#but does he try his fucking best once he IS aware that he's been absent? you bet your ASS

[jademight]

Also ‘Bruce Banner is one of the worst dads in Marvel’

I can assure you that he’s not 

[lilliumrorum]

What does he have that I don’t? (Part One)

<<Previous | Masterlist | Next>> Synopsis: After discovering your lover's affair with his best friend, you found yourself in emotional turmoil. Seeking comfort, you end up in your captains office for the second time that night.

WC: 2k

Content/Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Verbal abuse, Smut, Cheating, Unrequited love, Threesome is mentioned.

Notes: Sorry this took so long to post, I've been in school, at work or stoned so I didn't have the time. I do now and I'm back!

Betrayal, heartbreak, shock, and confusion are common reactions in such situations. However, this was definitely not just some situation. The head that was once thrown back in pleasure was now gawking at you, awaiting your reaction.

"[Name]..." Simon sighed.

How could he have expected you to respond? He shared intimacy with someone who understood him better than you ever did—the person he introduced you to just two weeks into your relationship. Johnny was his closest confidant, his right-hand man, the one he would willingly take a bullet for. You're not even sure he would even identify you on the battlefield.

"Sorry I barged in, I'll leave you to yourselves."

"Wait-"

Without granting him the opportunity to finish, you swiftly closed the door and slung the robust duffle bag over your shoulder.

You always had a feeling that he was attracted to Johnny, but didn't think he was aware. Simon wasn't one to express admiration openly, but he consistently praised Johnny as the best sergeant he had ever witnessed in action. You wished Simon would speak about you the way he talked about Johnny, but you never felt jealous. Now, you felt numb, the only sensation you feel is that of your knuckles turning white as you tightly grip your bag.

Wandering aimlessly, you had no idea where to go without a single friend nearby. Sure you had teammates, but you weren't close to any of them. You were genuinely alone, and it seemed even Simon didn't want you around (not that you were planning on going back tonight anyway). You couldn't comprehend how something so right could turn so wrong. Maybe it started when those morning kisses shifted to him leaving under the guise of going for a "run." The movie nights together evolved into you being isolated, reading a book in your dimly lit bedroom, with him conspicuously absent. Your bed was usually always empty, due to Simon's "workload", but there was going to be one less body tonight. It was no longer your bed.

"Really? Are you actually going to leave me when you've just come home?!"

Simon seemed unbothered by your tear soaked face.

"I don't always want to walk in and deal with your naggin'. Fuckin' Christ, I can't even go for a lap around the base with out your crazy ass losing your shit!" He lashed out.

A whimper left your lips.

"I just missed you, Si! I love you! It's not nagging if I tell you that I want to see you! Where is the man I fell for? Where did his love go? This is not you Simon! It's not fucking you!"

"I never fell. 'Si' does not exist. Simon doesn't fucking exist."

"So you never felt any of it? You've just been faking your way through this entire fucking relationship? Do you even want to try anymore? You don't even fucking care!"

He paused.

"How can I try to feel remorse for a love that was a lie? The only thing I even remotely enjoy about you is that after we fuck you leave me the hell alone and go to sleep." He spat at you coldly.

"Okay... well if Simon doesn't exist then whos been sleeping in my bed?! Who used to kiss my tears away? I want him back. All you ever do now is cause them."

"A ghost." his words dripping with malice as he slammed your door.

You were too caught up in the sadness of your relationship to realize you were crying or understand what was going on around you. The sadness caused something to decay in your heart. The thought of what you witnessed made you feel nauseous, so you tried to get your conscience off of the present matter. Your thoughts drifted to your captain, the only person you felt you could trust now. He had repeatedly mentioned his availability in his office, even beyond regular hours.

Captain Price was consistently kind. Despite the necessity of sternness in his role as a captain, his gaze was always gentle when directed towards you. As you started to notice the features of the building, a sense of lightness washed over you, as if all your problems faded away upon its sight. You observed a light flicker in response to the loud steps you took across the terrain. The door cracked open, and you saw his eyes start to crinkle when he noticed you.

"Things aren't goin' very well I reckon?" He smiled sympathetically.

"Not at all. I think things wont be going anywhere now. I have nowhere to go."

He cocked an eyebrow at your words, then turned to hold the door. John Price was a genuine gentleman, not someone pretending to be what they weren't, but the authentic, real deal. At times, you wished Simon could be more like him—kind yet firm, resembling an actual person.

"You can tell me about it once we get to my room." He shot you a soft, closed lip smile.

After reaching the stairs in the hall, both of you climbed them wearily. You could sense his gaze on you; he was studying your face. He could see that the whites of your eyes were visibly red from crying, and there was a faint trace of a tear on your cheek. He stopped examining your face as you reached his door. Once more, he held the door open for you as you entered.

"You can place your bag in the closet {name}, I know you've had a hard night."

You followed through, placing the oversized bag on his closet floor. He entered his bedroom with you, staying close in case you needed any assistance. Your face became heated for some reason as you found yourself in the bedroom with your captain. You hurriedly left his bedroom, while he followed slowly with fatigued movements. Upon reaching the living room, he sat down on the couch with a grunt, and you followed suit.

"Tell me all that happened after you left my office." He commanded.

Price was always very protective of you, intervening with Simon when he observed your distressing situation. When he witnessed Simon screaming at you for reaching for his hand, he nearly lost his mind. He couldn't bear the way his lieutenant treated you. Some part of you had always been drawn to your captain. His soft smile and sweet demeanor made you ponder what it would be like to be in a relationship with him. The only obstacle in your path was the age difference, and you were aware that if he ever found out, it would complicate things between you.

"I found him. I found him with someone..."

Your face told him it wasn't just someone.

"Do you know who?"

You nodded slowly, a tear rolling down your cheek. His eyes widened. Just as he was about to ask, you answered.

"Johnny."

His jaw dropped almost comically. He would never suspect Simon to be interested in men, and hearing that he was involved with Johnny just made the news ten times more shocking.

"How can I compare to his best friend? The one who understands him more than I ever will?" You sniffled.

"Sometimes a man does foolish things.."

You turned your gaze to John, anticipating the completion of his sentence. He looked lost in thought.

"But?"

"But nothing. What Lieutenant did was beyond foolish. I've seen the way he's treated you, dear. For the last several months, to be exact."

You stared at him with a questioning expression. If he had noticed, why hadn't he said anything?

"You have?"

A smile tugged at his lips.

"Everyone has, Sergeant. Why else would I be comfortable with you staying here?"

You huffed out a breath,

"If you knew then why didn't you tell me?"

John found himself at a loss for how to respond to your question. On one hand, his lieutenant demonstrated exceptional skills and garnered respect among comrades. On the other hand, you were hardworking, determined, and notably stealthy, often taking the lead in infiltrating enemy bases. Both of you held immense value to the 141, and he was reluctant to risk losing either of you.

"I'm caught in a position where I can't say anything, love."

Your heart fluttered at the nickname.

"Ah. I'm sorry John. I don't want to get you caught in this mess."

Another droplet fell onto your combat pants.

"You weren't the one who made it." He said as he placed his hand on your shoulder.

The pain of witnessing your partner with someone else lingered in your mind, and tears continued to stream down from your reddened eyes. Your cheeks noticeably swelled as you fought to contain your emotions. Did Simon ever truly exist?

Maybe he was right. Maybe the whole time he really did just want a reliable source of pleasure.

"Stop thinkin', love. How about you take a nice shower and change out of that uniform. There's no way in hell that that's comfortable."

With a sniffle and a nod of your head, you made your way to his front door and proceeded to undo your bulky military boots.

"John..."

"Yes Love?"

"Where is your bathroom?"

He huffed out a laugh and tilted his head, signaling for you to follow him. The sound of his laughter enveloped you in a warm, appreciated feeling. As he walked you down the hall, you found yourself imagining what it would be like to truly be loved. The thought crossed your mind that if only John were younger, maybe you could have felt that. You sighed at your thoughts, and he looked at you with a puzzled expression. He opened the door and held it for you once more.

"Make sure not to use all the hot water." He teased.

As you walked in, he left you to yourself. The room had a certain charm to it, although it was evident that a man lived there. It featured dim lighting, a burgundy rug, and a stylish shower that housed some kind of sauna tub beneath it. You couldn't help but doubt whether he had even had the chance to use it. Everything about it appeared brand new.

As you stripped yourself from your clothing, your mind began to wonder. What would've happened if you didn't leave. What would they have done? What would Simon have done?

For some reason, you found yourself fantasizing about them. You were still mad of course, but Imagining Simon feasting on your core as Soap sucked him off was so arousing. It was almost repulsive how vividly your fantasies stirred up that sensation within you. Running the tips of your fingers through Simon's messy blonde hair as his tongue conquered your cunt, looking up at you with those blown out brown eyes. God, Just the thought of it was making you clench.

You started the shower, feeling a sense of self-disgust. Here you were heart broken and now all you can think about is having a threesome.

You took a deep breath and increased the temperature, attempting to divert your attention from the unsettling thoughts in your mind.

He didn't know what to do with himself. You hadn't stomped back to the room like you usually do. You didn't have any friends nearby to stay with, and you couldn't have gone far.

He glanced at the clock in your living room. It had been almost four hours since you walked in on them.

Where the fuck could you be?

"What're yae so bloody mad about mate? It's not like it's the lass' fault." John said sarcastically.

Simon slammed his hands on the cheap coffee table in front of him as he stood.

"I fuckin' know that."

Johnny searched his eyes, attempting to discern any trace of emotion and understand what thoughts were running through his mind.

"I was kind've hopin' she would join in."

That piqued Simon's interest.

"Yae think it's a proper idea too, huh? I told yae I'm secretly a genius!" The Scot comically jumped as he spoke, adding a touch of humor to the situation.

Maybe Johnny was right. Maybe it was a good idea.

[xappetites]

Cpt. John Price and the accidental cockwarming incident

a little angst, fluff, sexual references

it hits John, in the dark and non threatening noise of being home for once, how fucking nice it is to be held. He knows you have to be up in a couple hours for work but he’s been gone for too long and you’re kind enough to indulge him.

You’re soft and warm and he’s here far more sparsely than he’d like, so the time he spends in bed with you, he likes to spend inside you. It’s an impulse from the heart, not the gut. An ache to be as close as possible, enough that he can’t tell his skin from yours in the sacred centimeters between you.

Your sigh brushes sweet against his collarbone and something rises in him like a stream, dragging up the flotsam of his subconscious.

The thoughts he does his best not to have space for when he’s halfway across the globe. When he’s aching for your arms around him and your fiercely independent soul, your sharp eyes softening at the sight of him. He can’t help but wonder how he measures up against the new experiences, the people that are here everyday to share them with you.

How much can an absent husband really weigh in the full life you have?

John Price is not a man of prayer, he has no time or use for appeals to the universe or divinity or whatever might be listening. But he begs here, with your fingers drawing circles over the close crop at the back of his head and your hips rocking a barely there rhythm into his.

Please let her remember this, let her feel me when I can’t be here for her.

“What’s wrong?”

You whisper, so close he could taste it, tapping a thumb on his jaw to get his attention. And it isn’t until the drop slides across the bridge of his nose that he even realizes he’s been tearing up.

“Just missed you, love.”

John’s voice cracks against his will, that and the way he follows your face —stubbornly trying to keep your noses touching— tell you it’s not as simple as missing you, he’s aware.

“I missed you too.”

You just smile at him, hiking your leg higher over his flank and tightening your sweet cunt around him, a quick reassuring grasp like you’d do on his hand. It pulls a chuckle out of him that vibrates through your chest and comes as an echo out of your own mouth.

“I left the Champions on the other day, just to have the commentator chatter in the house.”

He tries not to stare. You, who don’t give a damn about football. Neither does he, being completely frank, he’s just come to associate it with not having to be on edge around the clock, with being home. And now you have, too.

You let him hide his face in the crook of your neck, tuck you tight into his body until any movement other than the good natured tensing of your inner muscles is virtually impossible.

I love you, he wants to say. But he can’t trust it not to break him, so he limits himself to rubbing his beard on your skin to make you laugh. Groaning out your name in bursts of stimulation.

And when you fall asleep like that, with no other pleasure than being joined, neither of you could find it in you to complain.

[alexanderlightweight]

Writing Wednesday! Magnus pampering Alec? If you’d prefer something darker then maybe Magnus pampering Alec, but being manipulative? He sees the way Alec is treated and doesn’t like it, and knows that Alec maybe doesn’t see it and will always be selfless when it comes to his job/family, so to get Alec to stay with him (where he’ll be appreciated) he employs some tricks he picked up in the past.

Ooh maybe even Cat or Ragnor being like WTF are you doing? And Magnus is just like, it’s not manipulation it’s rehabilitation ✨ and spins some story about Alec being in danger

this ended up being team immortal figuring out the best way for gentle manipulation ^_^

i hope you enjoy!

<3 lumine

-

“Oh, Cat. Can you send me a package of your lavender and honeysuckle candles.” Magnus says absently as he puts down a hand of cards and smirks at Ragnor who huffs a smoke ring at him and scowls, clearly put out by once again losing.

“Oh?” Cat asks and Magnus recognizes that tone of worry but he waves it off.

“And an antidote, in case I don’t have the same resistance I used to. Perhaps a grade…” He pauses, thinking it over and then nods, “a grade six I think. That should do it. Tailored for a seelie cocktail specifically, I think.”

“Are the seelies giving you trouble?” Cat asks and Ragnor’s eyes are narrowed from where he’s very much aware and over his loss.

“No, not at all.” Magnus admits and then he hesitates, which he knows is unlike him and then he sighs. “I need them for Alexander.”

“Your nephilim?” Ragnor asks, sounding confused, “I thought the wooing was going rather well.”

“The wooing yes—” Magnus mutters, “the getting him to stay in one place long enough to take care of him, not so much.”

“Does he need to be taken care of to that degree?”

“He’s been the interim head of New York’s Institute since he was little more than sixteen or seventeen.” Ragnor actually exhales smoke that doesn’t come from his pipe at that. There is a furious gleam to his eyes as he understands exactly what those kind of burdens entails, even better than what Magnus is slowly learning. “He doesn’t know how to turn off the parts of himself that exist only to be a leader, to be a soldier.”

Magnus sighs and he creates an image of a restless Alexander who looks around Magnus’ home with delight and interest, yet seems still tense. Magnus lets the magic play for a moment, the memory continuing and then he reaches out with his fingers, brushing Alexander’s cheek and letting the image fade with a sigh.

“I can’t get my darling to relax.” He bemoans, knowing that his friends can take the full force of his dramatics and that they’ll understand what he really wants. “Every time he starts to gentle for me, there’s some kind of interruption or disaster. Half of the time it’s something small, something a commander shouldn’t need to be called in for, let alone a Commander and Head. Yet—” Magnus sighs wistfully, “he deserves to know how much I want him, regardless of his worth as a soldier.”

“You’re going about this all wrong, ducky.” Ragnor says, shaking his head with a sigh. “You have to wear him out first, then relax him. Nephilim have far more energy that is in tune dimensional energy than we warlocks have ourselves. They’re on par with the fae in fact. Your boy is probably so high strung because he’s never let that awareness fade. You wear him out good and proper and then use the candles, not before. You don’t want a sluggish nephilim who is trying to figure out threats on a rift level.”

“I haven’t fucked him yet, Ragnor.” Magnus says dryly and both of his friends roll their eyes.

“Then spar him or drop him in the middle of the ocean and have him swim to shore!” Ragnor seems truly exasperated now, “or take him shopping. One night of shopping with you will be enough to wear out even a battle-hardened nephilim, I guarantee it. Make him carry your bags or something if you’re that concerned.”

“And then?” Magnus asks, curious because Ragnor rarely gives this much advice on those Magnus is interested in.

“Then you take him home, use the candles and give him a massage. Some of that ointment we created after Peru should do it. If he can manage to do anything but cling to you after that, I’ll be surprised.”

Magnus nods, mentally ticking through which storage he has that particular ointment stashed away in.

“Magnus, I think you need to ask yourself. What is your goal here?” Cat smiles at him, sharp intelligence softened by her love. “Because as much as I know you’d like to keep him forever, you’ll eventually have to let him leave again. So what do you want this to accomplish?”

“I want him to come to me, when the Institute and his family are too much. I want him to curl into my arms and let me soothe away his burdens and protect him from everyone who tries to take a piece from him and then tell him he shouldn’t have let them cut it out of him.” Magnus doesn’t even notice his voice dropping or his magic sparking but Cat and Ragnor exchange a significant look and nod at each other.

“The deep-tissue eucalyptus bath salts you remember them? I made a double batch. An unseelie warrior team contacted me so they are catered to angelic blood, just like the candles.” Cat reaches out and pats his hand, “you don’t have to fuck him to get him in the tub, Magnus. I know you want to take it slow with him, indulge him and coddle him but you’ll need resources or he’ll struggle with it.”

Magnus sighs, “if I didn’t worry that the Institute would come at me, I’d simply lock him away for a weekend.” He shrugs, “but I’d rather not fight the clave this early.”

He’ll end up fighting them eventually, he always does and he always probably will need to.

“Then we shall help you. I’ll send over some of that watermint tea I used to make for injured nephilim at the Academy. It’s in potion form, three drops per cup, though from what we’ve seen, you might need five for his size.” Ragnor nods, snapping his fingers and no doubt sending himself a note for his apothecary desk.

“He is deliciously tall, isn’t he.” Magnus murmurs, forgetting the goal of the conversation for a moment before he sighs and controls himself. “I refuse to let the clave and his duties break him when I’ve only just got him.” It’s a selfish admittance but Magnus sees no shame in saying it aloud when it’s true.

“And we will help you.”

[gnpwdrnwhiskey]

New in Town

Pairing- Jack Daniels x f!reader SunDrop

Word Count- 950-ish

Warnings- I'm really shit at this, but none that I am aware of? some swearing, reader has a nickname but no mentions of physical appearance

Author's Note- This is a continuation of the events in Compromised but you probably don't have to read that one if you don't want to. Big thanks to @wildemaven-prompts for the lovely moodboard prompt and my buddy @wildemaven herself for encouraging all this Jack nonsense 😂

You look up as the bell over the door rings, ready to greet your customer like usual but most of your customers don't look like this one. They don't stop your heart or fill you with a blinding rage like this one.

He's in his standard day off clothes- tight jeans, crisp white tee, black leather jacket even though it's close to 80 degrees out there. He's your worst nightmare and favorite daydream all wrapped up in one tantalizing package.

"Jack."

"Well hey there, SunDrop. Fancy meeting you here."

You don't realize you've said his name out loud until he looks in your direction, hooking his aviators on the collar of his tee and offering up his trademark smirk.

"What are you doing here? You know what, nevermind, I don't care. Just get out," you say, rounding the counter and trying to herd him back out the door.

You might as well be trying to move a statue. Has he always been this solid? And smelled this damn good? Whatever. No time for that now.

"Aww, that's no way to treat a new customer is it, honey? I heard this was the best place in town for a cup of coffee and a lil something sweet," you can see the amusement twinkling in his deep brown eyes. The bastard, he's enjoying this. "You remember those apple fritters you made that one time in New York? You don't happen to sell those here do ya, darlin?"

Oh God, do you remember. Jack's absolute dream of a kitchen, the smell of apples and cinnamon filling the air, the coolness of the countertops on the back of your thighs, both of you sticky and sweet from glaze before Jack was satisfied and carried your boneless body to the shower. You hadn't been able to even think about baking without feeling your skin flush for weeks.

"No, absolutely not, no," You spin and point at your sister as she steps up to the counter. "Do not serve this man, he does not deserve pastries."

Jack has managed to catch your flailing arm with one hand and wrap his other arm around you, pulling your back flush to his chest, leaning close to whisper in your ear and you hope to God he misses the shiver that goes down your spine but somehow you know you're not that lucky.

"You're making quite a fuss, darlin. What do you say we take this conversation outside, hmm?"

You only barely stop yourself from stomping your foot in frustration - hadn't you been trying to get him outside? - but you do elbow him in the chest before slamming out the front door, the bells tinkling angrily behind you as you march out of your family's bakery.

By the time Jack catches up to you, still absently rubbing at his chest, you're pacing in tight circles in the employee parking lot behind the building.

"Why are you here, Jack? Fucking up my whole entire life once wasn't enough for you?"

"You have to know that was never my intention. I never once thought they'd fire you. I just needed--"

"Needed me off the case, I know," You interrupt. "I get it, it worked, mission accomplished. You got what you wanted, you even told me not to tell them, but it didn't really matter to you either way did it? It was nothing personal right?"

"Oh, SunDrop, it was definitely personal."

You ignore whatever implications that statement might hold and roll right on with your rant.

"And that's fine, New York was one thing but this is my home, Jack. This is my family. You can't just come here and what...what even would you do...why would you try to mess things up for me again?"

"You done yet? Got it all out? Can I talk?"

You cross your arms and glare at him, giving him a sharp nod.

"A lot happened in the last six months, sugar. I'd be glad to explain it to you if you'd do me the honor of joining me for dinner? I hear there's a real nice steak house just down the road."

You absolutely one hundred percent cannot believe this man. And you tell him as much.

''Hell will freeze over before I go anywhere with you again, Jack Daniels. So whatever your explanation is, you can take it with you when you leave."

"Well, there's just one problem with that," Jack rubs the back of his neck and gives you his best aw shucks grin. "See, I was in need of a job and it turns out your uncle- the sheriff, real nice fella by the way, is in need of a deputy and seeing how I do have experience in law enforcement and this seems like a real nice place, I accepted his job offer just this morning."

Your arms drop to your sides as you stare at him in disbelief.

"You're fucking kidding me, right? Tell me you're kidding me, Jack!"

"Aww, it ain't as bad as all that is it, sweetheart? We could do it right this time. If you'd just give me a chance." He steps in close and drops a kiss on your forehead before putting his aviators back on and turning to go. "I sure have missed you, SunDrop. Be real nice to catch up, I'll give you a couple days to think about that steak dinner."

"I want the steak AND the lobster, asshole!!!"

This time you do give in to your temptation to stomp your foot. And possibly scream through your gritted teeth. He doesn't stop or look back, but the sound of his laughter floats back to you and you already know you're doomed but you refuse to let him have the last word.

[kachuuyaa]

pookies ! whorehouse asylum

nikolai: self-proclaimed magician who majors in anthropology. he thinks that he doesn’t need to major in philosophy as his childhood friend is already a walking encyclopedia of sorts. while nikolai is an extroverted, seemingly careless individual, he rarely ever finds comfort in things he enjoys doing. that lack of comfort leads to impulsive decisions, with emotions he never knew how to classify. dealing with emotions has always been stressful for him, completely masking that emptiness with a theatric display. self-taught magician, but his tricks almost burnt down the school kitchen once. people enjoy being with him due to his outgoing nature, yet find him eccentric due to his ramblings about whatever comes to mind. no one but fyodor is subjected to his true personality, thinking that no one can understand him but his walking enigma of a best friend. confides only in fyodor, opening up to people is something impossible in his eyes. sometimes, this cloud of doubt overshadows his ability to think properly, hindering his studies but somehow always knows how to bounce back. in the students’ eyes, he’s a rowdy, loud, boisterous anthropology major. he drinks on occasion and loves visiting places where the sunset is most present. has a love for astronomy, something fyodor is all too acquainted with. is very friendly to everyone, and charismatic in nature which led to his rise in popularity. part of the theater club, but unironically their most absent member. the club doesn’t really mind, though, as his performances already cover up the number of absences that have been piling up. just like ranpo, he’s unpredictable at times. has a soft spot for birds and stray cats, and he’s usually spotted outside his building during breaks. he visited fukuzawa’s cat cafe with fyodor once and named a white cat with a scar on its right eye ‘kolya’ because it looks like him, and fukuzawa entertained the idea, giving him a collar with its name.

dazai: one of the most annoying fuckers to ever grace this earth. gets in trouble ALL the fucking time, usually berated by kunikida and sigma at the same time due to his laziness and his habit of slacking off. however, despite this, he’s a talented philosophy major (which shocks everyone who isn’t well acquainted with him), sharing the same classes with fyodor, whom fyodor thought was insufferable the first time he met him. has an incomplete discussion with chuuya, the latter refusing to talk to him whenever he comes in his peripheral. dazai knows what he did wrong, but he’s too prideful to ever apologize to him. instead, he comes and makes fun of him sometimes, resurfacing what chuuya experienced and is actively trying to prevent experiencing again in his time as a student. he doesn’t see the appeal of fukuzawa’s cat cafe, even going as far as declining invites of nikolai to go to the cafe. does anything and everything to provoke people as he finds satisfaction in their annoyance, sigma, and kunikida being his main subjects. expectedly involved in most, if not all drama. is known to flirt with whoever he finds interesting and people still do take interest in him even getting asked to join him in a double suicide, which led to many hearts being broken. not only annoying to his fellow batchmates, but also to the first years. akutagawa, in particular. knowing his temper, he's easy to annoy. he reminds him of chuuya sometimes. not because he simply does this for his own amusement, but because he doesn’t think of the consequences following his actions. he’s confused when it comes to emotions, but even as methodical as he is, cannot find a proper solution to resolve the tension between him and chuuya, so he settles with something he does best, but even then, he’s aware he’s making the situation worse. no one knows what’s under this mysterious exterior, only his insufferable, incompetent, suicidal maniac personality that everyone is well aware of.

fyodor: he’s here again…. hi. he does not need that much introduction. while dazai tries hard to hide these feelings of doubt and confusion within himself, he was able to look past that exterior. of course, he never brings it up in respect for his privacy. dostoevsky, to both nikolai and dazai, is one of those who they can truly trust. fyodor doesn’t mind, he remains patient all throughout this exchange. indebted to this, the group has an invisible unbreakable bond that grew that started halfway through the first year. it’s an unspoken rule between the four of them to lean on each other. but to the public, they’re a group of rational and irrational people who don’t seem to clash well (which is also the same assumption [name] and their group has). also the unlicensed teacher of nikolai sometimes, because he needs it most of the time.

sigma: he’s also here!!!!! yay!!!!! she doesn’t need an introduction as well, as they’re also the mediator of the group, and dazai’s target for his teasings. despite their busy schedule, she’s able to clear some meetings for them and his other friends. the three of them are well aware of his rocky relationship with teruko, going as far to negotiating with prof. fukuchi to discuss teruko being the vp of the student council. so far, this issue has been on hold. has been nikolai’s friend for 3 years, and is one of his closest friends. despite what dazai and sigma’s relationship looks like to passersby, they still deeply care for each other as well as the other two. sometimes, they are seen in the field of their campus, as their buildings are close to each other. nikolai picks up coffee for sigma whenever he does cafe runs, knowing his schedule best

❥ masterlist

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐀!

dazai knows he isn't well-liked, but he still pulls either way.

dazai and nikolai are the biggest troublemakers when put together. it's usually sigma and fyodor who have to clean up their messes.

one time, sigma got so stressed with dazai and nikolai's actions as they were also handling paperwork from both the casino and his major, so he blew up on them. both of the men didn't know how to respond or to apologize, so they compensate her in various ways they know will make them feel better. sigma finds this endearing.

nikolai lounges in the casino more often than not. in truth, he appreciates sigma's presence yet claims he's here for the free food and drinks.

nikolai is prone to getting drunk. he has a low alcohol tolerance, and fyodor is always there as taking care of nikolai while drunk is his responsibility. uncharacteristically, while many people think dazai is the type of person to drink until he's blackout drunk, he actually handles his alcohol really well.

dazai has random bursts of energy which fuel him to do all his schoolwork in such a short time with such concise results. he doesn't know what triggers this, but it leaves kunikida shocked when dazai admits he completed the whole 10-page essay last night.

nikolai sometimes stares out towards the sky whenever it's night. he is aware of most things space and what space phenomena may happen on that day.

dazai once asked an English major to write fanfiction between him and nikolai as a dare. the english major hasn't been spotted since.

fyo and dazai's playful rivalry started when they both got the same grade during the first semester of their first year in college. it started out as serious and dissipated into something playful. after the second-semester examination results, the two began to form a friendship.

dazai WILL DEFEND MAKI WITH HIS LIFE. the mf also likes one piece ewww (IM joking don't snipe me)

recommended op to fyodor and received "too long" as a response. he brought up how fyodor was able to read 5 books in one sitting and the latter looked at him with daggers in his eyes. dazai kept quiet about that.

akutagawa knows about dazai liking op, and suggests watching jjba. he laughed when aku said it will get better after part 1, but quickly shut up when aku responded with "ur series gets better after 200 episodes if u can waste time on that then u can def watch jjba so i don't want u speaking" and when i tell you FYODOR let out a little giggle...

2023 © kachuuyaa. do not steal or claim my work as your own.

[snekkyfics]

Snekker's Snippets #1

I swear I still write, just don't finish anything. But what's a tumblr blog if I can't post little bits of upcoming work?

(also Tumblr is throwing a fit with me about formatting so you get asterisks for now)

****

He asks Wilbur.

Well- sort of.

They’re sitting on the couch together- also sort of. Tommy’s become painfully aware of how much space he’s given by the Crafts. Wilbur keeps a decent-sized gap between them no matter what, Techno won’t do so much as sit on the bed with Tommy when they’re reading, and Phil has to be asked before he’ll even sit next to him.

It’s very… different.

Which automatically makes it annoying, because it’s different and strange and Tommy has already decided that’s bad.

But anyway,

They’re sitting on the couch together and watching a movie.

Still sort of. Wilbur’s engrossed in his phone and Tommy’s deep in thought under the guise of appreciating being let out of his room for once in his life.

(He made that joke when Wilbur propositioned the living room. Wilbur didn’t… he didn’t react much.)

Tommy’s thinking. Deep in thought. Profound thought. Much more profound than the fancy vase covered with probably expensive drawings on the mantle next to the TV.

And the question just sort of comes out.

“Wilbur?”

“Hmm?”

“I…” Tommy scrambled for a way to approach this. He may not be able to hold out asking any longer but he’s certainly going to be careful.

He catches Wilbur turning his phone off out of the corner of his eye, and he races to just spit it out before the tables turn on him.

“If you had to live in a motel, would you be fine with it?”

It’s absolutely not the best metaphor for the situation, but it does keep Wilbur from getting any more alert to the situation, and fuck it, Tommy was on short notice.

“I don’t know.” is Wilbur’s casual, unsatisfying answer. “Never been in a motel.”

He shrugs, and goes back to watching the movie.

Then he goes back to his phone when it buzzes and Tommy realizes that what his whole answer.

He tries again.

“...how about a hotel then?”

Wilbur shrugs again, “I’ve stayed in a few in my lifetime.”

Tommy waits eagerly. Tapping his fingers against the worn fabric of the couch.

Wilbur goes back to texting.

“And?” Tommy prompts further.

“And?”

“If you had to live in one, would you be fine with it?” Tommy repeats.

Wilbur sort of half-laughs.

“Why would I be living in a hotel?” he grins, eyes still not off the phone.

Tommy finds himself starting to mentally squirm.

“You just... are.” he says.

Wilbur starts scrolling through something.

“Now why would I go live in a hotel when I can stick around here for a hundred a month?” he absently asks in that light, teasing tone he likes to use with Tommy.

“Well, including chores. But it’s still better rates than what Techno’s getting.” he adds.

“This all about beating Techno?” Tommy asks, starting to grin along.

“Always, dear child. Always.” Wilbur responds.

“’m not a child.”

“Of course, dear child, of course.”

Tommy resists the urge to smack Wilbur with any one of the many conveniently-placed throw pillows on the couch with them, and instead goes back for the answer he needs to know.

“But would you be fine with it?” he asks again.

“Fine with what?”

“The hotel.”

“What hotel?”

The urge to throw something at that bespectacled face grows ever stronger.

“You’re a real fucking piece of work to try to hold a fucking conversation with, you know?” Tommy finally groused.

“Well it might be easier to have a conversation with you if I knew what we were talking about.” Wilbur responded, finally looking back up from his phone. “Not really tracking… this.”

Tommy felt himself bristle.

“Can’t you just answer the fucking question?” he snapped, “Would you be fine if you had to live in a hotel, or not?”

Wilbur sighed, an dramatic thing made overly so as he let his head fall back onto the backrest of the couch in exasperation.

“Very well, child,” he groans, “I guess it would depend.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Tommy exclaims, although he feels like screaming.

“Means what it means.” Wilbur shrugged. “Why am I there? For how long do I live there? Is there a functional swimming pool?”

“Like that’s so important.”

“Extremely.” Wilbur says in mock sincerity, looking over at Tommy.

“What’s this all about, anyway?”

Tommy scowls, sinking down more into the couch. “Nothing.”

He thinks Wilbur watches him for a hot second, but when Tommy steals another glance over Wilbur is, once again, busy on his damned phone.

So Tommy and his still aching mind turn back to the movie and his ruminations. Neither comforted or unsettled or really any different from before.

Wilbur is fucking bad at this.

And Tommy is really fucking piss poor at metaphors. He’ll blame his piss-poor life.

****

Expert from the up-and-coming second chapter of Bummerland!

[cas-kingdom]

“Dads are overrated.” Stranger Things?

A/N: I actually wrote this before watching season 3 as I wanted to see if I could get his character right just by reading about him & catching his vibe in gifs etc. My OC (reader-Hopper’s daughter) lives with Joyce after his death, but returns to Hawkins for a while to see her friends in season 4. (I also couldn’t find anything about Eddie’s parents so made something up).

“Dads are overrated,” Eddie said with a dismissive wave of his hand as he kicked a loose stone across the road. “Parents are overrated,” he then corrected. He laced his hands at the back of his head and stuck his tongue out, tasting the first raindrops of the inevitable storm he could feel arriving.

“Hm?” Your absent frown deepened for a moment as you turned your gaze up at him from your seat on the gravel. You straightened a little when his words registered, shaking your head. “Oh, no, Ed, that’s not what I—I loved my dad.” Eddie turned to look at you, tongue still sticking out. You’d both been sat on the isolated road for an hour now, the sun beginning to dip in the horizon, and your previously incongruous conversation had somehow stumbled upon the subject of parental figures. Eddie had told you about his shitty uncle and you’d briefly mentioned your mom and Joyce, but your mood had suddenly plummeted at the reminder of your dad. You hadn’t known Eddie long, your introduction coming recently via Dustin with your return to Hawkins, but it was obvious to everyone that you’d hit it off immediately. There was a comfortability to your relationship that had you forgetting everything bad for the length you were together. Until something like this happened, anyway.

You sniffed and bit your lip. “He was underrated, if anything.”

Eddie took a moment, slowly retracting his tongue. “Huh,” he said. “Sorry. Guess I just assumed. Guess I shouldn’t just assume. My dad was a piss poor attempt so…” He trailed off, twisting his face in contemplation.

“Where is he now?” you asked, bracing your arms behind you and leaning back.

Eddie shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care. You?” It was less than three seconds before something seemed to barrel into his mind, and his mouth opened slightly, eyes widening in realisation. “Oh,” he muttered just as he clocked the look on your face. “Crap. Damn...I’m sorry, I just, like, uh—” 

“No, it’s—Eddie, it’s fine.” You took a deep breath and forced a smile. You’d known that coming back to Hawkins would dig up things you’d been trying to bury. Joyce had done her best to make you stay in California longer, very aware that returning too soon would unravel everything you’d done to help yourself grieve, but you, despite not wanting to leave El, had needed some sort of familiarity, no matter the consequences. You’d needed to walk the roads of your home and sit in bed with Nancy to talk about anything and everything. You’d needed to bump into people you knew and tell them to have a nice day and toss a ball around with Steve. You’d needed to do anything other than navigate the crowded streets of California and bump into prissy girls who believed themselves higher than everyone else. 

It had worked so far.

“My dad was the Chief of Police,” you said, “and he...he died pretty fucking courageously. He saved a lotta lives.”

Eddie nodded slowly, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “He does sound pretty underrated,” he said. “I think he was in the paper once. My uncle uses them as kindling.” He walked closer and sat opposite you. His legs crossed in front of him and he leant his elbows on his knees, resting his chin in his hands. “You miss him, huh?”

Understatement of your entire life. You actually laughed at it, a breath of morbid amusement coming from your nose, and Eddie rose his brows in innocent surprise, though he didn’t say anything.

“Yeah,” you said finally, your voice quiet and strained. You picked at a rock on the road, the mud gathering under your nails. Your muscles tensed and you rolled your shoulders back, your chest heaving with a deep breath. You didn’t want to talk about this right now, and in some beautiful understanding, Eddie knew. 

“Have you ever danced in a rainstorm?” he asked abruptly, turning his head up to the sky. He stuck his tongue out again and spoke around it. “‘Cuth ith’s really thucking thun.”

You laughed then for an entirely different reason, giggles sputtering from your lips unlike they had since you’d seen your dad for the last time. “You’re crazy,” you said as the rain picked up, thunder grumbling in the distance. Eddie stood to his feet and extended an arm.

“The good kind?” he asked with a grin.

You lifted your arm and Eddie grasped it tight to pull you up. “The best.”

Stranger Things Masterpost

send me the first sentence of a fanfic and i’ll write the next five, except i don’t know when to stop writing so i guarantee there’ll be more than five  

[ghostbustermelanieking]

67 for the kiss prompts 👀

of course it's another safehouse fic! warning for some self-loathing on the parts of jon and martin. 

67. When One Stops The Kiss To Whisper “I’m Sorry, Are You Sure You-” And They Answer By Kissing Them More.

Jon's on the phone with Basira in the other room. Martin can hear the rise and fall of his voice through the walls. He halfway wishes he'd said yes to Jon's offer to put her on speaker—he wants to know how bad it is. Wants to know exactly how badly he fucked up when he followed Peter into those tunnels (in more than just the obvious ways). 

Jon's said it wasn't his fault. Said that this morning, over the eggs he'd scrambled on a whim that were going cold on Martin's plate, covering Martin's hand with his: "It wasn't your fault, Martin. It wasn't. I-it wasn't even just the Not-Sasha, it… Trevor and Julia…" And then he'd stopped, a pained expression on his face, and Martin knew he wasn't the only one feeling guilty for everything that happened at the Panopticon the day before. 

The reality of Jon being here is still so new, so strange, after not talking for months, for a year, what with the coma, and the Lonely… Martin doesn't think he ever even had Jon to his flat before this; he thinks he suggested it once, after a drink one night, if Jon wanted to come back and have some tea, and Jon had politely said no, thank you, with a look in his eyes that made Martin think maybe he was thinking about all the kidnappings. So, yes, this is the first time Jon's ever been here. After months of silence, months of Martin talking himself out of going down the hall and talking to Jon, telling Jon how glad he was that he's alive, how sorry he was that he couldn't stay, how much he hated this, every bit of it… After it all, Jon came for him. Peter's dead, and there's no reason for them to stay away now. 

It's a relief, beyond what Martin will ever be able to articulate, but it's still strange, after all this time. Waking up in his bed to find Jon lying on the other side, stiff and tentative under the covers. To find Jon in the kitchen after a shower, making eggs and tea. To have Jon halfway holding his hand. Even after everything—after that period before the Unknowing where they were really sort of friends… this is surreal in a way Martin can't really explain.

Jon had actually held his hand all the way out of the Lonely, all the way back to his flat. Had reached for it over the expanse of Martin's mattress and held on. Martin doesn't remember him letting go. He doesn't remember ever wanting him to. It's a good surreal, he thinks. It's good. 

Jon comes out of the kitchen, now, his hand clutched around his phone, his face grim. Martin startles a little, his hands clenching together in his lap. "H-how was it?" he says. "Is it… d-do they have any sign of…" (Basira had filled them in on Daisy last night.)

"No, no, no sign." Jon sighs a little. Sits down on the couch beside Martin, so close their knees bump together. He doesn't meet Martin's eyes. 

Martin feels a habitual lump of worry rise in his throat. "You can tell me, Jon," he says, in case Jon is trying to shield him somehow. "It's… it's bad, isn't it?"

"I… yeah. Yeah, it's not good." Jon looks at him finally, his expression suggesting that’s all he’s going to say, like he’s going to try and protect Martin no matter what Martin says. “Basira… Basira says they’ll blame me,” he adds. “Again. She says they were already asking questions, they… sh-she said they’ll be looking for me again.”

" What? " Martin's aware his voice sounds insulted, and he is, on Jon's behalf, framed again for murders he didn't commit. (Well. Jon did kill Peter, but. Martin's not mourning that, not at all, he deserved it, and Peter isolated himself enough that the police shouldn't be looking for him. And the thought of Jon being blamed again for something he didn't even do…) "You didn't do anything, h-how can they blame you?"

Jon laughs a little, quiet bitterness in there. "It's easy. A-and it is my fault, sort of. I'm the one who antagonized Julia and Trevor. I'm the one who… who kept that stupid table, and then destroyed it and let that thing out. I'm the one who…" He stops. Winces, shakes his head a little. "I-it doesn't matter," he says. "Basira's sure they'll blame me. She says I need to get out of London." 

Martin latches onto that, his heart leaping in his throat. Maybe he has no right to be this concerned, considering he's holed himself up for months, ignoring Jon and working with Peter for a plan that didn't even do anything —but he can't help but panic at the idea of Jon leaving again, going somewhere else, somewhere where they can't keep him safe… Not that Jon isn't entirely self-sufficient, he's been fine all this time, he's saved Martin, and not that Martin's been doing a good job at all, considering everything, Jon came into the Lonely because of him and could've just as easily been lost, and it would've been his fault. But after everything… America, Ny-Alesund, the Unknowing, every time Jon went somewhere and Martin didn't, and something horrible happened, and Martin just… 

He tries to force the panic out of his voice, tries to speak levelly when he says, "Leave… leave London? And go where? "

"Scotland, apparently. Daisy has a safehouse that she… that she obviously won't be doing, and Basira said…" Jon swallows hard, looks away. "Well, she said I should leave right away. She said she would bring me the key here, and I should leave on the next train." 

"Oh," says Martin. A part of him is nearly shouting, Don't go, don't leave me here, but this is ridiculous, Jon has to go, and he can't ask… not after everything Jon's done… (But he doesn't want Jon to leave, he doesn't want to be alone again.) "I… y-yeah. Yeah, that's best," he says, because he can't, and he'd rather have Jon alive and somewhere else than arrested or dead, again, and his throat is closing up a little. "If they're looking for you, you should leave as soon as possible." 

"Right," says Jon. "Right, a-and I would…" He's staring down at his hands, intently, like he's trying to find answers in the lines of his palms. Martin is thinking absently that he does that, too, and isn't it funny how many habits he and Jon share that he's never realized, when Jon looks up abruptly. He's got an expression that's almost shy on his face; he says, "I-I was wondering if you'd like to come with me."

They're quiet for a moment.. Martin's staring; he thinks he definitely might be staring. His mouth might be hanging open. Jon starts talking again, too fast and stammering and anxious: "O-obviously if you don't want to, th-there's no obligation, of course, i-it's just that I… well, I haven't seen you for such a long time, Martin, and w-we just started talking again, and I… I thought you might want t-to get out of here, maybe, the Institute, it's… and I don't want you to be alo—" 

Martin kisses him. Leans forward, just like that, and abruptly kisses Jon, cutting him off mid-sentence. Jon makes a little sound, a punched-out gasp, and his hand moves up, resting suddenly against Martin's jaw. 

It takes a moment for Martin to fully connect his actions— Jon just asked me to go to Scotland and You just kissed him —and he pulls away abruptly. "I-I'm sorry," he says wildly, thinking I should've asked, thinking Martin, you idiot, just because he followed you into the Lonely doesn't mean he wants to… 

Jon's looking at him. His eyes are dark and wet and full of some emotion Martin can't place, and he's just looking at him. His hand is still on Martin's jaw, his fingers warm against Martin's chilly skin. Martin's eyes dart to the side—to Jon's fingers, his bitten nails, resting against Martin's cheek—and then back to Jon. "I'm sorry," he says again, and Jon shakes his head, just a little. Rubs a thumb over Martin's cheek. 

The gesture is enough to make Martin want to break. Just shatter in a dozen little pieces inside. He's not sure what to say—his brain, wildly grasping, comes up with, "Are you sure you—" And Jon leans forward, just as abruptly as Martin did, and kisses him again. Kisses him gently, sweetly, with a sort of underlying desperation that sounds like it did in the Lonely last night. We need you. I need you. His hands are still on Martin's face. 

Martin makes a little sound of shock. Fumbles up with shaking hands to cover Jon's hand with his, to grasp it gently and desperately (the way Jon is kissing him) and not let go. Not this time.

Jon's the one to pull away, first, just far enough to rest his forehead against Martin's. He laughs a little, nervous energy, and doesn't let go of Martin's hand. "You don't need to apologize, Martin, you…" He laughs again, quietly. "I'm very sure. I am. I've been wanting to do that for… quite a long time."

"Oh," Martin says faintly, his thumb tracing the line of Jon's palm. "You have?"

Jon nods, his forehead thunking lightly against Martin's with the motion. Martin chuckles. "Me… me, too."

"Oh," Jon says softly. He squeezes Martin's hand. 

Martin looks down at their joined hands (on his knee, now), leaning into Jon a little. (Just a little.). "Yes," he says, and there is no tremble, no hint of hesitation in his voice. He's sure about this, maybe the surest he's been in a long time. "Yes, I'll go to Scotland with you."

[thefanficmonster]

Just Two Sad Roommates

Corpse Husband x Reader(Female)

Warnings: Swearing (maybe)

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Summary: The power of medieval tavern music gets put to the test when Corpse’s roommate is having a rough day. SPOILER ALERT: it’s more powerful than anyone could assume.

Requested by Anon. You know who you are 😊😋 Wish I could tag you, I loved this idea so much and had such a fun time writing it. Hope you enjoy it just as much 🥰

The last twenty four hours haven’t been so great. 

Last night I had a huge fight with my boyfriend over his flirty messages with several girls. It was not just witty banter, it was way more and way more hurtful to me. He obviously denied it and defended himself, at least in the beginning of the argument. Then he took on the accusatory stance, pointing fingers at me for living with another guy. That had me absolutely fuming. Not only was his statement fabricated and literally made up on the spot, but he also used some seriously horrible insults for him. I was having non of it. Corpse is a really great roommate, sweet guy and overall amazing person. I haven’t once argued with him since we’ve started living together. We’re actually quite good friends. So hearing my asshole boyfriend call him all those names was more than enough to chase him out of the apartment. Thankfully, Corpse wasn’t home to hear all that. He rarely leaves the apartment but by some miracle this was the time he was absent.

Then this morning my mom called me to have a chat. It started off decently enough but it only remained that way for so long. It didn’t take her long to start criticizing each and every element of my existence. From my job, my boyfriend, my living arrangement, the career I’ve decided to pursue, the fact I moved to a different state, my paycheck that’s lower than her friend’s daughter’s...…..You get the point. 

Now I’m sitting here, contemplating what the two years I’ve been in a relationship with Marcus mean to me. I guess it is just like a phone call from my mother - starts off nice but slowly deteriorates. All things follow this pattern in my life, apparently. And just like the phone calls, I’ve considered ending things between me and him many times but never actually decided on it. Until now. The last part of this decision is executing it, which doesn’t look very promising. My thumbs are frozen, hovering over the keyboard.

I take a second to take a look at my life from a third person point of view, like an out of body experience. I am wrapped in a blanket, huddled on the couch like a burrito with a face. A really sad burrito with a face. I have a job where I work as much as three highly ranked workers and get paid a little over a secretary’s paycheck. I’m in a constant state of exhaustion and disinterest. I often forget I’m human and just assume I can live like a cactus - no food, no water. I have a boyfriend that’s cheating on me and most likely has been for quite some time now. And we’ve been dating for two fucking years. Man, that must be the longest cheat streak in history. Who knows with how many girls as well. And I still have trouble deciding weather to break up with him or not. Actually no, scratch that, I have already decided, but it feel so unnatural and so out of character that my body refuses to complete the task of delivering the final blow to the structure of this relationship which was already weak to begin with.

And it only got weaker when I started catching feelings for another guy. I know, I know, I’m a bad person for that, but I was never planning to act on those feelings. They have always just...lingered, loomed over me. They got stronger and stronger every time Marcus and I would fight, as though they were laughing at my mock of a relationship.

Speaking of laughter, I hear my roommate laughing in his recording room. I gave him the spare room for his recording equipment for a cheap add to his rent fee and it’s probably the second best decision I’ve ever made - first being picking him to be my roommate. He was among the first to reply to my online add and appeared the least sketchy over the phone. More hypnotizing if I’m honest. He could’ve told me he was a hitman and I wouldn’t have batted an eye, handing the keys to his room and the apartment without a second thought. All he had to do was keep talking. Again, SUE ME.

“Fuck, I’m so fucking pathetic!“ I drop my phone when all the strings inside me snap, releasing the sobs and tears I’ve been holding back for so long.

I bring my knees up to my chest, hiding my head in between them, desperately trying to shield myself from the plane crash that is my life at the moment. Crying makes me feel even sadder and more miserable but I have nothing left to do to get all the crap that’s piled up inside me out.

I’m on the verge of falling asleep, the tears have dried and the sobs have died somewhere in my chest, when I hear what sounds like music straight from Robin Hood’s time. 

Holy shit, I’ve lost it

I lift my head from in-between my knees, looking around the living room for the source of the jolly, lighthearted tune which despite all the heaviness of my self-loathing makes me feel like the main character in an medieval adventure. Wait...Holy crap, it’s that medieval adventure, Robin Hood-ass music I hear from Corpse’s room!

I whip around to face the entrance from to the hallway where I see an arm sticking out, holding a phone which is where the music is coming from. 

“Corpse?“ I call out to him in a questioning manner, shifting to a sitting position with my blanket kicked off of me and bunched up next to me.

“I can’t tell if you’re angry or sad...or both. Didn’t want to get attacked upon entering the room.“ I see the right side of his face peek out as well.

I break out into laughter, covering my mouth with one hand, “You’re such a dork.”

He takes this as a sign to come in, pausing the music as he does so. “What’s wrong?”

My laugh stops but a smile remains on my face as I look at him. He just has that effect on me. “A lot. What’s going on with you?”

He shrugs his shoulders, plopping down on the couch, “The usual, streaming Among Us. You should play with me and my friends some time.”

I scoff, “I can pull of a lie no problem. Maybe I really should.” I don’t actually consider it, it’s just funny to think about. 

I have never watched any of Corpse’s content. Not his scary story videos, not his streams, not his animated compilations. Just his songs. And let me tell you...they are hella good. One song and I was hooked.

“Hey, I have a question.“ I tilt my head to look at him, “What’s with you and your love for medieval adventure music?“

“Medieval tavern music, and it’s not really love.“ He shakes his head with this dopey grin that is just. so. adorable. “More like a coping mechanism. Tell me, did you feel less sad I played it for you?“

I stop and think for a second. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Point made.“ He declares, leaving me to nod in amusement. “Now, tell me what that ‘a lot’ is.“

So, I do. I tell him everything, from how my boyfriend is cheating on me to how my mother thinks I’m a complete failure. He listens carefully, paying close attention to everything I’m saying. I catch myself laughing a few times while I retell the recent upsetting events.

Must be that music.

“So, you broke up?“ He asks once I end my monologue with a sigh

I shake my head disappointedly, “Not yet. I still haven’t pulled the plug. I don’t know what to say.”

He holds out his hand to me, “May I be of assistance?”

I look at his hand then at him and contemplate for only a second before deciding ‘what the hell’ and handing over my phone after unlocking it. The screen displays my boyfriend’s chat so Corpse just types away what he has in mind. Before pressing ‘send’, he hands the phone back to me. “Proofread it.”

‘Dear Marcus, this is one of your girlfriends speaking. Yes, one of them. You think I’m not onto what you’re doing, you little shit? Well, to your dismay, I am. And so, I discontinue this relation between us. That word might have been too long for your IQ so let me rephrase: We are over. Finished. Hope your other girlfriends wake up too, unless they are already in the know, of course. Love, but really hate, Y/N‘

I was never aware this level of sass even existed.

I add a smiling emoji and send the message, sighing in relief. “I can check that off my to-do list now.”

We both lean back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling. A moment of comfortable silence takes over, leaving us both wandering in our own heads.

“Hey, um, I wanted to do this when I first moved in, but then I met your boyfriend and I took the hint. Now that you’re single, would you want to...“ he sounds a bit uncertain but continues regardless, “It’s ridiculous cause I don’t really like the idea of going out, but maybe we could order take-out...“

“Are you circling around asking me on an at-home date?“ I am surprised by how unbothered I manage to sound while I’m squealing on the inside. It’s fascinating how quickly a person can flip someone’s day around. Turns out it wasn’t the music at all. It was him that had the positive effect on mine.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch his face turn red and have to contain my laughter. The grin can’t be tamed though, especially not when he says, “Yes.”

Internally squealing, I launch myself from the couch, standing up straight in front of him. “Thai. My usual order is on the sticky note on the fridge. But first,” I offer him my hand, “I need to find out if a person can even dance to that ridiculous music.” At his amusement, my grin widens, “May I have this dance?”

He laughs that adorable laugh of his I’ve only heard through the layer of a wooden door. It’s even cuter when there’s nothing between me and its source. The source is cute too, not gonna lie.

With a shake of his head which is most likely disbelief, he takes the hand I’ve offered him, saying: “And you call me a dork.” 

@susceptible-but-siriusexual  @simonsbluee  @save-the-sky  @hacker-ghost  @itsminniekat  @bi-andready-tocry  @imtiredaffff  @jazzkaurtheglorious  @hereforbeebo  @fandomgirl17  @chrysanthykios  @maehemscorpyus  @loraleiix  @letsloveimagines  @annshit  @i-cant-choose-a-username-help  @enigmaticmaze

[harrywritingsbyme]

Just the thought of walking in on harry as hes stroking his thick cock and his eyes are shut closed and hes biting his lip one had behind his head. Fuck me up

Want Some Help?

Based Off Of This Ask

A/N: I was having brainfarts all day and all night long on what to write. Like I've been going back and forth on what concepts to write and I've been distracted with this election mess. Buttt...I was able to find something that I rlly liked and could actually write for you guys right now. So I hope y’all like it...crappy ending and all! Enjoy🙃 

Harry was alone and in his subspace. When he woke up, you were not by his side in bed. The house was completely silent with not even the slightest trace of you being there. The shower wasn’t running, there wasn’t any noise coming from the kitchen, and the simple feeling of your presence was absent for Harry. The only thing left of you for the time being was a little note on his bedside table telling him that you had to get an early start to your day, that you’d be back soon, and that you loved him. Other than that, Harry was all alone and left to his own devices. And that was the worst thing that could possibly happen when in his subspace. He needed you and only you to take care of him and make him feel good.

Now when he began to wake up, Harry was softly pushing his lower half down into the bed as he transitioned out of his sleep. He was becoming more and more aware of his hard cock and he was instinctively moving to relieve himself. This is when he began to slip into his subspace. As he continued to rut his hips into the bed, Harry was reaching out towards your side of the bed and feeling around for your warm body. But instead of feeling you, he was met with the cool sheets on covering the bed. And from that point on, Harry was fully awake and needy. Now despite the fact that Harry’s cock was throbbing and he was a squirming mess in the bed, he still tried his hardest to not touch himself. He knew that his hand would never compare to your soft hands or your velvety walls, so he did his best to hold off on touching his cock and he stuck to digging his hips into the mattress. His hips were uncoordinatedly and quickly pushing back and forth into the bed to give him some relief. As he does this, he is also a whimpering mess as he clutches onto the pillows and whimpers into them from the pleasure. Those whimpers and moans are very shaky and higher pitched at times as he tries to take care of himself without any help from his hands. 

But just like always, the pleasure was beginning to catch up to him. By using the bed to relieve himself, he was only intensifying his need and pushed him to use his hands. And that was what he inevitably did. After no more than 10 minutes, Harry was dying to feel some type of skin on skin contact with his cock, even if it was just his hand. He wasted no time shoving his boxers down his legs and flinging the comforter off of him so that he could have his cock exposed. And just as expected, his girthy shaft was standing proudly in his lap. The head of him was a bit swollen and his slit was even beginning to bead with his precum. Harry was also very sensitive. He was so sensitive that the exposure to the cooler air around him in the room caused his cock to twitch a bit in his lap. Before wrapping his hand around his throbbing shaft, Harry bring his hand up to spit into his palm a bit. He does this because he wants to feel something that can feel somewhat close to the way your mouth or cunt would feel. It’d never do you any justice, but for the time being, Harry needed to have a release or get himself close enough in hopes that you come home in enough time to take care of him the way he needs. He then finally goes in and wraps his hand nicely wrapped around his shaft, keeping it a bit loose for some movement but tight enough to simulate the same tightness, even in the slightest bit, of your hands and walls.

Even though Harry swore up and down that nothing could and would ever compare to you, he had to admit that his hand felt pretty good. As he tugged and tugged, Harry could feel himself melting into the bed and really feeling good. He was also very whiney. He’s so caught up in moving his hand back and forth and up and down his shaft that he couldn’t stop the loud and pleasured moans from tumbling out of his mouth. What also helped was what Harry was envisioning in his mind. His legs were spread and his eyes were closed as he brought his mind to the times where you were between his legs taking care of him in some shape or form. He remembered back to those times where you had your mouth on him and just made a mess of his cock. You just slobbered all over him and took him down your throat as you pushed him into a release. He also thinks back to all the times where you used your hand to pleasure him and make him spill all over your hand. He lived for how rough your were at times and how delicate you were at others. You managed to use two different techniques that were able to catapult him over the edge right into a blissful release. And of course, Harry couldn’t stop thinking back to the times where you masterfully rode his cock and bounced your body up and down on him, moving your pussy up and down on his shaft and sending him into the depths of your body the entire time. His mind ran through all of those explicit memories as he tugged at himself. But as he thinks back, he remembers one detail that he can’t get enough of. Whenever you took care of him, whether he was in subspace or not, you always played with his balls. You liked to cup and squeeze them in your hands and just roll them a round in your palm a bit.  And when you were physically between his legs, you’d go as far as to suck them into your mouth, mostly one at a time given that they were pretty sizable. In addition to that they were always heady and warm, and Harry was incredibly sensitive down there. Whenever you messed around with them, his moans always got louder and more plentiful as he received the bonus pleasure. And because of this, Harry doesn’t even think about it before he’s bringing his free hand down between his legs as well to cup his balls into his hand. When he does this, Harry’s moans become louder and more frenzied as he adds onto the pleasure that he’s giving himself. 

Harry continues to multitask and plays with his balls while tugging and teasing his cock. As he goes on with this, Harry becomes overwhelmed and wrapped up in taking care of himself. So wrapped up that he doesn’t even realize your presence in the house. After a little over 2 hours of running around and doing what you needed to get done, you were ready to get back to Harry and relax. You don’t even bother putting things away. You simply peel your jacket and mask off, wash your hands and make your way right upstairs to the bedroom to see Harry. You aren’t even down the hall and in the doorway of the bedroom to hear his moans. To you, they were more like whines. It sounded like Harry was fighting with the immense pleasure he was giving himself and the lack of your presence to give him the overwhelming pleasure that you never failed to deliver. Simply hearing his moans caused you to put some pep into your step and you were practically rushing down the hallway so that you could get in there and see what was going on. And once you did, there was an immediate shockwave that went right between your legs. He looked so desperate to cum and you could see how bad he needed help. Harry was bucking right up into his hands and trying his best to bring himself to the edge. After inconspicuously standing in the doorway for a little while, you finally step into the room and you make your way over to Harry’s side of the bed. Instead of going right in between his legs, you come up to where his head was resting against the pillows and you bring your hand down to his forehead so that you could push back the hairs that were clinging onto his sticky skin. When you do this, Harry instantly jumps. He has mixed feelings of excitement and need for you now that you were here and able to take care of him.

“Need you so bad mommy!” He whines continuing to move his hands between his legs.

“Aww baby, you feeling subby today? Do you want some help?” You coo, continuing to stroke his forehead and cheeks. 

“Mhm!” He whimpers loudly, begging for you to take control.

“Well mommy gonna take care of her baby.” You reassure, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek and parted lips. You then make your way down the bed, quickly kicking your shoes off before crawling between his spread and bent legs. Once you’re between them, you can really see him bad he needs you. His hands were gripping onto his balls and cock for dear life and he was very swollen as well. You could tell that he needed to just let go of the mounting pleasure and feel good. “Now let go of that pretty cock so mommy can take care of it baby.” You remind, bringing a hand up to pull his hand away from his shaft. As soon as he relinquishes control (well the little bit he had since you were still in control a bit despite you actually being there) you wrap your smaller hand around his shaft, resulting in an immediate gasp from Harry. You give him a little squeeze before dragging you hand up and down his shaft, eventually bringing your other hand to his balls. His cock looked so pretty when it was all swollen for you. It was nice and big and extremely sensitive. No matter what you did, he was going to be in shambles.

Harry was on cloud nine right now. He was finally getting pleasured the way he needed. Your soft hands and mouth on him as you play with and dote on his cock. He felt like he could cum right then and there from how good you felt. But that was only the tip of the iceberg. Right as he was settling into the pleasure of your hands, you put your mouth on him. Pursing your lips around his head and suckling on it. This causes him to begin shaking and moaning even louder than before. Harry can feel a very familiar warmth spreading throughout his entire body, signaling to him that he was approaching his release. 

“Please mommy! Need t’cum!” He cries bucking up into you. 

Instead of replying to him, you decide to just push him so close to the edge that he can’t stop himself from cumming. So you push your head down, taking more and more of him into your mouth and down your throat while squeezing and tugging at his warm balls. For Harry, this was a deadly combination. He couldn’t hold himself back no matter how hard he tried, and without warning he begins to spill his seed into your mouth/throat. 

“Mommy!” Harry yells out, feeling the waves of his release crash down onto him. He couldn’t describe how good it felt to be pleasured by you and to cum because of you. Rope after rope Harry empties himself into your mouth to which you gladly swallow. Even though he always cums a lot, you noticed that he came even more when in his subspace. And you absolutely loved it. 

Once he’s completely done, you pull your mouth cup from him and you lick any remaining cum oof of his cock before crawling up the bed to check in on him. 

“How you feeling baby?” You ask softly,  cupping his cheek to calm him sown a little bit more. 

“Really good.” He slurs, relaxing into your hand and calming down some more. “M’sorry.” He continues on softly. Harry was now, slowly but surely, coming out of his subspace.

“You have nothing to be sorry for baby!” You coo sadly, bringing your face down to press kisses all over his face. “Being subby is perfectly fine. You’re just a man who’s in his subspace who wants kisses and his cock played with. And that’s perfectly fine! I’ll give you kisses and play with your cock and anywhere else for that matter as much as you want sweet boy.” You reassure him, making sure to look him right in the eye ass you say it. 

“I love you.” He mumbles with a little pout. 

“I love you too baby.” You hum sweetly, giving him another kiss to the lips.

“Can we cuddle for a little bit?” He asks shyly.

“Of course, do you want a toy inside too?” You ask him, to which he feverishly nods yes. “M’gonna need you to turn on your side for me and I’ll be right back.” You instruct before getting out of bed and making your way to the closet. 

Masterlist 

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Like Sparks Against My Skin

on ao3

When Geralt sets out down the pass, nothing is out of the ordinary. The path is clear enough that he can ride most of the way down and they make good time coming into Kaedwen. He'd written to Jaskier over the winter for the first time this year and he's antsy to make it to their meeting spot along the Pontar. It feels like something has changed over the winter and while it's not a bad thing, Geralt still lays the blame on Jaskier and his soft, longing letters.

Usually, over the winter, Geralt spends most of his nights with Eskel, but it felt wrong to be sleeping with one man during the night and writing to another during the day, so he's spent the entire five months alone. And more than once, the letters he received seemed to have been written when Jaskier was drunk, and the content edged toward something much more suggestive than either of them had ever discussed. Not that anything had been discussed prior to the letters.

And Geralt had started thinking about things he's been burying since he first met Jaskier so many years ago. Like the sound of his voice while he's being railed in the room next door, or the way his trousers fit just right to display a shapely ass and thighs - or that stupid fucking bow that sits right between his hips and haunts him. Surely it's just a frivolity and it's not actually holding Jaskier's trousers up, but Geralt wants to find out, wants to tug at it and see what happens. And maybe, when he meets up with Jaskier, he will be.

He travels harder than he probably needs to, hurrying to get to their meeting spot and see Jaskier and find out where exactly they stand with each other now. It's unnecessary because Jaskier is still travelling on foot and while he has less distance to cross, he's still going to be slower. So when Geralt stops in town to rest for the night, Jaskier is the last person he's expecting to see.

But there he is when he walks into the tavern, lute in hand and singing melodiously and- Geralt's brain stops functioning when he looks at Jaskier's face. Because he's never had a beard before. And something hot and urgent settles low in his gut and Geralt barely holds back a groan. Whatever changed over the winter, he doesn't suspect Jaskier is prepared to be jumped the second they see each other.

But it's a tempting prospect, pulling him into an empty room and kissing the confusion from his lips. He thinks back to the one year Eskel decided to grow a beard, to the scrape of his between his thighs and against his ass. The roughness of it all over his skin and- fuck. He's still in public, he shouldn't be thinking these things.

So he quickly diverts his attention from Jaskier and orders a pair of drinks and supper for the both of them before discussing available rooms. By the time he and the innkeeper have come to an agreement (Jaskier's portion of the room has been paid for already, but Geralt is to pay for his own) Jaskier has finished his set and slipped up silently.

"It's good to see you," he says, "I didn't expect you so soon."

"The path was clear," Geralt explains, "quick riding down. Didn't see any point to delay after that."

"Certainly not, and we are glad to have you. Drinks?”

"Already coming," Geralt smiles and Jaskier beams at him.

The beard, Geralt discovers, is shorter than it appeared, thick stubble more than a full beard, but it doesn't stop the thoughts whirling in his head. If anything, it encourages them. Stubble is rougher than long hair and would be sure to scrape delightfully against his skin. Geralt has to shut his eyes for a moment and compose himself and when he does, Jaskier is looking at him oddly.

They turn in after supper and for the first time since knowing him, Geralt is nervous to share a bed with Jaskier. He's hesitant even about undressing in front of him because he's been half-hard since he walked into the inn earlier that evening. And he's had more to drink than is probably advisable, even if it doesn't affect him that much.

But in the firelight in their room, Jaskier looks unbearably beautiful and Geralt has to hold his tongue to keep from saying something he'll regret. Because Jaskier hinted and nodded at something more, but he hasn't said a word about it now that they're back together. And Geralt would be devastated to lose him over something so trivial as a quick fuck. So he shucks his clothes quickly and lays out his bedroll on the floor. Jaskier gives him an odd look but doesn't question it. It's not the first time one of them has slept on the floor of an inn.

But even when the candle is blown out and Jaskier is snoring softly in bed, Geralt can't sleep. He usually sleeps best the first night they're back together because they're always at an inn and Jaskier's soft breath and snoring lull him, but tonight he's wound too tightly to rest.

He gets up more than once and tries to meditate but being on his knees only brings to mind the image of a cock in his mouth and he's sorely tempted to see if the brothel is still open. He can't keep on like this. Jaskier stretches in his sleep, letting out a soft, happy moan and Geralt's cock twitches against his thigh. He shuts his eyes tightly, focuses back on the sound of Jaskier's breath, but there's nothing for it.

After an hour or more, Geralt shoves a hand down his shorts, taking his cock in hand and jerking himself quick and hard. There's nothing elegant about it, but he thinks of Jaskier, imagines him rubbing his cheeks between his thighs, and he comes hard after only a few strokes.

It's stupid, he thinks, to let himself get worked up over a little hair along Jaskier's jawline, and he resolves to ignore it.

Only the next morning it already seems thicker and darker and, like every other part of Jaskier, it's actually rather a lot of hair. A lot of short, prickly hairs. Geralt's cock stirs as he saddles Roach and he firmly shoves the thought aside. He's spent one too many rides hard and rubbing against the horn of the saddle and he doesn't need to repeat that.

They're not headed anywhere in particular, so he lets Jaskier lead the way, happily strumming and chatting or singing as he goes. They head in a general northwestern direction, toward Vizima and Jaskier seems perfectly unaware of Geralt's new fascination with him. But Geralt can't stop looking, hyper-aware of every little thing Jaskier does from the way he scratches absently at his jaw to the way he stretches it when he's not singing. Geralt doesn't know how he's never noticed all these things before, but they're doing their damndest to drive him out of his mind now.

He spends three days riding uncomfortably because he can't keep his prick under control, but it's better than walking and letting Jaskier see how fucking hard he gets thinking about his stupid scratchy face.

They stop early to make camp just outside of the city and Geralt has barely dismounted - thankfully not currently afflicted - when Jaskier drops his things and sighs.

"What is it?" he asks abruptly and Geralt just looks at him.

"What's what?" A million things run through his mind, but Jaskier looks far too exasperated for this to have anything to do with the recent state of Geralt's dick.

"You keep staring, looking at me funny. Why? Did I grow? Do I have something in my hair?" he reaches up, brushing long fingers through his hair and Geralt swallows hard. "And you're so solemn. What happened to looking forward to meeting me this spring."

Geralt says nothing because he doesn't know what to say. The truth is clearly out of the question, so he's fully out of options, the beard having turned the majority of his brain to soup. Then Jaskier's shoulders slump a little and he gives Geralt the most ridiculous look.

"The beard?" he asks and Geralt's eyes widen without his permission. Jaskier huffs. "I should have fucking known. Okay, get it out, tell me how awful it is."

"It's fine," he mumbles and Jaskier laughs.

"No, no, no, Witcher, you're not getting out of this that easily. Why do you hate it so much, hm? I'll have you know it was quite popular in Oxenfurt." Geralt doesn't need full brainpower to know what that means and a nasty jealous feeling twists in his gut. "So?"

"Told you," Geralt shrugs, "it's fine."

"Fine," Jaskier repeats mockingly, "fine."

He hates to lie to Jaskier, but he doesn't know what else to do and he doesn't want to ruin whatever softness they found over the winter, providing Jaskier is willing to stretch that into the rest of the year.

"It's… good," he says the words so quietly he can barely hear them and Jaskier comes right up to him, getting right up in his face and Geralt can smell him and he shuts his eyes, trying to settle his mind.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Nothing."

"No, I think you said it was good. Do you- do you like the beard, Geralt?"

He's so close now and Geralt's eyes open when he feels Jaskier's hands on his chest. He's right there and Geralt can't think of anything but biting his jaw, running his tongue along the rough line of it and he nearly groans out loud. He has always, regrettably, found Jaskier attractive but something about the beard is unbearably sexy and Geralt is barely holding it together already when Jaskier grins at him.

"Oh," he breathes, sliding one palm down Geralt's stomach. He leans in so close that his stubble scrapes against Geralt's cheek and Geralt lets out a soft, shaky moan, barely clinging to his self-control. "You do like it, don't you? Is that why you won't sleep with me? Why you can't stop staring at me?"

He leans in again, purposefully this time and Geralt inclines his head so Jaskier's cheek is closer to his neck.

"Shit, Geralt." He nuzzles into his neck, pressing his cheek against Geralt's throat and follows with soft kisses that make Geralt's knees weak. "You like the way it scratches, hm?"

"Yeah," Geralt admits breathily, "Jask-"

"Shh," Jaskier hums, "I know. Fuck, I know." He presses his nose to Geralt's, sighing softly. "I was afraid I overstepped this winter," he whispers, pressing a light kiss to the underside of Geralt's jaw. "Thought you were trying to figure out how to send me away after that first night back."

"Not you," Geralt mumbles, tipping his head back, "didn't want you to know-"

"How much you like the beard?" he nuzzles under Geralt's jaw again and he groans in response. "So you still want-" he doesn't finish his sentence before Geralt slides a hand around the back of his head and holds him there, eyes locked on his own.

"Of course I do," he breathes and then Jaskier's mouth is on his own and he's not sure which one of them moved, but it doesn't matter. Jaskier kisses him like he's been deprived for months and Geralt knows that's not true, but he's happy enough to be the recipient.

Jaskier's lips are soft, but Geralt can already feel the burn of his beard on his upper lip and he moans softly as Jaskier pulls away to nuzzle at his neck again. Geralt shuts his eyes, rolling his head back and biting down on his lip. His cock swells quickly under the touch and then Jaskier's wrapping his arms around his thighs and lifting him off his feet. It catches him off guard, but then they're moving, and Jaskier sets him down on a shelf of rock, smiling slyly up at him.

Geralt's high enough that it takes nothing for Jask to bend and kiss him, fingers reaching in to unbutton his trousers, and Geralt can't keep himself from pushing into the touch, pressing his clothed cock against Jaskier's hands.

Heat rolls through him and he's a little embarrassed to be so hard already, but Jaskier doesn't seem to mind. He wraps his fingers around him and Geralt groans softly as Jaskier plays with him through the fabric of his trousers. He tips his head back as Jaskier gets his trousers undone and then he's shoving them down far enough to get his cock free and Geralt can feel the rush of cool air against him.

"Lift your hips," Jaskier says and Geralt does as he's asked, shifting with him as Jaskier pulls his trousers down to his knees.

He grins at him, then pushes his thighs apart and presses his face between them. Geralt groans immediately despite himself, torn between letting his thighs fall further apart to give Jaskier better access to his cock and just letting him rub his face between his thighs all afternoon.

Because he would. He'd be happy to let Jaskier nuzzle between his thighs for hours without even touching him. He could probably come like that, just with Jaskier's scruff rubbing against his thighs.

"Feels good?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods. "You like the way it scratches, hm?" He presses closer and Geralt's eyes flutter shut. "Oh, you really like that. Is that what's been bothering you this whole time? And here I thought you hated the beard."

"No," Geralt gasps and Jaskier surges up to kiss him again, groaning against his lips. He fumbles with Geralt's trousers, not pulling away as he pulls them off his legs and throwing them to the ground, then he's hauling him forward so he can fit between his thighs.

"I want you," he breathes, "Geralt, can I fuck you? I'll make it good, love."

"Please," he whispers, "Jaskier, please-"

"Shh," Jaskier hums, running a hand down his chest, "I've got you, darling, I'll take care of you."He presses forward, guiding Geralt onto his back and then he's ducking down to take his cock into his mouth. And the rumours of Jaskier's talents have not been exaggerated.

Geralt has to struggle to keep his hips down as Jaskier draws back and when he sinks back down on him, he makes a point of rubbing his cheek against his hip and the pleasure burns through him. Jaskier's tongue wraps around him and Geralt rocks into the touch, but he just groans when Jaskier holds him down. Then he's pulling off altogether and lifting Geralt's knees over his shoulders.

He keeps his eyes on Geralt's as he pulls him forward and then he's ducking down, pressing his nose behind Geralt's balls. The first flick of his tongue has Geralt groaning and then he's sliding over him, licking over his hole and Geralt shuts his eyes and gropes at the rock for something to hold on to.

Jaskier doesn't waste any time settling him, just gets straight to work, pressing his face in and pressing at his hole with his tongue. The scratch of his stubble drives Geralt insane and if he wasn't already hard, it would take nothing else to get him there. And Jaskier, the fucker, knows this and uses it to his advantage. He alternates actually touching him with the rough scrape of his beard until Geralt needs the touch, until his cock aches for something more, and his cheeks burn with the roughness of it.

It's just this side of painful, but he loves it and when Jaskier finally presses into him, Geralt goes limp, whining as he throws his head back. He gropes blindly at Jaskier, gripping one arm where he braces himself and Jaskier just hums as he pushes his tongue inside him, barely acknowledging Geralt's whimpers.

"Fuck," he groans, "oh, fuck jask- please, yes."

When he pushes further, he adds a finger and it's a little dry, but Geralt has needed this for so fucking long he doesn't even care about the burn. It feels good, even, like a mirror to the stubble burn now marring the insides of his thighs and ass. And Jaskier is gentle despite his own eagerness, only pushing in when he knows Geralt can take it and then starting slow.

But when he knows Geralt is comfortable, he fucks him hard with his tongue and finger, working up to two quickly as Geralt gasps and groans under him.

"Jask," he groans, "needed you- wanted you all winter. I haven't-"

"Haven't what, love?"

"Haven't come since the summer-" he cuts himself off with another groan as Jaskier's fingers nudge against his prostate for the third time in a row. His eyes roll back and he bites his lip. "Not gonna last like this."

"'S okay," Jaskier says, dipping down to kiss his cock, "I wanna make you feel good, I wanna watch you come. Then I'll fuck you and you can come again."

"Melitele," Geralt groans, but Jaskier leans low over him, quieting him with a kiss as he plunges his fingers into him again.

The pressure rises as Jaskier seeks out that spot, aiming for it again and again until Geralt can barely breathe. And he knows he can't hold back anymore, but he tries. He shuts his eyes and focuses and tries not to think about how fucking good it feels to have Jaskier's fingers inside him, but they bump against his prostate again, just as Jaskier mouths at the underside of his cock and he can't.

"Fuck," he cries, "'M gonna come." Jaskier doesn't say anything, but he licks up the length of Geralt's twitching cock, just slipping over the head and sucking it into his mouth before he's coming.

HE clenches one hand at his side, the other flying up to the back of Jaskier's neck as he sinks down on him and he rocks gently into his mouth, pressing the head of his cock against the roof of Jaskier's mouth. It feels like ages that the pleasure washes over him and Jaskier just keeps bobbing on his cock, fingers still working into him.

When he finally comes down again, Geralt sighs and reaches down, tugging Jaskier on top of him to kiss him. He can taste himself on Jaskier's lips and it sends a bolt of possessiveness through him. He's never been one to consider anyone his, but knowing Jaskier tastes like him is incredibly arousing.

Jaskier appeases him for a few minutes before pushing himself up again and fitting himself between Geralt's thighs, running his hands along them.

"Feel better?" he asks and Geralt just hums softly. "Think you could come again for me, darling?"

"Yeah," Geralt rasps, "yeah, for you."

"Oh, Geralt, you're so sweet to me." Jaskier kisses him softly, then straightens up, reaching down to undo his own trousers.

Geralt watches as he shoves them down, then takes himself in hand, stroking absently, as he looks at him. Jaskier's already hard, the knowledge of which only makes Geralt's need stronger. But Jaskier doesn't make him wait long before he's pressing in, teasing his rim with the head of his cock.

He pushes in slowly, giving Geralt the chance to adjust, but he doesn't want it. He wants Jaskier inside him as quickly as possible, wants to feel the stretch of Jaskier's cock and the burn as he fucks him. He rocks his hips encouragingly and Jaskier seems to get the message, thrusting deep into him with a groan.

"Fuck," he mutters, "you feel incredible, Geralt." He rocks his hips, groaning on the forward thrust, and pulls Geralt's hips against him. "Can you come just like this?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods.

He's already feeling the urge again, even as his cock swells against his hip. He wants to come on Jaskier's cock, wants to kiss him while he fucks him, wants to touch him. And Jaskier does his best to provide that. He leans over, wrapping his hands around Geralt's hips and pulling him down to ease the motion of his thrusts. He gets one hand around him, stroking in time and pressing his thumb against the slit of his cock, rubbing gently as Geralt squirmed under him.

Jaskier is soft where he touches him, but he fucks him hard and Geralt is already slipping before he's even touched himself. Jaskier's hands on him feel too good and he reluctantly pushes him away, slipping his own hand around the base of his cock.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Gonna make me come too quick," Geralt mumbles, "not yet."

"How come?" Jaskier asks, but his voice is rough, shaky as he fucks him. "This doesn't have to be the only time." He leans over him, kissing Geralt sloppily as he jerks forward. "I've wanted you forever, darling, if I knew all it took to get you into bed was growing a beard, I would have done it years ago."

He smiles and winks and Geralt can't help but kiss him again, tangling his fingers in his hair to bring him close. Jaskier's a flirt and a tease, but Geralt wouldn't trade him for anyone.

He kisses him hard, even as Jaskier pulls him down again, so only his back and shoulders rest on the rock. He slams into him again and again, dislodging him as he kisses him, but it doesn't matter because this is Jaskier and this has been a long time coming.

But Geralt's cock throbs against his hip and he's so close he can practically feel it and one well-timed thrust is all it takes to have him spilling all over his stomach and Jaskier follows with a loud moan, pressing his head into Geralt's shoulder.

For some time, neither of them moves, Geralt with his legs wrapped around Jaskier's waist and Jaskier just barely holding him up as the rush of his orgasm passes. Jaskier is the one to move first, pulling Geralt from his spot on the shelf to set him back on shaky feet.

"Gods, Geralt," he breathes, "who knew a little bit of facial hair could get you going like that." He huffs a soft laugh and kisses his chest, but Geralt ignores it. "If I'd known, I would've let it grow out ages ago, I bloody hate shaving and now that I know what that look means," he grins, leaning in close enough that he's breathing against Geralt's lips, "I think I'll wear it long like this all the time, what do you think?"

"I think," Geralt says, choosing his words carefully, "that next year you're coming to Kaer Morhen with me so I can take full advantage of that threat without worrying about having to ride in the morning."

"Fuck," Jaskier breathes, "deal."

[maddiewritesstucky]

Snare Me His Shadow

Pairing: Steve/Bucky

Rating: Explicit 18+

Words: 4.5k

Tags: Primal Play, Prey/Predator Kink, Fighting As Foreplay, Rough Sex, Biting, Choking, Dom/Sub Undertones, Come Swapping, Anal Sex, Overstimulation, Fucking Outdoors, Storm Sex, Poetry As An Aphrodisiac, R18 Hide And Seek

So a million years ago, @howdoyousleep3 passed on an ask from her inbox that read:

[I dont know if you’re familiar with primal play, but it’s so fucking hot. Yeah, I know, Steve is all muscle and ability, he’s strong he’s fast, he’s smart, he is not prey. Usually. But Bucky - the winter soldier - is a hunter. The best, in fact. He loves a good hunt]

...This one possessed me. Please heed the tags, this is an entirely consensual and agreed-upon game between Steve and Bucky, but it is very much a hunter/prey type situation 😈

It’s electric, like this.

Barefoot on the damp earth, navigating by muscle memory more than sight, because darkness settles that much denser beneath the tree canopy.

Steve could move faster, could take this barely-worn path through the woods behind the compound at a sprint. But fast is loud. 

Fast is leaves cracking and branches splintering, and the muted thud of footfalls on the forest floor. It’s eyes fixed only ahead so you don’t stumble, and nothing but the sound of your own exhales in your ears.

‘Fast’ gets you caught. 

The in-rolling storm crackles humid in the air, sparking against Steve’s skin as he weaves through the underbrush. He throws his every sense outwards, searching and sifting through those faint currents of movement around him, those quiet signs of life. But it’s all life out here; birds and insects and creatures who can’t bear the light, all just playing the same game he is, and every last one of them pricks at his awareness. 

Every last one of them kicks at his pulse and drip-feeds new adrenaline into his bloodstream, because experience echoes a warning way down in his cells - the apex predator comes silent as a spider. 

There’s so many eyes on him, the weight of being watched pressing down on him from all sides. He digs the heel of his hand into his arousal and pulls in a lungful of air on the cusp of rain; feels himself splintering between his warring desires to put up a worthy chase, and to drop down belly-up in the dirt.

It’s a choice that will be made for him, eventually. 

He might be strength, and speed, and strategy. But out here, he is prey. 

Out here, in these weeping woods that stretch endless into the night, Steve is achingly, exquisitely outmatched by the hunter who lies in wait; biding his time, unseen, and slipping ever closer. 

Dressed in black from head to toe, or skin bared to the shivering pulses of the forest; empty handed, or palms laden with the urge to grab and pin and possess…

The Winter Soldier is out there, and Steve’s blood runs so much hotter for the knowledge that he won’t see or hear or feel him coming until it’s too late. 

He winds his way amongst the weathered trunks, hugging the shadows and pawing at the lines of his own body; stroking his thighs and pulling at his nipples, raking fingernails over the bare skin of his stomach. It’s rough and absent and frantic all at once, a weak precursor to what he’s evading.

The dissonance of it is dizzying, hiding from the thing he wants most. He wants to cry out, to make for the clearing in the middle of the woods and sprawl shameless in the open until he’s found, but he knows the rules - run, hide, don’t make it easy.

Pursuit is the purpose, and capture is a pleasure that must be earned, no matter how raw his skin is screaming for touch. And it is screaming - he’s a copper wire stripped bare, and he shivers for every stinging snap of branch and damp drag of leaf against his body as he picks his way through the darkness. 

Hard limits apply, he’d told Bucky, the rest is up to you. 

He shudders for it now, those words and the way Bucky’s eyes had darkened for them; the way he’d leaned in to kiss his sugar-laced threat right onto Steve’s waiting lips - I will find you.

It’s only a matter of time. The forest is vast, and countless months have passed since they last played this game, but Bucky is a blade that never dulls. 

Bucky is razor-sharp, in wit, beauty, and battle; made up of midnight and silent strides when he so chooses, and he will find Steve. 

He might have had eyes on Steve this entire time; ten soundless steps behind, watching Steve’s slow descent into desperation with a smile on his face, and the mere possibility has Steve’s cock weeping through the thin fabric of his shorts. 

His fingertips dip beneath his waistband and sweep through the wetness beading at his tip; stroke that sensitive spot just beneath the head. His palm slips to press at the heavy throb in his balls and it makes his breath catch too loud in the confines of his chest, has a moan slipping out past his gritted teeth. 

He knows it’s foolish, knows he’s only making himself easier to track. But every step he takes is winding the hunt toward its inevitable climax, and intellect is giving way to instinct. 

His consciousness is beginning that steady downward drip, sinking from logic and reason to settle and swim with the dense heat pooling at the base of his spine. Soon, he���ll be nothing more than the urge rippling under his skin, the tight-squeezed air in his lungs and the thrum of blood between his thighs, and every brush of his own hands is permission to slip a little further to it. 

So he doesn’t stop. 

His feet and his fingers keep moving; his body acting now on his mind’s behalf to draw towards the river's edge, where his desperate sounds will be swept away by the unending rush of water over rock, because this is about preservation now.

It’s about surviving the voracity of his own need until he is found, until Bucky catches him, and then…god, then...

The rest is up to you.

The beginning of rainfall winds its way down through the tree canopy, and it does nothing to quell the heat radiating off Steve. He’s burning so hot for this, so hungry for it; his need only growing sharper as the atmosphere curls in thick and charged with the promise of thunder. 

It’s rumbling in the distance already, too faint for non-enhanced ears but creeping closer; a rolling bass beneath the surge of the fast flowing river up ahead. He can see the diluted black of open space through the trees now, can hear the clack of wet-tumbling stones, and it’s nothing short of delusion, the way it feels like he’s headed for sanctuary. 

Logic knows it’s a weak veil of auditory cover at best, and an outright plea for ambush at worst.

Steve knows, down in his gut, exactly which one he’s hoping for, and he sprints for it with the last of his tactical thought seeping out through the soles of his feet. 

He breaks through the tree line, hitching a gasp as he stumbles out into the full force of the downpour. It’s coming down heavy, sluicing at the fever-sweat clinging to his skin, and he tilts his face up towards it; lets his eyes drift shut and his shoulders drop as he bares his throat to the purple-black sky. 

His pulse riots for the sheer abandon of the gesture, of shifting his posture to one of invitation in the midst of evasion. It only spurs him on, makes him want to find out just how shrill that siren in his cells will wail when he refuses to curl in on himself. 

He forces his hands open at his sides, turns his palms outwards and walks further out onto the exposed riverbank. He stands ankle deep in the river with his heart in his throat, soaked to the bone and all but shaking with the desire to drop to his knees in submission.

And that’s when he hears it. 

The slow-whistled high note, followed by a low; the signal that shivers from the top of Steve’s spine to the cradle of his hips.

Found you. 

It’s a question as much as a warning, that signal; a chance for Steve to respond in their shared language of gesture whether he wants the chase, or the fight. 

As if he hadn’t made up his mind the moment they agreed to play tonight.

As if he’s not done for either way. 

He pulls in a shuddering breath, his skin prickling with the presence he can sense now off to his left. Survival instinct begs him to open his eyes, to scour his surroundings and prepare for what’s coming, but he only shuts them tighter. 

He grins up at the pelting rain, curls his quivering right hand into a fist, and beats it against his drenched, heaving chest.

Take me down where I stand. 

Thunder rumbles overhead and shakes the stones underfoot. Steve’s blood beats frantic in his ears, one heartbeat stumbling over the next, and he waits, waits for the blow he doesn’t want to see coming.

A foot to the back of his knees, an arm wrapped around his throat, a strike of unyielding metal between his shoulder blades...it’s never the same twice, and it’s always better than the time before, and he can’t stop the desperate whimper that falls from his parted, rain-slick lips.

“Bucky!” he pleads, hurling it into the current of the storm raging around him.

“Steve,” comes the answer from directly behind him; the word falling across his skin in the split second before teeth sink deep into the meat of his shoulder.

It’s nothing short of wanton, the way Steve cries out with it. 

Five fingers curl a punishing grip around the column of his throat and a soaking wet body plasters against his back, and Steve doesn’t even try to hold his centre of gravity as he’s wrestled down to the riverbank.

It’s a messy takedown, raw force over skill; dripping all the same desperation that’s been twisting hot in Steve’s gut all night. Bucky pins him belly-down against the stones at the river’s edge, the full weight of his body draped over him, and Steve knows the tremor he can feel humming through Bucky’s muscles has nothing to do with the cold.

“The river,” Bucky growls; metal forearm jammed against the back of Steve's neck, “of course you came to the river.”

Steve squirms giddy beneath Bucky’s mass, beneath that deep-thrumming power crushing down on him. 

The storm-swollen current reaches up the bank to wash shallow and frigid beneath Steve’s cheek, his chest; against his nipples and his thighs and his cock inside his drenched shorts. It’s cold enough to draw gooseflesh across the bared expanse of his skin, but fuck if that persistent rush doesn’t feel like getting tongued; like every single time Bucky’s ever slipped an ice cube in his mouth and sucked him off just to see him hit the ceiling. 

“Buck...” 

It’s the only word that makes sense anymore. Steve gets his elbows under himself and pushes his body up, but only so much as to feel the stifling weight of Bucky on top of him. 

Bucky’s hand slips to the front of his throat and grips him tight up under the line of his jaw; tips his head back to get his lips and teeth pressed hard against Steve’s ear.

“Steven...did you even try?” 

The rain and the river aren’t enough to sweep away the mockery in his tone. He’s shifting himself on top of Steve, putting scant inches of space between their bodies, and Steve knows this cue; grins bright and breathless for it.

He digs his hands in against the riverbed, plants his knees and shoves upwards. He heaves his weight forward and Bucky’s grip loosens just enough to let it happen, to let Steve crawl and clamber a few meager feet forwards.

Steve knows it’s a false freedom but he laughs half-hysterical for it anyway, and even more so when Bucky’s hands are catching him again, clamping bruising tight at his hips and grappling him onto the flat of his back. 

He winces at the battering strike of rain against his face, but it’s just as soon blocked by the cover of Bucky caging him in; replaced by the tepid drips rolling off Bucky’s perpetually warm skin. 

Steve’s body reacts the way it thinks it’s supposed to, going through the motions of trying to throw Bucky off - strength funneled into a forearm arm pressing here, a knee striking there. But it’s pointless; sabotaged by the underlying truth that the only place Steve really wants to be is stuck exactly where he finds himself - pinned pliant beneath his predator.

He lets himself look, then; lets his gaze slip down between them to drag over the length of Bucky’s body. He’s bared to the elements just the same as Steve - not a stitch on him save for running shorts that barely hit at mid-thigh. His hair is pulled back, and he’s soaked to the bone, and when lightning splits the darkness in two and catches on the angles of his face, that raw perilous beauty strikes a blow all of its own to the center of Steve’s chest.

“You win,” Steve rasps, dragging his voice up from the pit of his billowing lungs.

Bucky’s answering laugh is darker than the wet-ink midnight pressing in on them, and it shudders all the way to Steve’s bones when Bucky sinks down to purr ominous against the vulnerable stretch of his neck.

“Not yet, I haven’t.”

The ravenous clamp of teeth on his throat sends Steve’s body bowing, writhing for that merciless bite that doesn’t break the skin, but makes purpled ruin of what lies beneath. Fascia and blood vessels and Steve’s sanity, all broken down in the transcendent grind of Bucky’s jaw, the heat of his mouth; all over Steve’s neck and his chest and his belly, and it’s so feral, the way Steve wants it. 

He wants the shred of busted stitching and the shock of rain against newly bared skin as his shorts are torn from his body.

He wants the red welts raked down his rib cage, the kiss-split lip and the deep set imprints of Bucky’s teeth all up the insides of his thighs. 

Bucky’s touch is heavy and he means it to be; his shifting, squeezing grip claiming handfuls of Steve’s willing flesh wherever he can get it. And he can get it everywhere - every last inch of Steve’s body splayed out for him in tribute to his prowess, and Steve wants him to take it. 

He wants Bucky to make sacrilege of it out here under the split-open skies, until it feels like heaven itself is sobbing for it. 

“Fuck me,” ruin me, desecrate me, arch-backed and bleeding-lipped in the dirt, “Bucky, fuck me…” 

Steve begs with all of himself, legs split and arms thrown above his head; dripping sweat and storm and half-crazed surrender. Like he actually has to plead for this, like Bucky’s not already stuffing searching fingers up between his cheeks to grope for the base-end of silicone that says Steve’s body is primed for the taking.

Bucky bites taunting denial into his skin, over and over. ‘No,’ even as he pulls the plug from Steve’s body and replaces it with his fingers. ‘No’ growled against Steve’s body every time he begs now, and please, and I’m ready, just to fray that tenuous thread of Steve’s resolve. 

Steve’s delirious with it, crying out high and sharp for the stretch of cold metal inside him and the drip of remnant lube. He chants Bucky’s name and reaches out with clinging, clawing hands that only get batted away; that get caught at the wrists and pinned down, and Bucky’s laughing at him. 

Bucky is toying with him, leaving him empty and climbing back up over his body to graze teeth over Steve’s cheekbones, to whisper sweet mockery against Steve’s lips before he kisses them bruising-hard.

“Tell me you want it,” Bucky coos, clamping his hand over Steve’s mouth and pushing the clothed head of his cock up against Steve’s hole. 

Steve sobs against his palm. He forces the words out wet and incomprehensible onto Bucky’s skin; again and again as Bucky tuts and tells him to speak the fuck up. 

Tears are streaming free from the corners of his eyes and his legs are hooking desperately around Bucky’s waist, and he knows that Bucky wants this just as bad. He can feel Bucky shaking and shuddering under the strain of holding back and holding out, trying to push Steve closer to his breaking point just because that’s what Steve wants; devotion at its most deranged.

“Don’t cry, baby,” Bucky laps at the tears tracking down Steve’s face, letting up his hand from Steve’s mouth only to settle it heavy on his throat. 

He slips his other hand down between them to shove at his shorts, fighting the clinging fabric down far enough to get his cock free, and then they’re both groaning for the rub of naked skin on skin. 

“Buck,” Steve chokes out a half-strangled cry as Bucky sinks his whole weight onto him, dragging his stomach over Steve’s weeping cock and rocking his own into the crease of Steve’s hip. 

“Tell me you want it?” Bucky says again, a question this time instead of a taunt. 

Steve’s rasp of yes, fuck, do it barely makes it past his lips before Bucky’s cock is pushing into him.

There’s no hesitance, no pretense of patience to it. Bucky doesn’t finesse it and Steve doesn’t want him to - he didn’t spend half the night skulking through the woods in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm just to get taken the way he would be in the sanctity of their bed.

Steve came out here to get fucked vicious, and Bucky knows better than to pull his punches.

He shoves brutal and punishing into the tight heat of Steve’s body, knocking the air from Steve’s lungs and the sense from his psyche. 

He’s tucking words up against Steve’s ear, something lilting and familiar, and the roar of Steve’s own blood and the groaning sky above don’t drown out Bucky’s voice so much as darken it’s edges; slip a rumbling bass beneath it’s baritone. Steve loses himself in the well-worn rhythm long before the words catch up to sink hooks into his ribcage.

“O Hunter, snare me his shadow,” Bucky hums, “O Nightingale, catch me his strain…else moonstruck with music and madness...I track him in vain.”

Steve would weep, if he had it in him to do anything other than lay there flat on his back and take it. 

Bucky grinds in blinding-deep and stays there, rocks there; drips poetry all over the side of Steve’s neck like he’s not fucking him fit to kill.

He squeezes Steve’s throat until his eyes roll back, swats at Steve’s cheek and pulls merciless on his hair. He stuffs fingers into Steve’s gaping mouth deep enough to gag on, and hinges Steve’s jaw open so he has no choice but to set loose every raw, wrecked sound Bucky knocks out of him. 

It’s fucking flawless.

“Give me one,” Bucky growls. 

Steve needs no clarification beyond the spearing of Bucky’s cock into his prostate, and he reaches down between their bodies to jerk himself frantic and heavy-handed. 

It should be pitiful, how little it takes. But it’s been mounting for what feels like hours, and when Bucky wrenches himself abruptly from Steve’s body to slap a hand down square over Steve’s balls and his slick, aching asshole, that orgasm crests with near-painful force.

“Fuck!” Steve’s wracked with it, shuddering and flinching from it like it’s not the makings of his very own flesh and blood. 

Bucky doesn’t even wait for it to be over before he’s dipping down to lap at it; rubbing his cheek and his chest and his belly through Steve’s release on his slow crawl back up to spit it into Steve’s mouth.

“Don’t you fuckin’ swallow it,” he warns, pressing his thumb to the seam of Steve’s lips, “I want it back.” 

Steve’s body is sparking chaotic, crying too soon and too much just as loud as it’s screaming too good as Bucky grips him by his sodden hair and buries his cock back inside him; falling into rhythm like he never stopped thrusting in the first place.

He wants to moan, wants to cry out for that welcome knifepoint of forced pleasure building within him, but the desperate sounds creeping onto his tongue are every bit as caged as the come he can’t swallow. 

Which is the whole point, Steve flushes submissive to realize - Bucky’s got him gagged without even touching him. 

He twines his limbs up around Bucky’s body, groping and pulling at him like there’s still an insufferable distance left to close. The guttural moans Bucky’s spilling into the crook of his neck only render Steve’s own noises even more pathetic; huffing high and reedy the longer they remain trapped in his throat. 

“Christ, listen to you...”

Bucky pushes up onto his elbows to stare down at Steve, to watch the play of desperation on his face. 

He’s no less transparent himself in how affected he is, a lifetime of ceaseless want spelled out in his gaze; hunger and rapture and the kind of adoration Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever fully earn, not really.

But it’s all right there, in the way Bucky’s looking at him; the way he’s bearing the howling force of the storm against his back just to give Steve this, and Steve is sunk.

Steve is nothing more than the sweet ruin of his body and the near painful swell of his heart for the multitudes that Bucky contains. A death sentence if you ask the history books and still the better half of Steve’s soul, Bucky is the boundless shadow and blinding light of Steve’s entire existence; his every reason for being and doing and fucking trying, after all these years. 

It would be terrifying, if Steve weren’t bone-deep certain that he’s the axis Bucky’s world spins on, too.

“You found me...” 

The words are almost a sob hitching off Steve’s tongue, pitched fuck-drunk and slurred around his mouthful of himself. 

He’s breaking the rules and he knows it; half hopes for the crack of an open palm against his cheek for it. But the look Bucky hits him with lands harder than any physical strike could hope to; taking Steve’s face firm between his hands and staring down at him like there’s never been a truth so vital, so dire.

“I will always find you, Steve.” 

And that’s just it, isn’t it? The one thing their shared existence will always narrow down to. There’s nowhere either of them could go that the other wouldn’t tear the world apart to get to, and the scant inches of distance between them right now might as well be oceans for all Steve’s burning inside to cross them. 

He cups his hands around Bucky’s neck and arches up, pulls him down; pleading with everything but words for Bucky’s mouth on his, and Bucky doesn’t make him wait. He meets Steve right there in the delirium with lips and tongue and moans that rival the swelling thunder; sucking the taste of Steve off his tongue and dripping a starved groan into his mouth in its place.

“I wanna make you come,” he says, like he hasn’t already dragged one out of him, “tell me you’re gonna come.” 

“Fuck, I am, I’m gonna come...” 

“Say it’s for me, Steve, tell me it’s mine.” 

Steve nods so hard, he can feel a bruise bloom at the base of his skull where it grates against the riverstone. Of course it’s for Bucky, everything’s for Bucky; every breath in his lungs and every beat of his stricken, obsessed heart. The sensations within him are mounting too immense, too desperate to be named pleasure, but they’re careening all the same towards the one thing Bucky wants from him, and it will only ever be Bucky’s, this perfect agony of coming undone.

“It’s yours,” he sobs, voice weak and body shaking. "Just—fuckin’ take it from me, Buck.”

He gives up all conscious hold on himself; submits entirely to the relentless drag of Bucky’s dick against his insides and the wet rasp of rock against his back as Bucky drives deep into his surrendered body, chasing that climax for the both of them.

It burns so bright, when it hits Steve; wrenched from his core and rolling sharp through the splay of his trembling frame. He cries out with it, but the storm cries louder, Bucky cries louder; moving ceaselessly through the spasms of Steve’s orgasm and drowning in the give of Steve’s body beneath him. 

“Fuck, Steve, I—” 

“Do it,” Steve slurs, needing nothing more than the tell-tale shudder of Bucky’s body and the way he gasps Steve’s name like a warning. “In me, Buck. Do it.” 

Bucky cusses sharp, pulsing his hips as he lets go inside Steve like he can bury that seed deep enough to stick. And fuck, Steve wants it to. It’s all raw nerve on the inside but Steve never wants this to end; possessed by the slick grind of Bucky’s twitching cock and the heaving half-moans of Bucky’s breath. 

“Don’t stop,” he pleads, reaching fingertips down to where their bodies are joined, where Bucky’s stuffed into him and leaking out of him. “Keep fucking me, just—just keep—” 

Keep coming. 

Be that monstrous entity in the woods who fucks me like it’s a haunting, ’til not even an exorcism would rid me of you. 

He prods at the stretch of his swollen rim, drags his fingers through the warmth seeping out around Bucky’s cock. He wants it everywhere; brings those slick fingers up to smear over the pulse point on his neck, down the line of his throat, and Bucky heaves a moan dragged right from the marrow of his bones. 

“I won’t stop,” he grits out through clattering teeth, rocking into Steve graceless and starving. “Not gonna stop, Steve.”

It sounds as much like threat as it does promise. 

They’re both quaking with it, overstimulated and frigid cold and too achingly, crushingly lost in each other. For all the serum may have made them both to defy science and probability, to withstand war and stall the ravages of aging, it still couldn’t create a vessel vast enough to contain this - this raw, insatiable need for one another. 

“Bucky…” 

Steve looks up from the flat of his back; tips his head to offer up the stretch of his throat as he offers up a tremulous verse — a challenge — into the space between them. 

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep...” 

Recognition sparks dark and joyous in Bucky’s gaze. He catches Steve’s hands in his and threads their fingers together, palm against palm in a too-tight grip.

“But I have promises to keep,” he grins, “and miles to go before I sleep…” 

His lips are turning up wolfish; the roll of his hips turning to something liquid and long-haul, and the rain beats down just as violent as it ever did. 

Steve lets his eyes slip closed, lets the final refrain slip from his tongue before he surrenders, smiling, to the slow closing of Bucky’s teeth around his windpipe.

“...And miles to go before I sleep.” 

If you’re at all curious, the poems they quote are ‘In The Forest’ by Oscar Wilde, and ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ by Robert Frost 😘

[scuttling]

Perfect

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid/Latina OFC Sophie Cortes Word Count: 6,154 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Daddy Kink, Daddy Training, Dom/sub, Dry Humping, Vaginal Fingering, Unprotected Sex, Dirty Talk, Oral Fixation, Subspace, Aftercare, Multiple Orgasms, Established Aaron/Sophie Summary: Two weeks after the events of 'Present,' Aaron plans another surprise—this time for Spencer and Sophie. Collection: Part 2 of 5 of Present, Perfect, Patient, Promise, Pretend series Note: This is a previously published work from A03, just moving it over to tumblr. Link to A03 or read below! Spencer is sitting at his desk working on a consultation, in his own little world, when a perfect denim-covered butt comes to rest on his case file, thighs spread in front of his face. His mouth falls open, and he looks up at Sophie. She’s grinning, cherry red lollipop in hand. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, and he looks around the bullpen, panicked, but miraculously, they’re alone.

“Food truck today, everyone’s at lunch. I was in Aaron’s office, but he had to take a call; thought I’d come say hi.” Her fingers reach out to brush over his lips. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You look really cute today, all tie-d up.” Her fingers slide down to wrap around it. “Can I kiss you?” He nods, and she bends down to press her mouth to his, humming against it. “Aaron said I could ask you to spend the night tonight. Or, all weekend, if you’re free.” She sits up properly, slides the lollipop into her mouth, sucks on it. He licks his lips, and she pulls it out, smiles. “Are you free?”

“Extremely,” he answers, and he wraps his hand around her calf, half-stands so he can have another kiss. They’re being bold, even if everyone is at lunch, but he likes it.

“I take it he said yes.” Spencer curses and pulls back, but Sophie just laughs. It’s only Aaron.

“He did. I think he likes us.”

“I know he likes us,” Aaron replies, voice low, and Spencer’s head is almost spinning with how fast they’ve turned him on. He comes to stand beside them, and Sophie looks up at him, swipes her tongue over the lollipop, and then presses it to Spencer’s mouth. He sucks it in, wraps his tongue around it, and when she pulls it out with a pop, Aaron groans. “Fuck.”

“That’s the plan,” Sophie says, cheeky, and he leans in, presses his fingers to her jaw, tilts her head up so she’s making eye contact.

“You don’t make the plans, sweet girl. I do. Do you want to know what the plan is?” She nods as best as she can, and when Aaron looks to Spencer, he nods too. “You like being dominated by me. You like having a daddy who tells you what you can and can’t do.” Spencer swallows hard, because he knew about the dominating, but he didn’t know about the daddy thing. His dick throbs. “But wouldn’t it be something if I let you have two daddies? Two daddies to order you around, to fill you up, to tease you until your pussy is so wet you make a mess of everything?”

Sophie whines, spreads her legs further apart, and Aaron drops his hand to squeeze hard at her thigh.

“If Spencer wants to learn, baby, I’m going to teach him how to be your daddy this weekend. He’s had a taste of you, but he’s going to find out just how dirty and needy my little slut really is.”

“I want to learn,” he says quickly, practically tripping over his own tongue to do so. Sophie takes a couple of shallow breaths, and he’s suddenly so aware of how thin her t-shirt is, how he can see her nipples even through her bra. How fucking perfect she is.

“He wants to learn. Does that sound good, precious girl?” She closes her eyes, wets her lips, and Aaron caresses her face.

“Yes, daddies.”

Fuck.

“Good girl. Time to get down; everyone will be coming back soon.” He puts his hands on her waist, helps her to her feet. His fingers wrap around her hand, the one with the lollipop, and he guides it to her mouth, pushes it inside. “You can come sit in my office and suck on that until you calm down. Give Spencer a hug.” She does, puts her arms around him, and he reciprocates, inhaling sharply when she presses against his erection; she steps back, looks down at it, looks up at Aaron. “It’ll have to wait, sweetheart. We don’t have time. Spencer understands.” He presses his hand to Spencer’s back, and he exhales, nods.

“I understand. It’s okay,” he tells her, and when he touches her cheek, she closes her eyes, sighs. “You go calm down. I’ll see you in a little while.” Aaron moves his hand to his arm, squeezes him, and then he leads Sophie up the stairs to his office. The rest of the team files back into the bullpen so suddenly it’s almost alarming; not even a full minute has passed. He sits back down, tips his head back, and blows out a breath.

“What’s going on with you, Reid?” Morgan asks as he and Prentiss take their seats. “You missed lunch.”

“I guess my mind is on other things,” he says offhand, and it is an incredible understatement. Aaron texts Spencer, tells him to come over at 7 and to come hungry, and he and Sophie make mushroom risotto, to be served with French bread and white wine.

He may be trying to woo him a little, since the last time he spent the night was quick and frantic and ended with pizza in bed before an equally hurried round two. He deserves some romance, if they’re going to continue this, make it more than just a thing, as Sophie calls it. He’s never been in a relationship with two people at once, never thought he would want to, and he wants to be sure he does things right.

He takes off his jacket but stays in his work clothes; no sense changing out of them when they’ll be removed soon enough. He does choose a new outfit for Sophie, though: it’s a lavender colored, transparent, lacy babydoll dress—lingerie, really—with matching panties, though he doesn’t let her wear them. He wants to see the look on Spencer’s face when he realizes she’s practically naked already.

“You’re a little bit evil,” Sophie says when he tells her to remove them, gives her his reasoning, but she takes the panties back off and tosses them at his face.

“You love me, though,” he says, setting them on the counter, and she grins, wicked, and sidles up to him for a slow, lingering kiss.

“Yeah, I do, handsome.” They kiss a little longer, and he lifts her up onto the counter so he can keep his hand on her while he stirs the risotto, knows she likes to be gently touched as much as possible before the kind of playing they’re going to do tonight. He gently trails his fingertips over her thighs, earning happy sighs, and when the doorbell rings, she looks up at him, clearly excited. It’s so cute. “Want me to get the door, or take over stirring?”

“You stir, baby. I’ll go get him.” He leans in for a kiss, and she smiles into it, pulls back looking affectionate and sweet.

He can’t wait for them to wreck her.

“Hi,” Spencer greets a little nervously when he opens the door. He’s holding a small bouquet of white flowers, still in his work clothes, too, and he looks just... perfect. “Jasmine. I remember Sophie said they were her favorite, once.” Aaron smiles, and he leans in to kiss him soft and slow.

“She’ll love them. You’re very thoughtful, Spencer. That’s how I know I can trust you with her.” His answering nod is serious, and his eyes are wide.

“Of course you can. Of course.” He ushers him in, and when he sees Sophie on the counter, leaning over to stir the risotto in her tiny little dress, he swallows audibly. She turns, and her eyes light up when they fall on the both of them.

“Hi, Spencer.” Aaron guides him over to her, bends to kiss her mouth, and then she kisses Spencer. He grabs a vase to put the flowers in while they greet each other. “Mmm, flowers?” she asks when they separate, and he touches her face while he fills the vase at the sink.

“Jasmine. He remembered they’re your favorite. Do you want to smell?” She nods, and he tips them toward her, earning a deep, happy inhale.

“God, they smell so good. Thank you.” The smile she gives Spencer is brilliant, and Aaron feels really happy. He’s only been here five minutes and it already feels like something good.

“I’ll finish dinner, sweet girl,” he says, coming to take the spoon from her with a kiss. “Can you tell Spencer daddy’s rules for tonight?” She straightens a little, her posture less relaxed, but she does wind her arms around Spencer's neck.

“Yes, daddy. First rule is no panties,” she explains, and it makes his eyes fall to her lap, his tongue flick over his lips. Aaron smirks privately. “I have to be patient while we eat dinner, and after, while we relax, but I am allowed to hump daddy’s thigh—both daddies’ thighs.”

“That’s a good rule,” he murmurs, looking a little dazed. It’s a great look on him, and Aaron absently wonders how submissive he could make him, if he’d like that, too.

“All of daddy’s rules are good rules. He’s smart and takes care of me when I’m too needy to think for myself.” That earns her a soft kiss on the nose from Aaron, and her answering smile is lovely. “I have to come on each daddy’s cock at least once. You get to decide if I’m allowed to come from something else as well.”

“We’ll talk more about that later,” he promises Spencer, who nods. He leans in for a kiss, because he looks horny and overwhelmed and adorable. “Continue please.”

“Yes, daddy. We all need to be honest about what we like and don’t like. If the thought of something makes you feel bad, you stop and tell daddy. Aaron. We won’t ever be disappointed, we promise.”

“There are some things she and I may like that you won’t, or maybe some things the two of you will like that I won’t. If we already know, we’ll tell you that.”

“I can confidently say that this is much more intense than anything I’ve done before, so I may not know,” he says, unsure. Aaron grabs potholders and takes the pan off the stove, plates their food.

“That’s absolutely fine. If something you see interests you, or you think of something, speak up. I’m happy to talk you through it. I wasn’t intense either, until I met Sophie.”

“I bring out the latent daddy in the men I like,” she says with a wink. “You still want to do this, though?” she asks, confirming. “It’s okay if this isn’t for you.”

“I think it’s for me,” he says quietly. “I know you two are.” That gets him hugs and kisses from the both of them, with Aaron wrapping his arms around him from behind and pressing his lips to his cheek. Sophie leans forward, kisses him deeply, soulfully.

“Good. You’re for us, too,” Aaron speaks into his ear with certainty. “Let’s eat, and we can talk more while we relax.”

Dinner is good, with soft laughter and affectionate looks from the both of them, at him and at each other. He’d placed the vase of jasmine on the table, and he can tell looking at it turns Sophie on; she loses her mind over sweet gestures like that.

When the table has been cleared, dishwasher humming in the background, they go into the living room to relax with another glass of wine—for Aaron and Spencer only, because Sophie had her half a glass with dinner, and that’s all she can have before play.

They sit on the couch, Aaron then Sophie then Spencer, talking about nothing in particular, and he smooths his hand up Sophie’s thigh, tries to judge how horny she is by the way she responds. Spencer is talking about biology, something Aaron can’t follow, but she is listening intently, her eyes on his face; when Aaron’s hand creeps up her leg, though, closer and closer to her bare pussy, she moans softly.

“I’m sorry, Spencer, go ahead,” she apologizes, but he’s blinking in confusion, and then he sees the hand pushing up her dress and it looks like he suddenly understands the reason for the interruption. “Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

“It’s okay, really,” he says, wetting his lips, and Aaron gets a brilliant idea.

“Why don’t you sit on his thigh and hump while he finishes his story, sweet girl? You can face him.” He looks to Spencer, to make sure that’s okay, and he nods, opens his arms for Sophie. She takes his hand, but turns back to kiss Aaron softly on the lips before sliding her knees around either side of his right thigh. Aaron takes the spot she previously occupied, so he can be closer to both of them. “Go ahead, Spencer.”

He swallows, puts his hands on Sophie’s hips over her clothes, and continues his story while she grinds against his leg, slowly at first. She remains focused, interested—he knows she enjoys being his outlet sometimes, when others won’t give him the chance—for several minutes longer than he’d expected, but at some point she gives in, releases another soft, needy moan, clutches at his arms.

“Good girl, rubbing on your daddy while he talks to you. He’s very smart, and it turns you on when a daddy talks about things you don’t understand, doesn’t it?” She shivers at the sound of his voice, humps faster.

“Yes, daddy. I have two very good, very handsome, very smart daddies, and it makes me so wet.”

“I bet it does, baby, and you aren’t wearing panties. Are you making a mess of your daddy’s thigh?”

“Yes, such a mess. I’m sorry, daddy,” she says directly to Spencer, the first time she’s addressed only him that way, and he can see in his eyes that he’s a fucking goner. He’s so into it, even if he’s nervous, even if he’s shy. He’s at least sure, now.

“That’s okay, baby,” Spencer says, tentative, like the word is new for him. “I know you’re needy. It’s okay, keep rubbing.” She pants at his words, works her hips harder.

“Yes, daddy. Do you want me to come, daddy? Or do you want me to stop myself?” He looks over at Aaron, who puts his hand on the thigh Sophie isn’t riding.

“It’s up to you. Either is good with me. And she’ll take whatever we give her, won't you, sweetheart?” She moans, nods frantically.

“Yes, I’ll take whatever my daddies give me. They decide when and where I get to come, if my pussy is empty or if there are fingers or a cock inside it.”

“Fuck,” Spencer groans, and he holds tighter to her hips. “You can come baby, come for daddy.”

“Put your thumb in her mouth,” Aaron directs, and he presses one against her lips; she moves her fingers from his arm to his hand and holds it close, sucks and humps for another ten or fifteen seconds before coming, moaning around his thumb. He watches, rapt, as she loses it, and Aaron gets it—having her come on his tongue was one thing, during intercourse another, but watching the woman they know is strong, smart, formidable, just come completely and gorgeously undone at their request to hump his thigh? It’s something else entirely.

Spencer pulls her close, kisses her deep and wet, and when he breaks the kiss he urges Aaron closer, so he can kiss her too. “Good girl, Sophie. You did so good, listening to your daddies’ commands. We’re so proud of you.” He runs his hand over the arm closest to him, is happy to see that Spencer catches on, does the same with the other side. “When our baby girl does really well for us, she likes to hear it, and she likes to feel gentle hands so she doesn’t get too fuzzy and lose herself before we’re done playing.”

“Sure, of course,” Spencer says, nodding, and he knows he’s committing it to memory. “That was perfect, Sophie. We’re so proud of you.” He smooths his hands up over her throat, and she hums happily.

“Come over here, now, sweet girl. I want to see how wet you made daddy.” She reaches for him, and Spencer gives her up—not easily, he thinks. He looks so attached to her already, and it’s incredible, to see the things he’s felt happen to himself, happen to someone else.

Spencer’s pants are gray, so the dark, wet patch on his thigh looks all that much more indecent; Spencer tips his head back, runs his hands through his hair, licks his lips, and Aaron can’t help but chuckle.

“Don’t worry; we have a really good relationship with our dry cleaner." After the thigh-riding thing, Spencer is probably more desperate to come than Sophie was. He never imagined himself as someone a woman would call daddy—he’s young, but more importantly not experienced, or confident, or classically, painfully handsome like Aaron, so the thought never even crossed his mind, but… It is an intoxicating, addicting feeling, one he wants to chase until they wise up and kick him out of their bed.

And learning about it all from Aaron, who is so knowledgeable, and firm, and careful with her? It’s got him so hard it’s almost embarrassing.

They’ve moved to the bedroom, and Sophie is content to watch them kiss each other, grope each other, take each other’s clothes off. He thinks they both felt a rush from watching her fall apart, can almost taste it on Aaron’s lips.

Her little, purple, see-through dress stays on, and he almost likes it better that way. For now, at least.

“What should we do next?” Aaron asks, breathless after kissing. “Do you want to fuck her? Want me to fuck her? Or should we tease her some more? With our fingers?” It’s so hard to choose, because he’s so ready to come, but he thinks he can wait, wants to see more of what they can do to her.

“Fingers,” he decides, his voice rougher than he’d anticipated, because that’s something he’s wanted to see since he ate her pussy the last time. Aaron nods, looking pleased.

“She loves to be filled up with fingers. She’s such a perfect girl, because one is enough to make her come, but she can probably take three of yours if you want her to. Isn’t that right, baby? You’re a desperate slut for your daddy’s fingers.” She is sitting on the bed, propped up with her hands behind her, and she nods, swallows.

“Yes, I'm a desperate slut for daddy’s fingers.” Spencer’s heart rate jumps at hearing her recite the words back, and again, it’s not something that ever crossed his mind, but now he needs to test it out at some point.

“Sophie likes ‘slut’ because that’s how her daddies make her feel; like she could just be bent over and fucked for days and it wouldn’t be enough,” Aaron murmurs in his ear. It makes him shiver.  “It’s a little smoother when you say, ‘a slut for daddy’ or ‘a slut for daddy’s cock’—make it possessive. She doesn’t like ‘whore.’” He presses another kiss to his lips before heading for the bed.

“Hi, daddy,” Sophie says when he reaches her, and she puts her arms around his neck, kisses him happily. “I’m getting fingers? Am I supposed to come on them?”

“Let’s ask daddy,” he says, and Spencer joins them, earns his own warm greeting and kiss.

“Hi, daddy. Am I supposed to come on the fingers?”

“Remember the rules,” Aaron reminds him gently. “She has to come on each of our cocks, and she came on your thigh. That’s three. She can do four, if you want. If we take a break in between, she can probably come six or seven times in a night, but she’ll be damn near useless the next day. That would be saved for something special.” Spencer nods, files that away. Seven orgasms. She deserves a day in bed after that. He gets tired after one.

“Uh. No, no coming on the fingers. I just want to play with you, feel how wet you are for us.” She nods seriously.

“Okay daddy, no coming. I’ll try really hard.” Her tongue peeks out, swipes over her bottom lip.

“What do you say when you’re getting close, sweetheart?” Aaron asks her, and she frowns.

“I say, ‘that's enough, daddy,’ and then you stop.”

“That’s right, because good girls don’t come unless daddy says to, and daddy said no.” He starts to feel kind of bad for denying her, but Aaron touches his face, kisses him. “This is okay. We have to tell her no sometimes. She’s good at this, I promise.”

“Okay,” he breathes, and he touches her throat, her face. “Can we take this off?” he asks of her dress, changing his mind, and Aaron smiles softly.

“You’re her daddy, you can do whatever you want.” Spencer exhales, feels like he needs to defer to Aaron because he always has, but this is different, and he knows that.

“Arms up, sweet girl,” he says, and she makes it easier for him to pull off the dress. Aaron hands him a pillow, and he lays her back on it, so her head and neck are supported. “Remember, no coming. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

“Yes, daddy.” He leans up for a kiss and slides one finger inside her; she is soaking wet, and he meets no resistance at all. It’s incredibly hot. “Yes, daddy, your finger is so deep inside me.” He closes his eyes for a second, because that’s hot too.

“Yes it is, baby girl. Deep inside your achy little pussy.” She nods, flushed and eager.

“‘M achy for you, daddy.”

Aaron curls himself along her side, stroking her hair and kissing her skin, and after a minute or so of teasing her with one finger, Spencer presses in another alongside it.

“Oh, mmm.” She thrashes her head a little, and Aaron shushes her softly. “But daddy. It feels so good.”

“I know baby, but remember, you can’t come. We don’t want daddy to have to discipline you already.” She looks down at him, where he’s thrusting his fingers inside, and squeezes her eyes shut. Her chest is heaving.

“But daddy is so handsome and good, and his fingers feel good. I wanna come on them.” Aaron looks at him, and he works hard to find some resolve; he knows he can’t give in now, has to stand his ground. It’s what Aaron would do.

“No coming, baby. Listen to daddy.” She sighs, and he slows his hand, teasing a little more. “I know you’re desperate to come on daddy’s fingers, but you’ll have to wait for my cock. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can wait, daddy. Can wait for your big cock to push inside me so deep. I can wait.” She sounds almost frantic, repeating herself, but Aaron is just soothing her gently, so it must be okay.

“Good girl, yes you can. You’re going to make your daddies proud.” She arches up when Spencer says it, reaches for Aaron’s hair, tugs it.

“I’m your good girl, daddy? Promise?” Fuck. That shouldn’t sound as good as it does. He covers her breast with his free hand, squeezes it, and very carefully adds a third finger.

“Yes, you’re my good girl, baby. Taking daddy’s fingers, waiting so patiently to come. You’re perfect, sweetheart.” She’s wet enough that his three fingers slide in and out easily, and he moans as he watches them. “Fuck, Sophie. So good, so good for daddy.”

“Look at daddy, baby girl,” Aaron coos, and Sophie hums. “Look at how good he looks with his hand between your legs. He’s incredible. Tell him.”

“So incredible, daddy. He’s such a good daddy already, makes me dumb and needy and horny. I want him.” Spencer’s so hard he feels like he could pass out. He presses his cheek to her knee, kisses her there.

“When you’re close, baby, tell me and I’ll put my cock in you. You won’t be a bad girl, I promise.” Aaron reaches out a hand, puts it in his hair, comforting him. He knows he’s going off script, but he must be doing something good. “Tell me baby, when you’re very close.”

“Yes daddy, I’ll tell you, thank you. I want it so bad.” She rocks against his hand, hard, several times taking him down to the knuckle. “Oh, daddies, please.”

“Please what, Sophie? Needy, whiny little slut for your daddies. Please what?” Aaron moans, Sophie moans, Spencer moans; she’s being called needy, but they’re all a mess at this point, and it makes him a little proud, to be honest. He’s a quick learner even when it comes to this.

“Please daddy, that’s enough, I need your dick, please.”

He carefully pulls out his fingers, pushes down one of her thighs with his wet hand, hooks the other leg over his shoulder, and slides inside, bottoming out with a groan. Sophie cries out in pleasure, grabs for him, and he fucks her and kisses her with lots of tongue.

“Yes, yes, daddy, harder,” she pants, and Aaron touches the both of them with strong hands.

“Settle, baby, it’s okay,” he murmurs, rubbing over her breasts. “Daddy will get you there, just be good for him. Almost time.”

“But I need it, daddy, I need it.” She tosses her head back, and she’s full on begging, which shouldn’t make him feel so good, but it does.

“She’s a fucking mess,” Aaron says, affectionately. “Rub her clit, okay? You can’t beat the combination of clit and tits when you need to get her off fast.” He leans in, sucks at her nipple, and Spencer rubs tight circles against her clit until she comes so loudly he fears a noise complaint. She is still shivering through it when he leans forward, puts his hands on her waist, and pumps a few times until he comes as well, his sweaty face pressed against her leg.

Now that she’s got what she’s been begging for, she’s soft and sappy again, and she pushes his hair back, touches his cheek. “I have the best daddies in the whole world,” she sighs, reaching for Aaron, too, and he huffs a laugh.

“See how she goes from desperate, horny monster to sweet baby girl in like five seconds flat? It might be intense, but it’s the best sex you’ll ever have.”

“Yeah, no I got that,” Spencer says, panting. It was, by far. His other encounters pale in comparison. “Good girl, you did perfectly for me,” he praises, switching his attention back to Sophie. Aaron still needs to come, so they need her to be present. “I filled you up, came deep inside. You liked that, baby.”

“Yes, daddy, I liked that. So big inside me. I’m full of your come.” He blows out a long breath, because even though he’s completely spent, her words hit him right in the dick.

“Is there room for daddy to come in your little pussy too? He’s been waiting for you.” Her eyes linger on his face, then turn to look at Aaron’s, and she reaches out a hand to touch his cock.

“Yes, I always have room for daddy. I always want daddy to come in me.” Aaron moves his hand to cover hers, helps her stroke him, and she bites her lip. “Do you have a plan, daddy?” Aaron gives her a dark, serious look, and he can see it makes her eyes light up with hunger again.

“I always have a plan, baby. This one involves daddy.” He kisses Spencer with a hand on the back of his neck, and it makes him melt a little. He may be one of Sophie’s daddies now, but Aaron will always have a little dominance over him, and he’s really so okay with that. “Lay back for me?” Spencer does as asked, up against the pillows, and Aaron scoots up, guides Sophie there too. “Now you climb up on daddy, hands and knees.”

“On top of daddy?” she asks, like she’s confused, and he lays her on his body, situates her arms and legs the way he wants them, so she’s hovering over him, ready to be taken from behind. “Oh, god.”

“Yes, baby, you’re going to love this. Daddy is close enough to kiss and touch, but you’ll probably just whimper and moan on top of him and rub your little clit against his cock, get it hard again. You’re such a needy slut for your daddies, even after two orgasms, aren’t you?”

“So needy for my daddies, so slutty,” she agrees, and Spencer catches her lips in a kiss, can’t help himself. He’s breathing hard.

“You’ll be a good girl for me while daddy fucks you, won’t you, baby?” he asks, and she nods seriously.

“Yes daddy, I’ll be so good, I promise.” Aaron gets behind her, plants his hands around where Spencer’s shoulders are.

“I need daddy’s help with this,” he says, but he’s looking at Spencer. He picks up one of Spencer’s hands, presses it against Sophie’s thigh so he’s pinning her up against Aaron, holding her in place. To say that's hot is an extreme understatement; he puts his other hand on the other side. “You’re allowed to come, baby girl, but if this feels like too much, what do you say?”

“I say, ‘enough, daddy,’” she murmurs, looking back at him.

“Right, sweet girl, because even when we’re playing, when you tell me it’s enough I’ll stop right away and hold you until we figure out what went wrong.”

“Yes, daddy, because you love me.” He knows that, of course, but it’s the first time love has been said aloud, and it makes him wonder if he does. If he should. How he’ll know.

“Yes baby, I love you, but even if we weren’t in love, I respect you, and I care about you, and it's the right thing to do: that’s why we stop when you say enough.” Spencer thinks maybe that was a roundabout way of easing his mind, of saying it’s okay if he doesn’t love them, yet.

He’s suddenly a little more jealous of Sophie. He kind of wants Aaron for a daddy. He has a way of always saying just the right thing. “Good girl, being fucked so hard by daddy,” Spencer murmurs, holding Sophie against Aaron while he pounds inside her. Her fingers are fisted in the sheets, but there is no pain, only pleasure as she moves her hips quickly back and forth, her breathing hard. “Perfect, beautiful girl.”

“Thank you, daddy,” she breathes, her clit sliding up and down the length of Spencer’s cock while she bucks back against Aaron’s. “Thank you daddies for helping me come, and get full of daddy’s come.”

“You’re welcome, sweet girl,” Aaron pants into her ear. She’s so fucking good at this. “Your daddies love getting you off. You’re so pretty when you beg and whine and moan.”

“So pretty,” Spencer agrees, pressing harder against her thighs, and she whimpers, her legs shaking. “Everything okay, baby?”

“Yes, I just… it feels so good. What if I need to come twice? Am I allowed?” Aaron nips at her ear, starts fucking faster.

“Yes baby, come now. Come for your daddies right now.” Spencer sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, looking dazed and a little curious, like he’s not sure that will actually work. Aaron isn’t sure either.

Sophie does come, groaning, short, surprised sounds of pleasure, rubbing against Spencer’s half-hard cock just like his thigh earlier, and yeah, that’s his perfect, obedient girl. He grins.

“Good girl.” His words are full of pride, and he pulls her hair to the side, kisses her shoulder. “We’ve been practicing that, haven’t we sweetheart? It’s only happened one other time.”

“Yes daddy,” she mumbles, head down as he fucks her. “Thank you daddy.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, baby girl. You earned that. So good for us.” He grunts, gets close—her body's obedience drives him insane—and he presses up from his hands and knees to just his knees, puts his hands on her hips and works her hard with, short, quick thrusts.

“Oh, oh, daddy, yes, please.” She arches her back, fucks against him even though their hands are stronger, doing it better. “Daddies, oh, fuck. Your baby girl is being used so good, so close to being filled up.” Her voice is weak, and high, and Spencer looks up at him like he’s worried, but he just shakes his head. She gets like this, she can handle it.

“Yes baby, you’re being used by your daddies because that’s what we do. We fuck your tight pussy and your mouth and your ass, and you just take it, baby.” Sophie moans, loud and wanton, and he’s so close to losing it, and Spencer, gorgeous, perfect Spencer, presses two long fingers into her mouth.

Aaron is careful not to make any jerky movements, and she sucks on the fingers, whines around them, and when he comes, clutching her hips tight, she moans high, loud, lets the fingers fall out of her mouth; the final sound she makes is a cry, and he can’t tell if it’s pleasure or overstimulation.

“Have you had enough?” he asks her as he grinds against her, and she shakes in their hands, comes again. Her legs have given up, and she’s flat against Spencer, who looks like he just witnessed something incredible. Aaron figures he did.

“Enough, daddy,” she sighs, and he pulls out, watches his come drip out of her and onto Spencer’s balls. It’s a visual he’s going to have to reflect on later, to see if he can plan for it again in the future.

“You did so amazing,” he coos into her ear, running his hands up and down her back. Spencer is doing the same, and though it’s clear they’re losing her, she hums at their touches. “So perfect for us. We couldn’t ask for a better girl.”

“You’re so good, baby. So good for your daddies,” Spencer murmurs, and he looks over at Aaron. “I think she needs some water. I don’t want to move her.” Aaron smiles, kisses his lips.

“That’s part of aftercare for Sophie. I’ll get her some and then I’ll tell you all about it,” he promises.

On his way back from getting the water, he gets a warm, wet washcloth from the bathroom, wipes at her pussy while Spencer presses the cup to her lips. When she’s had a few sips, looks a bit livelier, he gets her to roll over onto the bed on her back, cleans up the front of her.

“Sophie likes to be held, and gently cleaned up—sometimes she wants a bath or shower, and she’ll say that. I usually do it all, wash her body, her face, her hair. It makes her feel more human after. She’ll just sag against you and let you scrub her. It’s very cute. Then I will ask if she needs more cuddles, or food, or sleep, or something else. As you know, she’s not shy about asking for what she wants.” Spencer nods, taking it in.

“What can we do for you, baby girl?” he asks, wrapping his arm around her; her eyes are closed, and her breathing is returning to normal. She sighs.

“I want to lay between my daddies and be cuddled. Am I clean enough?”

“You have to go pee first, but yes, I think you’ll be fine until morning. Then we can all take a nice hot shower and get you soapy and fresh, and figure out our plans for tomorrow.” She smiles softly.

“I forgot we get Spencer all weekend. If I didn’t scare him off,” she adds, and Spencer pulls her close, kisses her gently, but very affectionately.

“You didn’t scare me off, needy little thing. I can see why your daddy thought you needed another one, though. You are a handful.”

“She is a handful,” Aaron agrees, leaning in to kiss them both, “and you haven’t even seen her being bratty, needing to be disciplined.” Sophie groans, tired, probably figures he’ll want that tomorrow. He’s not sure yet, honestly. “But even then, she’s pretty fucking perfect. Just like you.” When Spencer looks at him, he thinks he sees a flicker of love, but it could just be the orgasm talking. Either way, he looks forward to holding the both of them, and a night of extremely restful sleep.

[carelessannie]

Winterspider, Peter x Bucky, omegaverse, smut, nff, other specific warnings in the tags

For this prompt from @femmeparker

Me: let’s do this, but something kinda different

❤️❤️❤️ I love these two honestly Hope you enjoy!

- - -

There’s not much on the TV. Someone made the mistake of giving Steve the remote, and now everyone is subject to watching each channel fly by at an alarming rate, the only constant sound in the room the rhythmic clicking of the next channel button. None of them complain, though. It’s very rare that they all have a quiet night together, and everyone seems content to watch Steve surf the cable box.

The six of them are spread around Tony’s living room. Pizza is already gone and at any moment Tony or Nat will take away the remote and turn on a movie, but Bucky could care less. He usually sits back and watches from the outside, anyways. He looks over at Bruce, and they share a knowing glance— both of them happy to stay quiet and let the others take the lead.

He could go for a drink, though. Bucky ambles to his feet, offering to grab stuff from the kitchen as he heads there. With his head in the fridge, he sorts through the drink options, gagging dramatically at the thought of one of the fruity wine coolers Tony has tons of. He looks at the bottle, scoffing at the ingredients and alcohol content. Four percent? Why even bother?

“Those are mine,” a sweet voice chirps, and Bucky smacks his head trying to turn around.

“Ow, fu—” Bucky lets the curse die on his tongue as he gets an eyeful of the prettiest boy he’s ever seen, swamped in a university sweatshirt and wearing a playful smirk. He holds out his hand, expectantly, and Bucky stares at it, unsure of what this angel wants.

Deciding to play it safe, he shakes the boy’s hand.

“Bucky,” he says, like an idiot.

The boy just giggles, tightening his grip and tossing his unruly curls, “Peter. And honestly, I just wanted you to hand me a drink— but it’s nice to meet you. I feel like since I’ve been at college, I haven’t been able to meet any of my dad’s friends,” he pauses, giving Bucky an obvious once over, “and I think I would have remembered you.”

Bucky knows his face is glowing red. He clears his throat and pops the top on the fruity drink, handing it over to Peter, “And your dad is?”

Peter takes a sip, “Tony Stark. I guess it makes sense he didn’t mention me.”

Oh, he did. Bucky— like the fool he apparently is— just didn’t realize Tony’s son is only a few years younger than Bucky himself. And drop dead gorgeous. Definitely a no fly zone for ex-assassin, centenarian soldiers with war trauma.

He backs up, heading towards the living room in a hasty retreat, when the air suddenly shifts, catching Peter’s scent, and throwing it in Bucky’s face.

“Oh, shit,” this time he does curse, smacking into the wall as he holds his nose, politely stopping himself from smelling the ripe Omega scent beckoning him closer. “I’m so sorry, fuck, I didn’t realize...”

Peter takes a step closer, placing his drink on the counter. He has Bucky cornered against the wall, and the Alpha has never felt more terrified.

“Shh, it’s okay,” the tiny Omega whispers, no doubt getting a nose-full of Bucky’s fear scent, “you’re not gonna hurt me.”

He watches, helplessly, as Peter steps into his space, his maple-honey gaze wide and pleading. The young Omega wraps himself in Bucky’s arms, burying his nose in Bucky’s chest, and starts to purr deep, soft breaths that shake Bucky to his core.

Not heat— no, not quite— but something very close is burning through Peter’s small body. Bucky realizes he’s supporting almost all of Peter’s slight weight, and searches for a chair. There is no way he’s carrying Peter out into the living room like this.

He must black out for a moment, because the next time he’s aware, it’s pitch black and Bucky’s sitting on the floor, still clutching the Omega to his chest. He looks around, hoping to catch sight of something familiar. Rice. Flour, sugar, Raisin Bran— great. Of course his Alpha instincts would not only den them up, but put them in the pantry. Stupid, practical hindbrain.

There’s movement outside, and Bucky growls, low and menacing in his throat.

“Buck? Are you in there?”

It’s Steve. Another Alpha. Best friend. Threat.

“What?” Bucky snarls, running his fingers through Peter’s hair comfortingly.

Silence for a beat, “Do you... Tony thinks you have his son in there, Bucky. Please tell me that’s not true.”

“He’s safe, Steve.”

The other Alpha curses under his breath, “Dammit, Buck. Okay, let me grab Tony. He’s gonna help.”

Bucky wants to protest, but the Omega in his arms has started gently nibbling on his fingers, holding his hand and sucking on them lightly. He hums his approval, and Peter just smiles sweetly, never once opening his eyes.

“James Barnes, do you have my son in there?”

Tony sounds strained, trying to keep his tone neutral as he paces in front of the door.

“He’s safe in here, Tony.”

“Can you give him back to me, Alpha?” Tony asks, a hint of panic coming through his tone. “He’s unbonded and needs his pack.”

Bucky whines, looking down to memorize Peter’s features in the low light. It’s safe in here, warm and dark and full of food, but Bucky’s instincts insist Peter will be safest with his pack. Dammit.

He stands up, hauling Peter into a princess carry, and slowly opens the door, checking for threats. Tony stands on the other side of the room. His hands are tightly clenched around the countertop, and his face is riddled with worry. Bucky walks slowly to his side, and drops Peter into his waiting arms.

Without the Omega in his grasp, Bucky is suddenly on the verge of tears. Peter whimpers, a painfully sad sound, and Bucky has to retreat before he does something to make this worse. “M’sorry,” he rasps, and turns to head for the door, passing the group of Avengers on the way. Steve tries to lay a comforting hand on his back, but Bucky just brushes it off.

He rifles around the living room, grabbing his phone and wallet, and then heads for the door. As he’s slipping his shoes back on, he feels a painful tug in his chest. Then there’s a loud sob from the kitchen. Bucky’s stuck, frozen, with one arm in his jacket as he listens for more.

A small wheezing noise. Urgent whispers. Bucky’s on his knees. Another sob. Quiet pleading and begging. Bucky curls up against the door, feeling his stomach cramp up. Footsteps approach.

“... don’t think he could’ve gotten far— oh! Barnes, what the hell?”

He barely glances at Clint, “... couldn’t... leave,” Bucky breathes out, groaning as another wave of pain clenches in his gut, tight in his chest.

Bucky’s not sure how long he stays pressed up against the front door. He hears voices around him, but can’t understand them. There’s someone pulling on his arm and picking him up. He tries to protest— they can’t take him away— but suddenly there’s a weight in his arms, warmth against his body, and his nose is firmly pressed into the top of his Omega’s head.

Thank god.

He rolls them slightly, pressing Peter up against the soft wall and hiding him from unwanted gazes. He closes his eyes, letting the comfort of his Omega close by lull him to sleep.

- - -

When he comes to, it’s light outside. Peter is snoring gently in his arms, and Bucky’s head is clear. He sits up, taking in his surroundings. He’s in Tony’s living room and sitting on the largest couch, hovering over Peter’s still sleeping form.

“He imprinted on you, Bucky,” a voice behind him, Tony’s voice behind him, breaks the silence. He turns reluctantly to face the man, an apology already on his tongue.

“Save it,” Tony says instead, drinking from a coffee mug absently, “god knows why, but my kid, my only fucking son, chose you as his Alpha yesterday. I don’t get it. How did you even meet? Temporary mating bonds usually take weeks to form— but yours formed overnight.”

Bucky is speechless, so Tony rambles on, “That is what this is, right? Maybe scent compatibility, maybe his oncoming heat, but my Petey chose the world’s most deadly and unstable Alpha to imprint on. Not only that, but you had to go den him away— basically confirming your side of the bond in the process. You’re a fool, James. Actually, I’m a fool. Thinking you could be trusted—”

“Stop it, Dad,” Peter’s small voice interrupts, and the tiny Omega wiggles out from behind Bucky to stare down his father, “s’my choice. I want Bucky.”

“But why?” Both Bucky and Tony ask, in unison.

Peter just hums, looking up at Bucky with his precious doe-eyes, “Dunno,” he murmurs, addressing his dad while holding Bucky’s gaze, “He feels safe, Dad. His scent is different... calm and gentle.”

“Dammit,” Tony hisses, never taking his eyes off the pair, even as Bucky sways closer, enchanted by the perfect Omega pressed into his side.

“You sure, angel? You could have anyone, any Alpha you want would be head over heels to be with you.”

“Are you?” Peter asks, slotting his delicate thumb into the dimple on Bucky’s chin, tilting his head in a sweet, curious gesture.

“Am I...”

“Are you head over heels to be with me?” he smirks, but Bucky can see a sliver of vulnerable uncertainty in his eyes. His hands are still on Bucky’s face, and the bigger Alpha turns, pulling Peter to sit across his lap. He threads his fingers through pretty amber curls, smiling as Peter’s lashes flutter and tremble.

“More than anything— you’re already more precious to me than a hundred years could prepare me for.”

“Then let me choose,” Peter insists, twisting to look back at Tony, “please, Dad. Let me choose?”

Tony looks like he just ate a whole lemon, face twisted and body rigid in carefully controlled anger. Bucky gets it. He would never have dreamed of mating his friend’s son, but now— now that Peter has claimed him and invited him to stay— there is absolutely nothing that will separate them.

“Under no circumstances will he get pregnant, do you understand, Barnes?”

Bucky nods, but Peter fucking mewls, squirming on Bucky’s lap as arousal pours off of him in waves. The Alpha looks to Tony for help, terrified of the Omega slipping into heat in his arms.

“— fuck, no. Of course. Of fucking course,” Tony jumps to his feet, making his way down the hallway, “bring him with you— c’mon, Barnes. Hurry.”

With Peter cradled against his shoulder, Bucky runs, following Tony down the hall and into a bedroom. Tony’s bedroom, by the looks of it. The older man pulls out a tote bag, throwing it at Bucky, “Take inventory. I’ll be back in thirty-five seconds. Do not touch him.”

As Tony sprints from the room, Bucky upends the bag on the bed, keeping one arm around Peter as he sorts through the contents. Damn, this is the most thorough heat kit he’s ever seen. As he takes stock of meal supplements, electrolyte tabs, compresses, an embarrassing amount of toys and plugs, lotion and lube and even a few bath bombs, Bucky has a realization.

“Holy shit.”

“Don’t curse around my son,” Tony quips, tearing back into the room and tossing a small packet to Bucky, “these are his contraceptives. He takes one every morning, so set an alarm, do what you need to do— he’s not missing that.”

“Tony...”

“Also, you had better wrap it up. Alpha condoms are in the bag— we’re not taking a chance with your super soldier swimmers.”

“Tony,”

“— what?”

“... are you an Omega?”

There’s a moment where Bucky feels like he’s overstepped, “I just mean... I’ve never seen a heat bag so thoroughly stocked, even by a parent...”

Tony brings over a few of Peter’s clothes, shoving them in the bag, and laying a protective hand over Peter’s head. His eyes are steel when they look into Bucky’s, “Yes. Not a lot of people know that. I take high functioning suppressants, so I haven’t had a heat in years— not since I was pregnant with Peter. So you’ll understand if I’m a bit protective of my child, James.”

Bucky just reaches out, taking the bag from Tony, “You know I won’t tell a soul. The two of you are safe with me, Tony.”

Tony whips around and yanks him close, holding the collar of his jacket for leverage, “If you’re lying, you won’t be safe from me, Barnes.”

With one last, scalding look, Tony steps back and lets Bucky sweep his son away. Bucky shoulders the bag, heaves Peter into his arms, and runs out of the mansion, suddenly urgent to get them back to his den. There’s a car waiting, and Bucky settles them in the back seat, holding Peter close as they speed back to his apartment.

He’s so thankful for his own place. Living with Steve had been fine, but after a while, they realized that as Alphas, they desperately need their own territories. So Bucky bought an apartment in Brooklyn, thankfully only a twenty minute drive from Tony’s house.

It’s hard to pay attention, though, when the most alluring Omega is settled on his lap, pawing desperately at his pants and mouthing at his neck. He smells sickly sweet: caramel apples and funnel cakes with sugar and sprinkle-dipped ice cream cones all in one feverish body. Bucky rolls down the window.

When they arrive, Bucky hastily thanks the driver and heads right for his den, locking the doors and windows before settling Peter on his bed. He quickly unpacks the heat kit and fills a pitcher with water, letting Peter wake up and explore his space.

He almost drops the pitcher when he walks back into the den. Peter’s university sweatshirt and pants and pretty lace panties are all in a pile on Bucky’s floor, and damn do they look good there. His Omega is grinding, languid, on his bed sheets. His skin is flush and soft grunts escape his cherry lips as his hips move, flexing between an inviting presentation and a perfect bow of submission.

“Omega,” Bucky growls, causing Peter to freeze and look over his shoulder. His eyes are dark, needy and wild. “Look atcha, angel. So pretty ‘n desperate for me.”

Peter arches his back higher, showing off his perfect ass and pretty pink holes, “All for you, Bucky.”

Bucky makes sure to set the water pitcher down near the bed and grab condoms before climbing up next to Peter, kissing his flank and slowly stripping layers off. As he crawls to the headboard, Peter lifts his head up and pushes up onto his hands, tilting his chin up for a kiss. Bucky chuckles, more than happy to oblige.

It’s sweet, just like Peter’s heat scent. Bucky would be happy to drown in his Omega’s kisses and fade away in his arms. Peter's lips move slowly, tongue flicking out and tasting every so often as Bucky sits against the headboard, settling Peter in his lap.

They both groan. Peter’s tiny cock is straining against Bucky’s belly, snuggled smooth and wet against Bucky’s own length as they rut together, enjoying the dull pleasure and saccharine kisses.

“Touch me, Alpha,” Peter begs into Bucky’s throat, nibbling lightly and flexing his smaller fingers against Bucky’s hips.

Bucky sits up taller and uses both hands to part Peter’s supple cheeks from behind, slipping a few fingers underneath to trace along his delicate folds, scooping up a bit of the sweet slick he finds there.

“Open up, darling,” he murmurs, giving Peter a peck on the cheek as a reward when his Omega drops his jaw, mouth hanging open and tongue sticking out obediently. Without pause, Bucky shoves his fingers deep into Peter’s mouth, letting the Omega taste himself. Peter looks shocked, but sucks on Bucky’s fingers anyways. The inside of his mouth is scorching hot and velvety— tempting in a way that they do not have time for right now.

When he slips his fingers free, a slur of pleading and begging falls from Peter’s lips, urging Bucky on and ramping up his own aroused heat scent.

Bucky hitches Peter up further on his waist, sucking a swollen nipple into his mouth as he eases two fingers into Peter’s dripping entrance.

“Ho-oh-ly mother of shit, Bucky, please please... mm, need more. Please, more. Alpha!” Peter yelps as Bucky bites down, hard, on his nipple, using the distraction to work a third finger inside his Omega. He pumps them in and out, bouncing Peter on his hand. He shifts Peter’s weight, lifts him high, and uses his left hand to reach down and thumb at the throbbing clit he knows is just behind Peter’s tiny balls.

His mate screams, “Alpha!” and clenches down, coming violently while speared unforgivingly between Bucky’s hands. Clear, thick release spills from Peter’s cock, and Bucky leans down to suck it into his mouth, never stopping his assault on Peter’s sweet spots. He tastes absolutely divine, and Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head. Peter yanks on his hair, panting and wheezing as he trembles, thighs quaking around Bucky’s head.

“Bucky! Oh, oh oh oh,” Peter chants in between breaths, and Bucky jerks in surprise as his mouth is flooded, again, with his Omega’s cum. He strains to look up, to try and see Peter’s face as he comes apart a second time. Bucky swallows every drop and slowly lowers Peter to the bed. His pretty mate is still twitching, breathing hard, and is now staring at Bucky in shock.

Bucky crawls forward, leaning over his small mate, “Didja find nirvana, angel?” he asks, leaning down for a kiss.

Peter barely returns it, sighing happily into Bucky’s mouth, “Yes, Alpha.” His mouth suddenly pulls into a pout, and he turns sad, wide eyes to look at Bucky.

“What’s wrong,” Bucky panics, running his fingers lightly over Peter’s skin, searching for injury and making the Omega giggle and squeal, “what is it, angel?”

“You’re... you’re still gonna knot me, right?”

Oh. Bucky throws back his head to laugh, tossing Peter onto his front and lining up his straining cock, “You think you’re ready for this, sweetheart? You ever taken an Alpha cock in this pretty pussy?” he lets the tip tease in between Peter’s intimate lips, listening to his Omega wheeze below him.

“No, no no, not n’Alpha cock, Bucky please. Fill me up, fu-fuck me, Alpha.”

Bucky groans, “Damn, you sound so pretty with those dirty words in your mouth. So pretty begging for my cock.”

His Omega keeps begging, arching his back and wiggling his ass in the air as Bucky slips on a condom, kneeling behind his mate and lining up. God, Omegas are so pretty from behind— perfect pink holes are glistening wet, and the tiny cock and balls are just the cherry on top. So precious. Untouched and innocent.

“Take a deep breath, angel. It’s gonna be a stretch,” he waits until Peter obeys before pushing forward, inch by inch, into the hot, wet clutch of Peter’s body. Holy shit. Bucky falls forward, panting into his Omega’s neck as he bottoms out. This is heaven.

When Peter gives him the go ahead he starts a steady pace, withdrawing fully before slamming home in one, strong thrust. Peter yelps, tearing through the sheets, and Bucky just smirks, fucking into him with renewed urgency.

He tangles their fingers together in the remains of the torn sheets. Peter meets each and every thrust, cursing and desperate, lost to his heat as he’s split open on Bucky’s cock.

Then Bucky feels it, feels his knot expanding— bumping up against Peter’s entrance and catching on the flexible skin— and feels his orgasm build, deep in his gut.

“Gonna... oh fuck, Peter, angel. Gonna come. Holy shit, gonna knot you up so good, getcha stuck on me, baby. Fill you up, all nice’n full. Shit.”

He knows there’s a litany of profane promises spilling from his tongue, but he could care less as Peter flutters around him, shouting, “Alpha, oh!” as he comes for the third time. The passage around Bucky’s cock is suddenly slicker, sloppy wet, and he realizes what happened.

“Damn baby, I think you squirted on my cock. Fuck, that’s hot, oh. Oh my god. I’m coming, Peter. Fuck, Peter—”

His instincts wash over him, forcing him to rut until his knot is locked inside Peter’s still soft, still trembling body. He wants to bite, to claim, and sinks his teeth into his own bicep, growling deep as his cock is milked through a gut wrenching orgasm. His eyes roll back when Peter clenches down, and he can’t stop coming.

Peter wiggles around, shifting the intimate lock of their bodies and causing both of them to groan. “You’re heavy, Alpha,” he whines, clenching down again.

“Mercy, darling— fuck.” Bucky shivers as a smaller wave of pleasure blinds him, and he flops onto his side, pulling Peter along with him and tangling their legs together.

“How long, Alpha?” Peter mumbles, yawning gently and turning his neck to look back at Bucky sleepily.

“Bout half’n hour. We can rest until then.”

Peter just hums, content to rest in his Alpha’s arms.

Later, they’ll talk. They’ll learn middle names and talk about their favorite colors and dream of a future together. Bucky will watch him go off to college, and Peter will watch Bucky go off to battle.

Until then, Bucky looks down at his dozing mate. He has absolutely no idea where this perfect Omega came from, or why he would be lucky enough to mate him, to knot him, to possibly love him. But Bucky decides not to care.

With a warm Omega in his arms, smiling and squirming on his knot, Bucky will take whatever Peter is willing to give, and return it with as much of himself as possible.

[startanewdream]

Summary: Padfoot helps, James makes a fool of himself and Padfoot interrupts.

Or Lily's job as a dog walker is eventful.

_____________

“PADFOOT, NO!”

All in all, that’s the thing that Lily has been saying the most every day since she agreed to walk over that little beast that was released from hell exclusively to torment her.

The worst part is that this beast looks cute. Extremely cute, with the darkest and shiniest fur she has ever seen, warm brown eyes that look hugely sorry whenever he does something wrong (which seems to be all the time). Lily adores him except when Padfoot is misbehaving.

Again, all the time.

Every day since the first time she walked Padfoot, Lily has promised herself that she will inform his owner that she can’t do it anymore. But every day his owner looks at her apologetically, pays twice what they agreed on and winks at her as if asking “can you come back tomorrow, pretty please?”

Now, the double money is nice, Lily needs that job, the dog’s owner is not bad on the eye, but what makes her go back the next day is that Padfoot, that insufferable hellhound, comes back to nudge her with his wet nose, looking at her with his adorable eyes, and he looks so innocent that Lily agrees before she can think better.

But this is it. Seven days later, Lily is ready to finally give up, because Padfoot has done something graver than forcing her to change directions in the middle of the street so he can chase after pigeons, weirder than making her invade a house so he can chat with the cats and worse than invading a flower shop so he could sniff the flowers (and destroying half the plants in the process).

Padfoot pulled her towards a stranger.

For all his size, Padftoot isn’t an aggressive dog; but for all his size, when he is set into something, Lily and her one hundred and forty pounds can’t hold him, so before Lily can do anything more than scream (“PADFOOT, NO!”), Padfoot is running down the park, dragging her along, jumping towards a man and throwing him in the ground.

A second later, a full second in which Lily has time to reconsider every choice in her life that leads to this moment, the momentum throws Lily over the man in the ground.

And then for five very good seconds, Lily forgets all about Padfoot—if she thought about him, she might even thank him—because of every man in the world the dog could choose to jump over, he chose someone absolutely gorgeous. Lily notices first his face, his widen hazel eyes shining behind rectangular glasses, and a few wisps of his dark messy hair falling over his sweaty forehead. Then she sees his tanned skin, from his face to his chest—and when her eyes drop to his chest, she realizes he isn’t wearing any shirt, only some jogger pants, and she is thankful for the bright summer day because gods, he is fit.

Her hand over his chest twitches, and Lily swears she can feel his quick heartbeat—or perhaps it’s her pulse that is running quick, and Lily knows it was not the adrenaline of before.

“Wow,” he whispers, his voice mellow and deep and talking to her, and there is only—

Only a dog between them, licking the stranger’s very beautiful face, taking his glasses out.

“Hey, hey,” he says, laughing, and Lily remembers her current situation.

She jumps apart, knowing her face is deep red (and that embarrassment is only half the reason).

“I am so sorry!” she tells him, trying to pull Padfoot away. The man sits (damn those abs), hugging the dog, letting him keep his ministrations. “He has never—”

“That’s okay,” he tells her, grinning at her (damn this smile). “You are not a good boy, are you?”

Padfoot barks happily, looking very proud of himself.

“I’m really sorry, he doesn’t usually attack people and—” she looks at his dishevelled state (she is not admiring his body once more, she is not), with grass on his hair and dirt on his pants, not to mention all the drool over his face. “You are all dirty—”

“I was already in need of a shower,” he says distractedly (stop imagining him all wet). “I—oh.”

He doesn’t seem very concerned, but he turns his elbow to reveal a scratch from when he fell.

“Fuck, I’m so—”

“It’s no big deal,” he assures her easily. “I—”

“His house—I mean, his owner’s house is just across the street, let me help you.”

“Hm.” He seems strangely bashful. “Actually, I—”

“Just let me help you, please. I’ve been fixing his mess all week.”

“Hmmm.” He still seems opposed to the idea, his good hand scratching Padfoot’s hair almost absently. The dog looks very innocent there, standing with his mouth open, breathing fast. “I am James.”

“Oh,” she smiles at him, and his whole face alights with a grin of his own. “I’m Lily. Now that we know each other—”

“I’ll let you fix this mess,” he agrees, nodding, and when he accepts her hand to help him up, Lily tries to pretend she doesn't feel all the sparks.

_________

Because Padfoot always knows when he did something wrong, the return to his house is quiet and peaceful. He walks pompously, the image of the most behaved dog in the world, seeming glad about something that Lily can’t see.

Not that she is paying much attention, to be honest.

“So, what were you doing back there?” she asks, keeping her voice nonchalant.

“Meditation,” he says, and under her surprised look, James chuckles. To Lily’s dismay, he has picked up a shirt out of his bag, though he still looks very well. “Si… my best friend told me I had too much energy, I should try something to ease my mind.”

“Did it help?”

“Not very much. I was almost relaxing, but then there was this lady screaming and a dog—”

“I am so—”

“I’m joking! You really need to ease your mind too!” He throws her an amused laugh. “And what were you doing in the park?”

In answer, Lily shakes the leash in her hand. An adorable blush spreads over his cheeks.

“Yeah, of course, forget that I asked.”

Lily giggles softly. “Well, you may have hit your head,” she teases, though she is sure he didn’t.

“I hope so,” he whispers, and when her gaze meets his, the red in his cheeks intensifies. “I swear I don’t make a fool of myself usually. So—do you work with dog walking for very long?”

“Just one week actually—my first job is this little beast here.” In answer, Padfoot barks once more, proudly, agreeing with her.

“Padfoot is a nightmare,” James agrees, only fondness dropping from his voice as he stares at the dog.

Lily frowns. “How do you know?”

“'Cause he jumped over me?”

“No, how do you know he is called Padfoot?”

James blinks. “His tag?”

Lily nods slowly. “I guess… We are here.”

James has already stopped even before she says anything, but Lily doesn’t notice, busy opening the small gate to the backyard. Padfoot jumps once more, and this time she lets him loose, knowing he will only be running towards his favourite toys.

“You can wait there,” Lily tells James, indicating a few benches under a parasol in the backyard. “I’ll find some medical kit.”

James sits where she showed him, and he seems to struggle with something for a bit before— “I’d try the guest toilet, first drawer.”

Lily nods; it’s where she had thought first. She opens the door to the house with the spare key that Black has lent her—he won’t be back until seven, if she isn’t wrong—and finds her money over the kitchen table (double plus some more as if he knew that his dog would misbehave once more—very likely given his historic). But she moves forward, going to the toilet in the hall and, in the first drawer of the cabinet she finds a first kit aid.

James is waiting patiently for her, while Padfoot carefully offers him each toy for James to throw.

“He really likes you,” she tells him, sitting next to James. “It took me two days of bargaining to make him let me grab one of his toys.”

“I am a trustworthy person,” James says playfully. “You seem to think so.”

“I do?”

“Well, you just brought me here.”

“I trust Padfoot, he has good instincts. And I am sure Padfoot would defend me if you tried anything,” she says.

“I better not do anything then,” he says, and Lily bits her lip. She hadn’t meant like that.

She cleans his wound, using it as an excuse not to look at him. “Anything bad. After all, he threw me all over you today, so who knows.”

“Well, I’m not complaining,” James says, even as he grimaces when Lily applies alcohol over his wound. “Actually I’d consider rewarding him.”

“You hated meditation that much?” she teases, now bandaging his arm.

“Nah, you were just the most exciting thing that happened to me today. This week. This year—not that I was excited, I mean, not that you wouldn’t make me—I just mean—”

“James? You are babbling.”

“Making a fool of myself, sorry.”

“It… it was actually cute.”

“Oh.” He looks at her, his eyes shining. “Do you enjoy making men fool themselves around you?”

“That's exclusive of you, actually.”

His grin seems to radiate joy now. “So… how much of a fool I would be if I asked you to dinner with me tonight?”

“No dogs to disturb us?”

“No dogs allowed,” he says, and Lily swears he is getting closer.

“That seems perfect,” she agrees, her gaze falling to his lips (full and they look so soft)—

The backdoor opens violently and then Padfoot jumps from the place he had been quietly waiting on the floor.

“Missed you too, Pads!” Black cries, kneeling to accept his dog’s attention. Then he looks ahead and his gaze goes from Lily to James, his mouth opened in surprise.

Lily jumps, suddenly aware of her situation. At her side, James is shaking his head. “Mr. Black! I am so sorry, I can—”

“Sneaking around, James? Thought you wouldn't be back until Sunday!”

Lily blinks. “You know each other?”

“Ah—”

“Ah, Evans! That’s my best friend!”

“What?”

James lifts his hand, running through his hair. “I was going to tell you—”

“So… so that’s why Padfoot ran to you?”

“I didn’t know you’d be there—”

“And you just let me make a fool out of myself?”

“Lily—”

“Hmm, can anyone tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m out. That’s what's going on. I’m leaving.”

“I'm so sorry, Lily, I didn’t mean, I just—”

“No, just… no.”

She shakes her head, walking away, and as she reaches the gate, she feels something brushing her leg, and Lily lowers her eyes to find the familiar black dog glancing at her.

“I haven’t a clue what the hell is happening, but you’ll be back tomorrow, Evans?” she hears Sirius asking, and Padfoot bends his head to the side as if he is asking her the same question.

Lily touches the dog’s head, caressing him under his ear, and his tail swings hopefully for her. His pupils are huge, looking like the most adorable dog in the world, and he barks softly at her before turning his head; Lily follows his gaze to see that James is looking at her, looking very sorrowful and as pleading as Padfoot.

She turns away.

“No, you’ll need to find someone else,” she says and forces herself to close the gate without looking back.

(to be continued. Don't hate me)