s been missing. the last piece of the puzzle.

an obedient little thing, glued to his side, wagging like a dog at his every command.

he fucking loves it. loves having someone relying on him for love and validation. loves the way you preen under his fervent gaze and flutter your lashes at the slightest touch.

when tashi asks you to join art’s team officially, you almost keel over.

“look, i don’t care that he’s fucking you… or that he’s in love with you. he has a shot at the us open this year, and he needs you by his side to do it.” she says. you’re quick to agree, ever obedient and desperate to please.

“he’s in love with me?”

she scoffs. “you’ve seen the way he looks at you. he almost creams his pants every time you’re in the same room as him.” she tilts your chin upwards with a crooked finger, giving your cheek an affectionate - albeit condescending - pat.

“you two can have your fun— but he has to win this year.”

art’s perched against the doorframe when you turn, corded forearms crossed over his chest. you scrunch your nose, pushing back a smile that crinkles at your eyes despite your efforts.

fucking smitten.

tashi rolls her eyes, a half smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and she nudges you towards him.

“go on.”

he opens his arms in greeting and you’re quick to fall into them, your fingers knotting in the shorn hair at his nape. his chest expands beneath your own as he takes a long breath, and he presses his nose to your pulse point, shuddering.

“love you.” he murmurs into your skin.

“love you more.”

he could cry; he doesn’t remember the last time someone told him they loved him and meant it. you’re obsessed with him, almost as much as he is with you.

at his next match, you carry his rackets and send him off with a good luck kiss that has him breathless, grinning as you roll his wad of gum between your teeth that you sucked right from his waiting mouth.

he wins.

how could he not with his pretty girl watching?

and that night, he rewards you with a thorough fucking, whispered love confessions against your lips, and a breathy moan as he cums that you won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

so, yeah. maybe this life isn’t so bad, after all.

[teddybeartoji]

18+ mdni; gn!reader

toji has an oral fixation.

oh, how he loves having his mouth on you. it's one of his favourite pasttimes; no matter whether it's making out and sucking on your tongue, or trailing his scarred lips over the side of your neck, pressing warm kisses against your jaw and pulse point like it's the only thing he knows. he loves having his mouth on your nipples, too. wrapping his lips around the sensitive bud and watch you arch into him while he plays with the other. he loves littering your chest with hickeys and he loves watching them bloom. his marks on you, from his mouth – it drives him wild. and last but not least – he loves giving you head. slobbering all over you, covering you in his saliva as he tries to devour you whole. feeling you cum on his tongue? absolutely nothing can compare to the sensation of that. nothing.

he loves the way you taste, he loves the way you sound, he loves the way you writhe under his burning touch. you're sweeter than anything else he's ever had and he simply can't get enough of you. he'll have you in every way he can, in every way you'll let him.

toji also loves sucking on your fingers.

of course, he'd be a little (read: very) ashamed to admit that out loud, but that doesn't mean he doesn't like it. there's just something so freeing in the way you let him melt into you, the way you don't tease him for wanting to let go. he wants to feel good, too. he wants to give up the power and just feel.

it is new to him though; you were always the one with his fingers in your mouth, so having the roles reversed, toji does feel a little small. in the best way possible.

having you on top of him, sitting perfectly on his stomach with your one hand firmly on his chest and the other caressing his face, toji can't help but feel himself twitch in his sweats. his mouth salivates at the sight of your cunning little smile and the twinkle in your eyes as you purr about how good he looks under you. he doesn't argue.

the tips of his ears burn and his adam's apple bobs, feeling your fingers tracing over the scar on his lips. his hands hold onto your waist like you're about to take flight, his strong grasp bruising your soft skin, making you let out a quiet moan. toji's hips buck upward and he watches your smile widen.

"open up, baby..."

your voice might also just kill him. it's sultry and still brimming with love, you're gentle and just a tad bit teasing – it's the perfect combination. toji's lips part without an objection, his mossy green eyes glued to yours as they do the same.

you push two fingers in and hum at the overwhelming warmth that envelops them immediately. toji's chest rumbles with a groan of his own at the way you run them over the sharp edges of his canines. leaving yourself a little closer to them, you place a kiss to his cheek while holding your fingers to his tongue, pressing it down as you slide them further into his mouth. toji holds back a gag and lets his eyes fall shut; your scent fills his nostrils and the way you're now nuzzling your face into his is not making any of this any less erotic.

finally toji's lips close properly around your fingers and he feels you smile against his skin. and then he feels your hips grinding ever-so-slightly on his stomach and now he really feels like he's losing his mind. you're all over him, but what gets him the most is that none of this is the usual 'sex stuff'. he's always been open to experimenting, he's willing to try just about anything you'd ever want to with a few eyelash flutters and a few pretty 'please's', but this? this is something else.

for starters, you're both still fully clothed. clad in your most basic pyjama, you're making him more turned on than he's ever been. and he's just so, so used to be the one in control, to be the one on the top – so submitting to you feels foreign, but so fucking good. you're making him discover things about himself that he never could've even dreamt about. him sucking on your fingers while you're humping his abs? oh, you'll kill him one day for sure.

but he's not complaining.

his tongue swivels around your two fingers as he begins to push and pull your hips to help you grind against him. you lick the side of his face, covering him in your saliva before pulling back just a little to look at him. below you, with your fingers in your mouth – he looks fucking extraordinary. you feel over the moon about the fact that he feels comfortable enough with you to let you have your way with him. you're utterly thankful for the glorious sight and you will most certainly reward him for it as well.

there's a soft squelch when toji hollows his cheeks and sucks on your digits. a sickeningly sweet coo spills from your lips and his eyes crack open; your gazes meet and you swear his whole body twitches under you. his hold on you gets tighter, his fingers sinking in deeper and you can't help but wonder how big of a mess he might be making in his sweats.

spit makes his lips glisten under the light emitting from the tv; shadows of the long forgotten movie dance on his skin, the whispers getting muffled by the sounds that he keeps making. he doesn't feel as embarrassed anymore, slowly succumbing to the hazy feeling in his head. he's addicted, he wants more and more and more.

and as if on cue, you force your fingers deeper down his throat once more, eyes set on the way his own roll right back into his head. his head dips forward, sinking into the pillow behind him and giving you the most beautiful view of his blooming neck. you're matching – he marks you up and you do the same. it's love.

pulling your fingers with a 'pop', a whine slips from toji but before he can really complain about it, you press your mouth to his. your lips smack together as you cradle his face with your spit-covered hand, tugging him closer and closer. his big arms wrap around your middle as he pulls you flush to him, moaning into your mouth when you decide to suck on his tongue in turn.

he can taste your desire, the need to make him feel good and to take care of him as you push yourself further into him. toji feels like he's about to explode. he wants to kiss, he wants to feel your fingers again, he wants to make you cum, he wants to make love to you.

hovering just above his face, you bring your hand back to his mouth and grant him his wish. he doesn't need to say it out loud, you know exactly what he wants and what he needs. slipping your index and your middle finger between his lips, you both groan at the feeling.

you give him a smile and butterflies bloom in his belly. you give him a peck while still having your fingers in your mouth and cum seeps through his sweats.

toji fushiguro is a weak, weak man and you have him wrapped around your pretty little fingers.

literally.

[orbitariums]

stanford era art (+ black reader) who nuts in you way too easily (birth control) because “your pussy’s so fucking good baby.” he apologizes as he’s moaning and his hips are stuttering while warm pumps of his cum fill your walls, his once jackrabbit thrusts turning sloppy and the sounds of his balls smacking against your wet pussy fill the room. his eyes are pinched shut and his mouth is turned downward and sweat licks at his forehead.

he’s groaning, “i’m coming, i’m c-coming, fuck i’m sorry baby, pussy’s too fucking good.” you let him lay on top of you and cockwarm him for a few minutes before he finds the strength again, muttering, “‘m gnna give it to you some more.”

if you think patrick fucks, art takes the cake after he’s already cum once. you know that the first round is really just practice — a warmup. he fucks the lights out of you, deep, hard strokes melding perfectly against your body.

#needthat

[sukunasbow]

college art and patrick sharing you ; mdni

there’s only one rule in your little arrangement, no telling each other about what you do behind closed doors.

that rule never stopped the two boys from claiming you in their own ways.

one night, you’re at patrick’s dorm, letting him roughly fuck you from behind, pulling at your hair and making you suck on his fingers.

“fuck, you take me so well.” he grunts, thrusting into you. “does art fuck you this good? hm?”

you open your mouth to say something, but the only thing that follows is drool pooling around the man’s fingers.

“answer, baby.” he removes his fingers from your mouth and tightens his grip around your hair, yanking your head back to look at him.

“patrick.” you start, your sentence getting cut off with a loud moan as he hits the sweet spot of your cunt. “fuck! i thought you and art had a deal, the two of you don’t talk about me and i don’t talk about the other one when i’m with one of you.” you pant.

“fuck the rules.” he huffs, picking up the pace of his movements, fucking into you at a faster rate.

a few days later and art is at your dorm, his head between your legs as he licks your clit, coaxing out pornographic moans from your mouth. you toss your head back and your legs start to shake, “art, i’m so close!”

your words only motivate him to flick his tongue faster, your pussy clenching with a knot building in your stomach.

“oh, fuck, i’m cumming.” your eyes flutter shut and you cum all over his tongue, words of praise escaping your lips as art helps you through your orgasm.

“you did so good.” art pulls away from your core and instead starts kissing the soft skin of your thighs, making sure he leaves behind marks for the next time you’re with patrick.

from then on, each night you spend with the two boys turns into a silent competition between the two, of who can fuck you better.