#and you put that guy in the control room… | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckysleftbicep · 1 day ago

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exit wounds 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, choking, hairpulling, rough sex, degradation, overstimulation, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, possessiveness, dom!bucky, angst

summary: after you put yourself in danger once again during a mission, bucky finally snaps.

word count: 3.2k

author's note: hello my loves, i hope you enjoy this fic! also, i am currently looking through all the requests i've received and am excited to say i got started on a few! so please, keep sending them, fresh ideas always helps me write better! love you guys and please stay safe out there!

want him so badly

The storm broke before the mission did.

Rain pelted the shattered rooftops, thunder cracked above as you darted through the ruined alleyways of Bucharest, your pulse hammering in your ears. The objective was simple, get in, extract the intel, get out.

“Left. Take the left,” Bucky’s voice crackled through your comms, taut with command.

“I see the target,” you shot back, breathless. “I’m going in.”

“You go in alone, and I swear to god—”

You cut the line.

Not because you were being reckless. You knew what you were doing. You had spent hours upon hours studying the building’s layout, the guards’ rotations, and the window of opportunity that was already closing.

You didn’t need him barking orders in your ear. And you especially didn’t need your boyfriend second-guessing you when you were this close to securing the objective.

But then, behind you—boots pounded on wet concrete, close, fast, and furious.

“Fuck—(y/n)!”

Too late.

The intel was secured. The flash drive sat warm in the lining of your suit, pressed against your sternum. On paper, the mission was a success.

But the cost?

Three injured agents. A building engulfed in fire. And Bucky’s silence on the jet ride towards the nearest safehouse, the tension was thick enough to choke on. He hadn’t looked at you once.

Not when you handed Val the drive. Not when she nodded coolly and dismissed you without a word of praise. Not when the soft hydraulic hiss of the safehouse doors opened and when the rest of the team shuffled in like ghosts.

Now it was just the two of you. The others had scattered quietly, retreating to their temporary rooms for the night. The rain still dripped from your suit's collar, blood clung dry beneath your fingernails, and the silence between you and Bucky pulsed like a second heartbeat.

You peeled your damp tactical vest from your shoulders and tossed it onto the table. Every breath you took felt too loud in the stillness. Your skin was still buzzed with leftover adrenaline and heat, you didn't know if it was from the mission of the confrontation you knew was about to come.

You heard the final set of footsteps retreat, then the soft click of the outer door.

Still, you didn’t turn around.

“I had it,” you said calmly, your voice flat but controlled. “You didn’t need to come after me.”

He didn’t respond at first.

But you could feel him. The tension radiated off him like heat off an engine block. You didn’t need to look to know his jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. You could already feel his glare burning through your back almost as if it was trying to set you aflame.

You met his eyes—cerulean, but sharper than usual. Tense. Controlled.

“I got the drive, didn’t I?”

“That’s not the fucking point,” he snapped, the steel in his voice sharp now. “Three agents could’ve died (y/n). You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t,” you bit out. “And I wasn’t going to.”

His mouth twisted, his chest heaving once before he spoke again, voice splintering. “You think I give a shit about your stats? Your little field heroics?” His voice cracked then, just slightly.

“You think I want to scrape you off the concrete one day just because you were too stubborn to follow the damn protocol?”

You barked a bitter laugh. "Funny. You’ve been quiet up until now.”

He moved fast.

One moment, he was across the room. The next, he was inches from you, towering, taut with anger, fist clenched so tight you could see the veins straining in his forearm.

“You wanna say that again?” he asked, low and dangerous.

You squared your shoulders, refusing to flinch. “I said—”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t test me tonight.”

“Why not?” you hissed. “You’ve been dying to explode since we landed Bucky. Go ahead. Yell. Blame me. Do what you always do when you don’t get your damn way—”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t move.

He just looked at you. And somehow, that was worse.

The silence that followed crackled with heat. His jaw tensed, eyes burning into yours like he was holding back with everything he had.

Then, slow and deliberate, he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His body radiated heat, tension rolling off him in waves.

“You think this is about me?” he whispered, dangerously quiet now.

“You think I give a fuck if I look bad in the debrief? I don’t care about orders, (y/n). I care about you. And you made the call without backup, without thinking. Again."

“I knew what I was doing,” you murmured, but it came out thinner now.

“And if you were wrong?” he snapped. His breath hit your cheek—damp, hot, ragged. “If I hadn’t gone in after you?”

You couldn’t answer. Because you didn’t know.

And suddenly the room felt too small. Too close. Your heart pounded against your ribs like it wanted out.

He was so close you could smell the rain still clinging to his skin, see the soaked-through fabric of his black shirt clinging to every line of muscle. His hair was still damp, curling around his jaw as his chest rose and fell with heavy, measured breaths.

He looked frayed at the edges, barely holding it together, and burning with fury.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, voice rough. “You think I care about the mission? You think I care about what Val thinks?”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered. “I was just… I needed to prove I could handle it.”

He took another step forward. “To who?”

You blinked.

“To Val? The team?” He shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Or to me?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Your silence said enough.

Bucky’s hand came up, not fast, not aggressive, but deliberate. It hovered near your jaw, then gently ghosted along the column of your throat. Two fingers settled over your pulse, barely there. Feeling it. Reading you.

“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured. “Think I don’t know what you’re trying to prove every time you run headfirst into danger like you have nothing to lose?”

“You don’t have to be reckless to be worthy of standing next to me,” he said, and something broke in his voice then. Softer. Almost broken. “You already are.”

Your breath stuttered.

You hadn’t meant to move. You hadn’t even noticed your body leaning forward until your chest brushed his. Until you felt the ragged breath he caught against your cheek, until your eyes met his, and everything stopped.

He looked at you like he was drowning in everything he hadn’t said, rage, fear, hunger, all of it right there in his eyes, barely held back.

His thumb brushed your jaw, tilting your chin up. His touch was light, barely there, but it felt like the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“You keep pushing me,” he said, voice low and quiet, the kind of quiet that carried weight.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Always testing. Always toeing the line.”

Your throat tightened as you swallowed, pulse fluttering beneath your skin. A slow ache bloomed between your thighs, the kind that only got worse when you held his gaze.

“And what if I’m doing it on purpose?” you murmured. “What if I want you to snap?”

Something shifted behind his gaze, a flicker of heat barely restrained, and the air between you crackled like a live wire. His jaw flexed, his body unmoving, and then, the corner of his mouth lifted. Slow, measured, anything but kind.

“You really want to see what happens when I do?” he gritted out

“Maybe I like seeing how far I can push you.”

You didn’t get a second to breathe.

His hand clamped around your throat, not hard enough to cut off your air, but firm enough to remind you who was in control as he shoved you backward.

You stumbled, caught off guard, and then—without warning, he turned you. One arm braced across your shoulders, the other sliding between your thighs. You barely had time to gasp before he was behind you, chest flush to your back, hips grinding into your ass.

His body pinned you in place, unforgiving and close, and suddenly there was no space, no air, nothing except the burn of him against you and the way your body reacted, fast, instinctive and shameless.

“You want to push me?” Bucky snarled, the words like gravel dragged through his teeth. “Then take it. Don’t you fucking run from it now.”

Your pulse throbbed wildly beneath his fingers. He felt it—you knew he did—because he smiled against your neck. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile of a man barely containing the storm underneath, teeth bared like a wolf on a leash.

You tried to turn your head, to spit something sharp, something defiant, but his metal hand was there in an instant, pinning your cheek to the wall with a ruthless kind of tenderness. Cold vibranium fingers spread across your jaw, holding you still like he was lining up a shot.

“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” he growled. “You don’t get to talk back. Not after the fucking stunt you pulled.”

Then—he tore your suit open.

The front zipper split with a vicious rip, teeth dragging down your sternum, and then the fabric was shoved roughly off your shoulders. Your bra came into view, your skin prickling in the open air, exposed and vulnerable and throbbing with anticipation.

He didn’t hesitate.

His mouth latched onto the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, and your body reacted instantly, arching toward him, heat coiling low in your belly, wetness pooling between your thighs before you could even think to stop it.

It was humiliating how fast he had you soaked.

“Fucking wet,” he hissed, voice sharp with satisfaction. His flesh hand slid down the front of your suit. Two fingers pressed through your panties and straight into your slit, finding you hot, drenched and needy. “You’re dripping, sweetheart. All that mouth and you still want me this bad?”

You moaned—shameless, high-pitched and he growled like it offended him.

“Pathetic.”

Your suit hit the ground in a heap, shoved down carelessly around your boots. He didn’t bother to strip you completely, he didn’t need to. He just yanked them down far enough to spread your thighs apart, leaving you open, exposed, and trembling.

Then you heard it—the heavy clink of his belt, the hiss of his zipper. Your body jolted at the sound.

“Look at you,” he muttered, low and mean. “Begging to be fucked like a slut after risking your life like a dumb little brat.” The words hit you hard and god, they made your pussy throb.

You clenched around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs, and the worst part was how much you loved it. How much you needed more, needed him.

Your breath stuttered, your hips tilting back instinctively, shameless in how fast you were unraveling for him. You didn’t care what he called you. As long as he didn’t stop. As long as he fucked you like he meant every filthy word.

He pumped his cock once—twice—right behind you. You could feel it already, flushed and hard and heavy, the tip brushing the curve of your ass as he lined himself up.

“You wanted this,” Bucky rasped, voice dragging low and dark. “You pushed me on purpose. You knew exactly what would happen.”

You whimpered, cheeks burning.

And then he laughed, low and cruel and knowing.

“You like it when I’m like this, don’t you?”

His cock dragged through your folds—slick with your arousal, bumping your clit before dipping lower, teasing your entrance with maddening pressure. You nearly sobbed.

“Y-yes… I like it,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled. “I wanted it. I wanted this. W-wanted you like this.”

He slammed into you.

You cry out, the stretch splitting you wide open in one unrelenting thrust. No warning. No mercy. Your nails scraped against the wall as your body spasmed around him, pussy clenching instinctively around the thick length now buried to the hilt.

“Oh my fucking—”

He slapped a hand over your mouth.

“Be quiet,” he gritted out, breath hot on your ear. “They’ll hear you.”

You moaned into his palm, the sound muffled and desperate, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as he began to move—long, deep thrusts that rocked your entire body.

Each snap of his hips sent you forward, your chest jolting against the cold wall with every brutal push. Your legs shook beneath you, barely able to hold you up under the weight of him, his rhythm, his heat, the relentless way he claimed every inch of your body.

His cock hit every spot inside you—deep, relentless, perfect in its punishment. Each thrust drove you harder into the wall, your palms flattened against the cold surface, fingers splayed like you were holding on for dear life.

The air was thick with the sound of slick skin and broken moans, the wet slap of him pounding into you again and again until all you could do was whimper, body shaking, needing more.

He was ruthless.

“You feel that?” he grunted, fucking into you harder. “You feel how deep I am? Fuck, princess, your pussy’s squeezing me.”

You nodded, eyes rolling back. Everything was too much. Not enough.

He grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, lips brushing your ear.

“You gonna come already? Just from this? From getting fucked like you’re made for it?”

You tried to speak, tried to form a word, a plea, anything but your mouth refused to work. All that came out was a desperate, broken moan, choked off by the force of him inside you.

Every muscle in your body was strung tight, overwhelmed, aching, begging for release, but all you could do was let the sound of your need echo in the space between you, raw and strung out and wordless.

He let go of your mouth and slapped your ass—hard.

“Say it,” he snarled. “Tell me how badly you want to come.”

“I, god—I need it,” you choked. “Please, need your cock, need you to—”

He pulled out. Completely.

You cry, voice raw with frustration.

Bucky laughed, voice thick with dominance.

“Look at you. Falling apart already. And I haven’t even gotten started.”

Before you could respond, he seized your wrists and twisted them behind your back, pinning them there easily with his hand. The cool press of vibranium against your skin made your breath hitch, your chest rising in shallow gasps.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he drove back into you—harder, deeper, with a force that knocked a strangled sound from your throat and sent sparks ricocheting through your core.

Your body jolted. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry. His flesh hand wrapped around your waist, fingers finding your clit again—rubbing tight, relentless circles in time with each brutal thrust.

You were unravelling, your legs burned and your body trembled. You were a babbling, incoherent mess as your orgasm built again—rising like a fucking tsunami.

“Don’t you dare come,” he growled. You tried. Fuck, you tried.

But he was everywhere—his cock driving into that sweet spot deep inside you with ruthless precision, his fingers working your clit in tight, relentless circles that had you trembling. His voice, low and filthy, poured into your ear like sin itself, each word pushing you closer to the edge.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Say who owns you.”

You sobbed.

“You do, Bucky! You do—”

“Good fucking girl.”

And then he snapped his hips again, slamming into you so deep you felt it in your throat.

You came with a strangled cry, body seizing as pleasure tore through you like a live wire. Your cunt clenched around him in tight, desperate pulses, milking every inch as wetness spilled down your thighs, slicking his cock and coating both of you in heat and ruin.

You slumped forward, forehead pressed to the wall, barely able to hold yourself upright as your orgasm wracked through you.

But he didn’t stop, he kept going—kept fucking you through it like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.

You sobbed, body trembling uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he snarled. “Take it. Cry if you want princess, I’m not stopping.”

Your knees gave out, barely holding you upright and then the second wave hit. He slammed into you hard, tearing through your body before you had a chance to catch your breath.

You clenched around him again, tighter this time, a cry ripping from your throat as you came all over his cock. Everything blurred, your vision, your thoughts, until all that was left was the sharp pulse of pleasure and the rough sound of him still moving behind you.

“Gonna fill you up,” he muttered, pounding into you with short, broken thrusts. “Stuff you full, just like you deserve. Let it drip down those pretty thighs. Let everyone see who fucked you like this.”

He groaned—loud, rough—and then shuddered, cock twitching as he spilled inside you. You felt the warmth of it, the pulse of his release, the way his entire body seemed to collapse into yours.

The only sound was your wrecked breathing, the whine of your body, and the soft drip of his cum sliding down your thighs.

You were trembling, undone in every possible way—mind blank, body limp, pleasure still echoing through your nerves. Your knees wouldn’t hold you, but he didn’t let you fall. His arms were around you instantly, strong and steady, pulling you into his chest like he could anchor you there, like he needed to.

His breathing was still ragged, chest rising and falling against your back. His lips pressed to your temple, slow and soft, and you felt the way he lingered, like he was grounding himself, too.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, barely able to speak. Tears still clung to your lashes, not from pain, not even from the intensity, but from the overwhelming ache in your chest.

He kissed your temple again. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again.” he murmured.

You blinked, surprised by the tremble in his voice. He wasn’t angry. Not now.

“I can’t—” he swallowed, brow pressed to yours. “I know you’re capable, I know you’re smart. But I can’t watch you walk into something like that again.”

Your throat tightened.

“I thought I could handle it,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “No. No more of that. If something happened to you out there—”

He cut himself off. Pulled you closer. One hand cradled the back of your head. The other still wrapped around your waist, like he was afraid you would slip through his fingers.

“You don’t get to scare the shit out of me like that,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I’ve lost so much—and, fuck, I can’t lose you too.”

He looked away, just for a second, like the words hurt to say.

“I wouldn’t survive it.”

You nuzzled into his chest, heart hammering. His scent, his warmth, the rasp of his voice in your ear, it was all too much and not enough.

“I’m sorry,” you said, small and hoarse.

Bucky didn’t say anything right away. He just held you tighter, kissed the top of your head.

“I know”

requests are open!

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riricatria · 1 day ago

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Greetings, greetings~

*slides into room* Sunny, �� ♪ ♬ ♪ yesterday my life was filled with rain ♫ ♪ ♫

Giggling, blushing, screaming, kicking my feet while reading your comments and asks ( ∩´ ᐜ `∩) I'm truly flattered by the feedback! I got an especially heartfelt ask on the Aventurine profile regarding the A/N, thanks for that! ♡

I'm a bit torn on who to write a profile for next, so I welcome opinions on that! Maybe Jing Yuan or Blade? Argenti, even?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Dark content (dead dove), cisfem!Reader, hair-pulling, threat of breaking bones, the general stuff that comes with yandere content (obsessiveness, possessiveness, captivity...), reader is put in a cage, mind control, slap on face, degradation, forced non-schmexual touching, restraints, a bit of sadism, NONCON, restraints, fingering, some breath-play, pet-play, edging, mind control, brief butt stuff, sadism, praise (kind of), Sunday is pretty cruel.

Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post. The template is heavily inspired by @/cinnamonest!

S-FW

˗ˏˋ ★ 1. General look: How are they like? How do they behave around the darling? Are there any warning signs?

The head of the Oak Family, Sunday, is an exemplary man. Or, at least, that’s what you’ve gathered from the limited time you’ve had the honour of spending in his presence. He dresses elegantly, he’s always on time, he speaks in a tone that conveys nothing short of self-assurance, and the words he utters are, without a miss, perspicuous. His way of leading leaves no room for hesitation. It’s nothing short of admirable.

You and him first meet by chance when you’re roaming around in the Dreamscape. It’s just an ordinary time: You’re waiting in line by one of the food trolleys. There’s still a few people ordering before you, but you start searching for your money in advance nonetheless. You dig around in your bag, trying to find your wallet amongst all the stuff in there, rummaging through each pocket with one hand. And, when you do find your wallet, it slips from your grasp and falls onto the ground. A curse makes it past your lips, but before you can crouch down to pick the item up, another hand has already wrapped its fingers around it.

You stand up, preparing to thank the person for their help, but instead, your mouth is left hanging ajar. You recognize the man: It’s one of the most prominent figures on the entire planet: Pale blue hair, a white suit, and most notably, the little wings of a halovian that poke out from behind his neck. It’s difficult to mistake him for anybody else — Sunday.

He hands the wallet back to you with a polite nod and a smile. You shake yourself out of the befuddlement before proceeding to sputtering out apologies and words of gratitude. It’s already embarrassing to have someone picking up your stuff from the sidewalk, but it's even more so when the person is someone of his status. It’s incredibly rare for a woman like you to end up in the company of somebody like him.

In your flustered state, you continue babbling away at him until he reaches for your shoulder. He gives it a gentle pat and lets you know that ”he’s not bothered at all”. Your heart skips a beat.

You never knew that the strict man you saw on the articles was such a courteous and gentle person behind the scenes. Compared to the image you had of him, he’s also not that tall, even though the pictures of him depict him looking down at the vast crowds of Penaconians. It’s not to say that he doesn’t look the exact same otherwise, down to the clothes he wears, but the sight of him is, admittedly, a little less threatening in person. And, he has got a pleasant and calm voice, too.

You can’t help the blush that rises onto your cheeks. He has a very distinct charm to him, through and through. From the way he looks you right in the eye to how his little wings flutter along with his movements… Oh my. If you were anybody else, you would have fallen in love right then and there. But, he’s just a guy, and you’re just a girl, and you have places to be, as unfortunate as that reality is. It’s your turn to buy your food, and you bid him a wave of goodbye before walking away with your fresh snack. He responds to the gesture.

The second time you run into him is also by pure coincidence. It’s in the Dreamscape’s Golden hour, yet again: You merely brush against each other on the bustling street. Obviously, you notice him the moment your eyes land on his form but ultimately decide not to say hi to him. He meets at least a dozen new people every day, and you don’t think you’re anyone special among those, so there’s no chance that he could even recall your face. However, against your expectations, he recognizes you in a heartbeat, and he stops in his tracks in favour of turning around to greet you.

The two of you engage in a short yet joyful conversation, chatting about this and that — it’s mundane things like how gorgeous the place looks, how much fun you’ve had today, what you’re going to do next. You mention how you can’t believe that he would remember you, and that you’re truly honoured to be able to have yet another encounter with him. He nods along, speaking cordial words and uttering ingenious phrases. Just like the first time, you’re left with a delightful impression of him.

Oh, if only you knew what’s truly going on in his head.

It would be near impossible for you to glimpse the sinister side of him. The truth is meticulously hidden behind all the pleasantries and witty expressions. Nothing in his demeanour raises the warning signs. You don’t have the slightest idea of what kind of a person you’re truly dealing with.

Only a select few minds in the entire universe have been blessed with such skill to effortlessly deceive as he has. It’s a distinct, morally dubious trait that’s only found in the most established people in the cosmos. Considering it’s nature, the people in question usually end up pursuing a career in the criminal world since such prowess is, without a doubt, a priceless tool to have in that field. He, however, has found particular success with it when it comes to furthering his most recent goal.

You see, the case with Sunday is that he has most likely been in search of a darling for a while before he happened to stumble upon you. With all the responsibilities he has to face in the shoes that he fills, it’s no wonder that a certain part of his psyche would begin desiring a target to take all of his uncertainty out on. His job is incredibly demanding: He has to be in charge of a countless number of things, pulling at each of the strings to achieve nothing short of a perfect result, and that leaves very little time to pursue personal relationships. Such is the life of the Oak Family head: It’s a lonely position to be in.

No matter the amount of adroitness he has been granted by the Aeons, there’s still something crucial missing in his days. There’s currently a single person in the entire world that he could refer to as one he holds dear — that person being his sister — but as even Robin is straying farther and farther away from him, he comes to the realization that a certain specific, selfish need of his is no longer being fulfilled.

After the first time he ran into you, it cannot be said that he was immediately obsessed. He’s a reasonable man, so a more adequate description would be that his interest has been piqued. You’re attractive to him, like a fascinating, new concept, he admits to himself, but that’s where it ends. Though, it’s not like he meets people that catch his eye on a regular basis — it may very well be less than a yearly occurrence — but you have successfully crossed that threshold. He just isn’t entirely certain yet.

However, on the second instance, even a level-headed person like him must ponder if the concept of fate truly exists. Truth to be told, the entire conversation you have with him, more or less, goes in one of his ears and right out of the other. Despite seeming fully present, he’s operating completely in autopilot mode. Sure, he answers and asks smart questions, keeps you engaged in the discussion, but in his head, he’s going over entirely different matters. Namely, how he’s going to get you for himself.

You won’t catch even the tiniest hint of what he’s planning while you’re busy gushing at him about how wonderful Robin’s last performance was, how big of a fan you are, how you’re looking forward to seeing her perform again. He smiles, nods along, gestures with his hands. He knows he’s skilled in disguising his true intentions, but for him not to raise a single question in your mind is truly a wonder. You’re so gullible.

After your little reunion has concluded, he’s left standing in the middle of the sidewalk with an abundant amount of thoughts rushing through his head. His eyes are glued to your back as you disappear back into the crowd, mixing into the sea of colours that is the Golden Hour’s scene. His chest bubbles with unfamiliar emotion.

The idea of you won’t leave his mind even when he exits the Dreamscape several hours after. He can still feel your warmth, hear your voice, smell your scent, see your delicate form in his mind’s eye. It’s so vivid that he has to wonder if he’s hallucinating. However, even though the current course of affairs is already alarming enough on its own, it’s only the first few steps of the spiral he’s going to be sucked into.

Sunday contemplates the idea of getting to know you in the standard, societally acceptable way for a day or two. He promptly rules that option out, however, since it would require asking you out on a date. It would be a risk both regarding his position and the possibility that you may decline the advance. Someone like him can’t just approach a woman and expect the media not to turn it into a circus. Besides, what he’s feeling is less of an innocent crush and more of a budding obsession. He recognizes it himself, but after a little bit of ”careful consideration”, he’s surprisingly fine with the idea. Someone like you is incapable of truly caring for themselves, anyway, he thinks.

As soon as he makes up his mind about you being ”the one”, he starts preparing a room for you to stay in in Penacony — in his house, more specifically. This extends to both the Dreamscape and the reality. He has already done some devising by this point, but now, as his plans are finally about to bear fruit, he allows himself to get excited about it. He starts gathering a list of all the things you’ll need in your new home: A bed, a dreampool, a wardrobe (oh, he has to get you some clothes, too), you’ll be needing a bathroom of your own for when he’s away, the security systems must be updated, he needs to install a few cameras… There’s a lot to take into account. Ah, he has to build a few more locks on the door, and the cuff stems have to be attached to the wall, too.

Most importantly, though, a metal cage needs to be built in the corner of your room. He isn’t delusional: He knows that you won’t be particularly enthusiastic about the change in your life, so he has to be prepared for your attempts to… protest. Moreover, it’s going to be much more convenient to lock you in the cage opposed to tying you down completely. Unlike with all your limbs restrained, you can still move around in there, but there won’t be anything that you can take your anger out on.

He’s not a savage, either. You’ll have a mattress for yourself in the enclosure. He wouldn’t make you sleep on the cold hard ground, no, that would be terrible for your body. That, and the cage has to be high enough for you to be able to stand straight. He can’t have your back developing deformities because of the constant hunching you would have to do. All in all, he’s incredibly meticulous about the groundwork.

The workers that eventually have to construct and renovate the place to Sunday’s liking are to be pitied. Throughout the entire process, he sees the men exchanging doubtful looks between each other, and the cage hasn’t even been brought in yet. He oversees the efforts, making sure that everything is flawless for when the day of your arrival comes, peeking over the men’s shoulders with a serene expression. Though they don’t express it out loud, it’s obvious that they’re not thrilled about having someone like him breathing on their necks while they work on the more-than-suspicious personal project of the Oak Family head. It’s a little amusing to him, even; how none of the workers dare to question his plans or even cautiously inquire what the room will be used for.

Though, at one point, the boldest man out of the bunch asks him if it’s on purpose that the room cannot be unlocked from the inside. Perhaps there is an error in the blueprints, he gently suggests, but Sunday simply smiles at him and lets him know that ”no, the blueprints are as they’re meant to be”. Whatever is going on behind the worker’s eyes would be a curious sight to see, judging from the way he quickly averts his gaze before returning to his task. Obviously, the project is starting to look more like a prison cell than a leisure space or a spare bedroom. Little do the workers know that their initial thought is, in fact, correct.

All the while Sunday is preparing for the calamity that is soon to befall you, you’re out there, free, living your best life. For the little time you have left, he lets you do just that. You look awfully happy when you’re exploring all that the Dreamscape has to offer, enjoying the sights, experiencing the wonders without a single care in the world. It’s a bit of a shame that he has to take all of that away from you. It’s a heinous thing to do, but just this once, he hopes that the Aeons will avert their gaze.

˗ˏˋ ★ 2. Securing: How will they abduct their darling? When, where and how?

His method of kidnapping you is meticulously planned, well thought-out, and completely and utterly inescapable. There’s literally nothing you can do to prevent it aside from leaving the planet on the next ticket.

Sunday informs the Bloodhounds that they have a little bit of work cut out for them. Namely, they are to transport an entire person out of a certain room in the Reverie hotel. Naturally, when he airs the request to the less-than-zealous workers, their first assumption is that the man in front of them is cracking some strange, obscure joke. One of them even lets out a half-hearted laugh to appease him. Very quickly, though, they understand that Sunday is, in fact, serious about it. The matter is not questioned further.

Being the head of the Oak Family, Sunday has certain privileges on the planet that the regular guests don’t necessarily even know about. One of those privileges is that he has access to each and every room in the hotel if he so desires. That day, he happens to want to visit a certain number with a couple of bloodhounds to ”assure his safety”.

You’re completely unaware of the danger that you’re in. Still submerged in the comforting warmth of the dreampool, your other body is wandering around somewhere in the Scape. Your face is relaxed, completely devoid of any expression or indication that you know what is about to happen to you.

The Bloodhound men look at each other behind Sunday’s back, sharing a collective glance of ”what the hell”. If he was in their shoes, he would strongly be considering booking it, but a profession such as this has no room for weak-minded people, and so, neither of the men turn their backs to him. For how concerned they seem to be about you, they’re completely oblivious to how they’re about to become victims themselves in the next few seconds. Most likely, they don’t get a chance to choke out a single word before their minds become hazy, and eerie, wavy patterns fill the edges of their vision. It’s a shame that he won’t get to enjoy their psychological torment any further than that since, unfortunately, having witnesses to the act is out of the question.

Sunday won’t be caught in the act himself, of course. The only thing that the outsiders will get to see is four people walking out of a certain room with strangely dull expressions on their faces. He marvels at the passing people’s reactions at the strange phenomenon for a moment before using the Harmony to make sure that they remember none of it. The same will go for the two bloodhounds as soon as the mission has been concluded.

The place of his residence is located outside of the Reverie hotel, and to take you there, he needs to drive. He’s not going to do that himself, just in case somebody were to catch him in the act, so it’s much more convenient to have the two men conduct the dirty tasks. He’s not particularly worried about being stopped by the authorities since he can always just use his tricks on them, but the less people that are affected, the better. The more targets there are, the riskier the practice becomes. That’s why he settles on sitting on the backseat with you leaning against him as one of the bloodhounds parks the vehicle in front of his grand house. He makes sure to thoroughly conceal their memories of the event before sending them back on their way.

By the time you wake up, you’ll be safely confined in the room he designed just for you. He observes you through the surveillance cameras, peering at the screen as your body twitches awake. He hopes that you won’t be too perturbed about the sudden change in scenery, but based on the way your face falls, he’s going to have some explaining to do. As much as he wishes that you seeing him would bring a smile to your face, the mischievous part of him simply cannot wait to hear your appalled gasp when you realize just who the one behind it all is.

˗ˏˋ ★ 3. Life: What is it like to live with them? How do they treat the darling?

Your life with Sunday is strictly bound by routine from the day one. He’s austere when it comes to the structure of his day, he was raised that way, so naturally, his habits extend to you.

For the first week or so, he allows you to question him, to protest his ways. He responds to your inquiries to the best of his ability, articulating his answers in a calm and poised manner, explaining your circumstances for as many times as you would like. He doesn’t particularly appreciate the way you mostly scream at him and attempt to throw hands, but he understands that you’re in a strange, new situation — some pushback is to be expected. He probably gives you an entire room tour like a real estate agent, presenting everything that he has prepared for you with a proud expression on his features. You can only blink at him in disbelief as he leads you to the cage and recites the words ”stainless steel and impossible to wear down”. The audacity of this man is unrivalled.

Though, after your grace period is over, your ”normal life” will begin. From that point onward, your misdeeds and bad behaviour will be punishable offences, and your questions about his plans will mostly go unanswered. He gave you ample time to get used to your new surroundings, and if that wasn’t enough for you, that’s a ”you”-problem, he concludes. Besides, most of your later complaints are about things like ”there’s no windows”, ”it’s so gloomy in here” and ”he can’t just lock you away from the rest of the world” after you realized that he’s immune to the insults and demands you have been hurling at him. Yes, he understands that the room is a bit sombre, but you could technically be seen through a window if there was one, and so, he decided against having that. He could install a screen that mimics the view of the outside world, though, if you would like. He barely dodges the glob of saliva that you sit his way.

That being said, you wake up at the same time every morning, and the two of you eat breakfast together in your room at the table he constructed for this specific purpose. You don’t get that much time to finish your food, though, because he is to leave for his work in the Dreamscape’s Dewlight Pavilion soon after, and you’re coming with him. You have your own little prison there, too, and it's where you’ll be staying for most of the day. It’s not as dismal as your regular room in the real world: There’s even a window that faces the gorgeous landscape of the Moment of Morning Dew. It’s nice to be able to see the sky, even if it’s only a fabrication. That, and you’re usually alone for this part of your day since the man is busy with his own affairs.

The space you’re allowed to roam in in the Dreamscape is much more spacious than your regular room, too. He isn’t as concerned about you trying to leave since there’s usually nobody around in this Hour, anyway. If you’ve been agreeable, he might permit you to explore the Pavilion’s interior. There’s not that much to see there, though, the hallways are dull and empty at best, but regardless, you’re happy to get to move around more. He takes note of how you seem a bit more energetic after getting some time to wander around, so these instances get more frequent further into your captivity. It’s also convenient for him since you can’t exactly escape via the dream world: Shaking yourself out of the slumber will only get you sent back into your room in the reality.

When he’s done with work, you either leave the Dreamscape, and the rest of your day is spent in his house, more or less in his immediate vicinity, or he might take you to visit the other corners of the dream realm. It’s only the most secluded locations, obviously, and the entire time, you’re glued to his side. Compared to the alternative, it’s a pleasant time despite the rotten company you’re forced to be in.

In the evening, you’ll be back in reality. The two of you share dinner, either eating in your room or sometimes in his, albeit it’s an incredibly rare occasion. Then, when the night comes rolling around, he sees you to the bed (always the exact same time), tucking you in and shackling one of your ankles to the chain that connects to the wall. He himself stays up an hour or two longer, usually doing some leisurely activity like reading a book, but eventually, he either joins you in the bed or goes on to sleep in his own bedroom. It depends on what mood he has been in during the day. Curiously enough, he will leave you to sleep alone only if the day has been an unremarkable one. If the day was pleasant or downright horrible, he will prefer to have you in his arms for the night. The ”downright horrible” aspect does include you being disagreeable, too. You don’t know what it is with him, but you have noticed that the chances of him cuddling you only increase the meaner you are to him. It’s a peculiar equation.

Furthermore, his favourite position to sleep in is with you in his hold, his chest against your back. One of his arms is draped over your body, preventing you from squirming too much or trying to create distance between you and him. One of his wings will also come down to rest on the side of your head, the feathers stroking your temple. There are no other alternatives; this is the position the two of you sleep in if you share a bed. He’s very fastidious about it, too, though he would never admit it out loud.

Lastly, a lot of tiny aspects in your daily life are controlled by him. You don’t, for example, really get to choose what you wear. He sets out your clothes for you, and he sometimes even dresses you up himself. He tends to doll you up a bit, too, even though there’s nobody else but him that gets to see the sight of you. You conclude that it must be him emulating what it would be to live a normal life with you. You’re not too thrilled about having to play a role in his fantasies, but to be fair, even you yourself would prefer looking pretty to resembling a sogged-up origami bird in appearance. He occasionally buys accessories for you to wear, too, like necklaces and hair ornaments.

You don’t get to decide what you’re going to eat, where he’s going to take you in the Scape, when you’re going to bathe, nothing. Of course, if you’re feeling brave, you could offer a kind suggestion to him, asking him if you could maybe do this or that, but it’s likely that he won’t oblige. He has his preferences, and it’s much easier for you to just go along with them.

˗ˏˋ ★ 4. Rules: What kind of rules do they enforce? How lenient are they? How do they keep their darling in check?

True to his style, Sunday has a coherent set of rules for you, all detailed with possible irregularities and exceptions. There’s quite a lot of them, but he has written them down on a list for you to read through. And, you come to find that they are very thoroughly considered.

The core rules go as follows: 1, Always do what he says regardless of what he’s asking of you. 2, Do not attempt to flee unless exposed to imminent danger (e.g. fire). 3, Do not attempt to hurt him or yourself. 4, Do not attempt to resist him under any circumstances unless a matter requires his immediate attention. 5, Only speak when spoken to. 6, He has the right to change these rules any time he so wishes.

You look at the list, then you look up at him, back at the list, back at him. Them, you immediately take the liberty of breaking the fifth rule and start insulting both him and the thing, sparing no curses nor words. He, despite having expected an outburst, is a tiny bit taken aback by the sheer volume of your voice and the strength you muster up to try and free yourself of your bindings. Disobedience is among the top three things he cannot stand in this world, but still, he supposes that he can forgive your misdemeanour this once without a consequence. It is only the first week in your new life, after all; he would be a bit too cruel of a man if he didn’t allow you even a bit of leeway.

Though, that ends up being the last time your offences go unpunished. ”On the seventh day, grant dignity”, and so on. He’s very particular about the rules he has set out for you, and he expects you to follow them to a T. Though, if your offence is dancing the line between being admissible and being deserving of a punishment (especially if the act was accidental), he tends to let it slide. It only means that he has to make the rules more definite. Although, he does let you know that your common sense ought to have shunned you away from the act. If you constantly keep committing slight deeds of disobedience, he won’t look at them through his fingers much longer. This applies to the inadvertent instances, too.

When it comes to keeping you in check, Sunday is nothing but thorough in his ways. The door has at least a few different locks on it, there are no open windows (there are no windows at all), there are no items in your room which you could use to attack him or get yourself out, there are surveillance cameras that he constantly monitors you through, and one or more of your limbs is chained to the wall at nearly all times. There really aren’t many options open for you to try.

He tends to go a bit overboard with banning items from your room. He justifies it because of the miniscule chance of them being of aid when you plan your escape. Sharp items are obviously off-limits: This includes things like scissors, nail files, even hairpins and whatnot, but he also prohibits you from holding stuff like glass and porcelain items, long cords, anything that he deems too risky to have in your vicinity. The further it goes, the more laughable it becomes: Not even that far into your captivity, he ends up taking some jewellery away from you because the clasp has a sharp edge on it.

Even if the whole ordeal has you rolling your eyes, you’re sort of curious about how far he will take it. So, in response, you start inventing the most creative of ways to cause harm to your surroundings with what little you have in your room. You start scratching the walls with the buttons on one of your shirts and the heels of your shoes, you begin trying to shoot the lamp down from the ceiling by throwing loose objects at it. Any and all items that can fit into the keyhole in the lock will be shoved in it. You flip your bed upside down and see if you can detach one of the crossbars. It’s beyond petty.

In the end, though, as much as he has to commend you for being so resourceful, the result is him taking all your stuff away into a different room — down to your clothes. The only thing you have to cover yourself with is the blanket in your upside-down bed. The aftermath really isn’t worth it despite you getting a laugh out of his bewildered face and twitching smile.

His unfortunate go-to is also, well, the cage. It was built for this specific purpose, after all. It’s the one place in the entire house where you simply can’t cause harm from. If possible, though, he would prefer not to have you in there all day (unless you deserve it), but he will not shy away from throwing you in at the smallest sign of insubordination, so be prudent.

And then again, the last card up his sleeve is always the power of Harmony if you prove especially difficult to deal with. All he needs to do is take a single look at you, and the vibrant hues start creeping into your field of view. It’s sort of endearing, even; how you squeeze your eyes shut when your head starts feeling fuzzy at the intrusion into your mind. Not long after, your fire will simmer down, and you’ll have that hazy, serene look in your eyes that he so adores.

˗ˏˋ ★ 5. Consequences: What kind of punishments will the darling face? How do they punish different offences?

Sunday is a lot when it comes to the punishments he serves. Aside from the list of rules, he also happens to have all the possible consequences written down on a neat, white sheet of paper. He has left the thing in your drawer, just in case you would want to refresh your memory every once in a while.

The punishment for even the smallest of misdemeanours feels disproportionately harsh. Considering what his rules are, you could earn yourself a penalization by just saying something that even mildly inconveniences the man. It almost feels like he has set the restrictions out just to be able to punish you. He’s ridiculously strict with them, too, and you can rarely get out of it, even if you were to present the most heartfelt apology to him. It’s an impossible game to win, and just as you suspect, he has taken a little bit of a liking to seeing your consequences through.

The smallest offences, the list reads, are punishable by locking you in the cage until a certain period of time has passed. However long that time is is up to him to decide: Usually, it’s somewhere around half an hour, but it could stretch up to being a few hours, even, if you’ve been particularly disagreeable. Considering the alternatives, this is not that bad of a punishment since you do have a mattress in there: Usually, you just end up napping the time away, and when you wake up, he has most likely already unlocked the latch.

It is, however, especially humiliating in the beginning. He’s treating you like a misbehaving animal (which you sort of are to him to a degree). Early on in your captivity, you might very well spend the entire day in the cage because every time he enters the room to free you, you immediately start hissing at him. You learn that the cooldown time is, unfortunately, cumulative.

Another thing he might do in response to small stuff is taking away your means of entertainment. Since you seem to be having so much fun spitting mean words at him, he’s sure that you won’t be missing your books for a while (the rest of the day at minimum). It also serves another purpose to him: If you don’t have anything to occupy yourself with, you’re more likely to seek him out in hopes of a conversation to pass your time. It’s embarrassingly effective, to his delight, and you do end up spending more time with him during these instances.

When it comes to anything more severe than the slightest of blunders, though, it gets scary and it gets scary fast. His punishments are like a rapidly steepening slope: He’s relatively lenient at first, but you won’t have to walk further than a few steps before he will show you the worst that he could possibly offer.

Breaking anything gets you a foul punishment without exceptions. This includes the stuff in your room, the rules list (your personal favourite to take your anger out on) and him. It could be as little as tossing something on the floor, swatting his hand away when he tries to touch you, anything. You don’t get a chance to speak out your reasoning, because his hand will already be grabbing your face before you can get a single word out. He squeezes your cheeks together, makes you look him in the eye, and speaks to you in a tone that’s a complete contrast to how tightly he’s gripping you. ”Excuse me?” he will ask in a placid tone, slightly raising his brows. If you talk back at him, he’ll say something like ”come again?” or ”what was that?”. It’s usually enough to shut you up without delay, but in the case that you don’t, he’ll just grab a handful of your hair, tug your face towards his and tilt his head to the side. That gets you quiet real fast.

There’s also a harsher version of this event. If you’re doing your absolute best to be as insufferable as possible, even when his nails are digging into the sides of your face with more strength than you thought he was capable of, you’ll be in for a nasty surprise. Without a warning, he lands an open-palm slap on your cheek before digging his hand into your scalp. He drags you across the room to where the mirror stands. There, he basically dangles you in the air just by the strands in his grip and asks you to look at your reflection.

”Apologize”, he demands. You don’t speak a thing, only trying to claw at the hand that’s ripping on your hair. It’s a futile effort, however, and as your silence prolongs, he only tugs harder. He only loosens his hold when you’re sure that he’s about to pluck a tuft out, and in fear of that, you start spewing out frantic apologies.

Deeming your remorse sincere enough, he lets your body fall onto the ground. Your hands are holding your head, and you don’t lower them, even when your locks settle back into their places. You’re breathing heavy, your teeth are clenched, and there are tears stinging in your eyes. You’re worried for your hair, picking at your scalp, but judging from how there are no strands in his fingers in the mirror’s reflection, no permanent harm was inflicted.

Wondering about the same thing as you, he crouches down to your level and gently brushes his fingers through where his grip was tight a mere moment ago. A light smile spreads on his features as he finds no signs of detriment. He lets his arm fall lower to your upper back where he gives a few pats in between your shoulder blades. ”That wasn’t so difficult, now, was it?” he asks you. You think about getting even with him right away — his wings are within a grabbing distance — but you’re not sure if you can take another whole day in the cage, so you swallow your pride.

Realistically, you won’t be able to flee Sunday’s clutches — at least not without help — but if you do plan on making an escape, be aware that even the tiniest signs of you trying to conduct a scheme will be punished just as harshly as if you had actually made it out. Be it a lockpick, a makeshift blade, a written note; anything could be classified as an attempt.

What such offences will earn you is a day chained to the bed. Your wrists, your ankles, your neck, all of them will be chained down in a position where you can hardly move. Technically, whatever you did could very well just be nothing, but he doesn’t like to take the odds. No matter how you try to tell him that ”no, the drawing wasn’t a map of the ventilation system”, you’ll only be let out of the bindings if you need to go to the bathroom or when he decides that you have had enough of it for now. During these times, he will feed you himself, too, so you’re not getting up from the bed during mealtime, either. Not only is it horribly humiliating and dehumanizing, but it also gets boring very fast. And, if your attempt was especially heinous, he might even give you a blindfold to top the setting. It’s terrible.

On the miniscule chance that you do manage to make it out of the room you’re locked in, you’ll truly see him livid for the first time in your life. You’re not going to make it very far, anyway, you’ll be caught up with by the time you reach the front door, but even that is way past what Sunday ever expected you to be capable of. It’s most likely when he’s away on work business, so he can’t directly intervene with your attempt, but he sure as hell can see what you’re doing through the surveillance cameras.

You’re not sure what to do. Honestly speaking, you didn’t think you would make it this far. The tiny pick you had constructed out of some metal parts from a can of lemonade is, without a doubt, your greatest handiwork yet. Even though it took nearly half an hour, you managed to make it through all the seven locks in the door. You know that he’s most likely watching, and damn, you hope that the man is seething from anger behind the screen. As you push the door open, you make sure to flip off the camera above your bed before exiting the room.

You make it to the hallway. You have seen it a few times when you have had the honour of visiting the other rooms in the house, but aside from that, the view is unfamiliar to you. The door to the left is his bedroom, you’re sure, and the one after you’re not sure about. It doesn’t really matter, though, because the staircase at the end of the corridor is where you’re headed, anyway.

Your heart is thumping in your ears as you hop down the stairs two steps at a time, keeping a steady rhythm despite the way your entire body is shaking. The feeling is simultaneously euphoric and terrifying. You know you’re being monitored, and you’re certain that he will be on your back soon, so you hasten your pace.

His place is big. There are more rooms than you can count. Ornaments costing more than your life savings line the drawers, the mantel, the dinner table. There’s a somewhat abstract painting of Robin hanging on the wall alongside a smaller picture of a halovian man with dark hair and a crow on his shoulder. You don’t recognize him. There’s the living room where Sunday’s own, personal dreampool sits. As a fleeting thought, you consider that perhaps you should go to the Dreamscape instead and try to alert someone of your presence, but you’re not sure where the pool is connected. It’s wiser to try and make it out of his house.

It’s easier said than done. You need to make it to the lower floor, and only there you’ll be able to find the main door. You have never gotten the chance to explore this part of his residence, understandably so, but eventually, after running around the building for a good few minutes, you arrive at the grand entrance hall. Lining both sides of the walls, a rounded staircase leads down to the first of two doors to the exit. You run towards them, breathing ragged and your hands clammy with cold sweat. You wrap your fingers around the ornate handles, barely able to contain your feelings as the gates to your freedom crack open. You know you shouldn’t celebrate yet, especially since you still need to get through the vestibule, but you can smell the outside air that seeps through the walls.

You sprint for the exit. Your legs burn from the strain, the adrenaline courses through your veins like a drug. Your fingers find the handle, you push and-

The lights go out. The door behind you slams shut. In the pitch black, you try to yank on the knob that your hands are still clutching, desperately twisting the thing, but it doesn’t budge. In the span of a single moment, all your hope trickles down the drain like the tears that now spill from your eyes. You turn around, trying to free yourself from the small space by getting back in the house, but the handle on that door refuses to give in as well. You’re trapped a mere few inch away from your freedom.

You collapse to the ground.

It’s not until an hour or so later that Sunday arrives back at his house. You don’t even raise your head from where it’s slotted against your knees when light floods the vestibule. You’re balled up in the back corner of the room, silently sniffling.

”Hand it over”, you hear Sunday order. The tip of his shoe enters your limited field of view as he bends down in front of you. You don’t comply with the request. However, it seems that his patience has worn thin, because in the next moment, your vision is already swimming in the strange hues of Xipe. Against your own volition, your balled fist unravels and drops the lockpick on the ground. He picks the thing up, inspects it between his fingers for a moment before sliding it into his pocket.

You’re pulled up from the ground by your arm. His grip is tight, sparing no mind to how it aches when his fingers pinch on your skin. You yelp out a noise of pain, but he could not care less. Your legs feel wobbly as he drags you through the hall, up the staircase, past the living room, all the way back to your room. You’re sobbing out incoherent words, trying to tell him that he’s hurting you, that his grasp is cutting off your blood flow, but he doesn’t listen to a thing.

When he reaches the wide open door of your prison, he wastes no time tossing you to the ground. The air is forced out of your lungs as your body hits the floor with a heavy thud. Your head is spinning, your arm is throbbing, there’s snot running down your face. He doesn’t grant you a single second to collect yourself before his heel comes down on one of your ankles.

He shifts weight on it. Your eyes go wide as his shoe digs into your leg, putting pressure right where your tibia protrudes under the skin. ”You have learned your lesson, I hope?” he speaks out in a tone colder than his pale blue eyes. His wings are sticking out straight to the sides, spread into their most majestic form. There’s not a single hint of sympathy in his dead gaze.

He presses down harder. Tears spill down your cheeks and gather at the tip of your chin. You try to whimper at him to stop, that it hurts, that you’re sorry, but no coherent words come out of your mouth. There seems to be a single intention in his mind, being one that involves his heel burrowing right through your skin, and judging from his expression, his mind is set on it. You attempt to pull your legs to yourself, but you find yourself being completely unable to move anything below your head due to the Harmony that’s still being inflicted upon you.

There’s nothing left for you to do except pleading for mercy and letting your tears fall. Still, even through the relentless, colourful haze, you’re able to mumble out a single, strained ”please” before closing your eyes.

The pressure on your foot disappears. Even as you hear shuffling, you don’t dare peek at his form. With how your head is clouded, you find it easier to pretend to have passed out. He, of course, knows that you’re still conscious — no thoughts of yours are safe from his prying mind — but even when he lifts you to the bed and cuffs all your limbs to the bedposts, you keep your eyes shut. It’s no use struggling at this point. It’s a meritorious feat you managed to pull off today, even though it ended up being for nothing.

You fall asleep not long after. You’re aware of the horrors that await you when you wake up, so you decide to make most of the little time you have before that. Slumber is the one place where Sunday cannot reach you, but despite that, you’re certain that throughout your rest, there’s somebody cradling your body in their arms.

˗ˏˋ ★ 6. Emotions I: How do they show love? How do they attempt to make the darling love them?

So, the way Sunday shows love is… making you as perfect as humanly possible. You’re his very own darling, so of course he puts the utmost effort into making sure you’re flourishing and in a sound state. The latter may be compromised, though. It’s morally questionable, sure, but to him, it’s the highest honour that he could bestow upon anyone.

He takes pride in taking care of your appearance. It’s a daily thing, sometimes even multiple times in the span of a single day, but he loves to do things like brush and do your hair, dress you up, even put makeup on you. It’s reminiscent to the things he used to do for Robin when the two of them were young, so he’s very adept when it comes to grooming you. Were it in any other context, the whole thing would be incredibly wholesome, even. The ordeal is sort of a control thing to him, too: He gets to decide how you look like, to a degree, and it’s a very intimate idea to him.

It may come as a bit of a surprise, but he’s, in fact, a little bit of a toucher, too. It’s very subtle and sophisticated: A caress on your lower back here and there, holding your hand in gentlemanly way, inspecting a strand of your hair between his fingers, that kind of thing. He’s not one to indulge in touching you that much against your will, it doesn’t do much for him, but be prepared to be prodded at least a little bit. He likes to have you close to him in general, so if you’re in the same room as him, it’s a common occurrence that he might sidestep closer to you and pull you to him. He may start chatting to you about nothing in particular, just seeing how you’re faring (you’re usually not faring very well).

Moreover, he tends to praise you. There’s always a nasty little backhanded aspect to it that leaves you feeling like you were actually being degraded, though. He might, for example commend you on being exceptionally obedient that day, or tell you what a good job you did listening to the instructions he gave you. It’s a little theatrical, and he makes it that way on purpose. Still, no matter how dramatical, it’s way better than being on the receiving end of his wrath. You grow used to it.

In addition to the previous points, Sunday does get into a true lovey-dovey mood every once in a while. It’s still subdued, true to his style, but the most affectionate you’ll ever see him is when he starts to sort of play out the role of a husband. He has these fantasies in his head that are straight out of a picture-perfect romance series. He has envisioned the sight of you in a pretty dress and smiling at him, for example (it’s probably his before-sleep thought). He acts these scenarios out if you’re receptive: For instance, he tends to come up behind you, move your hair to the side and kiss the back of your neck. He’ll smile and mutter out a compliment. You’ll come to realize quite early on that this part of him is purely performative — it’s like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re actually willing.

If you are willing enough, though, he adores just lingering in your presence while you read or draw or knit, something along those lines. Sunday isn’t that big of a talker when it comes to showing genuine affection, so his go-to is just sort of being there with you.

Maybe you’re sitting on your bed while he’s resting on the couch, occupied with his book. In the next moment, he’ll slide himself in the sheets with you, patting the space in between his thighs. Your brows furrow, not immediately understanding the request, but it does become clear when his fingers wrap around your upper arm and insistently nudge you towards him. You’re much too fatigued to fight his advances, and without much resistance, you climb into his lap and get into a comfortable position. His hand comes down on your hip, caressing the skin for a little before returning to his activity.

Oh, and he will absolutely get the two of you rings. He presents the piece of jewellery to you, telling you that you shall be wearing it from now on (preferably on your ring finger). It’s not that you’re actually married, but he likes to… pretend. You’re sort of like his wife, after all — no, more like a possession, actually, but the notion stands. One more ring will appear on his glove, among the ones that already adorn his fingers. Nobody asks a thing about it, despite the piece’s risqué position on his left hand.

Be aware that he will be furious if you decide to get rid of the thing somehow. It’s both a stab to his ego and a soul-piercing insult to him. The entire ordeal is incredibly personal to him, so if you end up throwing his act of love away, you best be sure that he’ll be sulking for the rest of the week if not longer.

˗ˏˋ ★ 7. Emotions II: How do they deal with the darling’s emotions? How are outbursts handled? How do they attempt to comfort the darling?

One issue that both you and Sunday alike will face is that, in the setting he has placed you in, your contentment starts deteriorating, and it does that in an alarming rate. He knows exactly why that is, he’s not stupid, but there’s only so much he can do without risking having you flee or somebody seeing you. That being said, it’s wasted effort to expect him to go easier on you if you start showing signs of gloom.

Emotional outbursts that hold even the tiniest bit of kick are dealt with using his usual methods: No matter how much you scream and cry, you’re going to end up in the cage he has for these exact situations. He really can’t be bothered to deal with a yelling and thrashing person that he has been nothing but sensible to, and even if your rage eventually dwindles down into sorrowful sobbing, he’s not gonna offer much comfort to you. More often than not, these little episodes of yours are to get a reaction out of him, anyway (or at least that’s what he thinks), so what better way to punish you than not to give you the attention that you so seem to crave (you want to bash his face in).

Even though his nature is seemingly callous, he is quite proficient in differentiating when you’re just making a scene for the sake of it and when you’re truly under heavy emotional distress. He can tell from the way you react to him presenting you with the consequences. If you go quiet afterwards and accept the result with only a distasteful click of your tongue, it’s usually just about you blowing off some steam. However, if you continue lashing out even after he has locked you in the cage, for example, it’s usually a sign to him that you’re not in a good place mentally.

The first few times that you end up on your knees on the floor, sobbing your heart out, he’s at a little bit of a loss. Of course, he could go the usual route of offering half-assed consolation like a few kind words and whatnot, patting your head a bit, whatever. It’s just that, when he thinks of resorting to that, his heart twitches in an uncomfortable manner. He feels like the action would be particularly immoral, even for somebody like him.

That being said, his uncertainty results in him having to leave the room nonetheless, and you’re left in the darkness, all alone and without anybody to listen to how you wail your soul out. He knows that it appears incredibly cruel to you, but the reality is that it’s the best he can muster. He beats himself up for it long after, even.

When more time has passed, and you have gone through a couple more of these ”episodes” as he likes to call them, he finally decides to gather up the courage to face you during one. It’s the regular kind: You’re in your room, yelling and pointing fingers at him, sobbing your eyes out. As usual, after the initial outburst with all the violent words and tearing at the cuff around your ankle, you give up the fight and fall down onto the floor, defeated. As is common, his only reaction so far has been standing a short distance away from you with his hands behind his back, silently observing and taking in the sorry sight of you. There’s not a lot going on on his face, either, purposefully so; it’s terrifying for you not to know at all what to expect from him next.

You sniffle, sitting on your knees with what is left of the rules list on your side. You shredded the thing into pieces, ripping into the paper with all your might until the only proof of its existence was the white flakes that now cover the carpet. It must be the third one this week. It’s a terribly childish show of resentment, you know that very well yourself, but being the object of Sunday’s emotional torment would be enough to drive just about anyone into primal rage.

Your head hangs low as you clench your hands into fists and tell him to ”just throw you in the cage already”. However, your words are only met with silence.

There’s a gloved hand on your cheek. You raise your gaze the tiniest bit, only enough to be able to see that, yes, it’s him that’s so tenderly holding your face. He kneels down in front of you, stroking his thumb under your eyes and rubbing away the tears that spill past your lashes. His expression is strange: The usual smile he wears is still there, sort of, but his eyes are slightly unfocused. It’s like he’s gazing right through you despite being very precise with his movements.

”You must be exhausted”, he speaks, voice conveying no emotion in particular, just like always. He brings his other hand up to your face as well, using the back of his glove to dry the streaks that adorn your cheeks. His touch is so delicate, so gentle that your head is about to explode from how his actions completely contrast his usual behaviour in these moments. Despite how soft he’s being, you can’t help but feel completely dehumanized by the sentiment. He knows that he’s the sole reason for your anguish, yet now he’s so graciously offering you consolation for your woes. It almost makes you want to try and lash out at him again.

He snakes an arm behind the back of your neck. The touch gently urges you to lean in, to rest your face against his chest while his hand rubs up and down your back. His other hand finds the crown of your head where it gathers a bunch of your hair and gently scratches the scalp there. You feel his wings tickle your forehead, coming down to mimic an embrace.

He smells pleasant. You hate yourself for associating a single nice adjective with him.

It’s a terrible situation to be in. You don’t have the slightest idea if he’s being genuine with his actions, even now that he’s holding your trembling form in his arms. You stay like that for a good while, too. He only loosens his hold when he knows that you’re close to collapsing to the ground. You don’t have a single ounce of fury left in your system anymore, and he takes advantage of that by properly pulling you into him and picking your tired body off the ground. He lifts you over to the bed, settles himself on the mattress, and rests you in his lap. There, he places your head over his heart and begins stroking your hair like he was caring for the baby bird he found in the garden with Robin in his childhood.

You are more resemblant to that bird than you realize, he muses. Both you and the animal are scared little things; terrified and thrashing in his hold until you realize that your captor has only extended their hand out to help. You need to understand that what he does is for your own good, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner the two of you can begin living with no longer needing to lock you in your metaphorical and literal cage. He lets you know all of this in a soft, soothing tone all the while you’re barely able to keep your eyes open. His chest gently vibrates with every word. If you still had the strength, you would latch your fingers around his throat.

Though, when it comes to situations where Sunday doesn’t believe you’re going to tire yourself out before causing serious harm to your environment and yourself, he’s not going to hesitate using Harmony on you. He will follow the situation through the surveillance cameras with a pensive look on his face before promptly deciding that it is time for you to knock it off.

He will arrive in your room like normal, and naturally, an object immediately flies his way. He dodges it with little difficulty, and when his eyes settle on you, you know it’s over. The colours start spreading around the edges of your vision, and the image of him in front of you blurs. Whatever you’re holding drops to the ground with a dull thump. He steps closer to you, and you can barely get a word out before the noteless melody consumes you whole. You suddenly feel completely at ease, your body becomes incredibly heavy. One of his hands comes to support your back as your legs give in and you nearly fall over. Through the haze, you hear how he’s softly telling you to calm down and ”breathe, just breathe”. ”You’re alright”, he hums, lulling you deeper into the song.

Nothing, not even your red-hot wrath, is capable of resisting the overwhelming sense of tranquillity that curls around your mind. It seeps into your very essence, forcing every last muscle on your body to fall lax in his tender embrace. You look up at his face and try to get your eyes to focus on his expression through the fog. There’s nothing to note: He himself is scrutinizing your features, looking for any signs of discomfort. When he doesn’t find any, he let’s out a long, somewhat relieved exhale.

As handy as it is, he would prefer not to use the power on you if possible. Not to say that he won’t rely on it when need be, but the obedience he gains from you via that route is… inauthentic. You’re not submitting by your own volition. He’s just explicitly making you do what he orders you to, and that’s not what he aims for. He wants you to want to be good for him. However, in his eyes, all of these instances are just necessary bumps in the path that he needs to cross to get to the result he desires. It’s a long road, he’s perfectly aware, but what awaits at the end is more than worth all the anguish and struggle.

˗ˏˋ ★ 8. Thing to exploit: What are the darling’s best chances at escaping? Are there things the darling can use to their advantage? How can the darling make thing easier for themselves?

There’s no way around it: Sunday is an incredibly difficult yandere to get away from. Not only is he an extremely prominent figure with loads of resources at his disposal, but he also has the power of Harmony on his side. On top of that, he doesn’t really take you outside, let you meet any people or offer you many chances at escaping in general. Every door is locked, all windows are shut, there’s absolutely nothing you could use to your advantage. Getting past all of his precautions and measures will require both wit and patience, calculated risk-taking and vast strokes of luck.

He doesn’t let you see any of the many workers under his command. Even though the chance of them agreeing to help you is minimal, he would still rather not take the risk. It requires a bit of extra effort to keep them away from you, but he’s a meticulous man to the bone, and this is no exception. The one person, however, that you may be able to get in contact with is none other than Robin.

It’s only a few fleeting times that you’ll get to even be in the same room as her. Although Sunday is opposed to the idea of you and her talking, he does have a soft spot for his sister and ends up allowing it — only when he’s in the room with you, though. You won’t be able to get much from her — it’s only a break from being alone with Sunday, really — but she might attempt to make your life a little easier.

The tendency to manipulation must be a familial thing with them: As naturally as breathing, Robin musters up her most pitiful expression and says something like ”Oh, poor thing”. She sets her hand on top of your head and strokes your hair in a nearly maternal way. You don’t dare look at Sunday, but from the corner of your eye, you can see the way the corner of his mouth twitches. You’ve known him for long enough to recognize that he’s affected but is doing his absolute best not to show it. You don’t know how you should feel about seeing him so… vulnerable.

Furthermore, if it occurs that you meet Robin more than once, it’s quite likely that she will help you escape. It’s not just indirectly aiding you or offering you comfort, she will literally aid you in your breakout. She isn’t afraid to have it traced back to her, either; she’s much too kind-hearted to know that his brother is keeping someone captive and live doing nothing about it. She might divulge Sunday’s schedule to you, for example, or literally sneak to where he keeps you and get you out. No matter the consequences she will face, it’s worth it in her eyes. A bird does not belong in a cage.

Whatever happens after making it out is up to you, though. Robin can only do so much, and as much as she wishes that she could see you soar, the people higher up in the Family hierarchy would probably not be overjoyed to hear that the most public figure in their faction is getting involved in such affairs. The wisest course of action would be to immediately leave Penacony by whatever means possible, of course, and surprisingly, just that might be enough. Don’t be fooled, though: Sunday can and will hunt you down if given the chance, but there are a few responsibilities of his that he can’t simply ditch. He has an image to upkeep, and as obsessed as he is with you, as painful as it is, they are a higher priority. That, and he has a bit of an ego and wants you to think that "this was his plan all along". His people will be coming after you within only minutes worth of delay, however, so be careful.

When it comes to things aside from escaping, there’s one oddly specific thing that you can do which will both lower Sunday’s guard and make him dull down the harsher aspects of how he treats you. It’s not one you’ll come to think of straight away, but when you ponder it more profoundly, it actually makes plenty of sense.

Whether it’s humming a tune or whistling a few notes, hearing you sing is something that will calm his nerves with a near perfect success rate. You don’t have to be skilled by any means, you can be just as off-key as you want, it’s the action that counts. It doesn’t matter what he’s currently doing, hearing a melody flow out of your mouth immediately transports him back to his childhood. He hates how weak he is to it, but he can’t help the way his heart softens.

He may come up to you when you’re idly humming while being occupied with some mundane task. You obviously shut your mouth when you see him approaching, not assuming that he would appreciate it if you were to fill the silence with your song. You carry on with your chore, but after a few moments of quiet, you hear him mutter something. You turn around to face him, only to find that he’s standing with his back turned to you. Hesitantly, you ask him to repeat his words. ”Please sing”, he speaks in a tone no louder than a whisper.

It’s up to you if you want to follow through with the request or not. Nothing will happen if you decide not to, but know that if you do, he will remain in a good mood for the entire day. He’s much less volatile and much easier to talk to. If you’re feeling brave, you could even ask him for something. It’s a bit of a gamble whether he will agree to it or not, depending on the nature of the wish, but still, it’s worth to try.

Finally, as a side note about escaping his clutches — it’s the stupidest thing imaginable, but your freedom will arrive at the latest when the Astral Express arrives in Penacony and does their boom-shakalaka. Part of his redemption arc will be letting you go. It’s a bit of an anticlimax, but it is a solution nonetheless.

˗ˏˋ ★ 9. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes? What unique qualities do they possess?

In hindsight, you should have guessed it from his looks, but Sunday is a complete and total, irremediable neat-freak. It manifests in nearly everything he does, from his taste in dress to how the books on his shelves are set in alphabetical order. His work desk is so pristine that its feng shui can heal its surroundings within a five-mile radius.

Naturally, his obsession with order extends to you. Whenever he notices even the slightest fault in your appearance, he’s quick to fix it. Be it your hair, something on your face, your clothing being wrinkled, anything. He’s actually very mindful about it: He doesn’t say a thing — only steps closer to you and moves the stray strand off your face, picks out the piece of dirt on your cheek, fixes your collar. There’s no remarks about the error, nothing. You could almost call it loving; the way he does it is so tender. He might get annoyed if you keep repeating the same faults over and over again, though.

On a different note, Sunday is one of the few captors that might actually make you do labour for him. It sounds ridiculous, and it very much is just that, but if you’re whining about having nothing to do all day, he might be inclined to get you to spend your time more wisely.

He will set a stack of papers on your desk. When you question the action, expressing your confusion by uttering out a very demure ”what the fuck?” and pointing at the thing, he will explain that you ”might as well busy yourself in other ways than complaining”. He tells you to organize them by date, the oldest at the bottom and the newest at the top. You squint your eyes at him to decipher if he’s actually being serious with the suggestion, but as you find nothing but the usual, polite smile on his features, you conclude that yes, this man might just be a lost cause.

Your initial thought is that, hell no, you’re not going to entertain his stupid ass by doing his work for him, but as the hours stretch on and on, you start considering that maybe you should take up on the offer. It’s not like something like this would take him that long, either, so what if he truly just wants you to feel a bit more involved? You’re running out of books to read, stuff to draw, and the pile of notes on the desk is starting to look more and more enticing.

And so, you start sorting the papers out, inspecting the date written on each page’s corner. Sunday, of course, follows your every movement through the security app on his phone. There’s a slight smirk playing on his face as he sees the way you carefully sort the documents into different stacks before eventually gathering them into a single, neat bunch. You seem to be pleased with yourself, even.

Truthfully, the papers are of no value, and he doesn’t even need them. They’re just some notes from the Family people of lower ranks, and they hold no importance to him. Still, seeing you conduct the task with such diligence, he needs to start bringing more of those in, he thinks.

A strange thing you'll come to see is that, when it comes to Sunday, you don't actually have that much to tell about him. Not that you don't have things to say about him, though — those you have a lot of, and the words used would not be pretty — but in general, you don't really know him on a deeper level. He keeps it that way on purpose: Despite your occasional inquiries, he hasn't told you almost anything about his past, about his job, about things he likes, anything, really. It's a boundary that he wouldn't like to cross any time soon. While it's partially because of his own emotional blocks, it also keeps you more pliant since you don't have a lot you could use against him psychologically. It's a strategic choice.

NS-FW

˗ˏˋ ★ 10. General look: How does their sexuality manifest? What does sex mean to them? How horny are they?

Sunday has got two sides to him that contrast each other to an inconvenient degree. On one hand, he’s very reserved when it comes to his sexuality: He doesn’t indulge in the art of beating one’s meat except for once in a blue moon, he isn’t a fan of a flirty atmosphere, and he certainly does not search out company for those kinds of activities. Then, on the other hand, he’s… a man. He’s a man that isn’t that far off from the average when it comes to the topic of libido. He has urges, sometimes hefty ones, even, but he’s very skilled in suppressing them. (He probably unironically refers to sex as ”coitus”.)

Furthermore, though, as is with most yanderes, his sexual desires skyrocket when you come into the picture. There’s a nearly comical aspect to it: He isn’t used to having to keep himself in check to the degree where he consciously has to force himself to look away from the sight of you or start counting the dust particles in the air. It’s ridiculous, and he’s ashamed of himself, too, but there’s only so much he can do about it. Besides, it’s at least partially your fault since you’re flaunting around your bare ankles and all. Whore.

His desire towards you first manifests in less inherently sexual ways. Though, being aware of the context, they still appear that way. Kissing your neck and upper back, for example, are a thing he tends to do in an almost idle manner. You think it’s quite intimate, yeah, but it’s not as big of a deal as when he sneaks fleeting touches at your thighs or your chest. Those, despite being less intrusive, feel a lot more loaded than the pecks. He kind of builds his touches up until it all comes down on the night of your undoing.

˗ˏˋ ★ 11. Limit: How long does it take for them to have the darling? What is the first time like? Do they care about the darling’s willingness?

It’s stupidly dependent on how you present yourself in the first few days of your captivity. Whatever you do, he is going to take you by force, but the aspect that you can affect is when it will happen. It’s an either-or situation: Your options are basically right away or in a few weeks. There’s no in between, and it all comes down to how you behave. If you display signs of serious fear like crying, trembling and being unable to converse with him, he will decide that perhaps it’s for the best that he leaves the leap for a later time. Then, on the other hand, if you’re mostly hostile and spitting insults at him, he’s going to tackle the matter as soon as possible.

Nevertheless, how the first time goes is more or less the same regardless. You don’t know to expect what is about to happen, and he prefers it that way. It’s easier to lead you into the bedroom and lock the door behind him without you putting all of your strength into trying to wriggle away from his grasp. That being said, you only start to anticipate that something grim is about to take place when your only exit clicks shut with him in the room.

He’s won’t sugar-coat it. He simply informs you that ”you’re going to have sex with him”. Of course, your eyes go wide as saucers at the statement, and your immediate response is to scamper as far away from him as the room allows. You start screaming at him, refusing to listen to anything further he has to say, telling him that ”he’s insane”. He was prepared for a reaction like this, he’s not dense, but it does manage to irk him nonetheless. Yes, he does feel a tinge of sympathy when he sees your petrified expression, but it’s a necessary evil, he thinks. Tears won’t get you out of this one — he’s going to have you either way.

It’s terrifying; the way he backs you into the corner of the room, walking in unhurried steps while you’re hyperventilating and scampering away from his nearing silhouette. He does it all with the usual, polite smile on his pale features, all the while you go through every possible method of keeping him away from you: You throw objects at him, you make an ungodly amount of noise, but there’s only so much you can do. Eventually, he catches up with you and pulls you up by your arm. If you put up a considerable amount of resistance, thrashing around in his hold, clawing at him, trying to take a bite out of his hand, he’s going to use the power of Harmony on you. It’s only for a moment, though: He wants you lucid for the experience, but even the few seconds of his tricks get you nice and obedient for him. You’re fighting a losing battle.

He drags you to the bed and chains your hands to the cuffs that hang from each of the bedposts. Despite your struggling, he’s being uncharacteristically gentle with his actions, making sure that your wrists don’t chafe against the restraints more than absolutely necessary. From the psychological viewpoint, the experience is among the cruellest, compared to how the first time would go with other yanderes. The entire time, you’re being bombarded with his soothing coos while he holds your flailing legs down with an iron grip. The contradicting messages blur into one, and you can only hope that the ordeal doesn’t steal the last bits of sanity you’re clinging to.

Still, he hasn’t lost control, by any means. Although his dick is straining in his pants to an uncomfortable degree, he knows that, when it comes to the female body, he can’t just jam his cock in. You need to be cared for like the delicate, little thing you are. So, he starts methodically caressing his hands along the curves of your body, all the while you’re quivering like a leaf under his touch. He smiles down at you despite the way fat tears are spilling past your eyes and gathering down where the pillow catches them under your head. He’s going to have to cover your mouth if you don’t stop wailing, though. No matter how gentle he’s being, you won’t stop begging and pleading for him to stop his ministrations.

He talks you through the process. Systematically, as he pokes and prods at you, he lets you know what he’s going to do to you. It doesn’t even serve a sadistic purpose: He simply describes what is about to happen in a poised yet calm manner. Despite his attempts at consoling you, you only seem to become more distressed.

He lets you know that first, he’s going to kiss you and finger you for a reasonable while so you’ll be sufficiently aroused, and then he will proceed to penetrating you. You shake your head in disbelief, still crying, but it does little to sway his will. He leans down to your face and plants a loving kiss on your temple.

His form obscures a section of your field of view, and you’re unable to see the way his gloved hand slides down the front of your bottom. You sure can feel it though, and even more so when his fingers start prodding around. Despite being fully clothed, you feel horribly exposed by the way his eyes are glued to your expression as he searches for your clit in between your folds. He takes his sweet time, feeling around, finding your entrance and briefly tipping his appendages in. He withdraws a bit to slide his fingers a little higher, searching for where your most sensitive spot is hidden. Judging from the way you flinch when he presses at a particular spot, he believes that he has found it.

Your arms are straining against the restraints. He advices you to tone it down a little; he doesn’t want you to suffer unnecessary injuries from the ordeal. Still, yet again, you only scream at him that ”he’s the reason for it”, and finally, he has had enough of your disobedience. His free hand comes up to your cheek, stroking his knuckles against the soft skin, before latching it over your mouth. Naturally, you furiously shake your head, try to bite his fingers, anything to get him off of you, but no matter what you do, neither of his hands are pulling away. He merely sighs at you as if you were a misbehaving pet.

The way the tears spill down the sides of your face does, admittedly, wound him a bit. He would prefer for you to enjoy this at least half as much as he does, but he understands that it’s not a reasonable expectation. He’s also a little concerned about the rate in which you’re gasping in air through your nose. He might end up having to lift his hand off your mouth if your airways begin to clog.

Despite the way you tremble and sob, he’s going to progress to properly having you by the end of the session. Though, before that, he’s going to continue fucking you with his fingers for a good while. He’s aware that the muscles in your lower parts need to be completely relaxed before the act. His hand should do an adequate job at assuring that, so he’s not concerned. And, going by the clear substance that now coats his glove, he’s doing a fine job.

He lifts his hand off your mouth in favour of slipping it under your shirt. When your immediate response is to start yelling again, he makes the decision to pull one of his gloves off and stuff it into your open mouth. The noises immediately decrease in volume.

The pads of his fingers slide along the skin of your chest until they find one of your nipples. There, he begins stroking the nub, gently circling his thumb around it until it hardens under his touch. The stimulation is evidently starting to get to you, and your muffled shrieks for murder are now turning into strangled whines. Not that you’re being cooperative by any means, no, but now, a part of your energy is going into rejecting the pleasure that he’s offering you. It’s a beautiful sight to him. Moreover, his pupils dilate at the way the trembling of your limbs has become more and more uncoordinated. He presses down on your clit. Your breath hitches.

You come on his fingers. He feels the way your cunt constricts around them, and he can’t help but marvel at the view. After helping you ride out your high, he pulls his hand away from your bottom and brings it to his face. He inspects the digits, observing the way the dim light reflects off of the fluid coating them. He lets out an airy chuckle.

He hovers the fingers right above your eyes, presenting you with the mess you’ve made. Despite your misery, he can see the blush that has crept on your cheeks. You’re humiliated beyond repair, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty even when more tears fall past your lashes. He let’s you know that there’s nothing to be afraid of, that ”you’re doing an excellent job”, and how you’ll be ”just fine”. The glove in your mouth suffocates your cry of despair.

He removes his hands from your body in favour of stripping himself of his blazer. You try your hardest to stay alert, racking your brain for possible ways to get yourself out of the situation, but you’re hardly even able to form coherent thoughts in the mélange of emotions your system is drowning in. In your hazy, post-orgasm state, you don’t notice the way he goes to unbuckle his belt.

It doesn’t take long for you to start flailing hysterically again when he drags your bottoms down and bares your cunt to the cold air. You muster up another fit of vigour, wildly kicking your legs in all possible directions, trying to rid yourself of his touch, but there’s only so much you can do when your wrists are firmly tied above your head. With ease, he grabs both of your ankles and gives them a squeeze. You don’t immediately comply, but when his hold tightens, you resort to trying to force your thighs shut. It’s no use, of course, and soon enough, you feel something nudging its way past your entrance.

It’s not painful aside from a tiny sting when his cock enters you. He’s not remarkably big or girthy, and he’s taking care to go slowly despite how heavenly it feels to finally have you around him. He observes your expression, the way you wring your eyes shut at the intrusion, all of it. One if his hands goes over to your hip to gently pet, trying to offer comfort or reassure you. It’s not doing much, you’re still clenching your teeth and hissing through your make-shift gag, but this is the best he’ll get for now, he supposes.

After a few minutes of waiting you to adjust, he starts fucking you in earnest. He lands kisses all over neck, your face, your chest, everywhere he can possibly reach. His wings tickle your skin and caress your cheeks. His fingers stroke your breasts, your clit, your thighs. The cock inside you slides in and out without much difficulty. In his eyes, his first time with you is the most magical time he has experienced in his life. From your point of view, all the stimuli you’re being bombarded with are threatening to fry your mind and body alike. He doesn’t seem to pay any mind to that, though, because the night will stretch on until he has had his fill.

˗ˏˋ ★ 12. Preferences: How is sex with them like? What sort of stuff are they into? What kind of kinks do they have?

There are two extreme ends of what Sunday is into when it comes to sex. It’s either the most intimate, gentlest time or a three-hour session where you have to fear for both your mental stability and your body. There’s one thing that never changes, though, and it’s him being in full control of the situation at all times.

You would think that he would have a submissive to him, especially since his job requires him to be stone-faced and scheming, but no. He can’t even fathom the thought of letting you take charge in any way. His morbid need for authority manifests in him taking all of his frustrations out on you in his own, personal way. It’s never necessarily a bad time for you (or if you’ve been disagreeable, it might), but it’s not something you particularly look forward to. You’ll come to find quite early on that he has got a bit of a nasty streak in him.

BDSM

It’s no surprise. The words that the acronym stands for suit his tastes to near perfection. Bondage, domination, discipline, and last but not least, sadism. It’s like the practice was created solely to cater to his needs. The last two words, submission and masochism are for you to decide, of course, but by the end of the day, you can be sure that the former will have been achieved, whether you like it or not.

He will have introduced rope and bindings into your shared life by day one, as mentioned. Obviously, you have the chains on your bed, but you didn’t realize they served an inherently sexual purpose until the first time he went through with his fantasies. Restraining you is not only effective in assuring that he can do whatever he wants with your body, but it’s also incredibly arousing for him. There’s just something, something about the way you struggle against the restraints, how you can’t do anything to stop him when his fingers caress your most sensitive areas. You can plead, you can shiver, tremble, cry, even, but ultimately, you’re completely under his mercy. He likes the rush of power that it grants him. More often than not, bondage is more for him to chase that feeling than to actually get himself off.

The bindings also extend to things like collaring you. This one is not that common of an occurrence, though, since he himself is the tiniest bit embarrassed about enjoying it, but he does have a leather choker for you in his closet. The thing is attached to a leash, naturally, and you dread the times he enters your room with the damned item in his hands.

He has two things he likes to do with you when it comes to the collar. The first one is just a simple fucking, dicking you down while he forces your head up from the pillow by tugging on the chain. He doesn’t choke you or anything, but it does make him feel some type of way when you let out a strained noise at the action.

Then, the other side is, you guessed it, good old petplay. He himself prefers not to call it that since it would insinuate that you’re just some animal he owns (he secretly gets off to the thought), but it doesn’t stop him from enjoying the act to his heart’s content. Though, if anybody were to ever find out that Sunday of the Oak Family was into this kind of stuff, he would probably leave the entire star system of Asdana, so there’s still a vague awkwardness to when he fastens the collar around your neck. He’s also putting up an act that ”no, this is not just a sexual thing”, but you would have to be pretty daft not to understand that he’s lying through his teeth.

He likes to do things like parade you around the room with you on the leash, have you sit at his feet, naked, while he "works", and do strange things like scratch you under your chin. The more shameful it makes you, the better. The cage will also gain a secondary purpose during these times, which is to simulate the pet-thing to an even more authentic degree. He hasn't yet whipped out the animal ear band, but be aware that if he enjoys the act too much, he just might.

Spreader bars are on the table, too. Especially if you’re being uncooperative, he will latch cuffs on both of your ankles before connecting them with a metal bar. No matter how hard you try to close your legs now, it’s a futile effort. Your thighs are trembling from the strain, but despite your best efforts, you can no longer hope to fight his touches off. Your entrance seems to give in further in this position, too, so he doesn’t have to coax you to relax nearly as much as usual to be able to stick his fingers or cock in.

When it comes to the things he’s not too fond of, gagging you would be at the top of the list. The concept would be a welcome addition since you hardly ever keep your mouth shut when he does his thing, but at the same time, he wants to be able to kiss you. It would be a bit difficult to slide his tongue past your lips if you had a silicone ball in between them or similar. He prefers to cover your mouth with his hand or stick his fingers in your throat to silence you instead.

Aside from all the tools, it’s the discipline part of all of it that Sunday likes the best. Sure, he enjoys using his instruments on you, and they make his job easier, but he adores making you submit to him. Talk is a big part of it. He commands you with a strict tone, telling you to open up, to stop struggling, to suck on his glove, anything he wants. He orders you to tell him exactly how it feels when his fingers rub against the walls of your cunt. If you don’t, you’ll receive a mean pinch on your nipple in retaliation. Whatever he says, goes, and you don’t get to have an opinion on the matter.

Your obedience will be rewarded with orgasms, and your disobedience will be punished with… a little more strenuous orgasms. Don’t get him wrong, both scenarios are going to end up with you coming at least once or twice, but the latter requires a bit more effort. He will edge you until you yield, until you let down your guard and submit to him. He will be satisfied with nothing but complete acquiescence. He relishes the way your pleasure is in his hands, and he will use that to his advantage.

Truly, prepare to be edged if you misbehave. Not that it will alter the eventual outcome, but he will stretch the process out until you swallow your pride, and it’s going to be a much worse time than if you were compliant. He himself has incredible amounts of self-restraint, so just leisurely fucking you or laxly fingering you bring no difficulty to him when he doesn’t want you to come just yet. It’s only feather-light strokes on your clit, brief curls of his fingers inside you, tweaking your nipples until you choke out a ”sorry”. Only when you settle down and accept his ministrations will he pleasure you into completion.

Sensory deprivation

Sunday enjoys toying with your senses. He has noticed that blindfolds work wonders to heighten your receptiveness, so he comes to ponder if going a step further would bring about an even more thrilling experience.

He ties you to a chair, naked and trembling. Your ankles are bound to the legs, your hands strain from the way he has cuffed them to the back of the chair. You can barely move; you’re able to clench your fingers and toes at most. Your vision is obscured by a black strip of fabric. The polished wood is cold against the back of your bare thighs.

He’s in the room with you, slowly walking circles around your helpless form. He wants you to hear his steps, the menacing clack of his heels against the floor. You speak out in a timid tone, hesitantly calling out for him, unsure of what is about to happen to you. He doesn’t say a thing, only prolonging the unbearable anticipation that looms upon you. It’s only after a good few minutes of him merely observing you that you feel his touch on your breasts.

He rolls your nipples in between his fingers, gently tweaking them, cupping your mounds. The warm air from his slightly laboured breaths tickles the side of your face as he inspects his work from over your shoulder. He doesn’t answer even when you whimper out his name in a frightened, hitched voice. At most, you’ll get a soft, acknowledging hum from him, but it does nothing to intervene with his actions. He doesn’t pause even for a moment, and soon, his touch starts trailing down to your lower parts.

You flinch when his hand finds your clit. Slowly, he rolls the pearl between his index and middle finger, tenderly rubbing around it in a way that has your stomach turning. His aim is not to have you come, at least not for now. His objective is to rile you up as high as possible.

Even behind the blindfold, you don’t fail to notice the colours that slither at the edges of your field of vision. The last thing you hear is a gentle ”calm yourself” before your ears go deaf. You’re not spared even a second of panic before you feel the way his digits dip into your heat. You shiver as his tongue licks a stripe up your neck, all the way to your earlobe. Despite having two of your senses disconnected, the sensory hell you’re being subjected to is beyond your wildest nightmares. It’s torture, and it’s exactly how he wants it to be. You can only hope that the sounds that erupt from your mouth are shrieks and not whimpers and moans.

Mind control

It’s something he figures out he likes after you have been subjected to the wonders of Harmony a few times. He hasn’t yet used it in a way that would bring about sexual gratification, but the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if he should give it a try despite its… morally dubious nature.

He has you in the bed. You think that it’s going to be the same routine as before: him tying you down, fucking you, and being done with it. What you don’t expect, however, is for him to grab your face and look you directly in the eye with a faint smile on his features. In a matter of seconds, your expression turns dull, and you’re completely under his clemency once again.

To his delight, he notices that he doesn’t even need to bind you down when you’re under the Harmony. He’s able to pull the strings in your mind like controlling a puppet, and although he can sense and hear your disinclined thoughts, there’s nothing you can do to resist. Telepathically, he suggests that you "lay your complaints to rest and just accept what is about to happen to you”.

Your limbs start moving on their own. No matter how hard you will your legs to close, your hands to fly out and grab at him, they won’t listen. Instead, your thighs spread apart right in front of him. Then, your own hands start unbuttoning your top. He watches the events unfold with a curious glint in his eyes, following your every movement with silent glee. You can see him perfectly clearly, all the way from the smile tugging on his lips to the slightly raised brows. Your hands move to your bottom, and you pull the article of clothing off along with your underwear.

He tells you to spread your labia for him. The sentence sends such a jolt down your spine that he’s almost concerned you could break out of the trance if it were any stronger. Still, no matter how you fight it, your fingers slowly trail down your stomach and over to your bits. There, you slowly part yourself for him to ogle at, baring your clit to his scrutiny. He seems well and truly pleased at your show, and he makes it known by leaning in and landing a kiss just under your cheekbone. Then, you feel his own hand replace yours.

It’s not just about guiding your body, either. He takes immense pleasure in making you tell him just where to prod and touch to have you unravel. He asks you things like ”how does it feel right here? What about here?” and ”is it better when I touch here or there?”. Each time, you answer candidly due to the way his powers force the truth out from between your pursed lips. He follows your instructions, and soon enough, he has you coming undone in a record time. It’s particularly endearing for him to hear all the protests and the voiceless wails that are scrambling in your brain. As a reward for your transparency, he decides to bring you to another, earth-shattering climax. You would cry if you were able.

… Soft sex?

It’s not something you expected from him. However, Sunday, against all odds, requires a session of soft, organic, missionary sex with you every once in a while to keep himself from going insane. This, somehow, is even more embarrassing for him than all the other things he makes you go through, and he would rather admit to the petplay-thing than ever confess to baring his soul to you like that.

Regardless, he needs it. He needs you. He needs to caress you, to feel you under his fingers, to understand that you’re truly there. That being said, sometimes, when you appear weary enough, sex with him will be as gentle as it gets. He doesn’t bind you down, doesn’t cuff you to the bed or try to control you with Harmony. If you thrash, the only thing he will do is take both of your hands in his and press them down on the mattress before quietly shushing directly in your ear. His forehead will press against yours when his cock sinks into you, and your bodies begin swaying back and forth in tandem.

Occasionally, you cry during these times. He doesn’t quite have it in him to console you when you do, but he does bring one of his hands to rest over your eyes. He can’t bear the sight of your tears. Not at that moment.

˗ˏˋ ★ 13. Punishment: What do their sexual punishments look like? What methods do they prefer?

One would expect Sunday to get quite creative with his sexual punishments, and one would be correct about the matter. He knows the effects that sex has on people, he understands the extent of how far it can be utilized. That being said, his methods of disciplining you through sexual means will become very familiar to you once you have faced his wrath. Prepare to be subjected to a carnal hell. Through pain, pleasure and psychological torment, he will make sure that you won’t repeat your mistake of disobeying him again. You’ll experience such overwhelming amounts of stimulation that after he’s done, you’ll be feeling his hands on you multiple days after.

He never gets particularly rough, per se. His punishments are more about how they make you feel rather than how much damage he can inflict on you. His usual approach includes things like spanking, relentless edging, choking, and humiliating you in other ways. All of them are meant to be mortifying for you, and he happens to be quite skilled at making you regret your choices.

Spanking is an easy one. Sometimes, it’s his hand, and other times, it’s a wooden paddle that he has invested in solely for this purpose. Nonetheless, it’s one of the most physically agonizing things that you’ll be exposed to during your captivity. It’s either over his lap, or he might tie your hands to the bed’s headboard and have you ass-up-face-down for him. Regardless, he’s very precise about the way his implement of choice lands hits on your butt. Your flesh jiggles along with the impact, and no amount of whining is going to get you out of it. He gives you a set amount of strikes, and you have to count them out loud, or the torment will continue into the unforeseeable future. You don’t have a choice, really.

Edging is given, too. It doesn’t require that much of him, it goes with basically zero preparation, and it’s very effective. It’s not necessarily that you’re desperate to come, but every single one of your erogenous zones will be so spent by the end of it that you feel like it would be better not to climax at all. He plays your body like a violin, plucking on your strings until you’re a sobbing mess, begging for him to have mercy on you. He won’t, however — you’re done when he says you are — and that might be in the next thirty seconds or three hours.

Choking is what he tends to do when he’s actually mad. It’s the only time that he indirectly causes pain to you when it’s not the main purpose. It’s either with the collar on, or he might use his own two hands to do it. More often than not, it’s with the latter: His fingers wrap around your neck, and before you can protest, they squeeze down around your windpipe. You can no longer get ample air into your lungs, and instinctively, you attempt to yank your hands off the shackles and get him off of your throat. His hold tightens by the second, all the while his cock is ramming directly into your sweet spot. His eyes are fixated on the way your mouth hangs wide open, where tiny wheezes of breath make it past his clutch. He doesn’t actually strangle you, of course; he makes sure that you’re getting just enough oxygen, but the sense of danger is still very much present, and that’s exactly what he’s going for.

Lastly, if you misbehave, a consequence that doesn’t directly involve touching you is him taking your clothes away. All of them. You have nothing to wear, not even underwear, and the only thing you have to cover yourself with are the sheets in the bed. It’s the pettiest thing you’ll ever see him do. He won’t regrant you the privilege until you have profusely apologized to him, either.

˗ˏˋ ★ 14. Aftermath: What does their aftercare look like? Is there any?

The aftercare depends heavily on what kind of sex the two of you have had. If it’s the usual kind (from gentle to medium rough), he’s going to be quite meticulous about it. It’s also tied to how your mental state is afterwards — sometimes he’ll go through the entire checklist of things, other times it’s only a bath with him. The bath is non-negotiable, though, no matter the occurrence. It also comes with him changing the sheets if the bed has been utilized, which is almost always.

More often than not, he’s going to perform a full check-up on your body after sex. This is especially if he has inflicted pain on you. Scarring you (physically) isn’t something he aims for despite being the reason you’re left with a considerable number of marks. That’s why, after you’re done, he takes you to the bathroom, turns on the uncomfortably bright overhead lamp, sits you down on the stool and starts going through your body limb by limb. He has the same routine nearly every time: First, the shoulders and the neck, then your arms, your back, your thighs and legs, and finally, your face. He’s very precise, and he doesn’t allow you to move during the fifteen minutes that it takes for him to do his thing. He might mumble a few words, but that’s the most you’ll get.

He’s very soft with his actions. His fingers glide over your skin with tenderness, going over the hickeys, the bitemarks, the welts, the bruises, everything. Sometimes, you can feel his touch stop at a certain spot, maybe to inspect a mole or to rub on some tiny speck he found. You might hear him let out a soft sigh before moving forward. Be aware though, that if the sex was the punishment kind, this part of the aftercare will most likely be skipped. It’s not even that big of a concern to you: It usually gets a bit tedious to sit still for as long as he’s busy with you (naked, too, mind you), but in his eyes, he’s disciplining you by leaving this extremely necessary step out.

When it comes to the bath, you will sit still and pretty in his lap in the tub, and he will wash you. Don’t attempt to clean yourself, because he’s only going to grab you by the wrist (the strength depends on whether you’ve been agreeable or not) and set your hand back down in the water. It’s a wordless way of telling you that you’re unqualified to take care of yourself in this manner. He will scrub you down thoroughly, he will wash your hair, soap you up, all of it. It’s not uncommon for it to take so long that by the time he’s done, you’re already half asleep against his bare chest.

Regardless if it’s night or not, you do tend to go to bed afterwards, he has noticed. Psychologically, sex with him is always strenuous, so it’s no wonder that you would be tired. If he doesn’t have anything better to do, he will tuck your worn body under the blankets and climb in next to you. However, more often than not, he won’t fall asleep until a few hours after. He tends to read a book or go through a few work matters before that.

There’s one exception that comes to his aftercare routine, however, and that is if you’re left in a particularly rough state after a session. He doesn’t like it himself, but he does have a weakness for tears; particularly when it comes to you. So, if you’re left sobbing after he’s done, he’ll postpone the mandatory bath in favour of soothing you. If you’ve been ”bad”, the words of consolation that he offers are more on the end of being ”you did this to yourself” and other less-than-benevolent phrases, but if not, if it’s just an ordinary time, he will genuinely attempt to alleviate your suffering. He will caress your face, neck and chest area, probably kiss you a bit, his wings will kind of come down to shield your eyes, and he will let you know how "good you were for him". Depending on the occasion, he may even get a little desperate with it; he might literally beg you to stop crying. It’s probably the weakest you’ll ever see him.

˗ˏˋ ★ 15. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes sex-wise? Are there any unique aspects to them?

It’s a relatively minor detail, but Sunday prefers to keep his clothes on during sex. The habit sometimes extends to you, as in he doesn’t undress you beyond unbuttoning or pulling up your shirt and taking your lower half off to get to the good bits. When it comes to himself, though, you’ll be lucky if he ever decides to even get rid of his gloves. It’s quite a common occurrence that he ends up fingering you with them still on. Naturally, after the act, he’ll comment on them ”being unusable”, completely ignoring the fact the same thing happens each time. He might shove the drenched piece of fabric in your mouth if your complaints regarding the matter get too loud.

It’s sort of a domination thing, too. He finds power in being the one clothed while all of you is bared to his hungry gaze. It’s especially uncomfortable since his eyes tend to rake every inch of your skin, and he seems to take pleasure in the way you squirm under his scrutiny.

Eye contact is another thing that’s really big for him. No matter the position (unless it’s one of the times when you’re blindfolded), he likes to be able to look directly in your eyes while his thrusts rock your body back and forth. Not only does it make it easier to use the Harmony on you if need be, but by observing your expression, he can figure out just what makes you tick.

It also makes sex with him exceedingly intimate. There’s nowhere you can hide from him, nothing you could redirect your mind towards. Oftentimes, he will ask you to ”look at him”, verbatim. If you decline the request, he’s sure to give you a couple extra deep pushes to change your mind. It’s less demanding to just go with his whims.

Sunday likes butt plugs. It's specifically those: He's not that big of a fan of brutish things like full-on anal: Sometimes, if he's feeling extra freaky, he might stick a finger in your ass while fucking you, but nothing beyond that. Plugs, however do it for him. Especially the ones that have a jewel on the flat end, those are to his liking. He might have you wear one for a long while, too, especially as a minor punishment.

He likes putting in the thing himself. He has you face down in the pillow, hands tied behind your back as you wouldn't stop protesting, and he meticulously lubes up your rear hole. His fingers spread the liquid around, occasionally dipping in, rubbing around your rim. He coats the toy in the substance as well, and soon after, you feel the rounded tip pushing into you. One of his hands is stroking on your hip, trying to get you to relax so he can nudge the entire thing in.

He might prolong the process in purpose, too. Just as the widest part of the plug is about to slip in, he pulls it back. Your hole contracts as the stretch disappears. He repeats the action a few times, probably fingering your cunt at the same time just to maximize the stimulation, and he watches with great satisfaction as the toy finally sinks in all the way. You let out a high-pitched whine. The strain in his pants is nearly unbearable.

Oh, and if you want to embarrass his prudish ass, make sure to talk to him about sex as much as possible. Despite all the stuff he does to your poor body, due to his inhibited nature regarding the subject, he gets horribly uncomfortable when you bring the matter up. It’s reverse psychology at its best, and if you make him awkward enough, you might very well receive an exemption from the night’s session. If his actions have been especially nefarious lately, it’s possible that you may even get an apology from him. It’s not a promise to never do it again, though, because he absolutely will, but it gives you a break from it at least. And, another reason to go through with it is because it’s… kind of funny. It’s a rare treat to see the man so flustered.

A/N

The taglist has expanded to two (2) people!

@yourfavouritecitizen @loserworld

#dark content #hsr noncon #hsr smut #hsr yandere #smut hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr #yandere x reader #yandere smut #yandere sunday #yandere sunday x reader #sunday smut #sunday x reader #/ririwriting #/ririhsr #/riritw:noncon #/riritw:smut #/riritw:yandere #yandere hsr smut

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orellazalonia · 15 hours ago

Text

Raccoon Negotiations

Summary: You finally get to meet a talking raccoon whom tries multiple times to bargain for your boyfriend’s metal arm. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Requested by @daystarpoet and @michaelfuckinglangdon which was super fun to fulfill and imagine. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You were mid-bite of a bagel (untoasted, cold, probably two days old, yet still incredible) when a voice said, “You gonna eat that, or are you just giving it mouth-to-mouth?”

You froze.

Your eyes scanned the room. Empty except for Bucky, still in the hallway arguing with Stark about defensive systems. And then, sitting on the counter next to the coffee pot like he’d always belonged there, was…

A raccoon.

A small, vaguely pissed-off raccoon standing on two legs, holding what looked like a plasma rifle, wearing a jumpsuit, and staring at your bagel like it owed him rent.

You blinked.

He blinked back.

Then, with the certainty of someone who’d clearly never interacted with you before, he added: “You alright there, human? Or did you have a stroke while chewing?”

You stood up slowly, eyes wide. “You can talk.”

Rocket snorted. “Wow. You must be the brainy one around here.”

“Okay, no like- I knew there was a raccoon on the ship. Bucky told me. I just thought he was exaggerating. Or having another weird Winter Soldier-flashback dream thing.”

“Ex-cuse you,” Rocket said, leaping off the counter and stalking toward you. “I’m not just some Earth-trash mammal with a vocabulary. I’m Rocket. I’ve broken into more heavily-armed fortresses than you’ve had dumb thoughts.”

“That’s a bold claim,” You said. “Because I believe the moon is just Earth’s emotional support rock and thunder is just the sky clapping for itself.”

Rocket squinted at you. “…okay, yeah, maybe I underestimated you.”

You leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing in awe. “You’re so small. And yet, the homicidal energy is enormous. You’re like if Bucky had fur and worse impulse control.”

“Hey-“

You turned to where Bucky had finally entered the room and was already sighing. He didn’t even look surprised. “Yeah, that’s Rocket. Rocket, this is the disaster I’m dating.”

You beamed. “He talks! He walks! He’s a death machine in a jumpsuit! I love him. This is so validating.”

Bucky rubbed his temples. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Rocket perked up immediately. “Wait… you’re dating the arm guy?”

You paused. Looked at Bucky. Then back at Rocket.

“…Yeah?”

A slow, terrifying grin spread across Rocket’s face.

“You got any plans for the arm?” He asked casually. “Like… long term?”

You tilted your head. “Other than excessive touching and probably biting it during arguments? No.”

Rocket rubbed his furry little hands together. “Because I have a few ideas. Think we could reach a business agreement? Little trade? You get, say… a box of Kree tech I may or may not have stolen, and I get to borrow the arm.”

“Borrow?” You asked. “Like, while Bucky’s still wearing it?”

“Oh no,” Rocket said gleefully. “I mean borrow in the very permanent, kind of dismember-y sense.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “You touch the arm, you lose yours.”

Rocket scoffed. “Killjoy.”

You grinned, still watching the two of them bicker like this was the most normal day of your life. Honestly, it was close. You had once gotten into an argument with Sam about the physics of penguin knees for forty-five minutes. This? This was pretty average.

Rocket narrowed his eyes. “You sure you’re not a Guardian? You’ve got the same mix of brilliant and brainless I usually work with.”

You put your hands on your hips. “You think I’d survive five minutes on your ship? Clint holds it against me that I once put a Pop-Tart in the microwave in the wrapper. I’m a walking OSHA violation.”

Rocket smirked. “I like you.”

You beamed. “I like you too, murder rat.”

“Raccoon.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to.”

Bucky, in the background, stared into the middle distance like he was reliving every bad decision that led to this exact moment.

While the two of you clicked in some strange way, it became increasingly exhausting when you realized Rocket was not a quitter. Not when it came to schematics, explosions, or black-market tech auctions. And certainly not when it came to Bucky Barnes’ vibranium arm.

The first time he brought it up again, you were eating spaghetti with a fork that bent mid-twirl because you'd put it in the dishwasher with an experimental metal compound. You stared at the spiraled noodle carnage with mild offense.

Rocket, perched on the back of the couch, cleared his throat. “So. Hypothetically. If someone were to give you a fully operational piece of alien tech that projects holograms and can play music through bone conduction-“

“No,” You said without looking up.

Rocket scowled. “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“You said ‘hypothetically.’ That’s code for ‘I want to take Bucky’s arm again.’”

He grumbled something in what might’ve been space-raccoon swear words.

You smiled faintly. “Also, holograms and music? Tempting, but I already built something that projects TikToks onto the wall when I whistle the opening to Phantom of the Opera.”

Rocket blinked. “…You need to be studied.”

You stuffed more spaghetti in your mouth and spoke through it, “I have been. Briefly. They sent me home with a helmet and a fidget cube. 2/10. Never again.”

The second time was more of a performance. Rocket had dragged you into a secure SHIELD hangar with a tarp over something massive.

“This,” He said dramatically, yanking the cover back, “is a rebuilt Sakaarian battle drone. She sings, flies, and makes waffles. Trade you for the arm.”

You took one look, gasped, and immediately sprinted past him.

“Oh my god! She has a toaster slot!?”

Rocket beamed. “So we have a deal?”

You turned, clutching the side of the drone with wide, reverent eyes.

“No,” You said, “but I will name her Beepie.”

Rocket’s face fell. “You’re not even gonna run this by him?”

You gave him a look. “Rocket. I love you. You’re the first talking raccoon I’ve met that wasn’t a hallucination and validated my belief that half the raccoon species are murderous. But if you think I’m trading even one bolt of Bucky’s arm, which, by the way, I have kissed more than I care to admit, then you don’t understand the depth of my insanity.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I’ll throw in a jetpack,” Rocket muttered.

You gasped. “With adjustable altitude?”

“Yep.”

“Still no,” You said even though your answer sounded like it physically hurt you.

The third time, he got sneaky.

You were tinkering in the lab late at night, hunched over a circuit board, tongue sticking out in deep concentration, when Rocket skittered in and dropped a sleek metal glove onto your desk.

“Custom-made,” He said nonchalantly. “Enhanced dexterity. Built-in taser. Perfect for a girl with too many ideas and not enough restraint.”

You barely glanced at it.

“Rocket.”

He leaned in. “You could build anything with this. A gravity-flipping belt. Portable wormholes. A coffee maker that actually respects you. All I need is-“

“Bucky’s arm. I know. I’m not stupid.”

“Debatable.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile and leaned in conspiratorially. “Here’s the thing, furball. That arm? Not mine to give. I didn’t build it. I didn’t earn it. I just kiss it sometimes and occasionally let it hold snacks. I love him. I’m not trading a part of him. Even for cool stuff. Even for toaster robots.”

Rocket looked genuinely surprised. “You’d really pass up a Sakaarian war-toaster… for him?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Even when he leaves wet towels on the bed. Even when he sighs like an old man every time I rewire the TV to play Jeopardy in reverse.”

There was a beat.

Rocket groaned, flopping onto the table in defeat. “You’re the worst. The absolute worst.”

You grinned and patted his head. “Thanks, murder rat.”

“Raccoon.”

Bucky appeared in the doorway then, raising a brow as he took in the scene: Rocket sulking, you cradling a vibro-glove like it was a puppy, and your very serious expression of moral superiority.

“I don’t wanna know,” He said dryly.

You beamed. “Good. Because if you did, you’d probably start sleeping with your arm chained to your chest.”

#Earth’s mightiest headache #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel fic #marvel x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #rocket raccoon

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spidermans-l-o-v-e-r · 1 day ago

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Biscuits and Gravy

Pairing: Eddie Diaz x Buck x Reader

Word count: 4.4k

Notes: Lolololol just fell out with one of my best friends let’s see if I make it to the end of the month

“Hey… have you heard from Y/N yet today?”

Buck comes up the break area stairs, his phone in hand. He squints down at the device and taps the messages closed before opening it again.

“I don’t think my phone is working.”

Eddie looks up from his plate of pasta and unlocks his phone next to him.

“I was literally going to ask you the same thing, she hasn’t said a thing.”

“She always says good morning to us”

“Right! Like, always. First you say it and then I say it and then we send her a picture from work and she sends one of her in bed.”

“You guys do that every morning?” Chimney’s fork hovers over his salad.

“Yeah, it’s kinda our thing.” Buck gushes and plops down into the chair next to Eddie. “Should we call her?”

“Yeah… she doesn’t usually miss this.” He scoots his chair closer to Buck’s as the phone rings. They watch themselves on the screen and Eddie fixes that stupid hair that always falls in his face. Buck smirks and puts it back, he kisses his forehead and Eddie blushes.

“In front of my salad??” Chimney tosses his fork down, his appetite fully gone.

“Hello?”

The screen is black and that immediately sobers them a bit. It’s 11 am and you should already be out of bed… or at least sending them dirty pictures from it.

Buck inwardly cringes at how small your voice sounds, he feels his heart drop and Eddie puts his arm on the back of his chair.

“Hey Princess… We uh- we missed your text this morning. Maybe our phones aren’t working?”

“Oh”

It’s not an answer and that hits hard. Buck pulls the phone a little closer to them and his worry is painfully evident on his face. Eddie sits back in his chair, running a hand smoothly over Buck’s back.

“What’s up bunny? You workin' early or somethin’? It’s just us right here.”

Maybe you didn’t want to turn on the lights because you thought they were around everyone… they knew what you did for work and maybe you weren’t dressed appropriately.

“No. Just- hold on.”

They hear the blankets rustling and Buck looks at Eddie. The communication is silent but clear, today is not a good day for you. Eddie pulls up your latest video and starts scrolling through the comments, they’re pretty normal until he gets to a particular one.

His mood immediately sinks and he passes Buck the phone. The energy in the room changes so fast Hen hesitates at the top of the stairs. She looks at Chimney who is staring at them cautiously, their usually good moods gone.

Buck sends the comment to Athena and Tommy, if anyone can handle things for you it’s them.

The lights come on and you come into view. You’re sat against the plush headboard with a soft-looking sheer robe on. It’s one of your favorites and your “comfort” robe. Buck always calls it your “Newly widowed” robe.

“I must have overslept, I’m sorry,” you say quietly, avoiding looking at the camera. You’re usually quiet but this is a different kind of quiet and it’s unsettling.

“Is everything okay? Eddie’s voice has an edge to it and you finally look at them. Your lavender eyes lock on his and he can see the turmoil running through them. His hands flex and he has to cross his arms to keep some sort of control. You know he knows, and he knows you know he knows.

“I just need a distraction.”

Buck perks up when you say that, he might not have Eddie’s steel fortitude of moodiness but a distraction. Oh, he can do that, he can so do that.

“That’s something we can do for you” Buck chimes in “Call me from your iPad in 10 minutes okay? Can you do that for me bunny?” He keeps his tone soft and coaxing and you nod.

“10 minutes?”

“10 minutes.” He hangs up and takes Eddie’s hand, pulling him from the table and leading him downstairs.

“Where are we going? Shouldn’t we be on the phone with her?” Eddie follows already knowing this plan is about to be either the greatest thing they’ve done or the stupidest. He’s inclined to think it’s the latter when it comes to Buck…

“We need some privacy and a phone stand”

You’re not really sure what you expected when you call back but it’s not Buck and Eddie in the backseat of Eddie’s truck. Eddie looks just as confused as you do as he sits back against the seat with his arms crossed over his chest, watching Buck fiddle with the camera for a moment.

“Hey baby” Buck coos at the camera, the corner of your mouth quirks up and you give them a little wave.

“Hi… what are you doing?”

You’ve got your iPad on its stand in front of your bed and you’re watching the screen curiously while Buck finally sits back next to Eddie.

“Well, I just thought it might be nice for you to take the morning off you know? Maybe…do some watching of your own?”

Oh, now Eddie’s catching on. He reaches out, slowly stroking Buck’s thigh and a light blush creeps up his neck the further his hand inches upwards.

“A-are you about to do, what I think you’re gonna do?” You lean on your hands on the bed, getting closer to the screen with your legs in that W shape and Buck has to clear his throat. He always gets flustered when you approach with your guard down like that.

“U-uh huh,” He confirms and Eddie reaches over, taking his chin and making him turn to face him.

“Were you gonna fill me in at any point that this is what you wanted to do?” He chuckles, but flicks his eyes down to his pants and Bucks hands fly to his belt.

“I thought you’d totally chicken out!” He fumbles with the buckle for a second and Eddie lifts his hips just enough to pull them down to his thighs.

“You so would have chickened out” you mumble, watching the screen intently and Eddie scoffs.

“Not if it were for you, Princess.”

Buck tugs Eddie’s boxers down enough to let his cock fall out. It bounces up hard as a rock, and curves away from his torso and you’re both already drooling.

The mesmerizing spell is broken by the sound of your doorbell ringing and you freeze up and stare at the bedroom door.

“It’s okay, I sent you something” Buck reassures you “Just have them leave it at the door and then go get it”

You do as he says, watching the door camera for a minute before telling them you’ll be back. Eddie reaches out and helps Buck unbutton his shirt slowly.

“What’d you get her?”

“We got her-“

“You guys!!” You squeal and come racing back into the bedroom. You jump on the bed and rip into the first box and Eddie watches you.

“He’s perfect!!”

You pull a strawberry highland cow from the box and squeeze it to your chest before falling back in bed and laughing like an idiot.

It’s their favorite laugh, the one when you sound like a freaking gremlin and your legs are kicking and it reminds them of why they love you and all the little things you do… even when you’re now choking on your own spit and flailing around like you’re dying.

“Can you please get to the reason why I have my dick out?” Eddie gestures to his body exasperatedly and Buck looks back at him.

“Oh my god I-“

“I totally-“

“If either of you are about to tell me you forgot. I’m literally putting my pants back on and getting out of this truck.”

“I was gonna say you have a nice dick” Buck rolls his eyes and you nod along

“Very nice!!”

“Just open the other damn package” Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and you giggle and grab it. Buck angles the camera a little better between him and Eddie while your mouth drops. You pull two massive dildos from the box. They both have little bows at the base and you set them on the bed with a loud snort.

“Well?” Buck grins widely and sits back on the seat for a minute to watch you.

Your hands fly to your cheeks and you shake your head trying to keep in your giggles.

“Are those what I think they are?”

“I thought we were gonna give her those for our anniversary?” Eddie mumbles and Buck finally freaking reaches over and starts stroking him slowly. He leans forward and kisses the tip and Eddie hisses and threads his fingers through his hair.

“Awww the poor baby’s getting cold… and anyway I thought maybe you’d enjoy a little cheer-up gift…we can think of something else for our anniversary”

“I don’t know” You sound a little distracted and when Eddie looks at the camera you’re mimicking Buck with his cock. “I don’t think you guys can top these.”

“I’m pretty sure I know how to make a vibrating set” Buck hums and kisses down his shaft swirling his tongue as he goes and Eddie melts into the seat with a soft groan.

A- Are we really doing this? Fuck- In the parking l-lot?”

“I don’t see why not… we’ve learned from experience that this area is pretty protected. And our sweet bunny is just so upset.”

“She doesn’t look very upset to me” Eddie reaches over and manhandles Buck into his lap. His hands flow over his body, feeling the hard plains of muscles and every dip and curve. His breath hitches with the roll of Buck’s hips, grinding down against him.

He finally reaches his belt, undoing it and working his pants down over his hips. You giggle, watching Buck awkwardly flail around to kick them off and then sit back down in Eddie’s lap.

“You wanna do this together?” You purr and Buck can’t help the flush down his neck and nods.

“That was the idea… yeah. If you’re up for it.”

“Oh, I’m up for it” You bolt off the bed and look around for a minute, finding an old textbook and wiping it down. You toss it down on the bed and climb back on, carefully sticking the suction cup base down to it.

Buck snickers and gets on his knees, hovering over Eddie’s cock. He toys with him, reaching back and stroking his cock a couple of times.

“So proud of you, putting that college education to good use” He taunts and leans forward to dig through the center console. You lay on your bed, circling your clit teasingly to get wet while Buck produces a bottle of lube and hands it back to Eddie. You hear the delightful pop of it opening and a shudder goes through your body.

You reach back into the bedside table and produce your own little bottle of fake cum, the one that always drives them crazy when you send photos of your glistening cunt coated in it. You stare into Buck’s eyes, drizzling it over your puffy folds and recapping it.

“Looks good enough to eat” Buck purrs and moves to the side a little and Eddie moans and lets his head fall back.

“You two are gonna be the death of me I swear.” He grabs Buck’s hips, gripping them tight and looks at you.

“Think you’re wet enough princess?”

Buck pours lube on his fingers and slides them between his cheeks, coating his hole and moaning softly.

“You tell me…” You pull your fingers away, the sticky tendrils shimmer in the light of the sun coming through your window and Eddie’s eyes roll back in his head.

“Jesus fucking-“ He lines himself up with Buck, pushing in painfully slow and you follow with him. He wants nothing more than to use him, pounding into his tight ass and taking out all his sexual frustrations that the two of you caused, but he takes his time, torturing the both of you.

“You stay with him” Eddie pants, “and if either of you cum before I tell you I’m going to make you pay for it. You understand me?”

“Y-yes sir” Buck whines and you mimic the same noise, finally settling on his cock as Buck does.

“Yes sir” You whimper and hold onto the sheets in front of you, letting your head fall forward.

“Ah ah- keep your eyes on us baby girl” Eddie demands, his tone dropping a couple of octaves. Your eyes snap up and your hips sync up with Buck.

You both moan as Eddie works you on his cock, taking what he wants from the two of you together. He sets a brutal pace immediately, completely done with all the teasing. Buck grips the front seats, gasping and letting his head fall forward just like yours

“Fuck both of you are horrible at listening” He wraps his hand around Buck’s neck, squeezing lightly and yanking him back against his chest. You giggle deliriously and lean back, bracing your hands on the bed and rolling your hips on his cock.

Eddie moans and buries his face in Buck’s shoulder. He can smell your body wash clinging to his skin after this morning’s shower in your bathroom. His tongue darts out, licking the light sheen of sweat on his body and growling at the taste.

You’re mesmerized by Buck’s cock bouncing in time with your tits. Each rough thrust brings you closer and closer to the edge. You can feel Eddie’s fingerprints bruising into your skin, the little crescent shapes of his nails digging into your sides so deep they’re almost drawing blood.

“Touch yourself” He growls in your ears, nibbling the shell. “Wanna see you playing with that pretty pussy”

Buck wraps his hand around his cock, following you rubbing your fingers over your clit in fast little circles. Eddie reaches around and massages his balls, slapping them and Buck yelps. He stares at you in the camera and you whimper before slapping your clit.

“That wasn’t hard enough…” Eddie sighs and does it again to Buck who jerks in his lap and you slap your clit harder, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

He swats Buck’s hand away, taking his cock and stroking it himself now. Buck whines and bounces on Eddie faster and you speed up with him.

“You ready? You wanna show our pretty girl what it looks like when you cum all over yourself? You know how much she likes that”

“Y-yes sir” Buck whimpers “Please sir, please let me cum for her, please”

God, he was so deliciously good at begging. Eddie’s hips stutter and he pumps faster, shaking the car and making Buck bounce harder.

“Cum for me, fuck- cum on my cock now”

Thick, hot, ropes of cum spurt over Buck’s chest and he cums with a high-pitched moan. He rides Eddie, milking him and moaning your name like a prayer. You cum with him, his cock exploding inside you and coating your walls in his spend.

Your body trembles and you can barely keep yourself upright, bouncing on his cock slowly and keeping in time with his lazy thrusts. Buck falls over to the side of the seat, panting harshly and you fall onto the bed.

“I’m so proud of you two” Eddie coos, running his hand over Bucks thigh and he rolls over and opens his arms. Eddie rolls his eyes and brings the phone with him and you all cuddle together.

“How are you feeling?” Buck mumbles at you and you smile sleepily.

“Really really good…”

They stay with you until you fall asleep and Bobby is about to murder them for taking as long as they are but how could they not? Besides it’s not like much has been going on lately anyway.

Eddie lays his head on Buck’s chest and sighs softly, letting his eyes close slowly. It’s quiet in the car, listening to your soft even breaths.

“So we need to go to Target after work.”

Buck breaks the silence with a whisper and Eddie lifts his head, blinking at him lazily. He rests his cheek on his chest.

“What for?”

“It’s a surprise, for both of you.”

Eddie opens the door to your shared apartment and Buck limps into the entryway. You perk up from the couch and get up immediately. You float over to them, your robe flowing behind you and take his stuff, putting it on the hooks next to the door.

“What happened?? Are you okay??” You panic, put an arm around him and place your hand on his chest. He wraps you in a big bear hug and squeezes tightly.

“Shhh baby I’m fine! I’m totally fine nothing happened! This is uh- this is from earlier” He blushes deeply and you look back at Eddie who snickers and helps you help Buck over to the couch.

“Oh, you poor baby!” You coo and set him up on the couch with a fluffy blanket. “Is there anything I can do??”

“See about that-“

Eddie lets out a bark of laughter and flops down on the other couch. “Tell her.”

“Tell me what?” You eye him suspiciously and he clasps his hands together.

“So… there is something you can do for me. Just a lil something to uhhh cheer me up? My hips are just you know, so tired…”

“Okay…” you drag out warily and cross your arms over your chest.

“C-can I watch Eddie eat you out on the coffee table? I can’t stop thinking about the way your pussy looked earlier, covered in cum”

“Awww Buck” You giggle “Of course we can-“

“With this?” He holds up a little tub of marshmallow fluff and your jaw drops. Eddie snickers and gets up, taking the fluff from him and setting it on the coffee table. He pushes the rest of the things on it aside, letting it all fall to the floor with a loud clatter and holding your hips.

“You know better than to agree to do something for Buck before he tells you the entire story…” He backs you up until you bump into the coffee table and you squeak.

“Now I have to make an even bigger mess on our pretty girl.” He slips your robe over your shoulders and places soft, lingering kisses on them. His hands slide lazily up your back and unclip your bra, his grin wolfish as your tits bounce out.

He leans down, capturing your perky nipple between his lips and sucks gently. He lets your bra fall to the floor and cups your other breast, kneading it in time with his desperate hunger.

“W-wait can-“ You let your head flop to the side to motion to your bra but Buck is already picking it up and laying it neatly on the couch like he knows you want.

“We know they’re expensive”

“Maybe we should put up that video of us together last week” Eddie mumbles into your honeyed skin. “That’ll pay for more bras than you can wear in a year”

“Which one?” Buck watches with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. His eyes trail over your soft curves, adoring your full hips before reaching your eyes with a bright smile.

“The one when she was pegging you into me”

Eddie drops your panties and lets go of your nipple with a wet pop! He gently guides you to lay out on the table like a mouth-watering feast and nods at the white tub. You reach up and take it, eyeing it before handing it over to him and he rewards you with a kiss to your open thighs.

He can smell the arousal slipping down your folds, eager to clean up the little puddle that he knows is going to form.

“You ready Princess?” He purrs between your legs and you nod breathlessly. Buck takes a pillow from the couch and props your head up so you have a perfect view.

Eddie looks over the tub of marshmallow fluff, opening it and dipping his fingers inside. He pulls out a generous amount, coating his fingers and grins wickedly.

Slowly, teasingly, he trails his fingers up your inner thigh first, leaving a path of marshmallow fluff in their wake. He leans down, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers

“I want you to watch me, baby. I want to see those pretty eyes on me as I taste you”

He brings his coated fingers to your pussy, spreading the marshmallow fluff over your folds, making sure every inch of you is covered in the sweet, sticky substance.

It feels weird, like really weird but it also feels really really good and that’s what surprises you most. He paints it messily between your folds and now you’re sticky in more ways than one and shuddering because fuck it feels good.

“Yeah, you like that? Of course you do you dirty little thing…” He sucks and kisses along your thigh, cleaning up the white streaky mess and then sinks his fingers into your dripping cunt.

“J-Jesus Eddie!” You shriek and he laughs against your thigh and plunges his fingers into you deeper.

“What’s wrong Princess? You’ve never heard of a creamy center?”

Buck ugly laughs and falls over on his side, wheezing and cackling until it’s cut short by Eddie crashing his mouth to your slick pussy and devouring you. Your eyes nearly pop out of your head as he eats you, running his tongue desperately through your folds and sucking the cream from your clit.

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging him further between your legs and Buck adjusts himself on the couch and pulls his boxers down just enough to slip his cock out. Your eyes glaze over as it stands at attention and Eddie nips your clit and you squeak.

“Eyes on me gorgeous”

Eddie moans softly against your pussy as he licks and sucks the marshmallow fluff from your folds, the sweet taste mixing deliciously with your arousal. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your every reaction intently.

He can feel your body trembling beneath him, and it only spurs him on, urging him to continue his assault. He traces the shape of your slit with the tip of his tongue, lapping up every last bit of the sticky substance.

“Eddie?” Buck’s voice is so wrecked and it gets his attention right away. His eyes flick over to him, following his hand going up and down his leaking cock.

“Hmm?” He hums against your pussy and the vibrations make you jolt under him.

“I-I wanna see you inside her” He mutters breathlessly “Put it on your cock… and fuck her”

“Well, it’s your fantasy” Eddie pulls away from you, his lips covered in your arousal and the marshmallow fluff. You and Buck both giggle and he rolls his eyes and wipes his mouth with a towel, but stares you down whilst licking his fingers clean.

He tosses the tub at Buck and stands up, unbuckling his pants and letting his cock free. He strokes it a couple of times, spreading the precum down his shaft and tapping Buck’s cheek with his tip.

“Would you like to do the honors?”

“Dear god yes” He rasps and strokes Eddie’s cock for a second before taking some of the fluff out and spreading it over him. He jerks him off for a bit, kissing the tip and licking at the cream and Eddie groans.

He pushes Buck’s hand away for a minute and instead holds his head, scrunching his hair in his fingers before guiding his lips around his cock. He lets out a low moan and works his mouth around his cock. He holds his head lovingly and thrusts his hips slowly, torturously, just enjoying the sounds of his gorgeous boy gaging around his thick shaft.

“That’s my good boy, fuck that’s my sweet baby” He praises, his hips stuttering before picking up speed. He steps forward and almost straddles Buck’s chest and continues to fuck his mouth. He likes the way his eyes roll back and he melts into Eddie, trying his best to remember to breathe through his nose.

Your jaw drops yet again, watching them go at it. Eddie’s ass flexes in front of you and it takes every ounce of self-control you have not to spread the fluff over him and eat him out too.

You squirm on the table and catch Buck’s, who melts all over again and drools around his cock.

Eddie leans forward, feeling Buck’s nose brush the soft curls around the base of his cock he thrusts harder, cumming down his throat and moaning soft praises. Buck chokes around it, swallowing every drop until Eddie finally pulls away, leaving Buck gasping and coughing, cum spilling from his lips.

Eddie falls onto the couch next to Buck, panting and dropping his head onto his shoulder. They both look at you, your eyes are huge and you’re practically drooling.

“I think I finally get it” Eddie pants, resting his arm over his eyes and Buck looks up at him.

“Get what?”

“I totally forgot she was there”

“See!!! It’s really easy!”

“Hey!!”

Both of them snicker at your expense and you cross your arms over your chest and pout. You turn your head to ignore them like a brat and let your mind wander instead.

How does Buck come up with this shit? How did he look at a tub of marshmallow fluff and go “I could see her eaten like that”??

You’re still reeling from being left to whimper when Buck finally gets up from the couch.

“Hey, Eddie? How strong is this coffee table?” He bites his lip, looking over your downright delectable body and licks his lips.

“It was a gift from a friend, John. He built it himself so it’s pretty sturdy… Why?”

“Enough to hold two people on it?” Buck leans over and takes the tub and scoops some out with his fingers just like Eddie had and strokes his cock with it.

“O-oh god” you whimper, already becoming sensitive again and he smirks, pulling his boxers all the way down, kicking them away and preparing to shove his cock down your throat.

“Because it’s my turn.”

#words by rhys #rhys writes #911 x reader #eddie diaz #911 fox #eddie diaz x reader #911 show #911 abc #evan buckley #evan buck buckely #evan buckley imagine #evan buckley x reader #buddie x reader #buddie #Rhys requests

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thewinter-eden · 3 days ago

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Blood Sugar Virus (44)

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Genre: Horror, zombies, strangers to lovers, angst, suspense, slow burn Pairing: Kang Yeosang x female!reader Warnings: based on the Wanteez Zombie episode, it's almost over

Story Summary: You (stage name Sugar) are the co-captain of a horror acting group. You and your guys are the ones the companies hire when they want to stage a zombie, ghost, or any vaguely horrific and dystopian episode. So when you get hired by Ateez to develop a zombie program, it's just another routine that you've done a million times. Everything's going exactly according to script--until suddenly it isn't, and it starts getting a little too real.

🏆 Esteemed Moot: @ramadiiiisme

⭐️ Reader Spotlight: @mrsminseochoi

< last chapter | masterlist | next chapter >

The schoolyard is utter chaos. The enlisted men, barely trained for anything beyond fire watch and marching, have fallen to the few parasites that escaped the burning building. In the mere moments since they were first attacked, the transformation from human to monster has already started.

What was once the disorganized rush of soldiers doing their best to follow orders and manage the uncontrollable blaze of the high school is now a staggering, snarling hoard of hijacked human vehicles.

The screams have stopped.

The radios are silent.

“What the hell is happening out there?” One of the soldiers behind your group asks. “What is that? It sounds like wild animals out there.”

“Is that the guys?” Another questions, voice edged with fear “Why do they sound like that?”

Ignoring the confusion of the two soldiers who had laid hands on San and Yunho, you lower yourself into the dirt between Seonghwa and Yeosang and try to take the weight off your throbbing hip.

“How have they turned already?” You hear yourself asking, glancing to where you left Jimin. If the transformation had been so quick back in the school, he would have been long gone.

Even Mingi would have turned in such a short amount of time.

“When we were still playing the game, back in one of the classrooms, San and I gave two of them the cure. Jungkook and Jennie, I think?” Yunho pauses as San confirms his memory, and then continues. “They changed in less than five minutes. It was so fast—”

“Jungkook had already been given the specimens,” you remind him. “The documents from the control room said he was already part of the parasite group.”

“But Jennie wasn’t.” Yunho says. “Jennie was supposed to be in the anti-parasitic group. She only turned because of the specimens they’d put in the cure bottles. And she turned before Jungkook did.”

You’re not a scientist. You’re not an expert on any of this, not even in the slightest, but the only thing you can think is that delivering the eggs so close to the center of their bodies is what allowed the parasites to take control of the human nervous system so quickly.

Jimin had been stung in the leg.

So had Mingi, and Rosé.

The parasites had had to eat their way up the body to be able to take control.

It’s the only thing you can think of.

And from the way you’d seen the wasps jump, leaping so high into the air to attack you and the others, you can only assume that they came flying at the soldiers and stung them at higher points than their legs.

Maybe they’d latched onto their stomachs. Maybe their chests. Maybe their throats or faces.

The distance between the school they’d escaped from and the soldiers they’d been attacking was so great it might have given them the space to take bigger leaps, while the hallways and classrooms you’d been attacked in had been narrow and cramped.

If they’d leapt at you like that, you would have been utterly overtaken. Your flimsy paper armor couldn’t have saved you.

Either way, any explanation of the events is irrelevant. It doesn’t have to make sense or be answered—they’ve already turned.

Whether you understand how or not, it’s too late for them.

“This is insane.” Hongjoong whispers. “I mean, we couldn’t kill all of them on 3, but we thought trapping them would be enough—and when you lit the fire we thought they’d all die. Shouldn’t they all have died?”

“So much for your flame thrower idea.” Yeosang remarks to you.

So much for your flame thrower idea.

“Holy shit.” Hajoon says softly, still watching the scene through the scope of his rifle. “I thought you were fucking with us. You actually meant zombies.”

Somebody in your group snorts derisively. “Yeah, because we thought it was the perfect time to pull a prank on a couple of Black Berets.” Wooyoung.

“Actual zombies?” One of the soldiers repeats. “They’re actual zombies? There’s no way. That’s not real.”

“Why don’t you go out there and tell them that?” Hongjoong snaps.

“All units report, what’s happening out there?” Somebody asks over the radio. “All units, report.”

No one answers.

Apart from the Black Berets and the men who had been forcibly diverted from pursuing you, there’s no one left to answer.

There are only the hungry growls of the zombies in the yard.

“Well, fuck, now they’re armed.” Mingi mutters.

“Pretty sure they don’t know how to use guns anymore.” Yunho responds flatly.

“Rose Team, report.”

None of the men now guarding you reach for their radios.

From their position just inside the tree line, the enlisted soldiers are talking, horrified by the scene before them, the entire line humming with uneasy chatter, but they don’t respond to the officers’ orders.

Woosung and Dojoon keep them quiet as they watch. The men are rigid with fear, fighting visible impulses to run away from what’s happening, but the Black Berets manage to keep them in line with quiet reprimands, maintaining a sense of calm and control that slowly seeps into the inexperienced soldiers.

“What are they like?” Hajoon asks. “What do we know?”

He’s talking to your group, the people who have been in the middle of the chaos, looking for information that you know better than anyone.

Your instincts to jump in and take control of the situation have dampened considerably over the course of the evening, but part of you still feels called to rise to duty.

Pushing yourself to your knees, you creep closer to the operator. “They don’t see very well unless you’re moving.” You say. “But they pick up on sounds. If things are quiet for long enough, they’ll go into a kind of dormant state. If there’s nothing to chase, they just wander blindly.”

Someone moves next to you, and a hand lands warmly on your back. You know it’s Yeosang. He scoots himself to sit next to you, like if he’s not there to stop you, you’ll grab a gun and join their ranks.

His scent is unmistakably familiar to you now, body heat and the faint traces of his laundry detergent, subtle hints of his cologne still present through the perspiration that’s melted most of it away.

“And if they’re chasing you? What’s the drive?”

Your hand finds Yeosang’s arm, sliding up to rest reassuringly on his shoulder. You’re not going anywhere. You’re not jumping into the fight with this army who can either take care of themselves or pay for the crime of forcing you into this situation in the first place.

Lifting your voice only just enough to be heard, you think your way through the experiences you’ve suffered tonight. “To eat. The men are hosts to juvenile parasites now. They take control of you to make you provide them with food until they’re grown enough to eat through the hosts and look for environments in which to lay their own eggs. The cycle repeats. If you kill the host, the parasite escapes to find another. You have to kill the wasps.”

Hajoon shakes his head in disbelief. “What unholy fuckery…”

You’ve never agreed with any sentiment more.

Out in the clearing, the zombies are moving, spurred into action by the roaring of the fire, but with no prey to chase, they only charge around the yard, shoving into each other, tumbling over bodies, shrieking wildly. Some of them charge towards the flames, only to shirk back violently at the heat and redirect the stampede back the way they had come.

Only a relatively small number of them had turned, the rest having attacked and overtaken the rest of the soldiers who stood no chance against their own friends being overwhelmed with ravenous violence.

“I’m seeing insects,” Dojoon’s voice comes over Hajoon’s radio.

You startle at the sound, falling back into the dirt against Yeosang. He stabilizes you, pulling you to his side before you can fall into the leaves.

“What is he doing?” Hongjoong hisses frantically. “The officers will hear!”

“We’ve switched to an encrypted channel.” Hajoon reassures him, and you realize the voice hadn’t come through the radios that the enlisted soldiers carry. “It’s just us.”

“They’re headed this way—fleeing the fire.”

“I count twelve,” Woosung’s voice responds. “Are we shooting these fuckers, or what?”

Mind racing through the possibilities brought on by opening fire on the scrambling insects, you hear your heart pounding frantically in your ears. “No,” you whisper. “They’ll draw them right to us.”

Hajoon lifts his radio to his mouth. “The gunfire will draw the zombies. If we open fire on the wasps, we’ll be shooting men next.”

“There are fifty soldiers between us and them.” Yeosang murmurs to you reassuringly. “We’ll be okay.”

“The same soldiers who shot Namjoon? Against their orders?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you.

“Is there any coming back for these guys?” Woosung asks.

Hajoon turns to you.

“They’re being eaten alive.” You tell him carefully. You remember Jin, attacking you with no traces of the man he used to be. And Taehyung, attacking Wooyoung within moments of being turned. And Rosé turning on Yeosang in the mere moments between you leaving the room and coming back to find her gone. “By now there’s nothing left of them.”

He takes your word for it. “No. They’re gone.”

“We know that for sure?”

You don’t know anything for sure. You don’t know anything except that by the time the parasites come out of them, the hosts are nothing but empty husks. “Nothing we did brought anybody back at this point.” That’s all you know. “And nothing in the documentation we found suggested that anybody out there knew how to save them either.”

“Who would do this?” The soldier behind you asks. “Who would set up an operation like this?”

“The same people who brought you out here and told you not to defend yourselves, even though they knew the danger.” You return sharply. “Your officers don’t give a shit about you or any of the rest of us.”

“As sure as we can be.” Hajoon says into his radio. He doesn’t pay any attention to the malice stirring behind him, certain enough that his presence will keep any sort of fight from breaking out.

The soldiers are scared.

They’ve abandoned the orders of their commanding officers.

They’re standing with you, albeit with some resentment, instead of dragging you to the commanders.

“Then we’re shooting these fuckers.” Woosung says. “Everybody hold fire. Dojoon and I will handle this.”

You sink into Yeosang’s hold, forcing yourself to focus on the heat of him against you, the solid weight of him keeping you close. It’s about to be an explosion of gunfire and rampaging zombies, and all you can do is sit in the dirt and hope you don’t end up like the ones who fell.

Praying you don’t end up like Namjoon.

Praying you’re not about to witness another bloodbath.

“This is hell.” Jongho mutters. “I’m in hell.”

“God, my leg.” Mingi grumbles. “It’s twisted, can someone help me move it?”

“I got you.” Jimin says softly, and you see shadows in the dark as he reaches over to pull at Mingi’s leg by the knee. “Is that better?”

“Yeah.” Mingi grunts. “God, can we find a shower before we flee the country?”

Wooyoung snickers. “There were showers in the school. We thought about it, didn’t we, Sugar?”

“Not the time, Woo.” Hongjoong says with a sigh.

“You thought about what?” Yeosang’s arm grips your waist. “In the men’s showers? That locker room in the gym?”

“Relax, hyung, she said no.” Wooyoung says lightly. “She thought it would be unfair, or something.”

“Woo, shut up.” You grumble under your breath. “I don’t think you want to talk about what happened in the locker room.”

Wooyoung goes silent, but Yeosang shifts under you. “Wait, what—”

A gunshot cuts him off, and then another.

You jump, slamming back against the wall of his chest. “Jesus.”

When the shots start popping through the air, you hear the zombies come alive with frenzied vigor. Woosung and Dojoon are firing with quick precision, one sharp pull after another.

The radios of the four enlisted men around you burst with static. “Who’s firing? Who’s out there?”

“All units, report to control.”

“Hold your fire, I repeat, hold your fire.”

“Hold your fire.” San repeats with a huff. “They know their men are dying and they still care about noise.”

The operators don’t stop, shooting straight through the angered orders of the officers, each round drawing the zombies closer and closer to the woods.

“Hold your fire!”

“Stop shooting!”

“Goddammit, lower your weapons!”

The soldiers around you grow more and more uneasy. “We are in so much shit.”

“That’s all of them,” Dojoon’s voice says. “I don’t see any more.”

“All units, prepare to fire on the damn zombies.” Woosung says. “Keep your heads, do not waste ammunition. If you shoot any of us or yourselves, I’ll kill you myself.”

“These guys are crazy.” You hear Yunho whisper. “Who are these people?”

But before they can begin firing on the rapidly approaching hoard, you hear doors slamming. It sounds like it’s coming from the parking lot, and pounding footsteps can be heard slamming towards the schoolyard.

“Hold up, there’s movement to the north.” Woosung says suddenly. “Fuck, there’s more Black Berets out there. What team is that?”

“They’re about to open fire on the zombies.” Dojoon says. “We’re going to be caught in the crossfire. Everybody move back. Get your asses up! Move back!”

The soldiers in the tree line jump to obey, scrambling back into the forest towards you. They’re a mad rush of movement, like mice bolting from danger.

“Hold the line!” Woosung snaps. “Do not break formation. Move back slowly.” He’s practically wrangling cats, trying to keep control of the scattering group of eighteen year olds as they clamber and trip over roots and branches in a panic.

Gunfire starts like an explosion.

“It’s okay.” Yeosang whispers, and you realize you’re scrambling backwards at the onslaught, frantically responding to the anxious movements of the troops. “It’s alright, we’re okay.” He’s watching Hajoon, waiting for an order to move, and until it comes he’s tugging you into his arms. “It’s okay, they’ve got us.”

“They’ve got us?” Sam hisses. “They don’t know us. They don’t care about us.”

“But they’ll protect themselves.” Yeosang returns sharply. “And if they protect themselves, then we’re safe back here. Calm down. We’ll be okay.”

From where you sit, the sudden rush of gunfire sounds like an entire army, and the hoard careens away from the forest to charge towards the new group of special forces operators.

“They’re turning away!” The soldiers behind you say. “They’re drawing them away.”

“Hell yeah, Black Berets!”

“Shit, we’re saved. They’ve got them.”

You’re not so sure, especially based on the way Hajoon edges back towards your group.

“Fuck, they’re fast.” Woosung mutters. “They’re not going down.”

“I see headshots taking them out.” Dojoon responds. “But they’re moving too fast. Shit, those guys are about to be overtaken.”

Whoever the new group of operators out there are, they’re walking into the hoard, trying to shoot them down instead of firing from a position of cover. They’re charging straight into a hoard of rampaging zombies as though they don’t know the power of their enemy.

Your mind keeps flashing back to the Fever Times in the hallway, imagining trying to take them head on, and your heart sinks. “No, they’re strong,” you say out loud. “Stronger than people, they’re like animals.”

“Shit.” Hajoon mutters.

The shots keep exploding, cracking like fireworks through the charging stampede, but they don’t stop them all in time.

You can see zombies falling, but you see them slamming into the operators, too.

“Dammit, they’re taking them out.” Dojoon says. “Do we cover them?”

“Not without giving up our position.” Woosung returns. “I’m not giving ourselves up until we know what the plan for the civilians is.”

This surprises you. You’d expected them to jump in and provide cover fire, to assume a role of overwatch and defend their troops, but they hold back.

“They’re not going to help?” One of the soldiers guarding you asks. “Those are our guys out there—they can’t just let them die!”

“Those guys came out of the mobile command.” Hajoon returns sharply. “That means they were in there with the officers, fully aware of all the shit going down tonight. The zombies, the parasites, trapping civilians inside a building full of those things —if we give up our position to them, they’ll make all of us disappear. Look at what’s happening out there. You think they’re going to let the public know about this? You think they’re going to let people know this was a deliberate operation on domestic soil? If you want to live, shut up.”

The soldiers fall silent.

All you can hear is the cracking of bullets, the shouts of the operators out there finding themselves woefully unprepared for their enemy.

“It’s not gonna work.” You breathe. “They’re being attacked.” You can’t see much from your vantage point, but you can hear them. They’re shouting, screaming, the trained control of their hollered orders turning into cries of pain.

“Think about something else.” Yeosang turns you away from the yard. “We can’t do anything. We can’t run. We can’t fight. Just think about something else.” His hands drag through you hair. “You’re not breathing.”

You suck in a ragged breath. “We’re gonna die out here.”

“No.” His brow falls against yours. “No, we’re not. We’re going to let them deal with this, and we’re going to walk away. Okay?”

“Think about the first thing you’re going to do when this is over.” Seonghwa crowds in from your other side. “We can all go out for food and drinks and laugh about this until it’s a drunken memory.”

You won’t be laughing. You won’t be thinking back on the family you lost and pretending it was all just another bad program.

“We’ll get steak and chicken,” Hongjoong whispers. “God, I’d kill for grilled meat right now. Just imagine—San will take one drink and pass right out. We’ll have to carry him home.”

“I am not that bad.” San says from somewhere behind you. “Jongho is the one who keeps filling my glass—”

“Yeah, for real, I don’t go drinking with Jongho anymore.” Mingi grumbles. “It’s like his sadistic pleasure to get us drunk.”

“It’s not my fault you guys are lightweights.” Jongho returns. “You’re just more fun when you’re drunk.”

“I resent that predatory remark.” San says. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

Yeosang’s voice lowers so only you can hear. “Maybe we’ll have to pick a different spot than Jeju. Maybe we’ll go to Paris. Or we can go to Egypt. How’s that for a first date? Have any of your other desperate clients taken you to Egypt or Rome for a first date?”

The laughter falls out of you in a puff of air. “You’re thinking about a first date right now?”

“Well, whatever hostel we end up in after this certainly isn’t going to be it. That’s not nearly romantic enough.” His hands run up and down your arms calmly. “What about Cape Town? Or Prague? Or we could go to Santorini and walk on the beaches.”

“Are you serious?” You snort. “We’re freezing to death in the dirt, about to be mauled by zombies, and now you want to delve into expatriate vacation planning?”

“I think Greece would be fun.” He says simply. “I’ve heard their coffee is amazing. Or we could go to Hawaii. Do you like diving?”

Jimin hears that, and laughs. “Sorry, bud, your girl doesn’t do the ocean. She watched Soul Surfer and the Titanic and swore off oceans forever.”

Yeosang laughs gently against you. “So no Vienna, then? How about rivers?”

You let yourself fall into the distraction he offers. “As long as we’re looking at the ocean and not swimming in it, I’m happy.”

“Then we’ll do what makes you happy.” His lips land on your cheek and your heart flutters. “We’re gonna have to swing by your place and grab Ponk, she’ll love Austria.”

You can’t believe the conversation you’re having right now, or the butterflies in your stomach that aren’t swayed at all by the war zone out there.

“Ugh, they’re disgusting.” Wooyoung grumbles. “Young love. Absolutely nauseating. Where’s my romantic city excursion?”

“I’ll take you to Rio.” Jimin offers. “How do you feel about the Copacabana?”

“Where Lola lost her mind? No thanks.”

“Alright, group trip to Barcelona then.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“Do you people ever shut up?” One of the soldiers grumbles.

“Do you ever not have a stick up your ass?” Wooyoung snaps back. “All in favor of Barcelona—”

“The hoard is thinning.” Woosung reports. “They’re taking headshots now.”

Hajoon takes a few steps forward, crouching low to see through the branches.

The inane discussion of world travel stops immediately, tense silence falling over your group.

“Zombies are down.” Woosung. “Zombies are down.”

“I’m not seeing any movement.” Dojoon.

When the gunfire stops, there are only two operators still standing. They’re in the middle of a pile of bodies, both zombies and fellow operators, picking through the mess to be sure they didn’t miss anyone.

“Hell yeah, Black Berets.” One of the soldiers cheers again.

“Damn, that’s what I’m gonna be. Fuck infantry.”

After a few minutes, the operators in the yard stop and report through their radios, transmissions that don’t come through the channels that the nearby soldiers are on.

“They’re talking to command.” Woosung says. “We don’t have that channel. Everybody hold steady.”

More doors slam.

“Here come the officers.”

You draw closer to Yeosang, muscles bunching to run, and feel his arms tighten around your waist.

In moments there’s a group of uniformed officers staring out over the desolation. You can see them through the trees, running their hands through their hair and staggering in obvious signs of recognizing that they’ve lost control of their operation.

Their entire platoon of soldiers is either missing or dead, the structure of their ‘controlled experiment’ gone up in literal flames.

“They’re panicking.” Dojoon says.

The officers are shouting, gesturing wildly, issuing orders to the surviving two men, directing them to begin piling up the bodies. Through the trees, you see the operators drop their rifles to hang on their slings and begin dragging fallen soldiers into a heap near the fire.

“They’re going to burn them.” Woosung’s voice utters in realization. “This whole goddamn shit show, and all they care about is covering up the evidence.”

“You think they’ll call in reinforcements?” Dojoon.

“Not likely. They’ve already failed whatever this was supposed to be. Their only hope is to clean up their mess and try not to bring any extra attention to this.” Woosung. “With the danger gone, they’re gonna get rid of the bodies and hope it’s enough.”

“They killed the zombies?” You ask, letting your voice travel to Hajoon. “They’re all dead?”

“All dead.” Hajoon reassures you. “They’re dead.”

Dread fills your gut. “Then the parasites will be coming next.”

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