#>Wide

[bonestrouslingbones]

i finally got an idea to make fluff's outfit just a little more "papyrus" (aka just a bit more faggy) but i haven't even tried to draw it out yet because i cannot for the life of me figure out how to represent low-rise pants with fishnets underneath on a fucking skeleton

[momo-shut-the-fuck-up]

I litrally dont have what to do with all my stamina anymore is there anythin i should pre farm for. Hjelp

[polar-jake778]

bruce, my beloved !

can you post some strong wide men to appeal to all demographics

Bruce is a strong wide man who appeals to all demographics

[kurooh]

☆ US AFTER POUNDTOWN ! — JJK

⊹₊˚. what aftercare looks like with gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, fushiguro toji, & kamo choso.

warnings: 18+ content — mdni, fem! reader, intimacy, cleanup, fluff, no graphic smut, pillowtalk, showering, brief discussions of pregnancy and kids. i needed to write this okay

GOJO SATORU.

silky pink ribbons slide off of satoru’s wrists, curling into themselves once they hit the bedsheets. he can’t help but watch you, more wide-eyed and teary than he should be, as you take each wrist between your fingers and rub gently. his skin is flushed where he’d been securely tied to the headboard, and it doesn’t hurt in the least, especially when compared to fights he’s been at the center of.

you hum, thumb kindly sweeping over his pulse point. “you okay, ‘toru? i know that went on a little longer than usual.”

you watch as he blinks, diamond eyes glassy with traces of euphoria. he’s still coming down, he realizes, when your words bounce around his brain after you speak them, echoing endlessly in the space.

“i’m okay, sweetheart,” satoru replies, feeling something in his chest begin to melt when you settle beside him on the bed. the air still smells faintly of sex, though the scent rides away on the breeze filtering in through an open window. it is almost completely dark in the bedroom, to make the strain on his eyes a little easier after a long day—he closes them, automatically wrapping a strong arm around you.

“there’s a new restaurant a few blocks down,” you begin, fingers reverently stroking over the curve of his side, “many of the reviews mention the dessert and sweet treats. it’s supposed to be good.”

fully nude, satoru curls against you, taking note of how easily you fit in beside him. like you were always meant to be here, something whispers in the back of his head. “heh, sounds like you’ve already vetted ‘em. i’ll take a day off next week and we can go.”

“you’re always so busy,” you tease, pulling him closer as though he might just slip away when you fall asleep. as you breathe, satoru feels the swell and sink of your back beneath his palm, and he considers maybe not going to work tomorrow. as if he could take days off on a whim—he might be the strongest in the jujutsu world, but he can’t even make his own choices. then, more quietly, you murmur, “i hope you aren’t overworking yourself too much, satoru.”

when he replies “‘m not,” reflexively, your body momentarily goes rigid, as if he wasn’t meant to hear you. before you can look up and refute him, satoru tugs you closer, making sure to sit his chin atop your shoulder. “really, angel, i’m okay. i can totally handle it.”

he totally can’t, even if he won’t admit it to himself. but satoru doesn’t want you to worry, get caught up with his issues during your day to day—this is simply what comes with the weight of ‘the strongest’ as his title. you huff like you don’t entirely believe him, although you don’t pull away.

“if i don’t pry any further, do you promise to sleep more than three hours tonight? and in this bed, not at work.”

you’re not even asking that much of him. if satoru can wipe out hundreds of curses in less than five minutes, he can definitely try to sleep until sunrise. at home. when there’s work to do. right?

he bites his lip, protesting weakly, “i don’t need to sleep, though, baby. i’ve also gotta get in early to deal with the first years.”

the coolness of sheets in an empty bed flashes through your head, and you decide to push, though there’s a tinge of selfishness behind it all. “please? you still need to rest and let your technique cool down.”

it’s not that difficult to convince satoru to stay after all, especially when he’s feeding off your body heat and you his. the bed does feel more comfortable than his office chair, and just as he comes to this realization, a headache has the nerve to come on, only persuading him further. slowly, like he’s submerging himself in a pool, his body begins to succumb to the comfort of the queen bed, the softness of your skin, the sweet smell of your body wash.

“fineeee. but only because you asked so nicely, angel.”

GETO SUGURU.

“i’ll get the water started for you, honey.”

so he does, turning on the faucet and letting the water heat up as it rushes through the pipes, then out of the shower head in a warm spray. from your seat on the toilet, you can’t help but feel a lovesick, fuzzy warmth building in your chest.

muscle ripples in suguru’s back as he carefully takes down his hair, undoing the band to allow the dark tresses to fall past his shoulders. his hair is impeccably taken care of—he lavishes it in only the best shampoos and conditioners every few days, his side of the shower almost overtaking your own. it’s made up of hair products and a few scented bars of soap, the way a shower should look. (not barren and home to a single bottle of two in one, two dove bars, and a dull razor, like satoru’s.)

when the glass door slides shut and suguru steps into the spray, you hear him exhale with relief. the toilet flushes and you stand, joining him in the shower.

“i’ll wash your hair,” you say, as if it’s second nature. though it seems simple on the surface, he’s allowing you to touch one of the most intimate parts of him—his scalp has only known his own hands, and yours, on the occasion that you help him wash it. “shampoo, please.”

suguru laughs, angling the shower head down so you don’t get too wet. shampoo is squirted into your extended, expectant palm and the ritual begins.

“are we taking more showers after sex specifically so i can wash your hair, suguru?”

there has been an increase in the amount of showers after sex. he’ll make a mess of you on the couch, drink some water afterward, and carry you to the bathroom like a princess to her chariot. you can’t quite place your finger on when, but you’d started washing his hair at some point during your baths.

“the curses really have been . . taking a toll on my arms,” he says cheekily, settling on that excuse just to hear you laugh, “perhaps i’ve been having difficulty reaching back and dealing with my hair.”

suguru’s got quite the mane, which anyone could surmise just from looking at him. but as wet hair slides through your fingers, you can see why he likes your help so much. you’re gentle with him, making sure to never yank on anything as you make your way through his hair. even the light sensation of your nails raking along his scalp relaxes him deeply, and all the tension in his shoulders bleeds out and washes down the drain, along with the suds.

“yeah, okay. if i mess up one of my arms, you’re outta luck.”

“we could take epsom baths together, so then you’d have no excuse.”

it’s endearing, the way he’s able to come up with a solution so quickly. you laugh again, light and airy in the thick steam, and suguru decides he never wants to leave this place.

“wash my back while the shampoo sits, sugu?” you ask, switching places with him to get your back thoroughly doused with water. white suds slip down his temples and he pushes back his hair from where it’s piled on top of his head, looking like a child’s sloppy sand castle on the beach.

“want me to pick the body wash this time?”

“that’s a trick question,” you say, eyes sparkling when you look at him, “you’re just going to choose peppermint vanilla like always.”

suguru already has the bottle in his grasp and is squeezing the wash out into his palm, but he still manages to look affronted. “no, i wouldn’t.”

you turn around, stepping out of the spray to playfully wiggle your ass at him. “i can barely smell it anymore, that’s how much you’ve worn it out.”

“it’s your smell,” he shrugs, shoulders rolling with the motion, “it’s your signature soap scent. you can always cover it up with perfume tomorrow anyway, it’s not that strong.”

“is that why you’re always sniffing me at night?”

you can hear him breathing you in when you’re cuddling at night? embarrassing! still, his eyes crinkle at the corners. “it’s comforting, so sue me.”

you sigh in relief when his hands coast over your skin, palms firmly pressing the soap into your back to both wash you and make the scent stick. a comfortable quiet settles between you, and he continues to lave your back with the wash, fingertips tracing the dents and lines of muscle.

it’s domestic, and entirely him.

he pauses, sputtering and gracelessly coughing on the water. “i’m sorry.”

you turn, helping him rinse the bubbles away from his face. “what’s wrong, sugu?”

“not to ruin the moment, but, well, i got soap in both my eyes.”

NANAMI KENTO.

“i can’t believe you made me breakfast, ken.”

kento returns to the bedroom with one of those lap trays made for eating at the couch, carrying a plate of fluffy waffles garnished with a colorful array of sweet berries. there’s even a full cup of syrup on the side to pour to your heart’s content.

he’s pulled on his boxers, the ones that are tight around his ass, and an apron with kiss the cook in calligraphic script embroidered across the front of it. a smile plays on his lips, the kind he wears when he’s biting back an ear-to-ear grin, and he takes a seat beside you. your excitement is something he thinks he’ll never get tired of. with a creak, the bed dips under the newly added weight, and you carefully slot the tray over your lap.

“how’d you know i was craving something sweet?”

“sweetheart, i know you,” kento shakes his head, laughing around the words. “go ahead and try them, i added something new.”

red blooms around the bite marks littered across his collarbone and around his chest, only becoming visible with his occasional shifts beside you. kento watches you eat with a distinct softness in his eyes, his heart swelling in his chest as your face lights up with every bite.

light and sweet as can be, the waffles burst with flavor, although a small tweak has been made to the recipe. maybe kento’s added finely chopped coconut or a few extra spoonfuls of sugar?

“you’re staring,” you point out, cheeks growing warm. his gaze is obviously lovesick, and strong enough to make you feel the littlest bit shy—a hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, and he looks away with a short chuckle. “we can share, ken.”

“that’s okay, honey. i had some while i was making them earlier. so, how do they taste? have you figured out the extra ingredient yet?”

“i’ve got no idea,” you reply after a large bite, setting the fork back on the tray before gently nudging it away. kento’s forearms flex as he lifts it, placing it on the bedside table for later.

he unties the apron and scoops you into his arms, pulling your giggling form close to his chest. “i decided to add more buttermilk.”

a warm kiss is pressed to the space beneath your ear. through your back, you can feel his heartbeat syncing up with your own—relaxed and content in the presence of one another.

“thank you for this morning,” kento whispers, adding, “was i too rough with you, angel?”

“perfect, ken. you almost put me back to sleep, though.”

you share a laugh with him, curling up in his warmth. kento’s fingers trace mindless, ticklish doodles into your side as he begins to slip further into a state of drowsiness. “i don’t like to make excuses, but i find it difficult to hold myself back with you.”

the admission isn’t inherently sexual, not in the way it’s said so delicately. kento is right, he does have difficulty holding back, but only because he’s so known. you’re essentially on the same wavelength, finishing his sentences for him before even he’s able to conjure up the word he’s looking for; you understand him wholly, in the kind of way that transcends the surface and physicality of it all. unspoken feelings make no difference—kento’s open like a book for only your eyes to pore over.

even now, in this embrace, it’s nearly impossible to tell where one body begins and the other ends.

“all mine?”

“all yours, ken. pinkie promise.”

“pinkie promise?” he sighs without exasperation, letting you loop your pinkie with his own. if this wasn’t something he was doing with you, kento would be the first to ask something like isn’t this a bit childish? but this isn’t like making an agreement with gojo; this is a promise he wholeheartedly intends to fulfill. after all, what would he be if he wasn’t yours?

“pinkie promise.”

FUSHIGURO TOJI.

“on your stomach.”

you turn back to throw him an incredulous look, eyebrows drawing together in surprise. “more? toji, i thought you—”

he scoffs, rolling his eyes and motioning toward the couch cushions. “yes, ya heard me. on your stomach, doll. don’t make me ask again.”

“don’t make me ask again,” you mimic him, flopping forward onto your belly as requested. it’s odd that toji’s even vying for more when he’s the one who tapped out first, panting so hard he could barely form a sentence of explanation beyond a few muttered words.

instead of positioning himself at your ass, toji remains sitting beside you, though he turns to press his hands into your upper back. faint as can be, the scent of lavender curls in the air as the worship begins—toji’s suddenly a professional at effleurage, palms circling upward near your shoulder blades.

slow and firm, his hands seem to iron out any aches that may have taken root there. lotion spans almost the entirety of your upper back, serving as both moisturizer and lubrication for the easy glide of skin against skin.

“really, toji?” you ask, lips curling up in amusement, “you wanted to give me a back massage?”

you completely expect him to retort something sassy and annoying, maybe even call you a damn brat or start torture tickling you. instead, toji’s voice rumbles low and meaningful from his chest. “had ya laid out on your back for a while, and on the couch, no less. jus’ wanted to make sure you’d be able to sleep comfortably tonight.”

toji’s answer does something that it never has before. it shuts you up, and at the same time, makes heat rush to your cheeks. embarrassment and a particular fondness, of all things, stir in your chest at his thoughtfulness. you haven’t messed around on the couch in many months, and yet he still remembers the small, almost unnoticeable hunch of your back after getting up last time.

he laughs at you, feeling proud to have finally ‘won’ all the bantering.

“didn’t expect that, huh?” toji pauses, fingertips lightly dragging down the planes of your back. before he even speaks, you can already hear the smirk in his voice. “anyway, i wish ya could see how pretty you look right now.”

“you can’t even see my face, toji.”

a huff escapes him, and he makes sure to dig his fingers in, just so he can hear you squeal in both laughter and pain. “just can’t take a compliment, huh? you’re such a brat, swear to god.”

“your brat,” you remind him cheerfully, feeling his hands slide to the middle of your back. “as much as i’m enjoying this, i wouldn’t mind taking care of you, baby.”

he snorts. you’re calling him baby like he isn’t 6’3 and nearly 200 pounds of muscle—but there’s something endearing about the idea of being taken care of too. toji actually . . . wouldn’t mind it.

“oh yeah? and what do ya plan to do to me?”

you hum thoughtfully, turning your head around to fix him with a playful look. “i’d turn on one of the movies i’ve been telling you we need to watch and then scratch your back so you wouldn’t get up in the middle of it.”

“this better not be about—”

before he can begin trashing on your favorite movie, the one he hasn’t watched yet, you bulldoze right over him. “as the movie starts, i’d be whispering sweet nothings into your ear.”

“wouldn’t that just make me bend ya over? kinda defeats the purpose of aftercare, doll.”

“the key word is sweet, toji,” even with your clarification, he still looks a little lost, making the same confused face he does when shiu cracks a sly joke at his expense in front of you. “sit down and i’ll show you what i’m talking about.”

the comforting pressure on your back lets up, and for a split second, you almost wish you hadn’t suggested to demonstrate. toji sits down, remote looking dwarfed in his closed palm, and smirks expectantly, like there’s something funny to say. “i was just thinking. what if all the aftercare turns me into a spoiled brat?”

you scoff as he turns on the tv, settling on your knees behind him. “we can’t both be spoiled brats, toji.”

KAMO CHOSO.

“did i hurt you?” is the first thing to come out out of choso’s mouth when you finally return to yourself, a few crystalline tears starting to dry on your cheeks. you hadn’t quite noticed them during the pandemonium, too wrapped up in the overwhelming sensations of sex to focus on something so unimportant. but now, there’s a warm stinging that you trace to your neck—where he’d been biting and sucking the most in the moments before orgasm.

“‘s okay, cho. i’m okay, just tired now,” you laugh breathlessly, watching the worry drain out of his face, “i’ve gotta get up and wipe off, or i’ll end up getting pregnant.”

choso’s eyes are shining. “our kids would be so pretty, all ‘cause of you.”

you sit up on your elbows, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. this is the same look you give him every time he mentions it, and not wanting to nag you too much, he remembers himself. “okay, i know. have to wait more than five years first, i got it,” with the mildest degree of resignation making its way through his huffed words, choso slips off of the bed and pads toward the bathroom.

shortly after, he returns with a damp washcloth and settles on his knees between your thighs. even in the low light, his movements are perpetually delicate and skillful, a direct result of his understanding of your body, built through touch. with the way he’s comfortably wiping cum off your inner thighs, it’s hard to believe that choso had once been so awkward he’d stalked off mid-sex to let out a few tears of embarrassment.

“it’s not too hot, is it?” he checks in, more worried than he should be. it isn’t difficult to imagine him as a father, gasping as your child toddles around recklessly, jumping off of the couch and into his awaiting arms. he’s the type to always come to the rescue, no matter what.

“no, it’s just right,” you murmur, feeling the sweep of the lukewarm washcloth at the top of your thigh. “no need to be so concerned, choso. i trust you, baby.”

pink blooms in the apples of his cheeks at your words, just as it always does whenever you pay him an innocent compliment. he takes comfort in your relaxed sigh, folding the washcloth into itself and setting it on the bedside table before sliding himself up to lay his head on your chest. “you need to stop indulging me so much,” he groans when your fingers slip into his hair, combing gently though the dark strands, “keep up the ‘put a baby in me’ and i might actually do it.”

choso feels his entire face burn once he repeats a line that’s supposed to be yours, a shudder rippling through his body when a memory from earlier flashes behind his eyes.

“i know, cho,” you hum, nails lightly raking against his scalp in your odyssey through his hair. it’s painfully intimate, and impossibly soothing for him—he could say just about anything to you, even confess something deep and dark without the usual constraints of your daily routine. this is just you and him, simple and naked.

then you giggle, “but i also know how crazy it makes you.”

it does make him more wild than it should, the idea of getting you pregnant and then the concept of raising the baby itself. choso pauses meaningfully before he answers you, letting his eyes close. “maybe something’s fundamentally wrong with me.”

a gooey hybrid of affection and sadness races through your veins upon hearing his words. it’s hard to say something—even anything at all—when you know just a little about his struggle being half-human, half-curse. choso is constantly feeling guilty about taking the easier path in life as a human, wondering if someone like him could possibly deserve something greater than himself to love and care for.

it’s quiet now, save for the steady hum of the fan and sweep of your fingers through his hair, loose and languid. “sorry,” choso exhales softly, tilting his face to the side, “i didn’t mean to become so negative.”

“there isn’t a thing wrong with you, choso. i know you’re wanting a family of your own, and i don’t disagree with that in the slightest. i see a future with you, but there’s no shame in taking it slow, is there? we aren’t even engaged yet, baby.”

“engaged?” he echoes quizzically, voice low.

“it’s when two people agree to get married in the future after a proposal with a ring,” it’s hard not to smile at the thought of the two people being you and him, even though choso’s baring his soul to you right now, raw and all himself. he hugs you tighter, arms straining as if he’s trying to prevent you from slipping away. “don’t worry, cho. we both still have a lot to learn.”

[maskedbyghost]

Thin Ice

They can't stand each other—until she falls through the ice and Simon has to save her. One cabin, one blanket, and way too many feelings later… things aren’t so simple anymore. smut, +18, mdni

The wind was freezing, cutting through your clothes and biting at your skin. It wasn’t just the usual chill that made your cheeks feel cold—it was the kind of cold that went deeper, into your bones, making everything feel stiff. It was relentless, gnawing at you with every step, until even breathing felt harder.

The air was so sharp it made your jaw tighten, your body fighting against the freezing grip that seemed to sink deeper with each passing minute.

Which is probably why you were arguing.

Again.

“I told you to take the left path,” you snapped, hugging your arms tighter to your body as your boots crunched over the snow-covered trail. “But no, ‘I know a shortcut,’ you said—”

Simon didn’t even look at you. He just stayed ahead of you by a few paces. “It was a shortcut. You just walk slow as shit.”

You scoffed. “I walk fine. Maybe if you didn’t stomp around like you’re trying to scare off every animal in a ten-mile radius—”

“You cold?” he interrupted, glancing over his shoulder.

You bristled. “No.”

“Good,” he muttered. “’Cause I’m not carryin’ your frozen corpse back to base.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache. “Trust me, if anyone’s dying out here, I’m making damn sure it’s you first.”

He actually snorted. Just once, and you hated that you liked the sound.

The landscape stretched out in brittle white silence, the forest thinning as the frozen river came into view—cracked and black-veined under the snow, but passable if you were careful.

Which, unfortunately, you were not.

One step. That’s all it took. You weren’t even trying to be dramatic—you just followed him across the ice, grumbling under your breath, your lips numb and chapped and fingers stiff—

Then the ice groaned, a sharp, splintering sound that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Wait—” Simon started.

Too late.

Your foot went through, then your leg, then the whole world cracked and swallowed you.

The water was so cold it didn’t feel like anything at first—just shock, like your lungs forgot how to work, like your heart stopped, just for a second. And then it hit. The pain. The sharp, vicious cold that tore through every layer you had on and sank straight into your skin. You thrashed, gasped—then your head went under.

For a second, everything was just dark.

And then—

Strong hands gripped you, arms rough and steady as they pulled you from the ice, breaking through the cold to drag you to safety. Your mouth broke the surface, and air came back with a choking, desperate sob. You clung to him without thinking—his jacket soaked, his mask above you, his voice cutting through the wind.

“Got you,” Simon said, low and harsh. “Fuckin’ hell—got you.”

You couldn’t stop shaking. Your teeth were chattering, your body trembling uncontrollably. Every breath felt sharp, the cold sinking deeper, making it impossible to speak or even think clearly.

He lifted you like you weighed nothing. Scooped you against his chest, one arm around your back, the other under your knees, and started walking. You didn’t have the strength to argue or even find the words.

The safe house wasn’t far. Just a cabin tucked into the woods, barely more than four walls and a fireplace. But right now, it was everything.

He kicked the door open, slammed it shut behind you, and carried you straight to the cot in the corner. Your eyes were wide, lips blue. You were shivering violently.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re goin’ under. We need to get these off.”

You blinked. “Wh–what?”

“Your clothes. Off. Now.” His tone left no room for argument. “They’re soaked. You stay in ‘em, you’re done for.”

He pulled off your jacket, your vest, your shirt—fingers cold and clumsy but moving fast, driven by urgency. He didn’t look at you, didn’t crack a smile. He just focused on getting you out of the wet clothes as quickly as possible.

When you were down to your underwear, he didn’t hesitate—just pulled off his own gear, crawled in beside you, and yanked the heavy blanket over both of you. His body, warm and full of heat, pressed against you, chest to chest, your legs tangled, arms locked tight around your back.

He pressed his face into your hair. His breath was warm against your ear.

“Jesus, you scared the shit outta me.”

You couldn’t answer. You didn’t have the strength to.

“You always gotta talk back. Always gotta be difficult,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Couldn’t just listen, could you?”

His hand moved gently up and down your spine, trying to rub warmth into you.

“Don’t go quiet on me now,” he whispered. “Talk shit like you always do. C’mon.”

You tried to breathe, but your body was still trembling too hard.

“Hey,” he said softly, “you’re alright. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

You wanted to say something—anything—but all that came out was a broken whisper.

“I’m so cold.”

His grip tightened.

“I know, baby. I know,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re alright.”

You curled in closer, chasing his warmth, your fingers weak against his chest. And still, he kept whispering. Soft, careful words that didn’t match the man you thought you knew.

“I can’t lose you,” he said quietly, like it hurt to admit. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

You gave a shaky laugh, almost a breath. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned.”

He kept going. “I act like I don’t care. Like it wouldn’t matter if something happened to you. But it would. It would ruin me.”

You looked up at him. His mask was gone, his jaw clenched tight, lips pale from the cold.

He met your eyes. “I mean it.”

You blinked slowly, heart stuttering in your chest. “You don’t have to say that just because—”

“I’m not sayin’ it because of this,” he said, firm but gentle. “I’m sayin’ it because I’ve been a fuckin’ coward about it. And I almost didn’t get the chance to tell you.”

His hand slid up to cup the back of your head. “You make me feel something I didn’t think I could anymore.”

Your throat felt tight.

He let out a slow breath. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

You barely had enough strength to move, but you leaned into him, burying your face against his chest again, letting his words settle into your bones like warmth.

And he didn’t stop holding you.

Didn’t stop murmuring.

Didn’t stop calling you baby.

Half an hour later, the blanket felt heavy, the air warm now from the fire Simon had started after he got you stable, and the silence in the safe house was comfortable, for once.

Your shaking had started to ease, replaced by exhaustion and this strange, tight feeling in your chest every time you looked at him.

He hadn’t moved.

Still lying beside you, pressed chest-to-chest, his arms around you like he didn’t trust the world not to try and take you again.

You were quiet for a while.

Then you whispered, “I’m okay now.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “Still not lettin’ go.”

You swallowed. “You don’t have to.”

He looked at you, really looked, like he was checking again—like part of him still didn’t believe you were here, safe in his arms. “You scared the hell outta me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” His hand came up slowly, brushing your hair back from your face, fingertips soft, careful. “Not your fault. Just… couldn’t stand it.”

You were quiet again, taking in the way his voice had changed. It was softer now, stripped of the usual edge, raw in a way that felt like he was letting his guard down. He wasn’t trying to hide anything.

“You’ve got no idea,” he murmured, “how much space you take up in my fuckin’ head.”

Your heart kicked hard in your chest. “You’ve got a weird way of showing it.”

He gave a half-smile. “Yeah. I know. I’m shit at this.”

You shook your head. “You’re not.”

His fingers moved slowly along your jaw, your cheek. “You’re always so mouthy. Always get under my skin. But I’d take that over silence any day.”

You blinked up at him, your face close enough to his that you could feel the warmth of his breath. “Kiss me, Simon.”

He hesitated—but only for a second.

Then he leaned in, slow and unhurried, kissing you with a gentleness that felt different. Not rough, not desperate—just soft. Like he was taking his time, like he wanted to remember every second of it.

When you kissed him back, he made a quiet sound in his chest, something low and strained, like relief.

“You sure?” he asked against your mouth, one hand sliding to your waist, thumb brushing your skin.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

He was careful, his movements soft and slow, as if afraid that even the slightest wrong move would hurt you, like you meant more to him than anything.

The way he touched you was different now. No teasing, no games—just warmth, just purpose. Every kiss along your shoulder, your collarbone, your throat, spoke louder than words ever could, like he was showing you how much he needed you.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. “You don’t even know.”

You let out a soft sound when he ran his hand down your side, fingers skimming your ribs. He paused, checking your face.

“Still warm enough?”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Just… nervous.”

He kissed your cheek. “Don’t be. I’ve got you.”

You moved together under the blanket, the world outside fading until it was just him, just the way he held you, the way his hands roamed without rush, the way he kissed you like it was a promise.

When he slid into you, slow and careful, he cursed softly into your skin.

“Fuck… you feel like heaven.”

You wrapped your arms around him, held him close, every part of you full of him.

He didn’t go fast. He didn’t try to make it something it wasn’t.

He just moved with you, forehead pressed to yours, hands cradling your face like you were something fragile.

“You’re alright,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you. Gonna keep you warm, gonna take care of you…”

You could feel it in the way he touched you—how much he meant it. How scared he’d been. How close he’d come to losing you.

And when you came, soft and trembling under him, he kissed you through it, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

After, he stayed on top of you, weight resting heavy but grounding you, his face tucked into your neck.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get this,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “You. Here. Like this.”

You were quiet for a beat, your hand resting over his heart. “Thought you hated me.”

He snorted. “Still might. Jury’s out.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

“Hey,” he said, eyes soft but mouth twitching, “I let you steal my blanket. That’s love, innit?”

You rolled your eyes. “You dragged me into this blanket. I nearly died.”

“Details,” he muttered. “You look warm now, don’t you?”

You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips. “So this is your version of a confession? Freezing me half to death and then climbing into bed with me?”

He leaned in, nuzzling the tip of his nose against yours. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You breathed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

He looked at you for a moment, gaze flicking over your face like he was memorizing it, then said, softer, “You’re not gettin’ rid of me now. You know that, right?”

You raised a brow. “Already regretting it.”

He grinned. “Too late.”

Then he kissed you again—slow, easy, like he had all the time in the world, as if nothing else existed but the moment between you two.

He pulled you closer, tucking you into his arms, like you were something he’d finally stopped pretending he didn’t need, something he could finally admit he wanted without hesitation.

---------------------------------------------

i actually don't like how this turned out but oh well...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[bunny-jpeg]

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ i like my men older - simon riley♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

you knew that your friends from school raised an eyebrow when you told them that you were dating a man almost double your age. you were in your twenties, while this 'simon' guy was close to fifty. you told them that he was an army man who had a gooey center for you.

your friends could see the upgrade in your laptop and the new knapsack with a logo that proclaimed it was expensive. the small chain around your neck with a 's' on it that you toyed with when they asked questions about him.

you looked happy, healthier even! you weren't eating minute meals and surviving off of black coffee. there was a little roundness to your cheeks now and you looked more alive. a glow to you that wasn't that while you trudged through your graduate program. so honestly, how could they complain?

if you had a glow to you, it was because you were often fucked out. most women your age through that dating an older man would mean having to go slow. be patient about technical difficulties regarding their cocks. that was what you expected from a man that old. especially one with aches and pains like simon. your poor si, he had been in the military his entire life. barely had the touch of a woman during that time! poor guy! of course you'll teach him all the ways a woman should please a man. the first time you ran your tongue on the underside of his cock he cam all over your head, and while you whined. it made you crazy hot. fucking simon was like fucking a live wire. he hadn't slowed down with age. he fucked like a stallion in breeding season. and he loved when he pulled his heavy cock into you. you once told him that he could be a cervix breaker. and he simply said, "well, if i break it... i can't breed it." which made you go slack jaw for a moment before he continued to rut up against you. you didn't expect a man of his age to have a breeding kink.

you practically begged your doctor to give you birth control, because he was not buying condoms. "don't fit in 'em, lovie." he said as he patted his clothed cock when you started dating. you knew that was impossible, condoms could fit a lot of things and while simon was fairly big. he could fit in a condom. but, no. when you tried to put them on yourself, he simply took it off, tossed it to the side and pinned you under his heavy weight. legs in the air as he rutted against you like a hungry animal.

he was so much bigger than you. wide shoulders, strong thighs and a bit of a gut to keep you folded under him. there was a masculine heft to him. he was strong, picking you up was easy to him even when you tried to tell him your weight. one time he gripped you by the waist with one arm and moved you out of the way. you kicked and squeaked as you were moved. but to simon it was easy as lifting heavy equipment. but that softness to some of his muscles really got you hot all over. it didn't help that part of your role as his girlfriend was to make sure that your man was fed. you cooked him meals and he over devoured in your sweet dessert. he loved you in an apron. all domestic and sweet for him. you were real wifey material. could easily be cooking meals for him and the kids in a few years. you can have a graduate degree and a few riley babies. "look good cookin' for me, darlin'. know how to make a proper meal for your man." you wouldn't admit but his words excited you.

simon can be a little... chauvinistic. it was just his age. while he respected female colleagues in the military and was beyond happy that you were getting your degree. he'd do things for you that you could clearly do on your own. like when you tried to fix the leaky tap in your flat. or when you try to carry all the groceries inside. yes, darling, you're a strong woman. but let him take over. take care of you. that was what a man did right? he'll cut the onions for you and try to fix your buggy wi-fi connection. he's pay for dinner every time and even get you dessert after. he'd wipe your face clear of the sweet treat you'd have. "don't ask her anything too difficult, johnny. she doesn't need to be thinkin' too hard." he once said with his hands over your ears and glared at his teammate. which only made the scotsman laugh. simon didn't mind if he had to take over. he'd never pull the rug out from under you, even when you were under him. you looked prettier under him, letting him take charge of your fucking. he took care of his girl, even when you whined and told him you were capable. there was no need to whine. simon needed to take care of his much smaller, much weaker baby girl. no need to break a nail trying to do stuff that simon could easily do for you.

even with the grey in his blond hair, he still kept up to you. there were times that you were too exhausted from day-to-day that you let simon rut between your thighs until he covered your round ass with his hot cum. you'd whimper which would turn into a yelp when he easily slipped his heavy cock into your sweet pussy. where it belonged. he fucked you heavily as his cum coated your behind, even trailing down your sloped back as you had your head in the covers.

"don't spill a drop off that pretty ass, baby girl. or else i'd might have to mark you again." thank god you liked your men older. <3

[gojosconsort]

ridin’ out the attitude // TOJI FUSHIGURO

⁀➷ content. you’ve been pushin’ toji’s buttons all damn day. now he’s got you straddlin’ his lap, smirkin’ as he makes you ride that thick cock ‘til you’re beggin’, spankin’ your ass red just to remind you who’s boss.

pairing. afab!reader x older bf!toji

warnings. mdni. mean!toji, rough sex, spanking, dirty talk, manhandling, dubcon (?), but really he’s just messing with you, age gap, overstimulation

word count. 2,000

you’re not even sure how it got this bad today. maybe it’s the way you kept mouthing off at breakfast, rolling your eyes when toji told you to chill with the attitude. or maybe it’s how you “accidentally” spilled his coffee all over the counter ‘cause you were too busy texting some dude who’s been sliding into your dms.

could’ve been when you snapped at him in the car, calling him an old asshole for turning down your music. whatever it was, you pushed every damn button he’s got, and now you’re here—staring down at him sprawled out on the couch, that stupid smug smirk plastered on his face like he’s been waiting for this all day.

“you done actin’ like a brat?” he drawls, one thick arm slung behind his head. his legs are spread wide, black sweats hanging low on his hips, and you can already see the outline of that thick dick you’re about to regret waking up. “’cause i ain’t liftin’ a finger ‘til you fix this shit.”

you scoff, crossing your arms like that’s gonna do anything. “fix what? you’re the one actin’ like a dick all day.”

his smirk twitches, eyes narrowing. “oh, you think you’re slick, huh? talkin’ back like i won’t have you cryin’ on this dick in two minutes.” he leans forward just a bit, patting his thigh with one big hand. “get your ass over here. now.”

you hesitate, ‘cause you know where this is goin’. toji don’t play when he’s pissed, and you’ve been tap-dancing on his last nerve since sunrise. but you’re stubborn as hell, so you jut your chin out and mutter, “make me.”

wrong fuckin’ move.

he’s on you in a flash, big hand wrapping around your wrist and yanking you down onto the couch. you barely have time to yelp before he’s got you pinned, his weight pressing you into the cushions, breath hot against your ear. “you wanna keep testin’ me, doll? ‘cause i got all night to teach your ass a lesson.”

you squirm, half pissed, half turned on already ‘cause damn, he’s strong and you hate how much you love it. “get off me, toji, fuckin’ old man—”

“old man?” he cuts you off with a dark chuckle, flipping you over so you’re straddling his lap. “this old man’s about to have you beggin’ for mercy. strip.”

your heart’s hammerin’, but you glare at him anyway, peelin’ off your top real slow just to fuck with him. his eyes don’t leave you, dark and hungry, like he’s already picturin’ you a mess under him. you toss your shirt at his face, smirkin’ when it lands on his chest. “happy now?”

“bra too,” he says, voice flat, ignoring your little stunt and leanin’ back like he’s settlin’ in for a show. “and lose the attitude ‘fore i fuck it outta you.”

you huff, unhookin’ it and lettin’ it drop, and his gaze zeroes in on your tits, watchin’ ‘em spill out with that smirk, eyes trackin’ every bounce like he’s starvin’ for it.

“now pants,” he say.

you roll your eyes but shimmy out of your jeans, leaving you in just your panties. and he’s all casual, arms spread across the back of the couch. that smirk’s still there, and it’s pissing you off how hot he looks just sittin’ there, waiting for you to figure out what’s next.

“what now, huh?” you snap, crossing your arms again. “you just gonna stare at me all night?”

“nah,” he says, voice dropping an octave as he pats his lap again. “you’re gonna ride me. and you’re gonna do all the fuckin’ work since you wanna act grown.”

your stomach flips, heat creeping up your neck. “what?”

“you heard me.” he shifts, tugging his sweats down just enough to free that thick, heavy cock you’ve been tryna ignore. it slaps against his stomach, already half-hard, and your mouth goes dry. “you pissed me off one too many times today, baby girl. now you’re gonna make it up to me. hop on.”

you swallow hard, thighs clenching ‘cause you know he ain’t playin’. toji don’t bluff—he’ll sit there all night if he has to, waiting for you to figure your shit out. so you crawl closer, knees digging into the couch as you straddle him proper, hovering just above that dick that’s way too big for you to take without a fight.

“what’s the holdup, doll?” he drawls, low and lazy, like he’s got nowhere to be. “thought you were a big girl, talkin’ all that shit earlier. hop on already.”

you glare at him, hands on his shoulders for balance, but you don’t move yet. “you’re such an asshole,” you mutter, tryin’ to keep your cool even though your heart’s poundin’. “maybe i won’t. maybe i’ll just leave you sittin’ here with your dick out.”

he laughs—straight up laughs, deep and rough, like you just told the funniest joke. “oh, you’re cute. real cute.” his eyes narrow and he leans forward just a bit, voice droppin’. “you ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til i say so. now quit stallin’ and sit on this dick ‘fore i make you.”

you huff, rollin’ your eyes like that’s gonna save you, but you start lowerin’ yourself anyway, holding the fabric of your panties to the side. the tip brushes your entrance, and you bite your lip hard, ‘cause even that little bit stretches you out. he don’t move, just watches you with that damn smirk, hands loose on your hips like he’s enjoyin’ the show.

“go on,” he says. “you wanted to piss me off all day, so take it like you mean it.”

you sink down a little more, and fuck, it’s a lot. he’s thick as hell, and you’re feelin’ every inch, walls flutterin’ just tryin’ to adjust. you’re halfway down when you stall out, breathin’ heavy, thighs shakin’ like they’re about to give up. “shit, toji—” you gasp, nails diggin’ into his shoulders.

“what’s that?” he taunts, tiltin’ his head like he’s tryna hear better. “you tappin’ out already? thought you were tough shit, huh? all that attitude and you can’t even take half.”

“shut up,” you snap, pushin’ yourself lower just to spite him, but it’s a mistake. he’s too big, stretchin’ you so wide it’s borderline painful, and a whine slips out before you can stop it.

“aww, poor baby,” he mocks, voice drippin’ with fake pity. “need me to hold your hand while you cry about it?” his hands tighten on your hips, but he still don’t help, just keeps watchin’ you struggle. “c’mon, doll, you’re takin’ too long. i ain’t got all night.”

you grit your teeth, glarin’ at him through the burn, and force yourself all the way down. you’re stuffed so full you can barely breathe, ass flush against his lap, and he lets out a low groan, finally breakin’ that cocky facade for half a second. “fuck, there you go,” he mutters, one hand slidin’ up your back. “knew you could do it.”

you’re pantin’, tryin’ to get your bearings, but he don’t give you a chance. “move,” he says. “you’re ridin’ me, remember? get to it.”

you start slow, rockin’ your hips ‘cause that’s all you can manage with him buried so deep, that fat cock kissin’ your cervix every damn time you move. every bounce has you moanin’, body tremblin’ from how full you feel, stretched so wide it’s like he’s rearrangin’ your guts, and he’s just sittin’ there, smirkin’ like a bastard, eyes locked on your tits bouncin’ like he’s hypnotized.

“that all you got?” he teases, leanin’ back further like he’s bored. “thought you’d be bouncin’ on this dick like you own it. c’mon, don’t half-ass it.”

“fuck you,” you hiss, pickin’ up the pace just to shut him up. your thighs are screamin’, ass clappin’ against him loud as hell, and the wet smack of skin on skin fills the room. it’s nasty, messy, and you’re lovin’ every second even though you’d never admit it.

“that’s more like it,” he says, eyes locked on where you’re takin’ him. “still ain’t enough, though. you’re actin’ like you don’t deserve a punishment for all that bullshit you pulled today.”

before you can snap back, his hand cracks down hard on your ass. the sting’s sharp, makin’ you yelp, and he don’t wait—lands another one right after, smirkin’ when you clench around him. “there we go,” he mutters, rubbin’ the spot he just hit. “keep fuckin’ yourself on me, and maybe i won’t spank you ‘til you can’t sit tomorrow.”

you’re a mess now, whinin’ and grindin’ down harder ‘cause that smack lit somethin’ up in you. he keeps it comin’, big hand crashin’ against your ass every few thrusts, timin’ it so you’re clenchin’ tight around him each time. “shit, toji—” you gasp, voice breakin’ as the sting.

“what’s wrong? can’t handle a little payback?” he mocks, slappin’ you again. “you were real loud earlier, runnin’ that mouth. where’s all that noise now?”

“please—” you whimper, too far gone to care about pride. your legs are jelly, rhythm all sloppy, and you’re leanin’ into him, tryna get him to help.

“please what?” he says, all smug and slow, finally grippin’ your hips tight. “thought you didn’t need shit from me. what happened to that?”

“toji, fuck, i can’t—” you’re shakin’, walls squeezin’ him so hard he groans low, and he finally takes pity on you. his hands dig in, liftin’ you up just enough to slam you back down, settin’ a brutal pace that’s got you screamin’.

“that’s what i thought,” he growls, thrustin’ up hard to meet every bounce. “fuckin’ brat. gotta do everythin’ myself, huh?” he don’t let up, poundin’ into you like he’s tryna break you, and you’re so wet it’s damn near embarrassing, slick drippin’ down your thighs.

he spanks you again, mid-thrust, and you choke on a moan, whole body joltin’. “keep goin’,” he orders, voice rough as hell. “you ain’t done ‘til i say so.”

you’re lost in it now, head spinnin’, clawin’ at his chest while he fucks you stupid. he’s relentless, hittin’ that spot deep inside over and over, and you can feel yourself unravelin’, pressure buildin’ ‘til you’re right on the edge.

“toji, i’m—” you can’t even finish, ‘cause he slams up one more time, spankin’ you so hard you see stars, and you’re gone. you cum screamin’, gushin’ all over him, body shaking. he don’t stop, fuckin’ you through it ‘til you’re whimperin’, overstimulated and damn near cryin’.

“fuck, that’s it,” he mutters, voice tight as he watches you fall apart. he keeps goin’ for a minute, drawin’ it out ‘til you’re a boneless heap on his chest, then finally slows, hands rubbin’ lazy circles on your sore ass. “good girl. now you gonna think twice ‘fore pissin’ me off again?”

you can’t even talk, just mumble somethin’ incoherent against his skin, and he chuckles. “yeah, that’s what i thought.”

you’re slumped against him, breathin’ heavy, whole body achin’ like you just ran a marathon. he’s still sprawled out, smug and relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other restin’ on your back like he owns you. your ass is stingin’ from the spanks, thighs still tremblin’ from the ride, and you’re pretty sure you’re gonna feel him for days.

“you good?” he asks, fingers tracin’ idle patterns on your skin.

“fuck you,” you mumble, too wrecked to come up with anything better, and he laughs again, that deep, rough sound that makes your stomach flip.

“already did, doll.” he shifts, pullin’ you closer ‘til your head’s tucked under his chin. “next time you wanna act up, just skip to this part. saves us both the headache.”

you huff, buryin’ your face in his chest ‘cause you’re too tired to argue. he’s an asshole, yeah, but he’s your asshole, and you’re already wonderin’ how long ‘til you piss him off again just to feel this. ‘cause as much as you hate to admit it, you’re hooked—on him, on this, on the way he fucks you.

“whatever,” you mutter, closin’ your eyes, and he snorts, pressin’ a lazy kiss to your forehead.

“that’s my girl.”

[fox-guardian]

[ID: A three-page sketchy digital comic featuring Curly and Jimmy from Mouthwashing. Curly is colored in white, and Jimmy is colored in green.

Curly: You were glasses? Since when? Jimmy: Had 'em since I was a kid, but I never wear them. I look stupid. Curly: Aw, I'm sure you don't look that bad!

Jimmy pauses before turning around briefly to put his glasses one. His hand is drawn as a pony hoof. He turns back around with large square glasses and pupils that take up the entire frame.

Curly is wide-eyed and shocked, and drawn very poorly with weird proportions before coming back to himself.

Curly: Wait.

Curly starts to shake Jimmy by his shoulders, eyes bulging out of his face. The rest of the dialogue is all caps.

Curly: That's a very strong prescription, Jim!! Why are you not wearing them while flying?! Jimmy: I look stupid! Curly: You'll look dead if we crash!!

end ID]

~~~~

loosely inspired by this post. what if jimmy needed glasses. what then.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

She fucked with the wrong one

Modern Joel Miller x Wife!Reader

Warning: Violence, NSFW

It was supposed to be a peaceful Friday night.

Just you and Joel, out on the town. No work, no phone calls, no responsibilities just dinner at your favorite steakhouse downtown and a nightcap at a cozy little bar with vintage lighting, country music on the jukebox, and shelves lined with every whiskey bottle under the sun.

You were tucked against Joel at the bar, waiting for your drinks. His hand rested lazily on your waist, thumb brushing against your hip in slow, absent circles, while his body pressed against your back like he never wanted to let you go.

He leaned in and murmured against your ear, “You know, if I didn’t already have you, I’d be tryin’ real damn hard to get you tonight.”

You laughed, turning your head slightly. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Maybe,” he said, lips brushing your jaw. “But you’re still blushin’, darlin’.”

You smiled and gave him a playful little nudge with your elbow. He grunted, let out a quiet chuckle, and then

That’s when she showed up.

The woman appeared like a drunk stormbleach blonde hair, sky-high heels, and perfume so strong it made your nose itch. She waltzed up to Joel’s other side like you didn’t even exist, leaning one manicured hand on the bar, the other dragging a red-painted nail down his forearm.

“Well hell-o, cowboy,” she purred, eyes glued to Joel’s profile. “What’s a man like you doin’ here all alone?”

Joel barely glanced her way. “Not alone,” he said, motioning to you. “Here with my wife.”

You gave her a polite, closed-mouth smile. “Hi.”

She blinked at you, then actually scoffed, her lips curling. “That’s your wife?”

Joel’s grip on your waist tightened, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

You straightened. “Is there a problem?”

The woman cocked her head, giving you the kind of once-over you only saw in trashy high school movies. “Just surprised, is all. I mean… he’s all rugged and fine as hell, and you’re like… I don’t know. A daycare teacher.”

You blinked. “I’m gonna let that slide since you’re clearly drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, sweetheart,” she sneered, voice rising. “I’m just sayin’ what everyone else is thinkin’. You must have a great personality or somethin’, ‘cause he could do better.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, visibly holding himself back. “Ma’am, you need to back off.”

You held up a hand. “No, no, Joel. Let her keep going. I’d love to hear what else she has to say.”

The woman rolled her eyes and stepped closer, almost challenging you with her stance. “You don’t scare me, sweetheart. Women like you never do. Fake nails, Target dress, thinkin’ they’re somethin’ special ‘cause their man sticks around. You really think he’s not lookin’ at someone like me when you’re not around?”

You tilted your head, smiling wide. “Fake nails? Baby, these are real. Wanna feel ‘em up close?”

She laughed mockingly. “Oh, please. What are you gonna do? Cry?”

You took a slow step forward. “No. I’m gonna give you five seconds to walk your cheap, loud, desperate ass back to wherever you crawled out of before I make you regret ever opening your mouth.”

She tilted her head. “Or what, little girl? You gonna throw hands in a bar over some cowboy dick?”

Joel stepped between you, holding a hand out. “Alright, that’s it let’s go—”

But she swung.

Her hand came toward your face like a slap, wild and uncoordinated but she caught your jaw with her nails just enough to sting. And in that split-second?

You saw red.

You grabbed her wrist and punched her. A clean, right hook straight to the cheekbone. The woman shrieked and stumbled back into a barstool, knocking over a tray of drinks. Gasps erupted all around you.

Joel shouted something, but you weren’t listening.

She lunged, and you met her halfway.

Hair pulling. Elbows. Punches. You got her on the floor, straddling her like a woman possessed. She screeched and tried to kick you off, but you landed another hit to her nose blood this time. She called you a bitch you punched her again. She slapped you yanked her head back by her extensions.

The bartender shouted for security.

“Jesus Christ!” Joel’s voice rang above the chaos. “Y/N, ENOUGH!”

But you were seeing red. You landed one more hit for good measure before Joel lifted you off her literally throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of sugar.

“Let me go!” you shouted, still kicking. “I WARNED HER, JOEL!”

“I know you did, baby, and she’s probably got a broken nose now, so we’re good, alright?”

The bar was dead silent as Joel carried you out, wide-eyed onlookers parting like the Red Sea. The woman lay whimpering on the floor, nose bleeding, heels broken. You’d ripped a chunk of her hair out.

Outside, Joel set you down gently, his hands gripping your shoulders. “Jesus,” he muttered, chest heaving. “You good?”

You blew a strand of hair from your face. “Yeah. You see her face?”

“I did. And I think a few cameras in there did, too.”

You winced, looking at your bruised, bloody knuckles. “Shit.”

Joel ran a hand over his face. “Alright. Come on. Let’s go home before we get arrested for assault.”

Back at home, the adrenaline had worn off, and your hand was throbbing.

You were sitting on the bathroom counter while Joel rummaged through the cabinet under the sink. He came up holding a first-aid kit and a bottle of whiskey.

“For me or you?” you asked, nodding at the whiskey.

“Both,” he said, pouring two glasses.

You watched him as he knelt in front of you, gently taking your injured hand in his. He examined your knuckles with careful eyes, thumb brushing over the swelling.

“You need stitches?”

“Nah,” you muttered. “Just ice. Maybe a little pride boost.”

Joel smirked, shaking his head as he cleaned the cuts with antiseptic. “I gotta say… you scare the hell outta me sometimes.”

“Why?” you grinned. “Because I defended your honor?”

He looked up at you, eyes softening. “Because you’ll throw hands without hesitation. And because-“he kissed your scraped knuckles “-you looked damn good doin’ it.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I mean it. You didn’t have to do that, y’know.”

“I wanted to,” you said. “She disrespected me. And you. And I don’t tolerate that.”

He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then lingered by your lips. “Remind me to never piss you off.”

“You piss me off all the time.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t decked me yet, so I figure I’m still in the safe zone.”

You laughed, wrapping your good arm around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss o slow, sweet, grounding.

He pulled back, his voice low and warm. “You know what really got me?”

“What?”

“The way you said ‘mine’ when you talked about me.” He touched your cheek. “I liked that.”

You smiled. “That’s ‘cause you are mine, Joel Miller. Always.”

He stood, lifting you off the counter and into his arms. “Come on. Bed. You’ve earned it.”

You rested your head against his chest, fingers curling in his shirt.

“You’re not mad?” you mumbled.

He chuckled. “Mad? No. You defended what’s yours. I just hope that poor girl learns not to mess with a woman who throws punches like a boxer and kisses like a goddess.”

You looked up at him. “And you?”

Joel smirked. “I’m just glad I married you before someone else did.”

And with that, he carried you to bed your hand wrapped in gauze, your heart wrapped in him.

That woman may have picked the wrong one to mess with…

But Joel? He’d picked exactly right.

The house was quiet.

Joel had finished bandaging your bruised, bloodied knuckles with the kind of gentle focus that always made your chest ache. He hadn’t said much just murmured soft reassurances, kissed your temple a few times, and made you promise to ice it later.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he’d whispered once.

But now, the adrenaline had worn off. Your body ached, your knuckles throbbed, and the inside of your cheek was sore from where your teeth had bit down during the fight. It was late. You were exhausted.

You padded into the bathroom, peeled off your jacket, and reached up to unclip the gold hoops from your ears. One at a time. Slow. You stared at your reflection as you worked hair messy, makeup smudged, your lip swollen from when the other woman had managed to get a weak swing in before you took her down.

You didn’t hear Joel approach.

But you felt him.

His presence behind you was unmistakable warm and heavy like the summer heat. Then his hands were on your hips, gentle but firm, and his lips brushed the curve of your shoulder.

“You don’t even know what you did to me tonight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You shivered, still holding one earring in your hand.

Joel’s hands slid up your sides, under the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing skin. “The second you shoved her away from me, I saw it in your face,” he continued. “That fire. That don’t-touch-what’s-mine look.”

You let your eyes flutter closed as he kissed the back of your neck, the shell of your ear.

“Got my ass hard the second you threw that first punch.”

“Joel,” you breathed, not sure if it was a protest or a plea.

“I ain’t ever been more turned on in my goddamn life,” he rasped.

You set the earring on the counter, heart thudding in your chest as Joel’s hands slid up to cup your breasts through your shirt, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until you moaned.

“I was tryin’ to let you cool down,” he said, grinding his hips against you. “But all I could think about was the way you dropped her for even lookin’ at me wrong.”

His fingers tugged your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you, then his hands ghosted down your stomach and popped the button on your jeans.

“You undressin’ for bed, or undressin’ for me?” he teased, kissing the side of your throat as you leaned into his chest, eyes fluttering shut.

“Both,” you whispered.

Joel chuckled low, his hands slipping into the waistband of your jeans, dragging them and your panties down your legs in one smooth motion. You braced yourself on the bathroom counter, back arching, your bare body exposed to him.

He stepped back just long enough to undress, and you caught his reflection in the mirror shirtless, belt undone, jeans low on his hips, his eyes devouring you.

When he came back behind you, he didn’t wait. He lined himself up and slid inside you with a low groan, and your mouth fell open as your hips met the counter.

“Jesus,” he muttered, hands gripping your hips as he bottomed out. “Still so fuckin’ tight.”

You could barely breathe, the sensation of him filling you overwhelming after everything tonight. “Joel—”

His hand came around to your front, fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit as he started to thrust.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes locked on your reflection. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Always.”

He slammed into you harder, jaw clenched. “That’s right. My wife. My girl. My fighter.”

You moaned, hands scrambling for purchase on the slick marble counter as Joel buried his face in your neck, lips brushing your skin with every thrust.

“You fuckin’ own me, darlin’,” he groaned. “There ain’t a man alive who could look at you and not know I’d burn the world down for you.”

Your climax built like a wave hot, sharp, and inevitable. You cried out as it tore through you, your body clenching around him, and Joel followed with a broken moan, thrusting deep one last time as he spilled inside you.

He stayed there for a moment chest pressed to your back, his arms wrapped around your middle, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder.

“I love you,” he murmured into your skin, voice raw. “So fuckin’ much.”

You turned in his arms, breathless, and pulled his face to yours. “I’d fight ten more girls for you.”

Joel laughed, holding you tight. “Please don’t.”

He kissed your swollen knuckles, then your mouth, then scooped you into his arms and carried you to bed.

And there, in the soft cotton sheets, with the moonlight spilling in through the curtains and the weight of the night still humming in your bones, you curled up in his arms safe, sore, loved, and his.

Always his.

[eowynstwin]

clawing at the door

ghoap x reader. jealousy. bisexual soap. bisexual ghost. emotionally constipated ghost. manipulative soap. ghost likes em thick. lightly explicit. MDNI. ao3

When Ghost first sees you and Soap together, his jealousy is hard to parse. He doesn't quite understand what he's feeling.

On the one hand, Occam's Razor. Simple explanations usually prove the truest. Soap is his boy, has been since Las Almas, and you are an interloper in their hard-won dynamic. Ghost does not absorb others into his life lightly, even less so then he allows them to strongarm themselves beneath the mask. He doesn't particularly like people, isn't really fond of their tendency toward abject mortality.

Soap's strong arms are a rare exception. And Ghost has nearly died too many times not to admire a nice round ass when he sees one—the kind that glistens and quivers beneath the weak spray of a communal shower. Some part of him has always kind of supposed the sergeant had been showing off specifically for him, too, when he dropped trousers and moaned like a whore when the hot water started flowing.

The boy certainly dogs his steps like that's the case.

Then, you: showing up on base one day, Soap's hand spread wide and possessive on the small of your back. Jewel-bright eyes following your every move. Blush high and feverish on his boy's cheekbones every time you throw half a smile his way.

So it's envy. So it's a crush, unrequited.

Simple problem, simple solution. Getting over by getting under and all that. There are apps for every heartache, and plenty of hard-bodied gym rats out there tripping over themselves to bottom for a brute like him, who can actually throw them around.

Not two minutes after making his profile (military, six-five, top), likely candidates start filing themselves into his inbox. Some part of his ego is gratified, at least. The influx of taint pics certainly confirms for him that his vanity, in fact, is justified, even if the last thing he wants to see is some random stranger's asshole.

He messages a jacked brunette with brown eyes and dimples, who led instead with a comparatively tame "hey big guy," and lets him pick the bar where they'll meet up.

And it's...fine.

The guy is fine. Equally as attractive in person as on camera, with curly hair and short stubble. He's there before Ghost, and directs an easygoing smile at him when he drops onto a stool at the bar beside him.

He doesn't even question the mask, though his eyes linger on it, half-lidded, the kind of way that suggests he's figuring something out about himself that he hadn't considered before. Not the first time it's happened for Ghost.

The problem with fine is that Ghost can't work up even much of a chub talking to him. The guy has a nasally voice and a friendly attitude that makes Ghost's teeth go numb from the sweetness. When they sequester in the dingy pub bathroom, the guy goes to his knees like an angel, and Ghost's cock actually softens more, thoroughly bored already with the notion of this random guy’s mouth on it.

The problem is, Soap would bust Ghost's balls for this.

Sure, Ghost could get him on his knees. Soap is a good boy, he'll take an order if he's given one. But he's also a fucking brat, and the moment Ghost pulled his cock out Soap would immediately start complaining about it.

Too big, too ugly, not hard enough, and when was the last time Ghost washed that fucking thing? How romantic, LT, making him suck Ghost off in a pub bathroom, hasn't he ever heard of good old-fashioned wooing?

He'd complain, Ghost knows, because he'd want, more than anything, for Ghost to just cut through the bullshit and shove straight down his throat. He'd run his mouth because the only thing he wants Ghost to do is shut him the fuck up, for once, and make him actually work for the praise they both know he's so desperate for.

And Ghost would give it. If Soap earned it. The fight isn't about winning.

This guy isn't putting up a fight. He tries nicely, licks all over the limp-hanging head and pale glans, but Ghost ends up making some excuse—Dad has cancer, Mom died, the usual—and leaving him there still on his knees.

He deletes the apps. He can invest in a fleshlight, and find some porn star another with enough of a resemblance to be functional.

Less of a hassle for everyone involved.

Problem solved.

And then he encounters you again.

You're walking out of the supermarket one night, with two huge bags over your shoulders, digging through your purse out in front of you. He has to stop you with one hand on your shoulder to keep you from running into him.

The evening is warm; your shirt is a thin camisole with little elastic straps. His palm meets your bare skin, and finds it soft and dewy with a little sweat.

You look up, startled, blinking as if caught in a bright light.

"Oh," you say, "Ghost, hello!"

"Bird," he grunts, wondering why he's surprised that you recognize him.

He pulls his hand away, and still feels the imprint of your body heat in its grooves.

"Sorry, I should have been looking," you say, smiling. It's a friendly expression, open and innocent—a daisy's petals spread on a clear day. "Johnny's making beef wellington tonight when he's off duty, so I went and got everything."

Ghost frowns. What kind of boyfriend lets his girl do so much heavy lifting?

He helps you carry the bags to your car. He's jealous, not an asshole. You thank him with a breezy laugh when he closes the hatchback—

"I'm sure Johnny wouldn't mind if you stopped by for dinner," you say, folding your arms across your ribcage. It presses your tits together as you cup your elbows in your hands, pronouncing the line of your cleavage with an uncomfortable eloquence.

"Busy," Ghost says immediately, staring very hard into your eyes. "Thanks."

You shrug, unperturbed. "Anytime. Good night!"

He stands in the carpark for a full five minutes after you drive away. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat throbbing through the palm he touched you with.

Well, then.

Bereft of any opportunity to get to know you—as if it would even be appropriate—Ghost stalks social media until he finds you through Soap's Instagram. Your account is private, so he sends a follow request, expectations very low that you'd allow someone with a blank sky for a profile picture and only one post on their feed to follow you, "sghostriley" notwithstanding.

But—you do. And suddenly he has a decade of material to peruse, beginning with your last year of secondary school and leading all the way up to present, the most recent photo one of you and Soap at the top of some mountain, grinning at the camera in your hiking gear.

You don't post very many pictures of yourself, he finds. Instead you document interesting food you eat or make, crafts you're working on, nice scenery you caption with variations of "saw this on my walk today :)". It's all very domestic, sweet in a way without being saccharine.

Soft, really. Totally separated from the hard edges of the world he and Soap routinely throw themselves along.

And yet, honest in a way that makes your version of the world feel more like the real one, and his and Soap’s the nightmare.

Ghost hasn't been with a girl—let alone been interested in one—in years. It isn't that the attraction had ever died, exactly. Rather, it simply became so complex, so twisted in on itself and trapped beneath years of grown-over scar tissue, that he'd made an unconscious decision never to confront it. He ignored Price’s stories about his wife’s antics at home, Gaz’s perennial heartbreak after strings of failed dates—

Soap’s lurid bragging about the women he’s taken home from various pubs.

(Were you one of those pub girls?)

So, here it is now, confronting him instead. Reminding him, in a pretty camisole, just how very much it exists.

In the carpark, there’d been a bead of sweat slipping down your neck as you’d waved him goodbye. He finds himself wondering how long it would’ve taken to slide all the way down to the slope of your breast, if he didn’t catch it with his tongue first.

He continues through your Instagram. The majority of your selfies show up, he guesses, after the beginning of your relationship with Soap.

Earlier pictures of you make your discomfort obvious. You don't like the way you look, and it shows in the tension on your face when confronted with a camera lens. But later on, you gain confidence. Your expressions are softer as you show off a new haircut or glasses.

And when the first picture of you with Soap shows up, it's like seeing someone glowing from the inside.

Your head is tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The smile on your face is soft, small and lovely in how little you're clearly thinking about it.

You're happy.

It floors him. A happy girl, settled into the embrace of a man who’s made her feel that way.

Piece of work, he is. Could ogle another man's ass without shame, but present him with that man’s girl and suddenly it upends his entire sense of self.

Some old cunt psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing him.

Ghost skips the apps and, following in Soap’s footsteps, heads back to the pubs.

It’s worse.

Not that he doesn’t have options sidling up to him, that is. It seems like all he has to do is sit at the bar and wait, and women circle their way into his orbit, not really talking to him but letting him know, simply by hovering, that they’d love for him to talk to them. Batting their lashes, laughing near him seemingly at nothing.

Up to him to make the first move then. It seems to him like the rules haven't changed over his long absence from the dating pool.

Therein lay the snag—Ghost doesn't know how to talk to women. Not that way, the way one says without saying it that he'd like to take her home and bend her over the back of his couch. Say that to a man at the right bar and that was his evening sorted, but Ghost has a feeling that won't play as well among people with cat-shaped brass knuckles on their keychains.

He's not much of a talker, period. Soap yaps enough to fill in his side of the conversation whenever they're in the field. And you...well, he doesn't know about you. Ghost has the uncomfortable feeling that he'd try for you, and fail miserably.

The bartender slides a drink in front of him, distracting him from his agonizing. When Ghost gives him a questioning look, he nods in the direction of a table behind him.

One of the barflies has made the first move.

She winks at him when he raises the glass at her. She’s pretty—her dark makeup makes her eyes look angular and mysterious, and her red dress is tight, thin, and low-cut. Her exposed chest shimmers, as if she dusted some sort of powder across her collarbones before making her way here.

Sparkly and colorful, like a lure on a line. Ready to hook something and pull it in.

(Your camisole had been threadbare and lined with cheap, fraying lace. A favorite of yours, probably, something you wore when you wanted to be comfortable, and didn’t care who thought what about it.)

Ghost notices other men are eyeing the woman, and a couple of them send nasty glares his way. That is, they do before promptly averting their gazes once they see what he looks like.

He can have this, then, if he wants it. He just has to reach out and take it.

He feels your warmth in the palm of his hand again. The breeze of your laugh brushes his cheek with a soft touch.

He sends the woman one of her own drink, drops forty quid on the bar, and leaves without looking back.

Another dinner invite comes his way, this time courtesy of Soap himself.

“She told me she met you at the store,” Soap says, one afternoon when they’re in the changing room. “Really nice of you to help her out, LT.”

“You weren’t there to do it,” Ghost grumbles. Soap has been prancing around shirtless for fifteen minutes, faffing about while Ghost waits for him to leave so he can adjust his erection.

“I didn’t tell her to get everything!” the sergeant protests. “She just went and did it herself.” Then Soap’s eyes go all dreamy and stupid. “She’s grand, isn’t she.”

Ghost grumbles again, something noncommittal.

“Anyway, dinner’s at seven, and I’ll send you the address,” says Soap, pulling a thin t-shirt over his head. Ghosts watches him yank the hem down over his pecs, covering the toned plane of his abs.

Soap winks at him. “See you there, Ghost.”

Ghost grunts.

Soap does, in fact, see him there.

He goes out of resignation. Or maybe with some notion that seeing Soap and you together again will finally vanquish whatever sits on his chest so heavily whenever he thinks of the two of you.

Soap’s the one to answer the door. “There he is, the braw wee bastard!”

“Soap.”

From the looks of it, it’s your flat. It’s nicely decorated without being too over-designed, something warm and comfortable and welcoming. When Ghost steps inside, he’s hit immediately with the smell of seared pancetta and garlic.

The sergeant leads him through the flat. Ghost has a bottle of wine under one arm, having remembered at the last minute he should probably bring something along. You’re in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.

“Hi, Ghost!” you chirp when you look over your shoulder. “Ooh, good, that’s drinks settled. Hope you like bolognese. It’s all I know how to make.”

“S’fine,” Ghost says, which he would say even if bolognese made him violently ill.

“Ach, you can make more than that,” Soap says, retrieving three long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Pour a nice glass of water.”

You snatch the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and give it a snap in the general direction of Soap’s ass. He laughs and dances out of the way.

“There’s a bottle opener in the island drawer, Ghost,” you say cheerfully. You're pretty tonight, in a loose t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. Casual, like you don't have a guest over at all.

Like it's just a night in with your boyfriend.

Ghost pops the cork as Soap sets the glasses down. After he pours, the sergeant delivers a glass to his girlfriend, and there’s a brief moment of quiet as everyone sips and the sauce on the stove bubbles.

It’s all so nice and normal as to make Ghost’s hackles raise just in anticipation, although he knows there’s no reason for it. Truthfully, he almost hadn’t come. The thought of you and Soap, and Soap and you, in the same room, together, a unit, had made his stomach clench up so tight that he though he might not be able to get any food down.

But some part of him needed to come, and see this. Test out Pavlov’s theory, to see if enough negative reinforcement could break him of this borderline manic fixation. If he could associate Soap and you with romantic nausea, and nothing more, maybe he could finally stop jerking off every night to no satisfaction.

Because he had, in fact, found a porn star who looked like Soap. More tattoos, and a buzz cut rather than a mohawk, but Ghost couldn’t be picky.

The real shock had been to find that this proxy often partnered with a girl who looked enough like you to be uncanny. Too skinny, definitely, but in the one video Ghost had watched of them together, he could have sworn, as the lookalike reamed her from behind—

That it was you looking at him over your shoulder.

Looking at Soap. Or, looking at Ghost, behind him.

At that moment in the playback Ghost had come so hard, cock blazing red and raw in his hand, that the notion had liquified a little. So he couldn’t be sure what the thought had originally meant.

He hadn’t been brave enough to watch another.

“This isn’t bad,” Soap says after tasting the wine. “Nothin’ on a good whisky, mind.”

“Don’t neg your lieutenant, Johnny,” you say. “This is good, Ghost, thank you.”

Hearing Johnny fall from your lips so casually threads something uncomfortable between Ghost’s intestines. Uncomfortable, because he likes it.

Had Soap told you to call him that? Or had you decided on it all on your own? Did Soap think of Ghost whenever you said his name? Did he think of you whenever Ghost did?

“Simon’s fine,” he replies.

It escapes him before he even thinks about it. The same way he’d taken his mask off in Las Almas and looked directly at Soap, wondering in some hidden part of himself if the sergeant was impressed.

“That’s a nice name,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. You take another sip, closing your eyes to savor it, and then, tilting your head like a little bird in thought, you pour a stream of it from the glass into your pasta sauce.

“Suits him, aye?” Soap says, side-eyeing Ghost with amusement. “Right posh name he’s got for a big scary bugger. Hidden depths, him.”

“Yeah, unlike you,” you snark, stirring.

Soap slaps a big hand over his heart. “Ach, lass, you wound me always.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” you say, grinning. There’s a charming twinkle in your eyes.

“You gonna let ‘er get away with that, sergeant?”

He surprises himself by saying it. But something in the way you and Soap bicker—absent of the usual sugary drivel, as if the two of you have skipped over the honeymoon phase and stuck the landing right into stable commitment—invites him in.

It's magnetic, almost. It seizes the spinning needle in his brain, draws it to a standstill. Evens out the landscape, so he knows where he can go.

“You’re absolutely right, LT,” says Soap, who smacks his lips, sets his wineglass aside, and bum-rushes you.

You shriek as he captures you in both arms, lifting you off the floor and whirling you around—both the spoon in one hand and the glass in the other fling drops of red and white absolutely everywhere. And then you’re giggling as Soap wedges his face between your neck and shoulder and shakes his head like a dog, probably biting down.

Soap growls; a big smile takes over your face, eyes squeezed shut as you laugh breathlessly. The sergeant’s broad, brown forearms have yours pinned up against your chest, pressing your breasts together.

“Not fair, Ghost!” you exclaim as Soap’s growling noises turn into obnoxiously loud kisses. “No pulling rank in my house!”

“Two against one, hen, you’re outnumbered,” Soap counters. “What should we do with this one, eh, LT?”

“See if I ever cook for you two again, is what!” you protest, still grinning with delight. You kick your legs to no effect.

Soap, also grinning, slots his face back into your neck. You giggle again, complaining that it tickles.

Some incomplete circuit finally connects.

Order given. Girlfriend “punished.”

Soap making you laugh because Ghost told him to.

Not one. Not the other. Both.

“Think we can let ‘er off the hook this time,” he says, feeling dazed.

The pictures on your Instagram, with you and Soap together. The both of you, smiling together, wrapped around each other, standing at the top of a mountain and grinning what the two of you get to share.

Soap's hand spread on your back.

“Aye, sir,” Soap says, setting you down. You’re still laughing a little as you go to check the sauce, and Soap finds a towel to clean up the mess he made. Ghost reels in the meanwhile.

There’s an imprint of Soap’s teeth on your neck.

They wouldn’t be there if Ghost hadn’t sicced Soap on you.

He’s still reeling as you begin plating dinner, and Soap sets out the silverware. When everyone sits down to eat, the sergeant tops up everyone’s drinks.

“I hope you like it,” you say to Ghost, setting his plate in front of him. There's a shyness to you, a verity to your concern for his opinion.

“Oh, he will,” Soap says, grinning.

He trails the tips of his fingers along the back of your arm as he directs that jewel-blue gaze at Ghost. It's sharper than Ghost has ever noticed before—

“The LT has good taste. Don’t you, Ghost?”

And with his other hand, he raises his glass to the knowing smirk on his lips.

a/n: I can't use arse, I know it would be more accurate but I just can't I'm sorry

[primofate]

Quick Kinich Brainrot.

Kinich sings the Ode of Resurrection a little louder and with a little more earnest when you're involved.

He doesn't notice it, but Mualani sure does. Kachina is none the wiser, she thinks Kinich treats everyone equally.

"Excited?" Mualani prods the said man on his side, grin as wide as ever, while waiting for the Ressurection to start.

"Huh?" Kinich asks.

Turns out he was none the wiser too. He thought he treated everyone equally.

"For Y/N to come back!" Mualani tries to hide the exasperation in her voice.

"...Isn't everyone?" Kinich simply says. Ajaw is surprisingly quiet.

Mualani has a retort at the tip of her tongue, but the ceremony starts. The eulogy is recited and the humming commences.

The ceremony is the same as it always is, and as the Pyro archon disappears into the Sacred Flame, people start to cheer and shout.

Kinich stays quiet. Eyes tacked on to the flame, shoulders tense, searching for the first sign of the Pyro Archon and you.

His mind doesn't quite register it when the Pyro Archon emerges from the flame carrying you in her arms.

The cheers continue, but when people start to notice that you're unconscious and asleep, the noise dwindles down.

Kinich masterfully swings himself over to meet the Pyro Archon, peering over at your face. "Is Y/N okay?"

"What's wrong with 'em? Psh. And here I thought they weren't one of the puny ones! Well at least it ain't a bag of bones!" Ajaw cackles, but constantly tries to circle around to catch a glimpse of your face.

"Trouble in the Night Kingdom," the archon replies. "They're fine, they just need a bit more rest to stabilize the Abyssal energy in them,"

Kinich steps back with a sigh.

The wave of panic that hit him settling down to ripples. Something similar had happened to Kachina before, in fact that time had been worse. Kinich hated to admit it, but he didn't feel half as scared back then than he did now.

What did that tell him?

He puts his hands forward "I'll take Y/N, archon. I'll take care of them," urgency and desperation mixed together in his voice.

The pyro archon had no doubt that he would, but shakes her head. "They'll have to stay here until the abyssal energy stabilizes, it could be dangerous to you as well,"

"But--" His response was automatic, and he had to stop himself from protesting.

Just take Y/N home. Don't let anyone else take them.

Repeated in his mind, over and over again. Home. You'll be safe there. He'll make sure of it. But he relents, and drops his arms to his sides. "...Okay,"

The pyro archon promises you'll be fine.

Kinich was a competent fighter. He was an ancient name bearer. He had fought so many battles and looked for many more.

But in this one simple and single moment, suddenly he wasn't so strong anymore.

His fear was bigger than his whole existence.

[rafesteddy]

+18 -> smut | Rafe sees the reader in her WAG jacket for the first time

𝓗𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝔂!𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓦𝓐𝓖!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

*the sport is not specified. This has been added to my Bar Down AU

c/w: swearing, pet names, fingering in a moving car, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, possessiveness, oral fixation, marking, male dom/soft dom, newer but established relationship, free use, ownership kink + ⚠︎ cross posted on my nhl account ⚠︎

1.3K

You’re curled up in the passenger seat, tucked into the custom jacket they handed out before the game. The zipper drawn halfway up your torso, sleeves falling long past your hands, collar popped just enough to show the delicate chain he gave you resting along your collarbone.

His name, his number, his team—stitched in bold across your back and printed down one sleeve. And since the moment you put it on, he hasn’t been able to look at you the same.

One hand grips the wheel. The other sprawls across your thigh, his thumb dragging slow circles against your skin. They won tonight. He was locked in. But the high buzzing through him now has nothing to do with the scoreboard.

Now he can decompress, replay the moments he had to brush aside to stay in the zone—the way you sat so close, cheering him on with that look that always seems meant just for him.

He noticed a few guys sneaking glances in your direction. He caught fans pointing at you, recognizing your face, your presence, the name stitched across your back. His name was on your body, but somehow it still did not feel like enough.

What you have between you is still new. But the pull of it is already powerful. Rafe’s possessiveness sits tight in his strong chest and low in his gut, curling around every breath he takes. You’ve got him. And you don’t even realize.

He shifts in his seat, jaw tight, breathing deep like he’s holding in a secret.

You glance over at him, smiling, and he chuckles—like he’s annoyed with himself for just how down-bad he already is.

“Baby,” he rasps, slick smile creeping in.

“What?” You ask, tilting your head playfully.

“You really don’t get it do you?” He squeezes your thigh making you shift closer.

Rafe presses a little harder on the gas. His eyes stay on the road, but his thoughts are already racing ahead. He’s thinking about you. About what he’s gonna do the second he gets you through his front door.

His hand slides higher on your leg, and you giggle softly, your smile spreading as you glance over at him. He groans low in his throat, the simple sound driving him insane.

He doesn’t even think, just slides his hand under your thigh and shifts you like it’s nothing. The car rocks slightly as he moves you. One leg lifted over the console, the other planted on the floor, stretching you wide.

You gasp softly, head tipping back against the window as the cool air skims between your thighs.

He doesn’t need to look directly at you. From the corner of his eye he catches everything—the lace, the curve of your thigh, the way your chest rises with each breath.

Rafe’s head falls back against the headrest, his jaw clenched tight. His fingers flex against your inner thigh, feeling just how warm and wet you are, even through the fabric. And for a moment, he almost pulls over. But he can’t… Not with the way he wants to ruin you in bed.

He starts tracing slow, teasing circles over the top of your panties, his focus already shattered. “—You’re mine,” he hums. “Like you were made for it…” You shift beneath his touch, your breath catching, and he glances at you. “Be sweet for me,” he says quietly. “Slide ’em to the side.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach down, dragging the wet fabric to the edge of your thigh. You leave yourself bare to him, breathing shakily, desperately waiting for his touch.

He lets out a quiet sound of approval, his fingers gliding through the slick between your thighs. Then he draws his hand back, bringing his fingers to his lips tasting you with a slow groan. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he sighs, voice rough. He tastes you slow, groaning low. “Fuck. Sweetest thing I’ve ever had—” He’s already reaching out for more, his hand dips between your thighs, and this time he pushes his fingers in deep.

You gasp as he sinks his fingers into you—long and thick—stretching you in a way that makes your hips jerk and your head fall back with a moan.

He works you slow at first, his fingers stroking deep and steady, the pad of his thumb dragging tight little circles over your clit. Your hips buck against his hand, the sounds of your breathing rising over the quiet hum of the road. The car might as well not even be moving—he’s driving one-handed, but all his focus is on the way you’re unraveling under his touch.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your face. “Fucking soaked for me. Can’t even wait to get home.”

You whimper, biting your lip, trying to stay quiet—but there’s no point. He’s curling his fingers just right now, dragging them against that perfect spot that makes you twitch and moan like you’ve got no control left. You grip the door handle, your other hand fisting in the hem of the jacket, your breath hitching with every pass of his thumb.

“I can feel it, baby,” he breathes, voice thick. “You’re close. Gonna come for me right here, aren’t you? In the car, wearing my fuckin’ name.”

That does it. You clamp around his fingers, the pressure snapping all at once as your orgasm hits you hard. Your head falls back; lips crying out his name as your hips grind helplessly against his hand.

Rafe groans low, slowing his fingers as you shake through it, guiding you through every aftershock. “That’s it,” he whispers, dragging his hand back slow. “Good girl.”

He parks with a sharp tug of the wheel and is out of the car in a blink. The passenger door swings open—he’s there, hauling you out like you weigh nothing, spinning you so your chest hits the car, your palms braced on the cold metal—but he stops himself.

You’re both breathing hard. He presses a kiss to the side of your head instead, grounding himself.

Then he pulls you toward the elevator, hand tight in yours, thumb still wet where he tasted you. You step inside, and the doors close around you.

Rafe presses up behind you, his hands wrapping around your waist, his chest rising against your back. His lips brush your ear as he breathes deeply.

“Do you even know how hard it is not to take you right here?”

You shiver as his fingers slip under the hem of the jacket, resting on your warm skin.

“I want you so bad it’s fucking painful.”

The elevator dings. You step out first. He doesn’t say a word, just follows—watching the sway of your hips, the stretch of his name across your back like it belongs there.

And then the apartment door shuts.

He’s on you.

He hauls you into the kitchen, spinning you so your chest hits the counter, your palms braced on the cool granite.

Rafe’s right there behind you, the heat rolling off him from under his crisp white dress shirt.

Your leggings and panties are tugged down in one swift motion. The soft drag of his belt slipping loose is enough to make your knees shake. The jacket stays on, slipping just low enough that his name stretches across your back as his pants fall to the floor.

Rafe’s cock presses between your slick folds, thick and hard, teasing you as he groans at how soaked you already are. “Fuck,” he drawls, almost to himself as he looks at you. “You’ve got my name all over you, baby.” He grips your hips with both hands, pushing in slow and deep.

His thrusts are strong, angled just right; moving like he knows every part of you. One hand stays on your hip, the other shifts to your shoulder, using it to anchor himself as he drives into you.

His body is pressed tight against yours, his breath hot at your neck. His mouth finds your skin, kissing, biting, claiming you more. It is not enough that his name is stitched into your jacket. He needs it etched into your skin.

“No one else gets this. No one,” he rasps, voice ragged and low.

He holds you tighter like he’s barely holding himself back, his hands firm on your hips as your moans spill out louder, more desperate. Then he shifts—lifts your leg, pulls you flush against him, bends you just enough to hit that spot that makes your legs shake and your breath catch, like you’re breaking apart right there in his hands.

Your moans twist into broken, breathless sounds, making him rut into you even harder, his toned hips slapping against your ass with each push. The kitchen, nothing but a mess of slick sounds and cries of pleasure.

He feels you clench around him and moans again—beside himself with how good you feel. So good he just might lose it completely. You glance back over your shoulder, feeling the same heat coiling low in your belly.

Rafe’s jaw is tight; eyes, locked on where he’s buried inside you, the front of his dress shirt bitten between his teeth so he can see his cock fills you. His muscles are tense, every inch of him is focused on you.

Your orgasm takes over before you can warn him. Your body tightens and you cry out, fluttering around him. He manages one more deep thrust, holding on for just a second longer and he pulls out fast.

Rafe hikes up your jacket just enough, finishing across your lower back with a guttural groan, spilling hot against your skin. His body shudders, breath breaking, everything inside him short-circuiting at the sight of his last name on your body looking back at him and his cum in pearly ropes on your skin.

He laughs quietly, still breathless, and when you look back, smiling, he is already reaching for you. “Wearing my name like that… fuck, you make it impossible to think straight,” he says with a hoarse laugh. “You own me…”

Rafe grabs the pocket square out of his suit pocket, cleaning you up as his mouth finds the back of your neck, kissing slowly. “So good,” he breathes. “Fuck, baby. You look good in my name, huh? You know you do?”

The words leave his lips warm and sticky sweet, making you melt into him.

He pulls your panties and leggings back into place, slow and careful, then wraps his arms around you and lifts you up on the counter, finding your lips again.

new tag list

tags: @rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @rafesheaven | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rafecameronlova1

[littlelamy]

the strong scent of polish lingered in the air, mingling with the warm vanilla body mist you’d spritzed earlier. you were laying on the couch, legs stretched out across rafe’s lap, a fluffy pink pillow under your head and a wide, satisfied smile on your lips. your toes were painted fresh, glossy and wet with a dreamy baby pink, and rafe was hunched forward, big hands surprisingly steady as he carefully brushed the topcoat across your last toenail.

“okay,” he muttered, tongue sticking out as he tried to concentrate. “don’t move. i’m serious.”

you giggled. “you’re taking this so seriously.”

“you begged me,” he mocked, eyes still on your foot. “you said ‘rafe, pleaaaase paint my toes, i want it to be special.’ so now i’m making it fuckin’ special.”

you bit your lip, stomach fluttering. he was making it special. he always did. every little thing he did for you, even something as silly as a pedicure, he put his whole attention into it. his brows were slightly furrowed, mouth relaxed, tongue still pressed into his cheek.

when he finished, he leaned down and started blowing gentle air across your toes. warm, rhythmic puffs of breath that made you twitch a little.

“tickles,” you whispered.

“deal with it,” he said. “you want ‘em to dry or not?”

your other foot slid along his thigh. just a little rub over the denim of his shorts, up and down the meat of his thigh. his breath paused, then resumed with more forceful blows.

you didn’t stop at all. you let your toes graze higher, the arch of your foot nudging between his legs. he tensed, but didn’t say a word. didn’t have to. you could already feel the shape of him hardening beneath the fabric even before you pressed a little harder with the ball of your foot.

“chi,” he warns, breathless.

you looked up at him, lashes fluttering. “they’re gonna take forever to dry.”

“you’re not fuckin’ slick.”

you gave him your sweetest smile. “don’t stop blowing.”

he stared at you for a second. then huffed a laugh. “you’re crazy.” but he leaned back. let you keep going.

you rubbed slow, teasing. feet pressed against his bulge, moving in little circles, the pressure just enough to make him twitch under you. his hips rolled forward once, just a little, and you felt the heat of him, how big he was already. your toes curled.

he groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “fuck it.”

his shorts hit the floor a second later. you gasped, pretending to be shocked. “oh my gosh, rafe!”

“you started this,” he muttered, wrapping a hand around his cock. thick and dripping at the tip. he stroked it once, slowly, then looked down at your feet. “don’t flinch.”

his hand guided your arch to the base of his shaft. your toes curled instinctively, heels pressing together. he groaned in pleasure, eyes almost rolling back.

“yeah,” he said, voice tight. “just like that.”

you moved slowly. back and forth. your feet wrapped around him, slippery now with pre-cum, toes brushing the head each time you stroked upward. his hips rocked into it; you watched his face the whole time—how his eyes fluttered half-shut and his jaw tightened.

“you like when i touch you like this, daddy?” you whispered, wiggling your toes just a little, dragging them down his cock with extra pressure.

he cursed, head tipping back. “you have no fuckin’ idea.”

“but you’re gonna tell me,” you said, breathy, teasing. “gonna tell me how good it feels.”

his eyes locked on yours, dark and burning. “feels like heaven, baby. just like your mouth, no comparison to how your pussy feels though.”

you whimpered, thighs squeezing together as your toes stroked faster, your heels pumping along the shaft while he rutted up into the rhythm, grunting every time your slick feet twisted around the tip.

“so fuckin’ pretty,” he muttered, reaching out to grab your ankle, pulling your leg higher so he could watch the way your skin slid against him. “these feet. this polish. this dirty little brain.”

“wanna make you cum,” you breathed, biting your lip. “wanna see it all.”

his voice broke. “you’re gonna.”

and he did. seconds later, with a sharp groan, his cock jerked between your feet, thick ropes of cum spilling over your toes, hot and messy and so much. he grunted, riding it out, hips stuttering, cum dripping down your arches onto the couch.

you gasped, flushed and grinning. “rafe…”

he looked down at the mess, then at you, eyes still wild.

“guess i gotta repaint your fuckin’ toes.”

ᡴꪫ tags below

taglist𑄽𑄺: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafedaddy01 @rafesangelita @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @st8rkey

[deansbeer]

COACHELLA, BABY.

꒰ . ⋮ minors do not interact .ᐟ ֹ ꒱

☆ synopsis. vinnie fucks you dumb at coachella after carrying you on his shoulders all hot and sweaty.

☆ warning(s). smut | semi-public sex (?) | exhibitionism | rough sex | fingering | dirty talk | spanking | overstimulation | vinnie is obsessed and possessive in the hottest way ever | reader isn't wearing any panties | daddy kink.

☆ kari notes. like missy elliott once said "get ur freak on" <3 ummm i will say writing for him took me back to '23 and it made me SOOOO emotional ???? (ur probably wondering how tf do u get emotional writing smut ….. i don't know.) s/o to all my vinnie girlies !!! this one is dedicated to u 🤍 + divider creds to me.

you don't even realize how good you've got it until vinnie's crouching down in front of you with that stupid half-smirk and his hands extended like he's about to carry you across a threshold.

"c'mon, baby," he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours through strands of messy, sun-drenched curly hair. his skin's glowing, flushed from the heat and a few drinks, chain around his neck glinting under the setting sun. "get on."

you blink at him, confused for half a second before you realize what he means. "on your shoulders?"

"unless you wanna keep jumping like a chihuahua trying to see over people's heads."

you roll your eyes but grin, because he's right. the crowd's thick, the music's good, and you've been struggling to see the stage for the last ten minutes. and vinnie? well, he's tall and broad and annoyingly strong, so you don't hesitate. you climb onto his shoulders, hands bracing on his head as you settle in, your thighs around him, your short little dress riding up dangerously high — not that either of you mind.

his hands grip your legs, steadying you, and he lets out a low whistle.

"jesus. you're not wearing anything under this?"

you lean down just enough to murmur into his ear, "not a thing under here."

he groans, head tipping back just slightly, and his hands squeeze your thighs. "you're gonna fuckin' kill me, baby."

but he doesn't ask you to get down. doesn't tell you to fix your dress. he just stands there, solid and proud, letting you dance on his shoulders as the bass shakes the desert air. his hands linger on your legs, warm and possessive, fingers brushing higher than they should in public. you don't say anything about it. you just smile and keep moving to the music, knowing full well he's getting the best view of the night.

later, when the sun's down and the sky's dripping in neon, you find a quiet rest tent tucked a little off to the side. it’s not really private — nothing at coachella is — but it's quieter, away from the crowd, dimly lit with soft cushions and low couches, the kind of place people come to cool down or make out for a few minutes in between sets.

you barely make it through the flap before vinnie's got you pressed up against one of the tent poles, his mouth on your neck, his hands already sliding under your dress like he's been waiting all day.

"you have no idea what you did to me out there," he mutters, biting at your jaw, his voice already rough. "you think i didn't feel that little pussy against the back of my neck every fuckin' time you moved?"

you gasp when his fingers slide between your thighs, two knuckles deep in your heat before you can even catch your breath.

"vinnie—fuck—someone could see—"

"and i don't give a fuck," he groans, curling his fingers just right. "you're mine. let 'em see for all i care."

you whimper, legs shaking, and he pulls back just enough to drag you toward the couch in the corner — low and wide, with a ridiculous little armrest that's not meant to be used like this. he bends you over it, your chest pressed to the cushion, ass up, dress bunched around your hips like a fucking ribbon.

he groans when he sees you. "fuck. look at you. look at this beautiful ass. all for me."

his hands palm the curves of your ass, thumbs digging in, fingers spreading you open. he's not shy about it — not with you. not after everything you've done to him today.

you hear the sound of his belt, the low clink of metal, and then he's behind you, cock dragging through your folds, teasing your entrance.

"so wet already," he murmurs, lining up. "you been thinkin' about this all night?"

you nod, but that's not enough for him. he grips your hair, pulls you up just enough to make you moan, his voice like gravel in your ear.

"say it, princess."

"yes, daddy," you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. "been thinking about you fucking me since the second you picked me up."

he growls and drives into you in one hard thrust, your mouth falling open in a silent cry. the stretch burns in the best way, your fingers gripping the cushion as he sets a rhythm — rough and deep, his hips slapping against your ass with every thrust.

you try to hold back your noises, try to keep quiet, but it’s impossible. the music is still thumping outside, but here, inside the tent, it's muffled — and that only makes everything feel louder. the wet sound of him fucking into you, his low groans, your soft cries.

"gotta be quiet, baby," he pants, one hand covering your mouth while the other keeps your hips in place. "don't want 'em hearin' how good i'm fuckin' you, huh?"

you whimper against his palm, eyes rolling back, the pressure building fast. he leans down, mouth hot against your ear.

"you love this shit. don't even care who hears. fuckin’ filthy girl."

you nod, a mess under him, your orgasm cresting with every thrust. he feels it — the way your walls flutter, the way your body starts to tremble — and he doesn't let up.

"that's it, mama. cum for me. cum on my cock like the good girl you are."

you choke on the moan that rips out of you, muffled by his hand, your body convulsing as you come hard, legs shaking, nails digging into the cushion. he fucks you through it, not stopping, chasing his own release now.

"goddamn," he groans, pulling out just in time, stroking himself once, twice, before he spills across your lower back, thick ropes of cum painting your skin.

you're both breathing hard, the air thick with sweat and sex and the distant thrum of music. you collapse forward onto the couch, dress still hiked up, thighs trembling.

vinnie leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your spine.

"coachella, baby," he murmurs with a grin.

and you laugh, breathless, because yeah — it's definitely one for the books.

@ deansbeer is tagging you .ᐟ @titsout4jackles @daylighted @soldiersgirl @bluemerakis @heartsforvin @slvthrs @lowkeycasanova @jensenacklesballsack @h8aaz @bluestrd @ultravi0lence14 @blue-d @stereotypicalbarbie @tinas111 @cupidzbunny @kamisobsessed @acaibcwl @coquitokisses @americanvenom13 @samslovebug @starzify ╱ wanna follow the chaos? join my taglist <3 + library!

[gweelczz]

“Home”

Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore x Y/N (Sugar)

Genre: Angst, Fluff, smut (Y’all KNOW he a FREAK) MDNI

Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap your Willy!) mentions of child abuse, this fic is LONGGGG I got a bit carried away y’all I’m sorry!!!

Summary: A lover’s quarrel breaks out between the two love birds and it’s up to Sammie to choose what he goin do

The Mississippi sun had dipped low, bleeding red across the fields when the shouting started. Folks in Clarksdale knew better than to pay too much mind to lovers’ quarrels, but when it was Preacher Boy Sammie Moore and his girl Sugar — everybody knew.

“You always talking ’bout dreams, Sammie,” Sugar snapped, arms crossed tight against her chest, her voice trembling more with hurt than anger. “But you too scared to chase ‘em. Scared of your daddy. Scared of what folks gon’ say.”

Sammie’s fists were balled at his sides. Not to strike — Lord, no. Just trying to hold it all in. His pride. His shame. His fear.

“I ain’t scared,” he bit out, jaw tight.

“Then prove it,” she shot back, tears glassing her big brown eyes. Her skin, a rich dark ebony with that gold shimmer whenever the light caught her just right, looked like it belonged to some goddess out the old stories. Her coily hair framed her face, a wild crown she didn’t even know she wore.

He said nothing.

That silence — heavier than any slap — broke her heart clean in two.

Sugar turned on her heel, dust kicking up under her bare feet.

“You ain’t ready,” she said, voice small now. “And I ain’t waitin’ ‘round watchin’ you let yourself rot.”

He watched her walk away. Watched until the blue of her skirt disappeared down the road toward the woods where Annie’s shack sat hidden behind a crooked fence of bones and bottle trees.

——

Annie’s place smelled of sweetgrass and turpentine, smoke curling out the chimney like lazy fingers. Inside, herbs hung in bunches from the rafters. Jars of oil, roots, and stones lined the shelves. Every color and spirit of the Delta lived in that little shack.

Sugar slumped into a chair, head in her hands.

Annie — full-figured, dark-skinned, with a warmth about her like a heavy quilt — sat across from her, shelling peas slow and easy. She was only a few years older than Sugar, but the way she moved, the way she looked at you, made her seem like she’d lived two lifetimes already.

She watched Sugar for a long minute, not rushing her.

“Man’s got chains on his soul,” Annie finally said, voice low and knowing. “Ain’t easy breakin’ ’em. ’Specially when them chains was put there by his own blood.”

“I just…” Sugar started, but her throat caught. She shook her head. “I just want him to see what he could be. Not what folks tell him he gotta be.”

Annie smiled, soft and sure.

“Don’t give up on him, girl. Some seeds take longer to sprout. But when they do, Lord, do they grow strong.”

Outside, the night thickened. Crickets sang. Somewhere, a hound barked long and low.

And then — a knock at the door.

Sugar turned, heart thudding.

There he was. Sammie.

Hat crushed in one hand. A scraggly bunch of wildflowers in the other. Dirt smudged on his knees from where he’d fallen once, maybe twice, on the way over.

He looked at her like a man standing at the edge of a cliff. Like he knew the fall would kill him but he was ready to jump anyway.

“I cain’t do this without you, Sugar,” he said, voice raw. He dropped the flowers, sank to his knees right there on Annie’s worn floorboards.

“You hear me?” he begged, hands trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bein’ a fool. I’m sorry for not fightin’ harder. I’m gon’ be better. I swear it on my life.”

Sugar’s chest squeezed so tight she thought she might fall over.

Annie sat still, shelling peas, not saying a word. She knew some things had to be worked out without her hand in it.

Sammie looked up at Sugar, eyes wide and wet, heart cracked open for the whole world to see.

“You my home, Sugar,” he whispered. “Ain’t no point in dreamin’ if you ain’t in it.”

The flowers were crushed. His hands were dirty. His voice was breaking.

But it was real.

God help her, it was real.

Sugar knelt too, lifting his face in her hands.

“Don’t you ever make me walk away again,” she said, voice shaking.

“I won’t,” he promised. “I swear it.”

And in that little shack, under the watchful eyes of the ancestors hanging thick in the smoky air, Sugar forgave him.

——

Sammie led her back to his daddy’s house, hand in hand, heads bowed against the heavy southern night. He didn’t care if his father was sitting on the porch with a belt or a bottle.

This time, he wasn’t walking alone.

And this time, he wasn’t running from himself either.

The porch light was nothing but a flickering bulb, casting long, mean shadows across the yard. Sammie slowed his steps when they reached the gate, hand tightening around Sugar’s.

There he was — Preacher Moore — sitting in his rocking chair, a half-drained bottle of corn liquor at his feet, the old hunting belt looped lazy across his lap like a coiled snake. His face, carved rough like old wood, didn’t flinch when he saw them coming.

Sammie’s throat dried up. Every memory of every beating, every harsh word, every dream stomped down under his father’s heavy hand — it all came rushing back like a flood.

Sugar gave his hand a squeeze.

“You got this, baby,” she whispered.

Sammie swallowed hard and stepped forward.

The porch boards groaned under his weight, but he didn’t falter.

Preacher Moore watched him, slow drag on his cigarette, eyes hard as river stones.

“You finally decide to come back with your tail tucked?” he rasped.

Sammie stood straight. For the first time, he didn’t look away.

“I come back a man,” he said, voice steady. “And I ain’t askin’ your permission no more.”

The cigarette paused halfway to Preacher Moore’s mouth. A dangerous flicker lit in his eyes.

“You gettin’ mighty bold for a boy livin’ under my roof,” Preacher Moore growled.

“I ain’t just livin’ under your roof,” Sammie said, taking another step closer. “I’m buildin’ somethin’. And if you can’t see that, then maybe I need to build it somewhere else.”

Sugar stayed right behind him, her presence a warmth at his back, a shield he hadn’t even known he needed.

“I wanna sing,” Sammie said, the words dragging out of him rough and painful like pulling a thorn from flesh. “Not just in church. Not just in secret. I wanna sing the blues. I wanna write my own songs. Play my own music. And I ain’t gonna be ashamed no more.”

The porch went still. The crickets even seemed to hush.

Preacher Moore’s face cracked — not much — but enough for Sammie to see something raw underneath. A flash of fear. A flash of sorrow.

“You think singin’ them devil songs gonna feed you? Gonna save you?” Preacher Moore spat.

Sammie shook his head.

“No, sir,” he said. “I think bein’ me gon’ save me.”

He reached back, took Sugar’s hand in his again.

“I got folks standin’ with me now. Folks who believe I ain’t just some broken piece of you.”

Preacher Moore set the cigarette down. The belt slid off his lap and onto the porch with a soft thud.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just rocked. Just stared.

And then, like a levee finally giving way after too many rains, the fight drained out of him. His shoulders sagged. His chin dipped. His pride — that big, ugly thing that had ruled the Moore house for two generations — cracked and crumbled like old clay.

Preacher Moore dragged a hand down his face, voice rough with something like regret.

“You your own man now,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothin’ I can do to change that.”

Sammie felt the breath he didn’t know he was holding rush out of him.

“You sure that’s what you want, boy?” Preacher Moore asked, almost gentle now.

“I’m sure,” Sammie said. “Been sure.”

Preacher Moore nodded once, stiff and slow.

“Then go on,” he said. “Go sing your songs.”

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was enough. Enough for tonight.

Sammie turned to Sugar, who was smiling through tears, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand.

Together, they stepped off that porch — not as preacher boy and dreamer girl — but as something new. Something stronger.

The night wrapped around them as they walked into a future that, for the first time, was theirs to claim.

———

The road to Sugar’s house twisted through cotton fields and thick woods, the night air humming with the slow, secret music of the Delta. Sammie held Sugar’s hand tight as they walked, his heart still hammering from what he’d left behind on that porch.

Preacher Moore’s voice still echoed in his ears, but it was faint now, like a storm rumbling far off. What mattered was the hand in his, the steady light ahead — the little house Sugar’s granddaddy had left her when he passed.

The place wasn’t much to look at to anybody else. A two-room clapboard house, porch sagging a little, white paint peeling like old bark. But to Sammie, it looked like freedom. Looked like home.

Sugar fished the key from her pocket and unlocked the door. She didn’t say much, just pulled him inside by the hand. The house smelled like lavender and fresh bread, warm and good.

Sammie had only been here a handful of times, always with the nervous, guilty feeling of a boy sneaking into someplace he didn’t belong. But tonight was different. Tonight, she opened the door wide and left it open behind him, like she meant for him to stay.

“Granddaddy wanted me to have it,” Sugar said, setting her purse down. “Said a woman needs her own land to stand on.”

Sammie nodded, drinking it all in — the soft quilt folded on the couch, the little wooden cross nailed above the door, the framed picture of Sugar’s granddaddy smiling wide in his Sunday suit.

“You know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him, “I got my own shop now too. Folks come from all over for my oils and teas. I do good.”

He smiled, proud in a way he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“I know you do,” he said. “Ain’t nobody like you, Sugar.”

She laughed, light and low.

“One day,” Sammie said, voice almost breaking with the bigness of it, “I wanna be able to take care of you too. Not ’cause you need it. But ’cause you deserve it.”

Sugar crossed the room in two quick steps and pressed her forehead to his.

“You already do,” she whispered.

They stood there a long moment, breathing each other in, letting the world fall away.

Sammie knew he didn’t have much. A voice. A few songs still trapped inside him, scratching to get out. A heart bigger than he knew what to do with.

But somehow, standing there in the warm light of Sugar’s house, it felt like enough.

Tomorrow, there would be work to do. Songs to write. Battles to fight. Maybe even more nights spent arguing with ghosts and memories.

But tonight — tonight he had her.

Tonight they had a roof, four walls, and a world of dreams between them.

And sometimes, Sammie thought, that was more than enough to start a whole life on.

The hum of cicadas mixed with the soft shuffle of feet on the old wooden floors of Sugar’s house, and Sammie, still buzzin’ from the confrontation with his father, felt the weight of it all.

Sugar’s house was quiet now, the air in the room feelin’ as heavy as the memories. The house was sturdy and worn, like time had kissed it just right. A little faded around the edges, but still standin’, just like her. Just like him.

Sammie’s fingers trembled as he rubbed the back of his neck, still feelin’ the heat from his father’s words mixed with the pride he hadn’t known he could hold. But Sugar… she was the one who’d always seen it in him, even when he’d been too blind to see it himself.

She sat beside him, her body close but not touchin’, her presence like a balm for all his frayed nerves. He could feel the heat of her, the warmth of her gaze that was so full of pride, so full of somethin’ deeper that he couldn’t quite put into words.

“You did it, Sammie,” she said, her voice soft but steady like a slow river. “I’m so proud of you, baby. I always knew you had it in you.”

He let out a breath, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “I ain’t never thought I’d be here, Sugar. Never thought I’d be standin’ up to him like that. Didn’t think I had the strength to fight for what I wanted. Hell, didn’t think I deserved it.”

Sugar’s eyes softened, her lips parting like she was about to speak but then she just shook her head. Her hand reached out, like it always did when he needed it most, and she placed it over his.

“You deserve every bit of it, Sammie,” she said, her voice full of that calm confidence that always made him feel like maybe he wasn’t so lost after all. “And you’ve got so much more in you than you even know.”

His chest tightened, and he didn’t know if it was from the weight of her words or the way she made him feel like a man again. A real one, with dreams and a purpose. And as she looked at him, that proud smile on her face, Sammie couldn’t help but feel a pull deep in his gut. She always did that to him — made him feel seen in a way no one else ever had.

“Sugar…” he breathed, his voice a little rough. “You’ve always seen me. Always been the only one who believed in me when I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror.”

Sugar moved closer, her body just inches from his, and he could feel the heat of her against his arm. Her touch was like a spark, and Sammie swore his heart skipped a beat. She was always so sure, so confident in everything she did. But tonight, he saw something else in her eyes — something softer. Something real.

“I ain’t never stopped believin’ in you, Sammie. You’ve got this, baby. You always had it in you.”

Her words were like a lullaby, and as they lingered in the air between them, Sammie couldn’t help but draw her in closer. He wrapped his arms around her, pullin’ her to him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He held her tight, his chest full of so many emotions he couldn’t even name.

The softness of her body against his made his breath hitch. Sugar felt like home. Like everything that had ever mattered. Her scent filled his senses, and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

“You make me feel like I can take on the world, Sugar,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with the weight of what he was feelin’. “Like I ain’t never been broken, like I’m whole again. I ain’t never been able to thank you for that.”

Sugar’s hand slid up his back, her fingers light against his skin, and she pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were dark with emotion, and the softness in her gaze made Sammie’s heart ache.

“You don’t have to thank me, Sammie,” she said, her voice a whisper now, like the words were only meant for him. “I’ve always been here for you. Always will be.”

Sammie’s chest tightened again, and this time, he didn’t fight the urge to kiss her. His lips brushed hers, soft at first, like he was askin’ for permission. But when she didn’t pull away, when she leaned into him, it felt like a release. He kissed her deeper, the tension in his chest unwinding as he pulled her closer, feeling her warmth flood him.

He didn’t know how long they’d been sittin’ there, lost in each other, but when he pulled away, breathless, he looked at her with all the words he hadn’t said, all the things he still needed to say.

“Sugar, I ain’t never been more sure of somethin’ in my life. I need you. I’ve needed you since the first day I laid eyes on you. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Sugar smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and her fingers grazed the side of his face, tender but firm.

“You don’t need to say nothin’, Sammie. I’ve known. I’ve always known.”

And before he could say another word, she leaned in again, kissing him with the kind of tenderness that made him ache deep inside. He held her tighter, his hands roaming to the small of her back as the heat between them built, the air thick with need.

Sammie pulled Sugar into his lap allowing his hands to rest on her waist not going any lower than that, pulling he looked into her eyes silently asking for permission to touch her which she gladly granted. Leaning forward he kissed her once more, the kiss full of want, need and hunger. His hands moved down to grab handfuls of her ass causing them to moan into each other’s mouths, their breaths mingling together.

Sugar’s hips ground themselves against Sammie’s making him bite down onto her lip, she pulls away swirling her tongue around his ear before biting down onto it. She trails her lips lower kissing on his neck tasting the salty sweat with her tongue. Meanwhile he’s lifted up her dress with permission, unbuckling his pants afterwards letting her sink down slowly onto his cock.

They moan into each other’s mouths once again, Sugar wrapping her hand around his throat and his fingers tangled in her hair as she rides him. “Sugar? Lemme try somethin hear?” He speaks through moans and she answers with a breathy “yes”. With permission granted he flips them so she’s now under him, his hips rolling into her while his free hand protects her head from slamming into the arm of the chair.

Pulling down the straps of her dress he exposes her breasts to him, lowering his head he takes a nipple into his mouth. His free hand reaches down between them finding her clit giving it tight fast circles to match the pace of his thrusts. “Sammie… Baby…” Sugar pants out watching him angle his hips to go deeper hitting her spot without knowing.

“Baby right there” he pulls off her nipple long enough to respond in his baritone voice “right there sugar?” To which she nods gripping the back of his head when he dove back in sucking on her nipple. She gasps arching her back slightly moaning loudly into the air not caring about who heard. “Sammie… I’m gonna…” he keeps his tempo the same while rubbing her clit, pulling off to rest his forehead against hers. “C’mon sugar, cum for me, let go”

The coil in her stomach snaps and she swears she sees white as she cums around his cock, Sammie thrusts a few more times before pulling out cumming on her stomach with a low groan. They lay there for a few moments before Sammie gets up picking Sugar up bridal style carrying her down the hall.

“Let me take care of you, Sugar,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur. “I ain’t gonna leave you like this.”

He lifted her into his arms, holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body press against his. Her head rested on his shoulder as he carried her, every step slow and deliberate as if he didn’t want to break the moment. The bed creaked softly as he laid her down, his hand lingering on her side for a moment longer than necessary.

Sugar closed her eyes, her body still humming with the aftereffects of everything they’d shared. But Sammie knew there was more to do. He wasn’t about to leave her just like that.

He stepped away briefly, his movements purposeful as he went to the basin in the corner. He ran his hands under the water filling up a huge pot heating up the water on the stove, the steam rising in the small space. He grabbed a soft cloth and soap, his hands shaking slightly with the anticipation of what was next.

When the water was ready, Sammie dumps it all into the bathtub before he returned to Sugar, who was propped up on the pillows, her eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. She smiled weakly, her voice soft. “You don’t have to do all this, Sammie. I’m fine.”

He shook his head, his expression serious. “You deserve every bit of care, Sugar. You trusted me, and I’m gonna show you how much you mean to me.”

With a gentle touch, he helped lift her into his arms again, guiding her to the edge of the bed. He carefully wiped her skin with the warm cloth, his touch slow and steady as he cleaned the traces of their love from her body. Each stroke was soft, as if he was worshipping every inch of her, every curve, every part of her that he cherished. He then lifts her into the tub gently washing her body. The cloth moved over her belly, down her legs, until every trace of him was gone, and all that was left was the soft heat of her skin.

Sugar looked up at him, her eyes full of vulnerability and trust. “You make me feel safe, Sammie. Like I’m the only one that matters.”

Sammie’s heart ached. He placed the cloth back in the bowl, then turned his attention to the small copper pot of warm water he’d heated. He poured it gently into a shallow basin, setting it between them.

“I’m gonna wash your hair now, Sugar,” he said, his voice low. “Let me take care of you, just like you took care of me.”

She nodded, a soft, grateful smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He was so gentle with her, so focused, his every movement thoughtful and deliberate. He poured the warm water over her hair slowly, his hands cradling the back of her neck as he worked the lather into her thick curls. His fingers massaged her scalp, and she let out a soft, contented sigh.

“Mm, that feels good, Sammie,” she murmured, her eyes closing as she relaxed into his touch.

Sammie continued to work, washing her hair with tender care, making sure every strand was clean, every inch of her body pampered. He rinsed her hair, his hands careful and slow as he ran them through the curls, feeling the smoothness of her wet locks slip between his fingers. There was something so intimate about it — the way he was taking care of her, the way she let him in.

When he was finished, he dried her off gently, wrapping a soft towel around her shoulders, letting the warmth of it sink into her skin.

“You’re perfect, Sugar,” he whispered, his eyes full of adoration. “I just want you to know that. You’re perfect.”

Sugar looked at him, her eyes full of gratitude, and Sammie swore his heart skipped a beat. She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb tracing the edge of his jawline.

“You don’t have to do all this for me, Sammie,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But I’m glad you do.”

Sammie smiled, his hand brushing through her damp curls, his heart full. “I’ll always do this for you, Sugar. I’ll always take care of you.”

He laid beside her then, pulling the covers over them both, his arm around her waist. Sugar nestled into his chest, her breathing slow and steady as she drifted into a peaceful sleep, the weight of the day finally settling in. Sammie held her close, his heart full of love and pride, knowing that, for once, everything was exactly as it should be.

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

The Best Fun Is After Girl’s Night » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Summary: You come home from girl’s night with your friends and you and your husband decide to have some fun of your own.

Warnings: Smut (18+), language, brief mention of alcohol, dirty talk, kissing, hickeys, tit fucking, male receiving, unprotected sex, soft sex, praise kink, vibranium arm kink, Bucky’s dog tags, aftercare, pet names

A/N: @katherineswritingsblog and I were talking about this and she persuaded me to write it🥰 also she provided the gif for this🩷

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

GIF IS NOT MINE! Credit goes to the creator.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

Bucky sighs as he walks in the house. He took his jacket off as he walked in the kitchen, tossing it on the counter. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured himself some whiskey before going to the living room to relax. He turned the TV on and took a sip of his drink. He took his phone out of his pocket when he felt it vibrate. He smiles widely when he sees a text from you.

Doll🩷: On my way home🩵

Bucky smiles and took another sip of his drink. You went out for girl’s night with your friends, but he just wants you to come home. He tried his best to wait patiently for you to come home. After a while, you came home. You heard the sound of the TV in the living room and made your way to your husband. You approached the back of the couch and rubbed your hands against Bucky’s strong chest.

“Hi, baby.” You whispered in his ear.

“Hi, babydoll.” Bucky whispers back, his voice sounding husky.

You walked around to the front of the couch. Bucky licked his lips and bit his bottom lip when he seen your outfit. He reached out for your hand, pulling you onto his lap. He got a an eyeful of your breasts in your dress. His hands slid up your sides, stopping underneath your breasts, rubbing his thumbs against the underside of your breasts. He got an interesting idea the more he stared at your breast.

“I would like to try something interesting with you tonight.” Bucky says, not taking his eyes off your breasts.

“What is it?” You asked curiously.

“I would like to fuck your tits.” He admits. “You gonna let me fuck these gorgeous tits, doll?” He asks.

“You can do anything you want to me, baby. I’m your wife.” You say.

Bucky’s hands moved from under your breasts to the backs of your thighs, grabbing onto them. He stood up and took you to the bedroom. He sat you on the bed and kissed you hungrily, leaving you breathless when he pulled away.

“Take that fucking dress off before I rip it off.” He says, almost growling.

You giggled and stood up. You let the straps of your dress fall from your shoulders and you pushed the dress down your body, letting it pool around your feet. You stepped out of it and kicked it to the side. You took your panties off and dropped them on the floor next to your dress. You were about to take your heels off, but Bucky stopped you.

“Leave ‘em on.” He tells you. “They look fucking hot.” He says.

Bucky pulled you against his body and kiss you hungrily again.

“Be a good girl and lay down on your back.” He orders.

You obeyed his orders and laid down on the bed, propping your head up against the pillow. You turned your head to the side, watching Bucky strip out of his clothes. You licked your lips at the sight of your husband’s perfectly sculpted body. Your eyes drifted down to his fingers unbuckling his belt and unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. He pulled down his jeans and boxers down in one go. He wrapped his right hand around his cock, stroke it a couple times before getting on the bed. He moved upwards till he was close enough to your breasts. You were caged in between his legs, staring up at his hard cock that was leaking with precum from his tip. Bucky put his cock on your chest in between your breasts, his precum smearing against your skin.

“Push your tits together for me, doll.” Bucky tells you.

You pressed your breasts together, trapping his cock in between them. Bucky’s hands grasped onto the headboard, looking down at you. More specifically, he was staring at your breasts with his cock in between them. It’s one of the hottest things he’s ever seen.

He started thrusting his cock in between your breasts slowly before increasing his speed at a slow pace. You stuck your tongue out, licking his tip every time he thrusted. You moaned at the taste of his precum.

“Fuck…” Bucky moans. “Why didn’t we try this sooner?” He asks.

You hummed in response, agreeing with him. You were focused on two things… Bucky’s cock thrusting in between your breasts and the ache in between your legs. You rubbed your thighs together for some kind of relief.

“You’re enjoying this as much as me, aren’t you, babydoll?” Bucky asks.

“Mmm, yes.” You hummed.

You pressed your breasts together a little bit tighter for Bucky to have more friction on his cock. You maintained eye contact with him while licking his tip in a seductive manner.

“You’re gonna make me cum sooner than I’d like to if you keep doing that.” He pants.

You giggled and did it again. Bucky tilted his head back in pleasure and closed his eyes, enjoying the pleasure of fucking your breasts. His thrusts got faster. His tip hit your tongue every time he thrusted.

“F-Fuck…” He moans, stuttering when he felt his orgasm building up.

He lost rhythm with his thrusts for a short moment, but regained it. His breathing got heavier the faster his orgasm built up. He looked down at the hot sight of his wife below him, almost cumming at the sight.

“Fuck!” Bucky moans loudly as he came.

His cum covered your breasts, chest, and face. Bucky slowly stopped thrusting his cock in between your breasts. He looked at his cock in between your breasts one last time before sliding his cock out from in between them and sat down next to you to catch his breath. You took your hands off of your breasts. You scooped up some of his cum on your fingers and licked it off, moaning at his taste. Bucky watched intensely.

Bucky leaned over you, kissing you passionately. He maneuvered himself so he was laying on his side. You did the same. Bucky’s vibranium hand grasped onto the back of your knee and put your leg against his hip. You moaned against his lips when his cock bumped your throbbing clit. His vibranium hand blindly found its way in between your legs, rubbing your clit softly and slowly. You whined and grinded your pussy against his hand, making him chuckle softly against your lips.

“Alright, babydoll. I’ll give you what you desperately want cause that’s what my wife deserves, right?” Bucky says.

“Yes, Bucky.” You replied.

Bucky’s vibranium hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it a couple times before lining it at your entrance. He rubbed his cock through your slick before slowly sliding it in your pussy. Your mouth fell open and you tilted your head back, enjoying the feeling of your husband’s cock sliding in your pussy. Bucky took the opportunity to kiss along the column of your throat, kissing towards the side of your neck. His teeth bit down hard enough to mark you up.

Bucky put his vibranium hand on your thigh for something to hold onto when he started thrusting. His thrusts were slow and loving. He continued to kiss along your skin. Your hand grasped onto his vibranium bicep, your nails digging in the vibranium.

“Bucky…” You moaned softly.

You moaning Bucky’s name urged him on. Your moans are music to his ears. He increased the speed of his thrusts a little bit.

“You’re so beautiful.” Bucky praises softly. “So happy you’re mine.” He almost whispers. “My wife.” He whispers.

You cracked a smile for a short moment before your mouth fell open, strings of moans and his name left your lips when his cock hit your sweet spot. Your grasp on his vibranium bicep tightened. You were convinced that your nails made lines in the vibranium.

You put your lips on his, kissing him passionately. You put your free hand on the back of his head, your fingers tugging on his hair. Bucky’s tongue licked across your bottom lip. You parted your lips just enough for him to slid his tongue in your mouth, exploring every inch of it.

You pulled your lips away from his, tilting your head back. Bucky went back to kissing along your skin again. You rolled your hips against his to meet his thrusts. Bucky’s vibranium hand left your thighs and went to your clit, rubbing it slowly.

“I know you’re getting close, doll. I can feel your pussy squeezing my cock.” Bucky says in your ear.

Your orgasm started to build up quicker than you liked. The more Bucky rubbed your clit and his cock hit your sweet spot. Your back arched in pleasure. You practically pressed your breasts in his face, which he didn’t mind. Bucky dipped his head down to kiss along the swells of your breasts. His lips moved down towards your nipples. His tongue swirled around one of your nipples. He repeated his actions on your other one.

“Oh fuck, Bucky… I’m going to cum.” You moaned.

“Cum for me, babydoll.” He whispers huskily. “I’m almost there too.” He says.

His name left your lips when you came. Bucky wasn’t too far behind you. After a few more thrusts, he came inside of you. His thrusts came to a slow stop. You two laid in each other’s arms with his cock inside of you while the two of you caught your breath. After a moment, Bucky pulled out of you and got out of bed to get a wet washcloth from the bathroom to clean the two of you up. Then he laid back down and cuddled you.

“I love you, doll.” Bucky whispers.

“I love you too, babe.” You say softly.

🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖

-Bucky’s Doll