#and when he gets there and sees a damn cat | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

killerplink · 3 days ago

Text

OVERTIME

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: Jason ignores you for hours, so you get on your knees and make him pay for it. With your mouth, your hands, and a smile he should've known meant trouble.

A/N: This one's for the bestie who wanted Jason try to gather intel while the reader is busy being cheeky and giving him head under the desk 🏃🏻‍♀️

Jason's in the living room, hunched ever so slightly over the big ass desk he set up in the far corner like some kind of broody Batcave satellite station. It started as just a place for him to "do some light recon", but you both knew that he was full of shit.

Fast forward two years and the man's basically turned it into a full blown command center—monitors glowing low in the dim light, shelves stacked with case files and scattered ammo boxes, that drawer he swears is "organized" but you're pretty sure is just where he dumps all the flash drives and burner phones.

And the desk? It's massive. Solid oak. You had to help him carry it in—well, he actually carried it, you mostly complained about the splinters—but the thing is perfect for him. Tall enough for him to sit comfortably and big enough to fit those thick ass thighs when he's planted in that expensive ergonomic chair he won't admit is actually from a gaming store.

You, on the other hand? You're draped across the couch like human roadkill, legs tossed over one armrest, head dangling off from the middle of the couch. There's a bad movie playing on the screen, some half melted latex creature growling at a screaming woman, but you're not really paying attention.

You thought he'd be done two hours ago—shit, you even brought him coffee and snacks to help speed it along—but it's pushing four now and he hasn't moved except to mutter "motherfucker" under his breath at whatever asshole he's currently after. And yeah, you get it. Intel, crime, important shit.

But you're also horny. And the way he's sitting there all focused, forearms flexing, tapping away at that keyboard with his pretty mouth pursed in concentration? He's really not helping himself.

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically, even. He grunts, but doesn't even flinch. So you do it again, dragging out the exhale like some dying Victorian ghost hoping to be asked what's wrong. This time it's louder, with more flair. Nothing.

You sit up slightly, propping yourself on one elbow, and peek over the backrest of the couch like a nosy cat. Just to check. Just to see. And the second your eyes land on him, all annoyance flies out the window, replaced by a sudden throb between your thighs that makes you swallow a soft sound.

When did he take his shirt off? Because now you're just staring at him—his broad, sculpted back flexing with every precise move, every tap of his fingers against the keyboard. The muscles in his shoulders bunch when he leans in to squint at something on the monitor, that thick line of his spine dipping down to the soft slope of his waist before it vanishes into the waistband of his gray sweats.

Your brain short circuits for a second. Just a second. You blink, trying to remember why you were mad. Oh, right. Four hours of being ignored.

God, you love this man. You really do. With your whole fucking heart. You love the way he brings you snacks in bed without being asked, how he buys fluffy socks because you're always cold, how he kisses your temple when he thinks you're asleep.

Yeah, sure, you also love his stupid jokes and the way he buys you chocolate when you're mad at him, and how he talks about you like you hung the damn moon. You love the way he always insists on walking on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road, the way he holds your hand without thinking, the way he says your name like it means something.

You love how his scary ass reputation melts into soft eyes and dry humor around you. But let's be real, you also love his stupidly hot body. Those muscles he barely even acknowledges like he's just naturally this stacked and still thinks he's "average". The V-line, the thighs, that back. It's actually a hate crime at this point.

You pout like a little brat, voice all whiny and needy, "Jay, when are you gonna finish there?"

At first, you think he's ignoring you. But then, after a beat, long enough to make you think he might not answer at all, you hear him murmur, "Just a few more minutes, doll."

Oh, hell no. You know that tone. That was a delayed response. The kind of half assed "don't bother me" answer you've heard way too many times when he's elbows deep in intel. That man's not getting up anytime soon, and you know it.

You flop back onto the couch with a groan, legs still hanging off one armrest like a bratty display of boredom, staring at the ceiling like it just personally offended you. Your brain starts working overtime, trying to figure out how to unglue your very sexy, very distracted boyfriend from that goddamn desk.

You consider stripping. Just walking over there, butt booty naked, maybe doing a little stretch in the doorway to "relieve tension". But honestly, you could stand there doing jumping jacks with your tits out and he'd probably just glance up, nod, and say "lookin' good, baby" before going back to his files.

Sitting in his lap and playing with his hair? Been there, didn't work. He just kissed your forehead and kept working.

You even think about searching for a bad porno, maybe cranking the volume, hoping the awful moaning would lure him away from his screens. He'd probably laugh and ask if the acting has improved.

Or maybe you should just outright watch it and make sure he hears every fucking second. But even then, you're not sure that'd snap him out of his recon tunnel vision. Stupid sexy vigilante and his stupid crime obsession.

And that's when it hits you. No, not the regular route. Not teasing, not stripping, not throwing yourself at him. Something better. Something cheeky. You sit up slowly, a smile creeping over your lips. The kind of smile he never sees coming until it's too late. Maybe it's time to make him feel the consequences of ignoring you.

You move quietly, your steps light as you pad across the room, and Jason doesn't even look up when you come behind him. He's too wrapped up in whatever mission file he's neck deep in. But the second you drape yourself over his back—arms wrapped around his shoulders, chest flush to him, cheek smushed against the side of his neck—he softens just a little.

His hand comes up, fingers grazing along your forearm in a slow, absentminded rub like muscle memory.

"You okay, baby?"

You hum, lips brushing the warm skin at his neck. "Mhmm."

You start slow, lazy, like you're just being clingy and sweet. But your mouth is on his skin, lips parting slightly to kiss just below his jaw, and you lick a slow line up to his ear before catching his earlobe between your teeth and biting down, a little amused huff slipping from his chest.

"Don't be a little brat. I'll be done in a bit."

Another "Mhmm" is all he gets, this one a little more smug. Because your hands are already trailing down his chest, slipping over the broad stretch of his pecs, brushing lower—slow and teasing—until your fingers graze over his abs and down to where his sweatpants are slung low on his hips.

And yep, he's already half hard. The twitch of his dick beneath your palm is proof enough that all this patience you've been clinging to is not one sided.

You palm his cock through the fabric, just enough pressure to make him grunt, and God, that sound alone makes your thighs squeeze together. You rub him slow, almost affectionate, like you're not trying to be the worst kind of distraction imaginable.

He groans, hips shifting slightly, but then his hand wraps around your wrist, gently stopping you. "C'mon, baby," he says, voice strained. "Be a little patient for me."

You pout into his neck. Full on, lip jutting, pathetic pout. "I've been patient for the past few hours."

Jason snorts, "So you can wait another few minutes, pretty girl."

That tone? Casual, teasing, a little condescending, even. And it seals his fucking fate. You huff, and he hears it, but doesn't really register it for what it really is.

For a second, Jason thinks you're going to pull away. Maybe stomp back to the couch or go sulk in bed with the passive aggressive energy of the chaos gremlin he's so stupidly in love with. He's so deep into his recon shit that it doesn't even occur to him that you've never been exactly good at taking no for an answer.

But he should've known better. That huff? That tiny, dramatic sound? That was a warning shot. And the moment he hears the soft shuffle of movement, feels your body slipping down and out of his hold, it clicks too late. Because now you're dropping to your knees, sliding under the desk, and his brain short circuits like a system override.

Jason snorts. "Baby, what are you—"

You cut him off with a soft huff, "Nothing," you murmur, way too casual for what you're about to do. "Just do your thing, Jay."

And before he can argue, your hands are on him, smoothing up his thighs, trailing closer and closer to the thick bulge straining under the soft grey fabric of his sweats.

You lean in, pressing soft, warm kisses along the outline of his cock. Up the length of it, over the head, nuzzling your cheek against the bulge like you missed it since last night. His head drops back against the chair with a quiet thunk, hand twitching on the mouse like he's still trying to work, but he already knows where this is going and he's powerless to stop it.

"Jesus..." he mutters, voice hoarse.

"Mmm?" you hum innocently against his cock, mouthing over the head again before pressing your kisses down to the base just to tease him through the fabric, feeling him jerk slightly in response.

You smile against his dick as you press another kiss, then another, slow, teasing, trailing up along the heavy ridge until your nose brushes the waistband of his sweats before your fingers hook under it.

He lifts his hips when you tug, obedient without even realizing it, and lets you peel both the sweats and his boxers down to his thighs. His cock springs free—thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip—and your mouth waters at the sight.

"God, you're so hard, baby," you whisper, grinning up at him.

Your hand wraps around the base of his dick, warm and firm, just the way he likes, and you start with a kiss right against the thick vein along the underside of his shaft. Then another at the tip. Your tongue darts out, licking a little drop of precum, and when you look up at him, he's watching you. Eyes half lidded, lips parted, chest heaving.

You lick a slow, wet circle around the swollen head of his cock, tongue flicking just under the ridge, then gliding over the top again, warm and soft and teasing. He's already so sensitive there, and you know it, which is why you take your sweet fucking time. Then you do it again, this time slower, messier.

You keep your eyes on him as your tongue circles the head of his cock, teasing him in slow, lazy swirls like you're just tasting him, like you're enjoying this more than anything on earth. And you kind of are.

He's flushed and leaking, thick drops of precum painting your tongue, and you lap it up with small licks, moaning a little just from the taste, but then you get mean with it.

You press the very tip of your tongue right into the slit—soft, deliberate pressure—and he chokes on a groan above you, hips jerking as his hand shoots down and tangles in your hair. Not tugging, not even guiding, just holding, fist curling tight like if he lets go, he'll fucking lose it.

"Shit—fuck, baby, you're gonna kill me," he breathes, voice rough and so deep you feel it in your clit.

And when you finally wrap your lips around the tip slow and teasing, being a just little mean about it, Jason lets out a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest. His cock twitches in your hand, already pulsing like he can't decide between fucking your throat or falling apart right there.

You moan around him—soft, needy—and the vibrations make him hiss through his teeth. Your spit slicks him up easy, sliding down past your knuckles as your lips glide further, taking him deeper inch by inch. Your throat stretches around the thickness, your jaw aching in that good way, hand stroking the base in messy, desperate pumps.

You suck harder, cheeks hollowing with wet slurps, loud and unashamed. You want him to hear it, want him to feel it, and fuck, he does.

His hips twitch, the muscles in his thighs flex, and he grits out, "God, baby—your fuckin' mouth—"

You don't stop. Just sink down slow, then pull back with a little pop of your lips, only to sink again, tongue dragging along the underside of his cock. Your chin is soaked, spit webbing between your fingers and his shaft, dribbling down your wrist, your throat working every time he hits the back of it.

He's panting above you, trying to keep still, but that hand in your hair? He's got a death grip on it. His fingers are tangled in your soft strands, his thumb pressing just behind your ear like he's grounding himself, like he might lose it if you go any deeper.

But you want him to. You want to ruin him with your mouth. So you look up at him through your lashes, cheeks flushed, lips stretched around his cock, and suck him down harder, deeper.

He lets out a broken noise, hips bucking, and groans, "Fuck—fuck, I'm not gonna last, baby—"

And you just hum around him like that's exactly what you want. Because it is. You don't ease up, not even close. You fuck him with your mouth like you've got something to prove, like you need to make a point with every wet glide of your tongue and every sharp suck around the head.

But you are still annoyed with him, after all. He thinks he can get away with pissing you off and then sitting pretty like this? Not a chance. Not without you using that dick like it's yours to play with. And it fucking is.

You grip the base tighter, letting your spit drip down because it doesn't matter how messy you get. Your jaw works, mouth hot and greedy, bobbing up and down as you take him again and again. A twist of your wrist, a roll of your tongue just underneath the head, right on that sensitive spot that makes him twitch. He jerks, breath stuttering, and you moan around him with a smile.

God, you love this. Love how this big, scary, brutal man—Red Hood himself—melts under your mouth like this. He's all muscle and grit, scars and guns and growls, but right now? Right now he's fucking trembling. His thighs are tight, his abs clenching, one hand fisted in your hair like he's praying you don't stop, the other digging into the edge of the desk like he knows better than to touch you without permission.

And his head is spinning. Jason's trying to hold it together, but fuck, it's hard. You know exactly how to suck his dick. You're not just sucking it, you're devouring him. Tongue flicking under the crown, lips wrapped tight, cheek hollowing just enough for that perfect pressure. Every time he thinks he's about to get a breath, you take him deeper, sloppier, wetter.

His thoughts are scrambled as hell. He can't even form a full sentence in his head anymore, not with the way your throat clenches around him like you want him to lose it. And God, he is losing it. Fast.

He grunts, rough and ragged, his voice raw. "Baby—fuck, I'm close, I'm—"

And that's exactly when you stop. You pull off with a wet pop, spit glistening on your chin, your lips swollen, your eyes glassy. Your hand stays on his dick, stroking just enough to keep him there, but not enough to push him over.

"Ah-ah," you hum, licking the corner of your mouth. "You don't get to cum yet."

Jason makes this wrecked noise—half growl, half desperate moan—and his cock twitches in your fist, so painfully hard and so fucking close. His chest is rising fast, muscles taut, eyes blown wide as he stares down at you like he doesn't know whether to beg or curse you out.

You blink up at him from under the desk, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes, like you're sweet and innocent. Like you didn't just edge him to the brink and snatch it away like it was nothing. Like your mouth isn't still glistening with spit and precum, lips shiny and swollen from how deep you took him.

And Jason? Jason's stunned. He's got that shell shocked look, like you just short circuited the last few working brain cells he had left. His mouth is slightly open, breathing shallow, brow drawn tight. His dick is still throbbing in your grip, soaked in spit and precum, and your hand—fuck, your hand just keeps moving. Slow, deliberate strokes that make squelching noises in the silence, slick and lewd because you want him to hear every wet slide of your palm over his shaft.

He's not used to this. He's used to being the one in control, used to having you begging, whining, melting under his touch while he teases you until you're crying for it.

His brain is a mess. Fuck—she's never like this—what the fuck—what did I—Jesus, she's so hot like this—look at her—holy fuck, I'm not gonna survive this shit. What did I do? What the hell did I—

You lean in closer, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock, lips curled into the tiniest smirk as your fist strokes him—tight at the base, twisting when you reach the slick, sensitive tip.

"You ignored me for four hours, Jay."

Your voice is sweet, pouty, dangerous and he flinches like the words physically hit him.

He stumbles for an excuse, lashes fluttering, "I didn't—baby, I wasn't—"

But then you twist your wrist right at the head, and his hips jerk forward with a grunt. The sound he makes is raw, desperate, and he chokes on whatever half assed excuse he was about to offer and swallows it back down with a harsh breath.

You tilt your head, all faux sweetness. "No?"

He shakes his head immediately, eyes wide, lips parted like he wants to speak but can't. He's quiet for once, but not by choice, more like every word has been knocked out of him, replaced by nothing but the ache between his legs and the way your hand keeps pumping him slow and steady.

And you—God, you grin like you've already won. Without warning, you lean in again and take all of him in one smooth motion, your lips parting, your throat stretching, your jaw flexing around his dick until your nose nearly brushes his skin. He lets out this choked sound, one hand flying to the underside of the desk for balance, the other trembling where it's still tangled in your hair.

You slide off just as slowly, letting your tongue drag the whole way, spit connecting your mouth to his skin until it breaks with a wet string when you pull off.

You tilt your head just a little, voice all sweet and syrupy like you're not holding him by the fucking balls right now.

"You wanna cum, baby?"

His breath hitches, chest rising and falling fast as he nods, eyes glassy, completely at your mercy. "Y-yeah."

You hum like you're thinking about it, hand still working him slow and mean as your thumb brushes right over the slick head, teasing the slit. He twitches in your fist, and his abs clench like he's trying to keep himself from bucking up again.

"Yeah?" you repeat, all fake sympathy and sugar. "Why would I make you cum, huh?"

And fuck, the look on his face is priceless.

Jason stares at you like you just asked him to solve a riddle in a language he doesn't speak. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, just another choked little sound as your thumb circles the head again, catching on the mess of precum that's already smeared everywhere.

He's got no idea what the fuck to even say. Because this? This is new. You never tease like this. Never leave him speechless like some desperate, trembling mess. That's usually his job.

You can't help but grin. Because seeing him like this—so fucked out, so helpless—is better than any orgasm you could've given him right now. Usually, even half awake after a long patrol, hair a mess, still in his suit, he's got that smug little smirk and some bullshit line ready to go. He always has a comeback. But right now? He's fucking silent. And God, you live for it.

Your panties are sticking to your soaked cunt, clinging to your folds like a second skin. You don't even know if it's the taste of him on your tongue or the sight of him—Jason Todd, Red Hood, this big, grunting, gun slinging menace—reduced to this that's got you dripping. Probably both. Definitely both.

You don't even let him think too hard about it. You lean right back in like you've made your decision, but really, you're just not done ruining him.

You take him deep, no hesitation. Your lips seal tight around his cock, and you slide down all the way until your nose brushes the base, throat stretched wide, swallowing around him like your only mission in life is to make him lose it. Your hand drops to cup his balls, rolling them gently as your mouth works him, wet and sloppy, drool sliding down your chin.

Loud, slick squelches fill the room, his dick gliding in and out of your mouth, your tongue working every inch you can reach, humming low just to feel him twitch.

Jason chokes on a moan, hips jerking forward like he needs more, like he's gonna fuck your mouth if you don't give it to him, so you stop. Again. You slide off with another wet pop, spit trailing from your bottom lip to the head of his cock as he gasps, completely wrecked.

He looks ruined, and you haven't even let him cum, but he already looks like he has.

You lean in close, so close your breath ghosts over the flushed head of his cock and you press a single, featherlight kiss right to the tip. Just a little peck, all sweet and innocent, like you're not the reason he's trembling in that chair right now, leaking and desperate.

He lets out this strangled noise from the back of his throat, his head falling back against the chair with a soft thump, eyes fluttering shut. His thighs are twitching, muscles flexing like he's trying to hold still, trying not to fuck up into your hand. But his cock throbs helplessly in your grip, and you know—oh, you know—he's suffering.

And you love it.

Your hand keeps pumping him slow, slick sounds filling the quiet space between you. His dick is soaked—your spit, his precum, it's all smeared over your fingers, dripping down your wrist, sticky and warm. Every stroke is just enough to keep him on the edge, just enough to make his legs shake.

Then you lean in again and lick that fat bead of precum right from his slit, tongue flicking over the sensitive tip like it's your favorite treat. You do it again, lapping at him with slow, teasing licks, until you feel him start to tremble under your touch.

"Beg, baby," you murmur, voice low and smug.

His head snaps up so fast it's almost dizzying. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing what's left of that pretty blue, and he stares at you like he can't fucking believe what you just said. Like he's not sure if you're serious or if this is some cruel joke.

"Doll—" he says it like a warning, but there's nothing sharp about it.

It comes out broken. Wrecked. Like a man on the edge, like a man barely holding on. His voice cracks halfway through, and you feel his cock twitch again in your hand.

You smile. So innocent. So fucking mean.

"You've been so mean, Jay," you coo, placing another soft kiss on the underside of his tip, just to watch him shiver. "Ignored me for hours. I mean, the least you can do is beg for me to make you cum."

And your hand doesn't stop, not even close.

Your strokes stay slow, mean, teasing, obscene with how wet his dick is. It squelches under your palm, your thumb smearing the precum over the flushed skin as you drag it back down.

He makes a sound—somewhere between a whimper and a grunt—and his hips twitch again like he's right at the edge, body taut, straining for release that you refuse to give. He's panting, jaw clenched, veins in his neck standing out as he tries so fucking hard not to just break.

"Please."

It's soft, almost inaudible, murmured like it physically hurts him to say it. His eyes flutter shut like if he doesn't look at you, it'll be easier. Like it won't strip every last ounce of pride from his bones.

But you're not letting him off that easy.

Your grip stays steady, tight and slow around the base of his cock, thumb pressing into the underside every time you stroke upward.

He's leaking, throbbing in your hand, so hard it has to ache, but you just smile and coo, "What was that, baby?"

He lets out a shaky breath, head falling back against the chair again. "Please," he rasps. "Please let me cum."

"Hmmm," you murmur like you're thinking real hard about it. Your hand never stops moving. You just switch up the rhythm—faster for a second, then dragging your palm down just slow enough to knock the edge out from under him again. "Didn't hear that, Jay."

He grunts, biting back a groan, and then he laughs. A short, breathless thing that's more frustration than humor. "Jesus Christ, you're a fuckin' menace, aren't you?"

You hum sweetly, unbothered, still jerking him off in that same torturous rhythm. His thighs are flexed so hard they're shaking, abs tight like he's doing everything he can not to lose it.

Then, quieter this time, full of rough desperation: "Please, pretty girl. Let me cum. I'll do anything you want."

That makes you giggle, sweet and dangerous. You slow your strokes just enough to let your thumb drag across the head again, watching his breath catch in his throat.

"Anything, Jay?"

He nods instantly, like the word yes is the only thing left in his vocabulary. "Yeah. Please," he pants, hips twitching uselessly into your hand. "Just—just let me cum."

“Will you fuck me after?” you murmur, voice low, breathy, filthy, like the words themselves are enough to make him burst.

You lean in closer, your tongue flicking out to taste him again, just a soft, slow lick right across the tip because you know how sensitive he is right now. You swirl your tongue lazily, then pull back just enough for your breath to tease him again, warm and cruel.

Jason groans loud. His hand flies to the desk, like he needs something to hold onto or he's gonna break. He looks down at you, eyes half lidded, pupils blown so wide they're nearly black, and that cheeky fucking smile you're giving him?

He hates how much he loves it. He fucking hates it. But deep down? You both know it fucks him up.

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck—anything you want, baby. Just lemme cum."

"Good boy," you murmur, soft and syrupy, the praise sliding off your tongue like sin.

And then you're on him again, no warning, no teasing, just your lips parting, mouth stretching around the flushed, aching head of his cock like you've been starving for it.

You take him deep, your throat working around the thick length of him like you need it, greedy and unrelenting, spit already bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you sink down, swallowing more and more. Your hand wraps tight at the base, guiding what your throat can't handle yet—slick, obscene, absolutely fucking devoted.

Jason loses it. His hips jerk up with a ragged curse, and you let him, his dick sliding deeper into your throat as you choke around it, eyes watering, nose brushing the base. He growls, the sound scraping low from his chest like it was dragged out of him, raw and ruined.

You're not even mad. You knew this was coming. You keep sucking him with that same hungry little desperation, tongue swirling when you pull back, cheeks hollowing when you go down again, throat stretching every time he thrusts up into you like he can't help himself. You're gagging a little, drool dripping down your chin, clinging to your fingers where you still stroke what you can't take, but you don't care.

You like it messy. Because nothing compares to the way Jason sounds when he's right there, when he's got no snark, no self control, just that tight, needy edge in his voice as he pants your name like a prayer.

"Fuck, baby—fuck, fuck, your mouth—"

His grip in your hair tightens, not rough, not painful, just possessive. Desperate. Like he's two seconds from completely falling apart and you're the only thing holding him together. And really, he's not wrong.

You moan around him and the vibration makes his hips stutter, his thighs trembling. His dick is a mess, broken gasps and little shaky groans leaving him as he keeps fucking into your mouth, deeper, harder, chasing the edge.

And yeah, okay, you're definitely gonna regret teasing him this long. But fuck, isn't it worth it? Because God, you're fucking soaked.

Not just wet, you're dripping. Your panties are clinging to your cunt, hot and slick, the mess between your thighs getting worse every time he groans, every time his cock hits the back of your throat. You shift your hips against the floor without even meaning to, chasing the tiniest bit of friction, but it's useless. Nothing compares to this.

Your nipples ache where they press against the thin fabric of your tank top, hard and swollen, rubbing against it with every breath you take. You're flushed all over, body buzzing, and the taste of him—the weight of his dick on your tongue, the heat and stretch in your mouth—has you right there, right on the fucking edge. You could probably cum just from this. Just from sucking his cock like this.

Jason's a fucking mess. You feel the change first, the way his thigh tenses beneath your hand, the way his breathing shortens into ragged, panting little shudders. The way his hips twitch, losing rhythm, like he's barely holding on.

"F-fuck, I'm—baby, I'm gonna—"

And then he does. His whole body jerks, head tipping back as a low, broken moan punches out of him, chest heaving like he's been holding it in for hours. His cock throbs on your tongue, thick and hot, and then he cums. Hard.

Floods your mouth with it—thick, salty spurts that coat your tongue, fill your throat. You don't pull back. You take it, swallowing fast, lips still wrapped around him as your hand slows, stroking his base while your mouth does the rest.

You suck him through it, gentler, with slow, rhythmic pulls, tongue cradling the head as he trembles under you. His hand is shaking in your hair, fingers flexing like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and he's moaning, soft and breathless, a constant little stream of praise tumbling out between gasps.

"Fuck, doll—God, that mouth—s'good, you're so good, shit—"

You don't stop until you're sure you've got every drop. You lick him clean, spit slick and still twitching in your mouth as your tongue runs slow over the head, careful, delicate. Your eyes water from how deep you'd taken him, lashes damp as you blink up at him, still sucking, soft and sweet.

And Jason? His mind is wrecked. You're so fucking beautiful like this. On your knees, eyes glossy, mouth wrapped around his dick like you own him—because you do. You really, truly do.

No one's ever done this to him before. No one's ever ruined him so gently. So thoroughly. You tease, you torment, you push him to the edge, but you know how far to take it. You know how to bring him back.

He's had flings, hookups, girls who wanted the Red Hood for the story. But this? You?

You're it. And God, he never thought he'd get this. Never thought he'd deserve it. But looking down at you—lips still wrapped around his cock, cheeks flushed, hair messy from where he's been holding you—he's never been more sure of anything in his life.

You finally—finally—give him a break. You know he's way too sensitive, dick still twitching in your mouth, so you ease off with a soft little pop and kiss the flushed, swollen head, all slow and sweet.

Jason twitches. "Fuuuck—" he groans like the sound was dragged out of him.

And then he's moving, his chair rolling back just enough before you can even blink, and his hands are on you before you can breathe.

"Baby—" you yelp as he hauls you out from under the desk and right into his lap, landing with a little bounce, your thighs straddling him, the thick press of his dick snug right up against your soaked pussy.

Your tank top is a mess, your panties are ruined, and you're breathless from the sudden shift, but you don't get another word out. One hand settles rough and sure on your ass, the other tangling in the back of your hair, and he doesn't even bother saying anything before he kisses you.

And fuck, he kisses you. It's not sweet. It's not gentle. It's hungry. Wet and messy, all tongue and teeth and desperate moans swallowed between gasps. He kisses you like he's trying to make up for the four hours he left you wanting with just his mouth alone, tongue pushing into your mouth without hesitation, licking into you like he needs to taste himself on your tongue. And it's there, the sharp, salty taste of his cum still clinging to your lips, your teeth, your tongue, and he moans into it like he's losing his fucking mind.

It's all greed and spit and the kind of desperate, breathless kisses that feel more like gasps than anything else. He breaks away for a second, groaning into your mouth, just to dive right back in, tilting your head with a rough hand in your hair, licking deeper, slower.

You whimper into him, hips rocking down against his, instinctive and needy, and his hand squeezes your ass in response. His other one doesn't let go of your hair, holding you close, still tasting himself off your tongue like he doesn't care how filthy it is—no, he likes it. Loves it. Wants it all.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice wrecked and low,

"Fuckin' knew you'd ruin me, pretty girl."

You lick into his mouth one more time, dragging your teeth over his bottom lip before pulling back with a breathy little gasp, smirking as you murmur, "Your turn, Jay."

And oh, that fucking gets him. He hisses through his teeth, pupils blown wide with heat, the grip on your ass tightening for a second before his hand slides lower—fingers trailing between your thighs from behind, right over that embarrassingly wet patch of your panties.

"Fuck," he mutters, lips brushing your jaw as he grins against your skin. "You're soaked, baby. You this wet just from suckin' my dick?"

You whimper, breath hitching when he pushes your panties aside with two thick fingers, brushing the bare, sticky heat of your cunt. His fingers slide through the mess and God, you're dripping for him.

His hands slip under your thighs, lifting them effortlessly as he spreads your legs wide over the arms of his chair. Pinned open, soaked, squirming—he's got you just how he wants you, and he knows it. You grab his shoulders instinctively, nails digging in for some kind of grounding because you already know what's coming.

"Jay—"

He slaps your ass. Hard enough to sting, soft enough to make you moan, and the sound of it echoes filthy and perfect in the quiet room.

"You want me to fuck you, huh?" he growls, cocky and breathless, dragging the head of his dick through your slippery folds, teasing you just enough to make your hips twitch.

You nod fast, needy, thoughtless. "Yes—yes, please, just—fuck me, Jay, I want it—"

He scoots just a little, lining himself up, and you feel the blunt head of his cock press right against your hole before he pushes in.

Fuck. You shudder, mouth falling open, nails pressing into his shoulders as he slides in so easily. Your walls stretch around him without resistance, just soaked and swollen and ready to take every inch. He groans low in his throat, head dropping to your shoulder as he sinks deeper until his hips are flush with yours and you can feel him throb inside you.

"You're so fuckin' wet," he murmurs, voice wrecked already. "Took me like you've been waitin' for this all evening."

And you have. God, you fucking have. You barely have time to adjust to how deep he is, your body still fluttering around the stretch when Jason yanks your tank top down in one quick, rough motion. The fabric strains before it slips beneath your tits, baring them to the air—and to him. His mouth is on you in seconds, hot and hungry, groaning as he buries his face right between your tits.

You let out a breathless little moan, your hands braced on his broad shoulders as you start to move. The position is perfect—you're spread open over the chair, anchored by his grip and the way his thighs are planted beneath yours, and it gives you leverage.

You roll your hips first, then start to bounce, each slick slide down making you gasp. His cock fills you just right, hard and pulsing, stretching you perfectly as you fuck yourself on him.

He groans against your skin, cupping both your tits with those big, rough hands, squeezing just hard enough to make your back arch. "Goddamn, baby, these fuckin' tits..."

And then he's licking you. Everywhere. His tongue drags between your nipples, slow and wet, before he sucks one into his mouth, lips wrapping tight around it as his tongue flicks and rolls. You whine, hips stuttering, and he doesn't stop—switches to the other nipple like he can't pick a favorite, sucking it hard enough to make you gasp again.

"You ride me so good," he mutters, voice all fucked out, his hands kneading your tits like he owns them. "Bouncin' on my dick like a good fuckin' girl."

Your breath catches as he pulls back, his mouth slick with spit, and you don't even get a second to adjust before his hands are on your ass. One rough grip on each cheek, and he slams you down, holding you there, pinning you as he starts fucking up into you.

Your head falls back with a whimper, the wet sounds between your legs growing louder every time he slams into you. Your arousal coats him, slick and messy and everywhere, and you can feel it. The way it clings to his skin and your folds, shiny and sticky. And Jason? He's watching all of it. Losing it.

"Look at this pussy," he groans, hips snapping up fast and hard. "Look at how you take me—fuckin' swallowin' my dick."

He fucks you like he means it. No holding back, no teasing. Just deep, hungry thrusts that stretch your soaked pussy wide every time he buries himself inside you. Your thighs twitch, muscles straining as he slams up into you with enough force to make the chair creak underneath you both, and all you can do is hold on.

You feel full, stuffed to the hilt, every inch of him hitting so deep, like he's fucking your pleasure into the deepest part of your pussy. Your tits bounce with every snap of his hips, heavy and slick from his spit, and he watches them like a man obsessed.

"Touch your pretty little clit," he pants, voice wrecked with how hard he's breathing, how tight your pussy is squeezing him. "C'mon, baby, rub that messy little thing for me."

And you obey without thinking, how could you fucking not? You slide one trembling hand between your thighs and find your swollen clit instantly, already throbbing and slippery with your arousal. You rub it in fast, messy circles, breath stuttering from the pleasure overload of it all—your soaked cunt getting pounded, your clit aching from how worked up you are, his dick splitting you open so perfectly.

"That's it," Jason growls, his hands gripping your ass. "Look at you—ridin' my dick, rubbin' that sweet little clit like a good girl. You're fuckin' perfect, baby."

And you fucking break. Your body shudders once, then again, your voice catching in your throat before a moan punches out of you, high and desperate. Your fingers never stop moving, and neither does he, fucking you through it, even as your legs seize up and your back arches.

And then it happens. You squirt, just like that. Your orgasm crashes through you in wet, pulsing waves, hot and intense, your pussy fluttering wildly around his cock as fluid gushes out of you. It soaks your fingers, his dick, his lap—everything—your slick arousal spraying out with each deep, perfect thrust. Your hand is drenched, your thighs are dripping, and Jason moans so loud, head falling back as he watches you come completely undone.

"Holy fuck," he hisses, fucking up into you harder, rougher. "So goddamn pretty when you make a mess, baby."

You tremble, panting, overwhelmed and wrecked, barely able to moan out a soft, broken "Don't stop, Jay—please—" even as your walls keep pulsing from aftershocks.

You lean in, still trembling from your orgasm, thighs quivering on either side of him, and Jason doesn't even wait. His hand flies up to the back of your neck, rough and greedy, and he pulls you down into a kiss like he needs your mouth just as much as your pussy.

It's messy, all spit and panting breaths, tongues sliding together in a wet tangle. He groans into your mouth like he's starving for you, and you swallow the sound greedily, hips rolling as his dick keeps driving up into your soaked cunt.

You moan into him, the slick drag of his cock inside you still hitting every swollen, overstimulated nerve, your pussy fluttering around him. You're still so fucking wet, everything between your legs an absolute mess, your arousal smeared all over his cock and clinging to your thighs, pooling under your ass with every grind of your hips.

His tongue licks into your mouth like he owns it, like he can't fucking help himself, and you kiss him back just as hungrily, both of you panting into each other's mouths as your bodies slap together, wet and obscene. You can feel the way his hips jerk every time your walls clench down, hear the little grunts he makes when your nails dig into his skin.

You break the kiss with a gasp, lips slick with spit, your breath coming in short, helpless pants, and Jason's eyes are blown wide when he looks at you—wet mouth, flushed face, tits bouncing every time he drives into you.

"Fuck," he grits, hips stuttering just for a second. "You kiss me like that while I'm inside this pussy, I'm not gonna last."

But that doesn't stop him. He licks into your mouth again, sloppy and hot, like he can't get enough, and he doesn't stop fucking you even for a second, your cunt sucking him back in again and again.

But then he stops. Just fucking stops, cock buried deep and throbbing, and your whole body twitches when he stills, when that perfect stretch suddenly halts, and all you can do is let out this desperate, broken little whimper against his mouth.

Jason grins. That smug, shit eating, cocky little smirk that makes you want to slap him and fuck him harder all at once.

"Oh, you didn't think I'd let you finish me off like that, did you?"

Before you can even beg, his hands are under your thighs, and he fucking stands with you still on his dick. You gasp, clinging to him as he lifts you, and then, with a little thud, your ass hits the cool surface of his desk.

"Jason—"

Papers scatter. A pen clatters to the floor. His cock slips out for the briefest, aching second, but he's already lining up again, one hand sliding under your thigh to lift your leg, the other grabbing your neck.

You moan sharp and high, head falling back as his dick drags in deep and fast, hitting that perfect spot again and again, every thrust brutal and wet and perfect. Your pussy squeezes him tight—too tight—and he groans, deep and ragged, his hips stuttering just a little.

"Shit—yeah. Just like that. Fuckin' stranglin' my dick—"

His hand around your neck squeezes just enough to make your pussy clench hard, and that makes him pause just a second as your walls squeeze his dick like a fucking vice.

"Jesus—fuckin'—Christ," he groans, eyes flicking down to where he's buried in you.

And God, it's filthy. Your pussy is drooling around him, soaking his dick and his desk and your thighs, the slick wet sounds echoing with every thrust as he rails you, fast and deep, making the desk creak. You cry out when his thumb suddenly slides down between your legs, rubbing tight little circles over your clit—slippery and fast, making your thighs tremble where they hang off the desk. Your whole body twitches, hips rocking forward instinctively, chasing that pressure even as he fucks you.

"Yeah?" he pants, circling it hard and fast, smirking at the way you squirm. "That what you needed, baby?"

You nod, frantic, breathless, clutching at his biceps while he ruins you, rubbing your clit in tight, messy circles as he keeps fucking you, every thrust sending wet heat sparking down your spine.

"Sound so fuckin' pretty when I touch you," he grits, watching how your face crumples with every swipe of his thumb. "Wanna see you cum again. Wanna feel this little pussy soak my dick."

And the way he says it? Low and wrecked and hungry? You know you're not gonna last long.

"J-Jay," you whine, voice high and ragged, words tumbling between shaky breaths, "T-too much, baby, I can't—"

But he shuts you up with a kiss, rough and hot and wet, mouths mashing together like he's trying to taste every moan you're too wrecked to hold back. His tongue licks into your mouth, greedy and slow, and it's all spit and gasps and his quiet groan when your lips cling to his like you're starved. Which, you are. You always are.

"Yeah, you can, doll," he murmurs between kisses, words rumbling against your tongue. "C'mon, give it to me."

And you try—God, you try—but your thoughts are fucking gone. Just a mess of heat and Jay and the stretch of his cock pounding into your soaked cunt, over and over again. You haven't even cum more than once, but you're already seeing stars. Truth is, you were pent up before you even dropped to your knees under his desk—fuming, needy, aching.

So now, with his dick hitting just right, his hand tightening a little more around your throat, his thumb still teasing your soaked, swollen clit? You fucking shatter.

Your mouth drops open, a choked little moan spilling out as your pussy clamps down hard, gushing around his dick in a hot, wet rush. You tremble against him, thighs shaking where they're pinned open, and all you can do is feel—your cunt clenching, fluttering around his cock, your soaked skin sticking to the desk, the way his thumb never lets up.

"Fuuuck—that's it, baby," he groans, watching it all, voice all heat and adoration, worshiping the way your cunt flutters around him, "Jesus, look at you. So perfect. So good for me."

He slows down just a little—not stopping, no—but just enough to feel every squeeze of your pussy, every twitch. Jason doesn't even say anything, just presses one last kiss to your lips before he straightens up and gently pushes you down onto your back. Files and papers scatter everywhere as he clears the space with a sweep of his arm, but he doesn't give a fuck.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, drunk on the sight of you laid out for him, pussy wet and glistening and taking him so fucking good.

And when he starts moving again? It's deep. Deep enough that your toes curl and your hands claw at the edge of the desk. Deep enough that you gasp his name like a prayer, like you've already forgotten how to breathe.

Jason's thoughts are fried. All he can think about is this. You, flat on your back, eyes all glassy, tits bouncing with every hard thrust, that tiny little bulge low in your belly when he bottoms out. He's obsessed. Addicted, even. No one's ever looked this good on his cock. No one's ever taken him like you do, like your pussy was made for him.

"Fuck," he breathes, leaning over you, bracing his forearm beside your head. "You feel so good, baby. So fuckin' good."

His mouth is back on your tits like he missed them, like he can't stand being away for more than a second. He licks up the slick curve of one, all heat and filthy little groans like he's getting drunk off the taste of your skin. And he kind of is. He sucks your nipple into his mouth with this greedy little noise in the back of his throat—deep, wet, messy—while his cock keeps fucking into you.

Your back arches off the desk the second his teeth so much as graze you, and he fucking smirks against your skin, the asshole. He switches to the other, tongue flicking lazy little circles before he sucks hard. One of his hands slides up to hold your breast, big and warm and possessive, while the other stays locked on your thigh, pinning you down so he can keep pounding into you.

Your fingers slide into his hair without even thinking, tangling tight at the roots because you need him right there, mouth locked around your nipple while he fucks you deep enough to make your toes curl. And he doesn't complain. He groans when you tug, hips stuttering for half a second like it gets him off, like he likes being kept there, held in place with your hand in his hair and your thighs starting to shake around his waist.

His hands drag down your sides slow, palms hot and possessive like he's trying to feel all of you, like he wants to memorize the way your body trembles under his. Jason grabs under your thighs and lifts, just enough to tilt your hips, to fold you open a little more for him, and then he's fucking into you harder.

Like full body, desk rattling, brain melting hard. You gasp—loud, messy—arms wrapping around his neck as the desk underneath you starts to groan with every deep, punishing thrust. It's all slick skin and filthy moans, your tits bouncing with every snap of his hips, one of them still wet from his mouth. You can feel him grinding deeper, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, his breath hot against your chest, jaw tight, barely holding himself back.

And that's how you know he's close, when he gets like this. When his rhythm goes from slow and controlled to desperate, deep, rough enough to shake the furniture.

Every thrust punches a whimper out of you, every grind of his hips drags a broken moan from your throat, and all you can do is babble—slurred, fucked out praise spilling from your lips without a single filter.

"Just like that, Jay," you breathe, voice all high and wrecked, like it's getting fucked right out of you. Your nails are digging into his shoulders now, legs trembling where they're hooked over his arms, and your head falls back with a broken little cry as his dick slams into you hard. "Fuck—fuck, you feel so good, baby—don't stop—don't stop, please—"

You're barely making sense, the praise through mixing with every breathless moan because your brain has gone fuzzy from how deep he's hitting. And it works—God, it always works. You know exactly what it does to him when you talk like that, when you gasp his name and whimper about how good he fills you up like you need it to breathe.

"Fuck, baby—God, you sound so pretty when I fuck you like this—"

Then he loses it. His rhythm stutters, gets all rough and desperate, and then he's muttering something low under his breath as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

"Shit—gonna cum—fuck, baby, I'm gonna—"

He slams his dick into you deep, so deep it punches the air out of your lungs, and then he's there, hips jerking as he cums hard, cock pulsing deep inside you while he moans against your skin, low and wrecked and so goddamn gone.

You feel the heat of it the second he lets go, thick and hot, spilling into you in long, desperate pulses that make your whole body jolt. He's buried as deep as he can go, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up, and fuck, it's so much—you can feel it flooding you, pooling deep in your cunt, so warm it makes your toes curl.

It's messy and raw, the way it leaks out around the base of his cock with every little grind of his hips, like your pussy is too full to take all of it, but you want to. You're clutching at him like you need to be filled, like you ache for it, moaning brokenly into the side of his neck as your walls clamp down, greedy and pulsing, your pussy desperately trying to drag every last drop out of him.

And that's it. That's what sends you over. Your back arches off the desk with a cry, eyes fluttering shut as your orgasm crashes over you—hot and blinding, slick and overwhelming. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight and messy you feel him groan deep in his chest, his hips giving one more slow, grinding thrust just to fuck it deeper. You're gushing around him, wet and desperate, your whole body shaking as you cum so hard it almost hurts, like every nerve has been set on fire.

And all the while, you can feel him still twitching inside you, his cum leaking out around his cock and dripping down onto the desk under you, warm and slippery and so much it makes you whimper. He stays there, buried deep, panting into your neck, and you both just hold onto each other, sweaty and shaking and so fucked out you can barely remember your own name.

Your walls are still twitching around him, little aftershocks rolling through your belly while his cock stays buried deep, keeping all that warmth right where he left it. You're both still breathing hard, your legs loose around his waist, one of your hands threaded in his hair while the other just rests over his heart like you're trying to steady the way it's still pounding.

And then he starts kissing you.

Soft, slow, sweet, like he's making up for every hard thrust with something gentle. His lips drag over your throat first, right where he'd been moaning your name seconds ago. Then your jaw, your cheekbone, your collarbone—he presses messy little kisses over every inch of skin he can reach, warm and lazy and full of affection, even as your pussy still flutters faintly around his dick.

By the time he reaches your lips, you're already tilting your chin up for him, mouth parting instinctively like it's muscle memory, like you're wired to kiss him the second he gets close.

And God, when he kisses you? It's everything. It's hot and deep and messy, more tongue than precision, like neither of you care about finesse, just the feel of it. His lips press to yours with this greedy, aching sweetness, like he missed your mouth even though he's been wrecking you for the past half an hour.

His tongue licks into your mouth slow, lazy and possessive, tasting every moan you don't even mean to let out. You whimper into it, walls tightening again with oversensitive need, and he feels that too—groans into your mouth and presses his hips a little deeper, just to feel your pussy squeeze down around him.

You kiss him back wet and open and hungry, lips parting wider, tongue sliding against his in a way that says please don't stop. And he doesn't. He kisses you until you're breathless, until your thighs twitch around his waist, until he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his dick still pulsing faintly inside your soaked, aching cunt.

Jason chuckles against your lips, breath still ragged, chest rising and falling like he's just barely gotten it under control again. You can feel his cock twitch inside you, still not soft, still hot and hard and so deep, and it's got you grinning already, even before he speaks.

"Jesus, doll," he mutters, voice rough and warm and fucked out. "You're such a fuckin'—"

You squeeze around him. On purpose.

"You little—" he huffs, trying to sound pissed.

But then you giggle. That soft, sweet little sound you make when you know exactly what you're doing, when you're all pleased with yourself and looking up at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth.

And he can't even be fucking mad at you. He wants to be. He should be. But your eyes are sparkling and your smile is too damn pretty and your skin is still flushed and glowing and sticky with sweat and sex, and all he can think is fuck, I love my girl.

You smile up at him, all smug and satisfied, knowing exactly what you just did. You know he won't say it—he won't admit it out loud—but you know. You know he's ruined for you, and you wear it like a crown.

You sigh, soft and happy, still full of him, still stretched wide around his cock and completely fucked out.

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head like he's exasperated, but his mouth is curved just a little too much to sell it. "Happy now, you gremlin?"

You brush your nose against his, still smiling like you just won the damn lottery. "So happy, Jay."

He just looks at you for a second like he's trying to memorize the stupid, blissed out little smile on your face. Then his lips are back on yours, and it's slow this time. Lazy. Tender. The kind of kiss that makes your toes curl even though you're already fucked out and cock drunk and full of him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth and you moan into it without meaning to—soft and breathy—because fuck, he's still inside you. Still warm and thick and deep, and every tiny shift of his hips just rubs the right way, dragging over that raw, overstimulated spot that makes your whole body jolt.

He groans into the kiss like he feels it too, like your moan goes straight to his cock. And maybe it does, because it twitches inside you again, and your hips shift instinctively, chasing the friction even if it makes you whimper from how sensitive you are.

By the time he pulls back, you're dazed all over again, lips swollen and slick, eyes fluttering open like you're trying to remember where the hell you even are.

Then he kisses your nose. Just a quick, sweet little peck right on the tip of it, and you giggle like an actual, honest to God giggle. Completely, helplessly dick drunk.

He grins, because he knows exactly what kind of mess you are right now, and then his big hands slide under your ass and he lifts you off the desk.

You squeak, arms flying up to wrap around his neck, your legs instinctively tightening around his waist to keep him close, cock still buried deep inside you and dragging deliciously against your walls with the motion. Your head falls to his shoulder with a breathless little moan, and you feel him chuckle like he loves every second of it. Because he does.

"C'mon," he murmurs against your temple, voice low and still a little hoarse. "Let's get you cleaned up, doll."

You sigh, all dreamy and content, arms still looped around his neck like you've got no intention of letting go anytime soon. He carries you through the apartment with that same casual strength he always has—like you weigh nothing, like he wants you in his arms. And you just bury your face in his neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses to his skin as you go. Right under his jaw, just beneath his ear. He smells like sweat and sex and a little bit of cologne, and it makes your head spin.

By the time he steps into the bathroom, the warm light hits your skin and you start to come back to yourself a little right up until he pulls out.

You whimper at the sudden emptiness, thighs twitching as his cum starts to leak out of you in a slow, sticky trickle. Jason curses under his breath, eyes flicking down between your legs, watching the mess drip down your thighs, and his grip on you tightens instinctively.

"Fuckin' hell, baby..."

He presses you against his chest again like he knows your legs won't hold up and yeah, he's right. You're limp as a ragdoll, legs jelly, brain soup, and you don't even pretend to argue. You just lean into him, face pressed to his chest, nose brushing over his skin while his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.

He reaches into the shower with one hand to turn the water on, testing the temperature like he's done it a hundred times before, and you just stay where you are, warm and safe and so thoroughly used you feel like you're floating.

Once the water is going, he shifts his grip, easing you down to your feet—barely, just enough to start tugging at your soaked panties. They cling to your thighs, damp with sweat and slick and the mess he left inside you, and he peels them down slow, steady, not saying a word.

Then comes your tank top, and he helps you out of that too, his fingers brushing your sides as he eases it over your head, careful not to jostle you too much. Both pieces of clothing go straight into the washing machine with zero hesitation. You hear the soft thunk of the lid closing while he checks the shower one more time, then turns back to you.

Naked, warm, and still kind of wrecked, standing in the soft light with your thighs sticky and your chest rising and falling—his girl. And you just look up at him, dazed and smiling, because you'd let him do it all over again if he asked.

The shower is warm, steam curling around both your bodies as he pulls you in with him, keeping you close, keeping you safe. You sigh into it, forehead resting against his chest, arms draped around his waist.

He grabs the body wash and works up a slow, soapy lather between his palms, then starts to run his hands over your skin, so gentle even though those hands were gripping your hips and fucking you into the desk not even fifteen minutes ago. He washes you carefully, like you're fragile, like he's undoing every rough touch with something soft and slow now.

His fingers slide down your back, over your thighs, across your belly, lingering just a little between your legs, wiping away what's still dripping out of you with careful swipes.

You moan softly at the touch, even if there's no heat behind it, just sensitivity and love and the way his hands feel like home.

He presses kisses wherever he can reach while he works—your shoulder, the side of your neck, that spot right under your ear that always makes you sigh. You tilt your head up to meet his mouth when he leans in, and the kiss he gives you is slow and sweet and deep. Just tongues brushing lazily, mouths open and soft because you're both too blissed out to care about anything but the taste of each other.

When you pull back, you're both smiling. Dumbly. Lovingly. Pure adoration in his eyes. Like he's still a little wrecked from the way you clung to him back on the desk, like he can't believe he gets to touch you like this, kiss you like this, love you like this.

By the time you're rinsed off and clean and completely melted into him, he shuts off the water and helps you out, holding your hand like you might tip over on the bath mat if he doesn't. You probably would.

He wraps a huge, fluffy towel around your body first, tucking it tight under your arms, and you can’t help the little shiver that runs through you when his knuckles graze your skin. Then he grabs another for himself, slinging it low around his waist and raking a hand through his wet hair before turning back to you.

"Don't move, doll," he says, soft and amused.

And you don't. You just stand there in your towel, still warm and a little pink from the water, watching him disappear into the bedroom like some kind of domestic dream.

He's back less than a minute later with exactly what you knew he’d bring. A clean pair of panties and one of his t-shirts, big and soft and worn thin in all the right places. You snort a little when you see it.

"Didn't even bother with my clothes, huh?"

Jason just smirks, holding them out for you. "Why waste the effort when I know you're just gonna end up in this anyway?"

You roll your eyes but your heart melts, and he looks so smug about it you almost want to kiss him again.

He tugs on a pair of boxers, grabs some soft drawstring shorts from the dresser, and slips them on low on his hips, still damp, hair messy, towel slung over one shoulder as he moves around like a man with a mission. The second those towels are tossed in the bin, he turns back to you with that warm, post shower glow and holds out a hand.

"C'mon, gremlin."

You giggle as he helps you back out to the living room, and yeah, you are kinda shuffling like a little creature in his oversized shirt, clean and soft and half asleep on your feet. He settles you on the couch with way too much care, like you're some fragile thing that might tip over if he lets go for too long, tucks a blanket around your legs even though it's not cold.

Then he leans down, kisses your forehead and says, "Stay here. I'll be right back."

You hum, content, watching him as he turns and walks off and, naturally, the moment he's out of reach, you flop over and twist to rest your chin on the backrest just in time to see him stomping toward his desk. Like full blown damage control mode.

You watch as he shuts the monitors with a bit more force than necessary, muttering something under his breath, probably about how the fuck am I supposed to get work done when you keep doing shit like that, and then starts stacking the files you so rudely distracted him from. You can't even pretend to feel bad.

Especially not when he looks down at the mess on the surface—your handprint, the faint fog of sweat, and probably a little bit of cum—and lets out this put upon little sigh like he's not absolutely delighted with himself.

He wipes it down quick, grabs his phone, and you hear the soft beep of him opening his food app. Because yeah, no one's cooking after that. Dinner shows up faster than you expect, and Jason's already halfway through pretending he's not gonna baby you tonight.

"You could've gotten up to get the door," he grumbles, grabbing the bags and carrying them into the living room like he didn't just tuck you into the couch ten minutes ago. "Y'got legs."

"Jelly legs," you remind him sweetly, stretching like a cat under his shirt, bare thighs peeking out. "Your fault."

He shoots you a look but it's useless. His mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile, and before he can stop himself, he's nudging your legs apart and pulling them into his lap as he sits beside you.

"You little shit," he mutters under his breath.

But then he's opening the containers, poking around for your favorites, and feeding you bites between kisses to the top of your head. Like fucking clockwork. You hum after every one, leaning into him, basking in the warmth of his lap, and he gives up the fake grumpiness entirely once you nuzzle against his chest like the clingy little menace you are.

Eventually, dinner's forgotten somewhere on the coffee table, TV flickering in the background while you’re curled up half on, half under him, both of you pretending to watch.

It starts small, your fingers absently toying with the hem of his shorts, his hand smoothing down your spine in slow, lazy strokes. Then your nose brushes his jaw. Then your lips do. And then he turns toward you, and it just happens. Slow. Drowsy. Addictive.

His lips press to yours, soft and easy, and it's like you both breathe out at the same time, sinking into each other without thinking. Your mouths move together like you've done this a thousand times before, wet and slow and deep, his tongue brushing against yours with this teasing little flick that makes you whine into his mouth.

Jason groans low in his throat, one hand slipping under his shirt, palm warm and rough on your bare waist. You gasp into the next kiss, thighs shifting on either side of him, and that sound—that needy little noise you make—has him chasing your mouth like he can't get enough.

There's no rush. No angle. Just the quiet slide of lips and tongues and soft gasps between kisses that get deeper, longer, messier. You tug at his hair and he huffs a laugh against your mouth, pulling you tighter to him, completely wrecked by how much he wants you even now.

But eventually, your mouths slow down. Kisses taper off into soft little pecks. Your breathing evens out. His fingers stroke along your thigh, and your eyes flutter shut, head tucked under his chin like you've found your home and you're not leaving it.

Jason exhales like he's never been more relaxed in his life. "Needy little gremlin," he murmurs, but there's no heat in it, just affection, worn in and real.

You smile sleepily against his chest. "I love you too, Jay."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, like he's pretending to be over it but his arms tighten around you all the same.

You don't say anything back, too far gone already. Your breathing has gone slow and even, face squished into his chest, lashes fluttering against his skin. And then it happens, that first soft snore.

Barely there, just a tiny little puff of air through your nose, but Jason hears it. He always does. And he can't help it—his chest shakes with the little laugh he tries to smother.

Because you swear you don't snore. Every time he brings it up you're like "no I don't, Jay, you're lying, I sleep like a princess", and maybe you do. But you're also snoring like a baby animal, and it's the fucking cutest thing he's ever heard.

He looks down at you, completely dead asleep on him in his shirt, wrapped up in his arms like you belong there, and honestly, those files on the desk can rot. He knows he's not done, knows he should've closed out those reports or replied to that one message before knocking off for the night. But all that can wait.

Because right now, you're laying on top of him, breathing slow and even, little snores puffing against his chest, and he's got one hand tangled in your hair and the other cradling the soft curve of your thigh, and he couldn't give a single shit about anything else.

There's always tomorrow.

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batologyi · 17 hours ago

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CAT SCRATCHES v╱ J. Todd × Fem! Catwoman! Reader ꩜ .ᐟ

「 tags 」・:三 suggestive SFW, Drabble

~~~

Jason lay on his back, one arm slung lazily behind his head, chest still rising slow and deep as he cooled off. His skin was warm under your fingertips, flushed, slick with sweat, and littered with red, angry scratches that caught the light every time he shifted.

You hovered over him, lips curled into a lazy smile as you trailed your fingers along a line carved just below his collarbone. He flinched slightly, the spot still raw.

“Sensitive?” you asked, mock-innocent.

His eyes cracked open, a lazy glare aimed your way. “You did that with those damn claws of yours. You tell me.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, dragging a nail down the next mark. This one was deeper—your favorite. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

He snorted, but the smirk that tugged at his mouth betrayed him. “Didn’t know I was signing up for a full dissection.”

“Oh, hush. You liked it,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss the edge of one of the red lines. “You always like it when I lose control.”

Jason let out a slow breath, eyes darkening as he watched you through half-lidded eyes. “I like a lot of things about you, but I could do without you carving your name into my chest like I’m your latest haul.”

You grinned against his skin. “But you are mine. Gotta make sure the other girls know.”

His hand shot out, catching your wrist just as you started to drag your nails a little too low. The look he gave you was half-warning, half-challenge.

“Keep it up,” he said lowly, “and I’ll make sure you’ve got matching marks in places no one else gets to see.”

You laughed, slow and sultry, and leaned in close to brush your lips over his jaw. “Promise?”

~~~~

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servicpop · 1 day ago

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showing rookie the ropes⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ callahan ( detective oc ) & alastair ( police oc ) x criminal ftm reader

NSFW ⓘ⠀coninuation of this , threesome , degradation ( from callahan ) , use of cunt & pussy

Being caged in Callahan's house wasn't all bad.

Who knew the detective would so lovingly take care of you like a stray cat that's too adorable to walk by? Before you're even awake and on your feet, you can hear Callahan busy in the kitchen, making breakfast for the both of you.

He serves you food with a ceramic plate and silverware for each meal despite spending months on end trying to find and arrest you. Yet you're here, under his watch, his care, because you—apparently—are the key to his ongoing case. Whether that was true or false, not even Callahan knew the answer.

The faint chirping of birds reminded you of how early Callahan routinely woke up at. The soft flickers of sunlight streaked across Callahan's floors; the white specks of dust floating in the air had entertained your eyes like a morning warm-up.

“I have a day off,” Callahan grumbled as if he had to force those words out, “Do whatever you want today.” He skewered the fried egg onto his fork and brought it to his mouth, chewing quietly as an awkward blanket of silence draped over the both of you.

He watches your head shake up and down sleepily, like you're about to nod off back to sleep.

“If you're that fucking tired just go to sleep.” He stood up abruptly from his chair, the wooden legs screeching along the floorboards. He circles the table to reach you, hooking his hands under your thighs to hoist you up over his shoulder. “You can heat it up later when you're not about to fall on the damn plate.”

He hears your retaliations, just chooses not care. Callahan's struggling with the way you're wriggling in his grasp, hitting his chest, caging his waist with your legs to try and wrestle him off, and whining about how you're awake enough to eat.

“God damn it, just stay still alright—” He pauses when he sees you pant underneath him, cheeks flushed, and hands up in surrender. Now, if that doesn't get him all worked up.

He stares for a heartbeat too long before he pushes himself off of you, shifting his gaze to anything else but your face. Callahan reachs for one of his pillows, chucking it over your face as he grabs your legs and pulls them up.

“Don't give me those eyes, I know what you want,” He grunts as he watches you move the pillow off your face just for him to push it back down, “We'll make it quick.”

His fingers loop under his belt buckle, undoing the hold clasp enough that he could unzip his pants. He let your legs rest against his left shoulder as he turned his attention to your clothing, slipping your pyjama pants off and all the way to your slide off your ankles.

Callahan pulls his own boxers down enough so his dick could spring out, sighing at the shameless sight of his own erection. He never understood how you could get under his skin this much.

Binding your legs with a hand squeezing your calves together, he pushes them up a little bit more until they're a 90 degree angle to your body.

“You get wet so quick,” He chastises you as if that's a bad thing. As if he isn't eagerly sliding the underside of his cock along your slit, scoffing at the way your legs jump from the contact. “Keep still, don't kick me,” he groans, breaching your cunt with his tip before shoving the rest of himself inside you.

He comes to cage your thighs with the curl of his arm as his chest presses flush against the underside of your legs. From this angle he can look down at how your fingers dig into the pillow, holding it to your face just to ground yourself. A little part of him wants to murmur praise, but he pushes that down when he remembers the whole reason why you're here.

You were a criminal.

That thought alone triggered the muscles in Callahan's hand to clench around the soft skin of your leg, imprinting the pads of his finger into you. He bottomed out, leaning forward so he could thrust even deeper past the warm clutch of your body.

“Fuck.” Callahan curses beneath his breath as the vulgar sound of wet flesh slapping against flesh rung through his ears like a high frequency. Your small whines and whimpers were drowned out by the fluff of the pillow while he continues to pound into you as if it were punishment for seemingly nothing.

He let out a louder groan, head tilting off to the side as he loses himself in you, relishing in how your pussy clenched around him like a warm embrace. He mumbled about being close paired with a few degrading words that you could barely hear behind the pillow.

Callahan's hips still as he grips your legs just a tad tighter, stuffing you full of his cum. He keeps himself plugged in your cunt, taking a breather to come down from the high. Through post-orgasm bliss leaving the both of you dazed and satisfied, neither you or Callahan could hear the gentle click of the door opening.

“Sir? Are you alright? i hear grunting—”

That almost whimpish voice—which you didn't recognise—was enough for you to peek over the pillow to see a man with tacky platinum hair and black rimmed glasses standing in the doorway. He seemed to be dressed in a police uniform of sorts, too crisp to be anyone of high authority.

Though you can feel the gradual stiffening of Callahan's dick still nestled inside of you, which undoubtedly pulls a cocky remark from your mouth, “You're into that?” You manage to speak your mind before Callahan is pressing the pillow against your face once more.

“Oh. Woah— Uh, I mean... I didn't mean to intrude I just—” The officer's stammering pulled a long sigh from Callahan and a pinch to his nose bridge.

“If you keep pressing the pillow to his face you're going to suffocate him...” He shifts awkwardly on the spot, eyes darting everywhere but where you and Callahan are connected.

You—dramatically—gasp for air once Callahan removes the pillow from your face, turning your head to look at the man standing in the doorway.

“If you care about this criminal so much why don't you look after him?” Callahan scoffs as he scrutinises Alastair, observing the way the platinum haired officer shuffled around on the spot like a restless dog. Though Callahan may find it highly irritating, the way Alastair is so carefully averting his gaze from your half naked form is somewhat endearing.

“What are you still staring at? You want a turn?” Callahan pulls out of you, suppressing a groan as he sees white leak out of your hole the second he's not stuffed inside you. He haphazardly wipes himself with a tissue before stuffing his still stiff dick into his pants.

“Seems like you're a fucking virgin at your age,” Callahan doesn't even bother to clean you up before he's shifting his spot on the bed to sit behind you. He grabs your waist as he handles you in a position where your back is against his chest. Its oddly domestic, too affectionate for you to relax against him.

“But would your— companion, want... that?” He circles the bed to stand at the end of your feet, covering his eyes so he's not staring at your crotch.

“If he didn't he'd be scrambling out of my grip.” Callahan's hand curls around your side, digging into the skin beneath your ribcage.

“Do something,” Callahan growls. He can feel you tense awkwardly under Alastair's quiet gaze, and he hates that. “Or do I have to teach you?”

Alastair lowers his hand from his eyes, pupils dilating enough to cover the color of his iris. He gawks for a bit—can't pull his eyes away from the erotic sight of his superiors cum dripping out from your slick cunt. It's vile, unprofessional, and yet Alastair can't help but stare.

Callahan drawls out a sigh, fingers descending your body as he roughly plunges them inside your pussy. The curl of his fingers makes you writhe, mostly out of the abruptness of it. He scoops out his own seed, the sticky substance coats his fingers like honey, and he brings it to your mouth. He prods at your lips with the tips of his hand, half smearing the white along your mouth before you part them enough to take it.

Alastair stares, frozen like a deer and growing an inexplicable boner from the sight. The way you let Callahan to do that, and even swirl your warm tongue over his knuckles, evokes a strange warmth in his gut.

“Lean your head down,” Callahan is already barking out commands before Alastair can snap out of his lewd fantasies. He follows accordingly, its an order after all. Alastair lowers his face until its just shy of your body. He can feel the gentle heat radiating off of you.

“Don't get all too excited, rookie, make him feel good before you stick your tongue in,” it's like scolding a disobedient dog with the way Alastair pulls back into his shoulders as if to hide away from his harsh tone.

He places one hand on your inner thigh, immediately retracting it when he feels the muscle twitch under his touch. Alastair's mouth slowly opens and his tongue darts out to sample a taste. You can feel Callahan's fingers tighten around your body absent-mindedly as he practically seethes at how wimpish Alastair is.

“I'm about to die of old age before I can hear him moan,” Callahan grunts, finally caving in as he snakes his hand to your front, roughly pressing on your clit with his index finger. The sudden pressure to your nerves gets a whine bubbling in your throat.

There's something so alluring to how your eyes flutter shut, lips parted and the prettiest noises spill from your mouth just from one touch. Alastair's only seen your face from blurred security footage or low quality images, but never this close and this expressive.

There's a small fluttering in his stomach before he moves without second thought.

Alastair's tongue meets your folds, delving in-between the crevices like he's licking syrup off of his morning toast. His tongue delves out to brush against your opening like licking along your bottom lip when kissing. The stark contrast between the two confuses your body. Callahan is so ruthlessly circling your bundle of nerves with just one finger, yet Alastair is so gently exploring every dip and crevice of your cunt.

“You're enjoying this aren't you?” A deep rumble comes from behind you as Callahan's free hand curls around the column of your throat. “Being tongue-fucked by some cop? What kind of thief are you?”

Though, Callahan doesn't squeeze, nor apply any pressure. He just holds, feeling your pulse quicken as Alastair's tongue delves past your hole and into your wet channel.

“I bet you he's no better than a machine,” he growls “You know I'd do better, but I wouldn't want to put my mouth anywhere near this dirty pussy.”

Callahan lifts his hand up just to bring it back down with a sharp slap to your clit, musing at the way Alastair flinches upon having Callahan’s hand come down so quickly right in front of his face.

You’d feel bad—

If he wasn’t currently sucking you off like his life depended on it.

Alastair is pathetically hard by now; his pants are straining so much he swears he can hear the rip of thread from it. He drags his tongue along the warm walls of your cunt, savoring the way you clench and groan from the sensation—he’s so shamefully picturing how his superior would break through the clench of your pussy, drive himself deeper until he hits your cervix, and how you’d let all those sweet, deliberately loud noises to provoke him further.

You see Callahan’s free hand—the one that wasn’t cradling the curve of your throat—move down to Alastair’s hair, and for a moment, you believe he’s going to thread his fingers between those platinum strands and brush the hair out of his face.

He didn’t.

It wouldn’t be Callahan if he did.

His fingers curled into Alastair’s scalp, grabbing a fistful of hair like pulling roots from the soil. With a sharp tug, Callahan pries Alastair off of you, holding his head up like he’d just dunked the man in a bucket of water. Alastair doesn’t fight it—in fact, he lifts his head to meet eyes with you, dazed like he’d taken his first sip of alcohol when he was eighteen.

Callahan merely scoffs at the sight as he moves his hand from your throat, down your stomach, and to your reddened sex. He doesn’t care for foreplay, especially from how close you were to the end. It slid in a little too easy, his fingers entering with a sickening squelch. Knuckle-deep, Callahan curls just enough to bump your g-spot.

“Ah– fuck.” You jolt, jerking against the weight of Callahan’s arm draped over your body. He alternates between curling his fingers and thrusting his fingers shallowly before he widens the thrusts, fingering you with a new found energy.

He sees Alastair, all round eyes, dumber than a deer in headlights.

And he can’t help but get a little irked at that.

“Open.” Callahan curls his fist tighter in Alastair’s hair, shaking him a little to get him out of that daze. When Alastair finally comes to his senses he rolls his mouth open, tongue slicked with saliva like he was fucking salivating.

The back and forth movement of Callahan’s hand gets more intense, drawing out your orgasm with each press against your walls, punishing your sweet spot. Your incessant squirming and whining grates on Callahan’s nerves; you’re enjoying yourself a little too much. He slams his palm down harder with each thrust in, deliberately hitting your clit with a force that bordered pain. “Just cum already, I’m done dealing with you.” He growls lowly in your ear, yanking Alastair closer to your body as he hooks his fingers inside of you, harshly pressing against that one spot. Your restrain slips, and the next thing you know, Callahan is angling Alastair’s head to catch your orgasm in his mouth. Alastair’s left eye flickers shut, feeling the warmth of your cum splatter across his face as he eagerly swallows what he’s given.

Callahan’s grip loosens, falling away from Alastair’s hair before he chucks a blanket over your body, wrapping you up in the fabric like he was shielding you from Alastair’s wandering eyes.

“Go get yourself fixed up. We’ll talk when you’re done.”

#servicpop — fics/drabbles #bottom male reader #x bottom male reader #ftm reader #uke reader #sub male reader #oc x male reader #x ftm reader #oc x reader #afab reader #mlm nsft

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cup1dt3a · 2 days ago

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Ok but imagine if at the end when the mirror sends Yuu home their alarm starts blaring out annoying beeps. They groggily get up looking around their room confused. Everything looks the same. They’re even in their pajamas too. Soon their eyes land on their reflection. A bandage was wrapped around Yuu’s head; confused they unwrapped the pale bandage. Soon greeted with a scare that resembled disfigured markings. It looked oddly like one of the dorms especially the one they favored.

Once Yuu was finally awake, they soon found their parents in the kitchen. Turns out they had gotten knocked out on the road by a car. Thankfully they were fine enough to come back home. But Yuu had missed the first week of school. Sadly their parents forced them to go to school seeing that Yuu was fine and not disoriented. Much to their dismay of missing their parents being stuck in NRC!!… or so they think. They were knocked out so it must’ve been a dream… right?

Once they arrived Yuu looked around their old school walking through the hallways only to notice several familiar faces. Yuu couldn’t even believe it. There they all were. Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Ortho, and Sebek. It felt odd not seeing their colorful hair. Well this version of Ortho had bright blue hair. Ace had brown eyes. Deuce had black hair. Jack’s hair was more blond now. Epel had dark brown hair now. Sebek had very light brown hair. It was very odd. Yuu almost wouldn’t have recognized them if it weren’t for the bickering of Ace and Deuce. Yuu instinctually came over to them to break the two up before things escalated into some unforeseen comedic shenanigans.

“…?” The group looked around you in confusion seeing Yuu come over only to awkwardly stop themselves realizing this wasn’t “Their friends”. Soon awkwardly rushing away.

“…. Well that was weird…” Ace shrugged.

“Yeah… you know they look kind of familiar.”Deuce commented.

“I think they’re that miracle kid who survived getting hit by a car. There was a whole article written about the accident.” Ortho stated.

“… Damn that sounds cool!” Epel stated

“… How would being hit by a car sound cool!?” Sebek asked concerned.

“… I agree… “ Jack nodded giving Epel a judgmental look.

“… STOP JUDGIN ME!! Ya know how many people survive bein hit by a car!?” Epel stated as he soon tried to defend himself from everyone’s judgmental and concerned looks.

Walking down the hallway Yuu noticed many more familiar faces. It still was odd seeing Riddle with black hair, Malleus with no horns, and any of the beast men with human ears. Yuu now felt out of place being back in the real world. They sat alone outside at break under a tree with an open book to hide their phone with as they ate a snack. Soon a grey cat with a large tuff of white fur on their chest. They looked a bit too fat to be a stray, but were too dirty to not to have been abandoned. The fat cat with bright blue eyes purred nuzzling their hand with food in it. The cat reminded Yuu of grim. Begrudgingly Yuu gave the cat some of their food. The cat devoured all of their food before innocently looking back up at them.

“… Mrow?” The cat mewed now pawing at their hand for more food.

“… You’re exactly like grim.” They chuckled scratching behind the cats ear before it ran away seeing that they would no longer get any food from Yuu.

#twst #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #ace trappola #deuce spade #epel felmier #jack howl #Twst riddle #malleus draconia #yuu twst #yuu angst #???#grim twst #riddle twst #riddle rosehearts

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buckyspancakes · 19 hours ago

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apologies ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

bucky x fem!reader

summary - the thunderbolts* team’s mission goes wrong and you’re worried out of your mind when you don’t hear from bucky. but you shouldn’t worry because he makes it up to you in his own way ;)

warnings - 18+ mdni (you are responsible for the media you consume), oral (f receiving), p in v, dirty talk, little bit of fluff

notes - post thunderbolts* – reader and bucky already have an established relationship !!! and as always ty @luvemmdubb for beta reading ilysm

word count - 2.5k

You swore on everything good in this world that Bucky Barnes was going to drive you up the damn wall.

You sat at the counter of the kitchen in the New Avengers building as you ran a hand through your hair, staring at the tablet in front of you. The team had gone out on another recon mission, something about having to run surveillance on a warehouse used by, yet again, another group of mass weapons dealers. When they had left, Bucky had pressed a kiss to the top of your forehead, reassuring you that it was going to be quick and easy. Simple and nothing out of the ordinary.

You should have known better than to believe that.

Grainy black and white security footage replayed in front of you, reliving the combat that had broken out between the team and men at the warehouse. To put it kindly, the team had sort of gotten their asses handed to them. From what you could tell of the footage, your team had been caught off guard and out numbered. They had tried to fight but it looked like they had taken a really bad beating.

Shortly after the security footage had cut out, presumably by a stray bullet, Val had called you, telling you an extraction team had gotten them out and that everybody was alive. Bob had appeared from whatever alcove he was hiding out in and rubbed a hand over your back, offering you an awkward yet comforting smile. You had smiled up at him, squeezing his hand in thanks before he retreated back to wherever he had camped out with his current read.

You glanced down at your phone. Nothing. It had been hours now and Bucky still hadn’t let you know he was okay. You’d take anything at this point: a text, a call, a fucking email. Hell, you’d even take Morse code.

The two of you had talked about this on multiple occasions, agreeing that if anything went awry on a mission that the other wasn’t on, you’d check in as soon as possible. It didn't have to be this huge paragraph, it could be a simple “hey” or one singular letter or one of those silly emojis Bucky had taken a liking to after you’d shown him how to get to them on his phone.

But exactly 5 hours and 28 minutes later (not that you were counting or anything) and you were still in the dark. Not a single smiley face cat or a lone thumbs up. Nothing.

The pit that sat in the bottom of your stomach felt like it weighed tons, pressing down on you as if trying to smother you from the inside out. You had full faith in the team, knew they were skilled and could handle their own when it mattered most but anxiety still gnawed at you, chipping away as the minutes continued to tick by into hours.

You continued to stare at the footage on the tablet, waiting for something to change, some notification to pop up saying ‘Hey the team is just dandy!’ even though you knew it wouldn’t.

Your head whipped around at the sound of several pairs of boots on tile. The door to the floor slid open and the – now disheveled – New Avengers stepped out. You winced as you took them in, the cuts and bruises and exhausted faces plastered on them all.

Yelena was the first to see you, waving sheepishly at your glare. When you simply raised a brow in response, she cleared her throat, waving a hand behind her at Bucky to motion him forward.

“I think she’s mad. Make her not mad,” she mumbled, twisting her head behind her but never letting her gaze slip from you.

Beside her, Ava snorted softly as you shoved off of your stool and slowly stalked to stand in front of them. Bucky pushed forward from behind the group. Alexei muttered something about how scary you were when you were quiet like this, to which John responded by shooting him a look.

Bucky tilted his head with a hesitant smile, pushing hair and dirt from his tired face. “Doll, look we –”

“Nuh uh,” you tsked, shaking your head. Glancing at the group behind him, you pointed to the side towards the hallway. “All of you go get cleaned up and get some rest. Val is expecting you first thing in the morning for mission reports.”

They nodded, the group dissipating in quiet mumbles and sympathetic glances back to Bucky as the other four turned to go to their rooms. Bucky moved to go as well but your hand darted out, grabbing his metal arm. “You don’t get to leave just yet.” Without looking at you, he closed his eyes and groaned inaudibly, turning on his heel to stand in front of you. You blinked up at him, your glare hard and unwavering.

“Look. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, okay? We were supposed to be in and out. Just go in, get the layout, get an estimate of how many people were inside, then come straight back, but we weren’t ready for an ambush.” Bucky tried to explain, hands situated on his hips as he looked down at you, daring to meet your eyes. “They knew we were coming, I don't know how, but they did. And after that first shot it all went to hell and I got sidetracked and I'm sorry I didn't call.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, tentatively stepping towards you. Your gaze softened momentarily. You swallowed, rolling his words over before nodding.

“I know. But you can’t just not tell me. I had to hear it from Val that you were okay. And I know that you had more pressing matters at that moment, I am well aware of that, but Buck, you said if shit like this happened you would let me know.” You chewed on your bottom lip, arms crossed, turning your head away from him to look out at the city below you.

He nodded, ducking his head. “I know that, doll. I’m sorry, okay?” Bucky stepped closer, tilting your head with his hand to face him. The feeling of his cold, metallic hand against your flushed skin sent a shiver down your spine.

You met his steely blue eyes as you nodded softly. At your nod, his shoulders slumped, tension vanishing from his face. Bucky smiled softly, pulling you into his chest. Your arms twined around his neck, leaning into him.

Bucky rested his chin on your shoulder, nose brushing against your neck, lips pecking your shoulder through your shirt. You rolled your eyes as you pushed him back gently, swatting at his chest.

“Go shower. You aren’t getting in that bed covered in whatever that is.” You motioned at his shirt which was now ripped and littered with dirt and blood. Bucky smirked, leaning down into you once more.

“I will but you know you like me when I’m all ratty like this.” He smirked harder at the red blooming across the apple of your cheeks. You scoffed, hitting his chest again.

Bucky grinned, stepping even closer, your chests brushing. He kissed your nose before bending down and hooking an arm around your waist, hoisting you over his shoulder.

“James Buchanan Barnes I am not doing this right now. I’m still pissed off at you. Put me the fuck down.” Your fist met his back as he laughed, deep and rich, sliding a hand over the back of your knee and giving it a possessive squeeze.

Your vision swayed as he started forward, hauling you towards your room. The door to your room opened and Bucky flicked the light on with his free hand before stalking towards your bed and tossing you down unceremoniously.

You flopped back on the bed among the untucked blankets and sheets with a soft oof, hair splayed around you like a halo. Bucky grinned above you, holding your wrists with his hands as he caged you in. You rolled your eyes, tugging your wrists to no avail.

“I’m still mad at you,” you muttered, meeting his eyes as he moved to rest his knee between your legs.

“I know, but I’m hoping I can make it up to you,” Bucky hummed, low and raspy, as he gathered both of your wrists in his broad metal hand. He ducked his head to your chin, leaving a trail of scalding, sloppy kisses down your neck and towards your collarbone. Your knees twitched at his side as he hovered above you, desperate for connection, desperate to soothe the ache that had begun to grow between your thighs.

In one fluid motion, Bucky had slid your shirt off of you, and continued his path with his mouth over your chest, brushing against the swells of your breasts. He toyed with the edge of your bra with his teeth, grazing your tender skin, sending a shiver through your limbs.

You felt him smirk into your skin at your shiver, slipping a hand between your back and the cotton sheets beneath you. Your bra shifted forward, loosened by his hand, as he slipped it up and over your arms.

Holding your gaze, Bucky dipped lower, exhaling gently onto your exposed nipples. He hummed against you, before kissing around the now-perked nipple and taking it into his mouth. Working the soft flesh with his tongue, he took the other in his vibranium hand, rolling the bud between his thumb and pointer finger.

Underneath him you squirmed, a mix of pleasure and need swirling inside you like the beginnings of a thunderstorm in mid-July. You felt it coiling in your belly, tight and hot and consuming, as he worked at your chest, pulling soft, wordless moans from your lungs.

Bucky traveled lower even still, kissing along your ribs, down along your stomach, and across the waistband of your underwear. He hummed as one hand toyed with the tiny silk bow in the center of the lace elastic.

“You just casually wear these?” He glanced up at you, eyes teasing. You groaned, rolling your eyes, as he flicked the bow with his forefinger, slipping it under the elastic and popping it softly against your skin

“Shut up,” you huffed, face turning scarlet as he slipped the fabric off of you. Bucky inhaled sharply as he nudged your clenched thighs apart.

“Spread your legs for me, doll. That’s it,” he muttered, peppering soft kisses along the sensitive skin on the inside of your thighs. Your fingers threaded through his hair as his nose brushed just above where you wanted him most.

You tugged at the ends of his hair and he glanced up. You nodded gently and he smiled, kissing your belly before licking a stripe up your folds. You gasped, back arching slightly as he teased your core with his tongue, darting in and out just enough to make you grind your teeth in desperation.

Bucky pulled back, blowing a puff of cold air against your clit, making you groan his name, the side of your cheek pressed firm into the mattress beneath you. “Taste so fuckin’ good for me.”

He gripped your thigh, hoisting it over one shoulder while bracing himself against the other as he dove into you like a man starved.

His tongue worked at you meticulously, pressing into your harder with each grunt and whimper you let out. Bucky grunted against you, a sound hard in his chest, that sent a white hot flash of heat down your trembling spine.

“Buck…” you exhaled, voice quivering. Bucky looked up from where he was situated between your legs, face flushed with something raw, almost primal, tongue stilled inside of you. “Need you,” you gasped, “Now.”

Bucky laughed lowly against you, sending a tremor through you once more as he sat back, resting on the backs of his thighs. “For somebody who was mad at me just a little bit ago, you sure are needy now, aren’t you, doll?”

You attempted to glare at him but it was lost on him as he tugged his black shirt over his head. Bucky leaned up over you once more, pulling your head up as his hand cupped the back of your head, capturing your lips in a kiss. This time, a more gentle kiss, more sincere.

He stood from the bed, slipping his belt off and stepping out of his battered jeans. Despite having seen him this way dozens of times before, you still blushed, biting the inside of your lip as he tossed his boxers down beside his jeans.

Bucky situated himself back between your legs, pressing a kiss to your collarbone as he toyed with your clit with his fingers. His head hovered near your ear, the scruff of his 5 o’clock shadow tickling your cheek as he uttered filth into your ear, sucking at the skin just under it as you whined. You grasped at his face with your hands, pulling him into a deep kiss, opening your mouth as he teased at your lips with his teeth.

On top of you, you felt Bucky’s hand move from between your legs. You gasped into his mouth, eyes fluttering as his tip nudged at your entrance.

“Let me make it up to you,” he mumbled, resting his forehead against yours. You nodded, half conscious eyes blinking up at him, brimming with a mixture of need and anticipation.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, moving to rest his head in the junction between your neck and shoulder as he pressed into you. You gasped, thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he sunk into you completely.

“Fuck…” he mumbled, ragged and tense, as your hips bucked up into his. “You can get mad at me anytime you want if this is what it takes to apologize, doll.”

You whimpered at both his words and at the way Bucky lifted his hips, sliding out of you and pushing back in. Slowly but surely, his pace sped up, ramming in and out of you. An amalgamation of moans and grunts, sweat and sex, heat and intensity, filled the space around the two of you. Your bodies connected together in soft thuds, matching the pace of the need thundering through you both.

You tensed around him and he groaned, lips attaching to the tender spot underneath your ear as he braced himself against your arms.

“I’m sorry baby,” he panted beneath thrusts, punctuating each word by hitting that spot inside of you, “I’ll call you next time, I fucking swear it.”

You whined, as Bucky filled every inch of you, babbling back at the praises that tumbled recklessly from his mouth. You gasped, hands spasming underneath his vice-like grip as you squeezed around him, body tightening suddenly. You blinked, stars swimming across the horizon as he continued to rock into you, riding out your high as you relaxed back into the bed underneath you.

Bucky came undone, panting into your shoulder and pressing deep into you with one concluding grunt. He stilled, remaining inside of you, before holding himself over you on his forearms. You blinked up at him blearily, exhaustion taking over your face.

He smiled at you lazily, face flushed and glowing in the soft light. “Am I forgiven now?”

You laughed weakly, reaching up to push a strand of hair away, plastered to his temple by the light sheen of sweat that coated his face.

“I dunno. I think you should try apologizing again.”

#bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #buckyspancakes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #thunderbolts #the new avengers

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r-aindr0p · 1 day ago

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Getting berated and being told you do nothing only makes me not want to be seen doing anything at all around the person that made the comments.

I'm tired, I'm trying alright. I put art as a top priority when I'm even able to get into drawing. I still have drawings I want to get done for the upcoming con. I have a few comms but yeah that's considered doing nothing.

I know I'm in the wrong for not helping out around the house nearly enough. I already know I'm disappointing for taking so damn long learning driving theory and not going to the course nearly enough. I don't even want to learn driving at this point because the "so did you get your driver's licence ? It would help your mom a lot if you knew how to drive" Does not make me want to drive at all. I'm tired of hearing this.

The same way I stopped playing the piano, because I hated playing when someone was around and making comments, and I never made progress in the end. The same way only vacuum clean when the room is empty because I don't want comments on the way I proceed and how inefficient it might be.

Hell I got judged because my sophrologist helped me writing an e-mail and making an administrative call. "Why do you keep leaning on others and having them do things for you." Is what I got told.

And when I tell that it's hard for me and it really helped and I felt better I just get told "then go see a psychologist if you're struggling so much !" Alright cool. I already know that. Once again, getting anything started involving making appointments or calls takes so much time for me. "Mais bouge toi ! Sors un peu !" Is of no help.

I found an exercise routine that works for me and that I can do throughout the day and everyday ? Dismissed. "You should go walk outside instead."

Worst is I know my mom is just really worried about me for the most part of it all but her way of idk showing it just makes me feel like an adult disappointment..

Man I just want to be happy, love myself and exist doing what I love. I'm already slowly giving up on my dream of being an artist as a full time job I don't need to be side eyed all day long.

Sorry for the rant I'm just really tired about this and I don't know what to do, but writing it down helps a bit I guess ?

Here's my cat as compensation, I love him so much, his name is Pots (like Spot the dog but cat bc he has a spot on his nose and mouth)

His striped cousin's name is Quiquiche :> bc she's kind of dumb (a quiche in french is the food item but also designates a dumb person.)

#rambling #defo getting a job w/ animals if I fail at art because yeah fuck anything that involves calls or customers in a public space #and by “if I fail” I mean I probably already failed oh well #was supposed to shower at 2pm the other day and ended up showering at 1am bc I kept pushing it back for no reason happens all the time #there's so many small things like that that make me waste my time all the time but I won't try explaining that #bc I know it will be somehow dismissed and I'll just be told to “move and do spmething” as usual #yea #cant wait to go to the con for a whole weekend

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concretejunglefm · 17 hours ago

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I had a thot of a dom mean Noah, were you are ovulating so you get turned on easily by everything in this man his arms, back, tattoos, voice, smell, and he is mocking you and making you worship him and beg for him

I’m being held hostage by this man, I swear to God—can someone help me? (not really)

What’s worse is he knows. He can smell it. He’s so in tune with you and your body, and all he wants is to take full advantage of the way you’re unraveling for him and plays to every one of your weaknesses.

Like when he’s just finished working out—hot, sweaty, muscles flexing, wearing those damn shorts and a tight tank top 🤤 “Look at you. I haven’t even touched you and I can see your legs trembling from here.”

You’re practically backed up against the counter, trying to grind against the edge for any kind of relief, because that’s what this man does to you—makes you lose your goddamn mind. “Grinding against the counter like a cat in heat,” he smirks. “I bet if I made you sit on my thigh, you’d be rubbing all over me.” And the worst part? He’s not even wrong. When you’re near him, it’s like you have to physically stop yourself from doing exactly that.

Don’t even get started on his voice—taunting and low as he comes up behind you, whispering right into your ear: “I haven’t even touched you, and I bet if I slipped my fingers into those panties, you’d be soaked right now.”

You’re just playing right into his hand, because the minute he calls you over—no, beckons you—with a teasing little ‘pspspsps’ like you’re the needy cat in heat he knows you are, you come running. He doesn’t even have to raise his voice. Just points to the floor and tells you to kneel, and if you want him, you’re going to have to beg for it. “Let me hear how desperately you want it…” he purrs. “Mm, no. I don’t think that’s desperate enough.”

So you whine for him, beg, practically trying to rub yourself against his leg like you’d do anything just to feel him. Every word that leaves your mouth is another offering, another plea, and he eats it up with that smug, satisfied smirk that only makes you ache more.

#anon ask 💕#noah thots #dom!noah #noah sebastian smut

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snailstrailz · 2 days ago

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Ratigan is among my favorite villains not just because he's the perfect example of a classic villain and a good adaptation of Moriarty, he's just well written too.

Not necessarily in the backstory or twist department like Turbo, but just in the way he's handled as an agonist. You feel his presence before he's revealed. SOMEONE had to send Fidget for the kidnapping, and that someone is evil. I could go into the genius of the first scene, but the steaks are set instantly.

When we actually get to see the guy, (through Basil's fruity ass and his framed picture of him) he wastes no time launching into a musical number 1 out of 3 songs of the whole movie, which two of them are his. (Not to mention he has a doll of Basil full of pins to mirror the picture Basil has, damn how bad was the breakup dude). This number shows off his entire range, from triumphant self- aggrandizing to waxing poetic about how much he dislikes getting foiled and his fun getting ruined.

-To what happens when you offend him. For the mere crime of calling him a rat, which he is- the drunken mouse gets fed to a cat while the other henchmen watch. (I kinda wonder WHY he's so upset by this, it's never really elaborated on, though interestingly it seems he's trying to stray from the typical associations of being a rat by surrounding himself with poshness and dressing like a gentleman)

But despite these monetary slips of his composure, he usually fixes himself and acts calm and collected as he sentences people to their deaths.

Which makes the climax of the movie all the more impactful. When Basil was faced with seeming defeat, he resigned into self-pity, but when faced with his cape caught in the gears, Basil getting away after foiling his master plan, and most importantly- being outwitted- he finally, truly, loses his cool.

While pursuing Basil in a blind rage, he loses large portions of his clothing hot damn and fully resembles the stereotype of the ragged, dirty, sharp-toothed sewer rat that was inside him all along, going as far as running on all fours.

As intelligent as he is- he's short-sighted. He doesn't leave a henchmen to make sure Basil doesn't escape, he didn't have a plan B for the case the robot queen failed. He tackles Basil to what could have been both of their dooms, And in his rage- he doesn't notice Basil pickpocketing him and distracting him with the very bell that he'd used to sentence people to death by cat, momentarily snapping him out of his rage and distracting him. In which time, Big Ben chimes, which sends him plummeting, a grand end to a grand villain.

Anyway this post was just one big excuse to talk about that one gif. Goodnight everybody!

#snail rambles tag #professor ratigan #padraic ratigan #the great mouse detective

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tozieresk · 2 days ago

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𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 ⤑ the test, chapter two

read chapter one here

» They make their way out of Eddie’s living room into the cool night air, where the headlights of Steve’s Beemer shine brightly onto their faces. Steve himself is leaning against the door of the drivers seat.

“Damn Harrington, you always stand like that or is this some kinda mating display?” Eddie thanks whichever God is up there for blessing him with his loose-lips.

The next time Eddie sees Steve, it’s outside of his own trailer after a Hellfire session.

While the others continued Hellfire at school after Eddie graduated, with Will Byers taking his title as the new Dungeon Master, the kids decided to make time for him every two weeks to continue playing his campaigns. They say it’s because they like Eddie’s storytelling, but Eddie thinks it’s a load of bullshit and they actually just pity him for not having any friends his own age.

Dustin tells him before they even start that Steve would be the one to pick him up today because his mom is having wine evening with her “girls”, as she likes to call them. After everything went down with Vecna, she no longer wanted Dustin to ride around outside on his bike after dark. While he usually thinks his mom might be the only sensible parent of the kids, other than Joyce, of course, today he curses her out for it. Eddie is doing a horrible job of pretending that he’s not a nervous wreck. Throughout the entire session he can’t seem to get a hold on himself. He keeps stuttering, getting their characters confused, and jumping back and fourth in the story. It gets so bad that even Will, who’s usually the more kind and soft-spoken member of the party, asks him if he’s on drugs.

And Eddie feels terrible about it, he really does. They could be out enjoying their summer, going swimming and doing whatever else teenagers their age do. Instead they waste away in Eddie’s too hot trailer and trying to piece together his nonsensical ramblings. He can’t even put on a good enough show for them, despite the fact that they’re doing him a favor by entertaining his will to keep playing a game that he’s probably grown out of.

But Eddie can’t focus with the looming threat of Steve’s arrival hanging over his head. Because without the liquid courage he drank himself into at Steve’s party the previous weekend, he woke up ashamed and guilty and with the worst hangxiety he has ever felt in his life. The realization that flirting with the guy who you have a massive boner for might not be the easiest goal one can strive for hit him a little too late.

He isn’t a quitter, though. If he survived going through senior year three times then this should be a piece of cake. That’s at least what he’s telling himself while trying to lead the party through an abandoned village, infested with rabid house cats. Eddie thinks it’s a good metaphor for his life. He’s a rabid house cat.

By the end of the session, for the first time since he started DM’ing, he can feel that the members of the party are glad that it’s over.

“What the hell is up with you today, dude? I’ve never seen you act like this before.” Eddie suddenly remembers why Mike is his least favorite of the kids.

“Just a bad day, Wheeler. I promise next time I’ll be back to my regular charming self.” He puts on his best grin and tilts his head towards the boy, trying to hide his nerves. Dustin already looks at him suspiciously. Sometimes he thinks the kid is too perceptive for his own good, though he never seems to figure out the important stuff.

They all turn their heads as they hear a loud honking noise outside. Steve Harrington can be described with many words, but patient certainly is not one of them. Eddie suddenly remembers that he spent the entirety of the three hour session trying to figure out what to say when he arrives, and that he came up completely blank. His hands start sweating again.

They make their way out of Eddie’s living room into the cool night air, where the headlights of Steve’s Beemer shine brightly onto their faces. Steve himself is leaning against the door of the drivers seat.

“Damn Harrington, you always stand like that or is this some kinda mating display?” Eddie thanks whichever God is up there for blessing him with his loose-lips.

He can hear the kids snickering beside him, but all Eddie can concentrate on is the pretty flush of Steve’s cheeks that he can spot before Steve shakes himself out of it. “Do you ever shut up?,” he shoots back.

Dustin starts packing his bag in the trunk of Steve’s car while the others start grabbing their bikes. “Sadly, my mouth seems to be unable to fully close around pretty boys like you.” He says it quietly enough so that the boys won’t hear him, too absorbed in their own chatter.

Steve doesn’t seem shocked at his antics anymore, just annoyed. His eyebrows have shot up a bit higher towards his hairline. Maybe this whole test won’t last as long as Eddie thought it would. Steve seems closer to snapping than he’d expected.

“You’re such a freak, man.” Usually the sentence would sting, but Steve doesn’t say it with any malice. Slightly irritated, at most. “That’s what I’m known for.” He smirks.

“Seriously, dude, if you’re trying to get under my skin, you’re not doing a very good job." His voice is sharp now, but there’s a hint of shy defensiveness in it. "Just… cut it out already, alright?"

Eddie has the decency to feel a stab of guilt at that. He didn’t want to make Steve feel like he’s making fun of him. If there’s a clown between them, it’d be Eddie. He has no doubts about that.

“I’m not trying to mess with you, Stevie. Just sharing what’s been on my mind. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, ‘mkay?”

He can see Steve hesitating, but he eventually just nods, gives him a tight lipped smile, and climbs into the drivers seat. Eddie watches as the kids try to keep up with the speed of his car on their bikes.

“He told me to cut it out! To stop messing with him! Is that not enough of a result to you guys?! He acknowledged my flirting and shot it down. There you have it!” Eddie is hanging out in Gareth’s garage after band practice. The Hideout was torn down by the “earthquake”, but him and the other members decided to keep playing until they could find a new gig. Surprisingly, not many bars in bumfuck, Indiana are looking for a metal band, so they haven’t had any luck yet.

“Nah man, he didn’t even acknowledge that you’re, like, gay. He just thinks you’re making fun of him. That’s not a successful mission.” Gareth is trying to pack together everyone’s instruments. He can’t deal with messes and if something needs to be put away, he has to do it immediately. Too bad he picked the laziest people in all of Hawkins as his band mates.

“No, nuh-uh, he told me to stop and did it in a respectful way! That was the entire point of this! Steve Harrington is a good guy, tell the presses! There’s no reason for me to continue.” Eddie gestures wildly around him, much too frantic to pass as casual.

Eddie is pretty sure they’d lay off him if he just told him that he’s harboring a crush on the guy, but he feels a little embarrassed. Crushing on the jock of all jocks after praising for years that they’re the bottom of the barrel of humanity isn’t something he’s ready to admit yet. He’s sure his friends would have a field day making fun of him, too. Especially after he loudly announced to them that he’s done crushing on straight guys just a few months ago.

“That sounded respectful to you? It sounded more like a threat. Like, ‘Hey man, stop being a fairy in front of me before I punch your lights out’.” Jeff deepened his voice for what was probably supposed to be his best Harrington impression, but had a mouth full of chips and accidentally spit some of it onto Eddie’s arm, which he wipes away with a look of disgust.

“First of all, gross. Second of all, if he wanted to punch me for acting gay, he would’ve done it already. I did everything short of dropping to my knees and sucking his dick.” He might be lying about that, but he does think his flirting has been obvious enough.

“No, we need him to, like, talk about it directly. Otherwise we won’t know if you’re on the same page. You’re not getting the 100 bucks that easy.” Gareth says as he’s dropping down next to where Jeff is sprawled out on his couch. “Just pull out the big guns! I’ve seen you flirt with a thousand people just to piss them off!”

“They were never active parts of my life, though. This is just uncomfortable for the both of us.” Eddie drops his head into his hands. Steve and him only saw each other in passing; during parties or pick-ups or when he occasionally got so bored that he decided to annoy him and Robin at Family Video. But Eddie learned that the survivors of the upside down are somewhat of a close-knit group that are unavoidable as long as you stay in Hawkins. Even the members that don’t particularly like each other seem to have an unspoken bond. And Eddie likes having a group of people out there that get it. That won’t judge him for jumping at every flickering light. That he won’t have to explain his nightmares to because he already knows that they understand it; that they have them, too.

And he’s not in favor of ruining this for him. But he’s been in this group for a lot less time than Steve has. And if Steve decides to tell everyone that Eddie is a weirdo who won’t respect his boundaries, Eddie knows which side they’ll take. It doesn’t matter whether they have a problem with his sexuality or not.

“Hey, man, we’re not forcing you to do this. You can back out at any time you want.” It sounds condescending, but Eddie can hear the concern laced in his voice. He sees him look at him with furrowed eyebrows through the sides of his fingers. He takes a while to think it over.

“Fuck, no, I’ll keep doing it. I guess I’m already kinda in it now.” He sits up straight again, but the two boys won’t stop silently looking at him.

Eddie kinda likes flirting with Steve, as nervous as it makes him. Revels in the way his cheeks flush and his voice cracks, as if he’s not used to being teased. And as long as Steve doesn’t outright say that it makes him uncomfortable, there’s really no harm in it, is there? Maybe Steve likes the attention. He did get the impression that Steve only told him to stop because he thought Eddie was making fun of him. And that’s kinda sad, isn’t it? That Steve thinks someone would have to make fun of him in order to flirt with him. Eddie knows he’s been striking out more often than not since graduating. Eddie can boost his confidence back up. Sure, he’s a man, and certainly not Steve’s type, but at least he can show him that he’s still desirable.

Eddie decides that he needs to get a bit more serious about this. Speed up the rejection process, and show Steve that he’s not just making a joke out of it. He tells the others as much. They raise their eyebrows, but otherwise remain silent.

On the drive back home, Eddie maps out a plan on how to woo Steve Harrington. While doing so, he tries to diminish the horrible, flesh-eating hope that makes his way into his stomach and travels up to his throat, burning like acid.

chapter three is available on ao3!!

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things

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yuma-mukami-garden-god · 10 hours ago

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NSFW

Diaboys react to S/O coming home drunk and being all touchy and stuff with them. Like trying to undress them LMAO

Shu

Lazily opens one eye. “...You smell like a bar. Again.”

You’re giggling in his lap, hands fumbling with his shirt buttons. “You’re so hotttt, Shu… take it off~”

He groans, covering his eyes with his arm.

“Tch… at least let me finish this nap first. Then you can molest me properly.”

Reiji

He’s horrified. “You are absolutely disgraceful. A lady should not act like—what are you doing?!”

You’re already halfway through unbuckling his belt.

He grabs your wrists. “Cease this idiocy at once—mmph!” You kiss him.

Now he’s red. Furious… and possibly turned on. But he’ll never admit it.

“You… will regret this tomorrow, I assure you.”

Ayato

“Ayatooo~ lemme see those abs you brag about~”

You’ve tackled him to the couch, trying to peel off his hoodie.

He’s dying laughing. “OI! You pervy woman—what’re ya doing?! Not that I’m complaining, but damn!”

He lets you straddle him but makes fun of how bad your aim is trying to kiss him.

Ends in both of you passed out, tangled up.

Kanato

Staring at you like you’re a rabid animal.

“Why are you laughing? Why are you touching me?”

You try to crawl into his lap. He shrieks. “Get off! Don’t wrinkle my clothes!”

But when you say, “You’re the prettiest one here, Teddy can’t compete~”

…He turns red. And reluctantly lets you cuddle him.

“Fine… but only for tonight.”

Laito

“Oh? Bitch-chan’s finally making a move on me~ how naughty~”

He loves this. You try to undress him, but your hands keep slipping, and he just laughs.

“Mmm~ keep going~ It’s cute when you’re so clumsy~”

He lets you straddle him, teasing you with featherlight kisses but doesn’t take advantage.

In the morning: “You were so shameless~ Should I expect a repeat?”

Subaru

Blushing. Profusely. “S-Stop! You’re drunk! Get off me!”

You’re nuzzling into his chest, mumbling about how good he smells and trying to yank off his jacket.

He’s stiff as a board, red from ear to toe, covering his face.

“D-Don’t undress me like that! You idiot!”

Still ends up letting you hold him until you pass out.

Ruki

Watching you stumble in with a neutral expression.

You throw yourself onto him, tugging at his shirt.

“Livestock… have you lost all self-control?”

You pout. “Wanna see your sexy body~”

He sighs, catching your wrists mid-grope.

“I’ll allow this, but you will be punished when you’re sober.”

Yuma

“Oi! Where the hell you been, sow?!”

You wobble in, drunk as hell and immediately shove your hands up his shirt.

“…What the hell?! Don’t cop a feel like that!”

He flushes but lets you grope him anyway. “Hah… damn, you’re bold when you’re plastered.”

Picks you up bridal-style and throws you in bed.

“I ain’t lettin’ you strip me in the damn hallway.”

Kou

“Ehh~ look who’s back~ Drunk and clingy!”

You pounce on him like a cat, rubbing your cheek against his and trying to unzip his jacket.

“Ooooh? You wanna see my sexy side that badly~?”

He lets you get halfway undressing him before tickling you mercilessly.

“You gotta work for it, kitten~”

Azusa

He blinks. “You… smell like alcohol…”

You snuggle into his neck and start unbuttoning his shirt slowly. “Azusaaaa~ you’re so… soft and warm~”

“…Do you… want to cut me…?”

You giggle. “Nooo… I wanna touch you~”

He blushes. “O…Okay…”

Carla

You stumble into his study and immediately go for his robes.

“Show me the goods, your highnessss~”

He raises a brow. “You dare defile a First Blood in such a manner?”

You fall onto him, trying to undo his sash.

“…I see. You’ve gone mad.”

Still, he lets you cuddle in his lap while he finishes reading—robe slightly loosened.

Shin

“Oi, what the hell—did you get trashed without me?!”

You sloppily kiss his jaw and try to yank off his jacket.

He smirks. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, babe.”

Shin lets you straddle him and slurs jokes with you, teasing the whole time.

But he won’t let you finish undressing him unless he’s buzzed too.

Kino

“Ohhh? What’s this? My little doll’s feeling frisky~?”

He adores the chaos. You flop onto him, touching his chest, trying to remove his cloak.

“You’re so sparkly… lemme see what’s under there~”

He lets you get to the final layer then flicks your forehead.

“Hehe~ Patience, drunkie. You can’t have dessert before dinner.”

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storkmuffin · 3 days ago

Note

you asked for a wooyoung bias grief explanation and depending on how you bias (lit. wanting to date him/funny hot little guy you look at on your screen) your mileage will probably vary but this is how it feels for me. like yunho, he is more of a down-to-earth, boyfriend-ish type idol right? he has one of my favorite faces i’ve ever seen but it’s not that hyper-perfect, sterilized clean-featured face they put on olive young ads, his appearance is smth you can actually imagine and place in the real world. likewise, moreso than yunho he acts more like a natural mid-20s boyfriend when he’s talking to fans, both sides are teasing and flirting and annoying each other (btw i LOVE how much youngbuin/wommys give it right back to him it’s so cute and natural. we’re what he deserves) like some youngbuin will say something that gets to him and he gets so ACTUALLY flustered and giggly this fucking? piece of shit?? he kind of refuses to fake things to a p large degree for an idol so you get the idea that everything that drew you to him in the first place is actually present in real life. and he has a lot of traits that are in a literal sense attractive, they draw people toward him. he makes friends easily, you get the sense that people just feel comfortable around him (without him being sentimental or coddling if ykwim?), he’s affectionate, open and caring etc. for me personally he is very very similar to every person in my life i’ve ever gotten extremely close with and i think that’s why i ult him? you can imagine quite easily that you would get along well with this guy irl. and what im getting at here is the fucking problem: it is very easy to see him as a guy you could have known through friends, from school or a shitty student part time job, and you can imagine what crushing on him or dating him would /be like/ and as you’re entertaining these thoughts a parasitic plant will stealthily sneak its roots into your soul. from there on when you see him your brain will release Boyfriend Chemicals which make you involuntarily go “that’s my Boyfriend wooyoung” until you’re confronted with the reality that, it definitely isn’t. he’s playing gently with children? Boyfriend Chemicals. he’s annoying his friends half to death cause he thinks he’ll perish if he doesn’t? Boyfriend Chemicals. he’s posting Boyfriend Car photos or Boyfriend Beach photos? he’s being teased by a teezer or atiny and giggling like an angel? your brain has to cope with the influx of false Boyfriend Chemicals. even his stage persona is more Personal than anyone else, he’s not so much an interdimensional cyberpunk cowboy rebel as much as he is meeting your eyes from across a room and wiggling his eyebrows. i hate his stupid stage flirting, it feels like he’s looking at /you/ and you’re actually sharing a secret with him?? and im not a jealous person and i hate to say this about my youngbuin but when i went to the concert and saw all those black cats i was like damn! can you never look at him again, for me? i get why you like him too but i need you to stop liking him, leave that to me please? and then i gotta go on like i’m not an adult with a stupidly embarrassingly real crush on some fucking idol? get me out of here. i do recommend it though he seems like a nice boy

This feels like THE DEFINITIVE Youngbuin/ Wooyoung stan thesis, and I can't believe you gifted this to me in my inbox. I crush out on Wooyoung too - he has skills, he's so handsome, he's just so fun and full of life!! He walks the magical line between being a star and feeling accessible, and I want him to be a big huge star. The HUGEST, so I can see more and more and more from him. Wooyoung talking to Youngbuin /Wommys is still my most favorite content from ateez. More than Yunho crying. Truly delectable.

can you never look at him again, for me? This is so real and so adorable.

But I think this might be a key difference between maybe the Hottok and the Youngbuin or maybe it's just me - I want there to be more and more and more Hottok. I need a posse of Hottoks. Hottoks come find me . Not just the ones that want him to cry and think about kicking him either, but the ones who wanna feed him candy and pet his hair and knit him fuzzy sweaters or whatever - EVERYONE. Let's multiply.

Anyway I've said this from the start and it's never changed - I am as much a fan of the Wommys/ Youngbuin as I am of Wooyoung. The chemistry between fan and idol is SO GOOD between Wooyoung and his girlies. Just THE BEST.

#wooyoung bias #wooyuung ask #wooyoung meta #youngbuin #wommys #ateez meta

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gotxpenny · 3 days ago

Text

Stay With Me

In a world tearing itself apart, a guarded medic lets herself finally fall—only to find Babe Heffron already waiting, steady and soft, willing to stay through every broken piece.

Pairing: Babe Heffron x Reader

Prompt: "I can’t fix you. But I’ll sit with you while you fall apart.”

Word Count: ~2,500

Genre: Hurt/comfort slight angst because why the fuck not

Setting: Zell am See, Austria

Warning: idk is there even any?

Note || I'm well aware that Chuck didn't really die but for the sake of the one shot please roll with it and enjoy 😭 Also please please PLEASE send in some requests I’m running out of ideas 🥲

gotxpenny's masterlist band of brothers masterlist

The sky was the same dull gray it always was these days. Smoke curled from the end of my cigarette as I sat on the low stone wall, boots scuffed and numb from the cold. My fingers shook, not from the chill—but from everything else.

Chuck was gone. Shot through the head in a town whose name I barely remembered. My best friend. My only real friend, if I was being honest. One second we were talking about chocolate rations, the next he was bleeding out on cobblestones, and I hadn’t even had time to say goodbye.

Now, I just sat here. Smoked. Didn’t cry. Couldn’t.

I was the black cat, after all.

The hard-ass. The woman who didn’t flinch, didn’t break, didn’t let anyone get close. I’d earned that reputation from day one. Other companies pushed me around, treated me like I didn’t belong. Hell, some of the men in Easy did too—at first. But they stopped when they realised I wouldn’t take it. Winters had my back. Lip gave hell to anyone who mouthed off. Even Liebgott—who barely liked anyone—left me alone.

But then Babe Heffron came along.

Kind. Open. Soft in a world that demanded sharp edges. He looked at me like I was something human. Not a burden. Not an anomaly.

Just me.

The first time we met, it was in a muddy clearing just outside Eindhoven. I was patching up one of the new replacements, hands stained red, boots sunk in the muck. He offered me a canteen. I didn’t take it.

I’d been expecting the usual—side glances, whispers, someone calling me sweetheart or nurse like I wasn’t wearing the same uniform they were. I’d braced for it, like always.

But he didn’t do any of that. He just stood there, calm and patient, as if he had all the time in the world for someone like me.

“You okay?” he’d asked, voice gentle but unafraid.

I remember blinking at him like he’d asked if the sky was blue. No one ever asked if I was okay. Not seriously. Not without some agenda behind it.

“I’m fine,” I had said, curt. Cold. Automatic.

He just nodded, like he believed me. But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he crouched beside the replacement I’d just bandaged and struck up a conversation—low and kind, meant to distract from the pain. Me, I was already halfway gone, mind on the next thing, the next wound, the next job.

But he stayed in my periphery. And the next day, and the next, I started noticing the same thing.

He was present. With everyone. Not just the officers or the loudmouths. Not just his friends. With the guy who couldn’t stop shaking. With the medic who didn’t want to be seen. With me.

He didn’t treat me like I was something strange to figure out. Didn’t walk on eggshells, didn’t try to force small talk just to see if I’d bite. He was easy in his silence, comfortable in the gaps most people couldn’t stand.

And somewhere in those first few weeks, something shifted.

I started to wait for his voice in the mornings. Started to listen for his laugh across camp. Started to wonder what he’d say if I ever let down my guard long enough to tell him how scared I was. How angry. How lonely.

I didn’t let him in. Not yet. But he was there anyway.

Patient. Quiet. Constant.

And that was what undid me the most.

Because Edward Heffron didn’t try to break down my walls.

He just stood outside them, waiting, until I opened the damn door myself.

Then I heard the crunch of gravel behind me but didn’t turn my head. I knew the sound of his footsteps now. He never walked too loud, never approached like the others did—like I’d snap if they got too close.

“Didn’t think you smoked,” Babe said gently, settling down beside me without asking.

“Only when everything’s fucked,” I muttered.

He nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. Babe had always felt things too deeply for this war. It showed in his face, in the way he never looked away from the wounded, in the way he saw people.

Babe remembered the first time he saw her.

Not just noticed her—saw her.

She was knee-deep in mud and blood, sleeves rolled past her elbows, hands working fast and sure over some poor kid who couldn’t stop screaming. There was no panic in her, no wasted movement. Just focus. Tension. Grit.

She didn’t look up when he offered the canteen. Just gave him a glance sharp enough to cut and a curt, “I’m fine.”

He believed her, but he also didn’t. Not in the way that mattered.

Because beneath the hardened look and the stiff posture, he saw something else—a kind of ache that had nowhere to go. She wore it like a second skin, like she’d gotten used to the world asking everything from her but giving nothing back.

Everyone knew her by then—the woman in Easy. Tough as hell, didn’t take shit from anyone. Guys in other companies called her all sorts of things when they thought she couldn’t hear. Black cat. Ice queen. Bad luck.

Babe didn’t buy any of it.

He saw the way she stayed long after everyone else moved on. The way she checked on the wounded even after Doc Roe said they were stable. The way her eyes flicked to the horizon like she was waiting for the next thing to go wrong. Like it always did.

She wasn’t cold. She was guarded.

And he got that.

Maybe it was the Philly in him. Maybe it was because he’d never liked bullies, never liked the kind of guys who needed to tear someone down to feel strong. Or maybe it was just her. The way she didn’t flinch when things got ugly. The way she carried herself like she didn’t need anyone—but looked so damn tired of that weight.

He didn’t know when exactly he started falling for her. Maybe it was the way she never sugarcoated anything, not even comfort. Maybe it was how she looked at people like their pain mattered—even if she didn’t think hers did. Maybe it was because she didn’t try to be soft for anyone, and somehow that made her feel even more human.

He kept his distance, at first. She had that kind of presence that warned people off without saying a word.

But he stayed close enough. Close enough that when she needed quiet, he gave it. When she needed someone to sit with her and say nothing, he was there.

And the truth was—he’d never seen anyone like her.

She didn’t just survive the war. She stared it down. Every day.

And he’d made a quiet promise to himself, somewhere in those broken towns and long marches. He couldn’t fix her. He wouldn’t try.

But he’d stay. Every time she came undone, every time the cracks showed, he’d be there. Quiet, steady, and hers—if she ever wanted him.

The silence stretched and I didn’t offer him the cigarette. He wouldn’t have taken it either way. Instead, he folded his hands between his knees, elbows resting on them as he looked straight ahead at the empty road.

“I heard about Chuck," I didn’t answer. My jaw was locked too tight, “I liked him,” he added after a pause, “He always snuck you extra socks when they came in.”

That almost made me smile. Almost.

Instead, I exhaled a shaky breath and said, “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, Heffron. I don’t know how to do this without people I trust,” I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat, “Or if I even know how to be someone worth trusting anymore.”

Silence danced between us. But not the uncomfortable kind. Babe’s quiet was the kind that made space, not pressure.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to know,” he said eventually, “I think you just get up. Keep going. Let people in, little by little, even when it scares the shit out of you.”

I glanced at him then—really looked at him.

Because that voice, those words…they didn’t feel real. Not in this world. Not for someone like me. So I searched his face for the tell. A smirk. A twitch. Some stupid joke waiting to follow, some sign that this was just another setup for disappointment. Another reason to wish I’d kept my walls higher.

But there was nothing.

No smirk. No shift in his eyes. No punchline waiting in the wings.

Just Babe. Still. Steady. His brows pulled together in that way he got when he meant something. When he wasn’t just talking, but offering pieces of himself.

And it scared the hell out of me.

Because for once, I wasn’t bracing for the fall. I was falling already.

And he was still there.

I blinked, shaking off the odd feeling rising in my chest, “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” he said, turning to look at me for the first time. His eyes were soft but steady, “But it’s worth it.”

I looked away, the cigarette burning down between my fingers.

The words slipped out like they’d been hiding just beneath the surface, waiting for the quiet to let them breathe. I didn’t mean to say them—not like that, not so bare. But once I did, I couldn’t take them back.

“I’m a mess, Babe,” I whispered, “You don’t get it. I push people away for a reason. I don’t know how to let anyone—you—care about me. I don’t even know if I can be loved the right way.”

And that was the truth. Not sharp, not defensive. Just tired.

I didn’t cry. Not yet. But something inside me shifted, like the first crack in ice when spring comes too early. My hands shook. My chest felt tight in that dangerous, aching way. The walls I’d built so carefully—out of silence, sarcasm, and sheer necessity—were starting to tremble under the weight of honesty.

And Babe saw it.

He didn’t move. Didn’t push. He didn’t offer some perfect fix or try to patch me up with empty comfort. He just watched me, eyes soft and steady, like he was seeing every piece of me start to come apart. Like he knew this was the moment I needed to crumble, and that trying to stop it would only make it worse.

He waited.

Waited for permission.

Waited for me to say it was okay—for him to reach out, to hold me, to be that quiet force I didn’t know how to ask for. He didn’t reach too soon. He didn’t flinch at my mess.

He just stayed, patient as ever, like he’d already decided I was worth it—walls and all.

Babe didn’t flinch. He didn’t reach for me, didn’t crowd me. He just spoke, low and certain, “I can’t fix you,” he said, “But I’ll sit with you while you fall apart.”

That’s what undid me. Not some grand gesture. Not a kiss. Not a confession.

Just that.

I felt the tears finally sting behind my eyes. And Babe just sat there beside me—silent, warm, steady. The only thing that didn’t feel like it might disappear.

And for the first time since the war began, I let someone see me fall apart.

And he didn’t look away.

My breath hitched, chest rising too fast, too tight. The cigarette burned down to the filter between my fingers, forgotten. I didn’t look away from him. Not this time.

As the tears welled up and finally spilled, I stared straight into Babe’s eyes—soft blue and unbearably open. He wasn’t scared of what he saw. He didn’t try to look past it or pretend it wasn’t there.

He held it. Like it meant something. Like I did.

And I didn’t mean to say it. God, I didn’t even think before the words tumbled out in a broken breath—

“Ed…”

It was barely more than a whisper, but I felt the shift the second it left my mouth. Felt it in him.

Something in his expression cracked wide open.

He blinked like he hadn’t heard it right at first—because no one called him that. Not here. Not in this place where everything had to be nicknames and armor and half-truths.

But I’d said it.

Ed.

His real name. The name I’d tucked away in the back of my mind, too personal to use, too intimate to say aloud. Until now.

His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came. Just a long breath. His hand moved—slowly, deliberately—reaching up like he couldn’t help it anymore, fingers brushing the side of my face, featherlight and trembling.

“You’ve never called me that,” he said, voice raw and quiet, like he was afraid if he spoke too loud the moment might break.

“I know,” I whispered, tears slipping over my cheeks now, steady and silent, “I just…I needed you to know this isn’t about Babe Heffron in, Easy Company. This is you. You, Ed. You stayed.”

His eyes glossed over then, and I could see it—how the name undid him the same way his kindness had undone me.

His name.

Ed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet—so quiet he almost thought he imagined it. But it hit him harder than any shell ever could.

Babe Heffron had been called a lot of things since joining the war—Heffron, Babe, Philly, soldier, even hero once or twice. But never Ed. Not here. Not in this mud-soaked hell where real names felt like a luxury, like something you left behind with your old life.

But when she said it—when she said it—it was like someone pulled the air straight from his lungs.

Because it wasn’t just a name. It was trust. It was her letting him see the raw part, the real part, the part no one else got close enough to touch.

He stared at her, throat tight, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might break.

She was crumbling right in front of him, and all he could think was how desperately he wanted to gather her up, keep her safe, wrap his arms around every cracked, bruised part and whisper, You’re not too much. Not for me.

The war had taken so much from him—friends, innocence, sleep, peace. But this? Her trust? Her saying his name like it meant something?

That was a gift he didn’t know how to carry.

But he would.

God, he would.

He didn’t kiss me. Not yet.

But he leaned in, resting his forehead gently against mine, eyes closed like he was anchoring himself to the sound of his own name in my mouth.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered back, “Not now. Not ever, if you’ll let me stay.”

And in that war-torn silence, with the smoke curling around us and everything broken at our feet, I let him hold me.

And I let myself be held.

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