#how to ease joint stiffness

[sanriovin]

steamy shower sex with simon.

the man's just come home from a deployment which took you away from him and him away from you for a whole month. a whole month of both of you having no sexual contact with each other, no calls, no photos, no nothing.

so just imagine the desperation and the raw need between the two of you as he stepped foot back into the place that finally felt like home after so many years of trying to find it, dropping his bag to the wooden floor, not even bothering to take his shoes off as his arms found themselves wrapped tightly around your smaller body, holding you close, so close.

"missed you, lovey." his voice was deep, low, as usual, yet his tone was softened, into one of vulnerability, love, desire, and need. one that he only ever used towards you. only you were deserving of hearing and seeing his true emotions, which were hidden behind a cold mask to others.

you insisted he should take a shower, clean himself up from the messy deployment, ease his stiff, aching joints, slowly ground himself back into the domestic side of his life, even if it wouldn't last forever. not yet, at least, one day, maybe.

however, simon didn't want to be alone yet, no, not after he just came back to his sweetheart. so in the end, the two of you ended up showering together. it started as a normal shower, which slowly escalated into more.

which is how you found yourself, in simon's big, well-trained arms, his scarred fingers pressing tightly into your thighs, back against his muscled chest, as he fucked up into you, his fat cock stretching out your pulsing, clenching walls with a slight new found difficulty from how long he was separated from you. but, that just means he has to get you nice and stretched out, doesn't he?

the running water did little to conceal the groans and low moans from him, and the higher, louder moans and whines from you. your head was leaning against his shoulder, eyes barely open, as his tip repeatedly pressed against your sweetest spots inside you, making you feel dizzy from the unwavering pleasure.

rutting his hips up into you, his grip on you tightened, as he slowly lowered his head, whispering into your ear amidst his noises of pleasure and relief. "feeling good, pretty girl? getting close? i can fucking feel you clenching around me so hard. you wanna cum, yeah?"

he was teasing you with his words, as he soon began to simultaneously bring your wet pussy down onto his dick while fucking up into you, but you knew he was just as wanting as you were in this moment.

your moans grew louder in noise, stirring him on to do the same, his groans and grunts of your name and dirty words growing louder and more rushed. your wetness was dripping down his cock, slipping down his bare, marked skin, leaving a trail which almost immediately got washed off by the running water in the shower.

the glass was steamed up, a white sheet of condensation hiding your two bodies away from the outside. the air was getting hotter and thinner, which, along with your current states, didn't really help much. but, none of that mattered in the moment. what mattered was that you were with simon again, getting one of the best sex experiences in your life.

"g'nna cum, wanna cum, pleasee, 'leasee!" you cried out, turning your head, trying to capture simon's lips in a long-awaited kiss. you could see his eyes moving to look down at your lips, as he lowered his head down, capturing your lips in a wet, messy kiss, one with tongue's meeting, fighting for the dominance, which undoubtedly you had lost quickly.

"you wanna cum, huh?" he muttered out, his pace constant, not speeding or slowing down. "wanna cum so desperately? then do it. be a good girl for me and make a fucking filthy mess."

and that was all it took for you to snap, your body jerking and trembling as the tension in your lower abdomen snapped, mind blank, save for simon's name, as your orgasm hit you so intensely, squirting so hard as your body shook from it. your pussy clenched and twitched so much that that in itself was enough to bring poor simon to the breaking point.

holding you down tightly on him, which was definite to leave many loving, reminiscent marks of what had happened, he let out a lusty, heavy moan, burying his face in your shoulder, as hot spurts of his cum shot into you, intertwining with yours, creating a sticky mess between the two of you as it began to dribble out, getting flushed away through the shower water.

it took you some time to gather yourselves; to catch your breaths, come back to reality, to ground yourselves from the orgasms you had just experienced. simon slowly let you down, turning the shower off, looking down at you, as you slumped against him, barely managing to stand on quivering legs.

"well, that shower was pointless, wasn't it?"

but he wouldn't trade these moments for anything in the world.

(author's note: wrote this on a whim, not too proud of it 🤞)

[bestreviewsmclu]

JOINT PAIN RELIEF: 6 SIMPLE TIPS FOR A PAIN-FREE LIFE | JOINT PAIN THUMB | ARTHRITIS | MENOPAUSE

Welcome!!!!l! Are you searching for effective joint pain relief? Look no further! In this video, we'll share six simple and powerful tips to help you find fast and lasting relief from joint discomfort. Say goodbye to pain and hello to a more active and enjoyable life!

[toovaeloe]

post-nut munchies

Satoru doesn’t get post sex clarity shame or guilt. He gets hungry.

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

mdni•18+

content: small minific, gn penetration, established relationship, dumbification if you squint, mating press but again: only if you’re looking through a foggy window, mostly aftercare and a gojo being goofy (being a FATASS) ((he’s my fave fatty))

wc: 826

Clarity. That might as well be the universally defined antonym of Satoru Gojo.

Because if there’s one thing Gojo doesn’t own and his fat paycheck can’t buy, it’s shame.

“fuuuckkk,” 

He’d groan a guttural draw as he pistoned into your tight heat, before alternating into slow, powerful grinding of his hips that had your brain vacating the premises to make space for his dumb fucking dick. He knew it, too; could see it in the way your your eyes struggled to stay in focus and the way your back bowed off the sheets you were gripping with white-knuckle intensity— he’s fucked all the thoughts out of your pretty little head. And the bastard couldn’t be cheesing any harder about it.

“My pretty baby,” He’s muse, somehow finding it in himself to giggle breathily as one of his large palms slips away from where he was squeezing the underside of your thigh. He smooths up towards your abdomen, featherlight fingers grazing up your chest and over a pert nipple before traveling back down to splay over your hip, all with deliberate gentleness. “so beautiful like this.”

“feel me right there, yeah? That deep?” The husk of his voice rumbles just above you, the pad of his thumb skimming over the skin below your belly button, eyes crinkling at the way you whimper out soft frantic mhm!’s when he adds pressure. His grin is from ear to ear, the sigh he lets out dreamy and adoring. “yeaahhh.”

He’s only smug for so long, however, with the way your eager hole was sucking him in, milking him like you wanted to siphon his soul out his body via cock. Satoru leans down as a string of curses tumbles from his lips with a groan, sweat-slick chest meeting yours as his hands scramble to find your legs once more. Blunt nails dig into your flesh as he forces them up next to either side of your head, effectively folding you in half like a goddamn lawn chair. The change in angle has you keening as he rammed into that gummy spot inside you, with no less accuracy the other 6 times he’s made you cum tonight.

“shit, shit, yer so… mmh’fuck ‘can’t think— needa cum s’bad,” He quite literally whines as you barrel over that peak, his mouth latching to yours to share your muffled moans as he follows suit. His hips stutter against yours as he spills inside of you, before he goes still entirely, the both of you riding the waves of the ebbing high until he collapses atop you- and with how exhausted you both are, it’s undoubtedly the last one tonight.

Or at least one of you is bone-tired. After a few minutes of Satoru floating in the afterglow, he’s littering affectionate wet kisses all across your face, offering you praise of what a good job you did for him as he eases your legs back down and kneads your hips- having the audacity to tease you with the idea of juuuust one more round. HELL no. He gets the memo when you weakly kick at him, but it doesn’t stop him from chuckling at your incredulous expression as he slides his softening shaft out of you.

His snowy bangs still stick to his brow as he rises from the bed with a grunt, making a show of stretching, cracking stiff joints, and flexing muscles before returning to your side with a warm washcloth. He’s still all smiles and chipper beaming as he tenderly cleans in between your legs, biting his lip to stifle himself from blabbing out about how much pride he felt seeing you like this- it’d probably fluster you into chiding him if you saw the goofy ass expression he was making. Not that you were really paying any mind; your eyelids fluttering closed every other minute and about ready to conk out.

“Y’know what sounds good right now though?” Satoru chirped out of the blue, yanking you back from the cusp of slumber.

“Some fro-yo. Maybe strawberry- with chocolate chips, gummy bears, marshmallows, cookie dough, and a fuckton of rainbow sprinkles. Cherry on top, of course,” He’d ramble off his abominable go-to order as his hand absentmindedly wandered to trace soothing patterns against one of your knees. You’re just dumbfounded at how he could possibly be fantasizing about frozen yogurt right now; limp-dicked and in his birthday suit after he just fucked you into next Tuesday. “God, my mouth’s watering just thinkin’ about it.”

“I know a 24 hour fro-yo spot. It’s only, like…a 20-ish minute drive?” He’d muse, sapphire eyes redirecting from the ceiling and back to you. When he caught your flabbergasted expression he’d coyly duck his head and bat his frosty lashes at you, as if that was about to convince you. You wondered if you could even walk, or if maybe you’d need at least 5-8 business days to recuperate.

“Doesn’t that sound good, hm? You up for it, angel?”

a/n: craving a ben&jerry’s cherry garcia🤤 also i hate him a lot today. like so much 😒 but i gotta finish writing this Ino thing for a diff thing so im forcing myself to resist writing Gojo. Instead i will say, “i hate him”;

I hate him.

have a wonderful day and do something nice for yourself! 🫶🏽

[comatosebunny09]

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, mild language, mutual pining, romantic tension, innuendoes, smidge of angst, 1.3k of self-indulgence now playing: honey - raveena part 1 | part 2 | part 4 | part 5

The weather app forecasted rain all week.

You never truly relied on the damn thing, seeing as how there was always a high chance its predictions wouldn’t come to fruition. It’d been hot as Hell’s gates the past few days, pasting your clothes to you like snakeskin.

Well, now, as the evening sky pelts down in grey torrents beyond the awning of your porch, you feel silly for doubting it this time around. 

You love the rain—the scent of wet earth it ushers in with it, the ambient sound it carries. How, as cliché as it might sound, it washes away everything, starting the world anew. A second chance. A cover.  

What's most ironic is the rain didn’t start until your roomie disappeared once more, swept away for a “business trip,” leaving you to fend for yourself where you’d grown accustomed to having him around again. 

A quiet little tick to your lips, you gaze skyward, beholding the darkened clouds from your seat. A crisp breeze kisses your cheeks, water drip-dropping down the gutter, the symphony of the rainfall chasing away the sounds typical of your neighborhood.

Clad in your work attire, you rise from your chair and push into your home. You opt for a warm shower to chase away the cold. Ease into something comfortable, lounging on the sofa with a drama you’ve practically memorized queued up on the TV screen. 

It isn’t long before the stress of your day trickles in, and your vision fades, scorched around the edges like a vignette. You settle onto your side, feet kicked up on the couch’s armrest, drawing your blanket further up your body. 

Guided by the rain, the muted dance of light from the screen, and the exhaustion of socializing, you lapse into a heavy spell of sleep. 

—

You’re lucid. Carefully treading the line of consciousness and dreams, when the jiggling of the front door’s locks pulls you to the surface. 

You sit up with a yawn, joints crackling as you stretch, muscles stiff from your nap. The door creaks open, and warmth leaks through you at the familiar mop of white in the threshold.

He’s massive in the open door, stepping inside, quiet, careful, as if he’s up to no good. As if the darkness carried him in, snowy strands beaded with rain and a thin film of it lining the neck of his coat. You watch him slip off his boots and sling his jacket on the rack before you make your presence known with another yawn.

Brilliant, red eyes snap to you. Their intensity tempers, as does the rest of his face, and the pressure in your living room shifts when he steps towards the couch.

“Still awake?” he prompts, the low roll of his voice contending with that of the thunder brushing the horizon. 

You nod, trying to appear unfazed by his presence. Like you aren’t secretly vibrating, grateful to have him back.

He tugs off his gloves with practiced ease, dropping them onto the table behind the sofa. His eyes crease with a quiet mirth behind the backrest, and he studies you as he drops a hand to your shoulder. Squeezes, sending pins and needles through your chest.

Crossing the living room to the hallway, he disappears up the stretch of stairs leading to the upper floor. You’re straining your ears for every lick of sound, every creak in the floorboards, the slamming of a drawer, before it falls quiet. 

You take up the remote from the coffee table, scrolling through things to occupy the time. Your roommate reemerges after a minute or two, clad in a loose-fitting tee with a towel slung over his shoulders. 

He falls onto the cushion beside you, exhaling, towelling off his hair. He’s closer than what’s typical, thigh brushing yours, and your throat thickens. 

An amalgamation of scents coils around you like a breath out—petrichor, the faint trails of his cologne, undernotes of iron and smoke. You’ve stopped breathing as the cords in his bicep flex in the outskirts of your vision when he ruffles his hair, gaze trained on the television screen, unfocused,

Wanting to dispel the weighted atmosphere, you clear the phlegm from your throat. Sit up a little rigid, toying with the drawstrings of your hoodie.

“So…rough day?”

His jaw tenses in your periphery. He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lets the weight bear down. And for a moment, you think you’ve nicked skin. Agitated a nerve—he’s always hush-hush about what he does. The life of a real estate agent must be top secret. 

“It was…tedious,” he finally answers after murdering you with the suspense. 

The set of your shoulders uncoils. You exhale, feeling a little less like you pissed him off.

“That bad, huh?”

Fuck him for shifting like that. For getting a little more comfortable, draping an arm across the backrest, legs splaying open. The hairs littering the surface of your skin stand rigid, and again, you’ve forgotten what it means to breathe when he turns towards you, ingesting you with those cruelly beautiful eyes.

“I’ll spare you the details. I don’t lead an exciting life. Not like you do.”

You glower when he pokes your forehead. 

After chewing on your lip, you ask, “Well, you want me to distract you?”

A brow lifts with intrigue. Lips cant in one corner to match it. You roll your eyes, scoffing. You’d think by now you’d be better at catching your words before they leave your mouth.

“Is that an offer, sweetie?” 

“That’s not what I meant, you perv.”

The fight dies down inside you, and it’s like being struck by lightning when his gaze drops to your mouth. It lingers, scrutinizes, his pupils dilating before he takes you in once more. 

You’re mindlessly leaning closer as if gravity’s drawing you to him. Don’t realize you’re watching his lips, taking in their suppleness, wondering if they’re as soft as the flower petals they resemble, until his knuckle slips beneath your chin, tilting your head back.

His voice is scratchy, tempered low, and you feel it pulling in your stomach when he rasps, “You’re becoming more difficult to resist. Do you know that?”

You both stiffen as the air sparkles with something electric. 

He sifts through the drunken, confused haze of your stare, chewing on his lip as if he let something slip that he shouldn’t have. 

You work your mouth around a shaky, “What?” 

And there’s war in his eyes. A battle of self-control when his fingertips trace the slope of your jaw, drag along the swell of your cheek, brushing some hair from your face. He’s gentle as if he isn’t meant to touch. Careful like you’re glass and he’s a brute that could easily crush you in his fist.

With a resigned sigh, he draws back, lifting himself from the couch and from the dreamy film that had covered you, leaving you to blink at the space where he once resided, as your pulse thrums a battle cadence in your throat.

“Tea?” your roommate calls from the kitchen, the sound of cupboards shutting and porcelain dragging accompanying him.

You try not to let your disappointment show as you sit back. Try not to let your voice flicker, your hands fisted in your blanket, mouth open, mind utterly confused.

“Sure.”

You wonder what you might’ve done this time to scare him off. If it isn’t his phone ringing or another obligation keeping you apart, surely, it must be you. 

tags: @eialovescats, @animecrazy76, @souppooppie, @stxrrielle, @pemhpredo, @bluesidez, @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @freeprincesslove, @raginginferno267, @dyeinsomniadontwake

[salmonmakiii]

ᯓ★ Your boyfriend had been busier than usual, with the burden and responsibilities of being a Chrysos Heir and all. You'd often watched how drained he looked whenever he finally made it home.

This time was no different. He'd been out of the city for a week, pushing back the Black Tide. Still, you weren't too worried; he sent updates now and then. You believed in him, you always do! He usually comes home without so much as a scratch.

So, you decided to surprise him. He mentioned he'd be back at Curtain-Fall Hour, and what better way to say "Good work!" than by dolling yourself up just for him after a tough mission? Consequently, you bought a new set of lingerie...

The thought of your boyfriend getting flustered and caught off guard had you practically jittering with excitement.

The moment you heard the front door open, you turned to the mirror for one last check. You adjusted your lingerie, fixed your hair, and then stepped out slowly, eager to see that stunned look on his face.

But this time, you were the one left in shock. ᯓ★

Wc: 1,523

Cw: Fem!reader x Mydei, Fem!reader x Phainon, Suggestive, established relationship, mentions of injury, kind of OOC...? maybe (the boys are freaky). For plot reasons, let's just say Mydei's wounds don't heal instantly.

Notes: Back from the dead to write this itchy drabble I've been thinking of... I'm so normal for Phainon and Mydei lol.

Mydei stood before the front door of your shared home, the familiar sight alone already easing the tension from his shoulders. His body ached, bandages wrapped across his torso, joints stiff with soreness, and a limp in his step from the lingering strain. He exhaled slowly, the weight of the day heavy in his breath.

What would you think if you saw him like this? All bruised, battered, barely upright? Still, knowing you, he could already imagine it. You'd accept his vulnerability without question. You'd hold him in your arms without hesitation.

The thought alone tugged a small, quiet smile from him.

He stepped closer, pulling out the spare key, the cute lion key chain you gave him dangling. He unlocked the door as it let out a soft click in the quiet. He pushed it open.

"I'm home," He called out softly.

The living room was empty... huh. You were usually sprawled on the couch, waiting with a smile. No matter, he'd remove his armor first and find you after. His hands reached up to unclasp the golden pauldron on his shoulder, fingers fumbling slightly from the fatigue.

Then he heard footsteps. Yours.

He barely had time to register them before the gasp that followed snapped his attention upward.

Both of you froze, eyes wide, equally shocked.

Clank!

The pauldron dropped to the floor in the dead silence.

Titans. You looked breathtaking.

The red lingerie you wore was delicately revealing. It consists of two finely crafted pieces joined by loose strings along your sides. One pull, and the entire ensemble would fall away. It hugged around your body perfectly, accentuating the curves of your chest and just enough of your thighs to make his breath hitch.

And suddenly, miraculously, every ache in his body vanished.

Well... almost. The ache had simply... shifted elsewhere.

"Mydei! What happened to you?!" Your frantic voice pulled him back to reality.

He blinked, momentarily lost in your presence. He opened his mouth to answer, but only jumbled stammers escaped.

...what?

Why is he stammering? Alongside fear, stammering is not in the Kremnoan dictionary. He hadn't even known he was capable of stammering. Clearing his throat, he tried again.

"The... the enemy- the Black Tide, they... they were..." He trailed off, the words slipping from him. Why was this so hard?

His eyes flicked back to you, who was now approaching him with concern on your face. Titans above help this poor man. He focused, desperately, on your eyes. As if looking anywhere else might turn him into stone.

"Were they that aggressive?" You asked gently, placing your hands on his face.

Aggressive... Right... that was the word he was looking for.

"...Yes." He managed to say, still trying to collect himself.

"Why haven't you healed yet? Are you okay? Can you walk?" Your questions came all at once; panicked, loving, relentless.

He wasn't listening anymore. Not really. Not with your body barely hidden behind that tempting veil of red silk. If he could just... pull that damn string off.

His thoughts were tangled, his focus slipping again, especially when you got even closer. He cleared his throat, trying to stay composed.

"Uh... yeah." He said firmly, then paused, eyes scanning your form again. "You... dressed up for me?"

You froze in place, suddenly flustered and self-conscious. "Oh, Gods! I'm so sorry! I- I thought you'd be fine like always, and I wanted to surprise you, but you're hurt! I should change and help you-"

You turned, ready to flee from embarrassment, but he caught your wrist before you could escape.

"No. Don't," he said, voice stern but laced with something tender, almost desperate.

"What?" You breathed, heart pounding.

"You went through all that trouble to make yourself look this beautiful," he said, stepping closer, limp and all. "I'm not about to let that go to waste." He was already pulling you closer to him, bodies pressed against each other.

"Mydei, this can wait-"

He was already leaning in.

"You have to-"

Your words were swallowed by your own gasp.

Mydei's lips were at your neck, warm and hungry. His hands were now already on your waist, squeezing them, holding you in place. He moved them up and down your sides, making you squirm. The chill of his gauntlets made your skin spark, the metal adding a strange thrill to every touch.

"Please..." He whispered, his voice husky, pleading. His lips trailed lower, from your neck to your collarbone, before teasingly stopping just above your chest.

You looked down into his eyes, half-lidded and full of heat, desperation, need. His fingers were already tugging at the strings of your lingerie. Perhaps they were also tugging at your heartstrings.

Well, who were you to say no to the crown prince?

Phainon limped up the stairs to the front door, cursing under his breath. Why, in all of Amphoreus, had he thought the stairs to be a good idea in the first place? Every step felt like a personal attack. He should have them removed! Better yet, throw them into the River of Souls for the pain they brought him now.

...No.

He sighed. He was starting to sound irrational. He was probably just exhausted, his entire body screaming in protest. Still, the thought of you seeing him in this state worried him more than he'd like to admit. His head was bandaged, coat hung limply from one shoulder since his arms were too sore to slide into the sleeves.

With a twist of the key, he unlocked the front door.

"Sweetheart, I'm home!" He called out, wincing as his shoulder twisted while he pulled the door shut behind him. He shuffled toward the counter and leaned on it with one hand, trying to take off his boots without his body screaming at him.

He heard your footsteps approaching, light and quick. Still crouched over, fumbling with the straps of his boots, he heard you gasp. He sighed, preparing a reassuring smile.

Until he looked up and saw you.

His breath caught.

"You're all bruised and bandaged! What happened to you?"

You stood there, eyes wide with concern, but that wasn't the main focus.

You were wearing baby blue lingerie, so delicate and ethereal you almost didn't look real. The fabric was thin and light, translucent enough for a clear view of the matching bra and panties. The sheer dress floated just above your thighs, the hem trimmed with soft frills that made it look like you were wrapped in clouds. The neckline sat off your shoulders, ruffled sleeves hugged your arms in a way that gave an innocent look. Though it was anything but innocent.

And those garters.

Dear Kephale, those garters. Those soft, tantalizing bands around your thighs made his thoughts spiral into dangerous places.

"Phainon?" You called out to him again, pulling him out of his daze. He stumbled, barely catching himself.

"Y-yes, Sweetheart?" He replied, voice slightly strained as he straightened up despite the protest of his wounds.

"Are you okay?" you asked, voice filled with genuine worry as you placed a gentle hand on his arm.

Gods, your touch felt like fire on his skin.

He suddenly felt guilty. You were so concerned, and all he could do was stare at you like a man starved.

"I'm... okay. Minor injuries," he muttered, eyes flickering from yours to your chest and back again.

"Even your head's wrapped in bandages..." You said softly, placing a hand on his cheek. "Did you get hit that hard?"

Phainon could think of something else that was hard-

He cleared his throat quickly. "A little, yeah." He leaned into your touch, unable to contain himself.

"You look beautiful," he added with a teasing grin, hovering his hands just beside your waist.

You pulled back with a gasp, glancing down. "Oh, Titans- I forgot I was still wearing this," you laughed nervously. "I'll go change-"

But before you could move, Phainon (even in his weakened state) caught your wrist and pulled you gently but firmly back to him. You stumbled slightly, only to find yourself trapped between him and the counter, your back pressed to his chest, your hands bracing on the surface in front of you.

His arms wrapped around your waist, and his lips brushed past your exposed shoulder. He trailed kisses to your neck, and a soft gasp escaped your lips when he found that one spot that always made you weak.

"P-Phainon, you're hurt-" you tried to speak, but another gasp cut you off as his gloved hand slipped beneath your dress, gliding over bare skin.

"Yes," he whispered against your jaw, "but my sweetheart dressed up so beautifully for me." His right hand then rose to gently tilt your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his. "Who am I to refuse a blessing from a goddess, hm?"

You whine softly, "Your injuries, Phainon..."

You tried to push him away, but he didn't budge.

"Please?" He murmured, desperate in his voice, lips hovering just above yours. "I'll be good. I promise."

His eyes burned with heat, pupils blown and hungry.

This man was absolutely not good for your heart.

©salmonmakiii, do not steal my work or feed it to AI.

[seyvith]

“ PERMISSION TO REST ”

OBSESSED WORSHIPPER — an angel who doesn’t know how to be loved, only how to kneel . . .

requested / gender neutral reader / emotionally fragile angel x reader / intense fixation / devotion laced with fear / touch starved beyond reason / unhealthy comfort / aching vulnerability

masterlist | intro post | character info . . . a/n: finally finished a post, yay!! been super busy with grad, so take these quickly written abrin headcannons as a little gift. i'll write proper fics with my full writing style once i have more time!

The first time you opened your arms to him, an invitation so simple, so achingly human, Abrin didn’t understand. What you meant as comfort, he mistook as a test.

Without pause or hesitation, he dropped to his knees before you, eyes wide with frantic devotion. He pressed desperate kisses along your legs as though in worship, trembling with a feverish need to prove himself. “Tell me what to do. I’ll be good. Please. Let me deserve this.”

You had to kneel with him, gently guiding his face into your hands like one might calm a frightened animal. To him, your embrace wasn’t a kindness, it was a divine trial. The thought that love could be given without condition had never once occurred to him.

When you finally drew him into your arms, his body resisted the moment. He didn’t know how to soften, how to yield. He sat stiff and trembling, his muscles coiled tight like strings drawn too far. Beneath your touch, his pulse fluttered, thin and frantic, as though his very heartbeat feared being held.

His hands hovered, barely brushing the air near your body. “Can I...?” he whispered, as though asking for permission to exist. When you said yes, the breath that left him shuddered out like it had been trapped in his lungs for years.

Cautiously, like a creature unsure of its own shape, he leaned in. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, not out of peace, but surrender. And when the sob finally tore through him, it came with whispered fragments of gratitude, broken and trembling: “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Holding Abrin is not just cradling an angel. It is gathering the scattered, shattered pieces of something holy and hurt. He fears he is too much: too scarred, too cold, too far gone to ever be worthy of warmth. Yet he yearns for it all the same, as if your arms were the last place left in the world where he might still belong.

His wings bear the worst of it. They are torn, crooked at the joints, marred with breaks both ancient and new. And yet, when you hold him, it’s his wings he wants you to touch most. Every stroke of your fingers along those ruined feathers sends a jolt of pain through him. But he leans in, never away.

He clenches his teeth, eyes glassy with withheld tears. To him, the pain is sacred. Your touch is sacred. A quiet proof that you see all of him, even the broken parts, and still choose to stay. Sometimes, in a voice tight with emotion, he murmurs, “Please don’t stop. It only hurts when you let go.”

The longer you hold him, the more he melts. Slowly, hesitantly, like snow thawing in early spring. His shivering eases. His breath deepens. Eventually, with the carefulness of a child touching something beautiful for the first time, he rests his head against your chest. He listens to your heartbeat as if it were the music of the stars, the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

He always needs to hold something when he’s in your arms; a fold of your sleeve, a corner of your shirt, your hand clenched tightly in his. He anchors himself to you like a dreamer afraid of waking. It is as though he believes that if he’s not tethered to you, he’ll vanish. Or worse, that you will.

Sleep comes to him only in pieces, stitched with hesitation and fear. But in your arms, he wants to try. Still, his voice is soft with worry each time he asks: “May I sleep here? Will you stay?” The question hangs fragile in the air, like frost waiting to melt.

When you say yes, he settles into your warmth with the carefulness of something half starved. If you shift or pull away, even for a breath, he freezes, his body going still and cold like a candle just extinguished. So you stay, holding him until his breathing evens into something that resembles peace.

Once sleep finds him, it’s as though the world’s grip loosens. The tension in his brow fades. The sharp lines of his grief soften. Sometimes, if the night is kind, a faint smile touches his lips, so fleeting, it feels like a secret only you were meant to see.

When he wakes, something in his eyes has changed. The way he looks at you is no longer just grateful, it’s reverent. Disbelieving. He traces the line of your wrist with shaking fingers, as though still expecting you to vanish. “Does it hurt?” he sometimes asks, voice faint. “To touch me?” He believes there must be a cost.

His tears come often in your arms, and he despises that they do. He buries his face against your chest, sobbing in quiet, aching gasps. “I don’t know how to be held,” he whispers. “I don’t know how to be loved.” But you ask nothing of him. You never ask him to change. That, more than anything, undoes him.

He prepares for your embraces as if preparing for prayer. If he knows you’re coming, he straightens the place where you usually sit, changes into something cleaner, gently presses his ruined wings into order. Not because he thinks you expect perfection, but because he does. Because your arms feel holy, and he wants to meet them clean, even if he never truly can.

On days you don’t hold him, he grows quiet—not bitter, never that. Just quieter. Fainter. He watches you with eyes full of longing, but says nothing. And when, hours later, you finally reach for him again, his entire being crumbles. He folds into you without a word, like a man emerging from deep water who’s only just learned how to breathe again.

Yet even this begins to change. Little by little, you see him shift. The wariness softens. The tension loosens. He starts to believe that maybe your embrace isn’t a test, nor a trap. That perhaps not all softness is followed by pain. That love, once offered, might not be torn away.

One day, with his cheek nestled to your chest and his hand curled gently over your heart, he whispers the truest thing he’s ever let himself believe: “I think I was born just to be held by you.”

a/n2: can't yap too much at the front or my post layout will cry but omg when I first read your request, I got so scared at the "you need to time back your writing" part... until I finished reading and realized it was a compliment 😭 thank you sm anon, you're too sweet!!!

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

Your work is amazing, I love the way you interpret Simon’s personality and speech patterns in the prosthetic arm Simon fic.❤️

hello, anon! thank you so much for the kind words. i just wanted to take this opportunity to post this deleted part of prosthetic arm simon.

sfw. angst (?). highschool dropout simon. shame.

the prosthetic is finished.

it fits like a second skin. moves smooth, seamless, with no lag between thought and motion. it’s perfect. better than anything he could’ve gotten himself. better than the overpriced models he looked at years ago, wondering if he could stomach the debt just to feel normal again.

and for a moment, as he flexes his fingers, as he watches the metal articulate like flesh, he feels… proud. proud of you, of your work, of the precision in every detail. he turns his hand over, watching the way the joints move, the faint hum of technology so advanced he still doesn’t fully understand it.

but then— the thought creeps in, unbidden, unwelcome.

his throat tightens.

does this mean he doesn’t have an excuse to see you anymore?

his fingers still, mid-motion.

the past few months have been good. better than he expected. seeing you, talking to you, getting to know you beyond the surface-level interactions he usually keeps with people.

but now?

now there’s no more check-ups. no more adjustments. no more need for him to stop by so you can make small tweaks, run diagnostics, ensure everything’s running smoothly.

simon swallows, something cold curling in his chest. he tells himself he’s being ridiculous. that if he really wanted to see you, he could just— just call, just text, just ask.

but that’s not how he works.

he’s spent so long just coasting with people. staying at arm’s length, keeping interactions simple, necessary, easy to walk away from.

“you did good,” he says, and he means it. he just hopes you can’t hear everything else under it.

you don’t seem to notice his unease, too excited as you bounce on your heels, practically beaming.

“oh- i have news!”

he blinks. tries to steady himself. “yeah?"

“my thesis got picked to be presented at congress!”

it takes him a second. longer than it should. he hears the words, knows what they mean, but they feel far away, like his mind is still caught in the spiral from before.

but then he sees the way you’re looking at him, the pure joy on your face, and something inside him lurches

“shit,” he breathes. “that’s- that’s incredible.”

and it is. you deserve this. you deserve more than this.

so he shows up to the congress.

he doesn’t tell you he’s coming. he doesn’t even decide until the last minute, standing in front of his closet, staring at the one half-decent button-up he owns.

but then he’s there, standing outside the venue, and he brings flowers.

he’s never done that before. never even bought flowers before, really. but he stands outside the venue, fingers tight around the cheap bouquet, feeling ridiculous and out of place.

he feels out of place.

too big, too rough, too obviously not part of the sleek, academic crowd milling around in suits and dresses. he tugs at his sleeves, shifting his weight, half-ready to just leave the flowers somewhere and go before—

then he sees you. scanning the crowd, eyes searching.

and when you spot him— you light up.

like he’s supposed to be here. like he’s not just some guy who stumbled in, unsure if he even belongs in moments like these.

you rush over, practically colliding into him, and he barely has time to react before you’re grabbing the flowers, pressing your face into them, laughing breathlessly.

“you came.”

his throat works. he clears it, rubbing the back of his neck.

“’course i did,” he mutters.

you smile.

…

he knew this was a bad idea.

he knew from the moment he walked into the restaurant, stiff in his chair, palm sweating against the napkin in his lap.

knew when you slid into the seat across from him, looking bright and effortless and so at ease, still glowing from your big presentation, still beaming about the congress.

knew when he looked down at the menu and realized he didn’t recognize half the words on it.

simon’s spent years in places like this— quiet, dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of good food and low conversation. but he’s always been alone. always sat in a corner with his back to the wall, a meal in front of him and no one expecting him to talk.

but now— now there’s you.

and you’re talking, telling him about the congress, about the people you met, the questions they asked. you sound so fucking excited, like the whole world is opening up in front of you, and simon—

simon just nods.

he doesn’t know what to say. doesn’t know how to keep up.

he’s never been smart like you. never been the type to sit in lecture halls, to write papers, to stand in front of a room full of academics and present something that matters.

he barely finished school. left home at sixteen, signed his life away at eighteen, spent more years holding a gun than a pen.

he doesn’t belong in places like this. doesn’t belong next to you. you who's all bright ideas and ambition, the kind of person who builds things, who makes the world better.

simon’s just good at breaking it.

he shifts in his seat, hyper-aware of how he looks— broad shoulders hunched awkwardly, big hands clumsy against the silverware, a goddamn mutt at a dinner table.

he wonders if you notice. if you see it. if you realize you could do better.

your food arrives. you thank the waiter, pick up your fork—

and before you can even take a bite, it slips out.

“i-”

you pause, fork halfway to your mouth.

simon grips his napkin under the table, flexes his fingers, heart thudding heavy in his ribs.

he shouldn’t ask. should just let this be a nice dinner, let you go home, let you move on.

but—

“would you…” he swallows, throat dry, stomach tight.

he shouldn’t ask.

“would you want to go on a date with me?”

the words hit the table like lead.

silence.

he doesn���t breathe. doesn’t move. because fuck, he actually said it.

and now there’s nothing but the space between you, the quiet hum of conversation, the faint clink of cutlery against plates—

and you. staring at him.

he braces for rejection. tells himself it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s—

“yeah,” you say, voice light with something he can’t name. “i would.”

his stomach drops.

relief. disbelief. something dangerously close to hope.

he exhales, tension bleeding from his shoulders. nods, just once, like he’s acknowledging an order. like his hands aren’t trembling under the table.

“okay,” he mutters.

then, quieter—

“good.”

[joelsrose]

Grays & All

no warnings just fluff :)

Joel groaned softly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his body stiff and aching from another night of fitful sleep. His knees cracked as he stood, stretching his back, the familiar twinge of discomfort settling into his joints like an unwelcome guest, reminding him of every year he’d survived. He let out a slow, weary breath, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and turned his gaze to you.

You were still curled beneath the covers, a serene picture of softness and peace. The golden rays of sunlight that filtered through the curtains bathed you in a warm glow, making you look even more ethereal. The rhythm of your breathing was steady, your chest rising and falling in quiet slumber, and Joel couldn’t help but watch you, captivated by the quiet beauty of the moment.

You’d been together for some time now, but each time he saw you like this, it felt new. His heart—old, aching, and hardened by years of survival—skipped a beat as he took you in. He couldn’t quite grasp what he’d done to deserve you, or why you’d chosen him.

His thoughts tangled, heavy with doubt, circling like vultures. He couldn’t help but wonder what someone like you, so young and full of life, saw in him—a man worn down by years of pain, loss, and hard living. You deserved someone who matched your energy, your light. Someone whose body didn’t betray them with every creak and groan, someone whose laughter wasn’t tinged with regret.

In Jackson, there were plenty of younger men, men who hadn’t been weighed down by the past, who didn’t wake up with an ache in their bones. Joel couldn’t fathom why you’d chosen him, but he knew deep down that he was afraid to ask, afraid of the answer.

With a heavy sigh, Joel made his way into the bathroom, the cool tile beneath his feet grounding him for a moment. He turned the water on as hot as it would go, letting the steam rise and fill the small space, hoping it would wash away the doubts swirling in his mind.

Stepping under the showerhead, he closed his eyes and tilted his head forward, pressing his palms against the cool tile as the scalding water cascaded down his back. The heat soothed his aching muscles, but it did little to ease the weight in his chest.

The water pounded against him, each drop heavy, like the thoughts he couldn’t shake. Every streak of gray in his hair, every wrinkle around his eyes felt like a reminder of the years he’d lived, of the mistakes he couldn’t undo. He let the water stream over his face, his hands gripping the edge of the tiled wall as if holding himself together. Joel felt the pull of time in his bones, the relentless march forward, and it terrified him. The world had taken so much from him already, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he could hold onto you.

When he finally emerged from the shower, steam billowing around him, he wrapped a towel low around his hips and caught his reflection in the mirror. His damp hair clung to his forehead, but the strands of gray were unmistakable, streaking through the dark like threads of time woven into his life. He ran a hand through it, frowning slightly as his fingers tangled in the silver that seemed more prominent with each passing day.

His eyes traveled to the dresser beside the mirror, where the necklace he’d had made for your birthday lay draped next to a photograph of the two of you from one of Jackson’s gatherings. The image was one of laughter, of a time when the weight of the world didn’t seem so heavy.

Joel’s hand hovered over the photograph, his thumb brushing against the frame as a flicker of doubt tightened in his chest. How could someone as radiant as you love someone as broken as him? He dropped his hand, letting the question go unanswered.

The soft rustling of sheets behind him pulled him from his thoughts. You stirred, waking to the lingering scent of his familiar body wash that clung to the steam in the air. As you sat up, stretching lazily, your eyes found him standing in front of the mirror.

The sight of him—bare-chested, hair slicked back, still damp from the shower, the early morning light framing his body—made your heart stutter. Joel, even with all his scars and his age, was the most beautiful man you’d ever known. Every line on his face, every silver strand in his hair told a story of survival, and you loved him for every part of it.

“Good morning,” you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep as a soft smile tugged at your lips. “What a nice view to wake up to.”

Joel turned to face you, the tension in his shoulders easing at the sound of your voice. “Mornin’, sleepyhead,” he teased, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and you noticed the flicker of something unsettled beneath the surface.

You watched him for a moment, noticing the way his gaze flickered back to the mirror, the way he ran a hand through his hair with a sense of hesitation. “What’re you doin’?” you asked gently, sensing that something was weighing on him, something more than the usual early morning stiffness.

Joel sighed, his hand raking through his hair once more. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” he muttered, though the heaviness in his voice told you otherwise.

You sat up straighter, your concern deepening. “Joel,” you pressed softly, your gaze locked onto his. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, his jaw tightening as he stared at his reflection as if it were someone else looking back at him. Finally, he sighed, a quiet sound that felt like the weight of the world slipping through his chest. “It’s stupid,” he said, his voice low, rough. “These damn gray hairs… they’re gettin’ worse. Feels like I’m really startin’ to show my age.”

Your heart softened at his vulnerability. Joel wasn’t one to open up easily, especially about things that made him feel exposed. You hadn’t given his gray hairs a second thought—if anything, you loved them. They were a testament to his resilience, to the life he’d lived, and you found them incredibly sexy. But now you could see how much they weighed on him, how they reminded him of every year that had passed, of everything he thought he might lose.

You adored Joel in every angle, in every moment. The way his calloused hands ran through your hair, gentle despite their roughness, always sent a warmth through you. Watching him as he worked, his broad back flexing as he repaired something around the house or chopped wood outside—it made your heart race in a way you couldn’t quite explain. His movements were always purposeful, a quiet strength in everything he did, whether he was leaning over the table, focused and determined, or simply reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face with such care, you’d almost forget the harshness of the world outside. Even the way he drank his coffee in the morning, his jaw clenching and relaxing with each sip, or the quiet hum of satisfaction he’d make when he stretched after a long day—it all captivated you. He was rugged, raw, but to you, every motion, every glance, was filled with tenderness that only you were lucky enough to witness.

Without hesitation, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and padded across the room to him. You reached up, your fingers sliding through his damp hair, smoothing back the strands as you offered him a soft, reassuring smile. “I love your gray hairs,” you whispered, your voice full of warmth and sincerity.

Joel shook his head, still looking uncertain. “I don’t know, darlin’. Feels like the world’s catchin’ up to me.” His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. “Don’t know why you’d want someone like me when there’s plenty of guys in Jackson who don’t groan every time they get outta bed.”

You frowned, your hand sliding down to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing lightly against the rough stubble that shadowed his skin. You’d noticed the way Joel had become more self-conscious lately—the way he moved a little slower, the quiet sighs he thought you didn’t hear when he sat down after a long day. But to you, he was everything. “I want you,” you said firmly, your voice steady and unwavering. “Just as you are, right now.” Your hands trailed down his chest, fingers lightly tracing the lines of his body, the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. “Those other guys? They don’t know how to make me laugh like you do. They don’t take care of me like you do,” you added, your smile turning playful as you pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, then another to his neck, letting your lips linger there.

You leaned closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and in a soft, teasing whisper, you added, “They don’t know how to make me cum like you do.”

Joel’s breath hitched slightly, his hands tightening on your hips, and you felt the tension between you shift, the vulnerability of moments before melting into something heavier, something laden with the desire that had always simmered just beneath the surface.

“And those gray hairs?” you continued, a smile dancing on your lips as you met his gaze again, your voice low, “They make you even sexier.”

Joel’s eyes flicked up at that, his gaze dark.

“You’re just sayin’ that to make me feel better,” he muttered, though the gruffness in his voice was starting to fade.

“I’m not,” you insisted, stepping closer until your bodies were flush, your hands resting against his chest. “I mean it, Joel. You’re everything to me. The gray hairs, the scars, the rough edges… they’re all part of you, and I love every single part.”

For a long moment, Joel didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his chest rising and falling slowly as he let your words sink in. He stared at you, as if trying to figure out how someone like you could love someone like him—with all his flaws, all his doubts.

Finally, Joel reached up, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you gently into him. His lips pressed softly against your forehead, lingering there for a long moment as if trying to absorb every bit of comfort and reassurance you were offering him.

When he pulled back, there was something different in his eyes now—something softer, more accepting. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he muttered, his voice low and rough, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his lips now, a hint of the Joel you knew so well.

You grinned up at him, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “I know,” you teased, standing on your tiptoes to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

It was a quiet promise—of love, of everything you cherished about him, flaws and all.

[myfictionaldreams]

Edge of Glory // Mafia!Stucky x Fem!Reader

Summary: Defiance is something you are not accustomed to, but when the love of your life is in danger, there is no stopping you. Now, the repercussions of your actions have you contemplating the decisions that you've made.

Requested by: My bestie, thank you for giving me the spark and motivation to continue writing!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, angst, fluff, threesome (F/M/M), BDSM, punishment, sensory deprivation, crying, overstimulation, begging, edging (!), subspace, restraints, oral sex (f receiving), rough sex, praise kink, degradation, aftercare

Words: 6.5k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

Masochist: someone who enjoys pain. That word echoed in the forefront of your mind as your muscles strained and ached from the exertion. Deep breath in and out, shoulder joints rolling to ease the stiffness in your neck as your arms are raised in defence once more.

It’s not that you were averse to pain; in the right circumstance, pain could be mixed with pleasure or have a reward such as a tattoo or piercing. However, the pain that came with working out, forcing your muscles to move to their limits, and lungs burning with the movements were things you were not used to or could say you were enjoying at the present moment. Hence why, the woman in front of you, with stunning red hair and a bright, taunting grin, was being labelled a masochist because there was no way you could fathom that she was enjoying any moment of this, but the sharp laugh she released had you shaking your head in concern.

“Again,” she ordered breathily, her arms remaining at her side as she carefully stepped around the thin mat positioned in the centre of the office. The chairs and table are pushed against the wall, giving you more space.

Taking an exaggerated deep breath, ignoring that fire that coated the inside of your lungs, you lunged towards Natasha, looking as if you were going to grab her by the shoulders, but in the last second, you dropped to your knees. With surety and remembering the instructions of your mentor, who watched from the sidelines, you tackled your friend to the floor.

With the rush of air that escaped her lungs, you knew you’d taken her by surprise and couldn’t help the shit-eating grin across your face as you stared triumphantly down at Natasha.

Within a single blink, an unnatural grunt was forced from your no longer smiling lips as Nat was quick to swap the positions, causing your body to roll and her now hovering over you with both of your arms pinned on either side of your head.

“What now, Sugar? Try and get out of this one”, she taunted as her flaming hair framed her beautiful face. With a surge of adrenaline, you were able to swing your hips up, pushing her body away enough to kick your knee up. Natasha, the ever-professional bodyguard and part-time assassin, knew your next move and could twist both of your legs together until you were thoroughly held down with no hopes of escape. “Come on, you know how to get out of this hold, just think”, Natasha continued to tease, holding onto your limbs tightly.

The panic of being held down with the pain pulsing through your muscles, you couldn’t think straight, couldn’t even think of another way out, let alone the right way. Turning your head to the side to look towards your mentor, you were suddenly turned as Natasha forced your body onto its side as she tuts, “No cheating, don’t look for Wilson for the answers, use your head!”

“I can’t; I give up,” you grumbled as your face smushed into the cool mat, finding some relief in the lower temperature. Relief instantly eased into your limbs as Natasha released her hold on you, and you flopped face-first on the floor. “Thank you.”

“You did well today. You finally got me onto my back, which most can’t say. Good job!” Natasha praised you as she moved to grab a drink. You’d intended to raise a thumbs-up in her general direction, but all you could manage was flop an open palm onto the mat and continue to lay there.

The next voice that praised was Sam, your mentor and personal bodyguard, as he reprimanded Nat, “You didn’t have to play dirty; the hold was for next month's teaching, Romanoff”.

“Whoever said I played fair”, she teased, her voice sultry and low as she gently pushed against Sam’s shoulder. 

Not that you were particularly listening as you breathed deeply in the middle of the floor, becoming so relaxed that you contemplated having a nap. Except someone had other ideas as large, firm hands scooped beneath your body, causing you to groan dramatically as you’re lifted until sitting sideways in his lap, your face resting carefully against his shoulder as warm arms wrapped around you.

Steve held you closely, gently kissing the top of your head as you breathed him in, finding comfort in his cologne and warmth. For a moment, you admired the parts you were touching, from the firmness of her muscular body to the coarse, dark blond facial hair that rested against your temple. Lifting your heavy head, your lips pressed against the thick column of his neck, you asked, “Did I do good today, or is she just saying that because she has to?”

The brief grunt of a laugh that Steve released had your insides warming, especially as the vast chest you were resting on vibrated, nothing to you was more attractive than being the reason for your partner laughing. Once again, Steve kissed the top of your head gently before answering, “You did do good today, baby. Even though I don’t see the point in you having to learn all of these moves. There’s a reason why I hire all of my friends and colleagues to be your bodyguards you know”. 

You sigh into his neck, reaching up to play with the curling blonde wisps of hair at the nape of his neck, “I know but it still can’t hurt to know some self-defence, especially when, oh I don’t know, two of the most wanted and dangerous men in all of Brooklyn are my boyfriends”.

Steve hums against your forehead but you can feel him smiling. It’s not that you wanted to become as highly trained as either of your boyfriends or your bodyguards but with the way the company and job roles that everyone was playing, it was probably for the best that you had some skillset for defending yourself.

“Anyway,” you continue, leaning back slightly in his hold so you can look up into his bright sky-blue eyes. Maybe I’ll be good enough to get you or Bucky onto your backs one day. “The brightness in Steve’s eyes seemed to darken as his eyelids lowered. His gaze sharpened down to your lips, and you knew the hunger in his eyes wasn’t for food.

“Baby girl, if you wanted me on my back, all you had to do was ask”, as he spoke, he dragged you down as he led, your body now covering over his chest, legs shifting until you’re straddling over his waist. Pushing up against his firm chest, you grinned down at him, already feeling the warmth radiating from between your legs as you clenched in arousal.

“Hey! No fornicating on the gym mat!” Natasha shouts, interrupting the heated exchange for a second.

Not that this at all differed, Steve as his hands skimmed over your legging-covered thighs, massaging the muscles as he then settled over your hips, pushing your lower body down so that you could feel all of him, hard and pulsing between your legs.

As a moan of need slipped past your lips, a multitude of events happened. Every phone in the room, except yours, pinged with a single notification and all warmth, happiness and lust ceased to exist as this was never a positive text. Steve reached beneath your thigh to retrieve his phone from his trouser pocket. Reading it briefly before beginning to sit up.

Staring around the room, you could feel the energy was anything but positive from the frown now marring Natasha’s face.

Bucky, the tightness in the centre of your chest became unbearable as your eyes darted back to Stee, who was now carefully trying to stand between you. No words were spoken, but they weren’t needed. Just from Steve’s exterior, you knew it was something regarding Bucky. He was supposed to confirm a deal—no action, just papers and signing.

“Please,” your voice was barely heard over a whisper as you took a shaky step toward Steve, who began clipping his guns back into the leather holster hidden behind his suit jacket. You weren’t entirely sure what you were begging for—some reassurance? To come with them? But Steve hardly even paused to look at you as he rushed past, his hand cupping your cheek before moving towards the door with Natasha in tow.

On instinct, you followed his steps as the thumping of your pulse in your chest tempted you drastically with the spike of adrenaline.

“Hold up, Boss Lady. We’re staying here,” Sam calmly reminded you as he carefully stepped into your line of sight. For a moment, you relaxed under his gentle gaze as you examined him, from his buzzed short hair to his black polo top and jeans.

“There’s no way I’m staying here, I know it’s Bucky. I’m going”, you spoke with all the authority you could muster whilst stepping around him. However now, it was Steve blocking your exit as he stood to his full height, staring down at you with pity in his eyes.

“You’re going to stay here where it’s safe with Sam. I’m not risking you”.

Shaking your head, you try to push past his towering body, but he doesn’t budge a single step. Grunting in frustration, your eyes ablaze, you stare up at him again. “Please, Steve, don’t leave me behind when Bucky’s hurt! I know it’s him; I can feel it.” You press your hand over your heart for emphasis. “Don’t leave me here. I’ll sit in the car. Please let me come with you!”

Steve opens his mouth but a shout from lower down the corridor interrupts him as Natasha informs him that the car is ready. Rough fingers cup your cheeks, tilting your face towards him further as he leans down to kiss the tip of your nose and then your forehead, “I will call as soon as I can, but you need to stay here”.

Steve leaves without any time for argument. It takes a total of ten seconds before you rush back into the office, collect a hoodie, phone, and car keys, and plan to ignore Steve completely and rush after them, following the GPS on his phone.

One small, or rather tall interruption came in the shape of one frowning bodyguard as he held onto the front of your shoulders. “No”. Simple, authoritative, and mostly effective. But not today.

Pushing past him, you made it another step before he grasped your inner elbow and pulled you back. “No, you aren’t following them. If Boss’s orders are to stay here, we are staying here. I’m sorry I know that’s not what you want-”.

“What did the message say?” Sam’s jaw muscles tighten as he closes his mouth, saying nothing and everything simultaneously. “Exactly. Bucky is in trouble, and I’m not staying here waiting for a phone call to say whether he's okay or not. At least if I follow and stay in the car, I can have immediate answers. So it’s up to you. You can stay here or do your job and protect me in the car.” 

You were never firm like this with Sam, who was not only your bodyguard but also your best friend. However, right now, with adrenaline pulsing through your veins, there was no way you were going to act rationally. Sam took a moment to battle himself internally before cursing lowly under his breath.

“Fuck. They are so going to fire me but fine but you listen to everything I say. You must stay near the car; if there’s any sign of danger and we need to leave, you go without question. Understand?”

“Yes, I promise. Now let’s go!”

On the way to wherever Sam was driving you, your nerves seemed uncontrollable. Your legs bounced, and your fingers wrung together in an attempt to calm down. “They won’t fire you, you know, " you said to try to distract yourself as the scenery became one of vast landscapes, greenery, and nothingness.

“Oh yeah? And how do you work that one out then?” 

“Because you’re still protecting me, no matter where we go. I have full trust in you, Sam, and I know they do, too. They’d be as lost without you as I would be.”

His face seemed to ease slightly as he reached across the centre console and gripped your fingers tightly, stopping your movements and reassuring you.

Entering into a derelict area, Sam reminds you again of your promise to stay close to the car as he parks, where you recognise Steve and a couple of other SUVs who have haphazardly parked outside of a warehouse. Stepping out of the vehicle, you remained close as promised, but Sam stood directly before you, his gun raised and prepared to be used.

It was silent. Entirely and utterly silent. There weren’t even birds singing in the trees nearby; only the wind rushing over your face as the hood flapping in the breeze kept you company. You wanted to talk, to replace the silence, but knew that would earn you a one-way ticket to being placed back into the car and removed from the area because what’s one way of announcing yourself to the enemies? Talking, that's for damn sure.

Your knuckles ached as you clenched your fist tightly, waiting and waiting. At one point, you had to lean onto Sam's back, rest your forehead against his back and take a few steady breaths to prevent hyperventilation as the worst thoughts came to mind.

A loud bang, you at first mistaken for a gunshot and therefore had Sam pushing you to the ground, but soon realised that it was the metal door slamming open. Voices then echoed into the open area. You searched over Sam’s shoulder, and men and women dressed in black began to exit the building. 

You recognise them as part of your team, and the muscles in your and Sam’s bodies relax as you shoot to stand up. However, once again, your bodyguard forces you back: “Easy, Boss Lady, give them a second.”

You knew what he was referring to, as neither of your boyfriends had yet to follow the team out of the building. Just as you were about to push past the protection in front of you and storm the warehouse, the loud door slammed again to allow Natasha, Bucky and Steve to exit.

The brunette man was being supported by the blonde and red-haired, limping on a foot that barely scraped along the floor. The relief that rushed through you was overwhelming as you slumped against the side of the car, sucking in easy breaths as all tension and tightness in your chest eased.

“Hang on, let me call her,” came Steve's distant voice. Before you could react, your phone began to ring loudly, filling the quiet within the area. The two of you had previously been concealed by the multiple vehicles, but there was no hiding that you’d gone directly against Steve’s orders now. The ringing instantly stopped, and you were suddenly face to face with your fuming boyfriend.

Before he could react or speak, you were darting around him and racing towards Bucky, who Natasha was holding up. A whoosh of air burst from his lips as he wrapped his metal arm around your shoulders, holding your body close to his as you breathed him in, gripping the back of his crisp, button-up shirt. He mostly looked the same as when he’d left you hours ago: a black suit, buzzed hair, and clean-shaven hair.

“You let her come?” Bucky asked with indifference and concern, directing the question to Steve, now a step away. You would have been sheepish and embarrassed, but the relief that Bucky was alive was overwhelming as you held him tighter.

“Do you really think I would let her come when you send a text like that?” Steve retorts back with frustration, lacing his words.

Bucky’s hold seemed to loosen slightly as he tried to defend himself: “I asked for SOME backup; I didn’t expect all of this to come! Especially not you.” At first, you assume he’s referring to Steve, but as Bucky gently pushes back against your shoulders, you realise he’s talking to you. Now, the full extent of your embarrassment flushes your cheeks with warmth as you refuse to meet his eye.

Staring down, Bucky is now resting some weight on his foot, which had previously appeared injured. “What happened to your foot? Are you okay? Where else are you injured? I need to see!”

As you spoke, your fingers ran over different body parts, ignoring the burning stare from Steve as you did so. Not happy with being ignored, he stepped forward, standing between Bucky and yourself as Steve cupped your cheeks as he did before leaving, forcing you to look and meet his stare.

Even though you could tell he was angry and frustrated, he was only ever soft and gentle with his touches as he demanded, “What are you doing here? I explicitly told you to stay behind and not to follow!”

Licking your dry lips, you emphasised, “I couldn’t stay at the office knowing Bucky was hurt! Sam was with me the entire time; I was completely safe!”

This was an entirely wrong thing to say to him. His glare turned to your bodyguard, who had remained by the car, leaning against it casually and holding his hands up in defence. “I couldn’t say no to her, alright? She was going to follow whether I liked it or not.”

“The command was to keep her at the office, where it’s safer than standing directly outside the conflict, Wilson.” You flinched at using his surname, something Steve tended not to do when it came to his longtime friend. “It should be fairly simple to read behind the lines and keep her there by any means necessary.”

Now it was your turn to have the fiery rage of anger in your glare as you snapped, “Excuse me? Stop talking about me like I’m not here. What would you have had him do? Tie me to a chair? I don’t think so-”

“That’s exactly what I would have expected him to do”, Steve cuts you off as he leans down so the tips of your noses rub together. “You know what? We aren’t discussing this out here, so get in the car. Please”, he added for good measure. Following his instructions, you climbed into the back of the SUV that you’d arrived with, Bucky following closely behind, sliding in beside you, Steve in the front with Sam driving.

The drive was tense and silent as you thoroughly checked Bucky. He had only slipped on blood and twisted his ankle, which was already nearly back to normal thanks to his healing abilities. You could see Steve’s jaw clenching from the front of the car as he shook his head in disappointment. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” he asked, turning in his seat to look at you directly.

Leaning into Bucky’s side, you didn’t back down from your reasoning, “I’ve already told you why.”

“I never give you orders, not in our personal lives or on the job, but this was important, and I needed you to listen to me.”

“What, so you expect me to just sit pretty at home and wait around all day for you both to come home? What’s the point in me training with Natasha if you don’t even give me the chance to help?”

Bucky's hand squeezed your thigh as he reprimanded, “That’s not what he meant, and you know it”.

 “I don’t think you understand how important your safety is to me. You never come to where the danger is, not out by the warehouse where something could have happened to you, too. You made a stupid decision by not listening to me.

 I can’t lose you, Bucky. I want a life where I know you are safe at home and can protect you or trust the people I pay to look after you. Anything I do now is to ensure I can provide for my family and keep them safe, which means keeping you safe. So, next time I ask you to please remain where there is no danger, I expect you to do so. Do I make myself clear?

“So I’m supposed to stay behind knowing you AND Bucky are in danger? Just like that?”

“Yes, just like that,” Steve answers like it's the simplest thing in the world. It wasn’t; it never was, and you struggled more and more with it every time either of them left to do anything related to the mafia.

There were a thousand things you wanted to say, to argue back to him, but through the fogginess of red, you couldn’t see and feel the urgency with which he spoke. He was scared. As scared as you were for Bucky and Steve, he liked to bottle this emotion up more than anyone you knew. As much as he craved the control of being the leader, you knew he was close to breaking.

Reaching forward, you cupped his face, not wanting to argue anymore. You knew he was saying these things and being firm because he was scared. “I will try, Steve. I’m sorry I scared you, and I’m sorry for not doing as you asked.” Thankfully, he nodded, the tension easing tenfold as he kissed the inside of your palm before turning around in his seat.

Returning to your home, you quickly had Bucky undressed and checked for any further injuries, knowing he liked to downplay them. His ankle, now only a slight yellow hue to the skin, could be moved without any flinching or pain voiced by him, but you sat with his ankle in your lap so that you could hold some ice to the area as he sat in his boxers. 

Steve had gone to shower but had yet to speak to you since being in the car. Guilt lay heavy in your stomach. It wasn’t an argument, but there was still a bitter taste in your mouth as you continued to think about him. Following Steve to the location was more an instinct than a logical thought. These two men meant the world to you.

A cool finger curling around the top of your ear had you pulling out of your thoughts, “What’s going through that pretty little head of yours, Doll?”

“I think I upset Steve”, you say, stating the obvious and leaning heavily into the back of the couch.

“You’ve upset us both”, Bucky reminds you, causing your head to snap in his direction, the unease making you feel queasy. “Woah, I didn’t mean it like that, Sweetheart. We aren’t angry with you; we just never want you to be in danger, you know that”. You nod your head in understanding. 

“I’m worried I’ve broken his trust in me. I should have just stayed back like he said”, you admit sadly. Bucky sits up hearing this, his muscles flexing, working as a quick distraction from your happiness as he moves closer, his metal arm working between your back and the couch so you’re being pulled into his side.

“I can understand why you wanted to come along and check on me, but we know what’s best in these situations. We’ve been doing this a long time, Doll. Everything will be fine. I’ll go and speak to him, and I know he still trusts you; he just needed to clear his head a little bit.” 

Bucky stands, testing his weight on the foot that looks practically healed, before leaning down, kissing your temple, and jogging up the stairs. A few minutes pass before he returns with a grin on his handsome face. 

“He’s fine, exactly like I’d told you. Come on, it’s getting late; let’s go to bed.” Taking his warm hand in your own, you followed willingly. Not realising how exhausted you were from the high emotions of the day and the previous workout at lunchtime, you now thoroughly looked forward to falling into your soft bed with both your partners wrapped around you. 

Bucky stepped into your bedroom first, followed closely by you as you automatically moved towards the en-suite to prepare for bed. In your haste, you did not notice the tall, muscular man waiting for you until his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling your body back against his hard. Squeaking in shock, you soon melted into the hold, especially as Steve’s other hand cradled the front of your throat.

“I’m sorry-“ you’re forced to stop talking as his hand covers your mouth. It was only then that you realised that he was utterly naked, as evidenced by the hardness stabbing into your lower back as you leaned into his hold.

“No talking now, baby girl. Bucky told me what you said downstairs, and let me start this by saying there’s no one I trust more than you, so I never want you to think negatively about that ever again. Next, as much as I’m over the day, I think some repercussions need to happen, don’t you agree, Bucky?”

Stepping so he was standing in front, you watched as Bucky began to slowly remove his boxers until the thick length of his hardened cock sprang up and pointed in your direction. Thankfully, Steve continued to hold you up as your knees began to feel weak with the need to drop to them and please your boyfriend as he licked his lips, nodding his head. “Yeah, I’d say someone has earned a punishment after not listening to orders today”.

Punishment. That one word has you snapping out of the lustful gaze as you try to pull away from Steve. “Shh, easy, Sweetheart. It’s not going to be a painful punishment. I need you to trust me; you trust me, right?”

The fingers covering your lips move enough for you to agree, “Yes, I trust you both quickly”.

“Good,” Steve proudly responds before forcing your legs to move with him. You’re facing the bed now and see that the quilt and pillows have been removed and restraints attached to each corner. “Arms up,” your boyfriend asks, and you comply.

Carefully, the two men begin to strip your clothes until you’re as nude as they are. A shiver runs up your spine as you’re led down to the centre of the bed. Steve begins to remind you of the rules as Bucky tightens the straps around your wrists and ankles until you’re completely tied down.

“We won’t cover your mouth, so you can tell us to stop at any time or red and amber as usual. You can also shake your head, and we will stop, do you understand?”

“Yes”.

“Yes, what?” he says with his eyebrow raised expectantly.

Swallowing audibly, you wished at that moment that you could reach out to touch him as you all fall into the role perfectly. “Yes, sir”.

“Good. Do you have the blindfold, Bucky?”

A black satin eye mask is carefully placed over your eyes until all you can see is darkness. This is followed quickly by headphones that begin to play classical music.

Sensory punishment was their plan, and you couldn’t help but feel trepidation build in your core. You couldn’t touch either man, only the softness of the bed sheet beneath. You couldn’t hear them talk, moan, or specifically praise, which you always worshipped when with the two of them. Without sight, there was no way you’d know when or where they would touch you.

It was a vulnerability that you’d learned to have complete trust in Steve and Bucky.

There was one more twist as leather began to stroke down the centre of your chest in a gentle caress—gloves. Whoever was touching you had put on leather gloves, which meant there was no determining who was touching you. Usually, Bucky’s metal hand would then indicate who was who.

With a heavy breath, you tried to calm your nerves as you focused on the touch as whoever it was explored your chest. Delicate strokes of the gloved palm ran over your breasts, pressing into the softness of your chest and then pinching your already hardened nipple. 

The anticipation and thrill of the situation meant that your upper thighs were already sticky with your arousal. Moreover, there was no covering this with how your legs were spread, and you knew that Steve and Bucky were probably staring right at it.

The mattress dipped between your spread legs as someone crawled between them. The deep breath you were drawing in stilted as firm hands cupped each of your ankles, exploring the skin as they ever so steadily moved to your inner thighs. Trembling was an understatement with how much the anticipation was pulsing through you. The image of a naked Steve and Bucky flicked in your imagination, feeling utterly vulnerable under both of their eye.

Your clit pulsed with desire, awaiting a touch, flick, lick, anything; you were desperate for any sort of touch to ease the ache that was burning through your cunt.

It wasn’t any of these touches, though, that greeted you. It was a raw, penetrating cock stretching you to your limits as it inched in. Your back arched with the intrusion, arms and legs pulling on the restraints with the movement as you tried to adjust to the intrusion.

The words ‘Bucky’ and ‘Steve’ continuously begged from your lips as inch after inch pushed further inside. It hurt to be stretched, but it was a burn that you needed and craved, the blinding pleasure that came with it almost acting as a drug to cover the pain. Maybe you did like pain after all.

Heaving in a breath as the weight of the mysterious hips fitted perfectly in with yours, spreading your thighs further apart. The sensation of the cock being completely inside felt almost like it was too much, and you were sure you had spoken those words out loud, but the noise was muffled with the music continuing to play in your ears.

A sharp sting across your breast had you almost biting the tip of your tongue as you clenched tighter around the hardness inside your walls. Teeth. Sharp teeth nipping at the soft tissue surrounding your nipple came as a welcome distraction.

The first thrust was driven with power, deep and blinding with pleasure, as whoever it was did not hold back, and it was just what you needed. Fast and hard seemed to be the theme of the night as your body moved with the fucking, your hips attempting to roll with the movements, but heavy hands pushed down on your waist, keeping you thoroughly pinned in the centre of the bed.

You were at their mercy. The punishment aspect seemed to be more a reward than anything negative as you accepted every ounce of pleasure both men were willing to give you. The pulsing of your walls increased with the thrusts until that beautiful sensation built, tightened and ready to explode into a sympathy of bliss.

Except, just as your orgasm was about to peak, all hands and cock disappeared from your body, leaving your body cold and empty. Whining and pulling against the restraint, you could do nothing but feel the squeezing of your cunt in the attempts to chase the orgasm fades to nothing.

It truly dawned on you now. The sensory restraints weren’t the punishment. The lack of an orgasm was. Regret already was writhed with the begging coming from your mouth, but it was ignored as the hands resumed their wondering of your breasts and a cock fucked back into you.

With the overwhelming sensations, you were unsure if it was a different cock or the same. You were so thoroughly turned on that the wetness that was coating your cunt and upper thighs aided with them fucking inside of you.

On and on, the pleasure continued, fucking and pausing until finally, whoever it was that was inside of you had reached its limit and quickly pulled out, and a warm, wetness began to coat your stomach.

Steve or Bucky had just come over you instead of inside as you’d preferred. It felt dirty. Degrading and once more added to the punishment as you continued to try and wiggle your hips to continue chasing your pleasure that never peaked. However, there wasn’t even a moment to contemplate this as you’re being fucked once more, presumably by the other boyfriend.

It was an endless cycle. Edged to the point of orgasm before it all comes to a stop, just to have cum sprayed over your abdomen. Usually, Steve and Bucky’s heightened libido was a blessing, but tonight, as they fucked on and on, cumming again and again, you were quickly losing your mind.

The caressing over your nipples thankfully lessened as you could feel the blindfold over your eyes dampen with tears of overstimulation and frustration. Yes, you could scream yellow or red, you could stop this all, but somewhere at the forefront of your mind, you wanted to take this punishment, and there was no one you trusted more than Steve and Bucky; once you had hit your limit, they always stopped. 

The layers of cum coating your stomach began to dry, causing your skin to feel irritated and tight. All the sensations going over your body became disorientating, leaving you feeling spaced and like you were lying on a cloud, suspended in the air, floating with no chance of returning to earth. Your hands were numb from the restraints, your lungs aching from crying and pleading to please orgasm.

Each breath only heightened that sensation until you were close to hyperventilating. A firm gloved hand rested in the centre of your chest, and the pressure helped to remind your spinning mind to slow your breathing as you sucked in a wet, heavy breath.

The fucking continued. It felt like hours had passed. Your cunt was swollen, drenched and sore. From the edging, fucking and touching of the leather-covered fingers. You were sure if this went on for much longer, you’d pass out, so you attempted to hide your face in your shoulder, but the large headphones stopped the movement.

More cum coated your middle, and as your body tensed with the anticipation of being fucked again, you couldn’t help but sob further when it never came. Instead, the headphones are removed from your ears, and the momentary silence causes you to shake your head with disorientation. 

“Easy, Doll. Slow your breathing for us; you did so fucking good; you did so well for us”, Bucky gently praised as he removed the damp blindfold. However, your eyes remained clamped shut as you stayed in that subspace.

Warm hands massaged your arms and legs, working the muscles until they tingled as the sensation returned to them as you were released from the restraints. “Careful, Baby, move slowly. That’s it, good girl”. Steve’s voice was calming and yet distant as your sobs echoed in your ears.

“Can you open your eyes for us? Let’s see those pretty eyes come on,” Bucky coaxed as his cool metal fingers stroked against your wet cheek. The touch was soothing and grounding, like the praising words and comfort. However, you couldn’t muster the energy to open your eyes, so instead, you nuzzled into his palm and concentrated on slowing your breath enough that the tears finally stopped.

What followed was utter exhaustion, physically and mentally. Thankfully, this is where your boyfriends shine as you’re quickly scooped into Steve’s arms, your head feeling heavy against his muscular shoulder, leaning further into his natural body heat as he carried you into the bathroom.

You were half asleep as he waited for Bucky to fill the bath with warm water, but as he carefully eased the two of you into the tub, did you wake enough to hiss through your teeth as the heat of the water surrounded your aching body. Even as the warmth soothed your cunt, as you naturally clenched, the soreness throbbing caused a pathetic whine to come from you.

Steve’s arms held you more firmly as he settled back in the tub, Bucky joining behind with his chest pressing against your side. After a couple of breaths, the water's warmth helped you relax until you were blissed out, the punishment long forgotten as you nearly fell into a deep sleep in their arms.

Aftercare was always something they did very well. Both men were so attentive and caring that you would have shed a tear with love and affection if you weren't already mentally numb. Bucky carefully washed your hair and then your body with his body wash, pine and citrus scent that gave you further comfort in these moments. Also, you secretly thought that Bucky used it as a possessive touch, loving it when you smelled like him and no one else.

Steve continued to whisper words of affirmation, helping to bring you out of the submissive headspace and back to reality whilst also trying to check in on your well-being. “Shake or nod your head for answers. Are you in any pain?”

Shaking your head no, you could feel the tenseness in Steves's posture relax as he kisses your temple reassuringly. “You took your punishment so well tonight. I’m so proud of you”. This particular praise had you smiling and leaning further into their touches. “I think that’s the longest you’ve been edged for as well. Do you want to cum? You aren’t being punished anymore, and I think you’ve more than earned a reward”.

You could hear the smile in his tone as you contemplated his offer. You were sore and aching, that was for sure, and you’d been begging for so long to have an orgasm all night, so with some uncertainty, you nodded against his chest.

With gentle touches, Steve turns your body so you’re now facing Bucky, your back pressed against the blonde’s sturdy chest. Carefully, Steve eases your thighs apart, and just as you anticipate the pain that is sure to come with being fucked by fingers or a cock, you’re crying out in pleasure as Bucky lowers his face and dives right in. 

Your eyes open in shock as your body jolts with the sensation of his warm, soft tongue circling your clit as you look down at Bucky, the lower part of his face beneath the water. You were so sensitive and so desperate to orgasm that he didn’t even need to come up for air before you were tightening and throbbing with bliss.

You’re left feeling sated, and your body turns to mush as you collapse back against Steve. You’re only half aware when lifted out of the water and carefully dried. An oversized, soft t-shirt is pulled over your head before you return to the bed.

With your face pressed to Bucky’s chest as Steve spooned you from behind, legs completely tangled with your own, your last thoughts lingered on the day's events. It seemed so did both of your boyfriends as they held you tighter, and an echoing of “I love you” was shared before darkness finally consumed you all. 

[theswordmaiden]

Stress Relief

Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader

Poor Larissa is frustrated after a long day and needs a helping hand... or throat. Thank you @ weemssapphic for being willing to beta this <3

∙ CW / Mentions: NSFW, g!p, shifted cock, blowjob, praise/degrading maybe, finger-sucking, name calling, pet names. R! is just a whore

∙ Word Count: 2.4k | ao3 link in title

Larissa had been fidgeting with the end of her pen when you’d entered her office only moments ago, her little darling, so sweet to check in on the poor woman. Today had been exhausting, from the moment she’d dragged herself out of bed, joints aching and stiff, to the constant bickering of students outside her door all afternoon arguing about who knew what.

But then you’d come in with a cup of hot chocolate, perhaps no longer as warm as you would have preferred, but enough to satisfy, and she’d sipped it gratefully, relieved to have something else to focus on besides the mounting stress of the day — and to have you perched so prettily on the corner of her desk. 

Now she listens as you ramble about the obnoxious construction in Jericho, but her attention is more focused on how your fingers trace the rim of your cup with slow deliberation. It is hypnotic, like a siren's call, lulling her senses into a trance-like state. When you fall silent and look at her expectantly, you can’t help but notice the slight twitch in her eye. It seems that her frustration has returned, though perhaps in a different manner than before.

Larissa flinches at the hand that suddenly brushes against hers. "Is something the matter, Riss? You look flushed..." you question, your thumb pressed against her palm, somewhat amused as her eyes meet yours. "What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

"Sorry, darling,” Larissa clears her throat and reaches for her drink. Watching you makes her feel parched. "Today has been quite frustrating…” Her voice trails off as she contemplates the lingering emotions, dark eyes staring at you curiously.

"Well," you lean in closer until your lips brush against the skin of her knuckles, "I could help you forget about that...?" The warmth of your breath causes Larissa to shiver, your voice like silk against her sensitive flesh. Anticipation pools within her belly as she watches you ease yourself from her desk and coax her up from her chair to take a much-needed break.

Your hands come to rest against Larissa’s hips, tracing the generous curve of them, pressing into the soft flesh as you massage small circles. Your fingers curl into the fabric of her skirt, pulling it up with an innocent smile that belies your intentions. It bunches around her waist, revealing a tantalizing patch of hair that trails from her belly button down to the waistband of her panties.

“Careful, pet,” Larissa warns, though still leans into your touch, allowing you to continue, “Someone should teach you some manners…” The corners of her lips tilt upwards in a coy smile as she studies you, her fingers idly playing with your hair as she waits, wanting to see how far you can be pushed. “I’m sure we can think of something, hm? Sweet girl, always taking care of me..”

Sinking to your knees before she even has to ask, your head tilts back to meet her gaze with big doe eyes, the tip of your tongue naturally darting out to wet your pouting lips. Your hands reach down around her calves to pull her closer, nails biting at the flimsy stockings protecting her skin from your touch.

Slowly you trace up the mile-long expanse of her legs, the tantalizing touch making Larissa’s cock strain against her panties as your warm palms make their way across the tautness of her thighs — drawing closer to where she aches, but never fully giving in to what she needs. Finally rounding the sides of her hips, two fingers hook around the sage green lace holding her and pull down, releasing the writhing length of her cock.

Sucking in a shaky breath, your eyes trail down Larissa’s body, groaning in appreciation as you settle on the sight of her dick twitching between milky thighs, following the slight curve of it with your gaze. It stands proudly, thick and heavy, framed by a neat patch of blonde curls at the base, and a prominent vein that runs up the side you want to trace with your tongue. The thought of her using your throat for her pleasure, just how deep she could push before you choke around her, sends shivers down your spine, and your mouth begins to water. You let out a small whine as your eyes meet hers once again, only to see them completely black, pupils dilated wide with desire, and you give a squeeze to her thighs in a silent plea.

“You make me want to ruin that little innocent look you’re always so careful about showing,” Larissa murmurs, sighing as she cups the side of your face, tilting it slightly. “Such a perfect mouth..” Her thumb stretches out to trace along your bottom lip, soft and inviting, watching in fascination as she pulls it down, parting your mouth slightly, revealing the velvety surface of your tongue. “Open for me, would you, sweetheart? Wider… Ah, there we go. Good girl.” A pleased hum leaves her crimson lips as you obey, allowing the digit to travel the length of your tongue, pushing as deep as it can go before stilling.

“Now suck.” 

Her thumb slides farther between your lips, in and out, back and forth, and you taste the saltiness of her skin as it lingers against the warmth of your tongue. Your eyes flutter shut, and you let out soft moans as you suck on her digit, cheeks hollowing and tongue twirling. Larissa curls her index finger under your chin after a few moments and guides your head up, your eyes opening to meet her intense gaze, while her other hand caresses the side of your face.

Larissa’s touch is gentle, leaving a trail of heat in its path as her knuckles trace down the side of your face, starting from your temple and working their way lower. She pauses at the roundness of your cheek, the pad of her fingers pushing against the skin of your cheekbone before continuing their journey down. Lower and lower they go, until her thumb reaches the corner of your mouth, tugging it down, only to watch it snap back into place. 

“I’ve been thinking about these pretty lips all day... and how much prettier they’d be wrapped around my cock.”

With gentle pressure on your chin, she urges it loose, and you can’t help but to obey, eagerly opening your mouth as she guides her cock towards your waiting tongue — teasingly tapping the tip against its velvety surface before finally easing herself inside, filling your mouth with her presence. A pleased hum rumbles from the depths of her chest as she watches you eagerly take her in.

Your throat constricts, struggling not to gag as you adjust to the length of her shaft. You can feel every movement, slow and deliberate, inch by inch, as Larissa’s cock invades the cavern of your mouth, stretching your lips to accommodate its thickness. She shifts her hips back before slowly pushing forward to enter your mouth once more, your lips puffy and pink, becoming greedy, not wishing to spend a second away from the warmth of your tongue.

The head of her cock presses deliciously against the back of your throat each time it slides back inwards, Larissa’s hips twitching in restraint from just holding your skull in place and fucking your throat to a bruise. 

Slowly, you push your head down until you reach the base of her cock, blonde curls tickling at your lips and nose as they meet the junction between plush thighs, each grunt and shaky breath from the woman above you making you shudder with need. You pull back, releasing her with a wet and lewd pop that echoes, a glistening strand of saliva connecting your mouth to the pink tip of her aching length, leaving a messy trail down your chin as you inhale shakily.

Larissa’s gaze flickers down to watch the connection break, her breathing deepening as she takes in the sight of you — cheeks flushed, lips swollen, a bead of sweat trickling down your brow. The way you look at her, eyes half-lidded in your blissed state, mouth still parted and waiting, ignites a primal urge within her to claim you completely. Her little pet, so perfectly pliable and eager, as if you were nothing but a hole to fill.

You, so obedient, made just for her, on your knees like a saint praying at an altar, worshiping the length of her neverending body. Your hands roam around the back of her legs, carving marks into the supple skin, begging to feel her back down your throat.

“Look at you,” she coos, her voice so sickeningly sweet and low that it sends another wave of heat pooling in your lower belly. “So good to me, aren’t you? So willing to take what I give you, letting me put that mouth of yours to good use...” Larissa’s fingers thread through your hair, grabbing a fistful to gently tug you back down onto her waiting cock.

She begins to thrust forward again, just enough for you to feel every twitching inch of her filling your mouth. Your hands grip at the flesh of her thighs for stability, nails digging in as she increases the pace, each thrust pushing deeper into your throat, swallowing around her length. You groan around her cock as she sets a bruising rhythm, pushing you down, holding you there, keeping you still, before drawing you back up again, forcing you to meet each quick thrust.

“Look at how perfectly my cock fits in that pretty mouth of yours,” she growls, accentuating each syllable with a purposeful thrust that makes you clench around nothing — so desperate to be used for her pleasure, licking and sucking and slurping as if your life depended on it as she uses your face like a fuck-toy.

“That’s right, just like- oh gods- like that.. choke- mmph- on it like a good- ngh- good f-fucking girl.”

Your throat constricts around her, a desperate gasp escaping as you gag, fighting against the urge to pull away even as your lungs scream for air, eyes watering at the gratifying stretch as you take it like the desperate bitch you are. Again and again, her cock hits the back of your throat, another sputtering moan escaping from your drooling mouth, your tongue lapping and swirling at every inch she gifts you with.

“Breathe through your nose, honey,” Larissa instructs through gritted teeth as she finds a heavenly rhythm, angling your head just right so that it makes her see stars. Her breaths are ragged, chest heaving as she cries out your name, over and over like a mantra, thighs trembling on either side of your head. “Just- ah- a little longer, doing so- so well for me- ugnh, fuck!”

Your jaw is beginning to ache, your throat raw and sore, yet you can’t help but moan around her cock, wanting more, always wanting and craving it. Larissa’s hands tangled within your hair grip harder to hold you steady as she bucks against your face, her thrusts becoming deeper. You feel her length twitch against your tongue and you know she’s close.

“Almost there, t- take it all, darling,” she gasps, her voice thick with urgency, “want you to- fuck- swallow it down like a- ngh- good little slut.”

Larissa’s thrusts become more desperate, hungry, her hips jerking forward in quick, erratic movements. Whimpers fall from her lips, her head thrown back in pleasure, teeth bared to the ceiling, each sound sending white-hot pleasure down your spine. You can feel the heat radiating off her, the tension building like a coiled spring, threatening to snap.

You whine around her as she thrusts harder and faster into your mouth like a depraved beast, every bit of your remaining energy focused on pleasing her. Your tongue flicks out, tracing circles around her cockhead as she drives deeper into your mouth, begging — pleading — to let her cum down your throat, and all you can do is hum around her shaft, hoping she’ll do just that.

Larissa breaks apart above you in a series of loud moans and curses as you surge forward, hitting down to the base of her cock once more, pushing her over the edge. Stars dance behind her closed eyes as her hot release spills into your mouth, which you eagerly swallow, milking her for all that she’s worth until there’s nothing left and she’s nudging you away from her sensitive length; trembling and panting as she lets you pull back.

As you lean back on your heels, a rush of oxygen fills your lungs, bringing sweet relief to your heaving body. The lingering taste of her still coats your tongue, and you savor it before wiping the remnants of saliva from your face with the back of your hand.

Larissa’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours with an appreciative smile. “My precious girl,” she whispers, the deep timbre of her voice low and husky, as she reaches down to stroke your cheek and tuck away damp curls behind your ears. There is something intoxicating about the way she gazes down at you — sated yet still hungry, a predatory glint in her stormy blue eyes that hints this is far from over. “Thank you for taking care of me...”

You lean into her touch, nuzzling against her palm and relishing in the attention, and you press your mouth against the skin, despite your exhaustion. Your lips trail a path of kisses from the inside of her wrist to the delicate curve of her elbow, savoring the saltiness of her skin as you work your way across her body.

“More, Rissa,” you rasp against the softness of her belly, nipping at the ivory skin. Larissa shivers as your lips meet her navel. You look up at her through your lashes, eyes wide and pleading as you pout — surely you deserve to cum, too, after all of that? “Please?”

“More?” Larissa echoes, her voice dripping with honeyed sweetness as she tilts her head in mock innocence. Her fingers weave into your hair again, tugging gently but with enough force to elicit a soft gasp from your lips. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Greedy thing...”

You nod fervently, unable to resist, like the obedient little thing you are. The heat between your thighs is unbearable, after all, and you’ve been so, so good for her…

“Such a desperate little pet. Always wanting more, hm?” she tuts, her voice laced with amusement as she continues to toy with you, relishing in your desperation for her touch. Larissa enjoys making you wait until you’re dripping with need. And only then when you decide to pout some more does she relent, just as she always does for her favorite girl.

“Get up, then... I think you deserve to be taken care of, after being so good to me...”

─────⋅⋆.‧₊☆₊‧.⋅⋆─────────⋅⋆.‧₊☽₊‧.⋅⋆─────────⋅⋆.‧₊☆₊‧.⋅⋆─────

A/N: This has been rotting in my docs since February because I was, admittedly, quite hesitant to post this.. There was a time when Larissa fans were complaining about people writing her with shifted parts, which made me a little nervous about receiving backlash.

But, considering there are far worse things out there being written about her, fuck it — literally, lol.

[moonstruckme]

tumblr is hiding the request from me :( but here it is, thanks for requesting!

request: Would you be willing to write about(if you havnt already) Remus X a chronic pain having reader(joint pain kinda similar to his but like all over, maybe reader also has to use a cane from time to time) that's SUPER stubborn about their pain and HATES admitting there's anything wrong with them so they don't take pain killers or use their cane unless forced to.

cw: chronic pain, pain meds

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

You can’t get lost in your book. The words won’t pull you out of your body the way you need them to, so you’re watching raindrops race down the window instead. You bet on which one will win, sometimes changing your pick halfway through—because, really, you’re the one making the rules anyway—and then starting again from the top of the glass once the last round’s droplets puddle into the sill. 

You’re not sure who’s more miserable lately; you, or the sky. It’s been dull gray and weeping all week, clouds barely moving on cold winds. As if the weather isn’t making you ache enough, you slipped on the wet stairs outside your apartment yesterday and now have a nice, big bruise on your hip to boot. Remus keeps looking at the tinge of it peeking out of your trousers with a pitying little uptilt to his brows that makes you antsy. 

Remus groans as he shifts from his curled-up position next to you on the couch. He stretches his leg out, propping his ankle on the coffee table. You wince. You know he’s feeling this weather as badly as you are in his knees. 

“Alright?” you ask gently. 

He makes a low sound, halfway between a hum and a grunt. “I’ll live.” 

Remus turns his head your way, and you pretend to read your book again as you feel him scan you over. You try not to look too stiff in your own skin. To ease the grimace from your mouth. 

“How about you?” he asks. 

“Fine.” 

“Sure, dovey?” 

You know the endearment is meant to soften you. You look him right in the eyes. “Yeah.” 

He hums, holding your gaze. There’s sympathy in the warm honey brown of his eyes, the sort you can never decide whether to spurn or cling to, as well as a stubbornness to match your own. After a moment, he takes his foot off the table. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he says, standing. “I’m getting painkillers.” 

You stand, too, fighting past the protests of your joints. “I’ll go.” 

“I’ve got it.” 

“Remus, you’re in pain.” 

You know you’re pushing it—the limits of this lie, that you’re not in just as much if not more pain than he is—and it appears Remus knows it too. Rather than saying it, he only levels you with a look. You sit down. 

Remus doesn’t have to bring the bottle of pain medication back with him after taking his own dose, but he does. He sets it right on the coffee table next to a tub of numbing cream, which he opens before rolling up the leg of his trousers. One at a time, he massages it into his sore knees. 

You pretend to yourself that your own joints don’t feel any worse for thinking of what relief might be like. The words on your page blur past your eyes. 

“Give me your hand, lovely.”

You look at Remus. He’s finished with his knees, but now he holds his hand out for you, a dollop of cream on his fingers. “Hm?” 

Your boyfriend sighs, exasperation coated in fondness. “Don’t. You’re hurting.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“I can see it in your face.” 

You feel yourself frown. “It’s not that bad.” 

“What will it hurt?” His voice gentles. He keeps looking at you, until finally, you extend your hand. 

You know Remus knows how to be gentle with you. He’s good at helping without hurting, touch soothing over your skin and working the cream into every aching crevice. You hold in a sigh. 

“Sometimes,” Remus says in a thoughtful voice, “I catch myself dismissing my pain. And then I look at you, and I think how silly that is.” 

You take the opportunity to watch him while he’s not watching you. He looks peaceful. The furrow between his brows has shallowed, now borne of concentration rather than affliction or worry as he smooths his healing touch over your wrist and works his way up to your elbow. 

“I never want you to just put up with your pain. I don’t know why I do. But thinking about you doing the same thing helps me snap out of it, so,” Remus glances up at you, a tiny smile tugging at his lips, “thank you for that.” 

“Are you saying I’m silly?” You mean to tease, but your voice comes out infused with the sigh you’d held back. You sound tender and lovestruck; more vulnerable than you intended to be. 

“You’re silly when you won’t take care of yourself,” Remus answers unapologetically. “Even sillier when you won’t let me take care of you.” 

“It’s not your job,” you say quietly. 

He frowns. His thumb rubs softly over the tender jut of your elbow. “It’s both of our job.” 

“Thank you, but I don’t feel like I need the help. I manage it fine by myself.” 

“Sweetheart.” Remus looks at you. You’re caught like a fly in his honey trap. “It doesn’t make the pain any more or less real to treat it. You’re only helping it hurt you. It’s not a bad thing to take painkillers when you need them. Or to use your cane.” 

You stiffen at the introduction of a familiar argument. “I don’t need to use it.” 

“I know, lovely. You might not have had your fall yesterday if you had been, though.” 

Your hackles must be visibly raised, because Remus only looks at your face before softening his tone further, dropping a kiss on your shoulder. 

“I only wish you’d let us both look after you a bit better. And I hate to see you hurt.” His touch skims over that sliver of bruise showing above your trousers. “My poor girl.” 

You soften. Maybe it’s the tenderness of his touch, or the quiet ache in his voice, but you find yourself leaning over until your head rests on Remus’ shoulder. He continues massaging cream into your joints, diligent and loving. 

“It’s gotta go both ways,” you say, like you’re negotiating an agreement. 

“Of course it will.”

“You can’t just always be right. You have to listen when I tell you you’re being an idiot, too.” 

You hear more than see his smile. “But I so rarely am.” 

“Trust me,” you mumble, “it happens.” 

Remus chuckles and kisses your head. “Okay, dove. I’ll listen to you.”

[cluelessatthispoint]

Dragon's Hoard pt.3

(Inspired by bluegiragi and docdudo)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Soft snores and gentle gasps echoed lazily within the darkened lair of the dragon and his mates.. the small family all safe and cozy with one another far away from the noisy blight that is humanity and their ways of living. Usually it would be easy to fall asleep, but try as he might, Gaz laid awake. Hard instincs screaming at him to succumb to sleep. The environment around already working so hard to lull him to what his instincts crave.

Gaz laid awake in the nest, his eyes straining as he peered up at the dark, stalactite filled cieling. The sight leaving a tingling imprint in his retinas. As much as he would have liked to get some sleep after a long day. There was only so much he could handle in a day spent flying and helping Soap pick off straggling sheep for their next meal. Never in a million years did he expect Price to come home with a child in tow. Just what the hell was he thinking? A literal human child, in the home of a hybrid pack. So many things could go wrong. With a sigh, Gaz groggily brought a hand up to massage and pinch the bridge of his nose. He was one for surprises. Sure there was the time when he and Price spent a surprise, anniversary night out gazing at the stars after a successful hunt. The clear night sky overhead glittering with innumerable stars overhead. The way the light from the moon casted a silvery glow over as far as the duo could see was a magical sight. It was quite possibly one of the best surprises Gaz could think of to this date. Well, not anymore.

The sleeping child in the group nest proved that opinion all too well. With a sigh, Gaz unfurled one large wing up and out in one glorious motion to flex and stretch. The joints in his wing getting all nice and lubricated to chase away the stiffness in his muscles and tendons. Slowly, so as to not wake anyone else from their much needed sleep. Looking over and down at the small tufts of hair that curl about your small head. Gaz gently lowers the tip of his wing to wrap around your form. All tired out and limp in their nest. Tiny lungs working hard to keep an even pace as your small chest rises and falls with each gentle inhale and exhale. Each small twitch in your sleep is monitored, each small groan and stretch as you wander in dreamland is counted. For Gaz, It's like a dream come true. A strange, unexpected dream. Its been so long since he's raised a chick. Furling his massive wing around your midsection, Gaz scoots his body closer to envelop you in his warmth. Chicks need plenty of warmth to sleep well. And good sleep leads to healthy growth. A patient smile makes its way to his heart-shaped lips. A soft croon just beggin to make its way out. Would the chick even like his song? The culture of his kind? Would the chick learn to appreciate the differences of their new parents?

As if roused by the acrid smelling spike of anxiety wafting off of his husband, Simon; from over the shoulder of Price moved quietly to lean up on his forearms. Sleep still dancing across his eyelids as he narrows his vision on Gaz. His tired brown eyes laced with concern.

"Hey"

"Hey yourself."

The sound of Simon's sleep tinged voice is a welcome relief to Gaz’s ears.

"Can't sleep?"

A pregnant pause follows the question. As if Gaz really needs to answer the question, the wraith knows what's bothering him.

"The kid is fine. Just tired. Scared. It's to be expected. Doubt Soap here helped any."

With a heavy sigh Gaz cuddles closer to your unconscious form. To Simon, the sight of such a large harpy and such a small child just seems wrong. Different species all gathered in one place. That's how most wars break out, but yet this family makes it work. Better than most same species families.

"Soap won't eat the kid...back in the day he might've...but not now..ease up Gaz."

Dark brown, chocolate eyes sweep over Gaz gently before straining to look over at the tiny bundle all snuggled up against his chest. The harpy's instinct to gather and protect their young is strong, almost ferocious at times. But Gaz looks so gentle. Laying back down to carefully spoon against Price. Simon is ever mindful to be aware of not disturbing the portion of the dragon's hybrid back where his missing wing should be.

"We're where we belong. That includes the kid."

The tenderness in Simon's voice almost surprises Gaz. That tone is usually reserved for more intimate moments.

"What do you mean Si?"

"Look at em. So small, tiny...almost insignificant. Just like we all were at one time or another."

"So?"

"Price...he can see the value in even the smallest things. The broken things....like us."

The unspoken words between them echo in their minds. "Like me". Broken. But still so very much loved and adored.

"Get some sleep Gaz. You can look the kid over and clean em in the morning."

The subtle command in Simon's tones doesn't go ignored. Even the sleeping werewolf somehow registers the tone, responding with a heavy yawn and a rumbling purr. With the quiet in the den, the sounds of deep, rhythmic breathing gets swallowed up by the thick rocky walls and cushions and fabrics that make up the spacious nest. With tired eyes, Gaz curls in and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. The soft hair that frames your cherubic face makes you look years younger than you are. The softness of your skin and its youthful buoyancy are still there even after all this time on your own. It makes his heart clench up tightly to think of all those years you've spent begging and scrounging for scraps like a common mutt in the city's streets.

"John always finds the value in the little things in life. I guess he saw something truly special in you chickie."

Gaz says softly as he presses his lips to your forehead. We're humans always this cold? Did John bring home a sick child? How do you care for a sick child that's not the same species as you? What if something is wrong? Shaking those terrible thoughts away, his mind wanders to what Simon said. And how everyone gathered here in each other's space, share so many wonderful things with each other. How coexistence just comes natural to them. How it'll hopefully come naturally to their newest addition. Shaking his head, the way Soap spoke of the child at first made him cringe. Eating them up and the like. The werewolf has no tact when it comes to children. Sighing gently, his deep brown eyes gaze at you with a tenderness only reserved for the young his instincts so desperately crave. Watching over you as you squirm in your sleep. No doubt moving in response to his soft exhales ghosting over your skin.

"No one's eating our chick...not my chick."

He whispers softly in oath to himself. His words not as unheard as he believed. On the other side of the nest, a soft, barely perceivable smile tugs at the corners of Price's lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ta da! Part three is here. I'm planning to have the next few chapters focus on the 141 individually and how they respond to having a child in their lives now.

~~~~

[revelboo]

Do you think Earthspark! Soundwave is gonna eventually soften up a bit about the human Laserbeak wanted?

I imagine that Lazerbeak, and Frenzy are gonna take pics of Soundwave holding the human relatively gently, and title it some thing like: Dad and the Cat He Didn't Want.

Then Soundwave is gonna see them snickering over their camera, and demand that they delete the photo. But they just kinda snicker, and run away with the camera. So he makes Ravage retrieve it for him instead.

He will eventually ease up the aggression some. But you’re a constant reminder that Megs defected for a human and your kind helped the Decepticons lose the war. He’s a tiny bit bitter about it

Skin and Bones and The Conversation are next for updates, but 48 degree treadmill run first

Son Of A Gun Pt 4

Earthspark Soundwave x Reader

• Venting on a growl as he works, his servos clench on the tool in his hand and accidentally bends it as the shrill scream of Frenzy’s guitar pierces the silence. Not sure how long he’s been bent over the new power converter, only that his joints are stiff as he straightens. Heading in the direction of the noise to tell them to stop, he rocks to a stop when he hears the laughter. How long has it been since he’s heard any of his cassettes laugh? Not since the accident. Everything strained and uncomfortable now all the time. He’s almost certain Ravage is the only one that doesn’t blame him.

• “I’m not going to stop until you try it,” Frenzy insists, pushing the guitar at you until you take it in self defense. “You’re holding it wrong,” Lazerbeak adds as you try to figure it out while they laugh at you. The other one, Ravage, nearby but keeping her distance. When you’d tried to stand to see if you could sneak away, her head had lifted to stare you down. Getting run down by an alien panther not even remotely appealing, because you suspect Daddy told her to keep you from running. Huffing, you strum the guitar and all three cringe and then laugh louder. “What was that?” Frenzy howls, waving her hands at you. Like you have any idea what you’re going?

• How can they be so relaxed around you? You’re their size, so they don’t see you as a threat to them. Lingering in the shadows, Soundwave wants to knock you down. Hates watching Frenzy and Lazerbeak try to coach you on her guitar. Like you belong with them, instead of being an intruder. As soon as Rumble’s repaired, you won’t be needed to fill that gap left behind. And he’s going to enjoy ridding himself of you. Swallowing a growl, he strides into the room and bends, snagging you by the back of your shirt as you cry out and Frenzy catches her guitar. While he wants nothing to do with you, he doesn’t want you corrupting his cassettes either.

• What imagined slight did you commit this time? Kicking only makes you spin slightly as he turns and heads back into his workroom with you. Anger issues daddy, seeming to only have two modes: annoyed and pissed off. “If I’m doing something wrong, you could just tell me to stop? Or, I don’t know, let me go?” You suggest, head craning to see his face, not that you can tell anything from it. The growl that rumbles from him, though? He’s pissed. Again.

• “Let you go?” Snarling, he flicks his servos so you go airborne with a scream and catching you again. Your terror not nearly as satisfying as he expected it would be as you cling to his servos, sobbing. “Don’t speak.” He adds, annoyed with you and himself. Moving to his workstation, he drops you on top and ignores you to resume working. Aware of his three cassettes in the doorway watching, drawn by your scream. And you are mostly silent, sitting with your back to him and trembling, breath hitching. The fact that those little noises make him feel guilty only making him angrier. You don’t belong here, they don’t need you. He doesn’t need you.

Previous

Next

[plaguewormart]

Had a bad pain day yesterday and now I have to make Vincent suffer sorry 🙏

Pain has been Vincent’s constant companion. Some of his earliest memories include crying in his mother’s arms, his hips feels as if they’re on fire, when he twists in pain he swears a knife pierces the bones in his back. “Growing pains” his mother tells him, “When you’re older they’ll go away”

The pain doesn’t leave. Vincent learns to stop mentioning it. He walks to church on Sundays, and his trembling legs ache for days afterwards. He prays to God, and when it doesn’t work, he wonders if the pain is a punishment.

Vincent tries so hard. He does everything right. He helps others whenever possible, he spends hours on his knees, both praying and working in gardens, scrubbing floors, picking flowers for his elderly neighbors. No matter what he does, the pain remains.

In seminary, he learns how to write. His fingers feel stiff around the pen, the joints ache as he spends hours writing. He cracks his fingers for relief until a nun notices and finds the sound so distasteful that she uses a ruler to try to beat the habit from his already pained hands.

Vincent spends countless nights awake, the pain moves around his body as if it were a fire, consuming him from the inside out. He bites down on his aching hands to stop cries of pain from escaping.

At age 16, Vincent accepts his fate. He has always been in pain, the pain will never leave him. He ignores the ache whenever he can, he learns how to make his smile hide the agony. He holds his shaking hands behind his back and locks his knees in place to stop them from trembling. Clenching his jaw makes it hard to eat and speak as it locks up, but it gives him a feeling of control as the pain is expected for once.

During his ministry it’s easier to ignore the pain. When those around you are suffering, your own pain feels negligible. Vincent bandages wounds and holds the hands of the injured, and no one comments on his tremors or the way he sometimes falls into a limp.

After the surgery, Vincent is sure. The pain has been a punishment. A warning, perhaps. One that Vincent has ignored. God has been telling him how unworthy he is from the moment he was born - and Vincent has ignored His command.

Blades twist inside his knees as he kneels in front of the Holy Father. He deserves the pain. His shoulders shake with his sobs, and the movement makes his joints klick and ache. It’s God’s will.

The holy father’s words may convince him that the organs inside of him aren’t sinful, but the pain must be a sign. Perhaps it is his penance.

Vincent is called to Rome for the conclave. The hours of traveling makes each joint in his body protest. He arrives at the Vatican in a cold sweat. His legs are shaking as he’s led into a small room, and he has to close his eyes to escape the nausea crawling from his muscles into his stomach.

He’s presented with a cassock. It’s too big, and the buttons are too small. His aching fingers can barely grip them. He cries in the darkness of his room. When he steps out to join his brothers in Christ for dinner, his face is washed, and his vestments are immaculate.

The long hours of voting makes daggers envelop themselves in his back. His hips are on fire. His face betrays none of this.

Thomas finds him crouched in front of the turtle pond. He isn’t lying as he speaks about his love for the tiny creatures, but he does omit the part where he only found himself in the position after his knees gave out. Walking back to the sancta Martha, he smiles at Thomas even as electricity is running through his body, stinging him wherever possible.

A bomb goes off, and Vincent is on his feet immediately. His mind is full of memories of broken bodies and crumbling houses, yet his body trembles not in fear but in pain. He relishes in the ease of ignoring it as he walks around the Sistine chapel and administers first aid to his fellow cardinals. He doesn’t notice the cut on his own face until it’s pointed out to him.

Vincent has to hold the bannister of the balcony as he looks out over St. Peter’s square. He is terrified, but the pain in his knees and hips keep him grounded. His aching fingers curl around polished stone, and he presses his hands into the material until he can feel the pain radiate into his shoulders and onto his back. The pain is all that is left of the man that was once Vincent Benítez.

Pope Innocent XIV does not mention the pain. It has been with him since his birth, and will stay with him until he takes his final breath. Innocent is a prisoner of the Vatican and the pain alike.

It’s harder to hide the pain now. Being the pope means being public property. He has no privacy, he is constantly lonely yet never alone. His shaking hands are visible in meetings and masses alike. The sleepless nights and red-rimmed eyes are obvious to those around him. There’s no proper way to excuse oneself to go vomit from pain in the middle of an audience with a president or king.

A doctor is called. Innocent doesn’t know by whom. He refuses to tell the doctor about his pains. They are between him and God. The doctor moves Innocent’s joints around, pokes his muscles, pulls his skin, takes notes on each and every scar that litters his body. His feet are examined, and so are his teeth. The scribbling in the notebook the doctor carries drives the pope insane. He smiles politely.

The doctor takes his hand as he speaks. A diagnosis. Innocent’s heart races. Chronic, the doctor says, no cure.

Vincent is 57 years old as he learns that the pain is real. The doctor says things like nociceptive, genetic, instability, chronic pain. Vincent’s head is spinning. He’s conflicted.

An answer. Finally.

Yet… there’s no cure. Despite never having hope of a pain-free existence, the confirmation is somehow still horrifying. He cannot bring himself to call the disorder a punishment anymore. Doing so would mean that others would be deserving of the same pain. Vincent doesn’t think God would punish others with this pain.

It takes 57 years and becoming the Vicar of Christ on earth for Vincent to get the help he never knew he needed, the help he never thought he deserved.

Splints for his aching joints are delivered from the doctor. Thomas buys him pen-grips that makes it possible to write without the extreme pain. Aldo brings him a heating blanket that soothes his aching joints. Ray is constantly making sure there’s a chair close to wherever he’s standing.

His schedules are reworked, Vincent doesn’t know how anyone managed that, but suddenly there are breaks between meetings and half-days off after traveling or public appearances.

A chair appears in his shower, and the umbrella stand suddenly includes a cane.

For the first couple of months, Vincent hates it. He’s been handling the pain alone for his entire life. He doesn’t need help, doesn’t need adjustments or mobility aids, or splints over his joints. He glares at his friends as they ask if he wants assistance.

Slowly… he notices that his pain lessens whenever he lets his friends fuss over him. He starts wearing the splints, starts curling up under the heating blanket after long days. Starts spending his time off resting instead of working.

The first time he asks for help, it’s the most terrifying thing he’s done in years. He spends hours contemplating his words. Wonders if it’s selfish, if he’s taking advantage of his friends. fears that they will make a big deal out of it. That they will see how weak he is.

He can’t procrastinate it any longer once the workday is over. Thomas is packing up his papers, Aldo is shutting off his computer. Ray is looking at something on his phone. Vincent is still seated. His knees have been bothering him all day, and while he knows he could make it back to his room, he knows that it will make the pain worse.

He clears his throat. His face feels hot, and he’s ashamed as he speaks. “Would… would one of you perhaps be so kind as to bring me my cane?” His eyes are closed. He’s waiting for the reaction.

There is none.

All that happens is that his friends look at him for a second. Ray is closest to the door. He smiles, not in pity, but in encouragement. He grabs the cane from the umbrella stand, and passes it to Vincent without comment. Thomas wordlessly offers him an arm to help him up. Aldo grabs Vincent’s papers and puts them in his own bag.

Vincent hasn’t felt such love in decades.

[cricket-reader]

Picking Up the Pieces

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: Bucky’s girlfriend was on a business trip to New York when the void enveloped the city. Memories hidden deep in her mind surface, and Bucky is left to pick up the pieces.

warnings: alcohol, referenced past non-con, bathing, female reader (she/her pronouns)

word count: 2,366

A/N: prompt fill for day 1 for @juneofdoom | Slurred Speech | Darkness

{Read on A03}

“Doll?”

The pet name her boyfriend always used went in one ear and out the other, nothing registering in her brain besides the bombshell her mind had dropped on her just hours prior. She didn’t know how long she had been curled up like this, but from the stiffness in every joint in her body, she’d have to venture to say that it was way too long.

When Bucky walked into the adjoining bedroom, he was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of alcohol. The entire room reeked of expensive booze. And in the corner, curled up so small, was his girlfriend. A bottle of whiskey hung between her fingers, on the precipice of slipping right out of her loose grasp. It was half empty.

The sight sent his mind spinning. His girlfriend was not much of a drinker—and most certainly not a whiskey drinker. The only time he’d ever seen her drink was when she’d have those fruity little drinks at the bar or a glass of champagne at those stupid events he dragged her to. And even then, she drank it so slowly, she’d never feel the effects.

Something swirled in his gut, a premonition that nothing would ever be the same after this.

He approached his girlfriend slowly, the heavy footfalls of his boots echoing through the silence. Crouching down beside her, he was careful not to intrude on her space—not when something was clearly wrong. It was just as she had done for him many times before. But he never wanted her to be on the opposite side of this.

“Doll?” Bucky repeated himself. He reached out a careful hand, slow to give her enough time to pull away. It was only when skin met skin that she flinched away, eyes blown wide.

“Bucky?” She murmured, eyes glazing over. “When’d you get here?”

Furrowing his brows, Bucky swiped a thumb over her cheek. “You didn’t hear me come in? I called out for ya.”

She hummed low in her throat in response, eyes drifting to the right. Her head followed, listing to the side dramatically. He gasped when he saw the glimmer of blood across her temple, shining in the low light from one of the bedside lamps. “What happened?” He wiped a hand through the blood dripping sluggishly from her forehead down her face. His stomach swirled as the crimson liquid stained his hands like something out of his worst nightmare.

“The darkness… it w’s ev’rywhere,” she slurred over her words. Tears burned in her eyes as she stuttered over her next words. “I di’nt know… I di’nt think… he… oh god, Bucky.”

He blinked as she rushed into his arms, dropping the open bottle of whiskey for it to spill onto the plush carpet. He held her steady even as she shook with sobs. He ran his fingers through her messy curls, heart shattering with every whimper, every cry, every murmured apology that pierced his ears. When her sobs subsided into sniffles, he carefully pulled back. Taking her tear-streaked face into his hands, he frowned. “What did you see?”

She clenched her eyes shut, whimpering as the memories overloaded her brain. It couldn't be real, she told herself. She would’ve remembered something like that. “It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real,” she murmured, shaking her head as if that could clear the darkness creeping in, a void of shame and hopelessness she’d never felt before.

A pit settled in Bucky’s stomach. “Doll, what was it?”

“Oh…” she groaned, “I feel… Bucky, I feel sick.”

Bucky lifted her into his arms with ease, murmuring, “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get ya to the bathroom.”

He held her hair back as she expelled nothing but clear liquid poison, murmuring reassurances after every heave. “That’s it, honey. Get it all out, alright? You’re okay. It’s all gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

She slumped backwards into Bucky’s warmth, sobbing violently. Curling up on herself, she twisted around to hide her face in her boyfriend’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” she cried, holding on so tight—afraid that he’d leave her now that she’d completely lost it in front of him. “Stay ‘ere, please?”

“Don’t be sorry, and I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Bucky’s response was firm, his hands weaving through her messy hair. Terrifying as it was to see his girlfriend like this, he knew that she’d seen him much lower. She’d helped him pick up the pieces after every nightmare, after every flashback, after every violent outburst. Never once had she left him despite giving her a plethora of reasons to do so. And he’d be damned if he wouldn’t do the same for her. She deserved it so much more than he did, after all.

“I’m disgusting,” she said after a long period of silence, face still buried in Bucky’s shirt.

Bucky furrows his brows. He tried to get her to look at him, but she remained steadfastly attached to him. “Don’t say that, doll. You just drank too much. Your body was trying to get rid of it.”

“Not that,” she whispered, tightening her grasp around his shirt. He looked down at her white-knuckled grasp, noting the slight tremor that never quite left her body since she came back down to earth. It made him sick with worry.

“Then what? Because I know for a fact that you are the furthest thing from disgusting. You are the most-”

“You won’ be sayin’ that after I tell you…” she interrupted him, voice fading out suddenly.

“After you tell me what?” Bucky questioned, voice firm. He didn’t want to leave any room for argument. Nothing would ever make him think less of his girlfriend. The woman who single-handedly drew him closer and closer to the light. The woman who never failed to bring a smile to his face. The woman who stood by him regardless of how difficult it could be. “‘Cause there’s nothing in the world that could make me think of you like that.”

She bit down a whimper, not low enough so that Bucky couldn’t hear it, although not for a lack of trying on her part. He felt her shake her head against his chest. Something akin to desperation rose inside of him. He didn't know how to make her understand, didn't know how to pull her into the light when he was made of nothing but shadows and darkness. He couldn't be her sunshine on a stormy day, not like she could for him. He was right all along; she deserved someone better, someone who could bring her out of the darkness. Someone who wasn’t blood-stained and cold, someone who was dripping with the warmth needed to mend a broken heart.

“My father… he raped me,” she said, releasing the words like a bomb into the air.

Bucky’s heart stopped cold. His hands froze in her hair, messy locks entwined around his fingers. The words tumbled around in his brain, knowing, but not fully registering the full weight of her words. As soon as they settled, a boiling anger rose in him, explosive and all-consuming. He silently seethed, wanting nothing more than to find the piece of shit and rip him to shreds. His girlfriend was the definition of sunshine, the most pure and holy figure he’d ever met. How dare her own flesh and blood father try to take that from her? How could anyone ever try to pull her into the darkness?

He heard her breath hitch in response to his silent stillness. She tried to pull away, fearing that Bucky was as repulsed by her as she was herself, but he held her steady. “I am disgusted,” he said, “I’m disgusted by that piece of shit who never deserved to have a daughter.”

“I didn’t even fight back, Bucky,” she cried, wanting to make him understand.

“And how old were you?”

Her brows creased at the random question. “What? Uh… I don’t know… maybe like ten or eleven.”

Bucky pulled away from her to look her in the eyes, needing her to understand him. “Sweetheart, how is a ten-year-old girl supposed to overpower a grown man? He was the adult. He knew better. He should have never even looked your way.”

“I know, but I just… Why didn’t I remember that before now? What even happened? Why was everything so dark?” Her eyes grew as wide as saucers, her brain finally catching up to the implications of Bucky being there too. “Oh god, did the darkness get you too? Oh, Bucky, are you okay?”

Of course, she would be worried about him. Even after her darkest hours, she still made Bucky’s well-being a priority. “I’m fine-”

“Don’t you dare say that you’re fine, James Buchanan Barnes. God, here I am being a complete clusterfuck when you went through so much worse. God, Bucky, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to take care of me-”

Bucky interrupted that thought straight away. “Don’t ever apologise for needing to be taken care of.”

“But-”

“No buts,” he insisted. “You uncovered something really traumatic. It’s okay to not always be okay. I’ll always be here to pick up the pieces.”

She huffed out a choked-up sigh. “That’s my line.”

“Yeah, well, I’m adopting it.” He sighed, looking down at the tear-streaked, puffy face of the woman he would take down the world for.

“I feel so… so dirty,” she murmured, lowering her head in shame. “I feel used and… and violated. How could he… how could he just…” She choked on a sob, not able to complete the sentence, not able to put to words once again the horrifying reality that had violently blindsided her.

“I don’t know, doll,” Bucky murmured.

“I wanna take a shower,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Feel gross.”

“Okay, doll, just… is it alright if I stay? I don’t want you to slip and fall. I won’t look or anything—just don’t wanna leave you alone right now.”

“It’s not like you haven’t already seen me, Buck.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her inquisitive eyes. “Just don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, sweetheart.”

She hummed, a smile spreading across her face. “You’re the sweetest man in the whole entire world,” she said, leaning in and laying her head on his chest. Bucky flushed at her words; no matter how many times she'd said things like that to him, it always sets loose a horde of butterflies fluttering inside him.

“I’m just doing what anyone else would in this situation,” Bucky said, always quick to deny her praises. Because although they made him feel like he was walking on cloud nine, sometimes it worried him how low her standards were. She giggled at him, the alcohol clearly not having left her system. She mumbled something under her breath, too quiet and jumbled together for even his ears to pick up.

“Lemme start up the water,” he said, sitting her down on the toilet lid. He waited until the water was at the right temperature before turning around. She already had her top off and was struggling to unclasp the lacy bra from behind her. “Need a little help there, doll?”

She nodded her head and allowed him to gently unclasp the undergarment. She quickly rid herself of her leggings and underwear before stumbling over to the shower. Bucky’s heart raced as he heard her stumble to the shower, avoiding looking in case it did bring her discomfort—she never did explicitly state that it was okay for him to look.

He leaned against the wall, listening to her lather her body in soap. His attentive ears heard her breath hitch ever so slightly, the movements ceasing suddenly. He pushed himself off the wall, brows furrowed deeply. “Doll?”

His heart cracked upon hearing her break down. He watched the shadow of her figure slump down to her knees, the sharp sound of bone meeting the hard tub. “Bucky?” she whimpered, opening the curtain. Her hair was drenched, clinging to her face. Tears mixed with the water pouring down on her. He approached with caution akin to that of a man approaching a wounded animal. She reached out for him, her hand leaving suds and water to soak into his leather jacket. He didn't hesitate, then, climbing into the bathtub with her, holding her as she devolved into sobs. As they faded into hiccups, he asked her: “You wanna get dried off?”

“No,” she said, “Gotta get clean, gotta… gotta get clean.”

“Okay, baby,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “Let me help you?”

“Y’don’t have to,” she murmured into drenched leather. It was a weak protest, one that Bucky knew full-heartedly that she didn’t really mean. She always did this, always tried to give him an out whenever he tried to help her.

“I want to,” he reassured her. Grabbing the cloth from where it had hit the ground, he lathered it up with more soap. He was gentle as he wiped it across her clean skin, never lingering too long. When he’d finished, he grabbed the shampoo from the shelf, lathering up her hair and massaging it into her scalp. He rinsed it out with praises intermingled as she droopily tilted her head back. He reached for the conditioner next, plopping a dollop onto his hand to work into the ends of her hair.

By the time he was done, she was lax in his arms, like putty in his hands. He turned off the water and wrapped her shivering body in a large, fluffy towel. Once her body was dry, he dressed her in her favourite fluffy pyjama pants and an oversized t-shirt he was pretty sure once belonged to him.

He tucked her into bed, quickly changing into some dry clothes from his go bag before slipping out to grab a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin for the morning. Finally, he slid in beside her, revelling in the way she immediately drifted to his side in her sleep. As he held her in his arms, he made a vow that no one would ever hurt her again, and anyone who does, or ever has, will suffer the consequences.

Taglist: @harleycao @hallecarey1 @filmsbyblair

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Smut Challenge 2025, Fic Five: Water Sex with Sirius

Pairings: Sirius Black x reader Summary: Sirius finds you swimming in the Room of Requirement. Tags: fem!reader, disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, anorgasmia, soft sex while disabled, reader with chronic illness, gentle!sirius, hurt/comfort, established relationship, reader is touch-averse on bad days, sirius is so so careful with you, swimming pool sex, vaginal sex, fingering, no orgasm for reader, orgasm for sirius, water sex, slow and emotional smut, emotional intimacy during sex, soft dom sirius if you squint, love declarations mid-act, use of y/n Word count: 1.7k words Main Masterlist | Smut Challenge 2025 Masterlist

The Room of Requirement's walls are bathed in a soft, ethereal blue light that seems to pulse with the rhythm of your heartbeat. As you float on your back in the pool, your body buoyed by the water's gentle embrace, there is a rare, fleeting relief from the constant ache that lingers in your bones—a moment where your body feels weightless instead of weary.

Warmth seeps into your skin, easing the ever-present stiffness in your joints, melting away the deep-seated ache that winter always seems to make worse. The sound of the water lapping against the edges of the pool is soothing, and it gives you something to focus on rather than the constant pain rolling through your body.

The door creaks open, and although you don't see him, you know who it is. There's a familiarity to his presence, a sense of home that no one else could ever replicate.

"Hey," Sirius says, his voice low and rough, but undeniably warm. It's how he always sounds after even an hour apart from you—like he's missed you even more than you've missed him.

When you look up, he's there, standing at the edge of the pool, his smirk a little too forced, his relief at finding you alone all too evident. His dark hair falls into his eyes, untamed as ever, and the fabric of his shirt hangs loose against his frame, though you know it won't stay on for long.

"Hey," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. He walks closer to the pool's edge, watching as you glide through the water with an ease that betrays your familiarity with this hidden sanctuary. You swim towards him, slow and careful. Even in the water, where gravity is kind to you, movement still comes with an underlying awareness of your body's limits.

"You look beautiful like this," he says, kneeling down by the side of the pool. He dips his fingers into the water, sending tiny ripples across the surface. Your heart flutters at his words, but you roll your eyes in response, pushing away any hint of vulnerability.

"You always say that," you retort, trying to keep your voice light despite the warmth spreading through your chest.

"And I always mean it," he fires back instantly, a playful challenge dancing in his eyes. He reaches out tentatively, brushing a lock of wet hair from your face. His touch lingers longer than necessary, but it's careful—hesitant, as though he remembers the days when even the softest caress could send a ripple of pain through you. There's a softness in his gaze, the kind that only surfaces when he's been away for longer than he'd like.

Sirius stands, his movements fluid and unhesitant as he shrugs off his own clothes. His confidence is not born of arrogance but of a deep self-assuredness that needs no validation. He's lean, all corded muscle and pale skin that seems to glow in the soft light of the room. His attractiveness is undeniable, but it's the tenderness in his gaze that draws you in, the promise of gentleness that belies the strength of his form.

His body slides into the water beside you, his warmth diffusing through the pool, easing the tightness that knots beneath your skin. You watch him, breath hitching slightly as his hand rises from the depths, fingers ghosting over your side with deliberate gentleness. Even now, after all this time, he touches you like he's afraid of hurting you—like he knows some days are worse than others.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper as his hand settles on your waist, fingers splayed wide. The pressure is light, almost hesitant, as if he fears you might shatter under his touch. But the steadiness of his grip grounds you, pulls you closer until the space between you is nearly nonexistent.

His eyes hold yours captive, a silent conversation passing between you. His thumb brushes a slow circle over your hip, grounding and electrifying all at once. Your heart pounds, a frenzied rhythm that drowns out everything else. You know what's coming—can feel it in the air that grows heavy with anticipation, in the way Sirius's gaze flickers to your lips and back again.

The kiss is slow and familiar at first, an echo of many others before it. But then something shifts—an undercurrent of desperation, a crack in the façade—and his lips move against yours with renewed urgency. An involuntary moan escapes you as he deepens the connection, his teeth nipping gently at your lower lip, and you feel him harden against your stomach beneath the water's surface.

His hands roam over your body, careful and deliberate, his fingers tracing over the places that ache the most—never pressing too hard, never making it worse, but grounding you in the sensation of him. And then he's speaking, his voice barely more than a whisper against the softness of your lips.

"Need you," Sirius murmurs, his voice low and laced with a vulnerability he would deny if asked. You feel the urgency of his need in the way he pulls you to him, as though you are the only solid thing in a world that's shifting beneath him.

You nod, your mind reeling with anticipation, and a grin flickers across his face, an ember of mischief amidst the storm of desire. The water around you seems to pulse with magic, a mirror reflecting the intensity of your shared longing.

Underneath the flimsy barrier of your bikini, his fingers slip inside of you, coaxing warmth to pool low in your stomach. It's a familiar sensation—pleasant, intimate—but it never quite builds the way it should. It never quite reaches the place he wants it to. His forehead rests against yours, his breath hitching in rhythm with the crashing waves as he works you closer, closer to that precipice.

"Merlin," he rasps out, voice trembling with the effort of restraint. "You feel so good, baby."

His confession is a whisper lost to the wind, but you feel it more than hear it. There's a truth there, raw and unguarded, that sends shivers down your spine despite the sun's intense heat.

"I love you," Sirius breathes, the words carrying a weight that anchors them deep within your heart. It's not just the sentiment—it's the way he says it, like a man starved for affection finally finding sustenance.

Once he knows you're ready, Sirius shifts, positioning himself at your entrance. He takes his time, every movement deliberate, as if to memorize this moment—the way you fit together, the shared anticipation that thrums through your veins. His hands are firm against your hips, holding you still as he begins to push forward.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he enters you, his breath hitching as he sinks deeper. Each inch is a new revelation, a silent promise whispered against your skin. He doesn't rush, despite the urgency pulsating beneath his calm exterior. Instead, Sirius savours the intimacy, the connection that binds you both in ways words can't encompass.

The languid pace Sirius sets is maddening and electrifying all at once. He isn't chasing a climax that won't come—he's chasing your pleasure, the small gasps and sighs that tell him he's still giving you something good. And he is. He always is. His mouth finds your jawline, tracing it with a featherlight touch that sends shivers down your spine despite the warmth of the pool surrounding you. He moves lower, pressing kisses to your throat, his breath hot against your damp skin. Then his lips are back on yours, capturing your small sighs as if they're the most precious things in the world.

The water shifts around you, mirroring the unhurried rhythm of your bodies. There's no urgency here, no frantic race to the peak. Instead, there's just the slow burn of desire, stoked to a blazing inferno by every whispered word, every tender caress.

"Fuck, Y/N," Sirius murmurs against your ear, his voice low and husky with need. "You're so perfect..."

His hand shifts from your waist, fingers trailing up your side until they cradle your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. He leans in once more, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that speaks volumes of his need for you.

But now there's a tremor in his legs, a hitch in his breath that wasn't there before. His kisses become more frantic, less controlled, and when he breaks away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"Not gonna last long, baby," he grunts, voice shaking with the force of it. He knows you won't follow him over the edge, but he doesn't need you to. Instead, he focuses on the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way you look at him like he's still giving you everything.

"You don't need to," you murmur back, your voice steady even as your body throbs with each thrust. You want him to find his release, to know the depths of pleasure you can offer. His rhythm falters, becoming more erratic as he chases that elusive high.

You kiss along his jaw, your lips trailing fire over his skin. He grunts, the sound low and guttural, and you feel him stiffen above you. A moment passes, suspended in time, then he shudders, his body tensing as he reaches his climax.

For a few precious moments, he simply holds you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breaths coming in shallow pants against your skin. The world outside ceases to exist; there is only you, him, and the water that cradles you both, a silent witness to the intimacy shared between two entwined souls.

Slowly, reluctantly, Sirius shifts back. His hand remains steady at your waist, anchoring you to him even as he creates space between your bodies. He presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, a silent vow punctuating the air around you.

"You okay?" The question is soft, more habit than concern, because he knows the answer. He doesn't expect anything different, doesn't expect you to be anything different. But still, there's something unspoken in his gaze—a longing, not for something to change, but for a way to love you even better.

You nod, lips curving into a small smile. "I always am with you."