#Efficiency Unleashed

[equalonline]

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[vaguely-concerned]

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[stormyoceans]

having two of your favorite shows air on the same day is too overwhelming for me... like i wanna focus on both but i can't seem to do it and end up not really enjoying them, do you have any advice? maybe leave one of them to binge watch? but the watching-it-live experience........

i know what you mean, anon, although im not sure if i have any good advice to give for it since that's something i struggle with as well and idk if im dealing with it in the best way possible ;;;;;;

personally, if two shows i really like air on the same date, i always end up 'sacrificing' one of them to watch on the following day. it's not always an easy choice to make because there are some things to take into account, like spoilers or the fact that the fandom tends to be more active and engage with content way more right after an episode airs, which are the things that usually make me feel like i need to watch every show immediately, but like you said not being able to focus on (and scream about) each one of those series in my own time can actually lessen my enjoyment, and for some shows binge watching is also not an option because nothing beats the live experience, so i have to end up choosing

right now, for example, im loving a lot of shows that happen to air on wednesday, but that for me is we are day: it's the series i look forward to the most and the one that it would also upset me the most to have 'ruined' by spoilers, so no matter how much im enjoying other shows as well, im just in full lockdown mode. my wednesdays are for losing it over we are exclusively, even if i have to sacrifice so many other series and mess up all my schedule. but then by the next day im usually calm enough that i can make space for something else (in my case, it's the rebound), and so on for the following days (and then i usually have one evening where i just..watch all the shows im enjoying less one after the other)

i know it's not the best advice because it doesn't really solve the issue and maybe it seems kinda obvious, but unfortunately i don't really have anything else to offer ;;;;;;

if anyone reads this and has something to suggest to me and anon please feel free to let us know!!!!!!

[eileennatural]

i love buying a monster to take with me to the library in the mornings bc the can says shit like "UNLEASH THE BEAST!" and the reason for which i am unleashing the beast is to sit quietly in a chair for eight hours

[anew-flame]

I have discovered imgflip and I will make it everyone’s problem

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, reader has dubious methods of emotional control, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: hey guys, i'm a woman possessed. i've had so much motivation to write recently, so here is a quick one-shot. i'm sure this concept has been done before but i just couldn't stop thinking about touch starved bucky :( ! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

You never would’ve agreed to this mission had you known Barnes was going to be this squeamish. You’d seen the man slit throats without a sound, drop bodies with cold efficiency, and unload an entire chamber of bullets without so much as flinching. He hadn’t even blinked when aliens from outer-fucking-space rained hell upon Earth. But holding your hand? Letting his fingers brush your waist? Anything a devoted ‘husband’ ought to do? The super soldier looked like he’d rather swallow glass. He couldn’t even meet your gaze, for god’s sake.

What the hell had Fury been thinking?

You had to yank him away before anyone noticed the strained—Help me, I’m being held hostage by this incredibly attractive, incredibly capable woman who, might I add, is supposedly my wife—look on his face.

This gala, a weeklong jerkfest for the wealthy and villainous, was meant to be a stroll in the park. Your bread and butter, even if the Red Room had been... regrettable and against your consent, it had taught you an array of useful skills. Yet Barnes was ruining it, turning what should have been a simple infiltration into a goddamn babysitting job. The plan was airtight: pose as a glamorous Russian couple, collect incriminating evidence, and dip at the end of the week. Except Barnes wasn’t holding up his end of the deal. Instead of charming your way through the crowd, you were covering for his stiff, awkward pauses and the fact that he looked less like a besotted husband and more like a man being forced at gunpoint to stand beside you.

By some miracle, you managed to drag him away to one of the empty floors, a tucked-away space littered with stacks of unused tables and chairs. He was wound tight—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes flicking across the dimly lit room like he was expecting death itself to emerge from the shadows. You didn’t bother with subtlety. Tearing the small recording device from between your tits, you fumbled with the button until the tiny red light blinked off. Whoever ended up reviewing the footage later wouldn’t need to hear the verbal onslaught you were about to unleash. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed, keeping your voice low, though the sheer force of your frustration was enough to strip paint off the walls.

Barnes clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he refused to meet your eye. It reminded you of a scolded dog, all pouty and pathetic. You might’ve found it cute under different circumstances. “You’re making this incredibly fucking difficult.”

“I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal—”

“Because it’s our cover, Barnes.” you snapped, incredulous. “We’re supposed to be married, not some fucking timid virgin couple. PDA makes people uncomfortable; they look away, and we have less eye on us to, I don’t know—do our fucking job?”

Barnes looked down at his clenched fists, swallowing hard. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. The dangling diamond earrings you had hanging from each lobe tinkled slightly, and you ran a hand through your perfectly styled hair, resisting the urge to throttle him.

“You’re unbelievable. Fury should’ve just sent me alone—” you muttered, but the words barely left your lips before your eyes caught movement.

A group. Heading straight for you. Purposeful.

“Fuck.”

With haste, you tucked the small recording device back into your cleavage. Barnes noticed immediately, clocking your distress. His brows knit together, hand twitched toward the hidden knife tucked into his suit jacket.

“No.” You scolded. Catching his wrist, you guided it elsewhere—your hips. He stiffened instantly, making a noise of protest, but you kept him locked in place, pressing in until your chests brushed. Too close. Not close enough.

“Play along,” you murmured. “Kiss me. Now.”

“Wha—” His breath hitched, barely enough time to form a response before you rose onto your toes and sealed your mouth over his.

Barnes froze. Stiff beneath your touch, lips rigid like you’d just planted one on a slab of granite. He still tasted like toothpaste—spearmint—and the faint trace of his aftershave clung to his skin. If you’d been trying to salvage some believability, some small thread of natural chemistry, it was impossible now. It was like kissing a statue.

An aftershave-scented stone statue.

The passing group chuckled, one of them murmuring, amused, “Ah, young love.”

Maybe it was the murmured chuckles of the passing guests, or maybe Barnes had finally remembered how to act, because his grip on your hips suddenly tightened, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress with unexpected force. The silk pulled taut against your skin, trapping heat between you, and then—

A sound.

Low. Strangled. A rasping, utterly pathetic groan against your lips.

You barely had time to register it before something else stole your attention. In the tight press of your bodies, you felt it—hard, insistent, pressing against your pelvis.

Oh.

The realisation sent a flicker of shock through you, but you schooled your expression, keeping your face composed as you lingered just a second longer—just enough to ensure your audience was convinced. Then, finally, you pulled back.

Barnes didn’t move.

For a moment, he just stared, pupils wide and unfocused, a blissed-out haze dulling the sharp blue of his eyes. But then, like a lightning strike, awareness snapped back into him. Horror overtook his dazed expression, his breath hitching as he seemed to realise—

Did he just—?

You both looked down at the same time.

And there it was.

The medium grey of his suit pants betrayed him entirely, darkening at the crotch with an unmistakable wet patch.

You gaped, lips parting in stunned silence. No fucking way.

Barnes didn’t wait for a reaction. With the sheer force of a man fleeing for his life, he ripped himself from your grasp and marched away, stiff-backed and utterly silent, leaving you standing there, speechless.

—

It had been twenty minutes, and Barnes still hadn’t left the goddamn bathroom.

It had taken you all of thirty seconds to track him down, but the moment you found the door, it was locked. Of course it was. You twisted the handle, rattling it in frustration, then resorted to pounding your fist against the heavy wood—subtly, of course, but with enough force that he knew you weren’t going anywhere.

“Barnes.” You hissed his name through gritted teeth, pressing closer to the door. Nothing. Not a shuffle. Not a breath. Absolute fucking silence.

You exhaled sharply, trying to keep your expression neutral as a pair of guests passed by, casting you a curious glance. Yeah, you knew exactly how this looked—lipstick smudged, breath uneven, standing outside a locked men’s bathroom like a woman scorned. You must’ve looked thoroughly debauched.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. This was insane. A simple, fake kiss had made him short-circuit so hard that he fucking came in his pants? Twenty minutes ago, he looked repulsed by the mere idea of touching you, and now he was hiding away like some panicked virgin?

You let out a long, slow groan, dropping your forehead against the door.

“Barnes,” you muttered, knocking again—your patience wearing thinner by the second. “Open the damn door.”

Silence.

You straightened, glaring at the wood as if you could will it into splintering apart.

“Barnes, I have been patient.” You gritted your teeth, knocking harder. “If you don’t open this door in the next five seconds, I will break in.”

Silence.

Motherfucker.

"Alright, I’m coming in," you announced, your voice low but firm.

You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one was watching, before slipping a bobby pin from your hair. Years of practice made the process effortless; your fingers worked quickly, blindly, jamming the pin into the lock and feeling for the mechanism. A few precise twists, a satisfying click, and—

"Make sure you're decent, Barnes—"

The words were halfway out of your mouth when you pushed the door open, but whatever half-hearted joke you'd meant to make withered before it even reached your tongue.

Barnes was not decent.

Not in the way you’d expected.

He sat hunched on the closed toilet lid, head in his hands, his entire body drawn in tight like he was trying to fold in on himself. His knee bounced erratically, the rapid motion almost violent in its rhythm. He had ripped off his suit pants, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers, his bare thighs tense, twitching. His fingers dug into his hair, gripping at the strands like he wanted to rip them out, and when his bloodshot eyes flicked up to you—

You felt your stomach drop.

Panic. Raw, unfiltered, choking panic.

Tears welled along his lash line, his chest rising and falling in uneven, barely contained pants. He looked like a man caught in a cage, seconds from tearing himself apart just to escape it.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, and stepped in, shutting the door softly behind you before flipping the lock.

"Hey, Barnes…” Your voice was hesitant, softer than before.

He shook his head, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, his hands trembling as he dragged them down his face.

“I don’t—” His voice cracked, breaking on the words. "I don’t want you in—"

You moved before he could finish, lowering yourself to the cool bathroom tiles in front of him, as if making yourself smaller would make you any less intimidating.

"Hey," you murmured, tone careful but steady. "Look at me."

“No.” It came out sharp, like a whip, a defence mechanism honed over decades. His entire body went rigid, his breathing ragged.

“Barnes, you need to breathe.”

Your voice was steady, firm without being harsh, each syllable carefully measured as you crept forward on the cold tile floor. The dress, the dirt—none of it mattered. It wasn’t your dress, anyway. Tony Stark could foot the bill for a replacement if this one got ruined, all this fancy wear was on his dime.

“In through the nose,” you instructed, voice softer now. “Out through the mouth.”

By some miracle, Barnes listened.

He sucked in a ragged breath, chest expanding beneath his half-unbuttoned dress shirt, and then exhaled through parted lips. It was shaky, uneven, but it was something. You watched in silence, waiting. His limbs still trembled, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs, but the worst of the violent, full-body tremors had eased.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely above a breath. “Keep breathing, just like that. You’re doing so well.”

Slowly, you inched forward, shifting across the tiles until you sat in front of his knees. His skin was warm, radiating heat even through the thin fabric of his boxers.

“Barnes,” you hesitated, watching his face carefully. “Can I touch you?”

His whole body tensed.

“What?” His eyes darted up, sharp and startled, as if the very question had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Is it okay,” you rephrased, slower this time, gentler, “if I touch you?”

Barnes hesitated. His gaze flickered away, jaw clenching like he was at war with himself. But then, after a long, tense beat, he gave a small, stiff nod.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. Then, with slow, deliberate care, you reached out and cradled his face between your hands.

The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched.

Not violently. Not like he was afraid of you. But enough that you felt it—felt the way his muscles coiled beneath your fingertips, the way his throat bobbed in a hard swallow. The cool metal of your fake wedding ring grazed his cheek, and his breath hitched, like he had just been burned.

“Keep breathing,” you reminded him, voice low and steady. “Nice and slow.”

Barnes obeyed, dragging in another breath, and you felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. The hard lines of his face softened just slightly as he leaned into your touch, nuzzling—actually nuzzling—against your palms.

“There you go,” you murmured, your thumb stroking in slow circles over his cheek. “Look at me.”

His eyelids flickered, resisting for a moment, but then those storm-blue eyes finally met yours. He looked exhausted. Frayed at the edges. But grounded, at least. Present.

“Tell me one thing you can smell right now.”

Barnes blinked. A hint of confusion crossed his face. “Smell?”

“Yes, smell.” You nodded, keeping your voice soft, coaxing. “Just one thing. Keep breathing and tell me.”

He hesitated but then took a deliberate inhale through his nose, his bouncing knee slowing. “I guess… whatever shitty fucking chemicals they use to clean this place.”

A quiet laugh left you, your thumb tracing a swirling pattern along his cheekbone. “Good. You’re doing good, Barnes. Now, tell me two things you can feel.”

His breathing had steadied, his inhales and exhales falling into rhythm with yours. For the first time since you’d walked in, he wasn’t shaking as badly.

“This suit jacket,” he muttered after a pause. His metal fingers twitched against the fabric at his arm. “It’s too fuckin’ tight. They always are with my arm—”

His breath stuttered, his body tensing again. Immediately, you leaned in, close enough for him to feel your warmth. “Just breathe, remember? You’re doing so well. One more thing you can feel.”

Barnes swallowed thickly. His gaze flickered down, just briefly, before settling back on your face. 

“You,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I can feel you. Touching my face.”

“Good.” You nodded, thumb gliding over his cheek again. “Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.” He exhaled, and for the first time, it wasn’t shaky. “It feels… it feels nice.”

Something in your chest clenched at the confession, but you pushed it aside. You smiled at him, soft and small, and kept going. “Now, three things you can see.”

Barnes’ eyes scanned over your face, searching.

“You,” he said, still quiet, still certain. His gaze lingered on your mouth. “Your lipstick is smudged.”

"Two more," you breathed, keeping your voice calm and steady, resisting the urge to comment on why your lipstick was smudged in the first place. No need to remind him of that right now.

Barnes' gaze flickered across the small, dimly lit restroom. His body had almost fully relaxed now, his mind preoccupied with the task you'd given him.

"Uh…" He scanned the space, brows furrowing in concentration. "The awful wallpaper… and the sink, I guess?"

You nodded approvingly, finally withdrawing your hands as you eased back onto your knees. The cold tiles bit through the fabric of your dress, but you barely noticed.

"Well done," you murmured. "Now, how about we keep breathing and get you sorted, huh?"

At that, Barnes stiffened slightly. The panic that had been receding just moments ago flickered in his eyes again, his hands twitching where they rested on his thighs.

You reached out, grounding him with a gentle touch to his knee. Your voice softened even further. "I’m going to turn around and face the door. I need you to clean yourself up—use the sink, use the soap."

His throat bobbed. "But my—my boxers, they’ll get all wet—"

"There’s a dryer on the wall, see it?" You tilted your head toward the small, dingy dryer meant for hands. "Use it to dry them. Then get dressed, and we’ll head back to the hotel early, okay? Order some shitty takeaway, watch bad TV. Just forget about all this for tonight. How does that sound?"

Barnes blinked as if thrown by the simplicity of the offer. His mouth parted, closed, then opened again, his voice small. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good." You flashed him a reassuring smile before pressing your palms against the sink, pushing yourself to your feet with a small wobble in your heels. "I’ll be right here. Just let me know if you need anything. Keep breathing, alright? Everything’s okay."

Turning, you crossed your arms over your chest and faced the door, giving him the privacy he needed. You tried not to listen too closely. Tried not to glance at the mirror reflecting the scene behind you.

The rustle of clothing filled the quiet, then the tap sputtered to life. You leant your forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes as you focused on the steady stream of water, the faint squeak of the soap pump, and then the soft sloshing and scrubbing of fabric.

The sound of fabric wringing out echoed softly against the tiled walls, followed by the steady hum of the hand dryer sputtering to life. You kept your forehead against the door, listening as Barnes manoeuvred through the motions, drying his boxers first, then his suit pants. The wet fabric slapped lightly against the metal dryer as he held it up, shifting awkwardly as he worked.

You didn’t rush him. Didn’t make a sound. Just stayed where you were, giving him time.

Eventually, the rustling stopped. A sharp inhale, then the familiar slide of fabric as he pulled his clothes back on. The quiet click of a belt buckle being fastened. The creak of leather shoes shifting against tile.

Then—

Barnes cleared his throat.

You turned.

He stood stiffly, suit now back in place, though the fabric still carried faint traces of dampness. His jacket was slightly askew, his tie loosened just enough to be noticeable. You took a slow step toward him, scanning him up and down with a careful eye. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just stood there, watching you warily, as if expecting a comment.

You didn’t give him one.

Instead, you reached up, grasping the edges of his tie. He stiffened but let you work, your fingers smoothing the silk fabric, tightening it properly against his collar. His pulse thrummed beneath your fingertips as you brushed against his throat, and though he remained still, you caught the way his breath hitched slightly at the contact.

“There,” you murmured, satisfied.

You turned towards the mirror, angling yourself slightly to the side. Your reflection was a mess—lipstick smudged, hair slightly dishevelled. You sighed, wetting your thumb with your tongue before dabbing at the edges of the stain, then reached into your clutch to pull out a small tube of lipstick.

Barnes hadn’t moved.

You could feel him behind you, his body heat pressing against your back in the cramped space. His gaze was heavy, following your movements as you leaned closer to the mirror, carefully reapplying the pigment to your lips. You didn’t look at him. You just smoothed the colour in place, pressed your lips together, then capped the tube and tucked it back into your bag.

Finally, you met his eyes in the mirror.

“Ready to go?” you asked.

There was a pause. A hesitation. His jaw clenched for half a second before he gave the smallest of nods. “…Yeah.”

You turned fully, flashing him a small, knowing smile before reaching for his arm. He didn’t resist when you looped yours through his, guiding him towards the door. With an easy tug, you led him forward, your heels clicking softly against the marble floors. His arm remained tense beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go.

You glanced at him briefly, lips twitching into a small smirk. “C’mon, sergeant. Let’s get out of here.”

Barnes exhaled through his nose, shaking his head ever so slightly. But when you reached the bottom of the stairs, he followed without question, letting you steer him towards the exit, away from the crowded room—away from prying eyes.

—

A small, muffled whine stirred you from sleep. You blinked groggily, rolling onto your side as the cool sheets tangled around your legs. The plush hotel mattress dipped beneath you as you buried your face into the pillow, willing yourself back into slumber.

A low, panting groan cut through the silence, soft at first, then growing in volume. Your brows knit together, heart thrumming uneasily. Something about the sound was… strange. It wasn’t just a groan—it was strained, needy. Erotic.

Your eyes snapped open.

The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim red dot of the fire alarm and the faint reflection of the turned-off TV. You remained frozen for a few beats, your ears straining to catch the noise again. It came, louder this time—a choked whimper thick with desperation.

Was someone in the room? Adrenaline slammed into your veins as you rolled off the bed in one swift motion, bare feet hitting the floor without a sound. You had heard stories of creeps breaking into hotel rooms, preying on women while they slept. Had one made the mistake of picking yours?

Another sound. Low, breathy, utterly wrecked.

Your hand darted to the bedside table, fingers curling around the hilt of a knife, its leather grip smooth beneath your palm. Not even yours, Barnes’—

Barnes.

Your breath caught as your gaze snapped towards the couch, knife slipping from your grip and landing on the carpet with a soft thud.

There, bathed in shadows, was the writhing mass of the super soldier. His blankets lay discarded on the floor as though he’d tossed them off in his sleep. The two of you had agreed to take turns—one in the bed, the other on the couch—to keep up appearances. A stupid arrangement, courtesy of Fury and Stark’s meddling.

You flicked on the bedside lamp. The warm light spilt over the room, casting soft amber hues onto Barnes’ form. His face was twisted in torment, and his lips parted around quiet, breathless whimpers. Sweat clung to his skin, catching the glow of the lamp and highlighting the sharp lines of his body. His metal arm whirred faintly as he twitched, fingers flexing against the cushions.

Your stomach dropped when your eyes drifted lower. He was shirtless, his broad chest rising and falling erratically. The thin fabric of his boxers did little to hide the evidence of his dream—more than half-hard beneath the cotton. Was he really that big?

The realisation hit like a freight train.

He was having a sex dream.

Jesus.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. You should’ve looked away, should’ve given him privacy. But then his hand twitched, drifting downward—

“Barnes.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the haze like a blade.

He jolted awake, body seizing as his eyes snapped open. For a moment, he was utterly lost, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with confusion. Then his gaze landed on you—standing there in your thin nightgown, face unreadable.

His eyes flickered downward.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, panic flickering across his face as he yanked a pillow over his lap, shifting awkwardly as if that would somehow erase what had just happened. A string of curses left his lips, voice still wrecked with sleep.

You tilted your head, studying him. His expression wavered, part shame, part something else, something raw and vulnerable. You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers into your temples. There was a pattern here. A man whose body wasn’t his own, whose skin felt foreign, whose touch-starved existence had left him unravelling at the seams.

What in God's name was Fury thinking sending him on a mission like this—or did Fury not know? How could he not? That one-eyed bastard had a habit of knowing everything. Hell, he probably knew the colour of your underwear before you even picked it out for the day, the all-seeing prick.

“H.Y.D.R.A really did a number on you, didn’t they?” you muttered.

Bucky flinched. The words struck deep, sinking into something fragile beneath the surface. He didn’t say a word, just recoiled, fingers gripping the pillow so tightly his knuckles turned white. A moment later, he was scrambling off the couch, making a beeline for the bathroom.

“Barnes, we’re not doing this again. Let’s just talk—”

The door slammed.

Then, the soft click of the lock.

You exhaled through your nose, arms crossing over your chest as you stared at the wooden barrier now separating you. Asshole. You knew you should’ve been more sympathetic. Should’ve handled it differently. But after a long, exhausting day, dealing with Bucky Barnes’ second puberty was not on your list of priorities.

You stepped closer, pressing a palm against the door; your voice quieter now. “I know how you’re feeling.”

Silence.

You could picture him inside, hunched over on the edge of the bathtub, fists clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “I understand what it’s like to be in a body that doesn’t feel like your own.”

A pause. No response.

“It must be hard,” you continued softly. “Not knowing who you are. Not recognising yourself anymore. And then... feeling things you don’t understand.”

Another pause. This one stretched longer.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of trying to navigate that.” The silence that followed was heavier than before. You didn’t push, didn’t say anything else. Just rested your forehead against the doorframe, waiting. 

You had spent the better part of your life under the Red Room’s control, under Dreykov’s control. Every breath you took, every move you made, had been dictated by someone else. Orders given. Orders followed. It was all you had ever known. And then, one day, it was gone. Just like that.

You remembered the moment with eerie clarity: standing in the open air, staring out at the horizon, the sunset bleeding colour into a sky that suddenly felt too vast. The question had gnawed at you, quiet but insistent. What comes next? Who comes next? Because you didn’t know. You didn’t know who you were beyond a weapon, beyond a machine engineered for death and seduction. Two decades of programming, of conditioning, of being nothing more than an asset to be wielded and discarded at will. And then, without warning, you were handed something you were told was freedom.

But what did freedom mean when you didn’t exist?

There were no real records of your birth, no true identity to reclaim. The Red Room had scrubbed that away long ago, erasing every trace of the girl you had once been. No family. No home. No belongings that weren’t issued to you by those who had owned you. And yet, you were expected to smile—to accept this newfound autonomy without question, to embrace the illusion of a life you had no blueprint for.

But how could you, when you weren’t sure if the body you inhabited was even your own?

So even if Barnes thought you were bluffing and just trying to relate for the sake of kindness, he was wrong. Because you understood.

Terrifyingly well.

The difference was that you had refused to let it consume you. You had forced those feelings into the farthest corners of your mind, locking them away where they couldn’t touch you. Because if you let yourself linger on them for too long.

“Go back to sleep.” Bucky’s voice finally broke the silence, muffled through the bathroom door.

You sucked on your teeth, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Yeah, not happening.”

“I know the others give you crap about not dating, but you don’t have to let them pressure you,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “You don’t have to force yourself into a role that makes you uncomfortable. It takes time.”

“Back in the day..." His voice was quieter this time, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. “I used to be a real flirt.”

A humourless smirk ghosted across your lips. You could picture it, all smooth charm and effortless confidence. The kind of man who could wink at a girl across a dance floor and have her swooning in seconds. But that wasn’t the man behind this door. That man had been stripped away, piece by piece. 

“I just don’t know anymore,” he admitted, voice raw. Your chest tightened. You could almost hear him weighing his words, picking them apart, and deciding how much of himself he was willing to give away.

“When I was the Winter Soldier... they made me do things.”

A slow, twisting knot formed in your stomach.

“It’s all… fractured in my mind,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Scattered. Broken.”

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. “I understand that. More than anyone. The Red Room… they didn’t just use us for assassinations and espionage.”

There. You had said it. Pulled a piece of yourself from the grave and placed it between you.

For the first time, the door cracked open.

Bucky stood there, dishevelled and breathless, still only in his boxers. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin, catching the dim hotel light, while his metal arm twitched slightly at his side. His hair was a mess—damp and curling at the ends, sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if he hadn’t quite caught his breath, muscles taut beneath the weight of exhaustion.

“Why are you being kind to me?” he asked suddenly. His voice was rough, tinged with suspicion, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You tilted your head, studying him.

“Because you’re hurting,” you said simply. “And obviously, you haven’t fully processed any of this.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Without another word, he turned and stalked past you, out of the cramped bathroom and into the main space of the hotel room. You followed at a slower pace, arms crossed as you watched him sink onto the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his metal fingers tapping restless patterns against his flesh palm. His body had settled now, no longer betraying him with signs of arousal. That part of the moment had passed, but the turmoil in his head remained.

With a quiet sigh, you slid down to the floor, settling against the base of the bed across from him. Your legs stretched out in front of you, arms loose at your sides as you let the silence settle between you. 

“Have you spoken to Steve about this?” you asked after a moment, voice soft but firm. “Sam?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “God, no.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” he muttered, fingers threading through his damp hair. “It’s just... awkward. I feel like a fuckin’ schoolboy.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “I could teach you.”

His eyes snapped to you, wary. “What?”

“I could teach you,” you repeated, voice steady. “How to make love. Fuck. How to gain control over your life again. You’re just sensitive; you need a bit of exposure therapy.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, jaw clenching. “Why the hell would you do that?”

You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the patterned carpet beneath you. “Do you know how many men I’ve fucked and not felt a thing?” you said quietly, barely above a whisper. 

“I wasn’t just an assassin or a spy. Not like Natasha or Yelena. I was a swallow, Barnes. A honeytrap.” His expression flickered, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something, some hint of insincerity.

You swallowed, pushing forward. “It’s why Fury sent me on this mission with you. This is all I’ve ever known.”

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. “Fury knows what they did to you, and he still continues to—”

“I agreed to it,” you cut in, your tone clipped, controlled. “He just wanted our sham marriage to be believable. He wasn’t asking me to fuck you, just to perform. That’s what I do. Perform.”

Bucky huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“Look, I don’t know you,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “I don’t want your baggage, or for you to fuck me out of pity or... I don’t know, self-sabotage.”

The words hit like a slap, sharper than you expected. You recoiled—actually flinched—before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t just what he said, it was the venom in it, the way he threw it at you like a blade meant to wound. And damn it, it did.

Bucky saw it, too. The way your shoulders stiffened, the flicker of something raw crossing your face before you forced it away. His breath hitched slightly, fingers twitching at his side, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t soften the blow. Maybe he regretted it, maybe he didn’t, but either way, the damage was done.

Your expression hardened like cooling steel, every crack that had formed between you quickly sealing shut, any semblance of vulnerability buried beneath layers of carefully placed armour. It was instinct—second nature, really. You’d spent years perfecting the art of locking yourself away, of making sure no one could reach the parts of you that still bled. You’d built it, brick by fucking brick, until you were fully encased, isolated from anything that might harm you. 

Bucky wasn’t the first to speak to you like that. Wouldn’t be the last.

You swallowed down the sting, inhaled slow and deep through your nose, and then let it out in a steady breath. When you spoke again, your voice was quiet, devoid of emotion, a perfect imitation of indifference. “It was just an offer.”

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You held his gaze for a second longer, searching for something, anything, that might suggest he regretted it. But Bucky just stared back, face unreadable, jaw tight. Then, without another word, he turned away, stretching out on the couch with his back to you.

Fine. Message received.

—

The rest of the week had been nothing short of torturous. After the argument, the air between you and Bucky had turned to ice. The two of you barely spoke. Not outside of necessity, not outside of the roles you had to play. At the gala, he did what was required—he held you close, leant into your touch when needed, murmured sweet nothings in your ear to sell the lie. But you felt the restraint in him, the hesitance in the way he brushed a thumb over your knuckles, the barely-there tremors in his fingers when he smoothed a hand over your waist. It wasn’t as if he was walking on hot coals anymore, but there was still that same, underlying hesitation.

Back at the hotel, the silence stretched long and unbearable. Shower, eat, sleep—repeat. Conversations were reduced to one-word exchanges, curt and impersonal. At least by morning, this miserable charade would be over. You’d gathered the intel you needed at the gala, and in a few hours, you’d be free of this place. Free of this suffocating, awkward tension. Free from Bucky’s constant, looming presence. 

God, the man had a staring problem.

You had noticed it before, how he always seemed lost in thought, his gaze heavy with some unreachable burden. You had assumed it was just brooding, the kind of silent, empty-headed angst that men like him fell victim to. But now you realised—he wasn’t staring through you. He was staring at you.

You saw it when you dressed for the gala, slipping into silken dresses and heels, when you pinned your hair into elegant styles, when you traced the lines of your lips with lipstick, perfecting the illusion. You’d catch his reflection in the mirror, eyes fixed on you, dark and unreadable.

Once, he had been so caught up in his daze that he nearly left without putting on his suit jacket. You had to press it into his hands, dragging him out of whatever spell he was under. He had taken it stiffly, mumbling a quiet ‘thanks’ but the heat in his face was unmistakable.

And now, as you sat cross-legged on the bed in a loose nightgown, the fabric riding high on your thighs, the same damn stare was drilling into the side of your face.

The TV flickered before you, an incoherent blur of colours and sound. You weren’t even sure it was in English. It didn’t matter. You weren’t watching it anyway. You were too focused on not focusing on Bucky, who stared at the side of your face like he intended to burn a hole through the flesh.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, running your thumb over your knee. The sheets were soft, the mattress more forgiving than the couch you’d been forced to sleep on last night. At least tonight was your turn back on the bed, though ideally, you’d be back in your own apartment by now, wrapped in high-thread-count luxury courtesy of Tony Stark’s absurd wealth.

God, you missed Egyptian cotton.

Bucky was still staring at you. You couldn’t help it, annoyance, filthy and venomous came pouring out of your mouth before you could stop it. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Bucky startled, his whole body tensing as if you had physically struck him.

“Nothing—” he stammered.

You arched a brow, unimpressed.

“No. There’s obviously something you want to say.” You shifted on the bed, your frustration mounting. “Go on, spit it out.”

He hesitated, his jaw working like he was biting down on whatever words were lodged in his throat.

You didn’t let up. “You sure had a lot to say earlier in the week. What, do you want to dig the knife in further? You might as well just call me a whore while you’re at it—”

“I’m sorry.” Bucky cut over you, his head dipping. You paused, momentarily stunned. He was doing that thing again, where he looked like a scolded dog. Adorable, but not the fucking time.“I shouldn’t have said that, it was inconsiderate of me, especially after... after all you’ve done.”

You frowned. “You don’t owe me anything, Barnes.” The words left your lips quieter this time, but still firm. 

“I snapped at you. And I shouldn’t have.” he admitted. His voice was low, restrained.

You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.

“It’s okay. I understand,” you said, a little softer. “I haven’t exactly been… the kindest either.”

A bitter chuckle escaped him, his fingers twitching against his knee. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Act like everything is okay. Like it’s normal.” His voice was strained, like he wasn’t even sure if he believed in what he was asking.

You let out a short, almost nervous laugh. “I’m probably not the best person to ask about this—”

“But you get it, right?” He looked at you now, something almost desperate in his gaze. “To not know… who or what you are? Sometimes I… I just want to be normal again.”

You frown deeply, weighing his words carefully. You understood his sentiment, but you knew it was futile. There had never been anything normal about your life—not anything you could remember, at least. The Red Room had seen to that. Your earliest memories were of drills, of ballet, of suffocating discipline, and of the erasure of self. Even now, you weren’t normal; you were an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D for fucks sake, a woman barely pardoned of her crimes, existing in a liminal space. The world's governments couldn’t quite confirm you existed. You were a ghost, a fucking shadow of a person. 

“I don’t think people like us get to be normal,” you said finally, choosing your words carefully.

His expression twisted slightly, like he had already known that answer but had hoped for something different.

“But I think,” you continued, “it would serve you a world of good if you let people in. Steve… Sam. You don’t have to face this all alone—Natasha, Yelena, and I look to each other all the time to process it all and patch together the missing pieces. There’s no shame in it.”

Bucky’s face creased, his body drawing in on itself slightly. You moved before he could shrink further, slipping off the bed and kneeling before him. 

“It’s okay,” you reassured, voice steady. “Just tell me... what is it you need right now?”

His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line. He fidgeted, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if struggling to force out something that had been sitting at the edge of his tongue all week.

Finally, he exhaled, jaw tight.

“I want to take you up on your offer.”

You tilted your head. “My offer?”

Bucky swallowed, eyes flickering to the floor before darting back to you. His voice was hesitant, low—like he was worried some invisible presence might have overheard. “Lessons. Lessons in… love-making. I want to be able to look at a girl without... you know. This fucking week has been torture seeing you—”

He cut himself off, warmth flooding to his cheeks. A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it—light, amused, genuine.

Bucky stiffened, eyes widening slightly, horror flashing across his face as if he thought you were mocking him.

You shook your head quickly, reaching out to place a hand on his knee.

“Of course,” you murmured, smiling. “Thought you’d never ask.”

—

“Is this okay?” you asked softly as you swung your leg over, settling onto Bucky’s lap. The mattress dipped beneath you both, the quiet creak of the hotel bed the only sound between you for a moment. He sat beneath you, legs slightly spread, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. You dug your knees into the bed on either side of his thighs, anchoring yourself against him.

His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “Yes,” he murmured, though there was a noticeable tremor in his voice, like he was still convincing himself.

“Just breathe,” you encouraged, smoothing your hands over his broad shoulders. His muscles were tense beneath your fingertips, wound tight like coiled steel. He swallowed hard.

“What’s worrying you?” You asked gently. “Is there something I can do to make this more comfortable for you?”

Bucky shook his head, a shuddering breath leaving him as his hands finally found purchase on your hips. His grip was hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold you. “No,” he said, his voice rough. 

“This is great, I—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together in frustration.

You tilted your head, studying him, before offering a reassuring smile. Your fingers kneaded into his shoulders in slow, soothing motions, attempting to melt away some of the tension knotted there. “Talk to me,” you coaxed.

His gaze flickered downward, shame creeping into his expression. “I just… don’t want to embarrass myself. Again.”

Your heart clenched at his vulnerability, but you refused to let him linger in self-doubt. Instead, you leant in, your lips curling in a playful smile. 

“You’re cute when you say things like that,” you teased, running your tongue over your lower lip before continuing. “Don’t worry about any of that. Just stay here, in this moment, with me.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he obeyed, focusing on the warmth of your body pressed against his. Slowly, his grip tightened on your hips, fingers kneading into the flesh more firmly this time. His thumbs traced cautious circles against the fabric of your clothing, testing. You let your hands drift from his shoulders down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Now,” you murmured, keeping your tone soft but steady, “if you get overwhelmed, or if you need to stop, what do you say?”

“Stop,” Bucky answered without hesitation.

“Good,” you praised, smiling warmly. “And if you can’t speak? If the words won’t come?”

His fingers flexed on your hip before he squeezed in a deliberate rhythm—three distinct beats. You nodded in approval. “Perfect.”

His blue eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching. 

“What about you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more earnest. “If you want to stop?”

You demonstrated by tapping three times against his chest, just over his heart.

“I’ll do the same thing,” you assured him. “Just like we discussed.”

For a moment, he just breathed. His lashes fluttered as he exhaled a slow, measured breath, his hands steadying against you. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he whispered, “I’m… I’m ready. I think.”

You smiled, fingers tracing a soft, reassuring path along his jaw. 

“Okay. I thought we’d start with kissing, since you seem worried about it. Nice and simple, no pressure,” you murmured, your voice low and reassuring as your fingertips ghosted along his jawline. Bucky swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he leaned into your palm without thinking, nuzzling it like a touch-starved thing. His blue eyes, dark as the ocean in a brewing storm, flickered with something hesitant, something fragile.

“I’m sure you kissed plenty of girls back in the day,” you teased, lips curling as you brushed your thumb over the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

“Oh yeah,” he exhaled, the words dipped in self-deprecation, “until Steve became… well, the Steve he is now. None of the girls spared me a second glance after that.”

You let out a soft laugh, breathy and genuine, and felt the way his body tensed beneath you at the sensation. It was funny how a man who could tear through steel and strike terror into the hearts of the world’s deadliest enemies could turn so shy at something as simple as your laughter.

“You know…” he hesitated, voice quieter now. “You were my first kiss since… well, everything.”

Your teasing grin faltered slightly. You tilted your head, gaze flicking between his eyes and his lips, close enough now that you could feel the steady heat radiating from his skin. 

“Well,” you murmured, the ghost of a smirk curling your lips as you shifted closer, “now I’ll be your second too.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, a testing press of your lips against his, feather-light and coaxing. Bucky inhaled sharply through his nose, his breath hitching as though he was bracing for impact. But when you didn’t pull away, when you lingered just a little longer, he melted into you—hesitant at first, but eager.

His hands, large and trembling slightly, hesitated at your waist before gripping your thighs as if he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or let you slip away. The warmth of his palms bled through the thin fabric of your nightgown, spreading across your skin like wildfire.

You deepened your kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips more firmly against his, and a quiet sound rumbled in his chest—halfway between a sigh and a groan. Encouraged, you shifted, rocking your hips, the new position pressing your bodies flush together.

Bucky tensed beneath you, fingers digging into your flesh instinctively as you settled against him. His own hips bucked in response, and you could already feel him growing hard against your inner thigh. He pulled back slightly, panting, his lips swollen.

“Am I doing… okay?” he asked, his voice rough.

You smiled, smoothing a hand through his dark hair, tugging him gently forward again. 

“More than okay,” you whispered against his lips before capturing them once more.

This time, he kissed you back without hesitation. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring himself to you as he parted his lips, following your lead. You swept your tongue into his mouth, slow and purposeful, teasing along his lower lip before deepening it. A groan rumbled in his chest, muffled against your mouth.

You rolled your hips, grinding against him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, savouring the way his breath hitched and stuttered beneath you. Even through the layers of clothing, you could feel him—hard, straining, likely aching for more. His fingers dug into your skin, a bruising grip that only added to the heat blooming in your core.

You pulled away from his lips, shifting your attention lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down his neck. You could feel his pulse hammering beneath your lips, quick and erratic. He tipped his head back, surrendering himself to your touch, a quiet curse slipping from his mouth as you sucked at the sensitive skin below his ear.

“You’re doing so well,” you hummed against his skin, your voice warm and indulgent, laced with soft praise. His body trembled beneath you as he bucked his hips up to meet yours, desperate for more friction, more of you. You rewarded him with a soft, breathy moan, letting him know just how much you enjoyed this too.

“I—” He tried to form words, but they crumbled before they left his lips.

The tension in his body coiled tighter and tighter, like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap. His hands clutched at you, grounding himself in the sensation, like the overwhelming pleasure was building too fast for him to control. His breath came in short, needy gasps, his hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm.

“I’m gonna—” His voice broke, his head tilting forward as his entire body tensed beneath you. A strangled moan escaped him, deep and wrecked, as he came undone. His grip on your hips tightened, his thighs trembling slightly beneath yours as his climax overtook him. His body fell back against the sheets, a soft exhale leaving his lips as the last waves of pleasure wracked through him.

You perched above him, still straddling his hips. For a moment, he just lay there, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, and his lips parted as if he had more to say but couldn’t quite form the words.

“I didn’t mean to finish so early—” he started, his voice hoarse, cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and lingering pleasure. Leaning over, you flipped your hair to one side as your face hovered over his. You silenced him with a lingering kiss, slow and reassuring. He groaned softly into your mouth, still sensitive but already melting into the warmth of your lips. When you pulled away, his shoulders had loosened, the rigid tension gone from his body.

“You did so well,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his hair. “How do you feel?”

“Good.” 

You grinned, sliding off him and stretching languidly before settling back onto the bed. You exhaled, content. Bucky turned his head to look at you, still slightly frozen in place, as if unsure what to do next. His brows furrowed slightly. “What… what about you? Don’t you want to…?”

You snorted. “That doesn’t matter. This was about you, not me.”

He hesitated, clearly still unused to receiving something without feeling obligated to return it. “But I feel bad leaving you—”

“I’m fine, trust me.” You hummed, closing your eyes as you nestled into the warmth of his arm. “We have a long way to go before you need to be thinking about that.”

Bucky went quiet. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, unreadable.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he would say anything at all. But then, after a beat of silence, you felt him shift beside you. A hesitant hand—warm and slightly calloused—ghosted over your arm before settling on your waist, drawing you in closer.

“…Thank you,” he murmured at last.

PART TWO

[goodoldbandit]

Unleashing Power: A Guide to Increasing Engine Performance in Your Vehicle

Dive into the world of turbochargers and intercoolers, where engineering brilliance meets automotive performance. Uncover the secrets behind maximizing engine power and efficiency with this comprehensive guide. Keywords: turbocharger, intercooler, engine performance, automotive engineering, forced induction, combustion efficiency, turbocharging technology, intercooling advancements. In the realm…

[ittybittyfanblog]

Ok, so another fic blurb! (loosely inspired by the recent banner hehe) | press here for filth

What if...... Sylus, the beast tamer, the liberator of the caged and broken, has a pet of his own? 

What if, in this scenario, you are the beast in question—his wild, fickle, untamed little plaything?

He doesn’t mean for it to happen. He caught wind of a trafficking ring auctioning hybrids of varying types; a setup he knows all too well, having freed countless creatures from similar fates on planets far away. And it's only supposed to go about one way, bringing along the kind of chaos he excels at: quick, efficient, brutal.

He will play the instigator, the matchstick to the pyre, and watch as the oppressed tear their captors apart. Blood will spill, chains will break, and he will revel amidst the pandemonium, a spectator to the glorious enactment of rightful vengeance.

But then—he sees you.

The runt of the pack, small and unsure, trembling in the eye of the storm he unleashes. Hackles raised, little fangs bared – not in defiance, but in fright.

You don’t fight. You don’t flee. You only flinch at the sound of slaughter, shoulders drawn tight, tail coiled around yourself like you can somehow disappear from it all. There’s something about the way you cower at the roar of violence, how you huddle in on yourself even as freedom crashes down around you, that makes something in him snap. Something visceral ignites in him.

An unfamiliar, wretched need to protect curls inside his ribs.

He can’t leave you here. He won’t.

And before he can even think to stop himself, his body moves on instinct, eviscerating anything in his way, cutting a clean path to where you stand frozen in fear. His hands find you, steady. Certain. 

He doesn't let you look – doesn’t let you see the finale of the insurrection that has made you shake in fear. The next thing you know, you’re in his arms, pressed against the unyielding heat of him as he makes a swift exit.

And the next thing he knows, you’ve already claimed him as yours.

It’s different this time, you think. You barely know this man, your unforeseen savior, but something about him calms the noise in your head, stills the frantic pulse in your throat. An inexplicable sense of security settles deep in you, and you swish your tail in contentment, loop it possessively around his leg. Pressing your face into his neck, just breathing him in. Marking him in your own way. 

Warmth. Steel. Something sharp beneath it all.

Something dangerous. 

Powerful. 

Safe.  

And when you burrow deeper, seeking, instinctive, Sylus exhales like you’ve punched the air from his lungs.

He knows he can’t let you go.

His pretty beastie. His precious, skittish thing.

He doesn’t call you a pet. That word is foreign on his tongue, wrong, too close to what he stands against. And the last thing Sylus wants is for you to feel like you’ve simply exchanged one owner for another. No, never that. 

But then you look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes—innocent and somehow sly at the same time—pressing your body against him like you want to nestle under his skin.

You, his restless little distraction, his playfully insistent creature; always demanding his time, expecting the infamous leader of Onychinus (not that the title means a thing to you) to indulge you.

And he does.

Because he never gives you a reason to think otherwise, never denies you anything. Always so willing, so devoted to your happiness.

____

It starts small.

Or maybe that’s what he tells himself.

Maybe it starts when he catches you preening in front of the mirror, grooming yourself with little licks, arching your back, testing the stretch of your limbs... and something about the way you move makes him clench his jaw and avert his gaze. 

Maybe it starts the first time you crawl into his lap without a second thought, tail curling idly around his wrist as you press close, heedless of the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

Or maybe it starts when you purr for him, soft and endearing and so achingly sweet, whenever his hands find themselves mapping the smooth expanse of your back. 

He shouldn’t touch you the way he does.

It’s indulgent, the way his fingers trace your spine, stroke the soft patch of fur at the base of your tail.

It’s indulgent, the way you stretch beneath his touch, arching, sighing, rubbing yourself against his palm like you need more.

It’s indulgent, the way he lets you.

And it only gets worse.

Because now, you’ve started seeking him out.

It’s innocuous at first. Always pressing against him whenever (and wherever) he’s seated, stealing his warmth, basking in his protective embrace. Curling around him like you belong there, lazy and spoiled, like you already know he won’t push you away.

And he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. 

Because when you tuck yourself against his side and let out that soft, pleased little “mrrr,” it does something terrible to him.

(It snaps his unraveling restraint, thread by thread.)

-

-

-

His adorable, darling kitten. His. The moment he laid eyes on you, he knew. And oh, there is nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

His sweet little thing….. who’s getting bolder with each passing day. Pushing. Teasing. Learning exactly what makes him falter.

His baby, who goes into heat at certain times of the month and expects him to help, because he always helps, doesn’t he?

So it’s not your fault when you arch your back so shamelessly beneath his touch, when you shudder as his fingers find that sensitive spot on your tailbone.

It’s not your fault when you grind needily into his lap, rubbing yourself against his hardening cock in slow, lazy motions, feeling the change in his breathing, the sharp exhale through his nose (something that excites you to no end).

It’s not your fault when you whimper so prettily, let your tongue flick over his pulse, nip at his skin in playful challenge.

And it’s certainly not your fault when you feel it—massive, hot, and unmistakable beneath where you’re situated on top of him. 

The air between you shifts. Thickens.

His fingers tighten, grip bruising as he stills you.

His breath is slow, painstakingly measured, and he knows he’s fighting a losing battle.

Sylus, torn between the animalistic desire to give you everything you ask for, and the absolute immorality of wanting to render you useless, to force you down on all fours and thoroughly fuck you, breed you on every surface in this damned house, and the last, fraying threads of his restraint wavers.

Then his precious little pet mewls for him.

And it’s like a switch flips inside him.

A breaking. A liberation.

That’s all it takes.

Because when you whimper his name, voice desperate and pleading, hips pressing forward so insistently—when you beg him, hiccuping, to do something, please, please–

Sylus gives in.

[gojoethereal]

A Mission Beyond Curses

Pairing: Fushiguro Megumi x Reader | JJK x Reader | Sorcerer!Megumi x Sorcerer!Reader Warnings: smut, explicit, virgin reader, possessive megumi, dirty talk, kinda friends to lovers

an: this was a request and my first time writing for megumi I hope I don't disappoint 😣! btw I tired a different writing layout shall I just stick to my usual??

The early morning light filtered through the high windows of the Jujutsu Tech training hall, casting long shadows across the polished floor.

Around the training area, the usual clutter of cursed tools and scrolls lay forgotten for a moment.

Yuji Itadori bounced on his toes, clearly restless, while Nobara Kugisaki leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips.

At the center of the group sat Fushiguro Megumi, stoic as ever, eyes scanning the briefing notes with a quiet intensity.

And then there was you- Bright-eyed, energetic, with a warm smile that seemed to light up the entire room despite the heavy atmosphere.

You didn’t carry any cursed tools; your power was innate, raw, and refined, flowing from your body like a current of energy that could be as gentle as a breeze or as fierce as a storm.

Gojo Satoru, lounging casually nearby with his ever-present blindfold, called out, “Alright, team, listen up. You’re heading to a half-abandoned shopping mall. Reports of a mid-level curse, aggressive and cunning. I’m pairing you up for efficiency. Megumi, you’re with (Y/N). Yuji and Nobara, you’ve got the other sector.” His gaze flicked to Megumi.

"You're joking," Megumi said flatly.

You grinned, looping your arm around his. "Aww, don’t act so thrilled, Fushiguro. I promise not to be too annoying."

"I doubt that," he muttered.

"Tension! I love it," Nobara said, smirking.

"You two are always bickering. It's like watching a rom-com with knives," Yuji added.

You winked at them both, then turned your full attention to your reluctant mission partner. "Come on, Fushiguro. Let's go bond over blood and curses."

He sighed, but didn’t protest.

The group headed out, bantering lightly but with an undercurrent of anticipation. You caught Megumi’s gaze once more, a silent promise to prove you weren’t just a cheerful distraction.

The abandoned shopping mall was a relic of better times, broken glass crunching underfoot as you and Megumi advanced through the dim corridors. The air was thick with the scent of decay and latent cursed energy. Megumi’s shikigami prowled silently ahead, eyes glowing faintly.

“Stay sharp,” Megumi warned, voice low.

You nodded, feeling your cursed energy pulse in response.

Suddenly, a grotesque curse burst from the shadows, snarling with unnatural rage. Megumi acted fast, summoning his Divine Dogs, who lunged forward to attack. You stepped in, your power flaring as you unleashed a precise blast, striking the curse’s side and drawing a low growl from it.

“You’re annoying,” Megumi muttered, eyes on you as you danced around, agile and controlled.

You grinned, “And you’re a grumpy jerk, but I like it.”

He narrowed his eyes, but didn’t retort.

The fight escalated, curses emerging from cracks and debris. Your synergy was flawless despite the teasing. Megumi’s calm planning and your spontaneous energy complimented each other. When one curse lunged at you, Megumi intercepted with brutal efficiency, but you weren’t without your own skills — your cursed energy flowed strong, no tools needed.

A sharp claw grazed your arm, drawing a shallow cut. You hissed but kept going.

Megumi’s voice was rough, protective. “You’re reckless.”

You smirked, “You’re just jealous you’re not the one getting hurt.”

His eyes flicked over the cut, and he cursed softly under his breath before finishing the curse off with a precise strike.

When the last curse dissolved, the adrenaline buzzed through your veins. Megumi exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders evident.

You worked in sync—but he hated how well you fit together. It made things worse.

“You’re infuriating,” he muttered, the annoyance failing to mask the trace of admiration in his voice.

You stepped closer, eyes bright. “Maybe I’m exactly what you need.”

He said nothing, but the tight line of his jaw spoke volumes.

---

**Back at Megumi’s Dorm**

The door shut quietly behind you as you entered Megumi’s dorm, a small, bare space that somehow felt intensely private. You set your bag down, watching as Megumi cleaned his weapons, his stoic mask firmly in place.

You leaned against the doorframe, voice teasing but with an undercurrent of sincerity. “You know, you’re wound tighter than a cursed spirit’s grip.”

Megumi didn’t look up. “It’s necessary.”

You stepped closer. "You act like you can’t stand me, but I see it. The way you look at me. The way you bite your tongue when I get too close."

His breath hitched.

"You’re so fucking tense all the time," you whispered. "I want to help you relax. I want you to use me. Let it all out."

You reached for his hand and placed it on your waist. "I’m a virgin. But I want you to be the first. I want you to take it. All of it."

Megumi’s hands trembled.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he cupped your face gently, brushing your cheek with his thumb. "Are you sure?"

You nodded. "Yes. Please."

He kissed you slow, reverent. "Then I’ll be careful—just for this part."

He undressed you gently, laying you on his bed with care. He explored your body with slow hands, worshipping every inch. His mouth kissed down your belly, fingers sliding between your thighs.

"You're already soaked," he murmured. "Is this all for me?"

You nodded, whimpering. "Megumi, please… I need it."

He spread you open, licking through your folds until you were writhing. Then two fingers pressed inside—firm, stretching you, curling just right.

You cried out, hips bucking. "Ah—please!"

“You’re mine, baby,” he murmured against your skin.

You whispered back, voice trembling, “I’m yours, Megumi. All yours.”

His hands were rough, gripping your hips as he pushed deeper into you, his dark eyes locked onto yours. “Good girl,” he growled. “You gonna be good for me?”

You nodded eagerly, fingers tangling in his hair as his lips trailed down your neck.

He was possessive and demanding, his hands spanking your thighs, marking you with red impressions that stung deliciously. “You like that, don’t you, pretty?” he teased, voice low and rough.

“Yes, Megumi,” you gasped, arching into his touch.

His hand moved to your throat, fingers tightening just enough to make you catch your breath, eyes fluttering shut. “Beg for it. Tell me you want me.”

“Please, Megumi,” you whimpered, voice thick. “Take me.

When he finally lined up, he paused, gaze locked on yours. "This’ll hurt. But I’ll make it feel good. You tell me if it’s too much."

You gripped his arms. "I trust you."

He pushed in slowly. Inch by inch. Stretching you until you gasped and clung to him.

"So tight," he groaned. "So good for me."

Once he was fully inside, he kissed your forehead. "You okay?"

You nodded shakily. "Move, please."

He started slow. Deep, dragging thrusts. Letting your body adjust.

But when you whimpered his name and begged for more—

Something inside him snapped.

He flipped you onto your stomach, pulled your hips up, and drove in rough.

"You wanted me like this? This what you were teasing for?"

You moaned helplessly, face pressed into the sheets.

He gripped your hair, yanked you up, fucked you like an animal.

“Take it. Take every inch. Don’t fucking run.”

He turned you again, hooked your knees to your chest, pounded into your soaking pussy until the bed shook.

“God, look at you. Fucking made for me.”

You sobbed, nails digging into his back. "More, please, more—"

He knelt, pulled you onto his cock, bouncing you. Your breasts bounced, sweat slicked your skin, and he groaned like he’d die from how good you felt.

"Gonna cum inside this pussy. Gonna fill you so full—"

You screamed his name as he slammed in harder, deeper, grinding against your sweet spot.

Your orgasm hit like lightning. He followed with a broken groan, spilling inside, thrusting through it until it leaked from you.

He didn’t let go. He kept you close, breathing hard.

"Still think I don’t like you?" he whispered, brushing your hair from your face.

You smiled weakly. "I think you might hate how much you love me."

He kissed you again. Slower this time.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, voice gentle now.

You nodded, heart pounding, a smile spreading across your lips.

“Good,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “You did amazing.”

Wrapped in his arms, the wild storm inside you settled into a warm calm — the perfect peace after the chaos.

hope you enjoyed my lovesss!!1

[lilmarshie]

Ooohh, I have a request for some Bob HCs! With getting inspo from wonderful works of yours like the Overprotective Bob headcanons, I'd like to ask: maybe some HCs about how our boy reacts to reader getting kidnapped and/or injured on a mission?? 👀👀

Taken

Bob Reynolds x Reader Headcanons

How Bob reacts to you getting kidnapped while on a mission. Mentions of the reader getting injured on a mission.

Thank you, anon for the request! I hope that you enjoy! I have two other requests that I need to write still so stay tuned for those to come out very soon.

Bob initially goes into full blown panic mode when he finds out that you’ve been kidnapped. He’s immediately devastated and blames himself fully for what happened, wanting to take on the full responsibility of you getting taken.

He begins to obsess over what he could’ve done differently and almost drives himself away from the rest of the Thunderbolts in the process. Void whispers negativity in his head the entire time, causing him to amplify the guiltiness that he’s experiencing.

Sentry takes over his body once he realizes that you’re truly gone, enveloping his thoughts and actions, leading him down a dark path. He becomes hyper focused on finding you no matter the outcome. His powers are amplified tenfold by the desperation and fear that he’s experiencing. He tracks you down relentlessly, not stopping until he finds you. His precious darling, the love of his life. He even resorts to using Void to help him be able to find you. (Which he only does as a last resort.)

Upon finding your captors, he doesn’t hold back his full power. Bob unleashes the full force of his strength against your kidnappers, letting out all of his rage and anger against the perpetrators. The raw power he unleashes is terrifying, but he’s meticulously careful not to hurt you in the process. He’ll dismantle the threat with terrifying efficiency, prioritizing your safety above all else.

Once you’re safe, Sentry would subside and Bob would take over again. Bob is overwhelmed with exceeding remorse for not ensuring your safety. He feels terrible for not protecting you against the kidnappers. You reassure him that everything is alright and that you both wouldn’t have seen this coming the way that it did. He's incredibly gentle and attentive, tending to your injuries both physically or emotionally with unwavering care. He’s haunted by the fear of losing you again, becoming even more protective over you.

If you were seriously injured during a mission, Bob goes into a protective rage. Bob becomes a whirlwind protecting you from any other outside enemies or threats. He takes down anyone who stands in his way with a formidable power that no one stands a chance against. The Void would be clawing at the surface, eager to unleash its full force, but Bob would fight to keep it under control, focusing his power to protect you.

Even if he manages to save you, Bob would be consumed by the guilt that he feels. He sees himself as a danger to you, someone who attracts trouble and puts you in harm's way. He becomes a bit withdrawn, and pushes you away in an attempt to protect you, even though it would break his heart.

Ultimately, Bob needs your reassurance that you don't blame him, that you trust him, and that you want him in your life. Your love and support would be the only thing that can truly calm his fears and help him come to terms with the incident. He clings to your words, drawing strength from your presence and reaffirming his commitment to protecting you, no matter the cost, even if it means with his life.

[fursasaida]

Amid all the ridiculous handwringing over how the public reacted to the shooting of the UHC CEO, this is one of the only reasonably grounded things I've read:

It is a rare thing for an American CEO or other public figure to be targeted in this manner. But the structure of feeling it unleashed did not seem novel to me. Americans have a great deal of recent experience assessing the worthiness of strangers for execution. It’s one of the things we do together online: when someone is killed by a cop or vigilante; when a protester is mowed down by a car; when a Palestinian child is killed by an Israeli sniper or an Israeli civilian by Hamas. Arguing about whose lives are expendable is one of America’s favorite pastimes.

What about our bloodlust? Should we be concerned that Americans have betrayed an appetite for political violence? Perhaps. But the flip side of appetite is metabolism: not what we want, but how we bear what we are given. Americans, we might say, have a prodigious capacity for metabolizing brutality and death — we have been conditioned for it. As the writer and gun-violence expert Patrick Blanchfield put it to me, “This event gives us something fairly rare: a situation where a person victimized by a distinctively American system of normalized human liquidation — i.e., gun homicide — is also representative of that other distinctively American institution for disposing of human life, our for-profit health-care system, a key function of which is determining how much individual human lives are worth, and enforcing those assessments with ruthlessly incentivized efficiency.” For Blanchfield, Thompson’s murder, and the system of mechanized cruelty from which he profited, are part of the same regime of “human disposability” — a system in which human life, instead of being precious and priceless, is “a fungible commodity like anything else.”

[insteading]

Things I learned listening to Nancy Hennah talk about hair and makeup for Our Flag Means Death:

The storm in "Red Flags" made the wig ball up in a knot that took five hours to untangle. Most of the wet stuff in S2 used the wig from S1 for that reason.

There were two s1 Ed beards, so one could be blocked and curled while the other was in use.

Tattoos were kept on as long as possible, because putting them on and taking them off was time consuming. But three days was really the limit for them looking good and staying on securely.

DJenks requested that Ed have a full sleeve tattoo fairly late in the game before shooting. The snake was an efficient way to get a full sleeve, and also made placing smaller bits easier. Freckles were used for navigation.

DJenks asked for the back piece tattoo we see on Ed in s2e1. The skull and snake part were done by Dean Sacred and the lettering by Nancy Hennah.

Initial plan for Ed's chest piece was two ships having a fight, but it was too wide. The final chest piece was one tall ship with some bigger stars around it. There was initially a mermaid who didn't make the cut. "We always lived in fear of him having his top off."

NH talked about how much fun the hair cage styles were for s1e5 and the wedding in s2e1-- "because we weren't being period correct we had leeway."

A variety of makeup looks were tried for the beginning of s2, including one where the eyemask went all the way to the hairline. It's meant to look like it could be replicated using charcoal and oil, stuff the crew would have had access to.

Nathan Foad started a mini-trend of ridiculous sideburns in the 6 months he was wearing That Facial Hair around LA.

There was initially a wig set aside for Rhys. Not the white one he wears for s1e5, but a longer blond one. It wasn't used after tests because his own hair was so good.

Ed's s2 wig wasn't so much intended to be longer for story-telling purposes, it was just that he was wet a lot of the time and that pulled the curl out. But there were longer pieces around the front.

When Ed washed up on the beach in the Gravy Basket scene, he got black metallic sand in the wig. It was impossible to fully remove and was still in at the end of the season.

Normally Taika's hair would be slicked back with solid gel, but that's water-soluble and wouldn't have worked for s2e3. In that instance it was slicked back with glue? or something glue-like? and plumber's tape fashioned into a headband. The wig stayed on until when Ed was apparently falling into the water with the cannonball in the last take (really being pulled sideways).

Fang's tattoos were designed by Iniya Taylor in Auckland. A henna artist (whose name I didn't catch) designed Archie's pieces, which NH placed. Mads was thinking about getting one of her tattoos for real.

Of Ed's nail art in s1e10: "That was Taika, he'd gone and gotten it, and it was gels, we couldn't get it off. Taika said 'no one will notice, don't worry about it.'" (And then everyone noticed and was so excited and wrote meta about it.)

Did you know what you were unleashing when you put the wig in a bun in s2? "No."

There were many guesses about the hangman tattoo: circus, pirogi, virgin, mirage, girlie, girthy. The actual answer is PIRATE.

[leafy-heart]

Things I noticed on my rewatch of the Thunderbolts*

John Walker says "Hey, go easy on him." to Yelena, when Yelena is going off on Alexei for not showing up for her

→ Might be reading too deep but is he saying this because he's also a father that wasn't there for his kid?

John Walker talks too much most of the time. I don't know how to explain this, but usually what he's trying to convey is not wrong, but he uses excessive words. Probably over compensating for the lack of his confidence

Bucky saying "This isn't right." when Bob's shame room (Malaysia) starts expanding.

→ On the first watch I thought he was expressing a general concern, but on my second watch I'm wondering if he meant "It's not right for Bob to sacrifice himself."

Valentina exclusively called Bob "Robert"

Valentina did not care for the impeachment at all after she discovered Bob, and was probably willing to force herself to power with Sentry, not just for good press.

Bucky somehow appeared behind Alexei's limo, meaning that a) he flew in by himself, b) he sneaked into Valentina's crew, my bet is on a) but with the help of Sam Wilson

Bucky is so on the toe about Valentina all the time, he keeps saying "You don't know what Valentina is capable of", which makes me wonder what he knows about her past

Ava was the first one to follow after Yelena, and I thought it was because she didn't care if she lived or not. But the second watch I realised she genuinely wanted to save Yelena

Bucky is the type of person to get stuff the most effective and efficient way (bandage solutions). I used to think he was the logical type because in Captain America First Avenger, he was always trying to keep Steve from getting in trouble, but now I see he put up with Steve's troublemaking behaviours because he was similar in a way. He has to stick his neck into problems he can't stand, and he's not very creative/subtle about the solutions either. Impeachment? Get straight to the source, don't bother reading the packet. If that doesn't work, go after the evidence yourself, because who else will? A corrupt director is trying to unleash a human-made god, no prob, just crush a truck with social outcasts in the back. To put it in good words, he is straightforward no-nonsene and flexible with his plans. In reality he just wants shit to be done.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; torn by their obsession, the pack crumbles—now feral shadows of themselves. ghost, spiraling into hunger and rage, unleashes his fury.

⚠️ warnings; obsessive behaviour, unhealthy coping mechanisms, violence (sybil gets hurt!), blood and gore

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

The Rose District was a place of shadows—where the dimly lit streets bled into the underworld, where the stench of decay lingered in the air, and whispers of trouble hid behind every corner. Ghost had never liked coming here, but tonight, he had a purpose.

You had been raving about some rare herb for the past few days, an ingredient you couldn’t find anywhere else. Ghost, seemingly indifferent to your ramblings, had made a mental note to find it for you.

He moved with silent efficiency, his half-wraith nature allowing him to blend easily into the darkness. His eyes scanned the corners for any signs of the itinerant vendor he knew to hang around the area. The herb was supposed to be rare—dangerously so—but he couldn’t bring himself to care beyond getting it and making you happy.

That was, until he heard a soft voice, muffled and frightened, cutting through the usual hum of the Rose District. It wasn’t the sound itself that drew him—plenty of people got into trouble here—but there was something in the air, a pull.

He stepped out of the shadows, his eyes narrowing as he saw the scene unfold a few feet away. A young woman—her honey-brown hair gleaming faintly in the dim light—stood cornered by a group of rough-looking men. They smirked, closing in, their intentions clear and unkind.

Ghost could have turned away. He didn’t know her, and getting involved in these kinds of situations wasn’t exactly his style. But something in him shifted, a tug in his chest that he couldn’t quite shake. He sighed, his usual apathy mixing with a sense of obligation he couldn’t place, and stepped forward.

“Leave her,” he said, his voice low, barely a whisper, but it carried an unmistakable weight. The men froze, eyes flicking up toward him. They were the type to recognize danger when it appeared, and Ghost—his towering frame half-hidden by his hood—was clearly not a figure to be trifled with.

One of the men sneered but backed off, motioning for the others to follow suit. “Not worth it,” he muttered under his breath, casting one last leer at the girl before disappearing into the shadows.

Ghost watched them retreat, then turned to the girl. She was trembling slightly, her brown eyes wide with fear and gratitude. This was routine for him, helping folk when he had to, stepping in only when necessary. He was about to turn and leave, to forget this ever happened, when she spoke.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft, vulnerable.

Something about it made him pause, just for a moment.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice rough, more out of habit than genuine concern.

She shook her head, a slight smile forming on her lips, but before she could respond, her hand brushed his arm.

It was nothing—just a fleeting touch, accidental. But in that instant, something shifted. Ghost pulled back slightly, confused by the sudden wave of emotion crashing over him. It was subtle, at first, just a faint whisper in the back of his mind, but the longer he looked at her, the louder it became.

He tried to shake it off, tried to remember why he had come to the Rose District in the first place—there was something he needed to find, something important.

A strange sensation crawled up his spine, sinking deep into his mind. He felt… tethered, as if something in him latched onto her presence, a root slowly winding its way into his thoughts, making her impossible to ignore. His apathy slipped away, replaced by a growing need to stay close, to keep her safe, to protect.

He found himself stepping closer instead of retreating, his usual detached composure slipping as he studied her. She didn’t seem aware of the effect she was having, of the slow, insidious way she was beginning to unravel everything inside him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a little softer than before. The words felt automatic, like he was trying to regain control, but his mind was already clouded.

“I got lost,” she said, her eyes darting nervously toward the dark streets surrounding them. “I didn’t mean to—thank you, again. I’m Leah by the way.”

Ghost’s thoughts were hazy now, unfocused, as he repeated her name over and over again in his mind.

“We should go,” he muttered, gesturing for her to follow him. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t understand why he felt this way, but he couldn’t leave her alone now. Not when the pull was so strong.

By the time they reached the edge of the district, the thought of the herb he was supposed to find for you had completely faded from his mind. All that mattered was Leah—and keeping her near.

. . .

Plates sat piled in the sink, crusted and acrid with the remnants of old meals. Dust had settled over every surface, thick and undisturbed. The smell of neglect filled every corner, the windows streaked with grime, letting in only the barest slivers of weak, muted light.

The pack's home lay in shambles, reflecting the twisted obsession that had taken root in their minds. Every room told the same story—untouched and uncared and ignored like everything else that wasn’t Leah.

John’s instincts as a hunter—the sharpness, the clarity of purpose—had dulled, eroded by worry and exhaustion. He barely left the house, even though he should’ve been out there, doing what he did best, leading them. His guns, his gear, lay untouched, gathering dust in the corner. The man who had always been their steady hand, their anchor in the storm, was unravelling, his focus split between trying to hold the pack together and his concern for the woman who had somehow become the centre of all their lives.

Gaz rarely touched his books now, his once-meticulous study routine had been discarded, left to gather dust along with the shelves sagging under the weight of broken trinkets and forgotten potions. The thought of casting a spell, of focusing on anything outside of Leah, seemed almost impossible now.

Soap, once the energetic heart of their pack, had become consumed by his inner beast. His werewolf side, once held in check by a fierce loyalty and steady self-control, had slipped its leash. The wildness in him had grown more pronounced, his pacing erratic, his growls more frequent. He snapped at the others, a low, rumbling threat in his throat whenever they got too close. His restlessness filled the air, his anxious energy like static that crackled between them all.

And then there was Ghost. Of them all, he was the worst.

He had stopped taking the tonics you prepared especially for him—those essential mixtures that kept his half-wraith nature in check. Without them, the feral part of him had completely taken over, spiralling out of control. His skin had taken on a pale, deathly hue, his eyes burning red with the hunger that gnawed at him from within.

Things eventually did break apart.

The air in the house was thick with tension as the four of them gathered around in the dim light of the living room, a fire crackling in the hearth but offering no warmth.

Leah, despite having her own space above Laswell’s bar, had made herself at home in their place. It seemed so natural at first, like she belonged there among them. For a while, she stood out in the chaos, pristine and pretty amid the disarray.

But then, a sudden illness settled over her.

She had stopped eating days ago, and with every shallow breath she took, each spiralled deeper into their own madness.

The tension was unbearable, each day blending into the next, an endless cycle of sleepless nights and anxious pacing. They had stopped caring for themselves and each other. Fights broke out over nothing, their frustrations boiling over with every glance, every word.

The house that had once been a home was no longer a sanctuary. It was a reflection of the decay in their hearts, a hollow shell of what it had once been, crumbling under the strain of their obsession love.

“She needs more than we can give her,” Gaz said quietly, his voice laced with frustration. He rubbed his temples, as if trying to ward off the pounding headache that had settled on his temple for days. “I’ve tried every spell I know. None of it’s working.”

“Spells?” Johnny scoffed, his pacing agitated. “Spells aren’t what’s gonna fix her. We need to get her out of here, take her to someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“And who, exactly, is that, Soap?” Price shot back, his voice rising. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his face shadowed with exhaustion. “You think there’s someone out there who can handle this? Someone we can trust with Leah?”

Soap growled low in his throat, his enlarged nails flexing at his sides. “Better than sitting here, watching her waste away while you all argue over nothing.”

“We don’t know even what’s wrong with her!” Gaz snapped, losing his temper.

“And sitting here debating it is helping how?” Soap shot back, his eyes flashing in the low light. “We’ve been going around in circles for days. She’s getting worse, and all we do is talk, talk, talk!”

Price stepped forward, his face dark with anger. “We can’t just run off blindly. You think you’ll make it two blocks without something worse happening? The moment we leave this house—”

“This house is a tomb!” Soap snarled, his voice cracking. “She’s dying in there, and you want to sit here, playing it safe? You’re the one losing it, Price. You’ve lost your edge. You’re not thinking straight.”

Price moved so quickly that Johnny barely had time to react. They were face to face in an instant, both of them bristling with raw anger, their tempers flaring. “You want to say that again?” Price growled, the hunter in him itching to lash out.

Gaz stood up abruptly, pushing them apart with a frustrated grunt. “Enough! This isn’t helping anyone, least of all Leah.” He turned to Ghost, who had been eerily silent throughout the argument. “Ghost, you’ve barely said a word. What do you think?”

Ghost, standing in the corner, his form barely visible in the shadows, seemed almost detached from the scene. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, flicked to Gaz, but there was no recognition there, only a raw, feral hunger. He hadn’t taken his tonic in days, and it showed—the half-wraith within him was clawing its way to the surface, gnawing at the last vestiges of control he had left.

“We’re wasting time,” Ghost finally muttered, his voice guttural, barely human. His muscles twitched with unspent energy, his body wound tight as if ready to explode. “She’s dying. And we’re doing nothing.”

“We know that,” Gaz said softly, trying to reach him. “But we can’t just—”

Ghost’s eyes flickered, a dark intensity flashing across his face. “Then stop talking. Do something. Or get out of my way.”

Before anyone could react, Ghost was gone. He moved with inhuman speed, disappearing through the door in a blur of shadow and cold air. They barely had time to process it before the chill of his absence settled into the room.

Price cursed under his breath, turning back to the others. “Damn it, he’s gone feral.”

Soap’s pacing resumed, even more agitated now. “We can’t keep him locked up forever. He was bound to snap.”

“And now what?” Gaz asked, his voice hoarse with worry.

But despite the renewed sense of urgency, the argument had changed nothing. Leah still lay feverish in the other room, her condition worsening by the hour. And with Ghost gone, it felt as if the last thread holding them together had finally snapped.

And outside, in the night, Ghost stalked the streets, driven by an insatiable thirst, slipping deeper into the feral haze that consumed him. The city, bathed in the cool autumn moonlight, was ripe for hunting.

. . .

That cool evening you strolled through the dim streets with Sybil at your side. It was a rare moment of quiet, a stolen breath of normalcy after weeks of carefully orchestrating your life away from the pack.

No contact, no messages, no nothing. You were trying to move on, and of course failing miserably.

You tugged your cloak tighter around your shoulders when something suddenly felt… wrong. An icy chill washed over you, setting your nerves on edge, like a storm creeping in from the horizon.

Then you saw him.

Ghost.

His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were bloodshot, wide with hunger, glowing faintly in the dark like a feral animal.

Then you noticed the blood. Fresh streaks ran down his arms and neck, his clothes stained and torn, his skin smeared with it. Clearly not his own. He had already hurt someone. Maybe worse.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Simon?” you called his name softly.

He didn’t answer. He just stared. Unblinking. And then, with terrifying speed, he lunged.

Panic surged through you, and without thinking, you ran—your only thought was to get back to the shop. Trusting wholly that Sybil was by your side, you sprinted through the streets, your breath coming in frantic bursts, the pounding of his feet behind you growing louder, faster.

You barely made it through the door, slamming it shut and locking it just in time. But there was no time to catch your breath. Ghost was right behind you, slamming into the door with such force that it cracked. Your heart was racing in your chest as the door gave way under the weight of his attack, splintering open.

He barged in, and the destruction began.

He tore through the shop like a whirlwind, knocking over everything in his path in his blind attempt to catch you. Shelves collapsed under his weight, glass bottles shattered, herbs spilled across the floor, the once-familiar scents mixing with the pungent stench of blood and sweat.

“Stop!” you screamed, but it was useless. He couldn’t hear you. Couldn’t stop.

He pounced at you again, and Sybil, ever fearless and faithful, intercepted him. She sank her teeth into his leg, snarling fiercely, and for a moment, it slowed him down. He roared in pain, staggering, his bloodshot eyes narrowing in fury. But with one hard swipe of his hand, he sent her flying across the room. She hit the wall with a pained whine, her body crumpling to the floor.

“Sybil!” you wailed, heart splintering at the sight of her.

He stumbled on his injured leg, collapsing like a rag doll. But he wasn’t done.

Before you could react, his hand shot out and latched onto your ankle, dragging you down with terrifying strength. You hit the floor hard, pain shooting up your leg as he pulled you toward him, his grip crushing, his nails digging into your skin, drawing blood.

You cried in pain, instinctively twisting your body and kicking him—hard and square in the jaw. The impact was brutal, and his head snapped back with a sickening crack. For a moment, his grip slackened, and you scrambled to your feet, gasping for breath.

But it still wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

You limped towards the cauldron over the hearth, the brew still bubbling inside, before latching fiercely into it and toppling it towards him. The boiling liquid splashed all across the floor and against Ghost. His howl of pain ripped through the air as steam rose as his skin sizzled and burned, blistering down to the bone where the unfinished position had hit him.

You were barely holding on as you manoeuvre yourself around him and the torrid concoction, your body trembling as you picked up Sybil and darted towards the stair, desperate to get away. Every step was agony, your ankle throbbing from where he’d grabbed you.

You managed to slam the door to your apartment shut, locking it with shaking hands, but it felt so fragile. Too fragile. The sounds of Ghost’s growls echoed below, followed by the scraping of claws on wood.

He was coming.

You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking uncontrollably as you dialled Laswell’s number. The line rang and rang, but there was no answer. Your heart sank, panic rising again. You tried over and over, but no response came.

The door shuddered as he reached it, his nails scratching and clawing at the wood, a relentless assault that made your heart pound painfully in your chest. You clutched Sybil tightly in your arms, her body trembling against yours. She was hurt, but alive. You pressed your face into her fur, tears streaming down your cheeks as the scratching continued, a reminder that he wasn’t going to stop. Not until he had you.

The weight of it all—Ghost’s betrayal, the destruction of your shop, Sybil—threatened to suffocate you.

All you could do was wait. Wait for the sun to rise, for the light to finally push back the nightmare.

But deep down, you feared that by then, it might be too late.

banner credit

[cottonlemonade]

Insatiable

warnings: mdni, nsfw

I strongly believe that Kita has his sexual awakening when he starts dating you.

It takes quite a while before he kisses you deeper than a simple peck but once he does he is like “wait a minute.” and absolutely can’t stop anymore. Doesn’t want to stop anymore.

He starts to stare intensely at you during lectures not even paying attention to the professor because he could be kissing you right now. Why was he wasting his time with higher education?!

Once you guys take it a bit further and he knows what it’s like to eat you out, his mind goes blank and it’s becoming quite a problem. Usually you guys study together and he loves to tutor you but now you pretty much have to do all your reading horizontally because he politely asks if he may eat your pussy while quizzing you.

To be the most efficient lover he starts reading books and articles (and even sinks as low as to ask Atsumu because for some reason the men and women on campus just seem to fall for him left, right and center).

When it’s finally time for Kita to make love to you for the first time he turns primal. He grabs your love handles that he usually squeezes so tenderly when laying between your heavenly plush thighs and snaps his hips forward, burying his hard leaking cock as deep into you as he would the seeds on his fields.

He will from then on come up behind you when you are looking for a book in the library or when you are making dinner for you two, wrap his arms lovingly around your squishy form, maybe set a soft kiss against your temple, and with his usual calm manner, almost innocently, ask if he can fuck make love to you again like this morning.

You have no idea where this sweet, collected man hid all his urges when you met because Kita, once unleashed, is insatiable and you love it.

[syluslnd]

RAAAAA I LOVE YOUR STORIES SM!!!! Anyway, be sure to take breaks and get much sleep. <3

Okay so on to the request, Reader and Sylus having their lil date night at a fancy restaurant. Reader gets up and she excuses herself to the bathroom. After a while, while sylus is waiting and waiting.. Reader never got back to the table. Sylus got up to look for her. He finds her eventually but! There was a group of guys surrounding her. Reader was in distress while trying to be polite to the group of guys. (She can fight them if she wants. But it's 1 vs 5 she didn't want to take the risk)

(this one is on you, either Reader sees sylus and goes to him and hides behind him and they both leave OR protective Sylus mode on. Go wild)

Anyway PLEASE AND THANK YOU 🙏

sylus protecting you

Sylus had gone all out for the evening, treating you to an extravagant dinner at a high-end restaurant, where crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead and soft classical music played in the background.

He'd been watching you intently, every movement, every smile-captivated by your joy as you two laughed, shared bites and basked in each other's company.

At one point, you excused yourself to the restroom, assuring him you'd be right back.

But minutes ticked by and the faintest hint of worry flashed across Sylus's eyes. He gave it a moment longer but then feeling something was off, he decided to go check on you.

As he moved through the corridor leading to the restrooms, his gaze darkened as he saw a group of five men surrounding you, blocking your way back. You were politely trying to defuse the situation, a slight tremor in your voice as you asked them to let you pass.

"Gentlemen" Sylus's voice cut through the air, calm, almost deceptively so. "I believe she asked you to step aside."

Relief flooded your face as you darted toward him, instinctively hiding behind him as you clutched his arm. Sylus glanced down at you with a reassuring smile, then turned his gaze back to the men, his face now a mask of deadly calm.

"Go back inside, kitten” he murmured, though his tone held an unyielding edge.

"You don't need to be here for this."

You shook your head, stubbornly refusing to leave. "I'm not leaving you alone with them" you insisted, voice wavering slightly but resolute.

Sylus chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent a chill through the air. "Stubborn as ever." He gave you a quick nod, as if to say, fine, but don't say I didn't warn you. Then, his entire demeanor shifted as he turned his full attention to the men, his eyes now burning with a dangerous intensity.

"You picked the wrong person to harass tonight” Sylus said, his tone cold as ice.

Without waiting for a response, he closed the distance between him and the nearest man, striking him so swiftly that the man staggered back, clutching his face.

"What's wrong?" Sylus taunted, voice dripping with cruelty as he caught the man by the collar, slamming him against the wall.

"You thought you'd pick on someone innocent? Let's see how brave you are now."

One of the others lunged at him, but Sylus sidestepped with ease, delivering a brutal punch to the man's stomach before grabbing his arm and twisting it with a sickening crack. The man crumpled to the floor, writhing in pain. "Stay down or I'll make it worse” Sylus growled, his voice deadly calm.

The remaining three men exchanged glances, but Sylus gave them no time to react. With ruthless efficiency, he knocked one down with a swift kick, then grabbed the next by his shirt, whispering, "If you so much as look at her again, I'll make you regret it."

In a final move, he threw the last man back against the wall, his gaze a merciless glint as he stood over him. "Let this be a lesson” he spat. "She's mine and you're nothing more than a pathetic waste of space."

You watched in a mix of awe and shock, seeing Sylus unleash a side of himself you rarely saw. He straightened, brushing off his suit as if nothing had happened, before turning to you, his expression instantly softening as he took your hand. "Come on, kitten” he murmured, his voice back to its usual gentle tone. "Let's get back to dinner."

As he led you away, you couldn't help but lean into him, heart pounding, your respect for him growing deeper than ever.