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7nuh · 7 months ago

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WAS IT 'CASUAL' WHEN...? — TWST 1ST YEARS

Headcanons on the 'casual' things you do with him that made him wish that there was something more between you.

CW 𓂃 sfw, gn!reader, reader is implied to fit in Deuce's clothes in his part, pining

CHARAS 𓂃 Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Jack Howl, Epel Felmier, and Sebek Zigvolt

AN 𓂃 mostly* edited now 😎👍

ACE TRAPPOLA — you slept in the same bed?

Ramshackle isn't exactly known for having the best facilities or furniture, and that is a fact Ace has to make peace with whenever he gets kicked out by Riddle. It's always a little too chilly at night and the floors still creak beneath his feet. Even with a makeover, half of the beds are broken and that stiff couch downstairs is your next best bet at getting some semblance of sleep.

You insisted you really didn't mind sharing a bed at all and Ace took you up on your offer. In his words, "if you say so then!" Just create an invisible partition down the middle and the two of you should be fine. Sure, yeah, that'll be infinitely more comfortable than the couch, and Ace absolutely agrees. He repeats the thought to himself over and over again— this is supposedly the better alternative, isn't it?

Yeah, totally. He tries to convince himself that it's really not a big deal for him to be inches away from you at night and feel your warmth spreading through the sheets. God, you'd think he's a weirdo if you woke up and caught him staring right now, but he could always twist it into a dumb joke about your sleeping face looking like an ogre. Consequently, he would have to watch your face twist in annoyance and pretend he wasn't watching every rise and fall of your chest. He would rather lose his magic entirely than admit the ugly truth and make himself vulnerable to you.

Ace does realize he's being embarrassingly sappy and romantic, and he's disgusted at himself for these thoughts, but he can't help it. He can't change the fact your lips look so soft and your eyelashes are so pretty. This is freaking him out so much more than it should. Does this really mean nothing to you? Do really only see him as a friend? Fine, then the two of you are just friends sharing a bed then!

It's really nothing! Ace was the one who joked about it months ago, after all. But things (and his feelings) have changed and he cannot ignore that. Back then it wouldn't have been such a big deal, but now it is and he cannot calm his heart down no matter how hard he tries.

You're right there. It's not the first time he had to share a bed with someone but it's different now because it's you. He did the math and the two of you are only 10 inches apart. Ace almost reaches for you in his weakest moment until he remembers that the two of you are supposedly just two friends sharing a bed. You're doing him a favor by sheltering him for the night, that's all.

Ace retracts his hand right away at the very last second. He might have as well taken the goddamn couch (lest either of you wake up in each other's arms).

DEUCE SPADE — he lent his clothes?

You came here with next to nothing. You had exactly one change of clothes and pocket lint for change, so Deuce, being the righteous and honorable student that he is, decided to lend you some of his clothes for the meantime. It's what a good friend would do! It's a temporary arrangement that would last only until Crowley spares enough change for you to buy another set of uniforms.

But this arrangement drags on for so long even when you have a functional closet and multiple sets of better-fitting clothes. Deuce never really noticed until recently that a third of your (albeit very limited) wardrobe actually belongs to him. But whenever you tug on his sleeves for his latest sweater, he doesn't have the heart to tell you no.

When he went home during break, his mom even noticed that certain sweaters and shirts had gone missing. "I left them at the college," he tells her as to not worry her. It's technically the truth— it's back with you in the college (and you're probably wearing them right now; the mental image is enough to fluster him all of the sudden when it never did before). He has to get them back eventually since those clothes are his. He's sure you wouldn't mind? Right?

Simply asking for them back is the difficult part for Deuce. You're there in front of him wearing one of his older shirts that fit snugly around your figure and he's at a loss for words. It's worn down and outright hideous as hell but the very first thought that comes to mind is that you look good in it.

Ah, yeah. You walk around campus on non-school days wearing his clothes 1/3rd of the time and nobody else knows that those jackets and shirts and sweaters and button-ups are all his. You make even the ugliest ones look good, or maybe it's because you're the wearer and you always looked good to him? Do his eyes need to be checked...? Deuce is tortured by these thoughts while merrily go about your day. You're laughing at something stupid that Grim said and he can't hear anything else. There's a fight in the courtyard but he can't see anything else. There's a midterm tomorrow but he can't think of anything else. You're too distracting.

When you finally do remember to return a shirt or two, Deuce tells you there's really no need to return them. He insists that they're better off with you, but you laugh and remind him that you're no longer the same pathetic charity case you were at the start of the year.

The truth is, your scent still lingers on recently returned shirts. It's the closest he'll get to being skin-to-skin with you, and Deuce is supposed to ignore that but he cannot. Or maybe he's the only one making this weird for the two of you because it doesn't seem to bother you in the slightest (and he's bothered by that).

But when Deuce looks at the recently returned shirts in his hands, he hopes he has a chance. He hopes you think of him as much as he thinks of you. He hopes the odds of him not actually liking you after all make your guts churn and set butterflies in your chest at the same time. He hopes he isn't the only one yearning for used shirts, lingering scents, and ghost touches. But at the same time, you've only ever asked these kinds of favors from him... Deuce doesn't want to assume anything, but a blush creeps upon his cheeks all the same and he continues to hope for more.

JACK HOWL — you played with his ears and tail?

Beastmen weren't a thing back in your world, so seeing them regularly made you morbidly curious about their animalistic features. Jack was easily the best candidate to satisfy your intrusive thoughts because just who else could you ask about this? Leona wasn't exactly an option and Ruggie might rope you into some scheme of his. And Jack owed you a favor, after all, so this is what you decided to ask of him.

Jack's ears twitched— did he hear you correctly? His face scrunches up in confusion because you barely knew each other for you to be asking something like this. How could you ask something so personal from him? It's in your innocently eager expression that he realizes what's going on... you just didn't know. Fine, it should mean nothing to you and thus he agrees to let you pet his tail and ears for five seconds. Maximum.

It's supposed to be a one time thing but he finds him involuntarily offering up his tail whenever you look him like that. He's not even sure how it got to this point. After all, there are romantic connotations of having your tail petted by someone else and... nevermind. Ruggie and Leona have started simultaneously teasing him over it the very moment they caught wind of this peculiar arrangement. It doesn't help that Jack's tail is particularly sensitive and reactive, but he keeps a straight face no matter how much it embarrasses him.

Jack doesn't understand why you're so fascinated by his tail and ears because there are so many others just like him. However, he supposes it's not an entirely terrible feeling, though, to have your fingers absentmindedly rake across his tail and hair as the two of you study. It's relaxing, even, but he won't tell you that. Jack will never tell you that it gives him goosebumps all over and makes him shiver whenever you play with his tail. Or that he's begun wondering what it would be like to have your hands elsewhere, or for him to touch you in similar ways in return.

He doesn't understand why he craves your company but doesn't question it either. All he knows is that your hands are so soft and gentle and that he likes the way the corner of your eyes crinkle when you smile in satisfaction. And when you hum a soft tune as the gap between the two of you closes, he wonders if he's the only one feeling this tension.

"Again?" Jack huffs. The pretext of this being a silly favor has been long forgotten. He should probably tell you soon that you shouldn't be doing this, but you just look so pleased with yourself when the two of settle down in a lesser-known corner of the library. The routine persists, the cycle continues. Hours later, the both of you have gone through multiple bags of chips, two movies on his laptop, and his tail is now comfortably curled around your abdomen as you read a book and he tends to his beloved cactus.

Again? Jack silently asks himself whenever he sees your face in a crowd. Could the two of you spend hours in a comfortable silence while the unsaid implications haunt him? He's started to ask himself— were you just playing dumb at this point or just plain stupid? Or what if you had known all along and the two of you were just dancing around it?

EPEL FELMIER — you kissed him?

Epel eventually learns to use the way others perceive him to his advantage; there's strength in appearing to be weak and striking when the iron is hot. Still, he couldn't help but wish to be seen for his talents and strength instead of his beauty at the first glance. The first assumption everyone makes of him, for god's sake, is that he's a fragile little thing from a rich family, and, quite frankly, he's sick of it.

So he's secretly delighted when none of his charms worked on you and you yank him by the ear for even attempting. A few curse words and rough shoves later, both of you are on the floor, grappling and wrestling against each other. The two of you are laughing so hard and swearing so loudly that you'll probably wake up the rest of Pomefiore at this rate, but neither of you care. It's just the two of you right now grasping at each other like your life depended on it.

It's a nice change of pace to be openly exchanging insults instead of restraining himself. He enjoys the comfortable rhythm the two of you share— from all the brawls and the bantering and the hugs and to the kisses on the cheek. Yes, kisses. They started as simple thank you's after a few favors here and there, and just one of them is enough to make a mess out of Epel for weeks. Better yet, you only seem to be showering him with more and more of your attention and he relishes in it.

Ah, things are finally working out for him! He found someone he could confide in and he's sure that there's a spark between the two of you. By the end of the year, he might have someone to bring home and brag about to his relatives—

All the momentum halts when he sees you across the hall granting the rest of your friends the same levels of affection. From all the brawls to the bantering to the hugs and the kisses, none of those were ever solely his to take delight upon. It doesn't matter that he opened up to you about all his fears and insecurities because he was never special. You were just the kind of person who got along and felt comfortable with everyone around you, but Epel hates that he has no one to blame but himself. He willingly walked your warmth but it was never his to take.

It finally dawns upon him that you have never seen him in a romantic light and that was why you were so comfortable around him. In retrospect, the bond you two shared was more sibling-like than anything— and believe him when he says he's incredibly grateful that the two of you were that close —but it doesn't make it hurt any less to know that your affections never carried any romantic intentions after he had pinned for you for so long.

Even when he takes a step back, you're cruel in a roundabout way by continuing to be so kind and loving towards him. How was Epel supposed to make sense of your relationship after realizing he misunderstood you...?

And he also hates to admit this, but his self-confidence takes a huge blow from this. Epel genuinely thought he could be loved for who he was based on the time you spent together. It gnaws at him and eats him alive to finally know the truth, and sometimes he wishes he never found out at all.

SEBEK ZIGVOLT — you wrote him love letters?

So, Sebek asked (demanded) to be penpals...

It's all because Lilia told him it would be a good exercise of diplomacy, he insisted. As the young master's bodyguard, he will have to be as courteous as possible even in unpleasant company. He also rationalized, admittedly partly because of you, that forging bonds with magicless humans may be a worthwhile endeavor after all! It's all rather suspicious (and you suspect his real intentions have something to do with your friendship with Malleus), but Sebek has never been one to lie about his intentions. If anything, the popular opinion was that he's a little too honest and should learn a thing or two about holding back.

There's something very unconventional in sending handwritten letters in this day and age of modern technology, but also something very romantic and fantastical— much like the many fictional knights he had read about. It helps a lot that he's not directly confronted by the fact you are very much a magicless human who shouldn't be in NRC whenever he spills out his heart's contents unto multiple pages. It was a way for him to release his frustrations, celebrate his achievements, and talk about the dull, little things thats happened in his day-to-day life to someone who listened.

And listen you did. Turns out, when you're not subjected to his 1000 decibel shouting, Sebek is a rather earnest guy who worked hard and acknowledged others who also worked equally as hard no matter their disposition. To say the least, you understand why Lilia found it so entertaining to tease him.

It completely flies over his head that you had been flirting with him for months through these letters. Your everyday interactions with each other had been completely normal, so how was he supposed to notice?! It takes multiple rereads and many late-night discussions with the other Diasomnia dormers to decode and understand all the double entendres and hidden 'i love you's' in each and every letter. It was so needlessly difficult, but Lilia laughs in his face and pats him at the back for a job well-done.

"There's no way," he thinks to himself late at night and finds himself doubting Lilia's claims for once. But when Sebek steals a glance in your direction and you smile back in return, he's never felt weaker in his knees. You're absolutely and undeniably magic-less... but somehow you had casted a spell that made his chest tighten and shut him up. He hadn't even realized how much time he was spending with you and thinking about you when he wasn't.

Except nothing has changed in-person. You're acting like you hadn't meticulously hidden your affections for him in those letters, and he was starting to seriously doubt all of it. Yeah, were you event smart enough to pull off all that? As some magic-less human?

Actually... Sebek realizes that you are capable of outsmarting him after getting to know you much better through those letters. He's never been one to deny where credit it was due. Now, Sebek's just deeply ashamed that he failed to accurately assess your character before making judgements based on superficial traits. He knows better than anyone that you're witty, charming, brave, kind, beautiful, ambitious—

Oh no.

Sebek simply explodes on the spot once he realizes that he had been oblivious to his own feelings for you too. He had thoroughly examined every aspect of this conundrum except from within. Quite embarrassing from an esteemed knight of the prince of nocturnal fae to be this slow, really.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #ace trappola x reader #deuce spade x reader #jack howl x reader #epel felmier x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader #ace trapola #deuce spade #jack howl #epel felmier #sebek zigvolt #i hope my favorite isn't too obvious el oh el

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blythesarchives · 2 months ago

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To Where and Back Again. | B.B

summary: Bucky gets triggered to Winter Soldier mode, and his focus is on you.

a/n: This fic contains a brief scene of attempted SA. The scene will be marked by dividers. If you do not wish to read that bit, please skip the portions between the star dividers.

I'm not a huge fan of aggressive, 'dom!WS,' my perspective on him is completely different, but...I dunno. I figured I'd try the view that everyone seems to like more. My view on him as WS is extremely complex, and it changes depending on his healing stage. So I tried to keep true to my own views but also have some in there that people enjoy. If any Russian was translated wrong, please lmk. ;; wc: 8.4k

a/n post writing: I will not be writing this version of him again, I didn't enjoy it enough to write a dom!WS again. I considered not posting this, since I don't like how it came out, but I wanted to see if anyone enjoyed this version.

Alarms blared throughout the facility, their piercing sound echoing off metal walls as crimson emergency lights cast eerie shadows across empty corridors. In an instant, like a ghost melting into darkness, the soldier vanished from his holding cell without a trace.

No one stood a chance of apprehending him. Even Steve, with his enhanced abilities and intimate knowledge of his old friend's tactics, found himself outmaneuvered. The Winter Soldier moved with calculated precision, each step chosen to shake any pursuit. When he rounded that final corner, disappearing into the maze of hallways, Steve was left standing alone, the sound of his footsteps fading into silence.

Your heart ached with concern when you got the call he was gone.

Since relocating from his sparse, weathered apartment in Romania to your place in New York, Bucky had maintained a distance from others, choosing solitude over social interaction. Steve did try to interact, but his eagerness was too overwhelming at times and Bucky’s social battery wore out fast. Though he managed to function day to day, it was a constant struggle.

You became his anchor, sitting beside him on bundled blankets through countless nights as he huddled near the soft glow of a small lamp, piecing together fragments of his past, one memory at a time.

You were the one person he could truly lower his guard and feel secure around. Night after night, he would settle down to sleep on the floor beside your bed, finding comfort in proximity. Rather than leave him alone, you would join him there most nights, bringing blankets and pillows to make it more comfortable for him. Bucky protested each time, insisting you shouldn't abandon the comfort of your bed for his sake, but you could see in his eyes and feel in the way his body relaxed beside yours that your presence brought him peace.

So you continued to lay with him on the floor, besides, your carpeted bedroom was pretty comfortable.

When Steve's urgent call came through about Bucky's escape, a wave of intense nausea washed over you as overwhelming anxiety seized your entire body. The Winter Soldier's emergence after such a long period of dormancy filled you with dread.

The complex nature of his existence within Bucky's psyche remained too complicated to think about for long - whether he was a separate consciousness, an alternate personality, or something else entirely. You came to the conclusion that the Winter Soldier was indeed a separate identity, he was and wasn't Bucky. He had his own thoughts, his own way of thinking, his own demeanor.

And that made you extremely nervous.

You paced across your living room floor, unconsciously chewing your nails down to the quick as you tried to regain some semblance of composure.

He'd be fine...he'd be fine. He's smart, skillful, he knows how to stay out of sight and safe...he's survived worse situations before...

The persistent, gnawing fear of the soldier being captured refused to release its grip on your mind. Your thoughts spiraled into increasingly dark scenarios - heavily armed teams surrounding him, the soldier's violent resistance, and Bucky being forcibly restrained and dragged away to some unknown facility while fighting against his captors with every ounce of strength he possessed.

You really didn't want to think about it.

Steve tried his best to keep you informed of any developments, but information was frustratingly scarce. The Winter Soldier was a phantom that left no footprints, no evidence, no trail to follow. Each passing day, your heart ached with desperate wishes for his return. You constantly checked your doorstep, watching your window late into the night, hoping against hope that he would materialize there like he had so many times before. You would have settled for anything - a glimpse, a sign, even the smallest indication that he was still out there somewhere, anything at all.

The gnawing anxiety in your stomach had become an ever-present reminder of his absence. Try as you might to maintain some semblance of normalcy, your thoughts inevitably circled back to him like a compass finding true north.

Your mind raced with endless questions and scenarios, each one only making your anxiety worsen: Was he wandering the streets of some distant city? Had he found somewhere safe to lay low? Was he fighting his own battles somewhere, injured and alone?

Try as you might, your mind remained plagued.

Several weeks went by without a single notice of the soldier.

You were making your way back to your apartment complex from a nearby convenience store in the dimming evening light, carrying a small plastic bag with a few basic necessities. The street was eerily quiet, with only the distant sound of traffic and the occasional flutter of pigeons settling in for the night.

While you walked back along the familiar route, the hairs on the back of your neck suddenly stood up as rough, calloused hands grabbed you from behind, violently yanking you into the shadowy alley you were passing. The hands were merciless in their grip, tugging at your clothes and forcefully shoving you against the cold, rough surface of the brick building so he could get a better grip after disorienting you.

You felt the sharp kiss of cold steel against your throat, while another hand roughly yanked your hair back, exposing your neck further. The man who stood behind you pressed close, his hot breath spitting against your ear and cheek as he spoke. "Make this easy and don't lie to me. I know you got some money in there." His voice was low and unsteady, wavering between excitement and nervousness, like a predator who hadn't quite mastered their technique but knew enough to be dangerous.

The blade pressed harder against your neck, the cold metal beginning to warm against your skin as he repeated his demand for money with increasing urgency, the edge threatening to break skin.

You obliged without hesitation, knowing that you were alone in this dark alley with no witnesses or help in sight, desperately hoping that giving him all the cash you had would be enough to satisfy him into running off into the night. Your hands trembled uncontrollably as you reached into your wallet, fumbling with the bills before pulling them out and extending them backwards toward him.

He snatched the money away from your shaking fingers with an aggressive swipe, and you could hear the rustle of paper as he counted it in the dim light. "A hundred bucks and you're carryin' around a pretty expensive bag like that?" He asked gruffly, his voice filled with suspicious disbelief as he violently ripped your purse from your arm, the strap burning against your skin as it was torn away.

Bucky gave you that bag - a beautiful leather purse you had admired longingly through the mall window months ago. He had noticed your gaze and worked extra shifts for weeks, carefully saving every dollar until he could finally surprise you with it. The memory of his proud smile when he presented it to you made your heart ache. You couldn't bear the thought of it being stolen, not when it meant so much.

"Hey, give that back - I gave you all the money I had!" Your voice cracked with desperation as you lunged forward, fingers outstretched toward your purse. The attacker's response was swift as he laid a vicious backhand that sent you sprawling onto the ground. The rough cement scraped against your palms as you tried to push yourself up, your cheek throbbing where he had struck you. Through watering eyes, you could only watch helplessly as the stranger clutched your precious bag in his grimy hands.

Without warning, his heavy boot connected with your face with a sickening crack that sent waves of pain radiating through your skull. The impact left you reeling, your world spinning as an intense burning sensation spread from your nose throughout your entire sinus cavity. Your eyes immediately welled up with involuntary tears and squeezed shut against the agony. Instinctively, you covered your nose with one trembling hand, feeling the warm wetness of blood flowing freely between your fingers, soaking into both your palm and the sleeve of your jacket.

Before you could process what was happening, a rough hand seized your throat, forcefully pinning you against the cold, damp ground beneath. The man's grip tightened with calculated pressure - just enough to immobilize you while still allowing shallow breaths.

"You're turning out to be far more trouble than this thing is worth," he growled in frustration, carelessly tossing the bag into a murky puddle that had collected near the rusted dumpster. His eyes took on a predatory gleam as they raked over you, like a prize to be had. "I think I need to take something else from you instead...and since you're not wearing any jewelry I can see..." He let the threat hang in the air. "I'll just have to improvise."

The man raised the knife to your face, the cold steel barely grazed your skin as he traced it downward, following the curve of your neck until it reached your collarbone. "I think I know exactly what I want to take," he whispered, his voice thick with malice. “You’re gonna be a good little thing, and stay still.” His hand slipped beneath your top, making you recoil at the revolting sensation of his ice-cold fingers and the rough texture of his tattered, fingerless gloves against your skin. Your instinctive struggle against his touch only served to anger him further.

"I said stop moving!" he snarled, pressing the blade against your delicate skin with more force. The sharp edge bit into your sternum, leaving a shallow cut several inches long before he began using it to slice through the fabric of your top. Pure panic overwhelmed your senses as your eyes desperately darted to your discarded purse. Your thoughts turned to Bucky - his sudden absence, his unexplained disappearance when you needed him most.

The crushing weight of helplessness threatened to suffocate you.

Self-loathing crashed over you in waves as you lay there. You weren't someone extraordinary or remarkable - you had no special training or impressive skills. What little self-defense you knew was useless against an attacker who so drastically outmatched you in both size and strength, especially now that you were injured. Bitter regret filled your mind as you berated yourself for not training harder when you had the chance, for not carrying something - anything - to defend yourself with, even a simple taser.

As you tried to block out the horrifying sound of your clothing being torn apart by his blade, your gaze was drawn once again to your purse lying just out of reach. The memory of Bucky giving it to you surfaced - how nervous he had been that day, the way his fingers fidgeted anxiously as he watched you pull it from its gift wrap.

That precious memory stood out so vividly now, the way his eyes had lit up with pure joy at your reaction. It was a rare moment of unbridled happiness for him, his smile brighter and more genuine than you had ever seen before or since that perfect day. Normally so cloudy and heavy with silent burdens, you were the one who brought that smile to his face.

The thought of Bucky suddenly triggered an overwhelming rush of adrenaline that sharpened your senses to the situation, surging through your mind like an electric current. Fragmented memories cascaded through your consciousness as you channeled every ounce of strength into a desperate defensive maneuver, squirming and positioning your feet against your attacker's midsection before unleashing a powerful kick that sent him flying backward, his body crashing heavily onto the rain-slicked ground.

“GAH - you bitch!” The man let out a pained, strangled groan with a venomous spit of words, laying as the wind had been knocked out of him for several seconds.

With your heart pounding a tattoo against your ribcage, you frantically scrambled to reorient yourself, turning onto your stomach and pushing yourself up with trembling arms. Your fingers clutched desperately at the waterlogged purse as you launched into motion.

You managed to maintain your footing as you executed a sharp turn around the alley corner, your shoes striking rhythmically against the glistening sidewalk. You were running on pure instinct now, like a frightened deer fleeing from an approaching predator. Behind you, your pursuer's voice carried through the night air, a stream of vulgar threats and curses that seemed to tear from his throat with increasing rage.

Fear kept your gaze locked firmly ahead as you pushed your body to its limits, your sole focus on reaching the sanctuary of your apartment building. The shopping bag of groceries lay forgotten somewhere in the darkness behind you, abandoned in your desperate flight. Each labored breath sent sharp pains through your chest, the cut on your sternum bled and burned while warm blood continued to trickle from your nose, creating a pulsing ache that radiated through your skull with every footfall.

The familiar silhouette of your apartment building finally emerged from the darkness ahead, though in your panicked state, you remained oblivious to the fact that the sound of pursuing footsteps had long since faded into the night's silence.

You were trembling violently as you stumbled inside the building, your legs barely supporting your weight as panic coursed through your veins. The elevator wasn't even a consideration - your mind screamed at you to run up the stairs, to get inside your apartment where you'd be safe. Your fingers, surprisingly steady despite the rest of your body's betrayal, found the key without fail and slid it into the lock with a metallic scrape that sounded deafening in the empty hallway.

The door flew open under your desperate push, and you practically threw yourself across the threshold, slamming it shut with enough force to rattle the hinges. Your trembling hands fumbled with both locks, clicking them into place before you staggered backward, eyes fixed on the door as if it might disappear. Your lungs burned with each ragged breath, chest heaving as you tried to force air through a throat that felt too tight, too constricted. Each desperate gasp was a battle, your diaphragm spasming as it struggled to maintain any semblance of rhythm against your body's frantic demands for oxygen.

The weight of your rain-soaked purse slipped from your numb fingers, landing with a wet thud beside your dropped keys as your legs finally gave out. The survival response that had propelled you home began to ebb away as your brain registered the relative safety of your surroundings, leaving you crumpled on the floor like a marionette with cut strings. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through your body as you collapsed onto your back, and you pressed your heated skin against the cool ceramic tiles of the entryway, letting their solid presence anchor you to reality.

You remained motionless on the floor for a while, your consciousness focused solely on the relentless throbbing that pulsed through your nose with each heartbeat. The long laceration across your chest continued to weep blood, creating a warm, sticky sensation that contrasted sharply with your exposed skin. Your once-whole top now hung in tatters, split cleanly down the middle, leaving your torso vulnerable to the apartment's cool air that raised goosebumps across your flesh.

After the intense tightness in your lungs faded, you summoned the strength to push yourself up from the floor. You wanted a shower, to get all the grime off you, and you began the arduous process of removing your ruined clothing. Your soggy jacket hits the floor with a wet smack; your shirt, nothing more than scraps of fabric; and your pants, uncomfortably damp as they clung to your skin.

Standing naked in your bathroom, you stepped carefully into the shower, eager to feel clean from the dirt of the city and the hands that had been on you.

It wasn't until the shampoo made contact with your hand that you realized your palms were thoroughly scraped raw, the skin torn and angry. The sudden contact with the soap sent white-hot bolts of pain shooting through your nerve endings, making you inhale sharply through your teeth. You resisted the instinct to flick your hand and get the shampoo off, it would be pointless in the long run. You’d still have to wash yourself.

A string of colorful expletives escaped your lips in a harsh whisper, and you abandoned any notion of a thorough cleansing in favor of getting the ordeal over with as quickly as possible, your movements now hurried by the stinging sensation that refused to subside.

The warm towel you dried off with would've felt nice if you weren't still in pain, the soft fabric doing little to soothe your aching muscles. While you attempted to tend to your injured hands first, carefully examining the damage and considering what supplies you might need, your phone suddenly buzzed on the counter beside you. The notification that illuminated the screen came from Steve, a text message appearing with an American flag emoji, thoughtfully placed by his name as a joke when you first added him to your contacts.

'He's been spotted downtown in the commercial district. Going after him with a tactical team. Stay home until further notice. We will notify you immediately when he is in custody. - Steve Rogers'

You had to hold back an eye roll at his overly formal message style, your fingers awkwardly fumbling as you managed to type back a response using just two fingers that weren't bandaged.

'You don't have to put your name with every text message you send, you know. I have you saved as a contact in my phone, like everyone else does.'

A beat of silence followed, your thumb hovering over the keyboard before adding:

'Be careful.'

You didn't really mean those words of caution for him, though - your worries were entirely focused on Bucky. The Winter Soldier would stop at nothing to get away from any perceived threat or danger, and a group of heavily armed SHIELD agents pursuing him would definitely register as a serious threat in his fractured mind. You knew all too well that when cornered, his first and most deeply ingrained instinct is to kill, without hesitation or mercy.

Distracting yourself with the mounting frustration of attempting to bandage your own palms, you struggled for what felt like an eternity, trying different angles and approaches to wrap them securely enough. After about an hour of fumbling with the increasingly mangled gauze, your patience finally wore thin. You dropped the ruined medical supplies onto the bathroom counter with a defeated sigh, closing your eyes and taking several deep breaths to try to calm your rising frustration before you became too agitated to continue tending to your wounds.

The quiet but distinct sound of something shifting in the neighboring room made you freeze mid-breath, your senses suddenly heightened as your hearing narrowed in on the subtle noise. It sounded like something soft had been displaced - perhaps a throw pillow tumbling from your couch, landing with an almost imperceptible thud against the floor.

You did not own a pet. You lived alone in this apartment - well, right now you did, with Bucky on the loose.

Had the man that attempted to hurt you somehow manage to follow you here? The thought sent ice through your veins, remembering the helplessness you felt.

Your heart rate accelerated rapidly, pounding against your ribcage, but you couldn't hear the rush of blood in your ears as your senses remained hyper-focused and alert, straining to detect any additional sounds that might betray an intruder's presence in your home.

You did not have any weapons with you, scanning the bathroom frantically for anything that could serve as protection. Your eyes landed on the medicine cabinet where a simple disposable shaving razor sat innocently on the middle shelf. Not ideal, but in desperate times, a shaving razor would have to suffice if need be.

You remained completely still, ears straining in the silence as you listened intently for several minutes before gathering enough courage to peek out of the bathroom. The darkness of your apartment stretched before you like an endless void, and you silently berated yourself for not having the foresight to turn on the lights when you first heard the noise.

After you heard nothing more, you took another cautious peek, your head venturing just a little further past the bathroom door frame this time. The shadows revealed nothing unusual. Your bare feet made soft, pattering sounds as they carried you down the hallway, the plush material of the living room rug cushioning your step as you reached it.

Your attention was immediately drawn to one of the decorative throw pillows lying haphazardly on the floor, displaced from its usual position on the couch. You reached down to return it to its rightful place among the other cushions, sighing to yourself.

A thorough visual sweep revealed no obvious signs of forced entry. The windows remained securely locked, and nothing else appeared disturbed. You were probably just being paranoid from what happened earlier.

Somewhat relieved but still on edge, you turned to make your way back to the bathroom to resume tending to yourself when your blood ran cold. There, barely an arm's length away, stood a looming figure. Time seemed to freeze as he stared down at you, and the scream building in your throat was cut short when his arm shot out with lightning speed, fingers wrapping around your throat.

Terror coursed through your veins as your eyes instinctively squeezed shut, your mind convinced this was the robber from before, somehow finding you in your home like a hound tracking its prey.

His grip was calculated as he drew you closer - not crushing or aggressive, but firm enough so you had no chance of pulling away.

"Цветок [Flower]..." The voice that emerged was rough and coarse from disuse, scratching against his throat like sandpaper. You swallowed reflexively around his iron grip, your eyes gradually adjusting to the dim light until his features became clear enough to recognize.

"Bucky?" Your voice barely more than a frightened squeak, sounding small and fragile even to your own ears, every syllable quivering with poorly concealed terror as your wide eyes remained fixed on his face. "Wh...where have you been," You started to voice the countless questions that had plagued your thoughts for so long, but the words died in your throat.

This wasn't Bucky - at least, not the Bucky you knew. The evidence was written plainly across his features.

His eyes held an emptiness to them, like staring into the depths of a frozen lake - cold, bottomless, devoid of warmth or recognition. His brow was deeply furrowed in what might have appeared to be anger, but lacked the heat of genuine emotion behind it.

Instead, there was a disconcerting blend of confusion and vacancy in his expression, as though he was caught between two worlds - not fully present in either, yet not completely absent. The man before you existed in some twilight state between consciousness and programming, humanity and weapon.

"Soldat..." You strained, your voice barely above a whisper as you attempted to forge a connection with him. You had interacted with him like this before, spoken gentle words that seemed to pierce through his conditioning, successfully managed to calm his volatile state. Deep down, you knew that beneath layers of programming and conditioning, there remained a fragment of recognition. Even if the Winter Soldier was his own identity, you knew he saw you as someone significant…even if it were small.

His penetrating gaze slowly traveled downward, taking in every detail of your injured form. The thin fabric of your bra provided no concealment for the angry wound that carved its way across your sternum - that long, jagged cut that traced a cruel path downward before curving delicately beneath your right breast.

His eyes lingered on your nose, now painfully swollen and decorated with spreading bruises, dried blood still clinging to your skin. You could feel his attention shift to where your hands rested against his flesh arm, your palms raw and scraped up from the earlier struggle.

His eyes narrowed.

Without uttering a single word, he released your neck in favor of your arm and guided you down the dimly lit hallway toward the bathroom, where a thin sliver of light spilled through the partially opened door.

"Сидеть [Sit]," he commanded firmly, gesturing towards the toilet with a motion of his hand while his intense gaze bore into you. The warm lighting of the cramped bathroom cast stark shadows across his features as you carefully studied his appearance.

Your eyes traced over him - he appeared relatively intact, though somewhat disheveled. Despite your thorough examination, you couldn't detect any concerning injuries marring his form, no purple-black bruises blooming across exposed skin or telling tears in the fabric of his clothes. The only betrayal of his condition were the pronounced dark circles carved beneath his eyes, though their presence hardly surprised you given what you knew of his circumstances.

Without resistance, you followed his direction without protest, knowing that any sign of defiance could potentially trigger his volatile nature. Though he had come to view you as someone of significance, you remained acutely aware that he was far from domesticated - his actions still carried an air of unpredictability that kept you vigilant. His piercing gaze shifted to assess the scattered medical supplies you had left strewn about, his expression hardening slightly as he regarded you.

"Вы устроили беспорядок [You made a mess]," he remarked, his tone flat and uninflected as he gathered the discarded gauze in one fluid motion, depositing it into the waste bin beside the sink. Though the foreign words held no meaning to you, the disapproving edge in his voice suggested some form of criticism.

"I couldn't wrap my hands." Your words came out as a quiet explanation as you extended your palms for inspection. The skin was inflamed and angry, scattered with tiny abrasions where fragments of stone and the rough terrain had scraped against your flesh during your earlier ordeal. The soldier's attention dropped to examine your injuries, and without warning, he pulled you upright, maneuvering you against the counter's edge as his solid frame pressed firmly against your back.

The proximity made your throat feel tight, a shiver running down your spine at his closeness.

One warm hand, one cool hand, both encircled your wrists from behind, his grip firm but mindful. His thumbs pressed gently against the upper parts of your palms, just below where your fingers began, as he tilted your hands upward to examine the extent of the small wounds. His touch remained delicate as he rotated your wrists, ensuring he could thoroughly assess your palms from every angle. The damage was most severe at the heels of your palms, where the skin had been viciously torn away, leaving raw flesh exposed.

Despite the anxiety fluttering in your chest, you found yourself trusting him, even in this vulnerable state. He turned on the faucet, adjusting it until the water flowed in a gentle stream, and guided your injured palms beneath it. The cool water ran soothingly over your wounds for several long moments before he spoke. "Need disinfectant." He reached for that dreaded brown bottle, the white cap making a sharp click as he flipped it open. The harsh, medicinal smell immediately assaulted your nostrils, making your stomach turn.

"No, that stuff stinks and hurts-"

"Да [Yes]," his voice resonated deeply, the tone both authoritative and reassuring, "Keep still."

You instinctively tried to pull away at the last second, your body reacting to the anticipated pain, but your efforts were futile. The bubbling, burning sensation that erupted across your already raw and flayed palms was as excruciating as you expected, feeling like liquid fire dancing across your tender flesh. A sharp hiss of pain escaped through your clenched teeth as his metal hand maintained an unwavering grip on your wrists, while his right hand carefully but firmly continued pouring the peroxide over your wounds.

The thought crossed your mind that you desperately wished for any other kind of disinfectant - something gentler, less aggressive. There had been countless opportunities to purchase alternatives during your supply runs, yet somehow you had never gotten around to it.

Words of protest formed on your lips, but remained unspoken as he allowed the peroxide to bubble and foam on your palm. His eyes remained fixed on your injury, watching intently until the chemical reaction subsided before finally guiding your hands under the stream of cool water.

You sighed with relief, the pain running away with the water washing over the wound. Tears began to well up in your eyes, rapidly blinking in an attempt to disperse them before they could fall. The intensity of the peroxide's sting had caught you off guard, leaving you feeling frustrated at your own vulnerability.

It reminded you of being a kid again, having someone else tend to you was a memory long lost. Now it had been brought back in a wave of emotions, the smell, sensation, and situation all mixing together to stimulate all sorts of reactions from you.

The soldier's keen observation skills didn't miss your distress - they never did. His towering frame leaned closer, bringing with it a sense of protective presence. His thumb began drawing gentle, soothing circles against your inner wrist while he continued holding your hands beneath the running water. "Хорошая работа [Good job]," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple in a feather-light touch.

The foreign words were lost in translation, but somehow that didn't matter. The low, reassuring timbre of his voice was comfort enough, wrapping around you like a protective blanket against the lingering sting.

You let out a soft, shuddering breath when he repeated the process with the other wrist, the pain burning just as intensely as before. This time, an overwhelming wave of nostalgic longing washed over you, causing hot tears to stream steadily down your darkened cheeks, leaving glistening trails in their wake.

"Тише [Quiet]," he murmured under his breath to you, "Hush now..."

"It hurts," your voice trembled and cracked as you fought to maintain the stillness he required, but the surge of emotions proved too powerful to contain, breaking free despite your best efforts to hold them back.

"Скоро все закончится [It will all be over soon]," the soldier carefully held your wrist under the cool running water once the aggressive bubbling finally subsided, offering blessed relief to your burning skin.

Peroxide was the devil.

He guided you back to sit on the toilet lid, his fingers working with practiced precision as he applied a soothing layer of ointment to your tender palms before wrapping them in clean, sterile gauze. "Вам понадобится марля, которая не прилипает к ранам, и липкая лента, чтобы удерживать ее на месте [You'll need gauze that doesn't stick to wounds and tape to hold it in place]," he muttered under his breath, continuing his ministrations until both palms were thoroughly and professionally dressed.

The confused, gentle tilt of your head and furrowed brow made it clear you hadn't understood a single word of his Russian.

He arched a single dark brow slightly and gave a small, knowing shake of his head. "Nevermind. It is done."

He reached out to you, his experienced eyes carefully examining the laceration across your chest. He assessed the wound and identified its source without hesitation.

A blade - specifically a pocket knife.

Approximately 4 to 5 inches.

Serrated edges that showed signs of poor maintenance.

The cut began with a forceful, deep penetration that gradually lost power as it traced across the flesh, creating an uneven gash that grew increasingly superficial toward its terminus. The irregular pattern suggested an amateur attacker, likely in a rushed confrontation.

The soldier released a disapproving grunt as he began treatment, cleaning the wound with gentle dabs of a sterile cloth. You were grateful for this relatively gentle approach, preferring not to feel the searing sting of peroxide you'd endured earlier. His expression remained intensely focused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he cleared away the blood and thoroughly disinfected the area before applying a protective dressing over the awkwardly positioned wound.

"There. Законченный [Finished]." He withdrew his hands and efficiently disposed of the used bandaging materials in the nearby waste bin. Your nose had sustained damage as well, he'd done what he could to clean it, despite the limited treatment options for that particular injury.

"Thank you," you whispered quietly, your voice barely audible as you watched him examine the bandage with intense concentration. His eyes remained fixed on his careful wrapping job, studying every fold and layer with methodical precision, as if to ensure it would stay.

When his gaze finally lifted to meet yours, the room fell into a heavy silence. He remained completely motionless for several long moments, his expression unreadable as he seemed to contemplate something. Then, he leaned forward in one fluid motion, his strong hands grasping your upper arms as he helped you to stand.

For a moment, you remained silent, gazing up into those pretty blue eyes of his, now devoid of the characteristic warmth and tenderness that Bucky typically reserved for you. They were cold, distant, unnervingly empty compared to what you had grown accustomed to, shadowed by the calculating precision of the soldier's mentality that had overtaken him.

He returned your stare with unwavering intensity, his lips pressed into a firm line, offering no words. Your mind raced with things you wanted to express, but the right words seemed elusive, slipping away before you could grasp them properly. The only thing you could consistently think of was the dreaded thought that he would disappear again.

"Don't go," you whispered to him, "Please...I can't...I can't lose you again." The fragile plea escaped your lips and caused your voice to waver, betraying the emotions that surged through you at the sight of him standing before you, inside your apartment after weeks of his disappearance.

Bucky, Winter, Soldat, whatever identity currently inhabited the familiar body of the man you knew—continued to observe you right back with an unreadable expression, not a single flicker of recognition or emotion disrupting the stoic mask he wore. His powerful hands maintained their unyielding grasp on your upper arms, fingers pressing into your flesh with surprising restraint.

When you attempted to shift position to get closer, his only response was to tighten his grip further, a barely perceptible furrow appearing between his brows.

Undeterred, you squirmed again, desperately seeking to establish a connection with the man you knew existed somewhere behind those vacant eyes. The bandages wrapped around your hands created an unwelcome barrier between you, limiting the skin on skin contact you craved.

You managed to reach his face within his grip, gently cradling his stubbled cheeks between your bandaged palms—trying to feel the warmth and texture of his skin through the layers of gauze as best you could, searching for any spark of the man you recognized. "Soldat..." you murmured in a hushed, intimate tone, your voice still carrying the slight quiver of emotional exhaustion and lingering fear.

You knew he liked to be addressed when he was there. Bucky’s name was always met with confusion or anger.

He heard his name on your lips and immediately shifted his grip, large hands moving to firmly encircle your waist. His fingers pressed into the soft flesh of your hips, the sudden change in contact drawing an involuntary gasp from your lips. He lifted you completely off the floor as though you weighed nothing more than a feather, and carried you across the room before dropping you onto the bed.

You fell with a soft grunt, the impact momentarily knocking the breath from your lungs. The soldier moved with predatory grace, climbing over your prone form the second you landed on the mattress. His metal hand reached out, cool fingers gripping your face gently despite their unyielding nature. His eyes assessed, observed you closely, seeming to catalog every minute reaction that flickered across your features.

"H-Hey, Soldat -" Your voice emerged as barely more than a whisper, much softer and more vulnerable than you had intended. The word hung in the air between you, unfinished and trembling. His flesh hand moved down your body, fingers trailing with purpose until they hooked firmly into the waistband of your pants. He yanked the loungewear down to your ankles in one swift motion, your mind began to race wildly with thoughts tumbling over one another.

What the hell was he doing? This unexpected intimacy felt foreign and unsettling. You had never been intimate with the soldier before—this cold, mechanical version of the man you knew—and it felt fundamentally wrong, like a violation of boundaries you hadn't even realized existed between you.

You knew what happened to him, to an extent, pieced together from fragments of trauma that Bucky had felt comfortable enough to share during his more lucid moments. The torture, the conditioning, the systematic dismantling of his humanity—all of it had left scars far deeper than the ones visible on his flesh. You had never shown any desire towards the soldier for precisely that reason, maintaining a careful emotional distance when he slipped into this alternate persona.

Yet here he was, effectively caging you against your own bed and undressing you as though following some internal protocol. Maybe he was confused about who you were or what situation he found himself in. Maybe he didn't really understand what he was doing at all, operating on some fragment of fractured memory. Maybe this was merely a conditioned response programmed into him after he was forced to tend to a handler's wounds or needs during a mission—a thought that made your stomach twist with a complex mixture of pity and dread.

"Замолчи [Shut up]," He threatened in a low, guttural tone that brooked no argument, the Russian syllables flowing with practiced ease from his lips. The command came right as he peeled your bottom half out of its remaining, lacy fabric, the delicate material offering no resistance against his determined hand.

He leaned down, pressing his face into your neck and smelling you, a deep, deliberate inhale as he closed his eyes and memorized every little bit of your unique scent—the subtle sweetness, the natural warmth, the faint traces of perfume that had faded throughout the day. It grounded him enough not to just fuck you right there, even if his cock was straining desperately within the confines of his jeans, the hardness urging for release against the denim.

His scruff tickled against your sensitive skin, the coarse hairs creating a delicious friction that bade you nearly arch your back in response. His blushed lips pressed firmly against your pulse point as he allowed them to feel how fast your heart was beating beneath the delicate surface, the rhythm increasing with each passing second under his touch.

"Ты нервничаешь [Are you nervous]?" He asked in a hushed tone, his voice barely above a whisper, his warm breath caressing your skin deliciously, though you still didn't understand the foreign words that fell from his lips. He seemed to chuckle at that, a low rumble in his chest that you could feel vibrating against you, knowing full well you didn't know what he was saying. "Silly flower," he rasped as he pulled away just enough to run his lips further down your jugular, tracing an invisible path with his mouth until finding that sweet, vulnerable junction between your neck and shoulder where he lingered.

Your lips parted to speak, but the words died in your throat as his mouth descended upon that sensitive spot and bit down. Your eyes flew wide open, pupils dilating in shock and something else entirely, as you felt his teeth take possession of your tender flesh. His tongue was hot and demanding, swirled languorously around the captured skin, creating maddening patterns while he suckled hard, his strong hands pinning you firmly against the mattress, leaving you at his mercy.

A loud, unrestrained moan escaped from deep within your chest, reverberating through your body as he claimed you with his mark. His teeth pressed deeper, nearly breaking the surface of your neck, before he finally released his hold with a wet, sloppy pop that echoed in the dim room. His possession bloomed across your skin - a mark so dark, so angry, so blatantly territorial that it stood as obvious as sin itself in his hungry gaze.

The freshly marked skin throbbed with your racing pulse, sending waves of sensation throughout your body as it was finally released from his mouth. A pleasant haziness settled over your mind, leaving you momentarily disoriented when he pulled away. Yet his appetite remained far from sated with just a single mark. The soldier’s right hand slid beneath your head, fingers carefully threading through the roots of your hair before tightening their grip and pulling back sharply, exposing the vulnerable column of your neck fully to his attention.

"Don't wilt on me now," he chuckled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble as he nipped his way along the exposed column of your throat. His lips curved into a self-satisfied smirk against your sensitive flesh as he felt your neck move beneath his mouth, bobbing visibly with a thick, nervous swallow that betrayed your anticipation for whatever he was going to do to you next.

He bit down, again and again, making a garden of blossoms emerge across your neck and collarbone, each and every mark darkening to a deep purple as he released the abused skin from his teeth. The sensation was an addicting balance between pleasure and pain, sending waves of it down your spine with every press of his mouth against your sensitive flesh.

"Красивый [Beautiful]," he whispered against your skin, his hot breath fanning across the fresh marks, his tone still as gruff as it was, lower pitched with growing lust that seemed to emanate from his very core.

He leaned back from your panting form, pupils dilated with desire as he was drinking in the sight of you disheveled and helpless underneath him. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, hair mussed and lips swollen from his earlier attentions. The strain in his jeans became too much for him to bear, the fabric stretched taut over his obvious arousal.

The need grew too great and pulled you up suddenly with strong hands gripping your shoulders, pushing you down to your knees in front of him as he grunted down at you with barely contained need. His hands fumbled, fingers trembling slightly in his haste as he was hastily bringing the zipper down and pushing his jeans and underwear far enough for himself to spring free from the confining fabric.

"Open," he commanded, his fingers roughly entangling in your hair as he forcefully pulled you closer to his throbbing member. The swollen head was uncomfortably flushed and engorged, beaded with translucent pearls of anticipation, gradually becoming too heavy to remain perfectly balanced against the tiny slit. The little droplets slowly descended, trickling down the underside of his tip, leaving a shiny, slick trail in their wake. They languidly formed long, delicate strings as gravity beckoned them downward.

You watched as it pulsed once more with urgency, the veins standing prominent against taut skin, silently but forcefully demanding you to do something to satisfy the need.

The soldier snapped a harsh demand at you in a guttural tone, the foreign syllables sharp and commanding in the tense silence between you. Though you didn't quite understand the specific word he uttered, the meaning behind it was crystal clear from his posture, his expression, and the commanding grip still firmly tangled in your hair. It didn't take a genius to know what he wanted.

You shyly opened your mouth and he pulled you closer, fingers tangling back up in your hair as he pushed his thick cock into your mouth without much patience. You instinctively tried to pull back a little, just for some relief, but he held you firm with an unwavering grip that left no room for retreat.

"Нет, оставайся там, где стоишь [No, stay where you are]," He grunted with commanding authority, his voice low and unyielding as he savored the sensation, feeling the pleasant warmth of your tongue against him and the soft tissue of your cheeks enveloping him completely.

His hips snapped quick and brutal against you, establishing an intense and unrelenting rhythm without any sort of gradual build up as he held your head firmly in place. His strong hands were tangled in your hair, gripping you with unwavering control as his pelvis repeatedly collided against your face. The coarse hair at his base created a constant friction against your sensitive skin with each thrust he gave and you could feel the subtle burning sensation beginning to build where he held you down against him.

"Да...да [Yes...yes]," he growled out deeply, his voice rough as he looked down at you struggling to stifle gags around him. Your small sounds echoed in the quiet room as you fought to maintain composure. Your saliva was pooling steadily, bubbling and glistening at the corners of your stretched mouth before trailing down in thin rivulets along your chin as he continued to piston himself.

His touch was significantly more aggressive than what you expected from him, catching you off guard. Bucky had shown a distinct hesitancy when it came to physical intimacy when you had shared intimate moments together in the past, his approach had been consistently tender and thoughtful, always prioritizing your comfort and pleasure above all else.

However, his usual demeanor was gone, you knew that. The gentle lover you knew, replaced by someone whose actions were marked by an almost primal urgency, his movements firm and relentless in their execution.

You choked as he pushed past what you could handle, his soft cockhead brushing against the flesh of your throat and pushing deep into you. Your eyes widened a little, feeling him bulging out your neck as he pushed his entire length inside you. But thankfully, before you panicked or choked too badly, he pulled you off him and gave you a few seconds to breathe again. You gasped, spitting excess precum out of your mouth as your chest heaved with breaths. You felt like your face was a mess, thick saliva coating your chin and lips, the somewhat salty taste of him in the back of your throat.

He pulled you back gradually, allowing you to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation each time. It was subtle, but it proved that part of Bucky had to be in him somewhere. Though initially it had been overwhelming, you found yourself becoming more accustomed to deepthroating him, but the natural reflex to gag remained persistent.

You couldn't help but notice how his deep, primal grunts of pleasure sent waves of desire coursing through your body, making your core pulse and belly grow hot. A small voice in your mind whispered that doing this with the soldier was wrong, but the pull between you was simply too powerful to resist, and you surrendered to him.

And it was worth it when his head fell back, pretty lips opening as his hips snapped once more and he let out a loud, pleasured groan.

His balls twitched and his cock pulsed against your tongue, filling your mouth with multiple ropes of hot cum. You had forgotten the sheer volume he produced each time, the way it filled your mouth almost faster than you could handle. You almost swallowed before he was done, your cheeks pooling with his seed. As he slowly withdrew from your throat, you could feel the warmth pooling heavily against your tongue. His eyes were dark from his pupils being fully dilated, watching you swallow every last drop he had given you.

The soldier watched you recover slowly, his intense gaze never leaving you as your breathing gradually steadied. After his own measured breaths had evened out, he deliberately knelt down before you and reached forward, cupping your blushed cheeks between his calloused hand and metal one.

You caught your breath, looking up at the mostly silent man, studying the diluted emotions that flickered across his guarded features. A deep-seated fear reminded you of the situation - the possibility that he might vanish again, that the real Bucky remained trapped somewhere beneath the cold front of the trained assassin who had been programmed to feel nothing.

But as the thought crossed your mind, he helped you up from your position on the floor and guided you to the bed.

The soldier pulled his pants back on after laying you on the bed, causing your apprehension to grow stronger about him disappearing again. But instead of leaving, he made his way to your bed and settled himself beside you. A deep, resonant grunt escaped him as he drew your form closer to his solid frame, securing you under his metal arm. The titanium was cold against your skin but gradually, the chill of the metal became less noticeable, almost familiar in its constant presence.

You laid with the soldier, your head nestled comfortably against his broad, muscular chest and felt completely safe and secure. The gentle rise and fall of his breathing, along with the aftermath of his brutal face fucking, had nearly lulled you to sleep when you felt the sudden vibration of your phone on the wooden bedside table. With a sigh, your arm stretched out, fingers wrapping around the device as you brought it closer to examine the notification that had interrupted your repose.

The screen illuminated to reveal a message from Steve, and you opened it with heavy-lidded eyes.

'We haven't found him yet, have you heard from him at all? Anything? -Steve Rogers'

'Again with the sign off Steve...' You thought to yourself.

Your fingers had barely hovering over the keyboard when the soldier's swift movement caught you by surprise. He plucked the phone from your grasp and deposited it on the far side of him, well out of your reach. "Нет [No]," he declared firmly but gently, his metal arm returning to its previous position as he drew you back against his chest, tightening his protective hold.

"Ignore it," he murmured softly against your hair, his voice carrying a hint of possessiveness beneath its gentle command. You couldn’t keep the small smile from tugging at your lips as you gave into him and buried yourself into his chest.

“Okay…”

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Image from Pinterest & cropped

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just-a-space-duck · 3 months ago

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So About That Armor…

I regret to inform myself that I like it.

If you haven't seen it:

I'll give you time to take it in. This is a static, (hopefully) eternal text post, so take your time.

Ok so before I go further, you are allowed to have any and all opinions about the armor. Do not listen to me; I am a stranger on the internet who attaches himself to fictional murder cyborgs and treats them like kitty cats.

So first of all, it's weird. And I like it for that. Even if I found it to be the most infuriating piece of costume design ever, I still wouldn't be able to help but respect it for how strange it is.

When it comes to fanworks, adaptations, new installments in a franchise, or even just different takes on the same trope, I love it when creators take things in an unconventional or even seemingly unrelated direction that upon closer inspection still relates to the base or original concept. To get what I mean, think goth interpretations of Rarity or Cosmopoliturtle's Pokémon redesigns. The TV series armor sits alongside these for me, because this was the thought process of the designer, Tommy Arnold:

First of all, it is so funny that The Company would just brand their armor and by extension their secunits, their combat/security products, like Louis Vuitton bags. Also, the logo of The Company strikes a nice balance between being simple enough to be easily reproducible and recognizable, but complex enough to read as a logo and not just a simple shape or pattern. Plus, The Company logo being mostly just concentric Cs, clever there.

But there's also some worldbuilding and character expression in this design.

The Corporation Rim is just capitalism but more. A company slathering everything and everyone they create and own in mountains of logos, even when it's potentially impractical, showcases just how extensive corporatism is in this setting. Additionally, this design could be something of a status marker. Secunits are high end additions and/or alternatives to other security measures. Much like how logos on purses, tennis shoes, and cars serve to tell observers, "I have the fancy, expensive version of [insert category of thing here] ergo I am a very wealthy/powerful/cool person", a secunit covered in corporate logos communicates the high status and access of the client(s).

Now what was one of the first things we learned about Murderbot in the books? It disabled its governor module, the thing preventing it from defying orders and having any level of freedom, but instead of doing what it could to leave The Company, Murderbot just stayed with it and kept doing its intended function. For over four years. What else do we learn in the first book? That it feels most comfortable in the armor because this prevents humans from seeing its face, from treating it more like a person or human rather than a tool or bot. This makes the armor being composed of the logo of the group that both created and hurt Murderbot very symbolic.

Murderbot has internalized the message that it is a dangerous weapon and not a person deserving of care to the point that, at least at the beginning of the series, it shies away from anything that insists that it deserves the same kindness that humans do. It's only ever been taught what the company built it to do, so it doesn't know what to do next once it's obtained some semblance of freedom for itself by disabling its mental shock collar and so keeps doing what it's always done, even though it very much would rather not be in such a situation. Even by the most recent book, System Collapse, Murderbot is still wrestling with the idea that it matters beyond how it can assist others. Murderbot finding comfort hiding behind the very thing that will not let you forget the company that enslaves it, is just juicy theming.

Also, the helmet looking so weird works well with how many humans don't know what secunits look like, with some not even thinking they have human-like faces. If you had no context for this image, you might very well assume this is a fully robot character or even a statue.

I have my own gripes and worries and hopes concerning the upcoming show, but I just couldn’t get this fun bit of character design analysis out of my head. Shouldn’t have watched so much TB Skyen.

#Tmbd #the murderbot diaries #Murderbot tv show #Murderbot #Murderbot diaries #my rambles #Beautiful beasties #mbtv

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kenyummy · 7 days ago

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✰ 06. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 06. take a bite.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: hi lovelies!!! unmmmmm its been a very hot minute. sorry!!!! my job and uni prep have taken me hostage not to mention math exams woooowweee. im gonna try and be more active now and post a bit more, so hopefully look forward to that!!! also ill answer any asks asap 💞💞 ily all ok muah

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

You think you mayyy have gotten ahead of yourself. A very slim maybe.

Sure, all these things probably needed to be said at some point, but jeez, you'd never met the guy before. You could've given it at least a day or two. Now, you're stuck in this situation. Cringing at yourself in the mirror, holding back from slamming your head against the mirror to rid yourself of these crippling memories.

Your eyebags—they speak for themselves—and your expression is anything but pleasant.

Last night was awkward. Awkward can't even begin to describe it, actually. It was excruciatingly awful, looking back on it. You have no idea what he is or was thinking, ir even how he acted outside of those diary entries. Maybe these assumptions were wrong. Maybe you were biting off more than you could chew.

(But it was hard to think this way when his expression; his words, they seemed to resonate with it so deeply).

Regardless, you can't dwell on this forever. You have a mission to do. Mission being; not failing school and incurring the wrath of your father. And getting back home. But that was a given.

You barely feel like yourself. You don't even look like you. This house isn't yours, nor are these clothes. The scent you spray onto your body isn't familiar, and even the shampoo on your nightstand is tacky and strange feeling.

All this time, you had never felt this lost. You may not be alone, but in this giant mansion, away from all your friends—you may as well be.

Your siblings were strange and unlikeable to you. You had barely even seen your father since you'd gotten here. Alfred was the only person you seemed to be able to even have a semblance of a normal conversation with. The knowledge is daunting, but not painful. You don't care.

It's all temporary, anyway.

... You hope. But knowing Reed, you'll be back before you can say, Hello, New York.

In a math class you've already done a year ago, you find yourself beginning to doze off with these thoughts plaguing the forefront of your mind. Cheek squished upwards in your hands, you aren't worried.

Your spidey sense is really handy; your head will tingle with that familiar static when the teacher's suspicions grow to large and you've already done your work, anyway.

But Harry doesn't seem to be doing so hot, you note when your eyes snap open and your pen finds a home in the dips of your fingers. As the teacher walks past your seat, you glance back at Harry's spot. Away from you, and on purpose, for sure. (At least, knowing you and your Harry—the amount of mischief whispered behind your hands was impalpable and certainly not appreciated by your teacher.)

He looks distressed by the worksheet in front of him, and small bits of laughter rumble from your chest. You feel gleeful, the best you'd felt from this crummy morning.

Those blue eyes meet yours and are practically screaming for help, to which you have to hide your smile behind a hand. The girl beside you shoots you a confused look, but nevertheless focuses on the math in front of her.

He mouths, Help me. It's a bit difficult the sound the rest out, but you think it's a mix of, This is impossible and I can't do this anymore.

Without much else of a clue on what you could possibly do to help him with that dictator of a math teacher around, you shrug your shoulders.

I'll help you out at lunch, you wordlessly mouth to him back, making a small heart with your index finger and thumb to go along with a sly wink. A teasing gesture, something you'd find yourself doing with your own best friend back home. Nothing more, nothing less.

His cheeks flush with a bright red before he chuckles to himself, lowering his head as if you couldn't still see that he was grinning stupidly to himself. Hand resting at the back of his slim neck and pen limp in his hand, not even pretending like he was actually doing something.

The reality dawns on you again and you turn away.

Once again, your stomach sinks. Not at him. Not at the prospect he thought you were flirting. Just at how, even for a second, you were unable to forget that this was not your home.

Once again, you feel lost in your own skin and nothing about you seems to sit just right.

... Even through your years of crime fighting, even through the hate and backlash from the public, even when a Skrull had stolen your face and you had looked yourself dead in the eye—not once have you felt as estranged as you have now.

"I hate teen drama." MJ moans dramatically, draping her arms on your shoulders and slumping, putting all her body weight onto you and you find yourself having to cling to her shoulders to keep her upright. If you didn't have that enhanced strength, you think you'd fall right down with her.

Harry slams his locker door shut and shoots her an amused look, "What happened now? That guy you were talking to ended up having a girlfriend after all?"

"Even worse." She tilts her head up to look at him from where it still lay against your shoulder, cheek smushing against the fabric of your shirt, "His ex is cuckoo. Like seriously,"

She spin her index finger around her head and then knocks against it with a closed fist. "There's something up with her. She hasn't stopped glaring at me since third period. I think she actually wants to kill me."

"That makes two of us," you speak, pushing her up so that it doesn't look like she's trying to fuse into you Steven Universe style.

She crosses her arms and frowns, red brows narrowing down at you, "I'm serious! What are you gonna do if I die? You can't take the comedic relief out of an already-established trio."

"You think you're the comedic relief?" Harry asks, genuinely surprised. MJ doesn't seem to take this too kindly—understandably.

You'd say you're pretty funny. Or your version of yourself, that is... this you. You aren't sure about the other you. Seemed pretty glum, but you digress. You'd be mad at the world if you were born here too, as harsh as that sounds.

Students pour out around you and you hear the bell chime around you. The day is over, as fast as it began. Too bad. You almost found yourself enjoying school.

Because at least that meant you didn't have to go back home, a place where you felt the least like yourself than anywhere.

"[name]?"

A hand waving itself in front of your face makes you blink back to reality, staring up at its owner. Harry looks concerned, an expression you think you've been seeing a lot of on his face and it's ridiculously defined cheekbones lately. "Are you okay? You spaced out again."

Again? Has this been happening lately? You hadn't even realised. Even your base instincts, your enhanced senses, hadn't even snapped you out of it.

"I'm okay. Sorry. Just uh..." You press your lips tightly together, gaze lowering. "Having some trouble at home."

You say, and you really don't want to elaborate.

"Is it with your brothers again?" MJ speaks softly, quietly, even though there's barely anybody left in the hallways after school hours. Your eyes widen a tad. You're sure you'd never told them anything, and you guessed this original you wasn't too keen on sharing their personal life either, so...

"How...?"

"They're not exactly subtle in sending you to the poor school then never bothering to pick you up in one of their fancy cars." MJ rolls her eyes. "You literally take the public bus home. Bruce Wayne's kid. It doesn't really take a genius to figure it out."

You chew down on your lip. They're right. It's not as subtle as you thought. A strong pair of arms wrap around you and your face heats up when your chin digs into Harry's woollen sweater.

"[name], we don't care. Their loss. You don't need them, you have us. Always, no matter what."

... Does he think you're upset about this? Embarrassed? Really, you aren't. But the gesture is sweet and you really do love your friends, so you don't hesitate to hug him right back.

"Thanks," you murmur, eyes not meeting his as MJ places a soft hand on your shoulder. Maybe you should be sad? It's a bit unnatural to appear so stoic when you talk about something like this, no? "But it's fine. It doesn't bother me anymore. You're right. I have you guys, and you two are more than enough."

"Since when did you get so good with words?" MJ slyly eyes you up and down, thoroughly amused. "You know, the old you would've just told us it's nothing and everything's okay. What happened?"

A smile forms across your lips. This time—a real one. "I guess I just had an epiphany. Not even my ego's more important to me than you guys."

My family.

You walk out through the gates laughing. A few other students still surround the building and even fewer walk out behind you and your friends—probably those bothered enough to take up after school tutoring programs and clubs and anything of the sort.

The ones that linger at the gate are frantically texting on their phones—probably spamming their parents to hurry and pick them up, because it was starting to get cold again. The clouds fog up the clear sky and blocks the sunlight from hitting the ground, so the world around you is dim as well. Not a good look for Gotham.

"We're so gonna get jumped." MJ blurts out, gripping the straps of her bag tightly. "Me and [name], I mean. You're totally safe, Harry. You and that driver of yours. Tell him I said hi, by the way."

"You're throwing shade now? I told you both you're welcome to drive with us if you want to."

You shake your head, no matter how much MJ's eyes brighten. "You live all the way on the other side of Gotham. We don't want to bother you. We all know how your dad gets when you slack on your homework."

Harry hums, "Yeah, but he likes you both, so it cancels out."

"Norman likes me?" MJ looks positively flabbergasted at this news, as if she hadn't even considered it before. "He always gives me the strangest smiles. I thought he secretly wanted me out of your life."

"Trust me, if he wanted you out, he wouldn't keep it a secret." Harry sighs, exasperated. "Actually, he respects you a bunch. He's seen you on TV a few times with your reporting work experience. Dad thinks you're the kind of reporter this city actually needs."

MJ places a hand over her heart, as if it were suddenly warmed by this strange act of kindness showed by The Normal Osborn.

A loud rev grabs all of your attention before you can even think of what to ask next. Whether Norman liked you, or even superheroes in general. Whether the Green Goblin was even a thing. So many questions, and such little time.

You turn to where the obnoxious bike noise came from, and your blood runs cold. All warning signals in your head go off and you can't help but instinctively ball up your fists.

Your (?) brother. Jason. He sits atop a stationary motorcycle, a strange smile atop his lips and a black helmet snug under his bicep. He's wearing a black biker outfit you'd never once ever imagine would exist in real life and MJ is literally gawking.

His eyes seem to have caught yours before you'd even noticed he were there. Now, when you're staring at him in such dumb looking shock—he gestures toward you, "C'mon. I'm takin' you home today."

"Wh... what...?" You splutter, fingers digging into the toughness of your palm. "Why? Nobody said anything about..."

Jason swings his leg over the seat of the motorcycle and adjusts his rear view mirror absent-mindedly, "Spur of the moment. I wanted to spend more time with you."

Harry and MJ, from beside you, coo quietly at you, teasingly. Despite your love for your friends, you really wished they could see the dread slowly seeping into your skin.

You feel like you're on your last leg when you conjure up the lamest excuse you could possibly come up with. "... I don't have a helmet. It's not safe."

"You're with me. You think I'll let anything happen while I'm here?" His words are sweet, like those of a regular elder brother. Normal sounding, to your friends who give you a small nudge to your side.

But you know better. You've seen him covered in sticky crimson blood and you've seen the shiny metal of the mask that covers his face.

You know that his words aren't as sweet as they are a promise. A promise you're entirely sure he is willing to uphold and keep at any means.

... But what can you say? Nothing that won't give away his identity, or even your entire family's. You're left in a corner, with nowhere to go but forward. Right into the lion's den.

Taking his hand feels more like a sort of demonic deal with the devil than it probably should've. Still, his gloved fingers wrap around your own, carefully and practised, with all the warmth of a human and all the delicacy of an older brother.

He slips his helmet on as you settle behind him on the seat, tentatively holding him so you don't go flying back. "Hold on tight. You're not gonna fall, trust me."

You know you won't, and even if you do, you'll be fine. Still, when he revvs up the engine and drives off into the cool Gotham air, you feel a strange hardness of your limbs start to build.

The wind bites at your cheeks as he revvs his bike up. Your arms are wrapped snugly around his waist, leather feeling rough under your fingertips. Despite the physical need to hang onto him so you don't go tumbling off the seat, you find yourself wanting to put as much physical distance between you and Jason as possible.

Your head is awkwardly bent back so it isn't squished against his back, and you have a feeling he's a bit miffed about this fact. That you're still so unwilling to be beside him. But that's just your guess. You'll never know what he's thinking with that helmet blocking out each expression and his head facing straight to the road.

Even with this concentration, he still decides to speak. "Didn't know you were still friends with that guy. Harvey?"

"Harry," you correct him, though you aren't sure why.

"Yeah. Harry. That rich kid who gave up the exhilarating life of Gotham Prep to go to school with you." Jason's tone is light, and he doesn't seem to be too serious with his words. He's trying to make conversation, and it's strange, because you can tell he isn't really sure on how to do it. "I always thought he was good for you. He hasn't got a stick up his ass like the rest of those snobs at Bruce's galas."

"At least you approve of him," you say quietly. Barely even hearing yourself over the sound of the wind hitting your ears.

"That's more than you can say for a lot of those other brats you used to hang out with, you know." He almost sounds amused, despite how dead your tone was. "Hated all of them. These two ain't bad."

You wonder what those so-called brats were like. Other rich children all couped up together for the sole fact they're all born from wealth? Jason not liking them didn't really discern much about them to you, because you got the impression Jason didn't like many people.

You had the impression Jason didn't like you. But looking at your situation now, you couldn't be furthur from the truth, it seemed.

Silence fills the space between you both for a bit. Driving down the busy highways into darkening skies, as the clouds start to grey and the sun waves its last goodbye. When there no longer lay any witness but the moon itself, watching over the crime-riddled streets of Gotham, where you, somehow, were taken away from without a second thought.

Red fills the sky. Red, like Jason's helmet—not currently being worn, but an image you could never really remove from your head when you'd look at him.

Red, like your suit. Red, like the blood flowing through your veins. It colours the ground above you and will eventually turn into an array of violet hues. That's how it all concludes, in the end.

Jason takes a turn off the busy street and it goes quiet. He slows down a bit to match the speed limit—which feels strangely out of character for him, but you digress. He takes this opportunity to finally have his voice be heard above the onomatopoeia of cars and angry honks of the drivers within them.

"... This is nice. Never picked you up from school like this, huh?" Despite not being able to see him from where you sit behind his back—you can practically feel his smile. "We should do this more. How do you even get home usually, anyway? Alfred never goes around these parts."

... You debate on telling him or not, but assume it doesn't matter whether you do or not in the end. If he wants he know, he'll just find out. No use in delaying the inevitable. "I take the public bus."

If he could stop in the middle of driving, he would. Even if he was driving, without a car behind him, you're sure he'd brake abruptly and send you flying off the bike. His hand twitches around the handle and panic is sent flaring through your nerves like electricity. "What? You actually go on that shit?"

You know he probably didn't mean for it to sound the way it did, but you're annoyed nonetheless. "Well, not like I had much of a choice. Would you rather me walk the way?"

His lack of a response tells you all you need to know. You aren't keen on continuing this conversation, so for now, it's just silence.

Slipping off the motorcycle, you shake the wind out of your hair and brush down your clothes. Jason barely even looks at you as he places his helmet on the table beside the front door and slips the keys into his jacket pocket.

"Thanks for driving me." Despite your... complicated feelings towards him and the rest of your family, you are a polite person. Your aunt had always raised you right like this. "But you don't have to worry about doing something like this again... I'm fine taking the bus."

You say, with all the subtlety of a man dying of thirst. Practically yelling for him to just leave you the fuck alone. At least putting it in a mildly kind way.

He hums, expression unreadable to you. Then, he smiles. A stark change in his features from when you'd first gotten a glimpse of that contempt face. When you'd first saw him. "Don't be so humble, okay? I'll take you home every day from now on. Even if there's crime, I'll finish it up quick and we can ride home together. Just you, and me. With your big brother. That's fine, right?"

... You didn't realise when he had started moving closer to you while speaking, but now he was standing right in front of you, a hand on your shoulder and a dangerous glint in his eye (that, yoy aren't sure even registers to him at all).

Your brain buzzes with static sirens. Warning. Yelling for you to run away, move, fight him, do anything except stand there frozen like a deer in headlights. Fingers twitching with the urge to punch, claw get away—but you don't.

You grip the sides of your shirt, knuckles feeling weak under the pressure. No longer can you force the words you want to say out of your mouth. "... You don't have to bother. I'm serious."

He smiles. "Alright. I have some errands to run. Wasn't supposed to be here today, anyway." Changing his biker helm out for his signature red one, he pats your shoulder a few times before walking past you. "Goodnight, [name]. Don't stay up too late, yeah? Study for that test you got."

You can't even begin to question how he knows you have a test coming up when you're sure you'd never told him, when the thought pops up in your head that no, he absolutely did not listen to you. And yes, he absolutely will continue to keep waiting outside your school for you to drive you home with uncomfortable conversation.

You almost fall over in the hall's entrance when Jason shuts the front door behind him. You shove your face into your hands, squeezing your eyes shut and willing the memories of that drive into the back of your mind, where you wouldn't have to think about it.

But... he is right. You do have that test, and that simple fact is the reason why you pick yourself up, just as Spidey does, and decide to go to your room. Down the first living room, into the kitchen and dining room, and past—

"W—whoa!"

You're going to cry. You genuinely might start bawling. After that godawful moment, you've now crashed straight into a fucking brick wall. A moving one, at that. ... But it can't be just brick, because you think your nose is starting to bleed from the impact (if the warmth dripping down your chin is anything to go by), and you've slammed head first into concrete before with no reaction.

Just what the hell is—

"Shit!" A guy's voice curses. Unfamiliar, different from anything you'd heard here in this house before. When you crack open your eyelids, you see... Shaggy black hair, a very strange style of clothes, and the brightest blue of eyes you'd ever seen. "Shit, I'm so sorry! I should've looked where I was going—"

"Kon? What—"

Tim's face pops up from behind him just as you stand up on your own two feet, and the look on his face is something you can't even begin to describe. As soon as he gets an eyeful of you, and sees the trail of red seeping slowly from your nose down to your chin—where it drops down to the floorboards below—his entire demeanour shifts.

Subtly, but not subtle enough. At least, not to you. You don't think this Kon notices it.

"What happened here? What did you do to my sibling?"

Kon raises his hands in defence, eyes widening, "I'm so sorry, I didn't look where I was going, and—"

"Are you serious?!" Tim's brows furrow deeply and he almost growls like a damn dog as he sneers, "You hurt my sister, and all you can say is that you didn't look where you were going? Don't be stupid, Kon!"

"Look, I'm really sorry—it was an accident. Why are you getting so worked up—"

"You made her nose fucking bleed, dumbass! You know she's not like the rest of us! I told you to be careful around her, and look what you've done!"

Before Tim can tweak out even worse, you speak up, in the most monotone voice you can manage. "I'm okay. Don't worry. I'll just go clean it up."

The two boys look to you in shock, seeing a tissue already shoved up your nose and your face clean of any bloodstains. Void of anything except the drip of red on your shirt.

"But... But—" Tim's tone wavers a little as he steps closer, "What if it's broken? I'll help you—"

You hold your hand out, stopping him in his tracks as it collides with his chest. Shaking your head, you clench your jaw to try and alleviate the throbbing pain. "It's not broken. It's just injured. I'm okay."

The boy with piercings—Kon—he presses his fingers into his palm from his face behind Tim, looking rather guilty. "Sorry, um... Kon. I didn't look where I was going, either. That's my bad."

That name sounds strange to say in your mouth, and Kon himself seems surprised to hear you say it. "No, no, it was my bad. I'm so sorry, [name]."

His expression and words were genuine, enough so that your head starts to clear from its panic and you feel a sense of calmness finally wash over you.

But, your fingers still twitch when Tim gives you a forlorn look of almost longing.

You don't say another word, rushing past them snd going to your room—where you could bury your face into your pillow and pretend like none of this existed. Where you could climb out the window, suit clinging to your frame, and become the you that you'd always loved most.

The one who was free, swinging through the skies and cutting the wind like it meant nothing to you. The you that only ever felt like the real one.

And even if just for a moment, you could believe that this was your only you.

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gojoest · 1 year ago

Text

CRAZY ABOUT YOU — gojo satoru

tw: MDNI, f! reader, she/her pronouns used, pregnancy (reader is expecting), established relationship (you’re married), pregnancy freak!satoru, semi-public sex, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names (baby, love, sweetheart), very very brief mention of somno & oral f receiving, reader wears a dress, he’s a freak, not proofread, wc: 2.4k

synopsis: your husband fucks you during one of your prenatal visits

your husband is a freak, you know that. but what you didn’t know was how big of a one he could be, for you. you found out — when you became pregnant with his child.

when satoru found out that you’re carrying his child — because he did before you, saw it with his six eyes — he fucked you differently. with a primal urge unheard of, like a man that’s impregnated his wife and is now claiming her again, confirming the fact that you belong to him by slamming it deep inside you. after the fifth (?) orgasm he dragged out of you that night, you asked him through a weary chuckle — “huh, where did this come from?” — and his answer began with a motion of his fingers hugging his balls — “it came from here…”, followed by his other hand caressing your belly “…and went there”, while slowly leaning in to meet your lips, “and i might just lose my mind because, baby — you’re pregnant”

a rather unconventional way to find out you’re pregnant.

if he had any semblance of decency in him before (which is rather questionable) and could keep his hands to himself (to some extent) during certain times and in certain places, it is completely off the table now.

when he wants you, you will know; others around will know it, too. he doesn’t shy away from making it obvious, or more so he doesn’t care if other people notice. what’s there to be embarrassed about? after all, you’re a couple, you do things. it’s only natural. and that pretty baby bump is the perfect proof of it. in all honesty, it gets him off when others know that he’s about to fuck his beautiful pregnant wife once he takes her home.

he's a freak like that, it can’t be helped. even more so now with the way your skin glows differently, with the way you smell, the way you carry yourself and the way your body is undergoing the natural changes as the pregnancy progresses that he finds so beautiful. it all messes with his head. brings out the real freak in him that can no longer keep his urges at bay, not when knowing that he himself brought this upon you. it makes you so undeniably his, for everyone to see and acknowledge. his chest swells with pride…

…but sometimes pride also gives way to greed, to a freakish desire for more of you.

during the rare times you go about to shower without him, he slips into the bathroom. sits on the toilet seat and starts jerking off to you, watching your swollen belly and breasts, moaning loud and clear for you to come to his aid. sometimes you wake up to him holding your hand wrapped around his cock, rubbing himself into your palm, audible pants seeping from his lips as he slowly lifts the hem of your shirt (his shirt that you wear to sleep) — preparing to splatter his load on your pregnant belly; or alternatively, you open your eyes to his face buried between your legs, devouring you like a starved animal… other times, as you make dinner in the kitchen, tenderizing the meat with the mallet on the counter, he comes from behind and presses his hard-on against your ass, shamelessly asking “would you mind beating my meat, too, baby?”

and when you go about to scold him, call him a jerk, a perv, a freak, insufferable while hitting his chest — playfully, because you secretly like it when he can’t contain himself around you — he blames you for it. tells you that you’ve severed him so abysmally that he’s having a hard time now keeping it soft around you (he’s not lying). that you broke him and should take responsibility for it. chuckles fill the room and mix in between your kisses that later turn into breathy moans and pants mixed in between countless of i love you’s and you’re mine and mine only’s.

but sometimes, such as today, he takes things a bit too far…

like,

—you can’t simply fuck your wife during one of the prenatal visits just because the doctor left the examination room for a bit and your dick is rock-hard from seeing your wife’s belly out in the open.

“you have to be kidding me”, you raise your brows in absolute surprise as you watch your husband unbuckle his pants, “now? HERE?”

“please?”, he looks at you, cheeks flushed and eyes of a pleading puppy.

you knew he was up to something from the glint in his eyes as he kept staring at your exposed belly earlier, completely transfixed, only his eyes following the ultrasound probe as the doctor pressed it over your tummy.

“the doctor’s going to come any moment, you know right?”, you try to confirm he is aware that this can go very wrong.

“yes, but so am i — you don’t want me walking around in cum drenched pants, right?”, he purses his lips into a pout, one that’s obviously fake (but it works on you, even if you refuse to admit it).

“it’s not like you’ve never done it before”, you mock.

“that was only one time”, he pouts (this one’s not a fake), “okay, maybe two or three times, but it happens even to the best” (it was more than two or three times)

“aha”

“oi. whose fault do you think it was? you make a man go crazy. i mean, look at me right now, just look — i am standing here with my dick almost out for you, in the doctor’s office”

“so you realize this is absolutely crazy but still you won’t pack your dick away?”

“no, i will not. i’ll die if i don’t get to fuck you this instant. and i mean it, it hurts so much. and the authorities will suspect you did it, you know. because it’s always the wives anyway…..and they won’t be wrong about it”

“you’re hopeless, satoru”, you sigh, giving him a roll of your eyes.

but still, leaning on your elbows you slowly rise yourself from the examination table and sit at the edge of it, removing the towel covering your thighs. spreading your legs for him, you think that you really made the right choice to wear a dress today — less in the way for your husband and another one of his “if i don’t get to fuck my wife, i’ll die” episodes.

“i am”, he saunters over to you, biting his lower lip at the sight of your thighs and the beautiful belly hanging in between, “but i can’t help it when you’re so pretty for me like this, i go crazy”

and fuck, if it doesn’t make you wet the way he looks at you right now as he stops to stand between your open thighs, invading your space with such ease because that’s where he belongs to be. all the signs hint at that, too — the ring on your finger, the baby in your belly and the wetness dripping from your cunt, ready to welcome him in.

“yea, you really do”, you pull the front of his boxers down, just enough to free his cock, earning a low hiss from him upon your hand making contact with it.

“all because of you”, he places his hands under your ass and slightly pulls you to himself. you’re immediately met with where he’s hard, it’s poking and rubbing against your belly.

a moan crawls up his throat and breaks out into a satisfied groan. part of him wants to cum just like this — by rubbing himself against your belly. but god, you smell so good down there that it shifts his desire. now that he’s so close to you — standing right in front of your doors — he can smell it so much better. your scent wafts up from your heat and goes straight to his nostrils, letting his brain register in the most primal of ways that your body is ready for him.

you know he’s noticed the dampness of your panties by the way his smile’s faded into a grin, you can smell yourself in the air around you, too.

“fuck, baby…can cum from this alone, you know? rubbing myself on that pretty belly that i made on you”, satoru whispers as he leans forward to take your mouth into his. his lips are loaded with such intensity that they suck the air from your lungs, leave you moaning into his mouth. the grip he’s got on your ass tightening, his fingers digging into your flesh. “but that won’t do now, so hold on tight”

you comply in silence, wrapping your hands around his neck as he lifts you up just enough to peel your panties down to your thighs, then sits you up again and drags them down your legs and onto the floor.

“just so you know—if someone comes before i do, i’ll just keep fucking you”, he grins at you as he positions himself back between your legs. his words might sound like a joke, an exaggeration of some sort to make it clear how much he wants you right now, but you know better than anyone that he’s pretty serious about it.

“then hurry up, you freak”

his fingers swipe over your cunt — to confirm that you are indeed as ready as your scent gives away — and collect your arousal before rubbing it all over the length of his throbbing cock, mixing your wetness with his vigorously leaking pre.

“open them a little bit more for me, baby”, he coaxes, hands back on your thighs, tapping softly on your skin as a signal to spread them just a little bit more and give him way. you lean back on your hands and push your legs open as much as you can. the motion causing your belly to bump against his cock, squishing it between the two of you, pressing it against his stomach.

“s-shit, baby”, he hisses at the sensation, his body jerks a little and his hips buck forward, against your belly, to deepen the friction, “i can really cum from just rubbing it on you….fuck, that’s crazy”, he laughs.

but satoru stops himself.

his hand moves away from you to get a hold of his cock and help it against your entrance, pushing the head towards your folds before slowly sinking in the entirety of it, bottoming out in you from the very start. there’s no time to waste and he’s got no patience left in him, once he’s in — he’s going all the way.

“nghh, s-satoru”, you whimper at his needy intrusion, but swallow him so easily that your wetness starts to spurt out as he’s starting to dart in and out, trickling down the crack of your ass and dripping onto the examination table.

“fuck, love…look at the way you take me”, he breathily chuckles, head thrown back as he picks up the rhythm of his thrusts, “and you call me crazy, huh…haha, fuck, f-fuc-k” — if his voice was a tad bit louder just now and could keep a steady note, he would’ve sounded maniacal.

“s-shut up….don’t compare me to yourself”, you protest, trying to deny the fact you want him just as bad but the way your walls clench around him proves the other way around. you become who you surround yourself with. he’s crazy to do this to you here of all places. and you’re just as much crazy to let him have his way with you.

you suck him in so deep that his body, caught off guard, jerks and bucks forward. it makes him forget where he starts and where he ends. he wants to let go but also to never stop, he’s fighting so hard but it’s a battle he’s slowly losing. as his pace is growing faster his thrusts are getting sloppier. “shit”, he curses under his breath. his balls are sizzling and he wants to bust so bad but not before he makes you cum.

the tension, the pulsing of his cock and the ridges of his throbbing veins — you can feel them like a heartbeat inside of you, and each time he slams against that sweet spot your clit responds with a beat of its own.

you try to hold your voice back but pants leave through your parted lips as you gasp for air.

“nghh, ’toru…’m gonna cum”, you whimper incoherently as you throw your head back, eyes shut close.

“yea? go on, baby—cum for me. come on, sweetheart—i’ll help you out”, he breathes.

his hands grabbing onto the plush of your thighs with a deadly grip, pulling you closer to help fuck himself into you better. the bottom of your belly is flat against his rock-hard abdomen now and he keeps it that way while ramming himself inside you, rubbing his cock around your sensitive walls, without pulling out. over and over until you squirm and come undone. face grimacing in pleasure and hips jerking from the electrifying sensation as you keep chanting “fuck, fuck, fuck” under your breath as quietly as possible so your voice doesn’t make it past the walls of the examination room for others — doctors, nurses and patients — to hear.

you glance your eyes to him, all disheveled and sweaty as his hips live through the last few thrusts left in them before he implodes inside of you. you hear him grumble how he’s about to fill you up while peering at you with a desperate face.

“f-fuck”, he growls throatily, charging one last time into you before spurting his load inside you. his body shudders from the release he’s been holding back. and he’s pouring too much, his heat spilling and filling your insides. you can feel it all — he’s making a frothy mess of your cunt.

it takes a few seconds after he’s done pouring his seed that his body reigns back control and he stops shuddering. he then looks at you.

“if i pull out now it’ll all spill out, you know? so maybe we should stay—?”

“no.”, you dryly interrupt. “don’t force our luck. put that thing away before someone comes and help me put my panties on”

“but it’ll spill out”, he insists.

“i’ll hold it in, don’t worry”

“oh? you know just the thought alone is doing inhumane things to me all over again, right?”

“satoru. don’t you dare.”

#ઈઉ — ai writes #[ ♡ ] — satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #pregnancy freak!satoru

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