#lemme know if you want a tag or something too ^-^

[professorjjong]

Professor! If you're still looking for the source of that last Jonghyun gifset, it's from SW V in Seoul if you look at the full concert it's around the 2:20:05 mark! : )

Hope this helps!! (this is my main but the shinee blog i'm keeping is shineequesamere)

thank you!!

[r3dblccd]

: ̗̀➛ @collectivemesses gets a starter! For Nao & ??? | starter call

Now Playing: Kickass by TRiDENT ♫

"No matter how strong or weak, the hero is the one who simply believes in the path they have chosen and follows it."

[starpens]

CRASH COURSE ﾉ xia caleb x female reader ៹ explicit content, unprotected sex, virginity loss, mentions of cheating (none actually happens), pet names (pipsqueak (sorry but i have to be accurate) gege, good girl), instructional sex, blowjobs, creampie, idk what this is i wrote it in 5 seconds i just needed an excuse to write caleb, not proofread :( ˓˓ WORD COUNT ᨀ 4.9k !

asking the boy you’ve known nearly your entire life to teach you how to have sex isn’t weird, right...? right?

caleb has taught you a lot of things over the years.

he taught you how to drive a car in the shopping mall’s parking lot, how to cheat at card games, how to avoid burning the house down by letting him cook for you instead, how to sneak underneath the turnstiles on the subway to avoid fees.

he’s reliable and sturdy and a little reckless, but also patient and nonjudgmental— creating the idea in your idea that he’s kind of all-knowing, that whenever you don’t know something caleb does, that whenever you need help, you turn to no one else but him. which is precisely why you’re standing outside the door of his bedroom right now, hand lifted to knock on it.

because surely, asking caleb to teach you how to give a blowjob falls somewhere underneath that category too, right?

it’s one of those rare moments when the two of you are off work at the same time. caleb, on annual leave for the next two weeks and you, taking out a handful of unused vacation days to spend time with your favorite person in the world. it’s like old times again, when you can simply walk down the hall and hear his laugh drifting from underneath the door as he plays some stupid video game with college buddies.

thinking of the old days is exactly why you’re hesitating at the door. there’s too much shared history between the two of you, too much to lose if this goes badly, if you’ve been reading him wrong all along and he doesn’t want the same thing. there’s no way you can march in there and ask the boy you were raised with teach you how to—

“door’s open, pipsqueak,” caleb calls, somehow knowing you’re there because of course he does. you used to complain that he must’ve secretly implanted a tracker in your arm because he always knows your whereabouts, which made games like hide and seek with him impossible.

knowing it’s too late to play it off, you walk inside his room, greeted by his devastatingly gorgeous grin. “hey, you. lemme guess— the fridge is empty? no? lightbulb in your room need changing again? huh… or did you just miss me?”

“uh,” you mumble, shifting your toes in the soft carpet of the rug in the middle of his room. “not exactly. i was just wondering if you had time to talk and— … you’re not wearing a shirt.”

you realize how dumb you sound as you point it out, it’s just that your brain short-circuits, turning into a syrupy mess at the sight of caleb without a shirt on, his dog tags resting against bare skin. you’ve seen him like this before, of course— but not since he up and left, gallivanting off into the world to become a hotshot military pilot.

he’s always been nice to look at when you think he isn’t paying attention, but god he’s pretty. your eyes blink almost in disbelief as you take in his broad, muscular form that did not exist while he was a cadet in basic training. your gaze can’t help but snag on the ripple of his abs, or the thatch of brown hair trailing from his navel to disappear beneath his gray sweats. he swivels in his stupid gaming chair, smiling at you with his stupid face—

“uh, yeah?” caleb laughs, forehead creasing in confusion like you shouldn’t be surprised and really, you shouldn’t. caleb is like a furnace, blood running hot even in the middle of winter. “gran’s got the heat turned up to max again. it’s like she wants to kill me.”

“yeah, right,” you shake your head, laughing skittishly. “sorry. i’ve got a fan you can borrow, if you want.”

“thanks,” he says, magenta eyes dragging over your form suspiciously, taking in the way you’re standing in the middle of his room fidgeting like a leaf in the wind, hands white-knuckling the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing, knees knocking together all nervous and cute. he frowns, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to give you his full attention in that heart-stuttering way he often does.

“what’s with you? not that i’m not glad to see you, but… did something happen? did someone do something to you?”

“no, no— nothing like that,” you hurry to reassure, voice cracking on the last word as your cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment, trying to find the words to say what you need to without crashing and burning. swallowing around a lump in your throat, you glance at the paused screen of caleb’s game before blurting out—

“can you teach me how to give a blowjob?”

caleb immediately chokes.

a lesson on what not to do.

the overclocked fans on caleb’s gaming rig whirs in a soft hum, the neon lights in his room flickering crimson streaks over his handsome face in the dark. he wonders if it’s post traumatic stress or prolonged exposure to cosmic radiation in the sky forcing him to hallucinate. obviously, he’s got too many marbles in one jar and not enough in the other because there is no way he’s heard you correctly.

slowly, he removes his headset. “come again?”

“i’m awful at it, ge,” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in exasperation. in fact, you don’t know if you’re awful at it or not because you’ve never tried. you’ve been too busy waiting on the man in front of you to stop torturing you both, but caleb doesn’t need to know that. “you see, i’m dating this guy, right? and we’ve been hitting it off well. i can tell he wants to take it to the next level, but i’ve never… and you— you’re good at everything, so i just thought…”

“thought i would give you lessons,” he finishes for you, his voice deepening to a rougher edge that makes you shiver. “so you can suck your boyfriend better. do i have it right?”

“y-yeah…”

“since when do you even have a boyfriend? you didn’t tell me anything,” he says, doing nothing to mask the disappointment in his voice.

“uh, we’ve… been seeing each other for a couple of weeks?” you fumble, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “i didn’t want to say anything yet. in case it didn’t work out.”

“so you want to learn how to suck dick for a guy you’ve known for a couple of weeks?” he counters, a muscle in his jaw twitching. he’s got no right to feel jealousy, not when he’s wasted so much time attempting to be one thing in your life when you clearly wanted something else. he’s got no right, but the thought of you on your knees for someone else, someone that isn’t him, makes his blood boil enough that he already knows what his answer will be.

however, you’re already backing up towards the door, about to make a quick retreat. your plan was horrible, shame burning your skin like a brand. “what am i saying? oh my god, you’re right it’s stupid and wrong and gross. can we please just forget i even came in here—”

he lets you ramble for an excruciatingly long time, then he pushes out of his gaming chair and grins down at you like you just asked him to make a quick run to the convenience store. he stretches his arms above his head. “let’s do it.”

“w-what?”

you didn’t expect to get this far, honestly. you expected caleb to laugh at you, ruffle your hair, and call you ridiculous. but instead, he’s already striding to his door, thumb flicking the lock with a decisive click. when he turns, his expression makes your breath hitch— those unusual purple eyes molten, staring straight through you.

“first thing’s first, we need to lay down some ground rules, soldier,” caleb tells you playfully, stepping closer until your breasts brush against his midsection. his hand lifts, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “if you need to back out at any moment, you say so. no guy’s pleasure is worth your discomfort. and if i hear his name, whatever it is…” he pauses, eyes narrowing. “this stops. understood?”

you nod eagerly, fighting your smile as his scent envelopes you. he smells like spearmint gum, your shampoo that he’s been stealing since the two of you have been back at the house, and a hint of sweat from the stifling air in the room.

“use your words, pipsqueak.”

“y-yeah, i get it.”

his smirk is all teeth. “good girl.”

caleb guides you over to his bed, sitting down on the edge. his big hands reach for you, circling your hips and pulling you towards him until you’re standing in between his spread thighs.

“alright, my little student,” he jokes. “you wanna get him all riled up before the main event so start with something small like… a kiss,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to glance at your mouth as his finger traces the hinge of your jaw. “you do know how to kiss, don’t you?”

“of course i know how to kiss,” you grumble.

caleb nods and then curls his hand around the nape of your neck, pulling you down to his level. you lean with the pressure, slotting your hands in the junction between his neck and shoulder, sliding them up until you cup the underside of his jaw. then, you’re kissing him— kissing caleb, the boy who used to patch up your scraped knees with cute band-aids, who let you crawl into his bed after nightmares, who pretends he hasn’t thought about kissing you, about making you his, for years.

the kiss is messy, desperate and hungry, decades of pent up feelings behind it. a string of saliva keeps your mouths linked together whenever you pull back for air and when caleb’s tongue swipes across your bottom lip, you whimper and part your lips to let him in, body melting against his front until your weight’s toppling him back onto his elbows, hitching your leg over his waist to crawl on top of him.

his grip on your waist tightens, gently pushing you to stand once more. “this is feeling less like a lesson, and more like you just wanting to do this with me,” he teases, making heat flare across your cheeks.

caleb guides your hand to the waistband of his sweatpants, the heat radiating through the fabric searing your palm. breath hitching, you begin to sink to the floor in front of him but his hand shoots out to stop your descent with a breathy laugh. “no no no, c’mere. you’re gonna hurt your knees down there.”

backing up, he moves until he’s lounging against the headboard, impossibly long legs stretched out on either side of your sweet figure.

“still wanna do this?” he asks, lifting a brow. when you nod, he continues to speak, voice gravelly, “take it out then.”

your fingers fumble with the drawstring a bit, struggling to undo the military knot caleb’s tied there, but you manage eventually. peeling back the waistband of his sweatpants to free his cock.

you should’ve known it would be just as pretty as the rest of him— it’s the biggest one (the only one) you’ve seen in person. he’s thicker than he is long, flushed dusky pink with veins that make your cunt clench with the desperate need to feel them dragging along your inner walls. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, watching you reach for it, nearly sobbing when your hand wraps around him.

“fuck—!” his hips jerk and stutter in shock, hand shoving yours away with a quickness. you frown and bite your lip, retracting your grip as if you’ve been burned.

“oh no,” you rush out, moving back to sit on top of your hands like a scolded kindergartener. “did i do something bad? did i hurt you, cal?”

caleb’s chest heaves, breath punching out of his lungs rapidly, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to slow the speed of his heart down. he’s dreamt about you touching him like this for ages, and the image of your dainty hand nervously wrapping around his cock will be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. you crawl back towards him slowly, seriously worried. “caleb?”

“i’m fine, pip,” he sucks in another breath, then opens his eyes to look at you. “didn’t mean to scare you. you didn’t do anything bad, you just surprised me. go ahead, touch me again.”

“if you’re sure,” you mumble, then hesitantly circle your fingers around caleb’s shaft again. he’s ready for it this time, hot against your palm when you give him an experimental squeeze, making caleb hiss through clenched teeth. “how’s that?”

“a bit tighter,” he instructs, palm closing over yours to adjust your grip. you squeeze him tight, and the hitch of his breath makes you squirm, stickiness gathering between your thighs at the sound. “don’t just squeeze, guys like it when you stroke. base to tip— no, don’t yank it like a fucking joystick, pip. god.”

his protest makes you burst out in giggles before caleb is shushing you with a severe look, his purple eyes narrowed. sucking your plump lower lip in between your teeth to keep from smiling, you nod at him with an exaggeratedly focused look.

“wet your palm,” he tells you, rolling his eyes at your wrinkled nose. “getting a handjob from a dry hand hurts, it’s like sandpaper.”

“are you saying i have dry hands, caleb? i moisturize daily, unlike you,” you whine out, but you listen to him anyway— you’re a good student, after all, and you don’t want to do anything that’ll make caleb want to stop. you lick your palm a few times, eyes on caleb the entire time.

the next time you touch him is with a spit-slicked grip, dragging your hand up and down his cock in an inexperienced, sloppy rub that should feel uncomfortable, but caleb eats it up— hips jerking involuntarily, pearls of watery precum already beginning to leak from the slit of his cock. your gaze is transfixed on it, a little greedy too, watching it stain your knuckles with each stroke.

it’s that same greediness that makes you lean down and brush your lips against the head of his cock, cherry tongue lolling out to tentatively taste the salt-bitter precum beading there. caleb’s hips immediately kick upward in a desperate twitch, but he forces them still, knuckles ashen where they reach down to grip the sheets.

“easy,” he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. his thumb strokes your cheek briefly. “just the tip first, okay? don’t go trying to swallow me down or anything.”

you do what he’s taught you so far; flatten your tongue, swirl it around the head— like that, fuck— press it hard against the thick, sensitive vein running along caleb’s underside, then repeat. every time, you’re rewarded with caleb brushing your hair back, murmuring soft praises, or your personal favorite— his deep, almost nasal groan, the hard planes of his abdomen flexing underneath the heady heat of your tongue.

it’s intoxicating, watching him fall apart like this— exactly what you wanted when you walked into his room. you want to pass his class with honors, please him even more, so you drop your mouth open a little more and suck him in deeper.

too deep.

the thick ridge of his head nudges against your uvula, tears springing to your eyes almost immediately. little startled chokes cough from your throat as you pull off caleb’s cock, bands of saliva stringing from his tip to your mouth in a way that should be gross, but you don’t care one bit, too busy trying to catch your breath.

“shh, shh— breathe,” caleb soothes, eyes darkening with something perilously close to reverence and pride. “through your nose, slowly. you can’t force it, that’s why you keep choking. when you’re ready, try again.”

you let caleb thumb away your tears like he’s done countless times before and when you’re ready, when you’ve had enough air to breathe, you let him guide you back onto his damp cock. eager, swollen lips bringing him in against your cheeks in a hot, branding suction that twists his insides up.

he’s supposed to be teaching you, showing you the ropes so you can please your stupid boyfriend, but you barely even need it— god, you’re so good at this without even trying. how can he focus on teaching when he’s got all of his focus pointed towards trying not to shoot his load down the back of your throat like some inconsiderate asshole?

he can barely look down at you because every time he does, your teary eyes glance up at him through thick lashes with an expression that begs for praise. he knows if you didn’t have a mouth stuffed full of his cock, you’d be asking him am i doing it right, ge?

his thighs tremble, eyes lidded as you finally find a steady pace— mouth bobbing up and down, spit bubbling at the base of his cock where you’re starting to make a mess on him.

and when your hands dip down into his sweatpants, cupping his balls in your soft hand, caleb’s vision whites out, his climax rushing to the front at a rapid pace. before he can cum, though, he takes two fingers and pushes at your forehead, hauling you off his cock with a wet slurp. his chest heaves, dripping beads of sweat that glow in the haze of the neon lighting in his room.

he looks wrecked, and you fight your triumphant smile, schooling it into something unsure and pliant, batting your eyelashes. “did i… did i do it wrong?”

“fuck, no,” his chuckle is hoarse and ruined, calloused thumbs swiping spit from your chin as he gazes up at you meaningfully with those hooded eyes. “just don’t wanna cum down your throat.”

“o-oh.”

the implication makes arousal bubble low in your belly, thighs squeezing together in need. caleb tracks the movement, nostrils flaring as he grins knowingly. “yeah, you don’t want that either, do you, pipsqueak?”

for a while, the two of you just stare at each other in disbelief. you don’t know how to tell caleb that you’d take him in any form he’s offering himself in, pining after him long enough that it’s painful. nothing you ever did got his attention, not in the way you truly wanted. he’s protective and possessive in all the right ways, but he’d never make the first move.

he’ll never come out and admit that he wants to spread you out on his bed and fuck you dumb, mark you as his so nobody else can have you. it took you coming to him to even get this far, so you might as well take matters into your own hands once more.

“teach me the rest, ge?”

the rest.

caleb releases a pained groan at your words and you think he’s going to refuse you, but then he’s flipping your positions, pushing you down onto the mattress with ease. he makes quick work of his sweatpants, shoving them down the rest of the way. then, he wrestles your panties off your hips and tosses them somewhere across the room.

“look at you,” he whispers, pushing your shirt up— his cock leaking a bead of precum at the sight of your pretty tits. he reaches forward, toying with your puffy nipples, grinning at the sound of your soft whimper.

“c-caleb.”

“you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you get that?” the confession comes out sounding suspiciously like a whine. he gazes down at you like you’re water and he’s a man lost deep in the desert, dying of thirst. “you’re the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. look at these cute tits, just begging for me to touch them. and—”

his big hands sink into the fleshy part of your upper thighs, opening them to get his first exclusive look at your pussy. his thumb parts your folds, spreading one side apart to watch the way your entrance twitches. caleb dips one finger into your cunt and could fucking cry at how warm and tight you feel. “fuck, you’re so wet. is this all ’cause of me?”

“d-don’t look at it so shamelessly, you pervert,” you scold him, squirming back and forth in his hold as you try to snap your thighs shut. “stop teasing me or i’ll hit you. this is embarrassing!”

“why not?” he tilts his head, giving you that boyish grin that makes your heart stop. “after i’m done with you, it’ll be mine anyway. my pretty pussy. my girl.”

you huff and drive your fist into his shoulder before folding your arms over your breasts, lower lip stuck out in an unhappy pout. caleb winces, though mirth still shines amongst the nebulas in his eyes. he leans down to kiss your pout away, chuckling in amusement. “okay, okay, don’t hurt me. i’ll give you what you want.”

and then, he’s wrapping a hand around the base of himself, kissing your clit with the leaking tip of his cock before rubbing it up and down your slit. he coats himself in your wetness before he finally notches against your entrance and slowly pushes.

the pressure makes air stutter out of your chest, blunt and unyielding. he immediately notices your struggle and drops forward on his elbows, caging you safely in his embrace. he kisses the corners of your eyelids, licking away stray tears.

“i hate hurting you like this,” he whispers in your ear, hips drawing back and crawling forward again. you gasp, eyes falling shut, and he shushes you once more. slides a hand down to play with your clit to distract you, which only makes you clench up around him. his jaw is clenched tight enough to shatter the bone, hand fisted in the sheets next to your head. “shh— relax and let me in. it’ll feel good in a second.”

“i-i don’t know if i can,” you say, trying to force your body to accept him, but when he sinks in those first few inches, you whimper and dig your nails into his biceps. “y-you’re so big, gege.”

“f-fuck, don’t—” caleb grunts and his fingers grip the soft sides of your belly, holding your body to his like a lifeline. “don’t call me that right now. i might cum. i’m gonna put the rest in, okay? be a good girl for me and take it. i-i can’t wait any longer.”

he draws out and presses forward all the way in, burying himself to the hilt inside your sweet pussy. his gaze drops to where you’re split obscenely around him, cunt fluttering in protest at the stretch and a ragged groan tears from his throat. it takes every ounce of willpower the military beat into him not to cream himself right then and there.

“c-caleb!”

you whine as caleb retreats slightly, only to surge back in, fucking a little deeper this time. the weight of his cock stretching you out borders on cruel, but you would die before you ask him to stop, your walls squeezing him in a vice grip. it takes a few trials and errors (“keep your hips down, pipsqueak” and “i don't know, maybe a little to the l— fuck, right there oh my god”) but eventually, caleb builds up a good rhythm, the cool metal of his dog tags pooling in the valley of your breasts as he fucks you with deep, steady strokes; bottoming out each time with a guttural groan.

“fuck— stop clenching so much i’m gonna lose my mind,” his breath scalds your neck, teeth grazing your pulse as he fucks a little faster. “so fucking good. that’s it, baby. you’re doing so good. taking every inch of me like this.”

he’s right, it is so fucking good— no, it’s better. your nails scrape against caleb’s back. shivering at the hot pleasure singeing your nerve endings each time he fucks into you. it doesn’t take long for pressure to gather in your lower belly, a band waiting to snap.

you can’t help but wriggle a hand between the two of your bodies and circle a trembling middle finger around your swollen clit. “nngh, you feel so fucking good, cal.”

“a-are you- god, that’s so hot,” he grunts, glancing down at the way you’re toying with your clit and it turns him on so much he’s speeding up, cock pistoning in and out of you, his thrusts deepening until he’s nearly kissing your cervix, he’s in so deep, your thighs slamming against his hips as you try to close your legs when the head of his cock brushes right up against your sweet spot, creating starbursts behind your eyelids.

“oh god, cal— i-i can’t!”

caleb’s grin is feral, grinding deep to press into that swollen spot inside you relentlessly. “knew i’d find it,” then his fingers joining yours and it’s so much better than your own, two digits rubbing quick circles into your sensitive clit. you’re a babbling mess at this point, the pleasure too much to keep up with. “can you cum for me? can you let me feel it? please? i’ll never ask you for another thing if you give me one right here, right now.”

what are you supposed to do, deny him? you couldn’t even if you tried, not with the heat in your belly full to bursting, needing an escape.

“’m gonna c-cum for you, ge, just for you,” you sob.

caleb has seen many versions of you over the years— grumpy and pillow-marked in the morning with syrup stains on your shirt at the breakfast table, covered in sand and sun-kissed at the beach, screaming at him to do something about the jellyfish sting on your leg, in sleek black dresses at the military balls you attended as his plus one that made all his comrades stop and stare. but you’ve never looked prettier than you do right now. his dog tags between your breasts, your creamy pussy fluttering around his cock, and your pretty face twisted in pleasure as you’re about to cum for him.

he hopes that when he dies, he’ll go out with this image in his brain.

those big doe eyes of yours roll back into your head, hands frantically pushing at his abdomen as if he’s trying to escape the overwhelming friction of his cock. you cum hard, thighs trembling, vision winking out. wet droplets of tears stream down your cheeks as white heat washes over your body, the pleasure bleeding through your limbs like wildfire.

seeing you like this, what is caleb supposed to do? not follow you? he’s been holding his own orgasm back since you barged into his room in one of his shirts, begging to be taught how to suck a cock. there’s no way he can last through seeing— through feeling— you cum around him. his rhythm fractures almost immediately and he knows he’s on thin ice, fraying at the edges.

“gonna cum,” he grits out, voice mangled. “fuck, i’m gonna cum. where do you want it?”

you don’t waste a second, babbling out the answer desperately, “i-inside, ge, cum inside me. give it to me please i want it so bad i’ll do anything!”

that’s all it takes.

one more sloppy thrust and he cums right after you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you still. he breathes choppy, ruined moans into your neck as he pumps his release deep inside your cunt before he collapses against you, damp chest heaving against yours, giving a few more weak thrusts of his hips as his climax ebbs.

you don’t know how long the two of you lay there, struggling to catch your breaths. you’re satisfied and pliant as putty underneath caleb, unable to move from his heavy embrace. he’s a wall of solid muscle, one that is pressing you into the mattress. “caleb, you’re heavy.”

“gimme a minute here, pipsqueak,” caleb chuckles breathlessly against your sweaty skin, pressing a wet kiss to your neck. “i just had the best sex of my life and can’t catch my breath.”

you begin to smile in pride, but then your eyes narrow as his words register through the fucked out haze clouding your brain. “wait, you were having sex before this?” you ask, jealousy bubbling up in your chest. “was it that one sergeant? the one who kept giving you lovey dovey eyes at the DAA gala?”

“mmm, nope,” he answers almost immediately, kissing your lips quickly to placate you, making your heart swell big and bright for the boy on top of you. “chill. saved myself all this time for you.”

your heart begins racing stupidly fast at that. “sap,” you tease, before an idea pops in your head and you reach for your phone tossed haphazardly on caleb’s bedside table.

caleb’s grip on you tightens as he notices you reach for it, a dark cloud shuttering his loving expression. “what are you doing?” he demands, the venom in his tone startling you a bit. “texting him already? that eager to try out what i just taught you?”

you frown in confusion until you remember the excuse you used upon coming into caleb’s room. wow, the boy you’re in love with is an idiot. giggling, you lean up and press a sweet kiss to his cheek before opening the camera on your phone and snapping a quick selfie of the two of you.

“no, you big dummy, i’m taking a pic of us losing our virginities together so i can add it to our photo album,” you explain simply, grinning. “and there was never any boyfriend, i made him up.”

[digitald0rk]

TEAR YOU APART

pairing : sinister! mark grayson x afab! florist reader.

synopsis : in which mark discovers your dirty little secret and decides to help you recreate it in real time.

(18+) warnings : kidnapping. nasty petty perv mark. allusions to cannibalism. mention of kinda gory violence. hair pulling. biting. mean name calling duh. giving each other head. p in v unprotected sex. creampies. marathon sex as in multiple orgasms. squirting. overstimulation . . . ++ just really nasty smut lol [ all consentual though! you two are freaks like in capital FREAKS ]

w.c : 5.5k.

notes : erm. yeah idk what possessed me to write this but lemme know what you think ! it's my first time writing smut this long and detailed [ my search history is crazy rn lol ]. let's just say this takes place in sinister mark's universe before he starts acting like a murder machine and all, so yeah :] again interactions are always appreciated, also do let me know if you think there's any warning i should add!

taglist : @vm4879bb-blog [ for the others, i wasn't sure if you guys would be okay being tagged in a fic like this so i didn't, let me know if you wanna be added tho :p ]

now on ao3 too!

he's going to kill something, or someone.

“oh yeah this? my boyfriend got it for me!”

he hears you talk about him, your lover, everyday and it annoys him deeply, the subtle furrow of his eyebrows barely noticeable but definitely there — sometimes a twitch of his eye, clear cracks in his carefully constructed facade give away his irritation if you choose to look closely.

“that reminds me, this one time he-”

he loves that pretty voice of yours — dare he say, he's grown fond of it, but he wants to shut you up forever whenever your boyfriend's name leaves your lips.

mark wants his name to be on your tongue — to be said with the same love and fondness that accompanies the name of your lover.

he tried, he really did, to give you signs — a squeeze of your hand there, a stare that can practically undress you on its own. but it seems you're oblivious to it all, or you're playing hard to get, either way his patience is running thin.

he'll get what he wants. just you wait.

every time he visits your little shop, it smells like flowers mixed with your perfume, that sweet and sugary scent with just a hint of citrus — he had asked you about the perfume you wore during his third visit, bought it the same day so he could finally get off because his imagination wasn't enough at this point, that kept him somewhat satisfied for a bit, but it wasn't nearly enough.

so when he stopped by next time, not even buying flowers to play along with whatever this is, he asked you, “where do you buy your clothes?”

you blink a couple times, clearly taken aback back by the sudden question but nonetheless, answer him — although you're not quite sure what to make of his disheveled hair and blown out pupils.

here he is, acting like a feral dog in heat, buying anything and everything that he can at the shops you frequent that resembles your clothes. and when he's back at home, he's spraying them with the perfume you always wear, rutting like a madman into the mattress as he mouths at a pink shirt — the same one you own and the one you were wearing when he first saw you, his drool leaking and staining the shirt as he holds it close to his mouth and closing his eyes, your scent surrounding him as he suckles on the chest area of the shirt, imagining it's your chest instead which has him groaning and cumming in his pants. that keeps him going for another week or so.

next thing he knows, he's acting on pure instinct and his desires — snapping photos of your panties underneath your little skirts like a fucking pervert, looking them up online so he could order them and make a mess of them. and he does, he stains each and everyone of those panties with his hot, thick cum and sometimes his spit when he imagines eating your pretty pussy out. his desires however continue to only grow.

he visits your little shop, like he always does, mentally preparing himself to not grab your throat and shove you down to make you shut up if he hears about your stupid boyfriend again.

he's being nice, can't you see? you should be thankful.

mark sees a new ring on your finger, the small silver zircon on it shining underneath the sunlight, he wonders if it's another gift from your boyfriend.

the thought leaves a bitter taste behind, regardless, he maintains his usual aloof facade, waiting for you to finish wrapping up his bouquet that he's going to end up tossing away the next day — just like the other flowers he's bought from you, they don't compare to you or your beauty, he wants you, a flower that won't rot away once he's done playing with it.

surprisingly, you don't mention the name of a certain man who he wants dead and buried six feet deep but he doesn't comment on it, in fact, a small barely imperceptible smile tugs at his lips.

he's just about to leave your little flower heaven when he hears something that makes his heart, uncharacteristically skip a beat.

“yeah i heard, i’m so sorry,” a voice, which he recognizes as your friend speaks softly, sympathetically.

“yeah, i don't know what i was thinking,” you start, “the signs were there, i just never thought he'd cheat like that,” you blink away the forming tears, “i trusted him.”

he stops dead in his tracks. that bastard cheated on you? he'll make him pay for being the reason you cry, although your tears do make his cock twitch in his pants. he'll lick them off of your face if you let him, god he really wants to.

should he simply keep your boyfriend to torture? he's sure he could lure you in with it, after all you are way too sweet for your own good.

he'll slowly tear each of his limbs apart, making sure the man hears his bones cracking and skin ripping, he'll make that fucker bleed to death. hell, he'd even record those painful, agonizing sounds that your ex would cry out, he's sure you'd cry more if he lets you hear them, maybe he just wants to see you cry — though he's sure you'll do that when you choke on his cock.

he snaps out of his little fantasy when the bell rings, indicating the opening of the door — another customer in, he sighs. he's losing it, he's not sure how much he can withstand not having you with him. but he's trying, for you.

for the sweetest girl who he can't wait to devour.

with his restraint hanging on by a thread, he steps out of your shop, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists by his sides. he needs to have you.

and that restraint finally snaps the next day when he discovers that his favorite florist is a fucking freak.

as you're tending to customers — clearly overwhelmed by their number as valentine’s day is approaching and flowers are definitely a safe option for your partner, his eyes stay locked on your laptop's screen that you had put on one of the small tables, lid only half closed, his eyes frantically scan over some of the words as he fully opens the screen, trying to stay out of your vision.

he quickly decides to go somewhere where there aren't so many people so he could take a look inside his sweet girl's sick mind. and with that he skillfully slips outside — he feels awfully excited, sneaking into the small bathroom of some shop.

and with each click of the cursor and another tab opening, he learns your most depraved, disgusting fantasies — the kind of porn you're into, your kinks and fetishes, the smut you read, all of it.

he even stumbles upon a small blog you run, oh now we're talking. each lewd image or post you've reblogged, followed by some words of “wish that was me rn”, has him hard. and these date back before your break up, meaning your boyfriend was definitely not keeping you satisfied and that has him grinning like a maniac.

oh he'll give you what you want.

he shamelessly palms himself when he finds your dairy entry with his name, rambling about how you feel guilty fantasizing about him ruining you. he would've cum right then and there if it weren't for the knocking on the door, “hey man, you mind hurrying it up?”

oh right he's still in a bathroom and not in you, like he should be.

he manages to sneak your laptop back in, thanking the absurd amount of customers mentally which helped him go in and out without raising suspicion.

he can't take it anymore, it's only been a couple hours since he's discovered your filthy secret and also saw you tearing up earlier because of that asshole who broke your heart.

he knows he's a hypocrite — he doesn't care for your dumb feelings and your big heart, okay well maybe that's a lie.

it is a lie.

and there are definitely these feelings that he refuses to acknowledge but still, the only reason why you should be crying is because of him fucking your brains out.

and so he waits, like a predator waiting to pounce — he holds his breath, watching as the sun sets and you lock up your shop, ready to go home and get some sleep but your plans are interrupted as a hand sneaks up behind you with some sort of cloth, muffling your panicked noises and before you know it you're knocked out.

it takes you hours to gain your consciousness back, eyes all heavy and mind disoriented you blink, once. then twice, your eyes widen and your mouth suddenly feels too dry. you're all tied up to a cold hard metal chair, you're only in your bra and panties, the rope is too tight, it's constricting and will definitely leave behind angry marks on your skin.

standing before you is one of your regular customers, mark. you stare at him, dumbfounded — eyes darting around to look for an escape okay to see a single door, desk and some chairs, panic settles in your bones, the coldness of the room does nothing to soothe your nerves.

you mindlessly try to shift around, a desperate attempt that leaves you wincing in pain — the friction of the thick black rope burning against your skin.

you try to speak, but nothing comes out, only a small choked sob — looking at him with those wide eyes which are brimming with tears that are oh so close to spilling and staining your cheeks, you look utterly helpless. the sight alone makes him excited.

he takes a deep breath, he wants to take his time with you, savor you. but goddamnit, if you keep looking at him like that he's sure he'll end up doing the opposite of that.

“open your mouth,” he commands, leaving no room for argument and you hate the way it sends a shiver down your spine and a throb to your core. 

you hesitantly open your mouth, with his back turned to you — doing god knows what, you try screaming for help, it is a weak attempt that makes him chuckle, “no one's going to hear you sweetheart,” he coos mockingly, “i suggest you play along if you wish to live.”

he's not joking, his voice makes it clear. 

so you reluctantly keep your mouth opened, hot tears falling down — lucky for you, he's being nice, at least for now because he brings a glass of water, holding your jaw and pouring the water in your mouth, some of it spills, the coldness of it on your bare skin making you shiver — but you swallow all he gives hastily, hoping it really is just water.

you sputter a bit of the water out onto him in surprise when he licks a stream of you tears away, his tongue hot against your skin and his spit leaving a shiny trail on your cheek. scared, that he'll hurt you because of what you've just done, you close your eyes shut as if the mere action would actually rewind back time and do something for you.

he laughs, loudly.

god, you're adorable. he could just eat you up.

“are you scared of me?” he asks, knowing damn well it's a pointless question but the genuine fear in your eyes has him reeling with joy and a desire only you, his sweetheart, can fulfill.

he puts the now empty glass of water back on a small table, “you know, you look real pretty like this,” he starts, dragging a chair to sit across you, “but i bet you'd look real pretty without anything on.”

you don't answer, you don't know how to. your eyes are still looking around the big room for any exits, any openings — he smiles at your desperation, it's cute really.

“or maybe you'd look even prettier with some blood on you hm?” his tone although amused is firm enough to leave you unsure if he's being serious or not, he drags a finger across your belly, “what if i make a cut right here?”

you immediately shake your head, trying to speak but he shuts you up by pinching one of your hard nipples through your bra, your protests die down into a small whimper — the sound has him grinning from ear to ear.

his eyes glint with something sinister that has you both scared and turned on. “i know you want this slut,” he holds your jaw harshly.

shame settles in your bones as you realize he's right.

“don't play coy sweet girl i saw all of it,” when you give him a confused look, he continues, “that little blog of yours, that disgusting shit you're into.”

oh fuck.

he sees the look of absolute horror mixed with embarrassment on your face and he tuts like he's disappointed, “dirty girl,” like he isn't the one who literally kidnapped you here.

“i don't know what you're talking about,” you both know you're lying, but sure he'll play along if that's what you want — he's feeling good today.

he reaches for your bag and rips it open — a clear display of who's still in charge here and how he definitely could kill you in an instant.

mark opens your laptop and asks you the password. you don't tell him at first as if that would change anything.

“i asked you a simple question,” he walks closer to you, grips your shoulder hard enough to make you regret your words, “or do i need to rip something else for you to answer me hm?” his grip tightens and you know he's not playing around, your voice shakes as you give him the four number pin, breathing heavily when he lets go of his hard bruising grip on your shoulder.

“good girl,” fuck him, he's doing this on purpose now! and the smug look on his face only confirms your suspicions.

he shows you the deepest, filthiest fantasies of yours that you keep tucked in your laptop, away from the world.

“what's wrong? don't pretend you're not dripping wet right now.”

again, he's not wrong.

“why are you doing this?” you ask him, still struggling a bit against the ropes that bind you.

“i wanna give you what you want,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. he also wants to make you forget about your ex boyfriend, but he's not admitting that, jealousy is a weakness. and one that he suffers from immensely.

“you what-”

“drop the act,” he huffs, irritation visible in the way his eyebrows furrow. “just admit it already. you're a sick disgusting pervert who goes prancing around like she's not thinking of having her holes filled,” he tugs at your hair to keep your head up, his eyes dark with lust boring right into yours.

“are you crazy? you fucking kidnapped-”

he cuts you off again, “so you don't want this?”

silence.

“i’ll untie you right now and let you leave, just tell me you want to leave.”

silence, again.

you're not fooling anybody.

“yeah that's what i thought,” he let's go of your hair, “the safe word is-” he mutters your ex’s name and before you can even comment on the sheer absurdity of it all, he's ripping your panties away from your throbbing pussy, groaning at the sight of your glistening wet folds, all needy just for him.

he quickly pockets the ripped panties. pervert.

“look at this needy cunt, all for me hm?” he muses aloud, spreading your legs apart and breaking apart the ropes that tried to interfere with his ministrations. he shakily inhales when he sees your arousal slowly spill out — you're so fucking wet. his heated gaze leaving goosebumps on your skin.

he presses a chaste kiss to your folds, practically salivating as he breathes you in — he's gonna end up cumming in his pants, he's dreamt of this exact moment for so long.

he gathers a considerable amount of saliva in his mouth before spitting it onto your neglected cunt which twitches at the action, the sight is downright filthy and it makes you moan.

he wastes no time — getting on his knees, licking a strip up your slit before devouring your pussy like a man starved for days, shamelessly rutting into the chair you're sitting on at your taste. you taste so good, he wants to drown in it.

he's messy and loud, your hands are still tied behind your back so you can't push his head away and grip his hair when he attacks your clit with his tongue, sucking on it relentlessly. your hips lift up and buck into his face, your noises only getting louder as he fucks his tongue into your warm wet hole. he moans at the feeling of your thighs squeezing around his head and nearly suffocating him — your walls clenching around his tongue as you cry out his name in utter pleasure.

he shoves two of his thick fingers in without any warning — a surprised small squeal leaving your lips, while his tongue works in torturous circles around your sensitive bundle of nerves and eagerly licking between your folds. your pretty whimpers are music to his ears.

clearly overwhelmed with pleasure, you make a pathetic attempt to squirm away from his touch, which earns you a harsh smack to your thigh followed by a bite — his teeth dig into your flesh, leaving behind bruising marks that will sting for days, the line between pain and pleasure blurring.

a familiar feeling settles in your belly, it only builds up as he continues to go down on you. “mark! mark! i'm i’m-” you try warning him, but his fingers only speed up, he sucks harshly on your clit, holding your hips down when you cum — your body shaking, crying out his name oh so sweetly, he wants to hear it again and again, until the only word you know is his name.

he doesn't pull away from your cunt though, drinking up every bit of your release and arousal that you offer — holding you down and forcing you to submit to the relentless pleasure he's giving you, moaning into your pussy like he's having the best meal of his life.

he doesn't let you rest, inserting another finger in — easily massaging that sweet spot that you can't reach as easily as he does.

“oh fuck!” you whine out loud, when he keeps overstimulating your poor pussy, the squelching wet noises only increasing as he eats you out. he loves the way your brain is turning to mush, mindlessly babbling his name along with your sweet noises.

and when you cum again, he still doesn't stop. 

you've lost count of how many orgasms you've had at this point, body too sensitive and shaking almost like a leaf.

with eyes brimming with seemingly never ending tears, vision practically blurry from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body, it doesn't take him long to bring you to the edge again — except this time you end up squirting all over his pretty face, a surprised noise leaves your mouth as your body jolts hardly.

he finally pulls away. a small moan leaves your lips as you take in the sight in front of you.

mark grayson, on his knees, face all wet and drenched in your juices and his spit, breathing heavily — looking at you like he's going to eat you alive.

he's breathing really heavily, your dazed state makes it hard for you to comprehend things but you can clearly see the big wet spot on his pants. he came — from just eating you out.

“messy fucking slut,” he spanks your already oversensitive pussy making you hiss and cry out, body still quivering and twitching from that intense release.

he pushes your legs apart again, spreading your pussy open for him to see, he mutters a curse under his breath as he sees remnants of your release clinging onto the sensitive skin. he needs to get up before he ends up eating you out — as much as he would love to do that, he can't wait much longer, he needs to be buried inside that sweet cunt of yours and make you see stars.

he gets up from his knees. grabbing your hair, mark makes you lick his face clean, you taste yourself on his face and feel yourself getting worked up again. “good fucking girl, gonna put that mouth to better use, just you wait,” his hand reaches down to pinch your clit, laughing when you let out a small pained noise.

he hastily tears away your bra, the fabric discarded somewhere on the cold floor. he pinches and lightly grazes his nails against the perked up sensitive buds, making you squirm and let out small whimpers — it stings, but it also gets you insanely wet.

“look at that, pretty pussy’s practically begging to be fucked,” he bites down on your shoulder, a pained groan escapes your mouth and he bites harder, pulling away to admire the mark his teeth left.

you barely have time to look at the new addition of marks he's left on your body so far, before he's untying your hands behind your back, taking your wrists into his and pulling you down. you stumble a bit at the harsh tug — legs practically jelly from all those orgasms.

he draws you closer by your arms, manhandling you easily so you're sitting in between his open legs — the cold floor against your warm body.

“take it off,” he commands, gesturing to his pants. you hesitantly take them off, his ruined boxers coming into vision.

he's an impatient man, he always gets what he wants.

mark grabs a fistful of your hair and forces your head down onto his clothed — aching cock, making his impatience very clear.

“dumb bitch, can't do anything herself,” his tone demeaning, shutting up your protests by shoving his thumb in your mouth. he lifts his hips up to finally free himself of his boxers, his cock standing up — bobbing and leaking with pre. you gulp, eyes flitting back over to his face.

he lets out a small moan as you gather some of your saliva to spit on his hard cock, licking teasingly up his length over one of his prominent veins.

“don't be a fucking tease,” he takes ahold of your jaw harshly, tugging your tongue out before you can close your mouth — that he can't wait to be in and spits on your tongue, making you swallow it, before shoving you back a bit.

he pushes your hair out of your face so he could watch you better, the gesture so sweet and gentle — it makes you almost forget how mean he's been.

you slowly start pushing his length into your mouth, “thaaat's right, take it like the good slut you are,” his words die down into a groan as he feels your tongue swirl around his sensitive tip.

he's being nice for once, letting you take your time, your head bobs up and down as you suck him off while your hands jerk the rest of his cock that you can't fit in your mouth, tongue working against his sensitive spots.

but your mouth feels so good, so warm, so wet — his hips jerk up involuntarily, making you gag and tear up at the burn you feel at the back of your throat.

you look so pretty like this, those pretty lips wrapped around his cock, eyes glassy — don't blame him for wanting to ruin you when you look like that.

he pulls himself out of your mouth slightly — just to make sure he doesn't end up cumming too soon, before shoving himself back in, moaning in pleasure at the sensations he feels. you keep sucking, forcing all of him in your mouth, almost choking on his cock, some drool leaking out of the corners of your mouth, but it's worth it — worth those small whimpers and grunts he lets out, ones he can't hold back because of how good he feels right now, all because of you.

and when your hand reaches down to lightly toy with his balls, cupping them, he shivers and lets out a low moan of your name, without a proper warning his cock twitches in your mouth and he cums, hard — flooding your mouth with his thick salty release.

you try to swallow as much as you can but it's too much, however, mark being the fucking asshole he is, forces your head back down on his twitching cock and pinches your nose shut making it hard to breathe.

he breaks into a full blown laugh. oh how he loves the way your eyes water up — that panicked expression on your face as you struggle to breathe, some of his cum leaking out your pretty mouth, squirming and still trying to push him away. it only turns him on more, “it's rude to talk with your mouthful,” he quips, holding your gaze.

he lets you go finally and you pull him out of your mouth quickly, throat already feeling sore — you cough, wiping away his cum and your spit from your face with the back of your hand.

“you should've seen the look on your face,” he chuckles darkly — clearly pleased with himself, shifting closer to you to pin you down, wasting no time shoving his tongue in your mouth, messily kissing you. he lets you pull off his shirt, his hips buck a little when you start feeling him up.

he can taste himself on your tongue and god that only adds to his growing arousal.

he pulls away a little so he can start biting and sucking down your neck, his other hand sneaking down to tease your pussy — tracing circles onto your clit, he grinds against you, “gonna fucking ruin you for everyone else,” he bites your earlobe, tugging on it, his fingers moving to tease your other hole, “gonna make sure this fucking pussy is always full of me,” he slaps your pussy, making you cry out his name.

he quickly aligns himself with your wet entrance, taking a deep breath before nudging his tip in — shoving it all in one go, making you tremble in both pain and pleasure that'll build over time, “come on i know you can take it, isn't this what you wanted?” he coos mockingly, pressing sloppy wet kisses to your face, licking your face like some fucking dog, leaving your face covered in his spit.

as soon as your muscles relax the tiniest bit he's thrusting in and out of you like a madman — you yelp loudly, holding onto him for dear life, nails digging into his back.

“fuck- oh my god!”

the only sounds in the room are the fast wet sounds of him thrusting into you, your pussy squelching loudly at the action and your combined moans and whines.

your gummy walls clench around him harder with each thrust, his cock hitting that sweet spot so well it has you seeing stars, all you can think about is him.

“oh fuck,” he grunts into your ear when he feels you tighten around him, gripping him like a vice, “think she needs to be filled all nice and warm with my cum, don't you agree baby?” he accentuates each word with a harsh thrust, relishing the way your body writhes under him.

you nod mindlessly, desperate for that sweet release more than anything.

“aww what's wrong?” he leans down to suck on one of your nipples, pinching and toying with the other one — a choked out sob leaves your lips, you feel tears pooling in your eyes, you clench around him even harder, desperate to milk him for all he's worth. he lets out a whine when he sees the outline of his cock in your belly going in and out, fuck he's going to cum.

the movement his hips falter at the feeling of your pussy gripping him tightly, “oh fuck,” he breathes heavily, muscles tensing up a bit. he pulls out, moving you on your stomach, giving your ass an appreciative spank when you arch your back for him.

“guess she answered for you hm?”, he muses — pumping himself a few times before settling back into your warm needy cunt, “fucked too dumb to answer but can still arch your back like a needy whore? you're so fucking pathetic,” he licks over the opening of your little hole, an arm coming around to hold you in a headlock that has your vision blurry — in the best way possible. getting impatient, you try to fuck yourself back onto his length but he doesn't let you.

“nasty girl, i can feel you clenching around me” spank “you like it when i’m being mean hm?” spank “oh right you can't answer,” spank “not a thought behind those pretty eyes hm?” spank “don't worry, you don't have to think at all, you wouldn't have to, when i’m done with you.”

he starts rutting into you again, his filthy mouth doesn't stop as he dicks you down like his life depends on it. his arm around your neck — squeezing, leaving you dizzy as he pounds into you from behind like he's in heat, you've given up on trying to control your noises. he sneaks a hand down to pinch and toy with your clit — making your walls clench and toes curl and you cum for the nth time with almost a scream of his name, your body shakes vigorously as a result of your intense orgasm.

it doesn't take long for him to cum as well, especially with you screaming his name like that. with a few more sloppy thrusts he fills you up with his warm sticky white release, head thrown back as a soft whimper of your name is uttered out of his mouth.

breathing heavily, he makes sure to not waste a single drop — once again buries himself as deep as he can, admiring all the various marks that he has littered your skin with.

he pulls out after awhile, keeping your thighs apart with his rough calloused hands so he can see the sight of his cum mixed with yours leak out of your hole, shit, he's getting hard again.

he's honestly not sure if you can keep up — he doesn't want to end up hurting you- well you're his toy, nothing more than that he doesn't care if he hurts you, he really doesn't.

he wants to break you, ruin you. yeah, that's it.

his eyes definitely do not soften the slightest bit as he takes in your disheveled state, back still arched prettily for him, your ass red from all his spanking, skin battered with various marks, a proof of the intense passionate sex you two had.

but when you crane your head back, looking at him, “I can take it,” you're still trying to catch your breath, wincing a bit as you shift your body around, “give it to me mark,” you sound so sweet — swaying your hips side to side to make him give in and fill you up again.

you want him to break you.

and he does just that.

again and again, until he's sure your cunt remembers each vein and curve of his cock, stuffing your hole full to the brim each time.

so when your body finally gives out — almost passing out after another orgasm that he pulls out from you, lying on top of the only desk in the room as he drills into your cunt, he stops. pulling out and painting your tits with his release with a loud groan, his hair is sticking up in all different directions from the way you've kept pulling on it, body coated in a sheen layer of sweat — shaking as his chest heaves unevenly with each breath he takes just like yours.

he watches as your eyes close shut and you drift into a light slumber after a few minutes. his heart beating weirdly in an erratic manner, he chalks it up to the sex, although he has to admit he finds your sleepy face quite adorable, he may or may not want to hear that giggle again — the one you let out when he ended up cumming a little too fast when you praised him.

but he'll think about that when his face is not buried between your thighs, tongue sinking back into your folds — he can't get enough of you.

and with the way you whimper loudly, tugging on his hair oh so eagerly.

it seems like you can't get enough of him either.

so he'll indulge you to your heart’s content — maybe he'll save that video of him torturing your ex boyfriend and leaving him to die in a ditch for some other day.

© digitald0rk 2025. do not steal, repost or translate any of my work. want more? click here ★

[dilf-docs]

All Roads Lead To Rome

pedro pascal x younger fem!reader

summary: your boyfriend swears he isn't annoyed at your little surprise visit on the set of gladiator II; you might have to help him release his anger, one way... or another.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (BARK BARK BARK), smut, p. in v., bit of exhibition kink cause they fuck on his trailer, he swears he's mad but he just wants head, oral (m. receiving), he also uses his armor and skirt while at it bc its hot and not bc i totally want that to happen to me or smth!!!, brat taming, orgasm denial, breeding and daddy kink lowkey, i'm so down bad for him so there's fluff!!! + pedro being whipped cause that's exactly what i want in my men, the cast makes cameos bc i love them!!!, use of spanish (i'm latina so don't even try me)

word count: 3,519 words

side note: i'm about as FERAL and horny as much as one could be!!! damn u pedro, making me walk out in the middle of class and walk on foot to the nearest theather for an early gladiator II screening (bc they're cheaper and i'm a jobless broke student lmao) that mind u it's my first solo trip to the movies but it's okay!!!! nobody interrupt me on my horny dilf hours amirite I TELL U that cinema was almost empty: just me, pedro and hey there's a spot if u wanna join mescal (look at my blog banner IYKYK) so yeah!!!! enjoy this porn lovechild that steemed from it; my pedro renaissance that'd been asleep since tlou dropped AWAKES (u don't get it, i literally watched narcos just for him) i'm so fr i need this man BIBLICALLY!!

"Lemme guess, that's her, right?"

Pedro looks up from his phone, slightly red and embarrassed. He would blame the color on the sun, and as an actor, fake his way out.

"No idea what you're talking about, Paul"

The young man chuckles.

"I mean, every break we get, you take your chair, sit the farthest and pull your phone with the most ridiculous grin I've ever seen. I'm afraid to tell you, friend, you aren't as slick as you think"

He leans back against the chair, covering his face with his large palm.

"At least I tried" he finds no point in lying anymore, "seems like I'm addicted, but if it wasn't for y/n, I wouldn't touch it"

"I'm curious, though" Paul scoots his chair closer, "who texts who? You or her?"

"Me" he answers, but then corrects himself quickly, a bit ashamed of how that makes him sound, "but it's mostly her first".

"Right" he doesn't sound convinced, rather curious and annoyed, something he's too old and tired for, "I don't believe you"

He's about to lock his phone, but the wallpaper (a selfie with you) would probably earn him another mock from Mescal.

"Too bad I don't need you to"

Before he can do so, the irish man yanks his phone away.

"Give it back!" he shouts, earning a few glances from the crew around them, "what are you, ten?"

"No, twenty-eight" they look like kids bickering. "No need to fight me, Mr. Pascal, they haven't taught us the new fighting choreography yet" he mocks, before the phone chimes; they both stop at the sound.

"What does this mean?" Paul asks. "Malta's nice" he reads out loud, "were you talking about possible future vacations? I might have to tag along"

He doesn't follow the man's joke, instead, looking at the message on your chat. Malta's nice, says the little cryptic message, and yes―it is cryptic, because you were just talking about missing each other and some other corny stuff he'd take to his grave. Not vacations, and certainly, not about the european island, which happens to also be the place were he's filming his latest movie.

"No, we weren't" he replies confused, "what do you think it means?"

"Well, obviously, you boys don't know anything" May pops up from behind, laughing.

"Were you eavesdropping?" he asks playfully, albeit, a little offended.

"No, you guys are just too loud" she replies nonchalant. "Besides, you aren't very good at hiding it, either"

"That's what I said!" Paul backs, laughing on his face.

"Stop being misterious and just drop it"

"It means" she pauses―laughing at her own little dramatic effect, "that you're getting a visit soon"

When you met Pedro, you were working in The Last Of Us. Nothing fancy, just part of the technical cast of the show: helping with the filming and stuff.

During those months, it was easy to find yourself falling for the main star (alongside Bella Ramsey), especially when you spent months behind a camera, capturing all of his perfect features; learning them by memory until you could draw them without seeing his face.

Yes, you had fallen for the older man, because it was as natural as breathing; easy as being alive―the fall so gentle and so easy, it was hard to know when the feelings started. You just woke up one day, feeling different.

You liked to act up―always had what you wanted, and times had changed (so it's not like he had to ask first): why not? Which is why during your last day of shooting you took some liquid courage on your veins and went up his way. It was at a little gathering the crew you've grown to call family organized, while wearing your favorite and tightest dress, that you approached him.

It surprised you that he even recognized you, but that's who he was: warm, welcoming and caring.

To augment the surprise, turns out he had eyed you already, but was too shy to do anything. Yes, the worlds most famous Chilean man. It did stroke your ego, and maybe that's why you feel like most of the time, you've got the upper hand on your relationship, despite the years in between.

Still, you feel like the last message you just sent was a bit too blunt. Now you sit at the tiny airport, pondering your next move.

You know your boyfriend isn't exactly the type to scold or get mad―despite his strong figure, but going against the only thing he asked you might test him. Which is why you feel nervous, despite the happiness around you, everyone in the airport looking straight out of a picture perfect summer edition magazine.

And your theory is proven exactly right when you arrive impromptu at the Gladiator II set: making heads turn and guards almost kick you out, thinking you're a fan.

"You don't get it!" you protest, "he's my boyfriend".

"Sure", they laugh on your face. "you're not the first to say that".

"She's not lying" oh, how you love that gravely voice. But not today: not when he sounds like a parent scolding a naive child. Not when his eyes bore into you, slightly irritated.

So now he's dragging you among the set, right to were his trailer is.

"Aren't you going to introduce me?" you ask, puffing your cheeks out in annoyance. He keeps dragging you by the arm, without sparing a glance in your way. Who does he think he is? "I wanted to tell Paul he made me cry―twice. You know I don't play about Normal People and Aftersun"

"But you do seem to play about my orders" he grunts out, opening the door to his trailer. The sunlight reflects against the white, slightly bothering your eyes with its shine, contrary to your boyfriend's gloomy behaviour.

"Are you being serious right now? You're not my dad to scold me. I just wanted to surprise you" you stand still, refusing to get inside. Pedro knows your character tends to be stubborn, and thought he finds it hot to reel you up sometimes, there are other times where he can't just stand that juvenile spirit of rage you tend to have when things don't go the way you want them to. "What's gotten into you?"

"I could ask you the same" he mocks. "Get inside. Now"

"Rude" you scoff, but obey regardless, and he breathes out relieved you didn't do a scene like last time; he still can't show his face on that restaurant to this day.

"I thought you'd be happy to see me" you say a tad bit dissapointed, and Pascal feels the pissed off feelings clouding his brain start to dissipate.

"I do, amor" he sighs, "just hate to see you do things I tell you not to; waltzing in here like you own the place".

You don't see the mistake, though. What's wrong with wanting to do a little surprise? It's not like you were a stalker or something; just a very clingy girlfriend who happens to miss her boyfriend.

"So, you're not mad?" you venture, "tell me you're not embarrassed"

He looks at you, the fondness of his gaze betraying him.

"I'm not the one wearing a skirt while trying to sound intimidating" you joke while caressing the crook of his nose, knowing you always get on his good side. Being mad isn't something that lasts, "if anyone should be embarrassed, that's you"

"Are you saying I shouldn't wear one because I'm a man?" your boyfriend looks offended, "Have you forgotten the movie I'm starring in? People feared the skirt-wearing Roman army"

"Well, I'm not intimidated" you stand defiant, and something dark tints his brown eyes. You can feel the excitement begin pooling in your stomach.

"You're not?" he grips your wrists and yanks you to him, then holds your chin, tilting your head between his calloused fingers. "Well, cariño, you should be"

Your body slams against one of the trailers walls, and you have to suppress a whine.

"You must be punished for what you did today"

You give him a doe-eye look, pretending to be all innocent, as if you weren't enjoying the punishment.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I've been a good girl"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about" he clicks his tongue, "don't play dumb with me"

"I just came to visit you" you murmur, voice husky against his ear. He grunts, and with the proximity, his hard-on rasps against your bare legs, only partly covered by the flowy summer dress you're wearing, "is that so bad?"

"It is. Has sido mala, cariño" his hand travels down under your dress, carresing with his large palm the silhoutte of your ass. The rings on his fingers create a shock, cold metal against your warm sun-bathed skin. "Naughty girl"

"I promise I'll be good, papi" you purr, using that honeyed voice of yours that makes it hard: hard to say no and hard between his pants.

Pedro sits on a small couch he has inside the trailer, guiding you with his hand enveloped around yours, motioning you to follow with a care so soft, you'd doubt he's about to do to you what he is about to do to you. He pulls you across his lap, smiling (God, you love his smile) as your stomach presses against his tights.

"Don't worry" he breathes low, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll make you a good girl. Tell me, aren't you?"

You swallow, "I am"

He moves the panties easily to the side, rubbing your pussy a little. He then spanks it softly, making you mewl at the sting.

Pedro continues to trace over it, "Are you sure about that?"

"N-no" you shiver in delight, resolve dissolving as quick as it came. "I'm naughty"

"It's good to be aware" he murmurs, "Dilo otra vez"

"I'm a naughty girl"

He lifts your head by your hair. "Tell me what you did"

"Disobeyed your orders, coming to the set" you whisper. He lets go of your hair, his hands traveling down again, slowly teasingly rubbing your pussy while he humms.

"You were a little brat, amor"

You whimpered and mewled in delight. "I was a very naughty brat"

He pushed his fingers inside you, plunging his fingers into your pussy.

"Look at you. You're soaking wet" he pumped his fingers in you, making you moan, "Is that why you came to see me? Couldn't wait any longer for daddy to be inside of you?"

You bucked a little, making him stop. He drags his fingers out, causing you to beg for him to go back.

"Answer my question you greedy thing" He leaned closer to your ear. "Did you need my cock this much?"

You whimper, "I do! Missed you so much"

He pushed his fingers back into you, provoking a moan out of you.

"You're always so needy for me" your core tenses, making you shiver. "How badly do you want me? Tell me"

You whimpered "Badly, papi"

"Say it" his face contorts in satisfaction at your pathethic display; crying little mess, "Who's cock, fingers and mouth make you feel good?"

You can't think at this point, your brain fuzzy and pussy hot, leaking. You kiss his lips, moaning against them, "you!"

"Just me, yes? Nobody else can make you feel this good?"

"No one!"

You involuntarily roll your hips to aid you in pleasure, yet Pedro stops you just before you can reach your orgasm.

"Little brat." he tuts, making you groan. "Did you think I'd let you? You were naughty today, baby"

You huff in annoyance, used to having your way.

"That's your punishment"

"But I'll behave" you mewl against his ear, "I promise"

“Good, because I'm planning on fucking your brains out” his hot breathe whispers in your ear seductively, trying his best not to slur the words at the drunken haze that your arousal provokes in him, "but you have to help me first"

You get on your knees, looking at the garment he's wearing. The skirt and general costume makes this all the more hot, mouth watering at the sight. You raise the skirt, glancing at the briefs; just seeing his dick strained against the fabric makes you wet in anticipation.

He sees the pleasure bore into your orbs, and before you do any dirty idea of yours, he's already warning:

"You have to take this off, what if we-"

"Alright" you cut him off, "but the skirt stays"

"Sigue, pues" he growls, voice low yet demanding, following you in your little game.

As you pull the briefs down, his erection springs out enthusiastically, slapping up against his lower abdomen. You shifted your gaze up to meet his, his eyelids heavy and his proud smirk driving you absolutely wild.

"That's right" he chokes out, "show me how much you missed it"

You give him a proud lick, and Pedro hisses at the moment his preseminal fluid goes in between your hungry lips.

Your tongue darts to the head of his cock, running over it several times before bobbing your head down, taking most of him in your mouth. He keeps praising as you pump the base of his cock with your hand. Your head bobs, yet you peek up to hear Pascal's little sounds and facial expression, a motivation so intimate in the way his brows furrow and eyes roll, mouth agape at your movements while his lip suck on those pretty lips of his. It makes you keep going. With every bob you take as much of him in your mouth as you can, before slowly moving your way back up to the tip, increasing your suction the closer to his head you got. A throaty moan escapes the man above you when you now focus on the final lick, making him closer to coming, all while maintaining eye contact the entire way through.

"Don't do that" he rasps, yanking you by the hair again, as of punishment, but he knows you enjoy it, "you promised you'd be good"

You can't answer, so instead, you reach the head of his cock again, and now his eyes roll back, mumbling profanities that sound like heaven.

"Do you want them to hear us, brat? Qué necia eres" he manages to chastise while moaning.

You feel his dick stuck in your throat, and the way he's about to come; you think that after some time dating, you know him well enough.

You're about to leave with your mouth when he stops you.

"No" your eyes open in shock, "what? Did you think your punishment is over?" Pedro laughs, "don't look at me like that. Like you have never done it before"

He keeps you in place by the hair, the rings prickling against your scalp. You feel his muscles tense up, and before you can think anything else thick and hot shots of cum invade your mouth, making it sticky and warm.

"Don't pretend you don't like it" his voice goes dark, husky. "Swallow it all. Te han enseñado a no desperdiciar nada, ¿verdad? Show me your good manners, then"

When you pull out, your throat feels raspy.

"You gotta reward me" you cough out.

"I promised, didn't I?" his fingers trace your face delicately, with adoration.

"It's all about duty, General Acacius" you purr, and the dick springs out again. Hard.

"Princess..." he warns.

"For the glory of Rome" you joke and laugh, then cough, as your throat is still sore.

"Have you been reading my script?" as you avoid to answer, he just chuckles, "ay, nena"

"C'mere" he motions, and you sit on his lap again. Pedro lifts your dress, exploring the curve of your ass. There's anticipation as he hooks his finger around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to access your core.

"Fuck" you squirm at his touch, grinding your freed cunt against his hard cock. He grabs you by the hip, adjusting you right on his lap.

"You taste so good" he kisses down your throat, ending at the chest were your tits peak.

"Want them?" you offer, pulling your dress down. He kisses them, gently nipping at your perked up nipples.

A wave of pleasure courses through you, and with whines and moans, you show how desperate you are, the hunger making the meal taste better. After all those weeks missing him, you just want him to fuck you senseless.

His lips are rosy and swollen against yours, mouths clashing; starved of the yearned contact. Truth is, no matter how much you know how to touch yourself, it'll never be the same as having his hard cock tear through your tight folds.

Pedro easily aligns his leaking cock with your uncovered pussy, all while mantaining the kiss. He pushes down on you, your dripping cunt taking all of his rock-hard cock, fingers holding onto the soft brown grey sprinkled locs.

"Pedro" you cry out his name, full of ecstasy as the stretch burns so sweetly. His low grunts only fuel your desire.

You trace with your eyes his body, now bare without the upper part of the costume: his pecs and abs, flexing with every pump. With now free hands, your fingers travel to softly caress his stomach, even if your tits are jiggling and the pace is rather frenetic.

"I missed you so much" you pout.

"I missed you too" he whispers out, getting tired.

He's reminded of his old age, forgetting about it as soon as you two kiss, because you bring out a stamina he thinks he doesn't have anymore; almost animalistic. His bones creak and adding the tiring filming day under the hot sun, he feels his body start to give up, the orgams closer and closer.

"Missed how you look" you clash your lips onto his, the adoration translating through the smile you press against, a trail of saliva that symbolizes how interwined you are, "you always look so fucking good"

He blushes, feeling like a stupid school boy with a crush. What did he even do to deserve you? Never thought a pretty young wild thing like you would even spare a glance on his way, but now you're taking all of his cock inside with such greed yet loom into his eyes with a love he's only dreamed of.

You're real, and his.

As soon as those words leave your mouth your orgasm spills over him, some of it dripping onto the skirt, making him curse. You can't stop, still meeting his thrusts halfway, despite your trembling body after reaching your high.

"Mierda" he groans against your mouth,

You feel yourself collapsing on top of him, the weight of the jet lag catching up.

"Getting tired, baby?" he coos. "Shit, and I thought I was old"

"You are" you reply back; you can never not have the last word. And he lets you, because, God, doesn't he love you? He pretends to look offended by it, but the way your eyes shine tell him you didn't mean it that way. "You and your white hairs" tracing over his moustache, a soft hand combing through his locks, "These wrinkles... don't you know how much I love them? how much I love you?"

"And you have no idea how much I love you" he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling it coming through. "God, wanna make you mine. Sólo mía" his pace slows. It's coming, and yes, you will take it all. "Wanna make you a baby, mami. Want you to take it all like the good girl you are"

When he comes, filling you with burning hot cum until you feel like you might burst, you're numb. But there's a feeling so content that pools warmth in your chest, that you can't say anything else, resting your head against his bare chest, both covered in sticky sweat.

"No sé cómo voy a explicar esto" he speaks through ragged breathes, and you can only smirk, "a squirted and cummed roman skirt".

"That isn't my problem" he scoffs, and you feel your head rise against the movement, earning a laugh out of you, "I'm not part of the movie"

"You'd sure think so, with the way you walked in here"

You roll your eyes, face hidden against his chest, "can you let that go?"

"You're right" he pulls you closer to him, hand enveloping you behind your bare back. The quiet doesn't bother you as you lie closer to his chest, his heartbeat the only thing you need to be at peace, "I think punishment time is over. Think you've learned your lesson"

"Then, how about we go out? I've heard Malta's beaches are pretty"

"Relájate, cariño. Seems you've gotten your energy back" he quips, then kisses your forehead. "We need to wait for everyone to get out"

"That embarrased you are of me?" you joke.

"No" he can already imagine his fellow cast members making fun of him, starting with Paul and Joseph when they see you and Connie who will totally notice the fun sticky stains on the costume, "but embarrased of the explanation I'll have to give"

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas

[sunsburns]

To add on to my previous thought, Joaquin could simply be doing the dishes his tags dangling an inch away from his chest or seeing them outlined under his shirt and I’m still drooling.

Like if he put them on me would he be acting the same way? Let’s find out, Joaquin lemme borrow your tags pls!

anything he does would have me swooning i don’t know what to tell u

and joaquín isn’t even doing anything particularly noteworthy, just standing at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes after dinner. he’s humming something soft under his breath, something familiar, and the low, absent-minded tune settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite expect.

he’s wearing one of his usual loose-fitting shirts, sleeves cut just enough to tease the toned definition of his arms. the fabric is thin, clinging to his back from the warmth of the water, and there, just beneath the cotton, you can see them.

the outline of his dog tags. they press against his shirt every time he moves, shifting, catching just enough light to keep drawing your eyes back to them.

you were telling him some story from earlier in the day, but the words falter on your tongue, train of thought lost entirely as you watch him.

it’s when he turns slightly, reaching for another plate, that they swing—dangling just an inch away from his chest, pressing against the fabric, teasing you like they know exactly what they’re doing.

your gaze traces the silver chain around his neck, how it peeks out from the collar, disappearing beneath his shirt. your fingers twitch with the sudden need to touch, and before you even think it through, you’re pushing off from the counter, stepping closer.

your hands skim over his shoulder first, light, almost absentminded, trailing down until they brush against the beads of the chain. you barely apply any pressure, just running your nails over them, feeling the warmth they’ve absorbed from resting against his skin all day.

joaquín stills instantly.

his breath hitches just enough for you to notice, and you don’t miss the way his fingers falter under the running water for just a second.

you pull the tags from under his shirt gently, letting the metal settle against your fingers, and then you tug.

not hard—just enough to make him stumble a step, enough to force him to turn toward you, enough to have his eyes wide and blinking as he processes what you’ve just done.

you don’t give him time to recover.

your fingers curl around the tags, keeping him close as you lean in and tug him even closer, pressing your lips to his before he can so much as utter a word.

for a second, joaquín doesn’t move. he’s too caught off guard, too caught up in you, the cool press of your fingers against him, the warmth of your lips settling over his. but then he melts.

the dish towel slips from his hand, landing somewhere in the sink, forgotten. his wet palms hover at your waist, dripping, for only a second before he touches—really touches—fingertips pressing into the curve of your hips, pulling you flush against him.

he exhales into the kiss, slow and shaky, and it sends a shiver down your spine. his lips part slightly against yours, a moment’s hesitation—like he’s savouring this, like he doesn’t want to move too fast, doesn’t want to ruin the way your breath catches at the same time he does. he always kisses you like the first time.

but you don’t want slow.

you tug his dog tags again, just enough to tilt his chin down, just enough to feel the low, barely-there sound he makes against your lips.

and then he’s kissing you back in full, properly, like something in him just gave up resisting.

his hands tighten at your waist, then one slides up your back, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, pressing against warm skin as he holds you even closer.

the heat between you builds, your head spinning as he deepens the kiss, lips moving with a slow, deliberate ease—like he wants to take his time, like he’s making sure you feel every second of it.

and you do.

you feel it in the way his nose bumps against yours when he tilts his head, in the way his breath hitches when your fingers slide up, curling into his hair. you feel it in the slight, barely-there tremble in his hands, like even he can’t believe this is happening.

it all makes you smile.

when you finally break apart, your breath is uneven, your lips tingling and in a wide grin.

his face is pink, eyes still a little dazed, lips parted like he’s still trying to catch up to what just happened.

your fingers are still wrapped around his tags.

“what was that for?” he asks, voice quieter than usual like you just knocked all the air out of his lungs.

you shrug, giving the chain one last, playful tug.

“felt like it.”

[mischievousmoony]

I just read your fratboy!James blurb and im OBSESSED!!

I'd love another blurb about either like visiting him at his frathouse after habing gotten closer and hes super respectful but reader is a little confused and anxious about what he wants from her (wether he likes her romantically and all that jass) or something about giving him his jacket back and him being all flirty yk

sorry for rambling and i hope you have a lovely day!!!

love this idea! i went with the first half of the request so this doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the original frat boy!james blurb, but ive been working on a part 2 for that too !

𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

⟢ frat boy!james potter x fem!reader ⊹ 2.0k ⟢ warnings/tags: fluff, drinking/intoxication (not reader), miscommunication but this is the resolution, reader is confused about james' intentions

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You thought James invited you over to hang out, just the two of you. You had been brainstorming movies to watch and takeout places to suggest all day in preparation for a quiet night with him.

The last thing you expected to be doing right now was watch him play beer pong with his friends in the crowed living room of his frat house. But, here you are, standing off to the sidelines and occasionally giving him a thumbs up when he waves at you.

You perk up when James' team is about to lose—at least it'll mean the game is finally over—but James sinks the ball into the last cup, sending them into overtime.

James throws his hands up in the air, turning in your direction for approval. You send him yet another thumbs up as you try hide your discontent. When he turns to celebrate with Sirius, you slump against the wall with a sigh.

"You good?" a voice rings out to your left. You turn your head to make eye contact with the speaker's shoulder, and you have to crane your neck much more than expected to meet the eyes of the tall boy.

It's James' friend Remus. You've only spoken to him a handful of times, but he's always been very nice.

"Hey, yeah, I'm fine."

Remus quirks an eyebrow. "You don't seem to be having a good time."

You puff out a long breath, and you don't know why, but you find yourself confiding in Remus. "This just wasn't really what I expected tonight to be like."

"No? And what were you expecting?"

"Not a party. I thought James just wanted to hang out with me." You start to worry you've gotten the wrong idea—like maybe this was never supposed to be a date at all. Maybe you're just another friend James invites to his parties. "I thought he liked me. Do I have it all wrong?"

Remus chuckles, which makes you feel worse. "You should talk to him," he advises, which is awfully unhelpful.

"Maybe if this game ever ends," you grumble, turning your head back to the game to watch Sirius miss yet another cup and almost fall into the table. Sirius is barely sober enough to stand, much less get a tiny ping pong ball into a cup eight feet away.

"Hold this?" Remus hands you his drink before tapping Sirius on the shoulder. "Dude there's some people hooking up on your bed."

"What!?" Sirius squawks, immediately abandoning the game to shoo these made up people out of his room.

"Wait, we need you to finish this!" James calls after him, but it's no use.

"Lemme step in for him," Remus offers, and with him as James' new partner, they win the game in just two more rounds.

Remus winks when he takes his drink back from you, and then he promptly disappears into crowd.

You shake off the awestruck look on your face as James approaches you.

"Hey!" he shouts over the music.

"Hey, congrats on winning," you reply.

"What?"

You clear your throat to enable you to raise your voice. "I said congrats.”

James squints at you, still not understanding. You swear the music just got twice as loud.

James leans in, and you shiver as his warm breath fans the side of your neck. "It's a little loud here, wanna go somewhere else?"

He leans back to see you nod, and he takes your hand to lead you upstairs.

The first thing you notice about his bedroom is how clean it is. His bed is made without a single wrinkle in the sheets, his desk is so organized there’s not even a pen out of line, and the room itself smells like fresh laundry and faintly like his cologne.

You sigh in relief as the door clicks shut, muffling the music and giving your eardrums a much needed break.

“Make yourself at home,” James says, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting the spot beside him.

As soon as you sit, James angles his body so that your knees are touching, and goosebumps spread across your skin at the contact.

“Are you having fun?”

“Oh, yeah,” you lie. “It’s a great party.”

James’ lips curve into a smile. He studies you for a few seconds, and you have to fight not to tear your gaze away, feeling shy all of a sudden.

"Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?"

Your lips part, and James' eyes dart down. He looks like he really wants to kiss you—or maybe more.

A sinking feeling settles in your stomach. The only thing that could be worse than you mistaking James' friendship for romance, is you mistaking sexual attraction for genuine like.

Your mind is racing now as you recount all the times you've interacted with James. Did he invite you to this party just to get you up to his room? Has this been his goal the whole time? All the kind gestures and friendly smiles, was it all a ploy?

James' eyebrows knit together as worry settles in on your face. He scoots a couple inches away from you to give you space. "Is everything okay?" he asks.

"James, why am I here?" you blurt out.

"What do you mean?" James asks. His tongue swipes across his pouty lip—a nervous tic—as his eyes dart around your face for hints in your expression that might help diagnose the problem.

"Did you invite me to this party just to- to get me in your room? In your bed?" you ask boldly.

James almost chokes on air. He is momentarily rooted in place from shock. Your eyebrows shoot up when a few seconds later, he suddenly springs to his feet to distance himself from you even further.

"No. No!" James holds his hands out in front of him. "We don't need to be in here. We don't need to be anywhere! We can leave—or you can leave—I don't want you to leave. But you can go wherever you want. Alone. Or with me. Whatever you want. I just-"

James takes a deep breath, an attempt to ease his racing heart. "I didn’t bring you here to try anything. I just thought it’d be nice to be alone for a minute. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

You chew on your lower lip, starting to feel bad about your accusation. "I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“Shit, don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“It’s just, I'm not uncomfortable. I'm confused."

"Confused? About what?"

"Well, for one, I didn't realize you were inviting me to a party when you invited me over tonight."

James' face falls, and your comment hangs in the air as he processes it. He runs a hand through his messy curls as he mutters, "I'm such an idiot."

"Huh?"

"I didn't invite you to a party. This wasn't supposed to be a party. I thought that you thought there was gonna be a party so I... threw a party last minute." James scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Why-? Why would I think that?"

"Because of your text.”

"What text?"

James takes out his phone and quickly navigates to your messages from this morning. "When I said 'looking forward to tonight. i think it'll be fun' you responded 'if it's anything like last time, it'll be loads of fun.'"

"How did that make you think I was expecting a party?"

"Last time you were here, it was for a party."

"I wasn't talking about last time I was here, I was talking about the last time I saw you. When we ran into each other at the football game."

And you mean literally ran into each other. James wasn't looking where he was going and made you drop your soft pretzel. He bought you another one, of course, and the two of you ended up straying from the crowd and missing the whole last half of the game in favor of a walk around campus.

"Oh." James' shoulders slump. "I'm sorry. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to happen. We were supposed to watch a movie."

"We were?" You feel a little disappointed that tonight went differently than either of you wanted. But at the same time, hearing his original plans is making you were feeling better about everything.

"Yeah. I even started a free trial on every streaming service I don’t have so that we could watch anything you wanted. And do you see how clean my room is? It's never this clean. I even washed all my bedding." James picks up the corner of his duvet and fiddles with it between his forefinger and thumb. "I used like ten dryer sheets on this."

Your lips curl into a smirk. "So you did want to get me in your bed?" you tease.

"No! No, I swear," James jabbers, almost panicking all over again. He holds a hand over his heart as he promises, "There wasn't going to be any funny business. Well, unless you were planning on making the the first move, because I would've been happy to oblige- that's not the point."

You break out into a fit of giggles, and James can't help but chuckle along even if he is feeling a bit sheepish.

"Look, I'm really sorry about how this night turned out," James says once your laughter dies down.

"Well, it's not over yet."

A grin slowly creeps it's way onto his face. "That's true. Are you up for a movie?"

"You did say you already started several free trials. We can't let that go to waste."

James happily snags the remote from the dresser that also serves as his tv stand. He's about to join you again on his bed when his eyes light up with an idea. "Here," he says, handing you the remote. "I'll be right back, okay?"

James darts out of the room, leaving you slightly confused, but excited you're finally going to have the night that you planned. You scoot back on the bed, getting comfortable in his duvet that smells strongly of Downy.

When James returns, his arms are full with three different bowls of popcorn.

"I want you to know I had to fend off several intoxicated people to get you these snacks."

"Are there going to be more people joining us?" you joke as James balances the bowls on his bedside table.

"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got all kinds. Butter popcorn—freshly popped, by the way—kettle corn, and that's white cheddar. I also have plain salted popcorn but I didn't want to carry too many and risk dropping them."

"This is more than perfect. Thank you. Besides, this is my favorite," you say, reaching for your favorite of the three and popping a few into your mouth.

James smiles as he moves around the bed to take a seat on the other side.

"So, what are we watching?" you ask, as if you don't have a list of ten different options on your phone. When James doesn't answer, you turn away from the tv to find him already looking at you. "James?"

"I really like you," James blurts out, catching you off guard. "I want to make that abundantly clear. If- if you still weren't sure. I think you're amazing and I really don't want to mess this up."

"You're not messing anything up," you say, your voice taking on a more serious tone. "I like you too, James. A lot," you admit, and James' dazzling smile almost makes you melt on the spot. "Come on," you bump his shoulder with yours. "The nights not getting any younger and I want to watch a rom-com."

"I love those," James says, turning to the tv, but sparing some of his attention to admire you from the corner of his eye when you laugh at the jokes and to make sure his hand ends up in the popcorn bowl at the same time as yours—once he works up the courage, that is.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[noirscript]

serpent's claim

Pairing: Yandere Naga x Reader Description: You ran, but Zaeral always caught you. Now his egg rests deep inside, and escape is no longer what you crave. Warning/s: Yandere | Noncon/Dubcon Themes | Oviposition (egg insertion) | Breeding Kink | Forced Captivity | Obsession | Stalking | Predator/Prey Dynamic | Isolation | Escape Attempt | Psychological Manipulation | Forked Tongue (I HAVE TO) Note/s: Commissions are still open! Enjoy this Yandere!Naga. Lemme know what you think about it. btw. I'll try to add the tw tags later. I've been trying to add them but it's not getting added below T^T

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast

The air was always wet down here.

Every breath dragged the scent of moss and something deeper into your lungs—something primal, slick with hunger. You didn’t know how long it had been since you’d seen the sky. Days, maybe. Weeks. It all bled together in this place where time was measured only in how long your heartbeat stayed fast and your skin stayed cold.

You didn’t fall into his territory. You wandered. That was your sin. You thought the shortcut through the canyon would save time. Maybe you didn’t want to go back at all. But now you were here. Now he was here.

You heard him before you ever saw him. A low scrape against stone. A hiss, too long to belong to any animal you knew. It slithered across the air like it was following you, not chasing, not yet, just… watching.

You’d screamed the first time he spoke. A whisper in your ear when you thought you were alone. "You breathe like prey." It echoed. There was no body to pin the voice to. Only dark, endless tunnels, lit by cold, phosphorescent light, where shadows stretched too long.

You ran. Of course you did.

But you learned quickly that you were never fast enough.

You never heard him move. Just the breath on your nape, the lightest brush of scales across your path when you thought he was behind you. The way rocks ahead of you were suddenly slick with moisture. A hunter didn’t need to charge when his prey was already cornered by instinct.

He introduced himself after the second escape.

Zaeral. His name slithered from his lips like a caress, like a chain sliding shut. When he finally showed himself—all of himself—you understood why you had no chance.

His upper half was almost beautiful. Tall, lean, chiseled in the way ancient statues are, timeless and cruel in their perfection. His skin was pale, barely touched by light, with veins like opal beneath the surface. Hair black as pitch hung past his shoulders, framing eyes that glowed faintly with a vertical sliver of gold.

And below the waist—no legs. Only an endless coil of thick, glistening muscle, wrapped in dark scales that shimmered with hints of violet and green, shifting with his breath. His tail could crush boulders. You knew because you saw the bones. He left them there, visible, arranged like a warning. Or maybe an invitation.

He spoke to you like a lover, not a captor.

"You belong down here," he’d murmur, coiling around you as you slept, his body a cage of heat and weight. "You’re so loud, little thing. Every heartbeat calls me closer."

You learned not to scream when he wrapped around you. Not to cry when he pulled you into his nest of damp moss and hollowed stone. It only made him hold you tighter. Only made him hum into your throat with something like joy.

"I adore when you squirm," he’d purr. "It stokes the fire in my belly. And soon, it’ll stoke more."

You never saw another person. You weren’t even sure anymore if the surface existed. When you closed your eyes, all you saw were tunnels, and the glint of his eyes in the dark, and the pressure of coils slowly winding up your legs. You tried to map the labyrinth. You tried to mark your way back.

He always erased them.

"You don’t need a way out. You only need a place inside."

Sometimes, he would leave. Hours, maybe longer. You never knew where. But you always knew when he was coming back. The air changed. Grew heavier. More charged. Like the earth itself tensed with your dread.

He would appear, gliding in with something clutched in his claws. Fruit from underground trees. Pelts that still smelled of blood. Once, a silk scarf stained with perfume—your perfume, long faded. You didn’t ask how he got it. You didn’t want to know.

"You are not the first I’ve chased," he admitted once, curling a length of his tail around your ankle. "But you’re the first to last this long. You burn brighter. You make me ache."

He said things in your ear that no one should say. Things about your body, and his, and how perfectly they’d fit. How your hips were made to take him, no matter the shape he wore. How he could mold himself around you, fill you from any angle. How he wanted to see your belly swell with his spawn. How he dreamed of it.

He wasn’t crude. He was reverent.

Like you were holy. Sacred. A shrine he wanted to desecrate with worship.

You told yourself you hated it. That your tears were from fear. That your trembling was because of the cold, not because of the warmth that bloomed deep, shamefully, when he wrapped his coils around your thighs and purred into your stomach, his tongue flicking lazily against your navel.

“You smell different when you’re scared,” he’d murmur. “But oh… when you’re not scared... that scent drives me to madness.”

He waited. That was the worst part. He was patient. He didn’t force himself. He didn’t need to.

He knew you’d give in.

He’d make you believe it was your choice.

You escaped once. Maybe twice. You didn’t count. Each time, the tunnels stretched longer than before. Each time, your body weakened faster. Once, you made it to a crack in the cave wall, and sunlight kissed your face.

And then his tail yanked you back, gentle as a lover’s hand tugging a hesitant partner.

"You tried," he said, brushing your hair back. "That’s why I love you. It means when you finally stop trying, I’ll know it’s real."

You screamed into his chest, and he rocked you like a child.

"I will never let you die here," he promised. "But I will never let you leave."

You didn’t try after that. Not seriously.

You thought you were giving up. But maybe you were just giving in.

You started to listen when he whispered to you. Started to ask questions. Small ones, at first. "Where do you go when you leave?" He’d smile. Never answer.

You started to watch his body move, the way his tail flexed and rolled over itself as he settled beside you. The power in him. The control.

You began to wonder—just wonder—what it would feel like if he really touched you.

He knew. Of course he did.

One night, as you lay in his coils, barely breathing, his voice dropped low.

"I dream of pushing you to your knees," he said, lips grazing your temple. "Of laying you out across my nest and feeling your body arch as I bury myself in you."

Your thighs clenched before you could stop them.

He growled. Low. Deep. It vibrated through your bones.

"You want it now, don’t you?" he asked, not mocking. Just… knowing. "Say it. Say it, and I’ll make it so you never remember the taste of anything but me."

You didn’t speak.

But you didn’t run, either.

And when his hand slid down your stomach, and he pressed his palm over your core, hot and possessive and unbearably firm—you didn’t stop him.

"You’ve already surrendered," Zaeral whispered, his tongue flicking your cheek. "Let me claim you. Let me fill you."

Your breath hitched. Your body burned. You hated him. You hated this.

But your hips lifted into his touch, and your thighs spread just slightly wider.

A hiss of satisfaction spilled from his mouth.

"That’s it. That’s my precious little mate."

The word mate tasted like ash and honey on your tongue.

You whispered his name.

Zaeral.

And he smiled.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

[httpsserene]

who told him to get jacked — 𝐨𝐩. 𝟖𝟏 oscar piastri x fem!black!reader smau. this is a shitpost, you have been warned. reader is weak for oscar's muscle growth. inspo 1 & 2.

synopsis: oscar’s girlfriend is feral on main.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. i opened tumblr and saw the photos of oscar when he went karting and um…now have another mess of a smau! inspired by the nefarious actions i would do to oscar’s biceps. inspired by @dwarvenchords and @hookhausenschips. it’s short but, enjoy, loves xxx.

⌕ join taglist | requests & feedback | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

yninstagram • february 28th

view replies

oscarpiastri: love…you couldn’t even save this for the close friends stories? you had to post it on main yninstagram: did you like my joke? oscar “jack”ed piastri LOL im so clever oscarpiastri: ijbol 😐 yninstagram: i’d be pressed but ur muscles are distracting me oscarpiastri: u should cmere and give them a kiss :)

lilymhe: he let u tie a bow around his bicep?!!! omfg i have to do this with alex yninstagram: i don’t think alex has enough muscles to meet the requirement for the bow :/

landonorris: he’s such a simp landonorris: i would never let my girlfriend tie a bow on me 🥱 yninstagram: step 1: have a girlfriend

logansargeant: your freak out on twitter had a slight mentally-ill aura yninstagram: shut the fuck up and get on a podium before you talk to me yninstagram: gangly bitch + not funny didn’t laugh + L

yninstagram • february 28th • in between my boyfriends tiddies ⚑

liked by, oscarpiastri, mclaren, logansargeant, markwebber, and 1,223,458 others

yninstagram: things to do with your boyfriends muscles; listed in the comments below (a huge thanks to the toto user on twt for FINALLY sending me the photo)

tagged oscarpiastri

view comments

yninstagram 1. tie a bow around them (completed)

➥ user thx for sharing the photo

➥ user FUCK! I CAN’T FIND A PIECE OF PAPER TO WRITE THIS ON

yninstagram 2. kiss them (completed)

➥ user awh how cute! going to nap on the interstate rq

➥ user wait for me!

➥ user omg slumberpartyyyyy

yninstagram 3. touch them (completed)

➥ markwebber there’s a time i thought you were a normal girl

➥ yninstagram who told you to think that??

user i know those arms are rock solid 🥴🤤

user i’m the toto user on twitter !!! she did not kill me y’all !!!

➥ user u were flirting with death babes

➥ user i would not have admitted to this under her post

➥ user you should seek witness protection 🙏🏾

yninstagram 4. have him suffocate you with them (he said no)

➥ oscarpiastri WHY DID YOU INCLUDE THIS ONE

➥ logansargeant i think you’re proving the mentally-ill part y/n

➥ yninstagram u sound jealous logan

➥ user personally, i think if you didn’t want her to say that, you shouldn’t have muscles @/oscarpiastri

➥ oscarpiastri oh! yeah! why didn’t i think of that—lemme just take them off rq 😐 WTH

yninstagram 5. wall sex (?)

➥ oscarpiastri i specifically said not to say #4 and #5 in public

➥ user the question mark is SENDING MEEEEE

➥ yninstagram i mean, i can tell you that he didn’t say no to this one 😈 @/user

➥ landonorris i did not want to see this when i opened ig

➥ yninstagram do us all a favor then and delete ur account x

➥ oscarpiastri what she said^

➥ landonorris :o -> :(

yninstagram 6. draw on them (in progress)

➥ user wait this one is actually cute 🤭

➥ oscarpiastri watching the pure concentration on her face is adorable

➥ user omg she’s so 👉🏼👈🏼 coded

➥ oscarpiastri it tickles lol

➥ yninstagram ur moving around too much

➥ yninstagram might have to tie you to the headboard 😏

➥ user and she’s back on her bs

yninstagram 7. watch him flex for you (ongoing indefinitely)

➥ mclaren do we have your permission to post oscar thirst traps now?

➥ yninstagram i’m sure we could work out something mutually beneficial

oscarpiastri • february 28th • my girl’s basement ⚑

liked by yninstagram, danielricciardo, logansargeant, landonorris, and 1,478,539 others

oscarpiastri she knocked out on my chest halfway through drawing on me. didn’t know this was part of the boyfriend job description, felt like there was some false adverting. overall: 12/10 experience, will be doing this again.

view comments

danielricciardo didn’t know where this was going for a sec but fuck you guys are so cute 🥹

➥ oscarpiastri thank you? i guess

➥ user oh to have my relationship praised by danny ric

➥ user girl ur man responds to your texts two days late

➥ user DAMN u didn’t have to air out my business like thatttt

user WHAT DID SHE USE TO DRAW ON YOU OSCAR??? HELP A GIRL OUT

➥ oscarpiastri its liquid eyeliner 🫡

➥ oscarpiastri she used an eyeshadow palette when she wanted to add colors

➥ user why did i never think of that, she’s so smarttttt

user oscar piastri the MAN that u AREEEE

logansargeant so,,,,are we still getting dinner later orrrrr

➥ user LOL

➥ user omg y/n was right logan IS jealous

➥ logansargeant im not jealous !!!!

➥ user 💀

➥ user okayyyy….we believe you LMAOOOOO

➥ oscarpiastri ijbol 😂

➥ logansargeant stop using ijbol it’s not funny

➥ user this will be the only time that i say i agree with logan on something

➥ logansargeant ur literally a fan account FOR ME?? @/user

➥ user yeah man u didn’t have to bring that up 😒

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos in header image are from pinterest. divider by @cafekitsune.

[artemisiasmuse]

teary-eyed | rafe cameron x afab reader

cw: period mentioned, tooth-rooting fluff, i love sweet rafe, yes im on my period and this is self-serving

“angel what’s wrong?” rafe comes home late from work to find you curled up on the couch, tears brimming your eyes as soon as you see him. he thinks he must have done something wrong, because he watches your expression go from happy to see him then complete anguish. he drops his things to the floor in a rush, crouching down in front of his couch to meet your eye level, his arms tentatively reach out for you, your lower lip trembling and jutted out. he breathes a sigh of relief when you accept his embrace and pull him against you.

“i’m just happy to see you.” that’s an understatement. you can’t believe your handsome doting boyfriend comes home to you in a suit and tie looking like the hottest man alive. the mouth-watering attire is one of the few perks of him being thrust into the position of CEO. but here he is on his knees in dress pants, instantly worrying over you and that only makes you more teary-eyed. he smells like sweat, cologne, and something you know is just him and it comforts you endlessly. the strong hold of his arms around you makes you feel less like you’re floating in the clouds, he’s tethering you back to earth.

“oh yeah? i’m happy to see you too.” his deep voice rumbles through you, he leans back to take a look at you, relieved to find your eyes are dry. you avoid his gaze, slightly embarrassed over how you’d reacted moments prior. but in an even more maddening action, he gently grasps your chin to direct your gaze back to him, smiling as your eyes meet. you look so pretty, all cuddled up and shy, he belatedly realizes you’re wearing one of his hoodies and his heart swells.

“‘kinda emotional cuz i’m on my period.” rafe could guess as much. he grew up with two sisters so he knew all the signs. at some point he’d begun to sense it coming himself. maybe he just loved you that much, if he asked you, you’d say it’s because of how attentive he is.

“hmm baby, you feeling okay? d’ya need a hot water bottle?” you pull him back into your arms, shaking your head at his question. your cramps had subsided and even if you were feeling the general discomfort of being on your period, the only thing that could make you feel better was his solid warm body against yours. he rubs your back soothingly, pressing a soft kiss to your hair.

“just wanna stay like this.” rafe swore his heart might explode from love, he might just join you in crying with how badly he wants to keep this memory locked up forever. he can’t find the words so he just nods, removing his suit jacket, loosening his tie, and unbuttoning his shirt a bit. the motions make you dizzy, once again blown away by how beautiful he is. and he’s yours. he doesn’t even know how crazy it makes you when he’s gently pulling back your blanket and moving you to sit on his lap so he can hold you from behind. his warm hands press to your lower stomach, where your cramps would be, providing his own heat pack and you sigh contentedly. yeah you’re lucky.

upcoming work: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (18+) lemme know if you want to be tagged <3

[wordsofwhimsy]

ᴄᴜᴛ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ, ᴋɪꜱꜱ ʜᴀʀᴅ ʚ♡ɞ - Trading Places

Pairing: Lensless/No Goggles!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: FILTH, reader fucking wrecks this man, idk if you ain’t into that freaky shit don’t read lmao

Tags: Smut, fem!dom, teasing, masturbation, oral (f receiving), riding

Word Count: 3,238

Synopsis: Mark brags to the other variants about the baddie he’s bagged when you call, and you are NOT happy.

a/n: had to run it back cause of this anon - y'all like that freaky shit huh 🤪

Part One

Part Two – Brunch Edition!

The rooftop’s buzzing — not with conversation, but with static from the torn sky above and the low hum of multiversal regret. Three Marks, one bottle. Broken chairs. The faint smell of ozone and blood.

Mohawk Mark is sharpening a blade that hums when it moves. Shiesty’s tossing playing cards into a wormhole like it’s a trash can. Chill. Quiet.

Then, from the corner, Lensless Mark leans forward with a slow grin like sin warming up.

“You know what I been on lately?” he says, voice thick with that I’m about to say something unholy tone.

The other two don’t even look up. They know it’s coming.

Mark takes a long pull from the bottle, licks his lips, and lets the grin grow. “I’ve been getting absolutely destroyed by the baddest girl in any universe.”

Now Mohawk glances over. Shiesty lowers his cards. Mark keeps going, casual, cocky, obsessed.

“She’s got this walk that makes gravity trip. Like, I watch her leave rooms. Every time. It’s pathetic. She knows it, too. She’ll bend over just to make me lose a thought.”

“Go on,” Shiesty says, already too invested.

“She’s not sweet,” Mark continues. “Not soft. Got a voice like razor wire and hands like she owns me. She’ll dig her nails in and leave them there while she talks shit into my ear like I’m nothing — and I eat it up.”

Mohawk stares. “You’re in love.”

Mark scoffs. “Nah. I’m in danger.” He laughs, runs a hand through his hair, breathless with memory. “Last time? She made me wait. Told me to sit on the floor. Didn’t say a word for twenty minutes. Then she climbed on my lap and told me I better not finish ‘til she says so.”

“…You listen?” Shiesty asks, eyes wide.

Mark looks offended. “Of course I did. I damn near cried when she said ‘good boy.’ You ever felt a praise kink rewire your whole brain in real time?”

“...God damn,” Mohawk mutters.

“I’d kill for her,” Mark says, shrugging. “I have. I’ll do it again.”

Shiesty frowns. “You really out here monologuing like she’s not gonna ruin your life.”

Mark tips the bottle toward him, eyes gleaming.

“She already did,” he says, and smirks. “And I say thank you every time.”

Mohawk and Shiesty just sit there, stunned. Then Mohawk says, “Nah, I need one of those. Where you find her?”

Mark just shakes his head slowly. “You couldn’t. She doesn’t want you. She likes her men a little fucked up.”

“Guess that’s why she got you, huh?” Shiesty teases.

Mark smiles, slow and sharp. “Exactly.” He leans back like he just dropped the gospel when his phone buzzes against the table.

He looks down, sees your name, and immediately lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree.

“OHHH shiiittt, that’s her,” he says, voice dropping into something low and smug. “Y’all shut up, lemme take this.”

He swipes to answer, leans back in his chair like he’s about to get dessert again.

“Hey, baby—”

“Come here. Now.”

Your voice cuts through the line like a blade. No pleasantries. No softness. Just heat. And venom. And the promise of consequences.

Mark blinks, caught off guard for half a second. “Wait—where are you?”

Click.

You hang up.

No location. No context. No nothing.

Just fury and a demand.

Mark stares at the phone for a beat, then laughs — low and breathless, like he’s been punched in the chest by a dream he didn’t know he was having.

“Fuck.”

“What happened?” Mohawk asks, already invested. Mark stands up fast, pocketing his phone, that wicked little smirk crawling back across his face like sin.

“She’s pissed,” he says, delighted.

“You gonna apologize?” Shiesty teases.

Mark just shakes his head, already lifting off the ground, eyes scanning the city like a predator.

“Nah,” he mutters, voice full of anticipation. “I’m gonna find her.”

Then he's gone — a blur of motion, ripped air and reckless speed — chasing your wrath like it's the only thing worth catching.

—

You’re storming, like the kind of walk that makes people avoid eye contact or cross the street. The one that makes every space you step into feel different. And Mark? He’s always drawn to that storm.

He catches up easily, stepping into your path with that shit-eating grin of his, leaning in like he’s about to give you the world.

“There she is,” he says, voice smooth and dripping with satisfaction. “Didn’t even tell me where you were, but you know I’m always gonna find you.”

You don’t stop walking. Not for him. Not yet. But the moment he catches up, you can feel his eyes on your hand. The way you’re cradling it against your chest like it’s something precious, like it’s a secret.

He slows his pace, not bothering to hide the concern creeping into his voice. “What happened to your hand?”

You don’t answer him immediately, just keep your eyes dead ahead. It’s so fucking obvious, but you’re making him wait. Making him sweat.

“I decked Sadie,” you say, your voice colder than ice.

Mark’s brow furrows, then his eyes widen in disbelief. “Wait—what?”

“She was talking shit,” you say with a bitter smile. “Said maybe if I wasn’t so busy ‘babysitting’ you, I'd have time to notice someone worth my attention.” You scoff, still walking like you’re already miles ahead of him. “So I asked her if she wanted my attention too.”

You slow, and Mark steps closer, his voice low with disbelief and something else—admiration.

“And?”

You don’t miss a beat. You lift your hand and show him. “Then I gave it to her. Right to the jaw.”

For a second, there’s silence. Mark’s frozen. And you can see his brain trying to process the fact that you just punched one of your friends in the face for flirting with him. And that realization hits him like a fucking freight train.

Then, finally, he groans. It’s low, deep, like he’s in physical pain. “Jesus, fuck—you really hit her?”

“I think I busted her lip,” you reply with a devilish grin. “I hope I did.”

Mark’s body moves toward you like gravity’s finally catching up to him. He’s close now, breath hot against your skin, voice thick and desperate. “You’re insane,” he murmurs. “You really just—”

You cut him off, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him forward, your eyes blazing with something he can’t resist. “Shut the fuck up,” you snap, your voice like fire. “Don’t act like you weren’t praying this would happen.”

That’s when his control finally shatters. His voice drops, like he’s already lost the battle. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You look at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “That’s the idea.”

And then you’re moving. Fast. You’re already dragging him into your apartment, no room for hesitation  as you slam the door behind you. Mark barely has time to say your name before you’ve shoved him back against it, your body a storm pressed to his chest.

“Do you think this is a game?” you snarl, your voice low, dangerous, vibrating in your throat. “Do you think it’s funny that you have every bitch within ten feet looking at you like they could steal you?”

Mark’s chest rises with every word you spit, his hands barely grazing your waist, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to touch you.

“I didn’t—” he starts, but you’re already grabbing a fistful of his collar and yanking him down to your level, close enough that your breath hits his lips when you speak again.

“I just lost a friend because of you.”

Mark swallows. Hard.

“And it didn’t feel good,” you hiss. “It felt awful. I hated it. Hated the sound her face made when it cracked. Hated the way everyone looked at me like I was insane. Why did you make me do that?!”

He’s panting now. Not from fear. Not from guilt. But from the way you’re saying it. Like you’re accusing him of lighting the match while you poured the gasoline.

You shove him backwards, toward the bedroom. Mark stumbles, smiling now — all teeth, breathless. “Fuck,” he says under his breath. “You’re so hot when you’re mad.”

You don’t even dignify it with a response. You’re pulling him by the collar again, throwing him down onto the bed like he’s nothing but a body for you to use.

“You think this is foreplay?” you growl, climbing over him. “You think this is me being cute?”

Mark’s arms spread wide against the mattress, his eyes wide and so ready.

“I don’t care what it is,” he breathes. “Just don’t stop.”

You slide your hand up his chest, nails dragging across his skin hard enough to leave marks. “You love this, don’t you?”

He nods, quick and eager. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

“You love when I lose my mind over you.”

“I love it when you own me.”

You reach his throat, fingers pressing down — not choking, not yet — just a reminder. A threat. A promise. “I should leave you here,” you whisper, leaning down, lips ghosting over his. “Hard and pathetic.”

He groans, eyes fluttering. “Please don’t.”

You smile, slow and venomous. “Beg me, Mark.”

“Please,” he pants. “Please—use me. Ruin me. I’ll be good, I swear.”

You grip his face, tilting his head to make him look at you. Really see you. Your anger. Your fire.

“Say it.”

His voice cracks. “I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!” he moans, hips twitching up into yours. “I’m fucking yours, please—don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

And that’s when you fucking hit him.

The slap echoes through the room like a gunshot.

Mark’s head snaps to the side, jaw slack, lip split just a little. His eyes flutter, and for one glorious second, he just sits there, breathing like you knocked the thoughts out of his head. You lean over him, voice sharp and trembling with rage. “Is that what you wanted?”

His head lolls back to face you, eyes half-lidded and glassy. “Fuck yeah,” he breathes, grinning like you just gifted him divinity. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

You don’t flinch. Don’t soften. You just say, flat and dangerous: “Take your clothes off.”

That grin? It twitches — falters — then turns desperate. He’s yanking on his suit, fumbling with the waistband like he forgot how buttons work. You don’t help. You just watch, every bit of his frantic movement feeding the fire in your chest.

When he’s finally sitting there — naked, flushed, fully hard, pupils blown wide — you turn your back to him. Grab a chair. Turn it around. Sit in it backward — legs spread, chin resting on your arms — and he doesn’t even breathe.

Until you slide your hand between your thighs.

He chokes on air.

Your fingers move slow, so deliberate it’s cruel. You dip them lower, gather slick, bring it back up with a shiver that you don’t bother hiding. Then you meet his eyes — and you smirk.

“Don’t you fucking dare touch yourself.”

Mark stills like he’s been shot.

His hands grip the bed. His jaw tightens. His whole existence funnels into watching you.

You drag your fingers up again, a little moan slipping out this time — quiet, breathy, dangerous.

“You want this?” you ask, voice soft and mean. “You want a taste?”

He nods, frantic. “Please. I want to be good—let me be good, I’ll do anything—”

You cut him off with a sigh — bored, disappointed. “God, Mark. Why do you behave so badly if you want sweet things?” He stares, trembling, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile. You lean back in the chair, dragging your hand slow and easy, fingers curling with purpose. You never take your eyes off him. “I lost a friend tonight,” you whisper. “Because of you.” Mark swallows hard. Shame flickers across his face, but it’s buried under hunger.

“You think you deserve this after that?”

“No,” he whispers. “But I want it.”

You let your fingers dip lower again, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

“Well, too bad.”

His mouth falls open. You tilt your head, licking your fingers slowly, smirking at the way he twitches.

“I taste so fucking sweet, Mark,” you purr. “Like candy. Like everything you’ll never get.” He lets out a noise — almost a sob — and grips the sheets like he might tear them in half.

“You like acting out?” you continue, dragging your voice like velvet across a knife’s edge. “Flirting with Sadie while I’m sitting right there? Making me hit someone I’ve known for years because I couldn’t stand the way she looked at you?”

His eyes shine. You lean forward again, voice razor-sharp. “Bad boys don’t get treats.”

“Please,” he begs, whisper-wrecked. “I’ll get on my knees. I’ll let you use me. Just let me taste it. Just a little. Just a drop—” You raise a single finger, coated in slick.

Mark freezes like a statue.

Then you bring it to your mouth, suck it clean, and groan softly — just for you. Not for him. Never for him.

“You don’t deserve a goddamn drop.”

His hips jerk. His body shakes. You’re watching him unravel from across the room, untouched.

And when he opens his mouth again, desperate to beg, you cut him off with one final word: “Sit there. Watch. Be a good boy. And maybe — maybe — I’ll let you lick it off my fingers when I’m done.”

You continue on until you think you’ve had enough. Then, finally, you slowly stand from the chair, wiping your fingers off on his already discarded suit like he’s not sitting there with his cock out, looking one whimper away from sobbing.

Then, cold and calm, you say: “Lay back.”

He scrambles like he’s under command, back hitting the mattress so fast it’s like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

You crawl over him. Not lovingly. Not teasing. Like a stormcloud rolling in with the full intent of drowning him.

You stop when your thighs are straddling his chest, and you look down at him like you’re about to devour him. “Open your mouth.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Tongue out. Wide-eyed. So fucking eager.

You hover. Just above him. Letting the heat of you sink into his skin, watching his tongue twitch like he’s trying to catch air. But you don’t give him anything. Not yet.

“See?” you coo, voice venom-sweet. “You don’t even know how to act.”

His breath hitches.

“You don’t get to taste this just because you begged.” You tilt your hips, dragging your slick folds just above his mouth without letting him have a drop. “You flirt with my friends. You make me fight for you. You make me bleed for you.”

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, eyes locked on the spot just above his lips. “I’m sorry—I’ll be good, please—”

You lower, just a little. Let him get one lick. And he moans, like he’s tasting salvation.

And then you sit. Full weight. Full heat. Full fucking disrespect.

Mark groans like he’s dying, his tongue instantly latching onto your slit like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. His nose bumps your clit and you roll your hips down on instinct, letting out a sharp gasp.

You grab his hair and yank his face deeper.

“Eat it,” you growl. “Like your fucking life depends on it.”

He moans — moans — like you just made his dreams come true. And from the way his tongue starts working? You’re starting to believe they were.

Long, slow licks. Then messy, filthy ones. Then sucks — greedy, unhinged, wet and loud.

You grind down on his face, using him like a toy — your toy — chasing your own high while he drowns in it like it’s an honor.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails digging into his scalp, pulling just enough to make him groan into you — the vibrations making your legs shake.

“God, look at you,” you breathe, throwing your head back. “You love this shit, don’t you?”

He tries to answer — can’t. You don’t let him. You just grind down harder, smothering him in wet, perfect darkness, the sound of your slick and his panting turning the room into a goddamn altar.

You roll your hips once—twice—And then you ride. Full motion. All control. No mercy.

It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s the kind of face-sitting that turns into a spiritual event.

You’re moaning. Cursing. Saying his name like it’s both a praise and a warning. And he’s taking it all — tongue shaking, jaw straining, letting you fucking use him until your thighs clamp down around his ears and your back arches with a cry that echoes off the walls.

You come with your whole fucking body. Legs shaking. Fingers digging into his scalp. And he doesn’t stop. Not for a second. Not even when your thighs squeeze tight around his head like you want to break him in half.

You finally lift off him — dragging yourself off his soaked face with a shaky breath — and his mouth is still open, lips shiny, chest heaving.

He’s smiling. The sick little fuck is smiling.

You wipe your slick from his cheek with your fingers and slap his mouth lightly with them.

“You think I’m done with you?” He shakes his head. Begging. “Good.”

You move down his body — mount his hips like you own them — and reach back to line him up.

He’s hard as hell. Leaking. Desperate. His whole body shuddering like he’s already close.

You don’t care.

You sink down on him slow and deep, hips rolling as his hands shoot up. You slap them away. “No touching.”

He nods, frantic, hips twitching, already so close from everything you denied him.

You start to ride him — not smooth and sweet — but mean. Deep. Grounding your hips hard, using his body like it’s owed to you. Like he should thank you for every time you bottom out.

And he does.

“Thank you—fuck, thank you—don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”

You slam down harder. Faster. Your thighs slapping against him. His mouth falling open in pure, desperate awe.

“Say it,” you growl, voice ragged. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” he gasps. “I’m yours, I’m so fucking yours, I belong to you—”

You grab his throat with one hand, pinning him to the mattress, and ride him until his voice breaks into nothing but wet, messy gasps.

“You flirt with anyone else again,” you whisper, “and I’ll ride your face right in front of them. Make you cry. Make them watch you beg while I use you.”

Mark moans like he’s dying.

“Please. Please ruin me. I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll let you do whatever you want—”

You slap him again. Not enough to really hurt. Just enough to remind him what happens when he runs his fucking mouth.

“You’re mine, Mark.”

And then you grind down one last time, burying him inside you, hips circling with perfect pressure — and he fucking loses it. Arching. Shaking. Coming so hard it punches the breath out of him.

His voice cracks like glass. His body jerks. And you don’t move. You sit there. Locked in place. Letting him ride the high while you smirk above him, unbothered.

When it’s over, he’s twitching. Tears in his eyes. Mouth open, totally fucking ruined.

You lean down, voice in his ear, soft and cold: “Good boy.”

[coquettepascal]

purpose on earth

summary: joel loves to take, you love to give.

tags: 18+, smut, angst(ish), jackson era!joel, cold!joel, grumpy!joel, innocent!reader, dom!joel, implied age gap (reader doesn't remember pre-outbreak), corruption kink, joel takes your undies, humiliation, oral sex (m!receiving), allusion to thigh riding, a feeling of helpless/hopeless-ness permeates this fic, reader is pretty pathetic, use of "sweet girl", objectification of reader, unrequited obsession, this fic isn't necessarily sexy, just mildly sad.

a/n: i literally wrote this like an hour ago while i was supposed to be outlining my next project, but @hellishjoel told me to listen to my creative demons... so now this is being posted.

(1.1k, just a baby)

Nothing in this world has ever, or will ever, belong to you. Faint memories glaze your mind sometimes, when you lay down to rest. Not your own memories, but things you’ve read in books and seen in abandoned family photo albums. White wedding dresses, cars that drive, Sunday night family dinner. An American lifestyle that was sucked away with the cordyceps, something only they could clear out. The bombs the government used, the ones you can’t remember anymore, they never wiped mother earth clean the way she has done for herself.

She’s infected, and not yours. Nothing outside of Jackson’s walls belongs to your human hands.

You’ve never known ownership. The clothes you wear belonged to people before you, the ground you walk on cannot be sold. Maybe in another life this would feel fulfilling, but something in you wants to know what it is to own, or even fit in. Your skin, flushed and healthy, skin full of life and blood and organs. A heart that thumps in a world of disease, disorder, death. What a weird purity you hold, something you want to ruin. 

A person like you isn’t meant to own anything here. It feels like you have to belong, if you wish to take.

He will do it for you. 

Joel knows greed, remembers the world before. His hands have taken food, land, lives, anything you can imagine. It isn’t something you realistically think about, more infatuated with how he has the ability to do all these things. Not that you hadn’t committed your own sins, but to defend yourself isn’t wrong, at least that’s what he says. Something in Joel smolders the way only a primal fire can, he is from a world whose memory of a flame will extinguish soon.

He doesn’t help with any of your wants, your need to own or belong. But Joel shows you what it is to take.

You don’t understand the fascination he has with you. The memory of the night he first led you back to his house is blurry, a fleeting moment in comparison to what has happened since. There was conversation of music, of you having a tape you wish you could play. 

His hands were slow when they slid your underwear down your legs, you hoped he wasn’t looking. Nothing about you felt sexy or womanly, you felt dwarfed when he was so close. Again, you wished you could belong, so maybe you could hide. There was a stain in the gusset and you remember how he pulled the garment off your ankles when it dangled there.

“Lemme see,” he had demanded, “lemme see what I did t’you.”

Joel had smeared his thumb through the sticky wet mark, huffing in surprise. He knew it was for him, knew there was nothing else that could have made you do that. Humiliated, you had tried to yank back your underwear, but he refused.

“S’mine now,” he laughed, cheeks rosy.

That was the first time Joel took from you. 

Now you seek him, the ache for belonging in the world twisting to a yearning for him to take from you. If you could not belong to this world, if you could not fit, at least you could fulfill him. Joel doesn’t like it when you seek him out too often, hates when others notice it. You’re not his, never his, just a moment of gratification for his consuming greed. 

Once, you waited in the early morning at the stables for him. Crouched near the barn door, you waited and watched the dewy grass grow. The crunch of his boots, the yawn he let out as he passed by you, it was enough. He said nothing to you, took off on his horse with some other man trailing behind him. 

“Joel’s so responsible,” you thought to yourself, “he’ll need me later I bet.”

Of course, he did. You relished in the small victory of him stealing from you again. Purity leaks from you in the form of drool on your chin, when he pulls you off his cock. Joel’s thumbs push the spit back in your mouth and you suck it down willingly. Praise rumbles off his tongue and into your ears, a southern rhythm you find sanctuary in. Pushing his dick back into your mouth is all pleasure to him, but it’s a taste of greed for you. 

“Sweet girl, that’s a good mouth f’me, ain’t it?” Joel asks, head tilting back.

He never takes his pants off, but he strips you naked. His eyes arguably take more than his hands ever will. The bob of his Adam's apple hypnotizes your eyes as you garble a response to his question. Scarcely do you make sense around Joel, or even speak. You don’t think you can remember the last time you held a proper conversation with him, he usually just waits for you to come around.

It all starts the same, standing on his porch and waiting until he opens the door.

“Missin’ me?” He asks every time.

Joel doesn’t miss you, he doesn’t need you. He just likes how much you give. But you miss him, as soon as he pushes you out into the cold again you miss him. His greed is your purpose.

And so with your purpose, you push yourself down to the base of him. The waterline of your eyes is welling up fast, distorting your vision of him. You blink up at him like he’ll look down, like you’re more than a mouth. You aren’t, not to him, but you get to admire him like this. The puff of his chest, the swell of his throat, and his hands when they come to rip you off him.

He never pulls your hair, just grasps your face in his worn-down palms and pushes you away before jerking himself onto your naked body. 

“S’nice, you’re so nice t’me,” he grumbles. 

Under the yellow light in Joel’s living room, you feel useful. You’re doing more than surviving in this world. You have a purpose, even if he seldom needs you. He uses the sleeves of his flannel to wipe away the tears that slide down your cheeks, still mumbling about how sweet you are. Naked, smattered in him, you smile. Glittery eyes meet his and he snorts. 

“You were missin’ me, huh?” He teases. 

Joel rubs his thumb across your cheek again, the closest thing you’ll get to his lips on you. In his post-orgasmic haze, he almost looks fond. 

“He almost likes me,” your mind whispers, your stomach fluttering, “it’s almost like I belong.”

And once you’ve nodded in response to his question, messy mouthed and gazing at him, your purpose, he taps his thigh. Blood rushes to your head as you stand, crawling onto him. 

In your obedient mind, you define your efforts for Joel as a purpose, but you think you can taste a hint of belonging each time he spreads your legs. 

[icarusignite]

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (p.1)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian! GN! Reader

Summary: In a city where kindness is fleeting and warmth feels like a myth, a reclusive vigilante crosses paths with another ghost orbiting the same darkness. What begins as cautious companionship spirals into something tender, fragile, and terrifying. But when fear drives him away, and violence drags you to the edge of death, Jason Todd is forced to confront the one truth he’s always run from: some things, once lost, can’t be stitched back together. And some things are worth bleeding for.

Warnings: Stabbing, mentions of blood and injuries, Jason is kind of a jerk in the beginning, but forgive him for it, he's got attachment issues lol. Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. YEARNING, lots of yearning, my boy is a yearner

Word Count:  8.5k 

A/N: I am not a medical professional lol so I can't say how accurate this is lol, but just go with it for the angst vibes. This is super self-indulgent lol, I wanted the kind of fic that causes you physical pain so here we are. This was getting a bit too long so I'll post the second part later, lemme know if yall wanna be tagged. 

This is my first time writing for DC or the batboys, but the brainrot is real. This is technically a part of a bigger Jason long fic I'm working on but I just really needed to get this scene out lol

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

You were friends, weren't you?

You'd like to think so. It made it easier to explain away the ache in your chest every time he left without a word. Or the warmth that bloomed beneath your ribs when he showed up, battered and brooding, yet somehow still seeking you out.

But then again, did vigilantes even have friends?

Arms folded loosely across your chest, you leaned against the doorframe of your cramped kitchen, watching him from across the dimly lit room. Your apartment was small, embarrassingly so, and the light above flickered in that way you kept meaning to fix. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and cheap chamomile tea, curling around your ankles like smoke.

He sat at your wobbly kitchen table with his boots carelessly propped on the worn wood, the laces still muddy from whatever hell he'd clawed his way out of tonight. His brow was furrowed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he wound a fresh bandage around the gash on his arm. A grimace tugged at his mouth as he worked, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

His mask lay discarded beside the pile of bloodied tissues, a splash of crimson on your table that felt far too symbolic. You hated how used to the sight you'd become. It no longer made your stomach turn the way it once did. Now, it just sat there, like a guest you hadn't invited but didn't dare ask to leave.

You wanted to help. You always did, but in the careful months since he'd tumbled, quite literally, into your life, you'd learned not to offer unless he asked. Red Hood—or Red as you had fondly dubbed him because you still didn't know his actual name—was a man built of walls and wreckage, of hairline fractures hidden behind sardonic grins and barbed quips.

He didn't like prying. So neither did you.

You still remembered the first time you'd met him. Your life had been steady, if not dull, up until then. A slow existence filled with microwaved meals, cracked book spines, and long, lingering silences. Then, as if fate had grown bored with your monotony, he had crashed into it. One minute, you were walking home from work. The next, you were the sole witness to something that had no business existing in your version of reality. Guns, masks, blood. Gotham in all its gritty glory.

You were stubborn enough to get involved. He was—well you didn't quite know why he let you get involved. 

You told yourself it was just curiosity. Maybe it was. But even now, as he sat there in your kitchen like he belonged, you weren't sure what tethered him to you. The case you'd helped him with had ended days ago. Loose ends tied. Threats neutralized. And yet he hadn't stopped coming.

That first time he'd stumbled through your bedroom window with a bullet wound, all adrenaline and snarled curses, you'd expected him to leave as quickly as he came. But he hadn't. He'd let you stitch him up. Said nothing when you offered him a drink, or when you laid out an old quilt on the couch. You hadn't known his name then, and still didn't. But you knew his face. You knew his eyes. You knew the way his shoulders stiffened before a storm of emotion, and the subtle quirk of his mouth when he found something amusing but didn't want to admit it.

He reminded you of a stray cat, too proud to ask for affection, but too lonely to stay away from the warmth you offered. So you gave it. 

Quietly. Patiently. Repeatedly.

You'd begun to anticipate him in all the little ways you shouldn't have. Setting out a second mug when you brewed tea in the middle of the night, because somehow, without fail, he would appear just as the steam began to curl from your chipped porcelain cup. Leaving the bathroom light on, knowing he preferred patching himself up under its dim, humming glow. Folding the throw blanket on the couch just the way he liked—creased at the corners, but not tucked in. He hated feeling confined.

You kept extra ramen in your pantry. Started buying that brand of granola bars he always grumbled about but never left untouched. And now, here he was again in your space, holding his pain in the same way you held your thoughts. 

Tight, hidden, private.

You watched him from the doorway and wondered if he saw you the way you saw him. If he noticed the weight of his presence, or how your world tilted subtly every time he stepped into it. If maybe, just maybe, he was coming back not because he had nowhere else to go, but because you were here.

No, that was stupid. You were a lot of things, but you weren't stupid. The city had no room for the foolishly naive. 

But were you friends?

You wanted to ask him, but you didn't. You were afraid of what the answer might be. Hope was a delicate thing, and in a city like Gotham, it never lasted long.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. Sometimes, when the silence stretched long and unbothered between you, you found yourself playing a strange little game in your mind. You tried to guess his name.

It had started as a harmless, idle curiosity, but it had grown into something you clung to when his presence lingered long after he'd gone. The guessing had become a comfort of sorts, as though naming him might make him more real. Less myth. Less mystery.

He didn't look like a Robert. You imagined a Robert might wear boat shoes and a pressed polo, maybe even a handlebar mustache if he was particularly insufferable. A Simon would have round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a fondness for spreadsheets. Anthony? No, far too smug. He'd be the kind of man who winked at waitresses and thought himself charming. Luke maybe, if he had more of a boyish softness to his features, but Red? No, he had an edge carved into him, all angles and tribulations.

Occasionally, when he sat slouched like this, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows over his jawline, you'd swear you had seen him before.

Not like this, with blood seeping slowly through bandages and a half-gloved hand trembling ever so slightly from the adrenaline still wearing off. But somewhere, in the back of your mind, there was an echo. A fading image of a photograph you might've once seen in a crumpled newspaper. Something about a billionaire's dead son. An obituary that featured a smiling young boy with bright eyes and a future that might have been written in gold leaf and marble.

You'd dismissed it as fast as it came. You never paid attention to socialite tragedies. The world of gala dresses and legacies was so far removed from yours that it barely felt real. Besides, that boy was dead, buried in some manicured graveyard you'd never be allowed into. And this boy was sitting in your kitchen bleeding all over your table.

Alive.

Though, perhaps not for long, if he kept living like this. He had the same regard for his own life that you had for the cracked mugs in your sink. Tolerated, but barely.

You watched him fumble again with the blood-slick bandages, the crimson staining through like watercolours blooming on canvas. He was trying to wrap his shoulder one-handed, which clearly wasn't working. The angle was wrong, and the effort was shaky.

You bit your lip and told yourself not to interfere.

He never asked nor expected your help, and that unspoken boundary hovered between you like a landmine, one you dared not disturb. And yet, eventually, you couldn't take it anymore.

You crossed the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps, like approaching a wild thing that might flee at the first sudden movement. He stiffened, the line of his back going rigid as you rounded the table, but he didn't look up. Didn't flinch. Didn't utter something sharp and dismissive, like you half expected him to.

You took it as a good sign.

Without a word, you pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. For a heartbeat, the room felt breathless. He tracked your movement with the wary precision of a soldier, but he didn't stop you. When your fingers reached for his arm, he tensed beneath your touch, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, but he didn't pull away.

That was enough.

You worked in silence, your touch careful and clinical. You unwound the soaked bandages and tossed them aside, grabbing the rubbing alcohol and clean gauze. You murmured apologies when he hissed at the sting, but you didn't stop. If he could live through getting stabbed and shot at, you figured he could endure a little antiseptic.

His skin was warm beneath your fingertips—fever-warm, maybe—but sturdy. He was littered with half-healed wounds and fading bruises, scattered across the landscape of him like constellations only he could decipher. There was a story written in each of them, and you hated that you wanted to read them. To know the ugly details. To understand.

You tamped the impulse down. This wasn't about curiosity. It was about care.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should have. At the sharp ridge of his collarbone. The sinew of muscle taut beneath tattered fabric. The way his calloused hands tightened into fists when the pain surged, but never once tried to stop you.

You should probably get him some lotion for Christmas. The thought rose unbidden, absurd, but somehow entirely fitting. "For your dry, murdery hands," the label might read.

If this... whatever this was... even lasted until then.

When you were done, you gave his arm a light pat. It was gentle, like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn't know how to finish. Then you stood, discarding the bloodied tissues, and scrubbing your hands clean. You moved on autopilot, draining the tea that had long gone cold and replacing it with a fresh cup—extra honey, just the way you'd learned he liked it, even if he never said it aloud.

Then, because you were helpless against the urge to say something, you leaned one hip against the table and smirked faintly.

"Careful, Red," you drawled, "if you keep getting hurt like this, I might start to think you have a thing for my first aid skills."

He didn't answer right away, but his lip twitched. It was a breath of a reaction, but it was there, and for someone like him, that was practically a sonnet.

You sipped your tea, letting the warmth sit on your tongue before you spoke again. He hadn't touched his yet, staring down at the swirling amber surface like it held answers he hadn't figured out how to ask for.

"You're less chatty than usual," you remarked casually. "And I say that knowing full well you're already a man of, like, four words max."

Nothing. Not even a smirk this time.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were brooding. Which, y'know... shocker."

Still nothing. No anger, just quiet. It was oddly unlike him. 

"You don't have to tell me, of course," you amended quickly, not wanting to come off as nosy. "Whatever it is. I just—you're carrying it like it's made of concrete."

You pressed your lips together for a moment, then tried to fill the space again, your tone lightening, the way you knew he preferred it when things got too close to raw.

"I mean, if this is about the tea, I can make it again. Stronger. Less... 'grandma's house' and more 'man on the run.' I just figured you liked honey, seeing as you keep finishing the jar and pretending it was like that when you found it."

That earned you a tiny huff, maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. You were not sure which, but it was something.

Emboldened, you tilted your head and gave him a crooked smile. "Or maybe you're just disappointed I haven't guessed your name yet. I'm running out of options, you know. I've gone through the entire cast of Friends at this point."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"No, really," you continue, warming to your own ramble. "Ross? Too whiny. Chandler? Too annoying. Joey? ...Well, I could see it, but you'd have to say 'how you doin' at least once to convince me."

When he didn't respond, you wondered if you'd made a mistake with the reference. Did vigilantes have time to watch sitcoms? Maybe you could convince him to partake in a marathon with you. 

You let the inevitable silence stretch for a beat, then wrinkled your nose and glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

"So, just for my own peace of mind,  you are housebroken, right?"

Your guest didn't look up, but his head tilted curiously. One eyebrow quirked the tiniest bit, the closest thing to a response you were likely to get when he was in one of his moods.

You gestured broadly toward the red helmet on the table, the scuff of his boot across the wood grain, and the faint trail of dried blood from the kitchen. "I mean, it's starting to feel like you live here, Red. And if that's the case, I should start charging you rent. Or at the very least, make you take out the trash once in a while."

No response. 

"Because I don't just let any emotionally constipated vigilante bleed all over my apartment. I have standards too."

A twist. Barely there, but his mouth moved, almost betraying a smile. You held onto that like it was gold.

"I'm just saying," you went on, folding your arms dramatically, "if you're gonna keep showing up here at three a.m. looking like you got in a fight with a deli slicer, you could at least pretend to be a little more domesticated. I don't know, maybe wipe your feet at the entrance? Use the actual door? Bring flowers?"

His voice, when it finally came, was roughened by fatigue. "You want flowers?"

You blinked at him, caught off guard. "Okay, well now it's weird because you asked. If you actually show up with flowers, I'm going to assume there's a bomb in them."

He let out a quiet huff. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"And don't even think about roses," you added, waving a finger. "Too cliché. You're more of a—I don't know—carnivorous plant guy. Like a spooky Venus flytrap. 'Cause nothing says housewarming present like a plant that eats things."

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours. They were unreadable, but the heaviness behind them seemed to ease, just a little.

"You done?" he demanded, gruff but not annoyed. More like he was indulging you.

You were not, and the next words spilled out in an involuntary confession. 

"Sometimes I think about how strange this all is. You. Me. This. Whatever this is." You gesture loosely between you. "You're out there dancing with death on a nightly basis, and I'm here pretending tea can fix bullet wounds."

You don't mean for the smile that followed to be so sad, but it was.

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

For a moment, he was utterly still, the kind of stillness that lived in the eye of a storm. His response came frayed like it was coming through a static radio.

"Why?"

It knocked the air from your lungs. It wasn't quite an invitation. Not quite a wall. A wound, maybe.

You wanted to ask what was bothering him. Wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, just for a second, to tell him without words that he was not alone. That he didn't have to be.

Jason hadn't meant for the question to sound like an accusation.

"Why?"

It slipped out sharper than he intended, but it had tumbled off his tongue before he could stop it. And now he sat there, watching you across the table, your hands wrapped around that chipped mug like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit across from someone like him and say:

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

Something in his chest tightened. An ache, deep and reflexive, like a muscle spasming around an old injury. You had said it so simply, like it was obvious, like it wasn't a concept that felt foreign when he tried to believe it.

Glad? To see him?

It couldn't be real. No one was glad to see him. Not really. Not anymore. And the way you'd looked at him when you said it made his defences flare up like an allergic reaction.

He had to ask. Why.

Why would you be glad to see someone like him? Someone who showed up at your window uninvited. Someone who never told you his real name. Someone who brought death on his heels and stayed too long.

Your lack of response only made it worse. You looked at him like he was the one not making sense. 

Of course, you were glad he came back.

He hated how fast the words came after that, how he couldn't stop himself from lashing out.

"You shouldn't be."

He said it like a truth he needed you to believe, even if he didn't. Said it hard, like if he drove the words deep enough, they'd take root and push you away before he got used to the idea of you staying. Because he was growing too attached. That much was certain.

It had started creeping in quietly, like a burglar. He hadn't even realized how bad it had gotten until he caught himself during a patrol, slipping off to some rooftop, hand digging into the inner pocket of his jacket for the burner phone you had the number for.

For emergencies. That was all it was meant for. That was the excuse he told himself when he'd scrawled the number down and pressed it into your hand.

You never used it. You never called or even texted. You let him keep his secrets, and that should have made it easier to let go. It didn't. And he'd found himself checking that phone anyway, half in agony, half in hope. 

He still had it. Weeks past the point when he should've tossed it and gotten a new number, like he always did. But he kept this one. Maybe one day, you'd need him. Maybe one day, you'd use it. Part of him hated how much he wanted you to.

He stared at your tea across from him now. You never asked if he wanted any. You just knew.

And that wasn't all.

The second mug you always left out on the counter after midnight. The way you started keeping extra bandages under the sink. That one faded hoodie you folded up and left on the back of the couch after he complained—once—about the cold. The cabinet with the snacks you didn't like but kept stocked anyway.

You made space for him without asking anything in return, without ever pushing.

It made his skin itch. It felt like walking into a dream that would crumble the second he touched it. Too temporary. Too good. Too false. Like one of those illusions, fate gave people like him, just long enough to feel warm before it was ripped away again.

Because nothing good stayed. Not for someone like him. Not in Gotham.

But somehow, impossibly, you kept leaving the light on, and he kept coming back.

You tilted your head slightly now, watching him from across the table, your lips pressed into a gentle smile. There was no fear in your eyes. No judgment. Just the quiet patience of someone waiting for a wounded animal to decide whether it wanted to be held or bite.

Jason Todd only knew how to bite, even when he didn't mean it. Especially when he didn't mean it.

Before either of you could speak again, he stood, the legs of his chair scraping sharply against the floor. The untouched tea on the table wobbled in its cup but didn't spill. Not yet. It waited, just like you did.

"Don't," he snapped suddenly, dangerous in the way a wounded beast growled before it struck. "Don't look at me like that."

You blinked, startled, rising instinctively from your chair like you could fix it before the moment broke entirely.

"Like what?" 

"Like I matter." The words were bitten off. "Like this means something."

He didn't mean to say it, but it was already happening, and he couldn't stop himself. The vulnerability curled in his gut like something shameful. Something that had to be punished before it grew too loud.

"I'm not some stray you can keep feeding and expect it not to bite your hand." He stepped back from the table like your kindness was something venomous. "You think leaving out tea and wrapping up my arm makes this normal? Makes me safe?"

You flinched imperceptibly, but Jason saw it.  You always wore your heart on your sleeve, letting your emotions bloom too brightly across your face. It made you easy to read, and he knew when his words hit home, when the warmth drained from your expression, replaced by sheer hurt. He felt it, sharp and sudden in his chest like a splinter lodging deep into scar tissue.

But he kept going. He had to.

"I don't need your pity. I don't want to be your goddamn charity case. This—whatever the hell this is—you don't owe me shit."

"Red—" you started, but he cut you off.

"You think this makes you a good person? Taking in the stray? Letting me bleed on your damn floor so you can feel better about yourself?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm not your project. I'm not here so you can collect your brownie points for being the kind one. You're not getting anything out of this, so why the hell do you keep doing it?"

Your breath caught, but you didn't move. You didn't yell back. You didn't tell him he was wrong. You just stood there, with that same stubborn gentleness in your eyes, and it drove him mad.

"Jesus," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, pacing now. "You need to stop. Stop caring. Just stop."

"I never did it for something in return," you whispered.

"Well, maybe you should have."

The silence after that was suffocating, and Jason stilled. His chest heaved. He couldn't look at you. If he did, he might stay. If he did, he might say something tender, something real. And then he'd ruin you.

You inhaled shakily. "You think I'm doing this for points? That I'm keeping score?"

"You should be," he hissed. "Because all I've done is take. All I do is take. You keep giving and I keep showing up like some parasite, and for what?"

"Because I care," you said finally, too tired to hide the yearning in your voice. 

"You shouldn't. I'm not one of the good ones. You think you're doing something noble, letting me in, playing Florence Nightingale. But I'm not who you think I am, and the sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the better."

He stared at you, waiting for you to yell. To scream. To say anything that would prove him right, would make walking away easier.

But you didn't.

You just stood there, hands limp at your sides, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. And God, your eyes looked so betrayed, like you were trying to understand where everything had gone wrong. Like you had failed some test you didn't know you were taking.

Jason hated the sight of your heart breaking in real-time and knowing he had done it.

You swallowed thickly. "I didn't ask for any of this. I just... I just wanted you to be okay."

Jason's breath hitched.

You weren't crying, but your voice shook like it might come to that if he pushed one word further.

"I've been careful," you added, quieter now as if the room itself might judge you for the confession. "I never ask you to stay. Never asked for anything at all. You're the one who keeps coming back. How am I to blame for that?"

Jason looked away. The guilt hit like a bullet, right where it could do the most damage.

"You should've," he returned flatly. "You should've asked for more. That way you'd see exactly how little I have to give."

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell you that you were the only good thing in his life that hadn't asked anything of him. 

Instead, he said, "You should've slammed the door on me the first time I showed up. That was your mistake."

You didn't have the heart to point out that he hadn't used the door. You didn't follow him either. Didn't plead, didn't reach for his hand or beg him to stay. That hurt worse than anything else.

He was right.

You were too kind. Too kind to call him out on his bullshit. Too kind to tell him to go to hell. Too kind to stop him when he stepped toward the window and opened it, cold air spilling in like water from a broken pipe.

And in your generosity, Jason realized the worst part.

You still would've left the light on for him.

Even now.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as the window slid shut, sealing in silence and sealing out the sound of his retreating steps.

A sinkhole opened in the pit of your stomach, swallowing the remnants of warmth that had once lived in the corners of the space, and it left you hollow, like a house with the doors blown off. His departure felt too much like a goodbye. Too much like a half-finished letter, the ink smudged, the signature missing. The last page of a story ripped clean from the spine.

You stood there for a while as if the air might stitch him back into the room if you stayed motionless enough. As if the chair he’d occupied might creak under phantom weight. But nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

You doubted he’d ever show himself in front of you again, and even if he did—somewhere, out there beneath Gotham’s godless sky—you wouldn’t know where to look. Not that you would, of course. You weren’t foolish enough to chase after someone who didn’t want to be found. If he didn’t want to see you anymore, you would not burden him with your presence. You would not be a nuisance. 

When the tears finally came, they gouged hot trails down your cheeks. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, unwilling to fill the void he’d left behind with your grief. At least you had your answer now. You and him were not friends. Maybe vigilantes didn’t have friends. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be yours.

And oh, how that simple truth ached more than any goodbye ever could.

It had been three weeks since the boy you had grown attached to cleaved himself from your life, not that you were counting, of course. You would never be so pitiful as to tally the days in his absence, to chart the sunrises without him like some widow mourning a love that had never been named.

And yet…

The calendar pages turned with a slow, dragging inevitability. The hollow ache in your chest had become something familiar. Manageable. You were slowly adjusting to the shape your life had taken before he’d ever crashed into your world.

Still, there were nights when the wind howled a little too loud and the tea kettle hissed just before three a.m., and you found yourself setting out an extra mug. You never filled it—not always. But sometimes, on the worst nights, you did. You'd place it gently beside your own, the steam rising between them like the ghost of a conversation.

Come morning, it would sit there untouched. Cold. Filmed over. Forgotten by everyone except you. You couldn’t blame yourself for hoping.

Tonight was another late shift at work. The kind that stretched you thin until your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts blurred into fog. The headache had bloomed sometime after midnight and now throbbed relentlessly behind your temples. You pulled your cardigan around yourself as you stepped out into the Gotham streets, rain slanting in bitter sheets from a sky as grey as mourning.

Of course tonight, of all nights, you’d forgotten your umbrella.

Your shoes squelched with every step, the water soaking through the soles and into your socks. Streetlights flickered overhead, some sputtering, others long since dead. You kept your eyes down, focused on the familiar path home, on putting one foot in front of the other, but even so, you felt that prickle on the back of your neck, the kind you couldn’t shake off, no matter how tightly you wrapped your arms around yourself. The streets were too empty. 

You tightened your grip on your keys, slotting them between your fingers like jagged little weapons. You were half a block from safety. Just a little farther.

And then hands. Cold, foreign, and wrong. Fingers like iron gripped your arm and yanked you sideways into the yawning dark of a nearby alley.

A gasp tore from your throat, but you didn’t scream. Instinct moved faster than thought. You lashed out with your keys, catching your attacker across the face—or somewhere, you weren’t sure, but the sharp hiss of pain told you it had landed. You tried to twist away, but the alley wall met your back, and your heart hammered like a trapped bird in your ribcage.

It wasn’t a mugging. He didn’t reach for your bag. He didn’t demand anything. He just came at you with precision, with intention.

And then… he was gone, like a shadow pulled back into the deeper dark, vanishing as swiftly as he’d come. You stood there stunned, breath ragged, mind catching up with what had just happened. It wasn’t until the adrenaline began to fade that you felt it.

The pain.

Hot, sharp, deep. A burning throb in your side, just beneath your ribs. You reached down with trembling fingers and they came away slick and red. It was difficult to see the exact shade of carmine that marred your hands in the dark, but the heat of it told you all you needed to know. It clung between your fingers in syrupy ropes, and beneath it all, the pain bloomed sharp and insistent, flaring like a cruel reminder every time you breathed.

You’d been stabbed.

A hollow, almost hysterical laugh escaped your lips, grating the back of your throat. You’d been fucking stabbed. Of course, you had. Tonight was already a monument to misery. Why not crown it with something poetic?

You weren’t sure what the weapon had been—a knife, a shard of metal, something small and quick—but whatever it was, your attacker had taken it with him. You weren't a medic, but even you knew that you weren’t supposed to take the weapon out of the wound. Not if you wanted to avoid bleeding out like a gutted street urchin.

There was nothing left in you now. Only the blood, warm and gushing, and the panic rising in your throat as your body betrayed you with a wave of nausea so fierce it made your vision blur. The heat in your side was unbearable. Blinding until even that faded, replaced by a strange, iciness that spread from the wound outward, curling beneath your skin, settling into your bones.

So very cold.

Your knees buckled beneath you, and you collapsed sideways against the grime-caked alley wall, cheek scraping brick as you slid down into a crumpled heap. Your breath came in shallow gasps, as though your lungs were filling with broken glass. You pressed your hands harder against the wound, but it was futile. The blood seeped past your fingers, indifferent to your desperation.

Time lost meaning. Minutes blurred into hours, or maybe hours into seconds. You couldn’t tell. You sat slumped over yourself, trying to remember how to breathe properly, how to think, how to gather even an ounce of strength to get back up.

Eventually, with twitching fingers, slick with your own blood, you fumbled in your pocket for your phone. The screen flickered to life, glowing too bright against the dark. You’d smeared the glass red, ruined it, probably.

You didn’t care.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. And then… faltered. Another laugh bubbled out of you, fraying at the edges.

Who were you going to call?

Your coworkers? You only ever spoke to them in clipped pleasantries, trading shift schedules and dead smiles. Your manager? God, she’d be annoyed more than anything. You could already hear her, full of barely-veiled condescension.

How dare you get yourself stabbed when we’re at our busiest? Do you know how difficult it will be to find someone to replace you on such short notice? Honestly, it’s selfish. You clearly don’t care about the team’s success.

Your laughter splintered, turning into a strangled sob, and your shoulders shook violently from the effort of it.

It’s not like you had any friends.

And even if you did, what could they do now? Friends were for sunny mornings and warm café booths, for midday walks and shared sandwiches in the park. What sort of friend could help you now?

No one was coming.

You sank deeper into the concrete, the phone slipping from your fingers, the bloodied screen flickering like a dying star.

The cold crept in intimately, then. Not just the cold of the night, but the one that nestled in your marrow.

This was it. This was how you'd go. Alone, and irrelevant. In that moment, all you wanted—more than comfort or help—was for someone to notice you were gone.

Your fingers quivered as you scrolled through your contacts again, the names blurring before your eyes, all of them meaningless, until one, in particular, made your thumb falter.

His.

You stared at the entry. The number he’d given you with all the solemnity of a last resort. For emergencies only. The implication had been clear. You had never used it.  

Yet here you were. Bleeding out alone. Surely this counted. What constituted a greater emergency than your slow descent into death? You should call him. He owed you that much, after the countless nights you’d nursed his wounds, brewed tea for his unravelling nerves, offered wordless comfort when he couldn't meet your eyes.

You hesitated.

He was the one who had left. He’d made it clear that your concern was unwanted, that your presence was a burden, a kindness too foreign for him to accept. Who were you to claw back into his life now, demanding something from a man who had nothing to give?

Besides, he had probably thrown the phone away already. Changed numbers. Burned the whole thing and permanently severed all connection to you.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You had helped him expecting nothing in return, and if your care had ever truly been selfless, then you couldn’t call him now. You wouldn’t dishonour whatever shred of dignity remained by asking for something he never offered.

He told you not to rely on him, and you were nothing if not obedient. Even in death.

But would he even know that you'd died?

Would he hear about the nameless person found lifeless in some forgotten alleyway? Or would you be just another unclaimed cadaver, swiftly removed with nothing but a toe tag to mark your end?

The thought struck harder than the pain in your ribs. 

No. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t right.

You were no one—yes. An inconsequential creature tucked into the shadows of a city that never slept, but you were not nothing. You had existed. You had loved. You had helped. And whatever little sliver of self-worth burned in your chest would not let you die like this, like some discarded scrap on the edge of the world. You wanted to at least have the dignity of dying in your own home. 

With a choked cry, you forced your blood-slicked palm against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase. Your legs screamed in protest, and your vision went white with pain, but you pushed, staggering to your feet like a marionette with half its strings cut. Your body bent nearly double, every breath a dagger in your ribs, but you moved. You moved because you had to. Because you refused to die here in this piss-stained alley, where the rats would be your only mourners and your story would end in tragic comedy.

Step by agonizing step, you dragged yourself toward your apartment building, each footfall a prayer, each gasp a rebellion.

You were not going to die out here. You refused to.

By the time you reached the entrance to your building, your body was little more than a shuddering husk, hollowed out by blood loss and sheer willpower. The stairs loomed before you like a joke, an unscalable mountain for someone with no air left in their lungs. You cursed the building for not having a damned elevator, cursed yourself for choosing this place, this street, this life. But then you remembered, with no small measure of desperation, that your apartment was on the first floor. Just one flight. Just a few steps.

You could do this. 

Each stair was its own Everest. Your hands gripped the banister like it was the only thing tethering you to this world, your knees buckling with every upward shuffle. By the time you reached your door, your vision had gone obsidian around the edges, the hallway swimming before your eyes like you were underwater.

Your fingers fumbled at the keyring, sticky with blood. You dropped it once. Then again. The keys jangled to the floor in a wet scatter, and you nearly screamed in frustration. It took everything in you to bend down and retrieve them, the movement setting off a white-hot flare in your side. When at last you managed to force the key into the lock and shove the door open, it felt like winning some futile, cruel battle.

The moment you crossed the threshold, your legs gave out. You caught yourself clumsily on the edge of the doorway, panting. There was a trail of red already soaking into your welcome mat, smearing across the floor where your shoes dragged in rainwater and the city’s muck.

You thought of what a mess it would be in the morning. Not your pain. Not your fear. The mess.

Of course. Always worried about the inconvenience.

Your bed beckoned, soft and warm in memory, but you knew better. The thought of dying there, of ruining the sheets, staining the mattress, and leaving some poor cleanup crew to find you sprawled like a ghost in a coffin of cotton, made your stomach turn.

No, you couldn't do that to them. You couldn't be a burden, even in death.

So you turned instead toward the bathroom, dragging your feet unsteadily. The mirror reflected something ghastly as you passed, but you didn’t look long enough to register it. The bathtub was where you would go. Easy to clean. Contained. Not that you had plans to die, not really. Just a precaution.

You collapsed inside it, the porcelain biting cold against your rain-soaked clothes. You had meant to only sit on the edge, to open the cabinet, maybe fish out the old first-aid kit, the one you’d used on him more times than you could count. But that thought was as distant now as the stars. You couldn’t move anymore. Couldn’t lift your arm, couldn’t reach the faucet, couldn’t even curl properly into yourself.

The chill was everywhere, gnawing its way into your bones. Your side throbbed, your hands were numb, and your clothes clung to you like a second, sopping skin. The bathroom ceiling blurred above you, a dull white light flickering in and out of focus.

Maybe if you could just turn the shower on, and run the hot water, it'd warm you. Even that was beyond you, and your eyes slid shut.

Just five minutes, you told yourself.

You’d rest for five minutes and then you’d wake up. You’d patch yourself up, and you’d clean up the mess. 

Jason Todd stood outside your apartment door, a greasy pizza box balanced in one hand, the old burner phone cradled in the other. He hated how long he stood there, staring at your door like some coward at confession, trying to summon the nerve to knock. The light overhead flickered erratically, buzzing like it, too, was mocking him for coming back with his tail between his legs.

He didn’t do apologies. Not well. Not in words. Nonetheless, this was the closest thing he could offer. A peace offering. Your favourite pizza and an irrational hope tucked in his chest that maybe you hadn’t stopped waiting for him.

He told himself it was just a coincidence when his patrols started curving past your building more often than necessary. Gotham was dangerous, after all. Plenty of reasons to keep an eye on your neighbourhood.

That didn’t explain why he always ended up outside your window. Why he paused there, hidden in the shadows with his helmet in hand, unable to resist the pull of light spilling through your curtains. Why he’d squint through the fogged-up glass, watching the shape of you as you went about your night, a ghost in your own home.

Sometimes you’d sit at the little table by the kitchen window, two mugs set down instead of one. One of them always remained untouched, placed directly in front of the empty seat he used to occupy like muscle memory. And god, those were the worst nights, the ones where he caught you staring at that vacant spot, eyes glazed with thought, fingers wrapped around your own mug for warmth that never quite reached your face.

It gutted him in ways he didn’t want to examine. Routine was memory. Memory was grief.

You’d left the light on most nights, like you always did. Once he’d seen you crack open the window just a sliver, as if you were expecting someone to come climbing through. He hadn’t moved from the fire escape that time, just sat there like a coward in the dark, watching you wait.

You hadn’t closed it again until dawn.

Here he was now, standing at your door like a man with something to offer, when all he’d ever done was take.

It had been three weeks, not that he was counting. Three weeks since he’d stormed out, spitting venom at the only person who'd offered him a lifeline. He’d told himself he was doing you a favour by leaving. Sparing you. Protecting you. But all it had done was leave him bitter, clawing at the emptiness where your laughter used to sit.

So he’d come back. He was even doing it your way this time. No rooftop skulking, no slipping through your window like a thief in the night. He’d wiped his boots on the doormat like you always nagged him to, grumbling under his breath about manners even as he indulged your rituals.

It was then that he saw it.

The mat was wet, and not just from rain. It was stained with something thicker than water. His brows furrowed. He crouched down, pressed his fingers against it, and brought them up to the light. 

Blood.

A chill knifed down his spine. The pizza box slid forgotten to the floor, and the burner was shoved back into his pocket with numb fingers as he stepped forward. He reached for the door and froze. It was ajar, just enough to be wrong.

Jason’s jaw clenched as he pushed it open, inch by inch, his muscles tense. The air inside was still, but not in the comforting, quiet way. It was stale, coated in something metallic.

The hallway beyond the threshold told him everything he needed to know, and nothing he wanted to. There were smears. Streaks of blood that dragged in uneven trails across the walls and floor like someone had been pulling themselves, struggling to crawl. It didn’t take a detective to know it hadn’t happened more than a few hours ago. It was still wet in places.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

He followed the trail, dread festering like rot in his gut, stifling in its certainty. The apartment bore the signs of someone trying—and failing—to get to safety. A chair half-toppled in the living room. A phone on the floor with bloodied fingerprints on the cracked screen. The bathroom door half-open, swinging slightly on its hinges.

Inside, Jason’s boots crunched over scattered pill bottles, cotton pads, and disinfectants. The cabinet had been ransacked, the sink stained, and the floor a battlefield of debris. However, it was the bathtub that rooted him in place.

The shower curtain had been torn from its hooks on one side, hanging askew like a shroud, and there at the edge was a hand.

Unmoving, and painted the same devastating hue as his discarded helmet.

“No, no, no—”

Jason surged forward. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it back. His heart stopped. 

There you were, curled up like a broken doll. Blood had seeped through your clothes, and pooled beneath you in a slick that had long gone cold. Your face was too pale. Your lips were tinged with blue. You looked like you'd been dying alone.

And he hadn’t been here. He’d left you.

“Shit—” The curse ripped out of him as he dropped to his knees beside the tub. “Shit. No, no, no. Stay with me. Don’t you dare fucking do this.”

His eyes raked over your body in a frenzied scan, finally landing on the crimson bloom beneath your ribs, still seeping sluggishly into the sodden fabric of your shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, yanking his jacket off and pressing it hard against your side. “Just—fuck—open your damn eyes. Please. I can’t—just stay with me.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry out. You didn’t even stir.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he pleaded again, trying to keep pressure on the wound while reaching up to cradle your face. His fingers brushed over your cold cheek, the dampness of it jarring. “Shit, you’re freezing.”

Your skin had the waxy hue of someone far too close to death.

“Don’t do this.” His voice cracked around your name. “Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

He ran his thumb across your temple, trying to coax warmth back into your skin. “You’re not allowed to go out like this.”

He wanted to rage, to tear apart every alley in Gotham until he'd found the bastard who’d done this to you and buried him in pieces, but he couldn’t leave you. Not again.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “I was trying to keep you safe, you stupid, stupid—all I did was get you hurt.”

The blood kept leaking through the fabric under his hand. He tried not to look at it. Tried to focus on the flutter of your breath instead, shallow and shaky as it was.

“You stayed up for me. Every night,” he continued hoarsely. “Kept the light on like a goddamn lighthouse. You set out mugs for a ghost, and I—I let you.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d move on. Forget me. Be safe.”

He brushed back the damp strands of hair plastered to your forehead and nearly flinched at the chill of your skin. “But you didn’t forget. And now look at you.”

Another shallow breath rattled from you. Not enough. Never enough.

Jason let out a bitter laugh. Half relief, half devastation.

“You always patched me up without question. Let me bleed on your couch like it was normal. Told me to stop tracking blood in like it was mud, like I was just some dumb, messy roommate. You made me think I could be something other than this.”

He gripped your jaw gently, coaxing your face toward his, needing even your closed eyes on him. He had seen worse wounds. He’d inflicted worse wounds. But never before had his hands shaken like this, not even when pulling bullets out of his own flesh. Not even when bleeding in the dark with only adrenaline and resentment keeping him alive.

You weren’t moving, and that terrified him more than anything else.

He hadn’t wanted to look. Had clung to the jacket pressed against your side like it might reverse the damage, like he could will the blood to retreat into your body, but the pressure wasn’t enough. He had to see it, to know what he was dealing with.

"Sorry...I’m gonna lift your shirt now. I need to—I need to fix this.”

As if you could hear him. As if that mattered.

Nevertheless, his entire demeanour softened when speaking to you, even now.

Almost reverently, Jason tugged the fabric of your shirt upward. It clung to your skin, soaked through with blood and rain, and he had to tear it gently around the wound to reveal what lay beneath.

It was sickeningly deep. Ragged. A puncture wound, just below your ribs, the edges dark with drying blood, the center still weeping. It hadn’t clotted. It wasn’t going to.

“Shit,” he grunted, clenching his jaw as a fresh wave of helpless fury surged through him. His hands hovered, uncertain. “You weren’t supposed to…”

He wasn’t supposed to let this happen.

His gloves were already off, discarded god knew where when he found you. And now, he reached for the cabinet above your sink, flinging it open and pawing through it until supplies tumbled out. A crude first aid kit: gauze, antiseptic wipes, a needle and thread in a plastic pouch. Nothing close to sterile. Nothing close to what you needed, but it would have to do.

Jason fell to his knees beside the tub again. His fingers were too numb, but he forced them to work. He yanked the antiseptic open with his teeth, nearly choked on the smell, and drenched a clean cloth with it.

“This is gonna hurt,” he uttered another apology as he dabbed around the wound. You didn’t flinch. That silence hit harder than a scream.

He took a deep breath and threaded the needle.

“I’m not good at this,” he told you. “You usually do the patching. I just sit there like a jackass and make fun of your tea.”

A breathless huff escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“But I’m gonna try, okay? You just—you stay with me. Just for a little while longer.”

The first stitch was agony. Not for you, but for him. The needle pushed through skin with resistance, your blood sticking to his fingers. He cursed under his breath, eyes burning as he worked. He tried to be careful, gentle even, but he didn’t have time for grace. He just needed to stop the bleeding.

One stitch. Two. Three. The jagged edges of the opening puckered beneath his efforts, but slowly the worst of it began to close. He wrapped it after, thick layers of gauze and the remains of your shirt to press against it.

Then his hands fell still. 

“Okay,” he consoled, brushing hair away from your brow. “Okay. That’s… that’s the worst of it.”

You didn’t stir.

“You’re not dying,” he repeated as if he could manifest it into truth. “I didn’t just fix you up so you could fucking die on me anyway.”

He leaned down and brushed his lips against your forehead, tasting rust.

“I’m not losing you.”

He had come here thinking it would be the beginning of an apology, but now it might as well have been a eulogy.

[daxisyzz]

Close encounters

Pairings: avenger!bucky barnes × avenger!reader

Summary: On an undercover mission, you and Bucky pose as a married couple to infiltrate an illegal weapons auction—but when a stolen kiss becomes part of the plan, the line between duty and desire starts to blur.

Word count: 1.2k+

Tags: Flirty Bucky, fight sequence, undercover mission, teasing, kissing.

A/n: I had posted a grumpy Bucky fic but hated it. So I deleted it. I think I like this better. If u ever want grumpy Bucky lemme know. Requests are open. Enjoyyyy!!

Part 2- Double-Edged

The mission was simple: extract intel from a black-market arms dealer, stay undetected, and get out before things went sideways. Simple—until Steve decided to pair you with James Buchanan Barnes.

You stepped out of the limo, adjusting your dress as you scanned the sketchy building for exits and weak points. Bucky stepped out after you, his sharp gaze sweeping over the area before turning toward you. He leaned down, voice low.

“You clean up nice, doll,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear as he adjusted the clasp of your necklace. His fingers skimmed the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your pulse picked up.

“Try to focus, Barnes. We have a job to do.”

“I am focused,” he said, smirking.

“On my wife.”You ignored him.

The mission had led you both to an underground auction, where dangerous people gathered to bid on illegal weapons. Your cover: a wealthy couple looking to expand their business.

The plan: Bucky would distract the seller while you slipped into a secure backroom to steal classified files.But first, you had to sell the act.

As you entered the venue, Bucky’s hand found the small of your back, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your dress. The casual possessiveness of it made your breath hitch—just for a second.

“Relax, doll,” he murmured, voice smooth as ever.

“Gotta make it look real.”You forced yourself to ignore the warmth of his touch, keeping your focus on the room instead.

“Just don’t overdo it, Barnes.”

He smirked. “Too late.”

You took your seats near the auction stage, scanning the crowd for your target. Anton Markov sat in a private booth, surrounded by bodyguards.You turned to Bucky.

“I’ll need five minutes alone in that backroom.”His gaze flickered with something unreadable.

“Then we’ll get you five minutes.”

The auctioneer began presenting rare weapons, but you weren’t paying attention. You were focused on Markov, waiting for an opening.Bucky, however, was focused on you.

You wore a satin dress that fit in all the right places. The ring Steve had made you both wear to sell the act glinted under the chandelier’s warm glow, bringing a smirk to Bucky’s face.

“Stop staring,” you muttered.

“I’m your husband,” he said, leaning in.

“Gotta make it look real.”You shot him a glare.

“You’re enjoying this.”His lips twitched.

“A little.”

Your eyes flicked back to the target as he finally left his booth, heading toward the bar. Now was your chance.You stood, brushing a hand over Bucky’s thigh as you did. The touch was fleeting, unintentional—except for the way he tensed ever so slightly.

“I’ll be back, honey,” you said, keeping up the act.

“Wait for my signal,” you murmured before slipping away.

You moved stealthily through the crowd, unnoticed by the guards.The backroom was locked, but you made quick work of it with your hairpin, slipping inside. Rows of servers lined the walls, buzzing with encrypted data. You approached the main computer, pulling up the classified files. Plugging in a drive, you watched the transfer bar crawl forward. Almost there…

Then—footsteps.

Your stomach dropped. You barely had time to pull your gun from the thigh holster beneath your dress before the door opened.Two guards stepped in.

“Boss said to check the servers,” one muttered.

You held your breath, staying out of their line of sight. The download wasn’t complete. If they noticed…

Before you could form a plan, the door burst open again—and in walked Bucky. His scowl was murderous, jaw clenched tight.He moved fast. One guard barely had time to react before Bucky knocked him out cold. The second reached for his gun, but Bucky grabbed his wrist, twisting until there was a sickening crack.The room fell silent.You exhaled.

“That was not the plan,” you said, stepping out.

“They got suspicious,” Bucky replied, scanning the monitors.

“Had to improvise.”You rolled your eyes.

“You just wanted to be dramatic.”

“Did it impress you?”You ignored him, yanking the drive free just as an alarm blared.

“Time to go.”

Security flooded the halls. Your only escape? A side door leading to a back alley. You sprinted toward it, but a guard rounded the corner—gun raised.

Before you could react, Bucky grabbed you by the waist, spinning you so your back hit the wall, his body shielding yours. His hands found your face, and then—His lips crashed against yours.

Your mind blanked.

He kissed you slowly, deliberately, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.It took a second to register what was happening. Then your hands gripped the lapels of his suit, the fabric creasing under your tight hold as you kissed him back.A deep sound rumbled from his throat—something between a groan and a satisfied hum.

The guard hesitated, taking you for just another couple sneaking a moment away from the bustling crowd.The second the guard moved on, Bucky pulled away, eyes dark with something unreadable.You swallowed hard.

“What the hell was that?”

“Had to make it convincing,” he said smoothly.

You didn’t get a chance to argue before more guards closed in. Bucky grabbed your hand, pulling you down the hall and out the door.By the time you reached the safe house, your heart was still racing—but not from the escape.

Inside, the chaos of the mission faded into a quiet that felt both relieving and… unsettlingly intimate. You dropped onto a worn couch, still feeling the buzz of adrenaline, while Bucky leaned against the table, a roguish grin playing on his lips.

“Not bad for a ‘just undercover’ kiss,” he said lightly, eyes dancing as he regarded you.

You shifted uncomfortably, trying to mask the quickened beat of your pulse. “That was a necessity, Barnes. Don’t read more into it than you have to.”Bucky stepped closer, his tone teasing.

“Oh, come on. I got a kiss out of you. It was… unexpected, sure, but pretty damn effective.”

You rolled your eyes, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips despite your best efforts. “Effective for the mission, maybe. I didn’t exactly plan on playing into any romantic script.”

He brushed a hand lightly along your arm, the contact sending an undeniable shiver through you. “Maybe you didn’t plan it, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me want to see more of that fire—even if you’re all business most of the time.”

You tried to keep your tone steady, though your cheeks betrayed you. “Barnes, you’re unbelievable. One minute we’re dodging guards, the next you’re flirting like we’re off-duty.”

“Off-duty or not, you did kiss me back,” he replied with a wink. “And honestly, that might just be worth the risk.”

For a long moment, you stared at him, flustered and momentarily at a loss for words. Finally, you cleared your throat. “Maybe. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m here to get the job done—nothing more.”

Bucky’s smile softened, though the playful glint in his eyes remained. “Sure, doll. But if you ever do decide to let a little distraction in, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

You let out a reluctant laugh, shaking your head. “Keep dreaming, Barnes. Just stick to the mission next time.”He chuckled, leaning in just enough that you felt the warmth of his breath.

“No promises,” he murmured.

“After all, I like finding ways to keep things interesting.”

In that charged, easy moment, the safe house became more than just a hideout. It became a space where even a well-timed kiss could blur the lines between duty and desire.

[ariheartsmatt]

ㅤㅤㅤ( 📄 ) now presenting . . . ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤCOWORKER!MATT HEADCANONS

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who always walks into the office a little early, cup of black coffee in hand. not starbucks or any other chain company, he’s loyal to the artsy, organic cafe down the street.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who gives nods of greeting to everyone but you. you get a quiet ‘good morning,’ paired with a shy smile everyday.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who sits at the back of the conference room during meetings. does’t speak much, but when he does, everybody listens.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who’s desk is beside the window, and people watches instead of doing his work.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who always smells so good and clean, and looks all neat and put together. little does anyone know—he wants to be fucked until he’s dumb and drooling.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who will do anything you ask, without hesitation or questions, because he just wants to please.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who, subconsciously, finds any excuse to visit your desk and hand you something so you two can brush fingers.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who almost passed out when you kissed him on the cheek for the first time in thanks for carrying a box for you.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who gets nervous at work events, worried that you’ll bring a boyfriend you’ve never mentioned before—and lets out a relieved breath when you arrive alone.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who secretly loves when you’re a bit taller than him and looking down at him when wearing certain heels.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who loses his focus on whatever he’s doing whenever you bend over to file something.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who can’t help but let his gaze wander to your chest, whether you’re standing right in front of him or across the office, mouth drying at the sight of your red lace bra bleeding through the fabric of your top.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who, very shamefully, has to jerk off in the men’s washroom whenever he gets a hard on at the office.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who’s always thinking about you—while making himself breakfast on the weekends, in the shower, typing boring reports for work, before falling asleep. always.

( 📁 ) coworker!matt . . . who’s completely in love with you, but way too scared to act on it.

authors note. not much to say other than, i had fun writing this and hope everybody enjoys ༉‧₊˚. tags. @bluestriips , lemme know if you wanna be added ✰.ᐟ

[mercurial-chuckles]

is smutober still open? if yes can i ask for stucky x f!reader + 17. "seeing the love marks they left on their partner later and getting turned on all over again remember how it got there in the first place"? i thought maybe steve or bucky seeing the marks the other left on reader? or even better, steve or buck seeing the marks reader left on them. anyway, up to you, i love all of your stucky works, you make their relationship feel so real and i love how you don't focus solely on the boys with reader but on bucky and steve and their love for each other as well.

Wanton Affairs

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Bucky Barnes | Stucky x F!Reader Warnings: Overloaded Fluff Galore | Domestic Supersoldiers | Poly relation | Language | THE SMUT galore | Threesome | Fingering | Littleshit supersoldiers on the loose | Irresistible Bucky | One torn bra | Supersoldier Sandwich | Soft!dom Steve | Soft!dom Bucky | ~6k of fluffy n filthy goodness | I've broken the fic into three parts with breaks if you wish to stop and continue later | Unedited. If you find any errors (you will), please kindly ignore them for the moment. I typed as I went. I'm too disoriented to edit, but I will as soon as I can | Lemme know if I'm missing anything. A/N: My first threesome. I mean, first time writing a threesome. I'm already whimpering in dread. So, be gentle with me. Treat me tenderly, and some validation would really ease me. Thank you for sending in the ask for SMUT-BER FEST. My apologies for how--embarrassingly--long it's taken to get to your ask. I hope you enjoy reading it, my sweet anon! And thank you for your kind words. This is also my submission for Stucky Bingo | Prompt: Napping | @stuckybingo Most importantly, I've added a small dialogue prompt inspired by Trick or Treat wheel of potential doom. @yenzys-lucky-charm I'm sorry this thought has been marinating in my head for so long, love. I'm way past the due date, and this isn't technically my submission. Since you mentioned how excited you were about this prompt, and now that I've FINALLY gotten inspired, I wanted to tag you. Please feel free to ignore it if any elements of this fic aren't your forte ✨ Hope I did it justice 🩷 Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner and Divider made by me. Picture credits to internet! Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Bucky gets what he wants, even if it means seducing fighting an annoyed Steve Rogers

Bucky, as per Steve's entirely unqualified yet riveting diagnosis, was a little shit with a severe case of cuteness aggression.

Why, you ask?

Well, it was 2 p.m., and Bucky had just returned home from the compound. And when he walked in and saw you peacefully napping, he absolutely couldn't resist his joy.

Despite Steve's firm warning that you needed rest after pulling an all-nighter, Bucky just couldn't help himself. He'd missed you terribly all day--too many hours apart.

So, like the true, needy mess that he was, he decided to be obnoxiously loud, hoping you'd stir awake, give him a warm smile that would relax him in no seconds, and let him curl up next to you.

Those were the hopes of the brunette man.

But his other love--the too-practical, too-Captainy--was already dousing his plans in cold water.

It wasn't that Bucky didn't understand the importance of your sleep--he did. He knew you'd been putting in extra hours, working on the analysis of some foil, and you hardly slept the last few days and that you didn't sleep at all last night.

Stupid Project!

But you, in all your serene, angelic glory, just looked so irresistible lying there.

Not to be too dramatic but he was desperate and downright itching for you to hold him.

Last night had been miserable. He'd tossed and turned all night, and with Steve holed up at the compound, there was no one to hold him while he slept. Which, of course, meant sleep was out of the question. Steve had tried convincing him to come over, mumbling something about hologram testing and training updates--like that was supposed to be enticing.

A bunch of lies, if you asked Bucky.

Steve was a really needy puppy. The man could hardly stand being away from you for too long without either of them keeping watch. And sure, the offer had been tempting, but Bucky had backed off, figuring he'd crash on the couch with some trash TV instead. The last thing he wanted was to deal with Tony along with his sizable ego and the others when he was in a mood. Not that he disliked any of them--he just wasn't in the headspace for socializing. So, he let Steve play the responsible Captain at the Compound while you worked and he decided to stay back and suffer in peace.

In the early hours that morning, he went to his scheduled training session, running on barely any sleep. You had texted saying you'd be home in the evening, but when he saw you both back earlier than expected, he just couldn't resist, could he?

Thus, he proceeded with his noisy campaign to wake you up, much to Steve's horror.

"Bucky," Steve hissed from across the room as Bucky slammed the bathroom door.

"Stop that," he warned, half-amused by the exaggeratedly loud noises Bucky had been making since the moment he arrived home. Steve's enhanced hearing only made it worse, amplifying the noise tenfold. But Bucky had the same enhanced hearing, and Steve knew how stealthy his lover could be. That meant Bucky was intentionally making a racket to wake you up--and that annoyed Steve.

"Stop what?" Bucky huffed, raising an eyebrow as he marched toward Steve, intentionally stomping every step.

Though it had plenty of closet space, the walk-in closet attached to the bedroom was far too small for the two of them. Steve had dimmed the lights to avoid disturbing you and even drew the curtains in the bedroom to block out the intense afternoon light pouring through the windows.

"Shh... she's sleeping," Steve shushed, flinging a shirt he was folding toward Bucky in an attempt to get him to stop. But Bucky caught it mid-air, tossed it back into the laundry bin with a grin, and, without missing a beat, yanked Steve toward him by the collar of his undershirt.

Bucky cradled Steve's jaw with an exaggerated air of seriousness, murmuring lowly, "Ya know, I just saw a picture of a grumpy cat online that looked exactly like you."

Bucky's grin widened.

Steve's frown deepened, and the playful glint in Bucky's eyes only intensified.

Rolling his eyes, Steve swatted Bucky's hands away from his cheeks and snorted in amusement. "You sure it wasn't you?" he deadpanned, picking up clothes one by one and sorting them into fold piles and hangers.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled Steve by the neck, his lips nearly grazing Steve's.

Poor Stevie couldn't resist now, could he? Because Bucky looked irresistibly handsome, and he was a weak man when it came to Bucky or you.

Steve felt his resolve slip, and before he knew it, his lips were gravitating toward Bucky's as Bucky leaned in for a soft, teasing kiss. A low moan escaped Steve, and before he could deepen the kiss, Bucky pulled away, leaving Steve with nothing but a rush of warmth and utter annoyance.

Steve groaned, rubbing his face. "You're such a jerk," he muttered, irritated by the half-assed kiss and desperate for more.

Bucky's grin widened wickedly. "What? Do you need me, punk? All you gotta do is ask," he teased, "Nicely," he added, his voice thick with amusement, before leaning in again--this time intently, pushing Steve against the tiny space of empty wall beside the door. Their lips collided, groaning at the taste, deepening the kiss as they moved closer, instinctively pulling each other tighter. The arousing kiss continued, building and building until…

The unmistakable tear was heard.

Both of them exchanged a look.

"Oh, shit!" Bucky laughed, pulling away just enough to look down.

Steve followed Bucky's gaze and froze, his face going pale. There, in Steve's hand, were the torn remains of your favorite bra. It was a cute piece, too, with little dinosaurs and cacti prints. You looked adorable wearing it.

"Son of a bitch, that's her comfy one," Steve muttered in exasperation, turning it in his large hands to see if it was remotely salvageable, but the fabric was in tatters.

"Eh…" Bucky hummed, plucking the fabric from Steve's hands, and inspected the shredded piece with little sympathy, "I hate these traps," he muttered.

"Nope, gotta say goodbye," Bucky sniggered, putting the ripped fabric back into Steve's hands. Steve groaned in defeat.

Bucky patted him on the shoulder with exaggerated pity, and taking advantage of Steve's guilty reminiscence, he slipped out of the closet and into the bedroom, leaving Steve standing there, still processing the carnage.

Bucky plopped himself on the bed with zero resistance from Steve whatsoever. He quickly discarded his joggers, cursing himself for deciding to put them on after the shower. He threw them, aiming for the chair, but Steve caught them mid-air, a frown returning to his face.

Bucky's smile widened at the sound of Steve's angry grunts, whispered under his breath. Ignoring all of Steve's warnings, Bucky turned his focus entirely to you, snuggling comfortably beside you, and wondering how best to announce his arrival.

Steve seemed to read his thoughts because he snapped, nearly shouting, "James, get your ass over here and fold the laundry with me if you're so bored!"

Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes. "I'm not bored, Steven. I'm sleepy," he declared, finger traced gently down your cheek, and you made a soft noise in your sleep.

Steve's patience ebbed away all at once. He cast one last look at your peaceful, slumbering form, Steve had just managed to help you fall asleep, and he wasn't about to let Bucky mess it all up.

With a determined stride, Steve marched over, grabbed Bucky by the waist, and hauled him off the bed without warning. Bucky let out a surprised laugh, but Steve anticipated the noise, quickly pressing his hand to Bucky's mouth to silence him as he began marching him out of the room.

"What the hell?" Bucky grumbled, his brain catching up.

Steve only made it two steps into the living room before Bucky, like a reflex, tackled him to the ground with a booming laugh.

"You're really not listening. Let her sleep," Steve hissed, his voice strained from holding back his irritation and laughter.

"I wasn't doing anything," Bucky guffawed, straddling Steve and pinning him to the floor.

"Cut it out, Buck."

Bucky, now the one in control, held both of Steve's wrists to his chest, completely enjoying the struggle.

"GET UP!" Steve grumbled, pretending to be annoyed, but the amused smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

"Is that all ya got?" Bucky mocked, raising an eyebrow. "For a man who pulled a helicopter…" He tutted in mock disappointment. "Bad, Stevie. You gotta replenish your big boy energy."

Bucky placed a teasing kiss on Steve's jaw, his breath warm against Steve's skin. "I think you need a nap, too," he whispered.

Steve narrowed his eyes, and as the smug grin on Bucky's face fully registered in his mind, "You look quite energized Buck, and you definitely don't need a nap," Steve remarked flippantly.

Bucky's grin faltered, but only for a second. He kept Steve pinned with his metal arm, his face now just inches from Steve's as he leaned in closer. With a soft chuckle, Bucky pushed off Steve, sliding away from him smoothly and practically leaping off the floor and onto the bed in two long strides, knowing fully well that Steve wouldn't repeat the same mistake of hauling him off the bed a second time.

Bucky mentally counted to five, and sure enough, Steve appeared in the doorway, a frown marring his adorably stupid face.

Steve walked in fully intending to get the rest of the laundry done, however, he glanced at the bed, eyes greedily taking in Bucky's overtly happy and awfully comfortable expression snuggling beside you, and Steve sighed, conceding defeat. With a roll of his eyes, he finally walked over to the bed and carefully settled on the other side.

"You're folding the laundry later," Steve mouthed to Bucky, his voice just above a whisper. He then carefully slid his right arm around your waist, almost instinctively, and settled it over Bucky's side of the bed.

Bucky chuckled proudly, satisfied with himself. He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead before slowly slipping your hand from beneath your pillow, gently resting it on his own. Your familiar scent filled the space between them, soothing Bucky like the pleasant sound of rain.

Steve peeked at Bucky, a small, affectionate smile tugging at his lips as he felt your feet worm their way between his legs. Bucky's right arm found Steve's on top of your pillow, and without a second's delay, Steve interlaced his fingers with Bucky's, letting out a quiet hum of satisfaction.

"Such a punk," Steve murmured, squeezing Bucky's hand affectionately.

Bucky snorted. His eyes fluttered closed, surrendering to the soothing calmness of both you and Steve.

"And no funny business," Steve added softly, his voice almost teasing as he kissed the top of your head, his breath warm on your skin. Bucky smiled to himself, too content to bite back with a reply.

The absolute nerve of Steve to question Bucky's purer, entirely innocent intentions of cuddling and falling asleep peacefully.

****

Steve is sometimes ALWAYS right

Still groggy and barely awake, you blinked open your eyes--only to be met with two bright blue ones and a wide grin. It scared the shit out of you, and you let out an ungraceful squeak.

"Fuck you, Bucky," you mumbled in surprise, but your cry was quickly muffled by his cold metal palm as he hushed you.

You blinked a few more times, adjusting to your surroundings, finally registering the cozy, familiar position you were wrapped in. The warmth of Steve behind you, his face pressed into your shoulder blade, his nose tickling your skin as the unmistakable sound of his snoring reverberated through your back.

"Stevie's snoring? Aww." You cooed, a sleepy, contented pout pulling at your lips. Bucky grinned beside you, nodding.

It was rare for either of them to snore--what with the serum taking most of the brunt of their bodies--but once in a while, exhaustion got the better of them.

"I recorded it, too," Bucky told you proudly, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your lips.

You sighed happily, licking your lips--his kiss felt like the sun's warmth on a cold winter day.

"Of course you did," you chuckled, a yawn slipping out before you could stop it.

Just as expected, Bucky tried to slip his fingers into your mouth mid-yawn, but you swatted his hand away before he could pull his usual antics. He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that charming, divinely gorgeous way that always made your heart flutter.

"What's the time?" you murmured, tugging at his t-shirt. Bucky slid closer, effortlessly molding against you as you hooked a leg over his hip, his thigh slotting between yours. His warmth, his scent--you savored every bit of him.

God, you'd missed him. Missed them.

"4:15," he whispered, voice low and soothing. He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his metal fingers brushing your cheek, tucking away a few stray strands. At some point, your braid must have loosened in your sleep.

"How was training?" you asked, voice drowsy. Bucky grunted in response, lips trailing lazy kisses along your skin. You hummed, fingers idly playing with the fabric of his t-shirt, knowing exactly what that grunt meant. Training without Steve usually had him in a mood.

Bucky shifted just an inch away, his eyes locked on yours. And you smiled at him, watching his eyes twinkle with love. Unable to resist, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his chin. A comfortable silence settled. Bucky and you got lost in each other's touches, eyes blinking slowly.

"You really haven't been sleeping much, have you?" Bucky murmured, his brows twitching into a concerned frown.

You reached up, smoothing your fingers over the crease between them, watching as the tension melted from his face. He sighed under your touch, and you only shrugged slightly, a small pout tugging at your lips.

"I guess," you whispered, your fingers drifting down to gently massage his jaw. Bucky let out a low, satisfied hum, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

It was during these rare silences--filled with unspoken love you pondered how far you had come. You were so grateful. So unbelievably proud of the choices you had all made, of the life you had built together.

Bucky's expression softened even more as he grumbled, "I'm sorry." His lower lip jutted out just enough to make you want to suckle on it--so you did.

He let out a pleased hum, pressing a soft peck to your lips, his warm breath tickling your senses as he continued, "For trying to wake you up while you were sleeping. I'm such a jerk sometimes."

You let out a quiet laugh but quickly stilled when you felt Steve shift behind you, his forehead pressing snugly against the column of your neck as he instinctively pulled you closer. You waited, holding your breath to see if he would wake. When he didn't, you relaxed and turned your attention back to Bucky, your fingers trailing along his cheek, savoring the contrast between his soft skin and the roughness of his stubble.

"You think I even noticed? I was out like a light," you teased, grinning wide. "Besides, nothing to be sorry about… I know you're my Sugarpuss."

Bucky's eyes widened in mock offense as he dramatically gestured toward Steve. "He's Sugarpuss."

"No, he's not. He's the wise and responsible one of us. He keeps us in line. Besides, he'd only ever call you Sugarpuss," you teased, winking.

Bucky scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Though… you're more of a sourpuss most of the time," you added with a playful smirk.

Bucky let out a dramatic grunt before suddenly pulling you closer. Steve shifted behind you, now sprawled out on his stomach.

"I'd beat his ass if he ever called me that," Bucky muttered, tossing a leg over you and tugging you flush against him.

"You'd beat my ass too?" you teased, grinning as you pressed soft butterfly kisses along his neck.

Bucky moaned in satisfaction, the deep rumble of his throat vibrating against your lips.

"You're my pretty girl. You can call me any shitty name you want," he murmured, eyes crinkling with affection.

Before you could fawn over that, another snore rumbled from Steve, and Bucky turned his head to glance at him.

Shaking his head in mock disbelief, he huffed, "And he said he didn't need a nap."

"Yeah?" you asked, unable to resist the giggle bubbling up.

"Yeah. Hell-bent on me not lurking around you," Bucky said, shaking his head.

You laughed, snuggling deeper into his warmth.

"Guess what? He came by the lab... Captain mode," you whispered, your fingers threading through Bucky's hair, tugging just the way he liked. He let out a happy sigh, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

"Really?" Bucky rasped, his voice thick with interest. His hand found the band of your panties, and he snapped them. You squirmed, feeling the warmth bubbling.

"Yeah! He announced that there was a meeting and that I was needed," you continued, chuckling. "Carried me home and put me to sleep."

Bucky hummed his palm kneading slow, lazy circles into your hip. His touch was heavy, possessive. His metal arm slipped underneath your shirt.

"Bucky…" you warned, shaking your head slightly.

But Bucky grinned, squeezing and massaging your tit, flicking your nipple. You squirmed, breath hitching at the sensation.

His smirk was downright sinful. "Put you to sleep, huh?"

Bucky seemed to take pity because he moved his hand away, but only for his fingers now trailing along your collarbone, then down the length of your neck. The cool Vibranium warmed instantly against your skin as he pushed your--Steve's--t-shirt off your shoulder.

"He left marks, didn't he?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, your face reddening up at the memory of Steve taking you apart after you denied that you were not sleepy.

Bucky huffed in mock offense, his fingers ghosting over the faint hickeys. "And he tells me, 'No funny business, Buck.'" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Wise, my ass. I'm the wiser one." The words were more for himself than for you, his lips trailing along the column of your neck.

The way your body responded to him was crazy.

"And I feel absolutely left out," Bucky murmured against your mouth, the warmth of his breath making you shiver.

The need to taste him, to pull him closer, was overwhelming.

"We can't have that, Buck," you whispered.

And then, as if reading each other's minds, you both moved at once. The kiss was passionately satiating yet a consuming hunger overwhelmed you. His tongue trailed inside your mouth, lapping at you hungrily, sucking on your bottom lip.

"You're a goddess, you know that?" he rasped, moaning at the taste, revving you up just right. "Fuck, I missed you so much," Bucky growled lowly. Your dismissive protests of his praise were captured by his mouth, kissing you more while he trailed his metal fingers down your stomach, slipping them into your panties.

Beautiful dilated blues gazed at you, and you arched into him, pulling at the short strands of his hair at the back when he cupped your heat and squeezed it. The moan that escaped you was hungrily captured again, hushing you by kissing.

And Steve shifted behind you, making you still in realization.

"Steve is sleeping," you murmured half-heartedly, feeling Steve shift slightly behind you, but Bucky chuckled, the absolute menace that he was, his fingers prodded at your slick entrance, "Gotta be real quiet then, hmm?" he groaned.

"Buck…" You started, only to be shut off by one finger inching inside, and your breath hitched.

"These are not helping," he groaned, caressing and nipping at the marks Steve left on you earlier.

You gripped onto his back, fingers digging into his skin as retribution for the pleasure he was providing you. Bucky nipped at the skin right under your ear, making you squirm. He pushed his second finger inside, setting a languid pace, and let out a rather low growl.

You moaned into his ear, licking the skin on the side of his neck, nipping. God, he smelled like temptation, and you felt weak.

You cried in delight as you felt his fingers hit the spot he was privy to.

You felt parched, and you needed him.

"I know, I know. Good fucking girl," he rumbled, shifting onto his back and pulling you effortlessly on top of him. You stumbled against his chest, breathless, limbs tangled.

You froze for a second, glancing at Steve, but he was still fast asleep, his steady breathing undisturbed.

When you looked back at Bucky, he was grinning up at you, dazed and smug, his eyes glinting wickedly.

You had a good retort ready, but he curled his fingers, turning the words into a moan, and his other hand weaved into your hair, bringing you close to his mouth and sucking your lower lip.

"Quiet, pretty girl. Don't wanna disturb him. Do we?" You bit onto his jaw, holding back the moans that were trying to escape.

Bucky adjusted you in his arms, pressing you against his strong chest, his fingers fucking your wet and welcoming heat. "Hmm. Fuck, you smell divine," he grunted.

Your teeth grazed his skin, his scent hit you tenfold, and the pleasure made you heady.

"Beautiful," Bucky mumbled, his fingers curled expertly inside, and you teetered on the edge of pleasure, breath caught.

"And mine. Ours," Bucky added, moaning against the corner of your mouth, his hips thrusting up against your thigh. The tickling sensation of his hardness made you squirm, and Bucky's languid thrusts turned faster.

"Bucky," You moaned, and he captured your mouth in a sloppy kiss.

"Yeah? Gonna cum, aren't you? Fuck. My perfect girl," he encouraged, and you nodded, mouth falling open, speechless, while your pussy gripped onto his fingers. The sensation hit you fast, clutching you into the depths of pleasure.

Bucky held you tightly, kissing your jaw as you rode your orgasm. He pulled his fingers out slowly, and you whimpered when he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean. His eyes shut for a moment. "Bucky," you breathed. The sight always mortified and did things to you.

"I wanna eat you," he muttered hoarsely, his voice humming through his chest, making your heart flutter.

"But I know you can't keep quiet if I get my mouth on you," he chuckled condescendingly, pushing his boxers down, and your eyes widened, looking at him pointedly.

You shook your head at him, this time more vehemently, but Bucky's smug grin only widened as he adjusted you properly, and your hands held onto him for stability. He nudged you with a wink, giving himself a stroke and slotting his tip at your entrance. Your hesitation vanished with how good it felt.

You both could be quiet, right?

Your breath hitched as he slowly rocked from underneath, and you collapsed onto his broad chest.

"Are you close already?" He cooed, completely sheathed inside you. Bucky gritted his teeth when he felt you clench him.

Your breath caught as your fingers gripped at his t-shirt, and your mouth muffled with bites.

Bucky was making you speechless, wild, and a moaning mess.

A loud guttural groan escaped him, and you hushed him pointedly.

"Fuck, I can't help it," He remarked.

****

When Captain Rogers wakes up. Teehee!

Feeling the knot in your stomach tighten, you nipped at his collarbone. Bucky's palm flexed on your hip, pulling you more into him, and the slight pain it caused made you clench onto him tightly while pleasure rippled through your body.

Bucky hissed, muttering how perfectly you milked him. When his tip kissed your cervix, you moaned.

"Mmm…feels like heaven. Doesn't it?" Bucky hissed, pushing your t-shirt to the side harshly and biting your shoulder. Your nails dug into his biceps, metal and flesh alike, tightly. The contrast urged you on more.

Your t-shirt--Steve's t-shirt--rucked up high with all the thrusting, and you pushed Bucky's t-shirt just a bit up to feel his skin against yours--taut, muscular, soft, scarred, and all yours. "You're so pretty, Buck," You sighed happily, his hardness feeling so full and fulfilling, and you felt the familiar rush as you careened into pleasure.

A sleepy snort broke the moment, followed by a large, steady hand wrapping around your waist, halting your movement. The pleasure that had been building crashed just as fast, leaving you teetering on the edge. You almost wailed in frustration.

You and Bucky turned at the same time, cheek-to-cheek, to face the culprit.

Steve was awake--barely. Propped up on one elbow, his face was adorably scrunched, hair sleep-mussed, eyes narrowed at the two of you with faux disapproval. He let out a deep, raspy chuckle, the sound rolling through your body teasingly, making you squirm against Bucky.

You unknowingly clenched him just a bit, and Bucky groaned, rocking into you.

Bucky's stubble tickled your cheek as he spoke, his chuckle vibrating through his chest.

"Hands off, Steve. We're in the middle of something," Bucky growled, emphasizing his point with a deep thrust. No one could stop the moan coming from you. The pleasure building again.

When Steve tapped your cheek, you opened your eyes to see his amused grin. In the next instant, Steve straddled Bucky, towering over you from behind. His hand tightened around your waist before you were haphazardly lifted off Bucky.

Both you and Bucky hissed at the sudden loss of contact.

You expected Steve to throw you onto the bed, but no. Your eyes widened as you looked at Bucky, who looked back with an expression of both amusement and irritation.

Steve smacked your butt, and you squealed, trying hard to steady yourself on Bucky.

Steve didn't give you time. He pulled you up against his warm chest, discarding your--his--t-shirt and throwing away his to the side. Bucky's gaze shifted to your tits, and he grinned, his both hands coming up to squeeze them.

"Can't help yourself, Buck. Can you?" Steve taunted. Bucky cursed, throwing empty threats at Steve. Steve angled your hips, rubbing his tip against your slick.

Oh, Fuck! Your eyes widened.

You collapsed on Bucky at the sensation, and he steadied you.

"STEVE…Holy…" You gasped as Steve entered you slowly from behind without much resistance, simultaneously bending you onto Bucky.

Bucky was still hard, and he twitched against your tummy, hot and wet.

"Gotta teach him a lesson," Steve said, and honestly, you didn't care. You just want them to stop edging you.

Bucky bared his teeth in sweet agony as he moved to touch himself, but Steve was faster, and he swatted Bucky's hand away.

"Nuh-uh, you're gonna watch while I make our pretty girl feel good," Steve chuckled darkly, his broad frame engulfing you as he nuzzled your neck, placing soft kisses on your shoulder.

"Steve," Bucky gritted in annoyance, trying to squirm away.

"Can't take one order," Steve mocked, riling Bucky up, his hand splayed on the inside of your right thigh and spread you some more, firmly adjusting you on Bucky's torso.

"Fuckkkkk," You cried.

"You're not my boss," Bucky growled challengingly. You could feel him squirm under you both.

"Is that so?" Steve hummed from over your shoulder, too pleased with himself. His hands loosened the grip around you and moved to Bucky's jaw while Steve's other hand held your waist, hoisting you up just a bit. You held onto his forearm with both hands as you felt your knees wobble.

"You're such a punk," Bucky chuckled, his eyes blown in hazy lust. And with a single tap against his lips, Bucky sucked onto his thumb. The sight was hot and was making you delirious with need. You clenched around Steve, and a breathy gasp turned into a moan when Steve pulled out and thrust into you.

Your nails dug into Steve's arm harshly as the pleasure wrecked you.

Bucky pulled you and Steve on top of him and Steve eased you gently onto Bucky and pinned his hands beside him. The angled thrust had you almost coming. Almost.

Their weight and warmth added to your pleasure. Steve adjusted your hips as he pounded you from behind.

Steve nudged against your neck, propping against your shoulder as he leaned toward Bucky.

"I said no funny business. Didn't I?" Steve reminded Bucky, their banter holding nothing back as Steve pounded into you without breaking pace while Bucky kissed your parted mouth.

Bucky winked. "You have no right demanding shit from me, punk." he traced the slightly dark marks on the expanse of your chest, ones that Steve took his time leaving earlier.

Steve's breathless laugh tickled your throat as he pulled Bucky for a kiss, effectively squishing you between them. The angle only made you scream as pleasure shot through you.

"Easy there," Bucky warned Steve.

"FUCKK…" Steve lifted you off Bucky slightly, his one arm wrapping around you carefully, firmly, resting both of your weights on his knees, straddling Bucky.

"Don't worry, Sweetheart. I aim to please. You know that," Steve said to Bucky while adjusting Bucky's cock directly where you were connected, rubbing it gently on your clit, and you gasped, squirming away from his grip. The sensation was driving you nuts.

All three of you moaned in sync. A litany of curses spewed.

You threw your head onto Steve's shoulder, both hands gripping his forearm as he rocked into you.

"Eyes on me," Bucky demanded, squeezing your tit and pinching your nipple. It felt like a Herculean task to open your eyes, but you did, meeting his darkened blues. He parted his lips, tongue peeking out as he forced you closer. Steve loosened his grip, maneuvering you closer to Bucky.

"You smell so fucking good," Bucky grunted, taking you in a searing kiss.

"Look at you. So needy. Fuck, I could do this all day," Steve moaned, increasing his pace. Despite the pleasure coursing through, both you and Bucky rolled your eyes at him in sync, and a few breathy chuckles escaped you.

"Shut up," Steve exclaimed, chuckling. Steve unwound one of his forearms and trailed it up Bucky's chest, carding through Bucky's short locks as he tugged them.

"OH FUCKKK…" Bucky moaned lewdly, baring his teeth and biting his lower lip.

"Can't take one order now, can you?" Steve hissed as his pace faltered, he was close, fucking sporadically.

Bucky intertwined his fingers with yours with a squeeze that spoke of love amidst the filthy, noisy mess you all were making. Steve placed an open-mouthed kiss on your neck, nipping as his fingers from Bucky's hair moved to place his large palm on his chest, right above Bucky's heart.

Bucky's erection rubbed against you and Steve hard and fast, right where you were joined.

"You're close, aren't you, Buck," Steve grunted as he rolled his hips, pressing you sensually against Bucky.

The manly groans, their scent, and their warmth, added to the sweet sensations…Holy Shitz! You were coming for the second time that day around Steve.

"I love you both. FUCK!" Steve moaned, thrusting a couple more times before you felt the hot white ropes filling you up, and you came tumbling down as white-hot pleasure throbbed your senses as you milked him, clutching onto both of them so tightly that it would have left their bones broken were they not supersoldiers.

"Oh shit!" Bucky groaned as he rocked upwards, cumming all over your front and his.

Your body flailed as you collapsed into Bucky, and so did Steve. Steve's taut, sweaty, muscular chest weighed you down onto Bucky, and his partial weight felt heavenly on you.

"I love you," You breathed, eyes closed as you nuzzled into Bucky's soft t-shirt, the stars still exploding behind your lids.

You felt euphoric!

The three of you laid there for a while.

You didn't--couldn't--open your eyes when you were readjusted, now lying on Steve.

Steve's laughter rumbled against your back as you felt Bucky move over you.

"Open 'em, sweet girl," Bucky cooed against your mouth, and you did. He grinned widely.

"You got one more in you, don't you, doll?" Bucky asked. His cock was hard, tip nudging your slick heat.

You bit your lip, not directly answering, but rocking against his tip. Bucky gave a dazzling smile as he inched inside you.

Oh, you were going to be sore and would need all the rest, but you couldn't deny your man, could you now?

"Good girl," Bucky groaned as he gently adjusted you above Steve.

"I love me some supersoldier sandwich," you managed to utter, your words broken and mostly turning into a moan.

"Oh, we're aware," Steve quirked, placing kisses alongside your neck, spreading your thighs wide, and holding them firmly as Bucky fucked you in missionary on Steve.

"Feels good, Buck? Is my cum warming you up well?" Steve taunted, revving Bucky up a bit more.

Steve moved strands of hair out of your face and brushed Bucky's forehead, and you could feel his hardness poking your hips.

Bucky groaned as he fucked with much more vigor. Dear Heavens! You felt every thrust, and it also made you conscious of your weight pressing into Steve.

A thought, while quite stupid, crept into your fucked out mind unknowingly.

"Hey, hey…too much?" Bucky asked, stalling his movements. You blushed, shaking your head, and tilted behind and looked up at a concerned Steve.

"Are you okay?" You asked him. You saw the look of recognition in his eyes, and his concern etched away.

"I am, sweetheart," Steve sighed, adjusting you more firmly, and you squealed. Bucky tapped your cheek, and you met his gaze reluctantly.

"Buck, love some sense into her, harder," Steve chuckled, placing a kiss on your temple, his hands massing your thighs.

You gasped. "I didn't mean…OH FUCKKKK," You started, but Bucky's thrust cut you off.

"BUCKY," You moaned.

"Sorry, pretty girl. Captain's orders," Bucky chuckled, fucking you maddeningly fast.

"Oh, now you follow his orders." You cried and arched on Steve's naked body.

Steve's hand tugged at Bucky's hair. And Bucky moaned, biting onto your chest. Steve turned your knees, helping you wrap them around Bucky's, and you clutched onto Bucky tightly.

Steve's hand crept between you and Bucky and rubbed your overstimulated clit. It really didn't take long before you felt the orgasm consume you.

"I'm…"

"Cum for me." Bucky breathed against your skin, his stubble rough and sensual against your chest as he sucked on your tit.

You were thankful that your home was far off civilization, completely private, because the way you shouted, you bet people would have surely freaked the fuck out.

"Holy Shit!" Bucky's hips stuttered, and soon he was filling you up, moaning loudly in that deep voice that made your pussy flutter.

~

"I love you," Steve whispered reverently, and you hummed blissfully, unable to form any words in response after those body-shattering orgasms. You fell into a dreamless void almost immediately, ears ringing as your body trembled in the aftermath of pleasure. You had no idea how long you slept.

"Come on, doll, gotta clean you up." You were barely aware of the events that followed, only remembering being carried to the guest bedroom vividly.

"Gotta change the sheets, doll. Sleep here," Steve said as he gently adjusted you on the queen mattress. Steve and Bucky's muffled voices sifted through your foggy mind.

"You're a fucking idiot, Stevie. I love you," you heard Bucky laugh, and you chuckled, mentally agreeing with him, though you weren't entirely sure what they were talking about.

Steve scoffed playfully, muttering something at Bucky that only made him laugh harder. Then, Steve tucked you in with a warm blanket, placing a tender kiss on your cheek.

"Get going, Buck. You promised to finish up with the laundry. I'll make dinner," Steve said.

"I'll help, too," you mumbled into the pillow.

Steve chuckled, peppering your neck with kisses that made you squirm from the sensation. "You're going to sleep and get all the rest. Understood?" he declared.

"Yes, Captain Rogers," you breathed, relaxing as your weight sank into the mattress. Steve's kiss lingered on your cheek long after, and you heard the floorboards creak as he shuffled away. The door groaned softly when he stepped into the living room.

God, one of you seriously needed to oil the door. The croaking was getting creepy.

Moments later, the bed dipped beside you. Bucky's warm fingers slid through your hair, massaging your scalp with slow, gentle strokes.

"Don't make me come in there, Bucky," Steve's voice carried from the living room, laced with warning.

Bucky chuckled against your neck. "He's such a prick sometimes," he groaned, his breath warm against your skin.

"I heard that," Steve's voice was much closer now. You chuckled sleepily.

"Steve tore your favorite bra," Bucky stage-whispered.

"Huh?" you mumbled, confused. You weren't wearing a bra, though. You blinked your eyes open, only to see Bucky being dragged out of the room.

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