#but like... their feelings are so understandable

[houseofhyde]

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

[blasphemyandbackshots]

“you think i don’t care about you?” he’d growled hours ago, sharp as razors.

you hadn’t flinched. you’d just looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and whispered, “you don’t act like it.”

and that had fucking stuck. even now, hours later, as you lay beneath him, breathless and quiet, he still heard it echoing through his skull. you don’t act like it. not when he bit, not when he barked, not when he used your body like it was the only thing he could touch without breaking.

but you were still here. still letting him climb between your legs, still looking at him with wary hope like maybe this time would be different. and he was trying.

fuck, he was trying.

he cupped your face like it was fragile, like you were fragile, and not the only goddamn thing in the world that made him feel human. his thumbs brushed your cheeks, lingering under your eyes.

“still mad at me?” he asked, rough, but not cruel.

your throat moved when you swallowed. “i’m just tired.”

that made something behind his ribs ache. a thing that shouldn’t have existed. not in him. not like this.

“i don’t want you tired,” he muttered. his lips hovered by your throat. “i want you sated. quiet. shaking.”

“i want to feel loved,” you whispered.

and that shattered him in a way no cursed energy never could. he didn’t speak again. he just kissed you slowly. it felt wrong on his mouth, too soft and tender, but you sighed into it, fingers curling in his hair, and that made it right.

so he kept going. kept touching you like he meant it. like he wasn’t trying to own you, but understand you. his hands didn’t bruise this time. they cradled and traced every inch of skin like a map he hadn’t studied well enough. you were warm and too sweet.

he didn’t deserve this, but fuck, he needed it.

when he slid inside you, it wasn’t rough or frantic. it was slow, like he was giving you a chance to run.

you didn’t and pulled him closer. “i hate fighting with you.”

“i hate making you cry,” he rasped.

your nails dug into his back. “then stop doing it.”

“i’m trying.” it sounded like a lie, but this time it wasn’t.

he kissed you deeper and harder then, his mouth was the only way he knew how to speak. i’m sorry. i’m here. i’m yours.

you moaned softly, thighs wrapping around his waist. “you feel different.”

“i’m not fucking you,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “i’m loving you.”

your breath caught and he almost looked away. but then your hand touched his cheek and he stayed right there.

he kept thrusting, slow and deep, watching every tiny reaction play across your face like a prayer he hadn’t learned how to say. your lips trembled and your hips rose.

and he realized that this was the most intimate he’d ever been. not the sex. the look. the watching. the being watched.

you could see it all now; the hunger, the guilt. the desperate, bitter hope that maybe this could be enough. maybe you’d still want him, even after seeing how broken he was inside.

“i’m not good at this,” he whispered.

“i know,” you breathed.

“but i want you.”

“i know.”

“and i don’t want anyone else touching you. ever.”

you smiled softly. “that part, you’re very good at.”

he huffed and pressed his forehead against yours. you wrapped your arms around him like you finally believed it that he was trying. that he cared. and for once, he didn’t need to say anything more.

he held you and moved inside you, because he belonged there.

[twilightofthesandwiches]

So, like, the thing about Ralsei is that he says that Darkners aren’t really ‘real’ and exist only to make Lightners happy and that their own needs and emotions are secondary at best. But in terms of his behavior it usually just manifest as his horribly low self-esteem and self-sacrificial behavior. He’s usually very accommodating and considerate of other Darkners, much happier to acknowledge their feelings and personhood rather than his own.

The biggest and most obvious exception is his “you just have to accept you’re useless now (:” speech to Tenna at the end of Chapter 3.

But even then...it’s like, at the start of Chapter 3, Ralsei was the one most susceptible to Tenna’s guilt-trip and the one who talked the two Lightners into taking part in his show.

It's not like he's not considerate of Tenna's feelings, and it's not like he doesn't want the Lightners to help him... the two main things that changed is, well... first things first just the fact that the Dark Fountain was right there and sealing it is always one of Ralsei's main concerns. But also... it's because Tenna opened up about his feelings and it became clear to Ralsei just how much he's motivated by anxieties that mirror his own....

It’s kind of the reverse of Susie’s arc with Tenna through Chapter 3. She starts out extremely hostile towards him (probably because he just kinda bursted in on them while she was having an extremely emotionally fraught time and immediately tried to make everything about his Fun Silly Game Time)

But the longer she gets to know him and calmed down from her original rage, she started to obviously feel kinda bad for him…

She reverted to rage when it turned out he has secretly kidnapped Toriel, but once he opened up about his motivations and his feelings, she was the one who actually validated his emotions, actually found him a solution that treated him like a person. Clearly because she saw a lot of her own pain in him.

It’s like… Susie was put off by Tenna initially, but once she starts seeing herself in others, it’s makes it easier for her to be kind and understanding towards them… but Ralsei is kind of the opposite of That?

When he sees other Darkners as strangers, as different than him, that makes him more likely to be kind and considerate towards their feelings. To just follow his instincts to be Nice to them and encourage that niceness in others. But he has such a low opinion of himself and such a lack of self-worth, that once he starts recognizing himself in the other… that actually makes him more likely to be unkind to them in that sickeningly sweet way he is unkind to himself.

The more Ralsei relates to another Darkner, the more likely it is for his fucked-up philosophy about Darkners to affect how he treats them. Ralsei’s whole self-image is so fucked up that his empathy consistently makes him less kind to other Darkners.

[charl0ttan]

i feel like theres this problem of people not really understanding why something is bad and they just invent vague gray morals behind their uptake of the status quo of whatever thought chamber they ended up in through their friends and social connections. and they either dont care enough or are scared to learn. to betray Not Knowing. because asking questions gets you punished especially when its about things the people around you take for granted. you can ask why is cannibalism bad and people will take it to mean you think its good. not to mention the fear of displaying a knowledge gap. people are mean as fuck. its scary to explicitly express not knowing something. especially about sensitive or hot button topics. i feel like a lot of folks have this assumption that youre supposed to know everything from birth. have all your morals sorted out from the beginning. but thats not how it is, contrary to what theyll have you believe. so people go around pretending to others and to themselves that their vibes based morals are the correct ones because at worst it doesnt cross their mind and at best theyre scared to Learn, to Ask. 1984 society of secret knowledge gaps in us all that we wont betray any sense of for fear of social ostracization. idk just some #Thoughts

[uncharacter-istically]

Bigtop Burger "Required Reading" List

It (Stephen King) - 1986

Frozen - 2013

"Weird Al" Yankovic (album) - 1983

Cats - 1981

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari - 1920

Night of the Living Dead - 1968

Austin Powers 4 (Worthikids) - 2020

Shrek - 2001

Living Dead Girl (music video) - 1999

SPACE (Worthikids) - 2017

Palpatine's Journey (Worthikids) - 2019

Dracula - 1897

Beavis and Butt-Head - 1993

Night Moves (Bob Seger) - 1976

The Adventures of Pinocchio - 1883

[bibliophilea]

#i will preface with this issue has gotten better in the last year (used to be 80% of the main tag and now it's under 50% which I appreciate) #so thank you to everyone who's aware and have been responsive in keeping things contained off the main dp tag #but on the situation here are my thoughts: #i'd argue most ppl in the dpxdc fandom have never seen any actual danny phantom episodes #we joke in the dp phandom like 'fuck canon it's a dollhouse we do what we want' #but that's just a joke #even if it's not perfect the dp characters still have personalities stories and goals in the OG show #so i see things posted and im like ???? this is not these characters at all ???? #they share names and descriptions sure but they don't share anything else #i've also seen people in dpxdc on reddit and stuff saying things like they 'revived the dp phandom' and other disrespectful things #we were always here #we're a small phandom sure but we're very active with events every year #u did not 'revive' us #i have to say this every time but im NOT anti-crossover #i write crossovers myself #i've been interacting with OG dpxdc since way before it was a trend and it's what brought me into the dp phandom in the first place #and i know im far from alone in that #i love new people i always think it's wonderful #but just like know that dpxdc is NOT dp #and that's why people in dp get annoyed #well that and all these characters and this world that is very much a giant massive different fandom #so please leave the dpxdc off the main tumblr tag #we're too small and y'all overpower us here #i've made the mistake of accidentally flooding a small fandom before - we're all human and we all make mistakes #but i just quietly retagged my content and then didn't use their main tag moving forward #easy as pie (tags from @lexosaurus)

All of this. Like, DP does play fast and loose with canon, but it's still playing with canon. There's a basis that we all share that makes the characters recognizable, even when we throw them in AUs that explore how those characters would change due to the AU.

DPxDC of recent years, for the most part, does not share that basis. It takes the names and faces of characters in DP and characters in DC, and it builds its own fanon basis to fit the stories it wants to tell.

And there's nothing wrong with that! Fandom is a sandbox! Go play!

But don't go saying that you "revived" the Phandom sandbox just because DPxDC got popular. Danny Phantom on FanFiction.Net has been top 5 in the cartoons category since the early 2000's. It's only recently dropped to number 6. Phandom has a long history of events celebrating both canon and fanon. Heck, #dannypocalypse has gotten Danny Phantom trending every year on tumblr since its inception, to the point that Box Lunch has a Danno face enamel pin you can go out and buy. Claiming that DPxDC "revived" Phandom is disingenuous to Phandom history, and insulting to the pholks who have been here, building community and interacting with Phandom the whole time.

Phandom has always been in this sandbox, playing with our blorbos, building worlds that fill out our common basis in different ways. It kind of feels like we're getting steamrolled every time DPxDC folks suggest filtering the tags (a lot of us do) and blocking folks (a lot of us do) to not see DPxDC (we see it anyways because a lot of DPxDC folks still tag the main fandoms and don't tag the crossover). Folks who want to see DP and DC separately from DPxDC (which looks almost nothing like DP and almost nothing like DC for the most part) get hit the worst. They're forced to pick one fandom to block entirely - DP or DC - because of the lack of consistent tagging. It's really unfair.

A number of my good friends whom I met through Phandom have been driven out of Phandom because of DPxDC fandom behavior tied to the assumption that DPxDC has a common basis with Phandom (it doesn't, for the most part - mainly just common character names and appearances), the assumption that DPxDC "revived" Phandom (Phandom has been small but strong since before I stepped foot in Phandom), and the assumption from there that most of Phandom media is going to look like DPxDC media but without Batman or Constantine or Superman (a lot of it is very different from DPxDC character-wise and lore-wise and worldbuilding-wise). It's kind of disheartening, and it's antithetical to the idea of a "revival" of Phandom caused by DPxDC.

I guess, main thing I want to say is that DPxDC is its own sandbox doing its own thing. And that's wonderful! Have fun! Even I enjoy dabbling there sometimes! But Phandom and DC fandom are also their own sandboxes doing their own things. And sometimes - due to a lack of consistent tagging, but also due to assumptions made that are largely untrue - it feels like a number of DPxDC folks act like Phandom and DC fandom and DPxDC fandom are one and the same, when they're really not.

Again, there's nothing wrong with DPxDC having fun with fandom! But Phandom and DC fandom want to have fun, too! And it's a lot harder when the onus is placed on us to block tags and block people until our tag is clear of your fandom (which it never is). And even then, it gets complicated when a lot of Phandom folks would be fine interacting with DPxDC as its own thing, outside of the Danny Phantom tag; and it gets even more complicated when folks are in Phandom, and in DC fandom, and don't necessarily want everything about those fandoms to be overshadowed by a crossover that has taken on a life of its own.

finding out danny phantom fans are sick of dc/batman crossovers clogging THEIR tags is frying me idk why I never considered that. we are in the same damn boat omg

[jinusajas]

06/22/25; 10:55pm

(saja).jinu x fem.reader

warnings: virginity loss.

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

{ yeah you gave me your heart, now i’m here for your soul | i’m thе only one who'll love your sins | feel the way my voicе gets underneath your skin… }

jinu came to the earth’s surface for the single purpose of feeding the demon king’s insatiable hunger for souls-

so what about you made you so utterly different to him?

he recalls the first time meeting you, where he and the rest of his crew mates performed within the city street. and there you stood, unnoticed by the crowd going wild for their performance-

your eyes glittering with an unspoken admiration that manages to captivate the powerful demon.

you didn’t scream or reach out to him-

choosing instead to remain distant from the crowd, admiring his voice from afar-

yet jinu found that he was the one that couldn’t look away.

when he finishes his song, he found an odd pull within his chest, a sudden compulsion to find you in the crowd. yet when his gaze returns to where you stood just mere moments ago, he realized that you were long gone, disappearing into the city as the crowd goes wild with praise.

these lambs made it so easy for jinu to accomplish his goals-

yet why did he feel a lingering sense of disappointment when you weren’t there?

this sudden fascination with a mere human was uncharacteristic of jinu, with the demon unable to understand why he was feeling this way even after four centuries have passed.

so jinu does the one thing he knows could quench his curiosities-

he searches for you, ready to regain what you had unknowingly managed to take from him with that single glance alone.

it wasn’t difficult, as jinu manages to find you doing mundane things around the city. from shopping for groceries, to ordering your usual drink at your favorite cafe-

pretending to run into you in the midst of your daily life came as easy as child’s play for him.

when he manages to keep you from falling over, arms wrapped around your waist in an almost protective manner as he steadies you against his chest. your gasp sounded like music to his ears, and the way your eyes glittered so innocently was so much more prominent now that he could see it up close.

and that was all it took for him to become addicted to you.

your innocence was not meant to be devoured by a fiend like the demon king-

it was meant to be savored.

he planned to satiate his hunger for you, relishing in your soft sweetness while sinking into you. his eyes would turn into molten gold as he slots his fingers down your heat, tracing at your entrance before pumping his digits inside of you.

your soft mewls were nothing short of music to his ears, and he found himself wishing to worship every inch of you, trailing heated kisses down your skin as your body erupts into goosebumps in response. his hot breath would whisper hedonistic phrases before spreading your legs wide open for him-

lips already latched onto your heat as you toss your head back in response. tangling your fingers into his ebony locks of hair as you felt the tip of his tongue traveling even deeper within your slick walls. with each suck and calculated thrust of his fingertips, jinu found it ironic how he, a mere demon, can bring you oh so close to heaven.

and when he feels you spilling yourself against him, tasting your honeyed arousal, a low satisfied growl would escape from his lips. with a guttural grunt of your name, jinu drinks up all that you had to offer, relishing in how your walls convulsed around his tongue before reluctantly pulling away from you.

with his arms wrapped around your naked back, he brings you closer to his chest, settling your sensitive heat over his erection as he brushes his cock head against your entrance. pressing a kiss down your neck, distracting you before slowly pulling you down on him, with his cock impaling your virgin walls as you cried out to him.

the scent of your sweetness mixed in with the blood shed in response to your innocence torn by his cock alone makes jinu let out a low growl in response, with him completely sheathing himself in your heat with one final thrust.

he kisses away your tears, the other part of his soul that still held his human half remaining tender as he swallows your soft mewls of pain and discomfort. wanting nothing more than to please you, jinu remains still, not moving until your pain morphs into red hot pleasure.

what felt like an eternity passes for jinu when he felt the way you adjust your hips. he frowns at the sudden motion, bracing himself over you as he looks down at you. he watches you, your lips parted as your eyes turn hazy, still moving against him when his gaze widens with a sudden realization.

you were moving yourself up and down his shaft, already craving for that same friction he had given you just moments before. placing a hand on your hips, jinu presses a final kiss against your lips, reassuring you that he’d do all the work before slowly pulling out his cock (not stopping until the tip of it was the only part buried inside of you) before slamming back inside.

his passionate movements causes you to arch your back against the bed, hands clawing at the sheets as jinu sets a rapid pace, basking in the sounds of your walls taking him in. each thrust sends a new wave of pleasure coursing through you, and due to your inexperience, you felt your second release of the night washing over you-

the sensation of it all consuming you just seconds later as you triggered jinu’s own release, pushing him over the edge as he continues to rut his hips against you before stilling suddenly, pumping you full of his seed as he rode out his release.

the heat reached new heights, with your soft mewls urging him on, making sure he was completely spent before falling on top of you. both of your heartbeats slowly began to settle as the post-lovemaking clarity kicks in. a tenderness that was rare for a demon of his caliber was felt painting his expression when he lays back in bed, pulling your soft and pliant body with him.

using his chest as your own personal pillow, you cuddle your body closer to jinu, basking in the way he drew comforting circles behind your back. while listening to your soft breathing (and the steady beat of your heart)-

jinu felt something reawaken within him, something he thought was long dead as he pulls your form even closer to him.

end notes: despite not being able to watch the entire movie yet, i have been listening to your idol on repeat. jinu has me in such a chokehold 😭 im such a predictable bitch. don’t mind me, and i’m sorry if this is ooc. this is very much a self indulgent post ♡

ps - the way i would have folded so fast if saja boys performed your idol in front of me 🙂‍↕️

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[lily-bisque]

ＷＡＹ ＯＵＴ ＴＨＥＲＥ 𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

volume four — eternal life

✦ ── pairing: lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader

✦ ── synopsis: taking a hike, alone, in a massive forest to escape your mundane life may not have been the greatest idea you'd conjured up—a realization you'd come to soon after you managed to lose your map miles inland. but when a lumberjack who knows the land like the back of his hand offers you a place to stay, you think maybe your life isn't so tragic after all. besides, for the sake of your safety, who knows what lingers in the shadows after nightfall?

✦ ── contents: lost in the forest au, forced proximity, bantering, angst, trauma/torture aspects, minor injuries, eventual romance, eventual smut, no use of y/n, more tags to be added.

✦ ── a/n: listened to a ton of jeff buckley and novo amor writing this. hope you guys enjoy <3. again, check out the playlist for the curated mood and for a forehead kiss.

✦ ── word count: 4.6k

archive ─ playlist

series masterlist - previous volume - volume five

art by outdmilk on twt

“Didn’t ask for a maid, still don’t need one. Not gonna get on my knees and thank you neither.”

In the bathroom, your knee bobbed up and down, a fiery rage still swirling a tempest storm within you. You had to bite your lip to cease your incessant huffs that began to bubble over like a whistling kettle, nearly tasting copper from the pressure, eyes watering at your embarrassment.

You flexed your fingers open and closed, trying desperately to slow your breathing, but to no avail. 

Besides your snarky personality, you’d been nothing but kind to Sukuna—save for the incident in the woods, but that was when you were in intense pain. He couldn’t blame you for that.

You’d made him breakfast and cleaned up his place, and though you weren’t expecting a ‘thanks,’ you would appreciate him at least treating you like a person. You even groomed his dog for God’s sake.

You didn’t want to be here any more than he wanted you here—so he could cut the act of you being some pesky girl hovering around him like a mosquito and sucking him of his livelihood.

How much longer would you have to endure such an easily riled man no matter what you did?

The cruel familiarity of his words were no comfort either—only cracking open a wound you’d scabbed over long ago. 

But what managed to piss you off the most was that the sole reason you’d come to the woods was now somehow tainted with everything you’d been trying to escape.

The bathroom door creaked, a shadow shuffling below the crack. You could hear the huffs of Sukuna’s breath, quiet and steady, though you could tell he was deep in thought. Or at least you hoped he was after whatever the hell that was outside.

He settled to the ground, back against the bathroom door, eyes dialed in on his bedroom before him. His eyes studied the medullary rays across the wooden frame, small pathways branching out and clawing the across to the end.

You didn’t jaw a peep. If anything, you were steadily holding your breath, Sukuna having you cooling your heels.

He called your name out, gruff and irritated. 

You kept your mouth shut.

He sighed, knocking his head back against the wood and squinting his eyes, trying to decipher the emotions coursing through him. “You gonna live in there forever?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “If it means I don’t have to deal with you.” 

He doesn’t understand why hearing your voice felt like the smallest bit of consolation. “I’m afraid that’s not gonna work.”

“You’re an asshole,” you blurted, worrying your lip between your teeth, peeling the skin and feeling your skin flare in heat. 

“I know.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, the hum of the bathroom fan coming to a quiet drone in the back of your mind. “You know?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitated this time. “You’re a dick, too.”

He grunted, tossing his arms over his knees. “Shut up and come out. I, uh. I wanna show you something.”

You scowled, cracking your knuckles as you heard the wooden planks shift below Sukuna’s weight as he came to a stand. 

His shadow remained still in that little sliver, and you could feel your mood sharply sour when you’d realized he’d stomped inside with his boots still on.

You came to a stand, flinging the door open and already releasing a slew of curses. “You’re fucking unbelievable, I just mopped the—.”

Your voice was immediately muffled as he stuffed… fabric (?) into your face.

Pawing him off of you, you pulled whatever he’d shoved at you into your hands just to see he’d handed you those ugly jorts from earlier and a graphic t-shirt.

He just stood there, eyeing you casually, though you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes searched yours charily.

Clenching your teeth, you dropped your hands to your sides. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

He pushed air from his nose before walking away. “Nah. Get changed and c’mere.”

𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

You’d put the outfit on—not without huffing and cursing under your breath in his bathroom—after peeling Sukuna’s massive attire off, forgetting how it felt to wear clothes that actually decently fit you. 

The top he’d handed you was clearly from some grunge store, thick lettering across the front with flames and guns and skulls, and the words METALLICA in bold.

Hopping your way out of the bathroom, you peered around the kitchen and living room to find it empty, but just past the open drapes you could see Sukuna tossing a bone, Uraume wagging their tail and chasing after it.

“What do you want?” You shot with venom on your tongue, waddling down the steps you’d come to know, spots where your weight would cause squeaks and to avoid protruding nails.

Sukuna folded his arms over his chest, watching you nearly snag your bandaged foot just to see the wrap come loose. He grunted, brushing past you and into his house in a mere few strides.

Your eyes dialed in on the ground before you, eyes narrowed in a focused reverie to avoid tripping and embarrassing yourself further.

Within seconds, Sukuna came back out with the first aid box and his hat, and wrapped a beefy arm around your midsection.

Your eyes flew wide, the world flipped upside down as your maw hung agape. Your vision met his back, effectively tossed over his shoulder in one fell swoop to have your stomach heaving. 

You brought a hand down to smack his back, legs flailing as you desperately tried to pry yourself free. “Put me down, you oaf!” You shrieked, writhing in his grasp.

“Pipe down,” he growled, one bulging arm wrapped around the backs of your knees and the other carrying the first aid kit, effectively dwarfed in his meaty hand.

“No! I said put me—” You felt yourself begin to fall backwards, Sukuna’s hand cradling the back of your head as he laid you down on a patch of grass. 

Blood drained from your face as you actualized the proximity.

One large arm was still cradled along your waist, his face mere inches from yours as his hand pressed into your scalp, draining any sense of rationality from your short-circuiting brain through his finger tips. 

He then slid his hand from your head and allowed himself to steady upright by placing it beside your face in the greenery.

He smelled like Marlboro Reds.

Time felt still for a moment, eyes following the flow of the sooty work permanently decorating his face. You foolishly wondered if it hurt for him to get them—if he’d huff and grunt and blink back the tears while the artist endured whatever curses he spewed at them. 

And in a rash and senseless motion, your finger reached up and skimmed the edge of his cheek, following the inky trail in nothing but mesmerization and keenness. His skin was unexpectedly soft.

You could feel Sukuna stiffen, his muscles tensing as an annoyed growl left his lips.

And then you couldn’t feel him anymore.

He sat up, mumbling something about how you needed to be placed into an insane asylum while he shuffled through the box in his grasp to pull out bandaids.

All you could do was stare up at the sky, wondering why your finger tip was cold.

His hands were cradling your calf, eyeing your wound suspiciously after he’d stripped it of the dressing. “You said you changed it.”

“I did.”

“So not only are you irritating, but you’re a liar, too,” he scoffed.

You couldn’t help the giggle you let out at that, not able to defend yourself as you’d kept forgetting to check the bandage.

His hands worked to clean your wound, not without you wincing and twitching in his hold, but he held firmly. The ointment was cool and sharp like ice, your hands digging into the dirt behind you as you watched him work.

Venerated, your eyes followed the trails of the wide ink markings across his arm that matched his face, curiously tilting your head as your mind worked. Reasons unbeknownst to you, wonder was stitched into every seam of your making.

Every here and there, he’d find your stare and cast you with a look that sent piercing daggers, to which you’d bite your cheek and peer away.

Still, you weren’t sure if you had much of a place to ask. 

You’d fix your wide orbs on spots around you—watching as summer slipped into solstice arms, the world cast in a golden charm, a sweet and gentle surrender.

“It should only take a few more days before you can properly walk on it,” he stated, placing your leg on the grass once he’d finished. He averted his gaze from you, mindlessly staring at his front door, voice now lower. “You’re welcome to stay until then.”

You furrowed your eyebrows in return, eyes dancing across his stern side profile before your lip tugged upwards curiously. “Is this your way of apologizing to me?”

He scoffed, casting his cheek to you before laying on the ground beside you, a hand over his midsection as he pulled his hat over his face. “You talk too much.”

Wiggling your foot, you squinted your eyes as you eyed his careful patchwork. “You don’t talk enough.”

The next few minutes were silent, not stifling but easy. Like midsummer air.

You leaned back on your elbows, mere feet from Sukuna who’s breaths were slow and heavy. He must’ve fallen asleep.

It’d make sense. He’d had quite the day—you could only assume as a guy who chopped wood in his free time. 

The skyline past the pine trees was spun orange hues melting into an auburn red, and you think that right between them could’ve matched Sukuna’s stark hair. It seemed well-kept, which was surprising for a man living on his own in the forest.

The brush tickled your arm, and most people would’ve found it uncomfortable to be splayed out on itchy grass but you found an odd warmth in it. It smelled of honeysuckle and damp moss.

You couldn’t see the sun past his house, but you assumed it was falling and kissing the skies farewell for now. Praying to see another day as the stars would soon glitter the horizon.

You dropped your head, a few twigs prodding your scalp, but you didn’t move. 

You didn’t know how badly you’d needed quiet all this time.

Back home, you’d fall asleep to the bustling of late traffic and night owls, and awake to the early birds starting their day before they’d have their coffee and honk at each other like territorial mockingjays.

But now, all you could hear were the quiet chirps of canaries, the ticking of cicadas, and the steady breaths of the oaf beside you.

You glanced over, his hat covering his enter face, arms folded over his chest that lifted up and down rhythmically.

He was the kind of guy who’d have no issue falling asleep outside.

Uraume seemed to have given up on playing catch, calling it a night and pawing over to their dogshed.

It felt like you were the only person alive right now.

In your own little bubble, you were the only one to watch time patter on, not a single other pair of orbs to witness it.

Sun marked your bare calves, a soft burn that had every hair standing on edge as your  brain dazed into a summer night's musing. 

Your hand lifted over to the edge of his hat, carefully lifting it to take a peak.

Curling your fingertips against it, your slow deliberation worked in your advantage, earning a glance at Sukuna’s resting profile.

Those deeply marked creases that had been carved into him over time seemed to have come to rest, smoothing out his complexion into something gentler.

His jaw didn’t look clenched like it did whenever he was around you.

You wonder what he must be dreaming about. If he was dreaming.

However, your curious train of thought was quickly broken as you felt a pair of fingers wrap firmly around your wrist.

You let out a stifled yelp, flinching as your gaze followed Sukuna’s incredibly quick hand.

“What are you doing?” He grunted, expression hardening though he had yet to open his eyes.

“I- Uh—,” your heart thrummed in your chest, netted in the act of prodding once again to a man who forbade it so fervently. You needed to think quick. “You said you were going to show me something,” you whispered, voice mousy as you emphasized each word, confidence unraveling like caught thread.

He opened his eyes, casting his gaze over you. His arrant crimson irises flickered with something akin to fostered suspicion, before he loosened his firm grip and tugged his hat off. “Uh, yeah.”

You shivered, dropping your hand. 

You ignored the scars you saw littering his knuckles. 

Thankfully, his grip wasn’t tight or anything, just unmoving enough to make you jittery. 

Rule of thumb: Don’t touch Sukuna. Got it.

You dropped your head back onto the grass, your heart thumping along with the calls of the crickets as your trepidation came to a slow halt.

“You said you’re from the city, right?” He dragged a hand across his face, then tossed it behind his head to rest against.

“Oh, yeah. Lived in Yokohama all my life.”

He was quiet for a few moments, sight fixed on the sky blankly, before he spoke up. “You ever sky gazed before?”

You rested your hands against your stomach, peering over at him with a curious and pure gleam coloring you like a child had just been introduced to dinosaurs. “I’ve never had the chance to. Light pollution and all…” you trailed off, looking back at the sky with wonder. “Can you see stars from here?”

He hummed. “But not until the sun is down.”

And so the two of you waited. 

You’re not sure how long you did, lost in a quiet spell like you'd been placed in a doorway between reality and a tender dream.

All warm light drained, day sky devoured and replaced by a mix of blue and purple auroras to color the black canvas. Twinkling stars kissed midnight in white gleams.

Your lashes felt heavy, but your eyes were still full of intrigue and thrill.

For the first time since you could remember, you didn’t feel like the world was caving in on you. Like the world was just waiting for you to finally give in and be swallowed whole.

“I was invited to a wedding,” you blurted out, all sense of silence tucked beneath your tongue.

You couldn’t tell if Sukuna reacted, your eyes fixed on the flicker of a star.

Nevertheless, he stayed quiet.

“The invitation I received… it was from my ex-husband.” You breathed out, feeling your rigid shoulders droop.

A sinner perched in a confessional, misplaced and bitter and bruised. The only cold comfort was the moon tethered to the skies. 

”Ex-husband, huh?” He queried, voice a distant whisper.

“Yeah. Divorced last year.”

And this time, Sukuna stirred—turning his head in his palm to fix you with an incredulous stare you couldn’t see but feel burning you. “Yer kidding.”

You chuckled, though it was nothing short of dry and pitiful. “Seems he found himself a proper wife. Weddings’ not too long from now.”

Sukuna eyes bore into you, heavy and thick with judgement. “Okay, then. So what?”

Your eyes met his, shoulders caging up once more. “What do you mean ‘what’?”

He broke your stare, lazily shrugging his shoulders as he looked back up, eyes registering nothing between him as the cogs in his mind spun. “Why’s it matter what he does?”

You opened your mouth, defenses already loading themselves, before you paused. 

Why does it matter?

You found yourself staring at his side profile, fixed in nothing but displeasure despite his incredibly softening words.

You shouldn’t care—you could barely tolerate your ex-husband. And he clearly couldn’t tolerate you either. 

Sukuna didn’t push. He didn’t need to know your story before stumbling upon you in the forest. He only sees what he has to deal with before you’re healed and out the door.

It was true, it shouldn’t matter. But you couldn’t shake that off as easily. You lived it.

Regrettably, the life of a wife was still engraved into every fiber you were composed of, bleeding into each sorry part and staining it for everyone to witness. 

Or at least you thought. You wondered if everyone could see the chipped and cracked edges of you.

The grief had been so heavy, you had nowhere to place it—clung to you like a thick coat you couldn’t shed.

The years spent in a disgustingly loveless marriage to a sleazebag that looked at you like property, accused you and your womb of things no woman should hear. 

The proud look on your parents faces when they saw that you were finally settling down, done with the prancing around as an unmarried woman of your age.

And to a man with such status, they couldn’t believe it to be true. 

Neither could you. Not until you’d bore witness to his dull, true colors previously brightened with rose-tinted lenses.

You’d rushed into it—a rich, and dashingly charming man with dyed blonde hair. You’d been attracted to his arrogance, assuming it’d be tall enough to build the both of you up.

You were woefully wrong.

“So what’s your story?” You found yourself inquiring, worrying your lip between your teeth.

He scowled, nose scrunching as if he’d just smelled something putrid. “Not everyone’s got a sob story.”

You giggled, leaning on your palm as you watched him reject your entire being in real time. “You saying that is making me think you’ve got one,” you pushed with a grin, leaning closer.

His molars grinded against each other, wishing he could head inside and feed you to the wolves but it seemed the jagged edges of his common logic were frayed. “I ain’t got nothing to tell,” he growled, placing a hand against your looming face and shoving you away.

You gasped, but then began to paw off his claws with giggles, knowing you’d gotten under his skin. “How long have you lived here?” You started. He couldn’t be more than a few years older than you if anything, so it couldn’t have been too long.

“Long as I can remember,” he curtly replied.

Wow. “Alright, don’t have to go and tell me your whole life story,” you dryly and sarcastically taunted, itching your scalp in an attempt to ward off your irritation.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

You rolled your eyes, but still you were desperate for some conversation. “You get into a lot of fights?”

“Huh?”

You pointed at his knuckles, not even caring about your bluntness, to which he moved away as if you’d somehow burned him. “Your scars.”

He waited a beat before replying. “Something like that.”

You shrugged off his deflection with a ‘whatever,’ gaze lingering back towards the sky.

And like a magnet drawn to another, Sukuna felt oddly compelled to begin speaking. Yet, you beat him to the bush.

“I don’t think anyone noticed I got lost in the woods,” you whispered, hoping your quiet admission would disappear with the night.

Sukuna huffed indignantly, but you didn’t know what to make of it.

You brought a limp forearm to your face and casted it over your eyes lazily. “I wonder how long it’ll take for them to notice.”

Your tone was dry, but anyone could make out how defeated you sounded.

Sukuna’s mouth went dry, eyes dancing across the black canvas desperately. “Open your eyes.”

You groaned, tugging your arm off and glancing over at him. 

He lifted an arm, pointing at the sky. “Over there.”

You followed his direction, pointer finger directed at a cluster of stars hung gracefully. “What am I looking at?”

He huffed. “You're not the smartest cookie in the jar. It’s a constellation.”

You beamed at the information, brushing over how he’d just insulted you. “Wait, wait! Where?” You sat up on your elbows, eyes fixed on the spot he pointed out.

“Follow my finger,” he mumbled, fingertip drawing out the constellation before your eyes.

And you did, eyes dragging with his, a childlike wonder twinkling in your irises.

“That constellation is-“

“Lupus.” You interrupted in awe, mouth hanging open slightly as you cocked your head, able to make out the creature's shape.

Sukuna’s eyebrow arched, surprised at your knowledge.

You gazed down at his sudden silence, moonlight casting an ethereal glow on your features, a soft simper on your lips. “Not the smartest but definitely close.”

Sukuna’s brows furrowed, irked at your sarcasm despite every nerve in his body betraying him. “Not that close.”

You shrugged, facing the sky again and hugging your knees. 

Sukuna stared at your back, pulling his cigarette box from his pockets. He placed it between deft fingers, pulling it to his mouth before fumbling for his lighter and sliding his thumb against the spark wheel.

Within moments, the scent of smoke you easily could associate with Sukuna or the back alleys of Yokohama at night, wafted into your nostrils, making you scrunch your nose instinctively.

He hummed, the smoke billowing from his pursed lips.

“Give me one.”

Sukuna’s eyebrows raised. “City girl wants a smoker?”

You pushed air from your nose, unimpressed. “I just said that.”

He hesitated. “Have you ever smoked before?”

You remained quiet, shuffling uncomfortably.

Sukuna chuckled, low, enough to send goosebumps dancing across your bare skin that had nothing to do with a soft night chill. “Here.”

He sat up, shoving a hand into his pockets to dig out the box and handed you a cigarette. You held it awkwardly between your thumb and forefinger, eyeing it suspiciously and suddenly regretting your burst of confidence.

“It’s not gonna eat’cha,” he gruffed, jutting his chin at you.

You frowned, placing it between your lips.

“Cup your hands.”

You obeyed, curling them around the cigarette to avoid the breeze snuffing out the blaze.

He held the lit lighter against the butt, just for a few seconds. Enough for it to burn, sending smoke into your mouth and down your lungs.

You jerked away, coughing up a fit as it seared your insides, clinging to the lining of your esophagus and singeing the hairs in your nostrils.

Sukuna found an odd sense of humor in your distress. He took the cigarette from you and crushed it before tossing it somewhere, placing an arm behind your back on the grass and laughing to himself as his head lolled. “Not so bad, right?”

“The hell do you mean ‘not so bad?’” You retorted with a hoarse voice, wanting to dip yourself into a lake and clean yourself from the prints of smoking. “I feel like I just inhaled fumes.”

Sukuna cocked his head in thought, an uncharacteristic grin on his sharp features. “You technically kinda did.”

You glared up at him, the barely-there buzz from one hit tickling the edges of your psyche. 

Sukuna peered down at you, the distance between you suddenly shortened.

He hollowed out his cheeks, his cigarette hanging between his middle and forefinger, before he inhaled it sharply through his mouth and out of his nose.

His expression was unreadable, as if wheels were turning in his mind, possibly trying to understand you.

Your eyes swam with skepticism, just 24 hours with this man and you couldn’t understand him. “Why’d you let me stay with you?”

He didn’t falter, just blinked at you for a moment, before looking away. “Dunno.”

You frowned at his reticence, but nonetheless bit your lip. Most people would’ve just given you directions and sent you off with thoughts and prayers, not bothering to take you in the way he did.

If you hadn’t run into Sukuna, who’s to tell you wouldn’t be dinner to a pack of wolves for the next few days, a forgotten corpse turned into nothing but a bag of bones.

You couldn’t help but question what kind of person he was.

“Gets quiet out here,” he started up again, pulling his knees up just to toss his arms over them. “Just me and that mutt.”

You stared wide-eyed at his large form beside you, an odd ache in your chest at his admission. 

Who knows the last time he’d had a proper conversation with someone that wasn’t small talk at the work?

He peered over at you, his scowl flinching before he flicked his cigarette to the ground. “Fuck you makin’ that face for,” he grumbled.

You hadn’t even noticed the watery orbs you’d been giving him, shaking your head and wiping the backs of your hands on your eyes. “Shut up. I’m an empath.”

He snorted at that, wanting to shove your face again when he heard you sniffling. “You hungry?”

You nodded quickly, to which he rolled his eyes at.

He stood up, rising to his feet and dusting off his jeans. He grabbed his hat and jacket and strode back inside, you on his tail.

Shutting and locking the door behind you, you watched Sukuna’s form pace around the kitchen. Wandering over to the kitchen table, you plopped down and watched him work.

He’d grabbed his toaster from a cabinet, popping in a couple of chocolate chip Eggos from the freezer and searching for the pan you had used earlier that morning.

Your eyes felt heavy, the quiet clinking and clattering of Sukuna nearly lulling you to sleep, chin bobbing against your chest.

“Oi. Keep those eyes open, I’m not eating two servings,” he grunted, cracking a couple of eggs into the pan.

You adjusted in your seat, rubbing your eyes and yawning. When did it get so late?

Standing up, you wobbled over to the couch and laid down, nearly resigned to your exhaustion from cleaning all day. 

Sukuna peered over at you skeptically, not even realizing he had been quickening his movements as your eyes threatened to shut.

But it was inevitable, your lashes fluttering and your breath steadying.

Sukuna grumbled something, placing both full plates on the coffee table minutes later and looming over you with a chagrined expression.

Within moments, he was snapping his meaty fingers in front of your face, breaking you from your slumber.

You flinched, sitting up and feeling your head spinning. Grumbling, you rubbed your eyes and leaned your head against the back of the couch.

Sukuna plopped down beside you, shoving a plate of waffles and eggs into your hands as if the two of you hadn’t eaten pancakes that same morning.

You were too tired to complain.

With low lids, you brought the fork to your lips and began eating in slow and heavy movements, like your limbs were caught in black tar.

Sukuna eyed you warily, afraid that you’d fall asleep into your plate and you’d somehow stab your eye.

“Aye. City girl. Finish your food.” He cracked open a beer with one hand, tossing it back in just a few gulps. You studied the way his Adam’s apple bobbed while he guzzled it down.

Shuddering, you tossed him a sleepy scowl. “I’m full.”

He passed you a glass of water, grabbing your plate with his and heading towards the kitchen to set it down. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

You let out a small burp after a sip, quickly covering your mouth and tossing him an awkward glance before shuffling in your seat. “I’m going to need a refresher.”

You didn’t actually need one.

Sukuna inhaled sharply at your feigned ignorance, hands placed beside the sink as he stared down, before pushing off and running his fingers through his hair. “I’ll let you help out. Don’t need to wire me nothin’ when you get back.”

You chuckled, grabbing a shopping bag to pull out some pajamas he’d bought for you. A grey satin set that probably cost far too much but you didn’t complain, it’d definitely keep you warm. “Okay. Thanks for this, Sukuna.”

“Whatever.”

[snapscube]

would you say, at this point, in your own opinion, that Deltarune is better than/surpasses Undertale? both narrative wise and gameplay wise

i think this is the kind of thing where i would really be jumping the gun to say so definitively either way. deltarune is the hype right now and we’re still right in the middle of the most intense rising action of its story, entering the era where it is going to be the most exciting that it will ever be as we barrel towards the final chapters. that’s a crazy high note, but it won’t portray the full scope of deltarunes accomplishments when compared to its intent. that’s the kind of thing we need to wait on, and that’s the kind of thing we absolutely have for undertale. undertale has such clear intent and such insanely clever, concise, and poignant delivery of its intent. let it never be forgotten how much of a fucking masterpiece undertale is IMO, it’s one of my favorite games.

i do think, however, there is a lot to be said about how deltarune could fare in that comparison based on what i’ve seen so far, and in summary: it was hard to understand at first because of how revolutionary undertale felt, but i’m finally beginning to see how this was the game toby really wanted to make for a much, much longer time. if there was ever a game with the potential to make fucking UNDERTALE of all games feel like a prologue for something bigger, it might be deltarune. but that’s a lot of pressure i don’t want to put on it so im just enjoying the ride for now and enjoying how compelled i am in spite of the act it’s trying to follow.

[cbeargyu]

just a bet for you [2]

summary: you fall for him, deeply, blindly. you give him everything—including your first time. but when he confesses it was all part of a bet, your world collapses. months later, he realizes too late that his feelings were real. but now, you’ve moved on, and when he tries to reach you, you make it clear: he doesn’t get a second chance.

pairing: heesung x fem!reader

genre: high school au, angst, heartbreak, slow burn, betrayal, one-sided love, emotional fallout.

warnings: emotional manipulation, virginity loss, betrayal for a bet, mentions of bullying, intense emotional scenes, crying, self-worth issues, explicit heartbreak, mention of physical intimacy, slap scene, heavy angst, no happy ending.

wc: 4,3k

notes: hi!!🩷 thank you so, so much for all the love the first part of this story received, it honestly made me so happy to see the response :D! you guys make me really happy, i love you all so much. stay tuned because i’ll be posting the other two heesung stories i promised you soon <3 also, if you want to be added to the taglists for upcoming fics, feel free to fill out this form! you can specify which groups or idols you’d like to be tagged in, it would help me stay a bit more organized 🫶🏻

PART 1 HERE.

taglist: @rikiholic @jjongsies @heelovesmeknot @imzhouxinyu @firstclassjaylee @xoxobooksstuff @bbokaricentral @bonsaijoons @ily6968 @annnna1234 @lavxndxrsworld @titttuaf @ball-312 @yujinsbabyi @guppiechuu @mymentalityprince @g3n3v13v33 @pjselee @lovetia @ikeulims @skzenhalove @kukkurookkoo @leechqnsgirl @wonniejamz @lookmaxxxomg @meowmeowjang @yeahhhhsuperhumannn @hyuukas @aheewonenthusiast @lilyofthevalley6 @fabulousarepo4 @zhenyaf1z @antisocialties @deezbin @princesspeachicedtea @heeseungissm

you didn’t go to school for two weeks after it happened.

at first, you told your parents you were just tired. that maybe you were coming down with something. that your body ached. and it was true, in a way—your body did ache, but not from any illness they’d understand. the ache sat deep in your chest, in your lungs, in the pit of your stomach. it made it hard to breathe, hard to eat, hard to sleep without waking up in tears.

you cried until your throat burned. until your pillow was soaked. until your fingers curled into your sheets in the middle of the night, wishing you could claw him out of your memory. you kept replaying it over and over again—how he held you, how he kissed your forehead, how gently he moved inside you, how he fed you soup and looked at you like you were made of glass. and then how he broke you in the same room he touched you like you mattered.

you didn’t understand.

you couldn’t understand.

someone who loved with actions—who tied your shoelaces when they came undone, who waited at the gate after school, who sat in silence with you in the library just to be near you—how could that all be a lie? how could someone fake the way his thumb brushed over your hand while you solved equations, or the way he held you like the world outside your bedroom didn’t exist?

you told yourself there had to be something real in it. maybe not all of it. but something. he couldn't have done all that just for a bet… right?

but while you cried yourself sick, the others were laughing.

heesung and his friends—jay, sunghoon, the others who had always hovered around like shadows—were joking about it in the cafeteria. about how you’d fallen hard. about how easy it had been. jay even said he didn’t think you’d go through with it. sunghoon just laughed and said, “i guess love makes girls blind.”

and heesung?

he laughed too.

smirked and said, “i told you. i knew she’d give in. i know her type.”

and maybe something in him tightened when he said it. maybe something in his chest flickered, sharp and bitter. but no one noticed—not even him. because in front of his friends, his pride had to survive. so he played along. like you had meant nothing. like none of it had mattered.

and yet… when you came back, everything changed.

you walked into school two weeks later with your head held a little higher. your eyes were tired, but they didn’t tremble anymore. your uniform was the same, your hair was the same, but there was something different about the way you carried yourself. you smiled at your teacher when she welcomed you back. you answered roll call like nothing was wrong. when people whispered in the halls, you didn’t flinch.

you told everyone your parents had taken you out of town to visit your grandmother. “we didn’t plan it,” you said easily. “they just made the decision last minute. no signal where we were.”

you sat in class like normal. you took notes. you even hummed quietly during break.

and people noticed.

not in the cliché, dramatic way. not like you suddenly became the “hot girl.” it was quieter than that. it was in the way people looked twice when you walked by. the way they hesitated before talking about you. the way they no longer saw you as invisible, but as something they couldn’t quite define.

and heesung noticed too.

he saw the way your posture had changed. the way you didn’t glance around nervously anymore. the way you answered questions with confidence, how you laughed with classmates you never used to talk to. something about your presence was louder now, even if your voice wasn’t.

and for the first time since he left your house, he started remembering.

he remembered how your hands shook when you first held his. how your eyes lit up when he brought you strawberries one afternoon because you mentioned liking them in passing. how he watched you sleep once, and something inside him clenched in a way he didn’t understand back then.

he told himself it was all an act. that he was just playing the part. that every kind gesture, every glance, every soft breath against your skin was planned.

but not all of it was.

some things just... happened. some moments weren’t rehearsed. and now, watching you from across the room, something sharp curled beneath his ribs.

regret.

and that feeling only deepened when, one afternoon, you were walking past the lockers and someone called your name.

“y/n!”

you turned, blinking, and found a boy you didn’t recognize very well—jake, from class 1-b. tall, warm smile, honey-brown hair. he jogged over with a little out-of-breath laugh.

“you dropped this earlier in the hallway,” he said, holding out your pen.

you blinked at it, surprised. “oh… thank you. i didn’t even notice.”

“yeah,” he grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “figured you’d want it back. it’s cute. the little star charm’s cool.”

you laughed, a small, real sound. “it was a gift. from myself.”

he laughed with you. “solid choice.”

he walked with you to class that day. not flirtatious. just easy. light.

and heesung saw it all from the other end of the hall—your laugh, your comfort, the way jake looked at you like you were bright and new.

and something in his stomach twisted.

for the first time, he wasn’t part of your world.

he had no place there anymore.

and maybe—just maybe—that was the part that hurt the most.

heesung didn’t notice it all at once.

at first, it was just a quiet discomfort. something small. like the subtle ache of a bruise you forgot was there until someone brushed against it. a flicker in his chest that he ignored. a hollow feeling he pushed down with laughter and noise.

he told himself he didn’t care. that he had won. that it was just a bet and he had gotten what he wanted. his friends kept saying it, too—how easy it was, how good the payoff had been, how funny it was that you actually cried.

but every time they said your name like it was a joke, something in him tensed.

still, he smiled.

still, he laughed.

because that’s what he was supposed to do.

until you came back.

you walked into school like someone who had been rebuilt. not louder, not flashier, not dressed any different—but something in you had changed. you didn’t slouch anymore. you didn’t stare at the floor when people passed. your steps were quieter, but more certain. like you didn’t need to be noticed to be seen.

and worse—you didn’t look at him.

not once.

not even when your eyes passed over his. you looked right through him. like he wasn’t there. like the boy you gave yourself to had died and become someone you didn’t recognize anymore. it was the first time he realized you could move on. that maybe he hadn’t broken you the way he thought he did.

and that’s when it started.

the ache.

every day after that, it grew heavier. he tried to ignore it—he flirted with other girls in the hallway, he laughed louder than necessary, he stayed out late. but none of it filled the space you left behind. the silence of your absence followed him everywhere, curling like smoke around his collarbones, pressing against his lungs.

and then came jake.

at first, he didn’t even know the guy’s name. just some quiet boy from a different class—friendly, golden-haired, always polite to teachers. but suddenly, he was sitting beside you during lunch. carrying your books when your arms were full. walking with you to the gate after school. he never touched you too much, never made it look like anything romantic, but it didn’t matter.

heesung saw the way you smiled around him.

not the way you used to smile at heesung—shy and tentative—but brighter. lighter. like you were no longer afraid of breaking.

and worst of all, jake did things heesung used to do.

he tucked your hair behind your ear when the wind blew too hard. he waited for you outside the library, leaning against the wall with both hands in his pockets like it was the most natural thing in the world. he passed you notes in class—not cheesy ones, but simple things like “don’t forget to eat lunch today” or “i hope your morning was kind.”

and every time heesung saw one of those moments unfold, his chest tightened.

because he remembered.

he remembered how you used to look at him like that. how you used to reach for his hand without thinking. how you once whispered “thank you for choosing me” after he kissed your forehead in your room.

he told himself it was all fake. that he had played a role, nothing more.

but some of it hadn’t been fake.

some of it had been instinct.

some of it had been real.

and now it was gone.

sometimes, at night, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking of the way your voice trembled when you said you were happy your first time had been with him. the way you clung to the blanket when he stood to leave. the way you ran after him, bare feet against the floor, tears already falling—and he didn’t turn around.

he should have turned around.

now you were healing without him.

and he… he was unraveling.

that's why he didn’t expect to see you again that day.

it was just a normal afternoon—at least, that’s what it was supposed to be. the courtyard was half-empty, students trickling out after class in lazy, aimless waves. heesung had been walking with jay and sunghoon, shoulders slouched, backpack hanging loosely from one strap, half-listening to some story jay was telling that didn’t really matter.

he wasn’t paying attention. not until he heard your laugh.

soft. low. the kind of laugh that used to only come out when you were comfortable, when you forgot to be afraid. he froze instinctively—eyes lifting before his mind could stop him.

there you were.

sitting on the edge of a planter box under the tree near the gate, legs crossed at the ankle, your head tilted as you listened to jake say something beside you. he was holding a bottle of water, a backpack slung over one shoulder. he handed it to you, and you took it with a small smile, your fingers brushing his for just a second.

heesung couldn’t hear what you were saying. but you were smiling. you looked healthy. rested. you looked like you hadn’t spent weeks crying over him in the dark. you looked like you’d finally let go of the hand that once shattered you.

and you didn’t look his way—not once.

that was the part that felt the heaviest.

“damn,” jay muttered beside him, loud enough for the others to hear. “she moves on fast.”

sunghoon snorted. “wonder if she cried in jake’s arms, too.”

they laughed. a few other boys chuckled with them. someone else said, “what was her name again? the one you took home? y/n, right?”

heesung didn’t say anything. he kept walking, but his pace slowed.

“maybe she’s just collecting boyfriends now,” jay added with a grin. “first heesung, now jake. who’s next?”

“bet jake has no idea she was begging heesung to stay, crying like a kicked puppy.” sunghoon whistled. “guess jake likes secondhand toys.”

the laughter grew louder. more shameless. more cruel.

heesung stopped walking.

he didn’t say a word. he didn’t laugh. he just stared straight ahead, jaw clenched so tight it ached. his fingers curled tighter around the strap of his backpack, knuckles white.

they were still talking about you like that. like you were nothing more than a punchline. like you hadn’t mattered. like you hadn’t loved him.

and he said nothing.

because saying something would mean stepping out of the mask he’d been wearing this whole time. it would mean breaking the image. it would mean admitting that you weren’t just another girl. that what he did wasn’t just a joke. it would mean facing everything he’d been trying to ignore since the moment he left your house and walked away from the girl who had given him everything.

he told himself it was better this way. that it was cleaner if he stayed silent.

but his silence was starting to rot him from the inside out.

you were still sitting there, unaware. jake stood up, pointing at something in his phone, and you leaned slightly to look. he held the screen closer, and your knees brushed lightly—casual, natural, the kind of touch heesung remembered vividly.

and for a second—just a second—he wished he could go back.

not to change what happened, not to undo it, but to tell you that it hadn’t all been a lie. that not everything had been a game. because when you smiled at him, something inside him had moved. and when you cried, something inside him hadbroken. he just hadn’t known what to do with that feeling. so he buried it. mocked it. pretended it never happened.

and now it was too late.

jay slapped a hand on his shoulder. “what, you mad he’s got her now?”

he didn’t respond.

just shook him off gently, like the touch annoyed him.

because yeah. maybe he was mad.

but not at you. not at jake.

he was mad at himself—for letting go of the only person who ever looked at him like he wasn’t just a name behind a pretty face. for breaking something he didn’t know how to fix. for being too much of a coward to say, “stop,” when they started laughing.

and for still staring at you like you were his, when he gave you every reason to walk away.

he laid on his back, staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

the room was quiet except for the hum of his fan and the soft ticking of the clock on his desk. it was late—past midnight, maybe closer to two—but sleep didn’t come easily anymore. not the kind that left you rested. not the kind that made mornings worth waking up for.

his body was still. but his mind wouldn’t shut up.

he hated how loud your memory was in silence.

he closed his eyes and it came rushing back. the way your fingers curled in his shirt when you kissed him the first time. how you trembled under his touch but still whispered “i want this with you.” how you winced when he entered you, how your nails dug into his back as you cried out, how you smiled, teary and flushed, afterward, whispering “i’m happy it was you.”

he hadn’t meant to remember all of it—but it wouldn’t leave him alone.

the way you used to wait by his locker just to walk home together. the way you brought him tangerines because he said he liked them once. the way you blushed whenever he tucked your hair behind your ear. how you laughed when he teased you softly. how your voice always dropped when you said his name like it meant something more.

he thought he’d buried all of that. he thought forgetting you would be easy.

but nothing about you was forgettable.

he sat up in bed, breathing heavy now, like the air around him had thickened. there was a tension in his chest—an ache that didn’t go away when he rubbed his hands over his face. it stayed there, lodged in his ribs, aching like guilt, like grief, like a question he’d never asked himself until now:

did i love her?

and the silence answered back:

yes.

yes, he did. maybe not from the start. maybe not all at once. but somewhere along the line—between the library books and your gentle voice and the way you looked at him like he was someone worth loving—he had fallen for you.

and now you were gone.

really gone.

not just physically, but emotionally. spiritually. you no longer belonged to his world. you no longer turned at the sound of his name. he could pass you in the hallway and it would be like walking past a ghost.

he hesitated, looking at his phone on the nightstand.

his heart beat faster.

his hand trembled slightly as he reached for it, thumb hovering over your contact. it was still there. he never deleted it. he never even changed your name. just y/n—plain, simple, the way you saved yourself in his phone that first night.

he stared at it for too long.

what do i say?

what could i say?

sorry? i miss you? i didn’t mean it? i was wrong?

they all felt hollow. they all felt too late. but he pressed the call button anyway, like maybe—maybe—you’d still want to hear his voice.

it rang once.

then the screen went black. call declined.

he froze.

his stomach dropped.

he tried again. and this time—

“this number is not available.”

his throat tightened. he tried to breathe through it, but his chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself.

you had blocked him.

not muted. not ignored. not paused.

blocked. completely. entirely. with finality.

and just like that, it hit him like a blow to the ribs.

she doesn’t want to hear from me. she’s done.

what did he expect?

that you’d pick up in the middle of the night, voice soft and sleepy, still waiting for him? that you’d cry again, say his name, beg for answers? that you’d run into his arms like nothing had happened?

how fucking foolish.

his fingers tightened around the phone, then let it drop beside him with a dull thud.

you weren’t waiting. you weren’t hoping. you weren’t his anymore.

you had walked away. healed. outgrown him.

and he—he had stayed the same. still pretending. still running. still hiding behind silence and laughter and people who didn’t care if he burned.

he laid back down, arm over his eyes, chest hollow.

he wouldn’t call again.

he wouldn’t message.

he wouldn't show up pretending to be brave.

not because he respected your decision—but because he was a coward.

and because facing your rejection now would destroy what little was left of him.

so he let the silence stay.

just like you had.

days had turned into weeks, though heesung wasn’t sure when the shift had occurred. time had begun to bleed together, slow and indistinct, like the blur of water slipping down a window during a storm. everything felt quieter than before, but not in the peaceful way—no, it was the kind of silence that made his skin itch, that wrapped around his lungs and refused to let go, like grief that hadn’t quite finished forming. he still walked the same halls, still sat in the same classrooms, still laughed at the same tired jokes, but the world around him felt distorted, as if nothing was quite where it used to be. and it wasn’t. not really. because you weren’t there anymore—not in the way that counted.

you didn’t look at him anymore. didn’t flinch when you passed each other. you didn’t hesitate, or soften, or seem remotely affected by the empty space he left behind. and maybe that was what finally started to eat at him—not your absence, but your indifference. it was easier when he thought you hated him. hate meant fire. hate meant he still lived somewhere inside you. but now... now you looked through him like he had become translucent, like he no longer held a single thread to your world. and god, it hurt more than he could stand.

he told himself he didn’t care. repeated it like a prayer each night when he stared at the ceiling in his dark room, one arm slung over his eyes to block out everything except his thoughts. but the truth clawed at him like something alive. he remembered everything—your hands in his, the soft pull of your smile, the way your head fit perfectly on his shoulder, how your voice cracked when you said “i’m glad it was you.” he had tried to forget, but it came back in waves, sharp and suffocating. he remembered how you kissed him like he mattered, how you trembled but still trusted him, how your eyes fluttered open afterward, full of something so painfully pure it nearly undid him.

he couldn’t forget. not anymore.

the ache that came with those memories had become unbearable—dense in his chest, heavy in his throat. and when he walked into the chemistry lab that afternoon, all he wanted was to disappear for a little while, to escape the noise of the halls and the suffocating press of guilt that followed him like a shadow. he didn’t expect to see you there.

you were standing near the lockers, facing away from him, your body half-tucked behind the tall cabinet where the beakers and tongs were kept. you moved carefully, methodically, as if each motion served a purpose. your back was straight, your hair pulled out of the way, the sleeves of your uniform rolled just slightly. you looked so calm, so self-contained. you looked nothing like the girl he remembered sobbing under a blanket while he walked away.

he froze. completely.

for a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. he felt like the air had thickened, like he had walked into a memory and it had decided to come alive just to punish him. his gaze locked on you, and as if some invisible string snapped taut between you, you turned.

your eyes met.

and everything around him went still.

his heartbeat stuttered. there was a pressure behind his eyes, behind his ribs, like something raw had clawed its way out of him. and for the briefest second, he thought maybe—maybe—there was something still left. maybe you’d say something, anything.

but then you blinked, cold and calm, and turned away again without a word.

you folded your lab coat neatly, placed it on the stool beside you, and grabbed your bag. you were already halfway to the door when his body reacted before his mind could.

“wait—”

his voice cracked through the silence, rough and desperate.

you paused, fingers on the sliding door, shoulders tense.

“please. y/n… wait.”

he moved toward you, slowly, like every step cost him something. and just before you could open the door, he reached out, fingers brushing your wrist.

you flinched.

your reaction was immediate, electric—your body snapped away like he had burned you. your eyes turned to his, not wide with surprise or hurt, but narrowed with fury and something else—disgust. your voice, when it came, was sharp and low and full of ice.

“don’t touch me.”

he stepped back instinctively, guilt spreading across his face like poison. he lifted his hands slightly, palms open as if to show he meant no harm. but it didn’t matter. it was already too late.

“i just… i need to talk to you,” he said, voice softer now, almost breaking. “please. i know i don’t deserve it. but just let me—”

“you used me.” your voice cut through the room like a blade, and he fell silent instantly. “now you want me to believe you care?” you shook your head, bitter disbelief dripping from every word. “don’t insult me. save your guilt for someone who asked for it.”

he took a shallow breath, but your words didn’t stop.

“you didn’t defend me when they laughed at me.” your tone trembled now—not with weakness, but with pain long held. “you laughed with them.” you stepped forward, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “so don’t act like you regret it now.”

his lips parted, his throat worked, but nothing came. not until you finally said the last thing he’d been terrified to hear.

“you never loved me, heesung.” your voice cracked, but you didn’t look away. “you loved the way i looked at you.”

that broke him.

he looked down, shoulders heavy, breath unsteady. he wanted to deny it, to explain, to beg—but the truth swelled inside him like a wound finally bursting.

“i did,” he said softly, eyes flicking back to you, desperate. “i did love you. i swear i didn’t know it until after, but—” he choked, biting down the panic that rose in his chest. “yes, it started as a joke. a fucking stupid bet. but it stopped being one the moment you smiled at me like i meant something. when you held my hand, when you kissed me back, when you… when we were in your room, and i held you—”

you slapped him.

hard.

his head jerked slightly to the side, the sting spreading across his cheek like fire.

you were shaking now, but your voice was steady.

“don’t you dare bring that night up.”

your eyes were red, but not from weakness. from rage. from betrayal. from the kind of heartbreak that people don’t walk away from whole.

“you planned it. all of it. you got close to me just to win. you let me fall. you let me love you knowing the whole time you were going to rip me apart. and you did.” your voice rose, thick with tears now spilling freely down your cheeks. “i hate you, heesung. i hate you. leave me alone.”

he opened his mouth, but you were already walking away, grabbing your coat and bag, shoving past him like he wasn’t even there. and this time, he didn’t follow. he didn’t try to stop you. he just stood there, one hand on his cheek, chest collapsing in on itself.

he watched you disappear through the door.

and for the first time, he didn’t just feel regret. he felt loss. real, permanent, irreparable loss.

and he knew.

you would never look at him again.

not even with hate.

because even that… required caring.

and you were done.

[byfawn]

THE CONTRACT

↳ oneshot | 10.8k | lowercase intended

preview: you signed a contract in desperation for money, thinking it was a joke of sorts—desperate times call for desperate measures. but when you're taken by two masked men who don’t plan to hurt you, just keep you, you realize this isn’t a joke anymore.

↳ note: this is a dark romance with heavy psychological elements and morally ambiguous characters. while the ending leans into tenderness, there is a lot of blurred lines. reader discretion is strongly advised. i really held back a lot while writing this because i was not in the mood to have my account flagged again lol. maybe one day i'll get the balls to go full throttle!

↳ content warnings: this fic contains explicit non-consensual elements (kidnapping, confinement, drugging, forced captivity), psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome themes, graphic sexual content (including cunnilingus, spanking, edging, denied orgasm, forced orgasm, overstimulation, anal play, double penetration, breeding, pussy slapping, praise, and degradation), power dynamics, forced feeding, and emotional trauma.

the bright glow of your laptop screen lights up your cramped apartment. outside, the city echoes with distant sirens and the occasional drunken shout, but inside, the silence is deafening. your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

the eviction notice on on the coffee table stares back at you in big, bold red letters reading final warning. almost as if it was some kind of death sentence. you hoped it would't come to this but hope could only get you so far. the last thing you needed right now was to be homeless in this shady neighborhood during the dead of winter. you've sold everything of value—all of your jewelry, your books, even a good chunk of your clothes. but it wasn't enough. it was never enough.

so there you were, curled up on your sunken couch, scrolling through the darkest depths of the internet. the places people only whisper about in hushed tones. your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts as you click through encrypted forums, each one darker than the last. the air in your apartment feels thick, heavy with the weight of your desperation.

you spent hours working late nights and early mornings but it was never enough to crawl yourself out of the debt that has been sucking you into a blackhole. 

then you see it.

the sanctuary.

the site is sleek, almost too polished—like it was designed to lure in people exactly like you. no flashy banners, no pop-ups. just a single, ominous listing under experiences:

be taken. be kept. no questions. $500,000 payout upon completion.

your heart stutters in your chest. half a million dollars. that kind of money would be life changing. more than enough to wipe your debts clean, to start over, to breathe again. you could finally move out of this shitty hell hole that is a pathetic excuse of an apartment. 

it was probably a scam but what harm would come from just filling out the application. some twisted joke or a phishing site made to prey on the desperate. you weren't stupid, you knew that. but your fridge was empty, your bank account was overdrawn, and the landlord's threats were starting to sound like promises.

but the questions that follow make your skin prickle with unease:

do you consent to full surrender? yes.

are you prepared to give up all rights for the duration of the stay? yes.

are you mentally and physically prepared for an intensive period of isolation, obedience, and environmental conditioning? yes.

do you understand that comfort and care will be provided at the discretion of your handlers, not upon request? yes.

you swallow hard, throat dry as sandpaper. the rules are deliberately vague, the language clinical, detached. it claims that it is a hundred percent legal and consensual, but something about the way the words sit on the screen makes your stomach twist.

it feels like a game. a dangerous, twisted game—but you're desperate enough to play.

your cursor hovers over the sign button. for a moment, you hesitate, the rational part of your brain screaming at you to close the tab, to walk away. but then you think of your landlord's sneer, the way your stomach aches from skipping meals, the crushing weight of knowing you're one missed payment away from being out on the streets.

against your better judgement, you click sign.

you hold your breathe as you wait for what happens next. the screen of your laptop goes black. anxiously, you ram your fingers against the keyboard in an attempt to bring it back to life. the screen remains black, the shocked reflection of your face staring back at you. 

you can't help but laugh. it comes out nearly hysterical. with everything going on, the last thing you needed was your shitty laptop giving out on you. as you reach to close your laptop, the screen mysteriously flickers back to life with a single message written across it:

leave your door unlocked tonight.

you slam the laptop shut, the sudden silence in the room pressing in on you like a physical force. your pulse roars in your ears, your palms slick with sweat. what the absolute hell did you just agreed to?

fuck, it's too late to back out now. and no amount of prayers or demise can undo what you had just signed off on. for all you know it was probably some stupid prank set up by a group of teenagers who didn't know any better. that night when you went to sleep, you locked the door and triple checked the windows before heading to bed. 

you spent countless hours tossing and turning, you were far to anxious to even close your eyes, afraid that the dark will swallow you whole. you opted for sitting on the edge of your mattress, knees drawn to your chest, listening to the creaks and groans of your apartment building. every noise makes you jump, your heart insistently pounding in your ears. every creak made your skin crawl, quickening your pulse. 

the clock strikes past 2:00 a.m. your eyes sting from hours of fighting off much needed slumber. you had a shift at the coffee shop that started in three hours. but despite your exhaustion, your body refusing to relax. before you knew it, light was softly filtering through the blinds, the dark of the night gone at last. the apartment was quiet and still as it could be as you stretched your sore limbs. staring into the mirror, your eyes were bloodshot and your face looked drained of life.

there was a part of you that felt like an absolute and utter idiot for even believing that something was going to happen. still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. it wasn't in the apartment itself, or in the air, or the light. it was in you.

you dragged yourself through your shift at the coffee shop, running on caffeine and adrenaline. the hours passed in a blur. you made drinks, wiped counters, and forced yourself to smile at customers who would never guess what you had done the night before. you kept checking your phone, half-expecting a message, a warning, something. but there was nothing. it felt almost as though a weight was lifted off of your chest. 

by the time your shift ended, you were too exhausted to think straight. you walked home in a haze, the cold wind biting at your skin. after a quick hot shower, you bundled up under your comforter and drifted off into some much needed slumber. 

you don't know what wakes you.

maybe it's the shift in the air, the sudden absence of sound. maybe it's the weight of a gaze you feel before you even open your eyes. but when you do—there's a man standing at the foot of your bed.

your breath catches, your body locking up in pure, animal instinct. he's tall—too tall—his broad frame nearly swallowing the dim light from the streetlamp outside. the shadows cling to him like a second skin, but you can make out his face due to his mask, the glint of something dark and unreadable in his eyes.

you don't scream. you don't even move. your lips part, but no sound comes out. 

then instinct finally kicks in.

you lunge for your nightstand, scrambling for anything to defend yourself. his hand snaps out, catching your wrist in a grip like iron. your pulse thunders in your ears as you twist, nails raking against his arm. a growl rumbles in his chest, low and warning.

"none of that," he murmurs, voice rough.

you don't listen. you can't. panic floods your veins, sharp and electric, and you thrash, knee jerking up. a second pair of hands grabs you from behind, locking your arms against your body. "fuck," a new voice mutters, voice thick with a british accent. "she's a fighter."

you writhe, teeth bared, but they're too strong. he reaches reaches into his pocket, pulling out a syringe. the liquid inside catches the light and you thrash against them even harder.

your breath comes in ragged bursts. "no—no—"

"shhh," the first man soothes, almost gentle, as if he's calming a spooked animal. "just a little pinch."

the needle sinks into your neck.

you gasp, the burn of the injection spreading fast. your limbs grow heavy, your vision blurring at the edges. the last thing you see is the second man's masked face tilting as he studies you, his grip never loosening.

"sleep now, little one," the first man murmurs.

and just like that—the world goes dark.

when you wake, its feels like your skull has been hammered in. you could practically feel your heart pounding in your head. your neck still sore from whatever the hell you were injected with. your mouth feels dry and tastes of copper and cotton. when you try to swallow, its like sandpaper grinding against your throat. you slowly start to piece together the reality around you. 

first it's the smell of damp concrete and something metallic. then the cold, seeping through your clothes and into your bones. finally, the pain, a dull throb at your neck where the needle went in.

you blink against the dim light. you're on a mattress, thin and lumpy, pushed into the corner of what looks like a basement. the walls are bare concrete, the only light coming from a single bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. there are no windows.

you try to lift your head and immediately regret it as the world tilts violently. a soft whimper escaping your lips. when you try to stand up, the chain around your ankle yanks you back. your breath hitches. it's thick, industrial-grade, bolted to the floor and connected to a leather cuff tight enough to leave marks but not cut off circulation.

"she's awake."

the voice comes from the shadows near the stairs. the british one steps into the light, holding two mugs. steam curls from them in the cold air. he's changed clothes and is now wearing black tactical pants and a tight gray henley that stretches across his shoulders. his mask remains firmly in place, the familiar skull fabric hiding his features. only his eyes are visible, glinting in the low light as he studies your pain-tense form.

he sets one mug on the floor near your mattress and keeps the other for himself. "drink. it'll help with the headache."

you don't move. your throat burns with thirst, but you won't take anything from him. not again.

he sighs, crouching down to your level. "suit yourself." he takes a sip from his own mug, watching you over the rim. "you put up a good fight back there. surprised me."

"go to hell." your voice comes out cracked, barely above a whisper.

you can tell he's grinning even through his mask. "already there, darling."

the creak of the stairs makes you both turn. the larger masked man descends slowly, his massive frame barely fitting. he's changed into a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. the sight of those thick veins running under tanned skin makes you swallow hard. his face is concealed by that distinctive hood—the fabric obscuring everything except those unsettling eyes that track your every movement.

"she's not drinking," the british one says. there's something possessive in how he watches you, something that curls heat low in your belly even as your mind screams in protest.

the hooded man tilts his head, the fabric shifting with the movement. "she will."

he reaches into his pocket with deliberate slowness and pulls out a phone. your phone. his fingers tap the screen before turning it toward you. the glow illuminates the loose threads of his hood as you see the bank notification—$100,000 deposited into your account.

"first installment," he says, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. "as promised."

you stare at the number until the screen goes dark, reflecting back the shadowy outline of his concealed face. it's more money than you've ever seen.

the british one nudges the mug closer with his boot. the ceramic scrapes against concrete. "now will you drink?" there's a challenge in his voice that makes you want to both obey and defy him, the contradiction tying your stomach in knots.

your hands shake as you reach for it. when you look up, they're both watching you with something like satisfaction, and the heat in their eyes has nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with possession. it should terrify you. part of you wishes it did.

the hooded man pockets your phone, the movement making his hood shift. for a second, you think you see the shadow of stubble along his jawline before it disappears back into concealment. "rules are simple," he says. the fabric moves with each word. "you stay. you obey. you get the rest."

"and if i say no?" your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

the british one's laugh is hollow. "you clicked the button, love. that was your signature." he steps closer, and you don't pull away when his thumb brushes your lower lip. "we all know what you really want."

the hooded man's hand settles on your waist, large enough to span nearly half of it. his breath is warm through the fabric as he leans down. "this is your life for now," he murmurs, and the promise in his voice makes your traitorous body arch toward him. "be a good girl and accept it."

the bulb flickers as they leave. the lock clicks. outside, wind howls, but inside, you're burning up. you're torn between horror and shame and filled with the aching need they've awakened in you. the tea sits forgotten as you press your thighs together, disgusted with yourself and yet already wondering when they'll return.

the silence after they leave is suffocating. you slump back against the mattress, your fingers trembling where they clutch the mug. the tea has gone cold, but your skin still burns where they touched you. you hate it. you hate how your body betrays you, how your pulse jumps at the memory of rough hands and low voices.

the chain around your ankle clinks when you shift, the sound too loud in the empty basement. you should be planning an escape. you should be screaming. instead, you're staring at the spot where the british one stood, the way he brushed your lips with his calloused hands burned into your mind. perhaps it was the after effects of the drugs that they gave you making you hallucinate?

you don't know how long has passed but you're most certain that it has definitely been a few hours. you're stomach is grumbling, the last thing you consumed was a day or two ago—a croissant and cup of coffee from the cafe. the hunger was gnawing at your stomach and you were starting to feel dizzy. 

 the door clicks open without warning. you jerk upright, chains rattling, as the british one strides in carrying a tray. the smell hits you first—roasted meat, fresh bread, something herbal that makes your empty stomach clench painfully.

"brought you dinner, darling," he says, setting the tray just beyond your reach. steam rises from the plate, curling in the damp basement air. your mouth waters before you can stop it.

you force your gaze away. "i'm not eating that."

he crouches with predatory grace, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. "oh?" his fingers tear off a piece of bread, holding it up. "smells good though, doesn't it?"

when you don't answer, he tsks. "such a stubborn little thing." the bread brushes your lips. you press them tighter. his other hand grips your chin, forcing your head up. "come now. you'll need your strength."

"for what?" you snap, trying to twist away. his grip tightens.

"for all the fun we're going to have." he presses the bread harder against your mouth. "eat."

you lunge suddenly, teeth aiming for his fingers. he moves faster, twisting your head to the side and pinning you against the mattress. his body presses down, all hard muscle and controlled strength.

"naughty," he breathes against your ear, hips grinding down just enough to make your breath hitch. the bread is still in his other hand. "you want to play rough? fine." he nips your earlobe. "but you're still going to eat."

you thrash violently, nails raking down his arms, legs kicking uselessly beneath his weight. he sighs dramatically. "have it your way." in one smooth motion, he pulls his mask up just enough to reveal cruel, smiling lips and pops the bread into his own mouth, chewing slowly while watching you struggle. "shame. it's really quite good."

your stomach growls loudly. you can feel your face grow heated from embarrassment but your far to prideful to eat anything he offers. you can see his eyes light up with dark amusement. 

before you can react, he's grabbing another piece of bread and chewing it deliberately. you barely have time to gasp before his hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. his mouth crashes against yours, tongue forcing the food past your lips. you choke, but he doesn't let go until you swallow, his teeth nipping your bottom lip as he pulls away.

your chest heaves, torn between rage and the shameful realization that your body is responding to his dominance. he tears off another piece, chewing slowly as he watches you. you know what's coming. your breath comes faster.

"open," he commands. when you don't obey, he pinches your nose shut. instinct makes your lips part, and he's on you again, feeding you another mouthful with his lips and tongue. this time, when he pulls away, a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

"that's it," he coaxes, feeding you another bite. each morsel comes with a stroke of his fingers, a whispered praise that coils heat low in your belly. "so good for me."

when the food is gone, he lingers, thumb wiping a crumb from your lip. you bite down hard. he yanks back with a laugh, examining the teeth marks on his thumb. when he finally stands, adjusting his mask back into place, you're left panting, your lips swollen, your body thrumming with conflicting sensations.

"feisty till the end," he muses. "i like that." he collects the tray, pausing at the door. "sleep well, princess. you'll need it."

your can feel the exhaustion of the past two days and a 12 hour shift wearing down on your body. as much as you try to fight it off in fear of one of them coming back down, your exhaustion wins and sleep comes heavy and unwilling. your lips still tingle from the forced feeding, your skin buzzing with the memory of his hands on you. you dream of mocking voices and teeth at your throat, waking in gasps only to find the basement still dark, still empty.

when you wake, it is to the feeling up being watched—a feeling that you have known all to well lately. it's him. the hooded one. he seems to be much gentler compared to the one with the british accent. 

he's seated in the corner, silent as a shadow, his massive frame swallowing what little light filters into the room. you don't know how long he's been there, but the way his head tilts when your eyes meet tells you its been far to long. his gaze catches yours slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment its prey realizes it's caught. 

"you're awake." his voice is low, muffled by the mask, but it scrapes over your skin anyway. he doesn't move. doesn't blink. just stares, those unreadable eyes tracking the way your breath hitches.

you sit up slowly, chain clinking, your muscles stiff from the cold floor. instinct has you crawling backward before you can stop yourself, shoulders pressing into the wall as if that could save you. "what do you want?"

he stands in one smooth motion, the movement too graceful for a man his size. the bucket in his hand sloshes, water dripping onto the floor between his boots. "you need to wash."

your stomach drops. "no."

he doesn't react, just sets the bucket down with a thud and nudges it toward you with his foot. the towel draped over his arm is crisp, white—a mockery of cleanliness in this basement. "you're dirty," he says. 

heat floods your cheeks. "i'm not undressing in front of you."

"no?" his head tilts, the edges of his hood shifting. beneath the fabric, you imagine his lips curling. "then you stay dirty." he crouches suddenly, fingers snagging the hem of your shirt. "unless you want help."

you slap his hand away. "don't fucking touch me."

his grip closes around your wrist like a vice, yanking you forward until your chest nearly brushes him. "fight all you want," he murmurs, dragging your trapped hand under his mask. his tongue flicks out, tracing your knuckles through the fabric, slow, as if savoring the salt of your skin. "you'll give in eventually. i'll ask again nicely. take it off."

"no."

one hand fists in your shirt and yanks. the cotton fabric tears like paper. cold air hits your bare skin and you gasp, hands flying up to cover yourself. it's pointless. he's already grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. his gaze darkens as he drinks in the sight of your bare chest. your nipples harden under his sharp stare and you can't help but squirm. you shouldn't have found this attractive but it had wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs. 

the damp cloth traces your collarbones, slow and methodical, wiping away your sweat. you bite your lip to stop the moan threatening to escape.

"so sensitive," he murmurs, the cloth dipping lower. he releases your wrists and grips your waist, holding you still as he washes between your breasts. your breath comes faster, your nipples pebbling under his attention. "see how your body reacts?"

you squeeze your thighs together, but he notices. of course he does. his knee nudges them apart as he crouches before you. the cloth drags down your stomach, over your hips, leaving fire in its wake. when it reaches the waistband of your shorts, you whimper.

"shhh," he soothes, even as his fingers hook in the fabric. "i'll take care of you." the rip of fabric echoes in the quiet room. you should be ashamed, should fight harder, but his hands on your bare skin feel too good. you melt under his rough hands like putty. you find all the fight that you had slowly simmer down under the gentle care of his hands. 

the water is cool, but where he touches you burns. his fingers trace every curve, every dip, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your chest ache. when his thumb brushes your inner thigh, you jerk, a broken sound escaping your lips.

"so perfect," he growls, his masked mouth pressing against your knee. "so responsive." his hands slide up your legs, washing away the last traces of dirt, leaving you exposed and trembling.

no one has ever been so attentive to you. not when you were scrounging for food in dumpsters at twelve. not when you burned with fever that left you immobile in that shitty studio apartment with no one to even bring you medicine because you had no one. the first tear falls before you can stop it. 

he pauses. "look at me." when you don't, his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze up. his masked face tilts, studying your wet cheeks. "crying?" his thumb swipes under your eye, collecting tears. "why?"

"because you're—" your voice cracks "—you're fucking monsters. and this is the kindest anyone's ever touched me."

the confession hangs between you, raw and ugly. his breathing changes, the mask fluttering slightly. for a long moment, he just watches you shake, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you upright.

was it the emotional wear and tear of the past 48 hours sneaking up on you? or even worse, the lifetime of neglect that you had faced resulting in any kind of attention, good or bad, making you feel seen? you had been numb for so long that the sensation of tear running down your heated cheeks felt foreign. it was almost as if a dam had burst within you. 

his hands resume their work, slower now. the cloth moves down your thighs with unbearable gentleness, washing away dirt and years of neglect. "let go," he murmurs against your knee, his lips brushing skin through the fabric. "just let us take care of you."

you sob when his fingers find the scar on your hip—the one from when you fell through a rusted fire escape at fourteen and stitched it up yourself with fishing line. his touch lingers there, warm and steady, and something inside you fractures.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you think wildly, to let them break you. if their hands put you back together after. if they keep looking at you like you're something precious instead of disposable. 

"there," he whispers when you're clean, pressing a towel to your damp skin. his hands tremble slightly as he dresses you, buttoning the fresh dress with careful fingers.

you hate how much you crave his approval. hate how badly you want him to touch you again. but most of all, you hate that when he leaves, the cold feels unbearable—and that the scent of him lingers on your new clothes, wrapping you in something dangerously close to comfort.

the days blur together in a haze of careful hands and quiet commands. the british one that you have come to know as simon comes like clockwork—morning, noon, night—feeding you bites of food between teasing remarks. "open wider, princess," he'll murmur, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you obey. sometimes he makes you eat from his fingers. sometimes from his mouth. you always flush, always protest, but your lips part easier each time.

and the tall one that goes by konig is the one who washes you, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as they scrub away your resistance along with the dirt. he notices everything—how your breath hitches when his fingers graze the back of your neck, how your thighs press together when he kneels between them to wash your legs. "so responsive," he praises each time, his masked mouth brushing your ear. "such a good girl for me."

 you had lost track of how many days you had been holed up in the basement. how long did they plan to hold you captive? you had wondered if there had been anybody out there looking for you. although, that was highly unlikely given that you're parents weren't in the picture and you had no friends. maybe your manager at the cafe had filed some kind of report, she was a sweet old lady who always checked in on how you were doing because she knew that you lived alone in a shader part of town. 

as the days passed you started to formulate ways you could escape. the first order of business you had to tackle was the stupid chain on your ankle. luckily for you, there had been a bobby pin from your hair that you had kept hidden under your mattress.

you waited until the house fell silent, until even the creaking floorboards above had stilled. then you went to work. the lock was stubborn, but you were stubborn too. the first click made your pulse spike. the second had your hands shaking with anticipation. 

"and what do we have here?"

you nearly jump out of your skin—your blood turns to ice. simon’s voice comes from directly behind you, his shadow swallowing you whole. you don’t even have time to turn before konig’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back.

"naughty girl," he murmurs, plucking the pin from your fingers. his mask brushes your cheek as he inhales sharply. "you smell like fear. you should be scared."

simon crouches in front of you, his knife flashing as he taps it against your ankle cuff. "we give you pretty dresses. feed you from our hands." the blade gently slides up your calf, making you shiver. "and this is how you repay us?"

you spit at him, the saliva landing on his boot. "go to hell."

simon’s laugh sends shivers down your spine as he wipes his boot clean with slow, deliberate strokes. "oh sweetheart," he purrs, sheathing his knife with a click that echoes in the silent basement. "you just earn yourself a proper punishment."

konig’s grip in your hair tightens as he hauls you upright, his other hand wrapping around your throat in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse jump but does. "such a bad girl," he murmurs, his masked lips brushing your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. "needing to be taught a lesson."

you thrash against him, nails scraping at his arms, but he doesn’t budge. the hard planes of his chest press against your back, his arousal evident even through layers of tactical gear. simon stands with that infuriating smirk, rolling up the sleeves of his henley to reveal corded forearms that have no business being so distracting. "over my lap," he commands, settling onto the edge of the mattress with deliberate ease.

"fuck you!" you snarl, twisting in konig’s hold. your heart pounds not just from fear, but from the way his fingers flex against your throat, the way simon’s eyes darken as they rake over your body.

konig tsks, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours as he easily maneuvers you face-down across simon’s thighs. the cold air hits your bare ass as konig yanks your panties down in one sharp motion, his knuckles brushing your sensitive skin and leaving fire in their wake.

"such a pretty little ass," simon muses, running his calloused palm over one cheek in a caress that feels more possessive than punishing. "gonna look even prettier all red and marked up."

the first smack lands without warning, sharp and stinging. you yelp, fingers digging into the mattress as heat blooms across your skin. "bastard!" you spit, but your traitorous body already responds, your nipples pebbling against the rough fabric of simon’s jeans.

simon just chuckles, delivering another sharp slap to the same spot, the pain melting into something dangerously close to pleasure. "count them, princess. or we start over." his thigh shifts beneath you, pressing deliberately against your aching core.

"never!" you gasp, but your hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction.

the next blow comes harder, making your eyes water even as your cunt clenches around nothing. konig’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as simon begins a relentless rhythm—left cheek, right cheek, each smack louder than the last, each one sending jolts of heat straight to your throbbing clit.

"o-one," you finally crack out in a broken voice, shame curling in your belly even as your arousal grows.

by the fifth spank, your thighs shake—not just from pain, but from the way simon’s massive hand covers nearly your entire ass, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your dripping slit with every impact. the sharp sting radiates through you, mixing with the low throb between your legs until you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure begins.

"f-fifteen," you choke out after another brutal spank, your ass burning like fire. tears streak your face, but worse—your juices coat simon’s jeans where you grind against him, your body betraying you completely. you’re a sobbing, snotty mess by fifty, but your cunt pulses with need, aching to be filled.

simon pauses, rubbing circles over the heated skin of your ass. "fast learner that we have here," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. his fingers dip lower, brushing against your soaked folds and coming away glistening. "oh? what’s this?" he holds his wet fingers up for konig to see, his smirk widening.

you whimper, hips jerking away from his touch, but konig holds you firm, his other hand sliding down to squeeze your abused cheeks. "she’s dripping," he observes, his voice thick with amusement as he presses against you, letting you feel the hard length of him through his pants. "such a dirty little thing, getting off on her punishment."

"i’m not!" you protest, but your traitorous body clenches around nothing, your clit throbbing with each heartbeat. the scent of your arousal fills the air, mixing with leather and gunpowder in a way that makes your head spin.

simon’s next smack lands directly on your pussy, the sting mixing with pleasure so intense you scream, your back arching off his lap. "liar," he growls, delivering two more sharp slaps to your swollen lips that have you seeing stars. "your cunt’s begging for more. should we give it to her, konig?"

the taller man hums, his fingers sliding through your folds to circle your aching clit with terrifying precision. "i think she’s earned a reward," he decides, pressing down just hard enough to make you writhe, your hips chasing his touch. "after she apologizes, of course." his thumb flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing a broken moan from your lips. "well, little one? what do you say?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction even as your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching toward konig’s skilled fingers. simon’s hand comes down again, this time on your already burning ass, the sharp sting making your clit throb against konig’s relentless circles. "fuck! okay, okay! i’m sorry!" you sob, the words torn from you as much by pleasure as punishment.

konig’s fingers don’t stop their torturous movements, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "sorry for what, little one?" his voice is rough velvet through the mask, that accent curling around the words in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"for t-trying to escape," you gasp, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand now, your resistance crumbling with each expert stroke. the way simon watches you—those piercing eyes tracking every twitch of your body, the way his jaw tightens when you moan—sends fresh heat pooling low in your belly. "for being a b-bad girl."

simon’s palm lands one final, stinging blow before soothing over the heated skin, his touch almost tender.

"good enough," he decides, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. his eyes darken at the sight of your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your nipples pebble under his gaze.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. "all marked up and still so defiant." the way his voice drops sends shivers down your spine. "we’ll break you eventually."

konig’s fingers push inside you without warning, curling against that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. "she’s close," he observes, though the way his breath hitches betrays his own arousal. his fingers piston in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as you arch off the bed, your body taut as a bowstring. "should we let her come?"

"not yet. the first time she comes, it will be on my cock." simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear as konig’s fingers still, leaving you teetering on the edge. "don’t even think about touching yourself, i will be watching."

"next time you misbehave," simon promises, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that makes your cunt clench around konig’s fingers, "we won’t stop at just a spanking." the dark promise in his voice has liquid heat dripping down konig’s fingers. "understood?"

you nod frantically, your entire body trembling with denied release, your skin oversensitive and burning wherever they’ve touched you. konig withdraws his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them deliberately on your inner thigh, marking you with your own arousal. "good girl," he murmurs, the praise curling around you like smoke. "now sleep."

as they leave, the door locking behind them with finality, you collapse onto the mattress. your ass still burns, your cunt still aches, and worst of all—your fingers itch to touch yourself despite simon’s warning. you press your thighs together, biting back a moan as the friction sends sparks through your oversensitive nerves.

curling into yourself, you press your face into the pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. you should be planning another escape, looking for a weakness in routine, trying to get out of the shackle but you find yourself wondering on how they would taste and feel instead.

sleep didn't come. just the endless replay of konig's murmured praise, simon's dark promises. the way they'd worked you over like a shared project, all rough hands and calculated tenderness. you bit your lip until copper flooded your tongue, but it didn't stop the memories—konig's breath hitching when you clenched around his fingers, simon's grip in your hair as he forced eye contact while konig touched you.

the next morning arrives with no relief. you wake tangled in sweat-damp sheets, your body still thrumming with last night's denied pleasure. every shift of fabric against oversensitive skin sends sparks through your nerves, making your teeth clench. you press your thighs together tightly, but the pressure only makes it worse —a constant, aching reminder of their control.

"someone didn't sleep well," he observes, setting down the breakfast tray. the scent of coffee makes your chest tighten with something dangerously close to homesickness.

"fuck you," you mutter, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

he chuckles, perching on the edge of the mattress. "eventually." his fingers trail up your bare leg, pausing at the bruise konig left yesterday. when you flinch, he presses harder, his thumb circling the mark. "hurts?"

you shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"liar." the word is almost affectionate as he reaches for the breakfast tray. "open."

when you hesitate, his free hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your still-throbbing core with terrifying accuracy. "i said," he repeats, fingers applying just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, "open."

you part your lips with a shaky exhale, letting him feed you the first bite. his smile widens as he wipes a crumb from your lip with his thumb. "see? was that so hard?"

konig enters silently, his massive frame filling the doorway. his masked face tilts as he takes in the scene—simon's hand still under the sheets, your flushed cheeks, the way your fingers clutch the blanket in white-knuckled fists. "trouble?" he rumbles, moving to stand behind simon.

"just reminding our girl who takes care of her," simon replies, feeding you another bite. this time, konig's hand joins his under the sheets, his fingers replacing simon's. his calloused fingers drags against your sensitive flesh, making you gasp.

"so wet," konig murmurs, his other hand stroking your hair. "even after last night." his fingers work you with clinical precision, never quite giving you what you need. "do you want to come, little one?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. the answer claws at your throat, but pride keeps it locked behind your teeth.

simon leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "say please," he whispers, "and maybe we'll consider it."

the tray sits forgotten as they reduce you to a trembling mess between them—konig's relentless fingers, simon's filthy words. when you finally break, a whispered "please" slipping past your lips.

simon's fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes them apart, the cool air hitting your needy cunt. his mask is lifted just enough to reveal his smirk before he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds. you whimper, back arching off the mattress, but he pins you down with ease, his grip bruising.

"so fucking wet," he mutters against you, lips sealing around your clit to suck lightly—just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to push you over. his tongue flicks and teases, alternating between soft licks and sharp nips that leave you gasping. konig's hand strokes your inner thigh, his other palming himself through his pants, the quiet sound of fabric rustling filling the room.

"please," you choke out, fingers twisting in the sheets.

simon pulls back with a wet sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "please what?" he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, the thick head catching on your clit. you jerk, a broken noise escaping you. "use your words."

"please—fuck me," you plead, hips lifting desperately.

he doesn't make you wait. with one brutal thrust, he's inside, stretching you to the limit, the stretch burning so good. his hips snap forward, setting a punishing pace from the start, each drive punching a moan from your lips. konig's hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with simon's thrusts, the dual stimulation making your vision blur.

"gonna come?" simon growls, fingers digging into your hips. "told ya the first time you'd come would be on my cock."

you shatter with a sob, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. the orgasm so intense that it hits you like a freight train. simon fucks you through it, his own release following shortly after with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. konig's breath is ragged behind his mask, his hand moving faster over himself until he grunts, spilling over his fist.

simon pulls out with a satisfied hum, thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pressing it to your lips. "good girl," he murmurs, watching as you lick it clean. konig's hand strokes your hair, his touch almost gentle compared to the wreckage simon left behind.

"next time," konig says, "i'm taking your ass, little one."

konig's fingers curl around the cold metal of the shackle, the one that's been clamped around your ankle for weeks—maybe months, time blurred down here in the dark. the click of the lock releasing is the sweetest sound you've ever heard. your skin tingles where the rough iron had been, the sudden absence of weight making your leg feel almost weightless, like you could float away.

the relief is immediate. the constant pressure, the chafing, the way it bit into your flesh every time you moved—gone. you suck in a sharp breath as blood rushes back to the spot, the sensation both prickling and soothing at once. you reach down without thinking, fingertips brushing over the raw, tender skin. it's sore, yes, but god, it's free.

he watches you for a moment, his masked face unreadable, before he hooks an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. your body protests weakly—every muscle limp, every nerve still buzzing from simon's rough treatment—but you don't fight it. you can't.

the basement stairs creak under his boots, each step taking you further from the damp, mold-scented air, closer to something you'd almost forgotten existed. real light, real air. your vision swims as he carries you into the hallway, the sudden brightness making you flinch. it's not even that bright—just a dim lamp flickering on the wall—but your eyes burn anyway, unused to anything but shadows.

he kicks open a door, and then you're being lowered onto something soft. a bed. actual fabric beneath you, not concrete, not that pathetic excuse of a mattress. your body sinks into it, the mattress cradling you in a way that makes your throat tighten. you want to cry. you might already be crying.

konig's hand drags over your bare hip, possessive but not cruel. "rest," he orders, voice gravelly. "you'll need it."

you don't have the strength to answer. the second he pulls the blanket over you, your eyelids give out, heavy as lead. the last thing you feel is the ghost of his touch on your cheek before darkness swallows you whole.

later that evening, you stir to the feeling of large hands sliding beneath you, lifting you with surprising care. your body aches, muscles still heavy with exhaustion, but the pain is duller now—soothed by the deep, dreamless sleep you'd fallen into.

konig's voice is softer than usual, almost tender as he murmurs, "time to get you cleaned up, little one."

you blink up at him, disoriented, but there's no cruelty in his touch, no impatience. just steady, quiet control. the mask is still in place, but his movements are gentle as he carries you down the hall, the sound of running water growing louder with each step.

when he pushes open the bathroom door, steam curls in the air, the scent of something warm and herbal—lavender maybe—filling your lungs. your breath hitches. a real bath. not a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, not the rough scrub of a rag while you shiver on the basement floor.

the tub is already full, water glimmering under the dim light, little bubbles floating on the surface. konig kneels beside it, testing the temperature with his fingers before turning back to you. "can you stand?" he asks, voice low.

you nod, though your legs tremble when your feet touch the tile. his grip tightens just enough to steady you, his other hand sliding around your waist to keep you upright. the care in his touch is almost startling—like he's handling something fragile, something precious.

he helps you step into the water, and the moment it closes over your skin, you nearly whimper. it's so warm, so soft, the heat seeping into your sore muscles, loosening the tension in your back, your shoulders. you sink deeper, the water rising to your collarbones, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel clean.

konig doesn't rush you. he sits on the edge of the tub, one arm draped over the rim, watching as you slowly relax. when he finally reaches for the soap, his movements are methodical, careful. the washcloth glides over your skin, scrubbing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering traces of simon's touch. he's thorough but never rough, his fingers lingering just a little longer on the places where bruises bloom—like he's memorizing them.

when he reaches your hair, his touch turns almost reverent. he tips your head back, cupping water in his palm to wet the strands before working the shampoo through with slow, massaging circles. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a quiet sigh escaping you. it's the closest thing to kindness you've felt in so long, and it makes your chest ache.

"better?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you can only nod, throat too tight to speak.

he hums in approval, rinsing the suds away before lifting you from the water with effortless strength. a plush towel wraps around you, absorbing the droplets as he pats you dry with surprising tenderness. his hands linger on your hips before he lifts you again, carrying you back to the bed.

the sheets are cool against your skin as he lays you down, but the warmth of the bath still lingers beneath your flesh. he looms over you, his masked face unreadable as he reaches for something on the nightstand—a small bottle of oil.

"gonna stretch this pretty little ass for me," he murmurs, uncapping the bottle. the scent of vanilla and something spicier fills the air as he pours the oil over his fingers, warming it between them. "you'll take it so well, won't you? always such a good girl for us."

his free hand spreads your thighs, exposing you completely. you shiver, but not from cold. there's something about the way he looks at you, the way his voice drops into that rough, possessive tone that makes your stomach tighten.

the first touch of his slick fingers against your rim makes you gasp. he circles slowly, teasing, watching how your body reacts. "so tight," he growls. "gonna ruin you for anything else."

just as the tip of his finger begins to press inside, movement catches your eye—simon, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. his gaze is dark, hungry, tracking konig's every movement. when he pushes off the wall and stalks forward, your breath hitches.

"look at that," simon murmurs, dragging a calloused finger through your folds. "already wet for it." his touch is rougher than konig's, less patient, but it sends a jolt of heat through you all the same.

konig chuckles, the sound low and pleased as he works his finger deeper. "she loves it," he says, twisting his wrist just enough to make you whimper. "don't you, little one? love being stuffed full?"

simon's fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have your hips jerking. "fuck," he breathes, watching konig push a second finger in. "look at her. greedy little thing."

the stretch burns, but the pleasure simon coaxes from your clit makes it impossible to focus on anything else. konig scissors his fingers, stretching you further, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "soon," he promises, voice thick with want, "it'll be my cock. gonna wreck this perfect ass until you can't walk."

simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "and i'll be right here," he murmurs, "playing with this pretty cunt while he does."

the plug is cold when konig presses it against your hole, but the way he works it inside—slowly—has you arching off the bed. simon's fingers curl inside you, matching konig's pace, and when the plug finally pops into place, you come with a broken cry, their praises ringing in your ears.

the room is hazy as they pulls away, simon's fingers glistening as he drags them slowly from your soaked cunt. you're still trembling, oversensitive and boneless, but he doesn't let you rest for long.

"open," he commands, pressing those same wet fingers to your lips.

you obey without thinking, tongue darting out to lick them clean, the taste of yourself sharp and familiar. simon hums, satisfied, before reaching for the tray he'd brought earlier. the food is simple but to you, it might as well be a feast.

simon doesn't hand it to you. instead, he picks up a piece of fruit, holding it to your mouth. "eat," he says, voice rough but not unkind.

you take a bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue, and you have to force yourself not to whimper. it's so good, so much better than anything you've had in what feels like forever. simon watches you chew, his dark eyes tracking every movement of your throat as you swallow.

"that's it," he murmurs, grabbing another piece. "good girl."

he feeds you like that making sure you take your time. konig watches from the foot of the bed. you can feel the weight of his gaze. it's heavy, possessive, and it makes your skin prickle even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs.

when the tray is empty, simon sets it aside and wipes your mouth with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. "sleep now," he orders, pushing you back onto the pillows.

you don't have the energy to resist, not when your body feels so heavy, so used. the plug inside you is a constant reminder of their claim, but right now, even that can't keep you awake.

the last thing you see is konig leaning over you, his hand brushing your hair from your face. "rest," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "we're not done with you yet."

escape is the last thing on your mind as you doze off. 

the next morning, sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. it had been so long since you'd waken up to the sun. you stir as the door creaks open, konig's broad frame filling the doorway. 

"morning, little one," he rumbles, voice still rough with sleep.

you sit up slowly, the soreness in your body a dull ache now, more memory than pain. the plug in your ass still feels foreign. konig crosses the room in a few strides, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "feel better?" he asks, tilting his head.

you nod, and something in his posture relaxes—just slightly.

"good," he says. "then let's get you dressed."

he doesn't give you a choice, but his hands are gentle as he helps you into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a loose sweater that smells faintly of him. when he kneels to slide socks onto your feet, his fingers linger over the fading marks from the shackle, his thumb pressing lightly against the tender skin. 

you had fallen so into routine with the two of them that your old life was a thing of the past. it's not like you had anything or anyone to go back to. at least here, you had a roof over your head and you didn't have to worry about when or what your next meal would be. 

"no more basement," he murmurs, more to himself than you.

"no more basement," you repeat after him. 

then he stands, offering you his hand. "come. you can see the rest of the house."

your breath catches. real freedom—even if it's just within these walls—feels like a dream. konig leads you through the hallway, his grip firm but not restraining. the house is larger than you expected, the floors polished wood, the walls lined with framed maps and black-and-white photographs.

but it's the library that makes you stop.

floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with books of every color and size. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to touch, to explore. konig notices, of course. he always notices.

"go on," he says, nudging you forward.

you don't need to be told twice. the moment your fingertips brush the spine of a book, something tight in your chest loosens. you pull one out at random, the weight of it familiar and comforting in your hands.

konig watches as you curl into an armchair, your knees tucked under you, the book open in your lap. he doesn't join you, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. but he doesn't leave either.

the silence is comfortable, broken only by the turn of pages. you lose yourself in the words, the story pulling you under, and for the first time in so long, you forget—forget the basement, forget the pain, forget that you're anything but a girl reading a book on a quiet morning.

until konig shifts, pushing off the wall. "simon's back," he says, and just like that, the spell breaks.

your fingers tighten around the book, but you don't protest when he takes it from you, marking the page with a slip of paper before setting it aside.

"later," he promises, his hand sliding under your chin, tilting your face up to his. "if you're good."

the rest of the day goes by in a blur, you even asked simon if you could cook dinner and he agreed although he was wary of letting you use a knife, reasonably so. 

the knife feels heavy in your hand—too much power after so long without any. simon watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking every movement. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you focus on the vegetables in front of you, slicing them carefully.

"slow," simon murmurs, stepping closer. his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "don't get too excited now."

you nod, forcing your hands to steady. the rhythm of chopping is almost meditative, the repetitive motion soothing. simon hums in approval, his fingers brushing your hip as he reaches past you for a glass. the casual touch makes your stomach tighten.

dinner is simple—pasta, roasted vegetables, a sauce simmering on the stove. it's more than you've cooked in months, maybe years, and the domesticity of it feels surreal. konig appears just as you're plating the food, his mask pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. he inhales deeply, nodding.

"smells good, little one," he says, taking his seat at the table.

simon doesn't say thank you, but the way he cleans his plate tells you enough.

the meal is quiet, the only sounds the scrape of forks and konig's occasional low comment. you eat slowly, savoring each bite, hyperaware of their eyes on you. when you finish, konig takes your plate without a word, stacking it with the others.

then simon stands, stretching lazily before fixing you with a look that makes your pulse jump.

"bed," he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

you obey without hesitation, your body already reacting to the command. konig follows, his presence a solid warmth at your back as you climb the stairs.

your room is dim, the bed neatly made—just as you left it. but you don't get the chance to admire it before simon is pushing you onto the mattress, his hands rough but purposeful. 

"you did good today," simon murmurs as he strips you of your clothes, "so we'll make it good for you too."

the mattress dips under their combined weight as konig settles behind you, his massive frame caging you in. his thick thighs bracket yours, forcing your legs wider. you can feel the obscene stretch of his cock already—hard and leaking against your ass—as he works the plug inside you with slow, filthy twists.

"fuck, look at you," simon growls from between your legs, his calloused fingers spreading your drooling cunt wide. "clit all swollen and begging, and this greedy little hole—" he slaps it, making you jerk, "—dripping just from getting stuffed in the ass. fucking perfect."

konig’s hand fists your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he finally pulls the plug free with a wet pop. the cold air hits your stretched rim for just a second before he’s pressing the thick head of his cock against it, spit-slick and relentless.

"breathe, little one," he rumbles, but doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s sinking in, inch by brutal inch. your back arches, a broken scream tearing from your throat as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

simon doesn’t let you recover. he flips you onto your back, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he slams into your cunt in one brutal thrust. the angle is deep, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips.

"that’s it, take it," simon grunts, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit as konig starts moving behind you. the stretch is unreal, your body stuffed impossibly full, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin barrier of your walls.

konig’s hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur as he murmurs, "feel that? both of us inside you, owning you." his thrusts are slower, deeper, dragging against your oversensitive rim with every pull.

simon leans down, biting your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. "gonna fuck you so full, princess," he snarls. "gonna pump this tight cunt until it’s dripping with me—then watch as he seals it all inside you."

you’re sobbing now, your body strung tight between them, pleasure and pain blurring into one unbearable wave. konig’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he picks up the pace, his balls slapping against your ass with every snap of his hips.

"come," simon demands, slapping your clit again. "come on our cocks like the filthy little thing you are."

you shatter with a scream, your cunt fluttering around simon as your ass clenches down on konig. they don’t stop—just fuck you through it, their groans mingling as they chase their own release.

simon comes first, his cock pulsing inside you as he grinds deep, filling you up just like he promised. konig follows with a low snarl, his thrusts turning erratic before he spills, his cum mixing with simon’s as it leaks out around his still-hard cock.

for a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the wet drip of their spend onto the sheets.

then konig leans down, plugging your ass again, now filled with his cum. "my perfect little one," he murmurs, pressing a kiss through his mask to your pulse point. "you did so well."

simon just smirks, tapping your swollen clit once more just to watch you twitch. your body is limp between them, every muscle trembling from overstimulation. for a moment, you think they’ll leave you like this—used and sticky and aching. but then simon shifts, his arms sliding beneath you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you whimper at the movement, your oversensitive skin protesting, but he hushes you with a low hum.

"shh, princess" he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. "we’ll take care of you."

the water is already warm when he lowers you into the tub, the heat soothing your sore muscles. konig follows, a damp cloth in hand as he kneels beside you.

"look at you," simon says, dragging the cloth over your stomach, wiping away the evidence of their claim. "so pretty when you’re all fucked out."

you shiver, but there’s no bite to his words—just quiet satisfaction. konig takes your hand, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles as simon cleans between your legs, his touch surprisingly careful despite the way you flinch.

when the water starts to cool, konig lifts you, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you back to bed. the sheets have been changed, fresh and soft against your skin. simon presses a glass of water to your lips, his free hand cupping the back of your neck to help you drink.

"slow," he warns, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

you swallow obediently, the water soothing your raw throat. konig climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. simon settles at your back, his arm slung over your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

"you can leave tomorrow if you want, the rest of the money promised to you will be wired to your account," konig murmurs into the quiet, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. the words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected.

you go still against him.

simon’s grip tightens slightly at your waist, but he doesn’t argue. just waits for your response.

the offer is real. you can tell by the way konig’s chest rises and falls, measured and slow, like he’s bracing for something. like he already knows.

your throat feels tight. you think of whatever shitty life awaits you beyond these four wall. you had nothing to go back to. yes, the money would be nice but not as nice as whatever this was. you think of the careful way simon had fed you, the way konig had held you after. you think of the basement—the cold, the dark, the ache of being nothing.

and then you think of this.

the weight of them around you, the heat, the way their touches have started to feel less like a threat and more like...something else. something you don’t have a name for yet.

you press closer to konig, nuzzling into the space between his collarbone and jaw, his mask tickling your nose. his breath hitches, just slightly.

"no," you whisper.

simon exhales against your shoulder, his arm curling tighter. konig’s hand stills on your arm before sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the spot behind your ear.

"good choice, princess" simon rumbles, and you hear a rustle behind you followed by a kiss to your shoulder. you lean over to see that he had taken his mask off, it was your first time seeing him without it. your heart catches in your throat, you hadn't expected him to be that attractive.

konig doesn’t say anything. but when you tilt your head up to look at him, his mask is off, his dark eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes and drift off.

the days melt into weeks, then months, then years—each one softer than the last. the basement gathers dust, its door left permanently ajar until one day konig tears it off its hinges and turns the space into a wine cellar. you laugh when simon fills the first rack with cheap beer instead.

their masks stay off more often than not now. you learn the way simon’s nose scrunches when he laughs, the way konig’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he’s fighting sleep. they learn the way you hum when you cook, the way your toes curl when they kiss that spot behind your knee.

mornings find you tangled in their arms, afternoons in the library with your head in konig’s lap as simon reads aloud (badly, on purpose, just to hear you giggle). evenings are spent on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of gold and violet, their hands never far from yours.

[luludeluluramblings]

The Tape... Part Two

Reader and Conner are in the cave dealing with the fallout of their Sex tape getting leaked... Reader has a plan...

Part One

Warning: Fem!Reader, NSFW themes, no actual smut, pure crack nonsense, fake Twitter post

The silence was loud. Very very fucking loud. And, so incredibly awkward. Honestly, you were surprised that this hadn't happened before. Gotham media literally had poll last week on who the hottest of the Wayne Family Orphans was. (You had placed fourth, but it's okay. You're pretty sure your ranking just shot up to first now.)

It was a PR miracle that there hadn't been a sex tape, nude, or dick pic leak before this. There had been swimsuit pics. And, someone had managed to get a picture of Dick in grey sweatpants. Lot's of people had been thirsting in the comments, talking about how they'd like to give him a son. Some of them were even women too. Internet people were feral.

Although, you try to shake that thought from your head because certainly you were in trouble.

Sitting in the Batcave with everyone - and you do mean everyone - giving you and Conner disapproving looks. The only reason Conner wasn't tied up and stuffed with kryptonite like a holiday bird was because Clark had joined the family. And, Jon was holding back Damian.

"In my defense, I did try to get it out of the carpet. But, I didn't want that to ping that in my search history. I know Tim checks that on the regular." You started, breaking the silence after what felt like hours of awkwardness. It had been twenty minutes. Still too long, but not that long. You could here a outraged 'Hey' from Tim and Alfred's exasperated sigh. You might actually make him retire at this rate.

"Is that really all you have to say on this matter?" Bruce is already using the Batman voice. And, still in his Batman gear. Not good. Wasn't he in a Justice League meeting earlier? Oh, well.

"I mean, do you want me to say anything else?" You're question causes multiple scoffs, guffaws, and Conner to choke on a laugh.

Such a shame he couldn't get to you fast enough. It was your fault really. You'd both gotten distracted in discussing where would be the best place to flee to. It had spiraled into an argument and then he had to fuck the brat out of you… So yeah… Didn't escape in time. Oopsie.

"How about an apology?" Jason had the audacity to say. As if he didn't literally murder people once upon a time.

You just shrugged. Not really feeling sorry about the situation. "Sorry for traumatizing the internet."

The grin Conner gives you is filled with glee, but he quickly hides it. There's only so much leeway he can get from Clark's presence before a little green crystal gets shoved into a newly made orifice on his person.

"I am… disappointed in you." Bruce barely manages to say through gritted teeth. And, it causes you to tear up.

"Are you saying that I'm officially the family disappointment?" There was way too much glee in your voice and a series of groans leave the rest of the family.

You had probably just earned the most coveted title in this family held together by a butler, costumes, fancy toys and BatBurger runs.

Bruce finds himself pinching the bridge of his nose when he realizes what he's done. This is the real reason he doesn't tell any of his children when he disapproves of something. He learned this with all his kids. He had genuinely thought he'd gotten lucky when you turned out normal.

He was wrong.

"Do you understand what you've done. You've just put a massive target on your back. Anyone that wants to get to Superboy will come after you now." He jumps into lecture mode instead. Trying to give the logical reason for being upset with this.

Though, in reality he was livid that, not only did Conner have sex with you, he had to do it in the damn parlor. The one they usually had family meetings in. He wasn't going to be able to sit in there anymore. Mentally, he made note to have the room renovated. And, to replace the carpet.

"Look I have an idea on how to fix that."

"Oh, and what's that?" Stephanie pipes up, trying not to grin. She knew you had something planned. And, she couldn't wait.

Almost everyone else tensed. Because they knew your plans could go to shit quick or work in the most convoluted bullshit ways imaginable. It was a gift, really.

"Give me like three minutes." You mutter before pulling out your phone and opening up your Twitter/X app. Typing out a quick sentence and sending it off.

There's a ping on the Bat Computer and Barbara pulls up the newest tweet from your account for everyone to see.

A/N: I didn't really plan on continuing this, but I thought why the heck not. Kinda short, bunch o' nonsense.

A/N: Forgive me if I seem absent, I got low energy right now and I'm stressed. I broke a tooth and I hate going to the dentist. But, I went, and I need surgery to fix it... Friggin AO3 curse hitting me and I ain't even posting on there yet.

[hannieboyd]

ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪᴍ ˳ᐟ - ʜʏᴜɴɢ ʟɪɴᴇ

Pairings: (individual) Skz x fem!reader | established relationship

Contains: +18, smut, fluff, mentions of sex, teasing (shown through Leeknow and Bangchan), princess treatment, I think thats it?? idk this is pretty short lol

Summary: How the hyung line would take care of you after a long night of teasing and letting him take the wheel.

*not proofread!*

✦ Bangchan: Is definitely the type to give you the princess treatment after a long night of treating you like his own person sex doll. he’d cuddle you, smother you with kisses, and praise you on how you took it all so well for him and tell you how much of a good girl you were. He would also probably feel just a tinsy bit bad for how he manhandled you a couple minutes ago. Hand over your neck as he pushed you over the edge for what felt like hours, marks all over you that looked like you just swam in a tank of mosquitos. Yeah, the least he could feel was a little sorry from it, and he was! sort of..

“You did so good baby, I know. Im sorry for going so rough on you, but how do you expect me to react when you say my name like that?”

✦ Leeknow: Teases you from the moon and back with the little energy he has left. It’s shocking how he still finds room to do so when near the end of it he was squirming under you like it was his destiny, moaning and shaking while still trying to remain his composure of course. He’d hold your waste and cuddle you under the blankets as he nibbled at your neck knowing it’d mess with you further, and when you try to shift away hed pull you back while laughing.

“Dont leave loveee, I was just joking!”

And when he jokes about how you were basically clawing yourself onto him, you’d try to dish it back by mentioning how he overstimulated himself so much drool was nearly slipping down the sides of his mouth but he always finds snarky remarks back anyways.

“You were all over me baby, how’d you expect me to stop?”

✦ Changbin: a softy in disguise. Almost as soon as you guys are done he’s plopping himself next to you, hugging you asking if you’re okay. He didn’t wanna tire you out too much, he’s understands strong guy but sometimes he tends to forget how strong he is. I mean he’s almost as bad as Bangchan , if not worse! He really doesn’t mean to though. Sometimes he just gets caught up in the moment with his pretty girl wrapped around his cock, head nuzzling into his shoulder. who could blame him? Luckily he cleans you up after a few minutes, he finds it disheartening to let his pretty girl sit there in her own mess. (which he contributed to)

“Such a messy girl, I must’ve worn you out” He said with a semi frown his face, almost like hes blaming you for it. (jokingly, of course.)

✦ Hyunjin: Soft and serious—he doesn’t play when it comes to your comfort, especially after intimate moments like this. He licks your juices clean one last time before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead and going to get a towel and some snacks to clean you up. Like Changbin, he doesn’t like the thought of you sitting there a mess, soaked in your sweat and a bit of embarrassment after he’d just giving you the night of your life—its just too cruel. Even if he secretly loves the sight of it. He lays your head into his lap and plays with your hair as the two of you unwind with a movie. He cherishes moments like these. Yeah, its nice to see you under him, makeup a mess as tears go down your face as you plead with him to go slower—but he’d much rather just have you and him, next to eachother and living in the moment. He loves it. As you watch the movie, his eyes stay on you. He wonders how you could still look so breathtaking even after a night with no breaks. He caresses your cheek as you look up to him. he can only chuckle softly before he speaks.

“wow, you’re still looking good after all that. not fair.”

·········⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆·········

AN: sorry for the wait! please lmk if you guys would like a maknae line ver. though ill probably do so anyways, haha. tysm for the support on my last post and hope ygs enjoyedd!:)

[loserabby]

could you write something on eating out big pussy!abby for the first time

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚.     𝐒𝐎 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 (𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐈'𝐌 𝐀 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑) big clit!abby x reader

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ . ** MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, THIS IS AN 18+ BLOGI DO NOT GIVE ANYBODY PERMISSION TO REUPLOAD OR PLAGARISE MY WORK. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING I'VE WRITTEN ANYWHERE ELSE OTHER THAN HERE OR MY A03, PLEASE LET ME KNOW VIA ASK **

₊˚ 𓂃 ₊ ˚ ✧     some people just aren't into receiving, or at least that's what you think the problem is when it comes to the fact that your girlfriend of two months still won't let you make her feel good. until you accidentally catch her naked for the first time and suddenly you start to get an idea about what might actually be the problem.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 :     explicit language and content, use of Y/N, no outbreak au (modern), established relationship, references to sex, enlarged clitoris (clitoromegaly), slight misunderstandings. sexual content: kissing, dry humping (once again, to quote madeline argy: BRING BACK DRY HUMPING), mentions of strap-ons and sex-toys, cunnilingus, cum eating. slight dirty talk. mentions of past bodyshaming, embarrassment 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 :     5,869k

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 :     i mean i imagine her pussy to be an absolute meal in all my writing but this one really focus' on it. shout out to @onlyheluvsme for being the mvp of team big clit abby i highly recommend going through her masterlist for that it's... chefs kiss. ngl the smut is not my best but this has been fermenting in my drafts for like a week and showed no signs of getting better I'M SORRY. and finally, clitoromegaly is obviously nothing to be embarrassed by and i don't want anyone to take abby's shame/bad experiences in the past as me mocking the mutation but it is something others might not be as well educated about so i didn't want to pretend that doesn't happen.     [ read on ao3 ]

[ border credit ]     [ resources for palestine ]     [ boycott tlou ]

Admittedly, it takes a few times before you start to pick up on a recurring theme and when you do pick up on it? You don’t just feel guilty but… Curious, and deep down… Disappointed. 

Abby had wanted to take it slow and to her credit, you guys had only been officially dating for two months. Taking that into consideration with classes, part-time jobs and other college related things that meant you were both busy, it was understandable that she wanted to take it slow when you guys were able to see each other. 

She was a gentleman, making sure to take you out on proper dates first — not just somewhere quick and then have her hand up your skirt on the car ride home but actual restaurants with recommended dishes and signature wines that just confused you. She’d kissed you properly for the first time in her apartment on date number three, a movie forgotten about in the background but even then, she’d wanted to keep the pacing of your relationship slow.

But when you did start to get hot and heavy? God, it was good. So blindsightingly good you didn’t notice that every time it seemed to always focus on you. 

Climb on her lap? She readjusts you so you’re straddling her thigh instead and you’re so lost to the pleasure of your clit dragging against your panties and the hard muscle of her leg to pick up on it. 

Your hand snakes down to try and touch her pussy? She’s got your wrists pinned above your head in one hand, your nipples caught between her teeth and her other hand rubbing fast circles against your clit before you know it.

It doesn’t help that by the time you’re both in those situations, it’s late and when Abby finally decides she’s pulled enough orgasms out of you — slick coating your thighs, sticky against your cunt, her chin shiny from where she’d used her mouth on you and fingers still smelling of you even after she’s sucked them clean obscenely in front of you — you’re too exhausted to even think about cleaning up, never mind returning the favor.

Which fucking sucks cause when you do realise you can’t help but pout at how many opportunities you’ve been robbed of seeing her eyes roll to the back of her head, to see what her pussy looks like as it quivers. 

You were no stranger to pussy, it’s not like you wouldn’t know what to do. In fact you were proud to say you were very much a giver in that you could spend all day between a girls thighs much like Abby has done for you previously.

You’ve dated other girls before that maybe weren’t as keen on reciprocating and, given the circumstances, you assume at first that maybe that’s what Abby thinks about you. You had just rolled over and gone straight to sleep (albeit after making her spoon you and wrapping her big, strong arms around you beforehand so you’d feel safe in your fucked out state) so it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that she had assumed you were a pillow princess.

Respectfully to all pillow princesses, that misconception simply will not do.

So you try and subtly make it clear that you are very much interested in being a munch the next time Abby has you pressed into her sofa at her campus apartment, fingers buried knuckle deep inside your pussy, so wet you can hear every movement as she fucks you harshly. Abby’s got her mouth on your neck, sucking dark marks at your collarbones that make you whimper and keen before soothing them with her tongue and soft kisses as her thumb strums over your clit.

“So fucking pretty, baby, look at you swallowing my fingers so easily… Greedy little hole’s sucking me in” The blonde hisses against your skin, having to use her other hand that was groping your tits roughly to keep your thighs open. They’re shaking, threatening to slam shut even with Abby lying between them and you whimper as you feel her fingers digging into the soft flesh. 

Last time she left the prettiest bruises there, you’d spent days pressing your own touch to them just to feel the ache, an embarrassing wave of sadness coming over you when they started to fade. So maybe you purposely don’t hold back from letting your thighs twitch and writhe so she’s forced to hold you tighter, just so you’re maybe gifted with another reminder of her touch.

“Please, please… Let me, I wanna…” It’s unclear what you’re begging for, to cum or to touch her. You’re so close but not quite lost to the delirium Abby brings by orgasm number three so you take advantage of that, shaky hand coming out to grip at the butch woman’s jeans but faltering, instead clutching at whatever you can grab when her fingers start pounding at that gummy spot deep inside only she seems able to find as your vision starts to white out. 

You can feel yourself clenching around her fingers, the sound of your weeping pussy obscene as she continues her relentless finger fucking. “Shit, baby, you’re so.. Fucking.. Tight” she grits the words out, chuckling when she looks at you beneath her with your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your back arching off the couch and your head thrown back so far. “You coming? Gonna make a mess on the leather for me? C’mon, lets see how messy this pretty pussy can get for me, yeah?”

It doesn’t take long after that, pussy squirting all over Abby’s hand and dripping down your ass to the leather couch like Abby predicted, but even then she doesn’t let up with her relentless torture of your clit and hole. You try to grab at her jeans again, trying to unbutton them but she shakes her head, eyes wide for a split second before she’s making soft coaxing noises, your hands pinned above your head again. “All about you, baby” Is all she murmurs against your skin, before she makes sure to send you over the edge again and again, effectively cutting off any urgency in completing your task.

The next time you try and focus on Abby, try to make it clear you want to reciprocate is when the two of you are watching a movie at her apartment, your body lazily thrown over her and your head resting in the crook of her neck and your arms tossed around her.

Slowly your attention drifts from the screen, bored by some adaptation of a historical-fiction book Abby read but you’ve never heard of. Your lips slowly trail down her neck, featherlight kisses pressed to her collarbones as one of your arms drops and begins to drift below the blanket she’d pulled out to keep you both warm.

Abby’s attention is still on the film, still pointing out changes they made from the book to the movie but you know the moment she realises where your hand has gone. You feel her reaction more than see it, how her breath catches and her body stiffens. Your hand immediately stops tracing her crotch, teasing line drug along her slit over the fabric of her basketball shorts. 

“Sorry, I didn’t— I shouldn’t..” You pull your hand away quickly, your apology rushed and face hot from embarrassment. 

“We should, um.. We should focus on the film, yeah?” Abby says after some consideration, and you just wanna hide in embarrassment and shame because she clearly didn’t like that. 

You miss how she clenches her thighs together, mistake her heart racing for being out of panic and try to ignore the failed attempt at seducing your girlfriend when she has you bent over the sofa a few hours later on her strap in the low light of her living room, cooing in your ear about how pretty you look dripping down her cock.

Maybe you come to the conclusion Abby might be a stone butch, a touch-me-not, whatever the hell you wanna call it. Because she seems to shy away with every advance you make to try and reciprocate. 

You get it if that is the case but can’t help but feel like that should have been mentioned, communicated in some way so you didn’t feel so… Weird about it. Sue me, you think, is it so wrong to want to touch your girlfriend? Your incredibly attractive girlfriend? No, surely not.

You wouldn’t exactly say it’s a deal breaker, you like Abby a lot. Even in the little amount of time you both have been together already, she’s amazing and not just physically — although that is certainly a perk. 

She’s thoughtful, caring, she makes sure to check in with everyone (seemingly knowing everyone on campus). She always sends a good morning and a good night text, even when she’s deep in her study sessions or writing papers. She makes sure all your dates are ‘real’ ones, even if it’s just going to her apartment to make dinner cause she wanted to make sure you didn’t feel like you were being used for your body. Hell, she even made sure to let you know where the spare key to her apartment was kept so you could let yourself in after that time you got caught in the rain outside waiting for her.

Which leads to now; Enter you, spare key in hand after sending a rushed text to Abby saying you were coming over to talk when you realised you couldn’t go any further without discussing boundaries. 

You should have realised something had thrown a wrench in your plan the second you stepped foot in Abby’s apartment really, the small space weirdly quiet and steam slowly rolling out of her bathroom. Distantly, you can hear the low murmur of music coming from her bedroom, the door slightly ajar.

You’re calling Abby’s name as you push through the door, not bothering to knock as you assume she’s read your text. It’s only when you process what’s in front of you that you come to the realisation that you seem to do an awful lot of assuming — and you know what they say, to assume is to make an ass out of you and me.

Because Abby clearly didn’t read your text, not based on the horrified look on her face when you walk in on her stark naked on her bed. Her skin is flushed, still damp from the shower she’d clearly just taken and her hair dripping big, fat water droplets onto her chest. Her muscled thighs are spread open, heels digging into the mattress as her fingers remain still stuffed deep inside her dripping hole. Her bush is wild and untamed, a light brown that curls through her fingers as her other hand spreads her lips wide open

There’s a voice in the back of your head, a really unnecessary one that points out that it seems like Abby does like being touched after all, but maybe just not by you.

But the best part of the sight — or the worse part, taking Abby’s look of utter shock into consideration — is her pussy, just as a whole. Her enlarged clit, erect and pulsating as it seems to stand to attention. Her pussy as a whole is big, the kind of big that makes your mouth begin to salivate, embarrassingly, as you think playing with it.

It makes you realise you’d never actually seen her pussy before, that every time the two of you fucked she was either fully clothed or had her strap on over her boxers. How cruel of her to hide that perfect pussy away.

“I… I texted” You say weakly after a few moments of silence, stood in a half step in the door way. 

Abby doesn’t move, and you don’t know what else to say as you spiral, murmuring apologies and rushing back out the door before Abby is able to process what just happened.

Communicating isn’t going so well, more so after you accidentally walked in on Abby’s post-shower masturbation session. She’s avoided pretty much all your texts asking to talk and even gone as far as changing her routine to avoid running into you.

It kind of leaves you in a weird limbo where you’re not quite sure where you went wrong. There’s definitely areas you could have improved on (i.e. actually communicating about boundaries from the start so all this assuming bullshit didn’t happen) but you texted, you said you were coming by. Maybe you could have shouted a hello when you first entered the apartment but the last time Abby was in when you did she said you didn’t have to.

You’re also just incredibly unaware as to what the state of your relationship even is anymore? Is Abby still your girlfriend? Does she only like to touch herself and not be touched by others? It’s frustrating, yes, but you can’t help but feel like you owe Abby the time to digest what happened.

After all, it was her that got walked in on in her own home, completely naked and knuckle deep inside of herself. You can cut the blonde a break.

Doesn’t stop you from salivating at the memory of how beautiful and fucked out she looked that split second before she realised she’d been caught, face contorted in pleasure and juices spilling down past her knuckles.

After a dozen texts to Abby, ranging from apologies to simple messages telling her you missed her and you would wait until she was ready to talk, it’s a week later you finally get a response. It’s simple, to the point and very Abby.

[ Abs ] : You can come to my apartment for dinner, we should talk.

A terrifying text to receive, given the circumstances. The ‘you can come for dinner’ aspect giving you a sense of security, it makes you feel like everythings fine but the ‘we should talk’ part? That’s sending ‘break up talk’ alarm bells ringing through your head.

You text back nervously, asking what time and if you should bring anything. You end up outside her apartment door, pointedly ignoring the space where her spare key is hidden like it might burn, with a bottle of wine in hand as you wait for her to answer.

When she does, there’s a tension between the two of you the moment your eyes meet and — thank god — it’s not a bad kind. It’s like suddenly you’ve both had the air knocked out of you, like you hadn’t realised you’d been missing a piece of yourselves until you saw what was missing right in front of you. Two months you’ve been together, god Lesbians were stereotypically quick to get attached.

You can see how Abby’s eyes soften, warm when she sees you and she has to steady both her hands on the door frame as she welcomes you inside.

“Dinner might be a while,” She says, uncharacteristically timid seeming, her hand drifting to your lower back as she guides you into the apartment. “Sorry, took a little while longer than I thought but, um… We can sit on the sofa? Maybe, uh, if you want we could talk now? Get it out of the way?”

Get it out of the way?

You place the bottle of wine on the coffee table, heart racing as you consider what Abby might be about to say. God, is she about to break up with you? No, she couldn’t be… She’s made dinner, it would be epicly cruel to break up with you and then expect you to stay for whatever homemade pasta dish she’s made.

“I’m sorry!” The words spill from your mouth at a rapid speed, not even bothering to stop to give her a chance to cut in — her brows shot high and eyes wide as you ramble. “I-I texted and I thought that was enough but clearly I didn’t think that through, and I totally should have shouted to let you even know I had arrived in the apartment but I just didn’t think. But.. You.. I.. I froze when I saw, I mean how could I not but I thought you didn’t like that, and I guess that’s my own fault cause I never asked what you do and don’t like — we kinda forgot to have that talk a-and—”

“Woah, woah, Y/N, slow—” Abby tries to cut in, hands coming to your arms to try and stop them from moving around wildly as you talk. “What are you talking about, c’mon, slow down.”

“It’s my own fault, I didn’t notice for way too long and when I finally did, I realised you probably thought I was just a pillow princess so I kept trying to subtly show my interest but you— a-and then you kept pushing me away or turning it back on me so I just figured you didn’t like being touched, stone butch or whatever but then i-in your bed… you… you were touching yourself a-and—”

You only stop, words cutting off suddenly, when Abby takes your face in her hands and forces you to look at her.

“Y/N. Baby, stop. I need you to breathe, calm down for a sec’ okay?” Her words are spoken so softly, the care dripping off each word as she brushes a strand of hair behind your ear gently. “Can you do that for me, slow down and take a breath?”

You nod slowly, watching her reverently. Abby’s tongue darts out to wet her lips as she watches you, taking a deep breath of her own. “I should have talked to you sooner, I’m sorry I just… got caught in my own head. Maybe none of this would have happened if I’d of done that, but if you still want… If you’re still wanting us I’d like to talk now, if that’s okay?” She sounds nervous as she speaks, the words almost practiced. You nod, giving her the time to speak and watching as her hands drop from your face to twiddle nervously on her lap.

“I… It’s not that I don’t like to be touched, I want— I really want that, but I… I haven’t had the greatest experiences in the past when it came to… Other people and what they thought of my body” Your heart aches as Abby speaks, her blue eyes cast down to where her hands lay nervously on her lap and her voice going soft.

“I just… Got used to hiding my body, you know and I didn’t even realise I was doing it until you… You remember that night we were watching the City of Thieves film and you—” She didn’t need to go any further, your face brightening in shame as you recall the awkward rejection. “I just didn’t know how to… broach the subject, y’know, and it’s not like I really thought you’d be judgemental and mean about my body but it’s just built up after so many negative reactions”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, eyes narrowing slightly as you stare at your girlfriend. “Why would I judge you? I know you’re big, I know you’re muscle-y, why would I be mean about that?” You ask in genuine confusion, causing Abby to freeze and look at you equally as confused.

After a beat, she speaks slowly. “You… You think that I was talking… about my body-body?” After a beat, you nod just as slowly. “I was talking about my pussy” She finishes after a long space of silence, blunt and to the point.

Your head cocks to the side, confusion still clear in your expression as you process what she’s saying. What the fuck is so wrong about her pussy? You didn’t see anything wrong with it in that small (but well committed to memory) glimpse you’d had of it. “I don’t?—”

“Shit, you don’t… You really don’t see a problem, do you?” She sounds like she’s in awe, like your total lack of an issue around her genitals is something groundbreaking which makes a simmering bit of rage begin to boil inside of you because who in their damn right mind made the beautiful, the amazing Abby fucking Anderson so insecure in her body she couldn’t even show her girlfriend what she looked like?!

“Shit, okay, uh… I mean, you know — you saw — it’s big. Fatter than the norm’ I guess. It’s a mutation, congenital… I just.. I guess a lot of people I’ve been with have found it weird, ugly a-and they didn’t really wanna.. return the favor or do anything I guess.”

Yep, definitely rage you feel below the surface. The idea that Abby has been dealing with this because of people that were supposed to care for her speaking so badly about her body, for their reactions to something she cannot control makes you clench your fists. But you force yourself to relax, fingers stretching out on your thighs as you try to remain cool.

“Like I said, I didn’t really realise I was doing it until you started to, y’know… And I don't know, I couldn’t stop myself from panicking that it was gonna be the same reaction all over again. I just.. I couldn’t handle seeing that look of… of disgust on your face, not… you.”

Your delicate hands reach out to capture hers, stopping her from picking at the skin around her thumbs nervously as she speaks, to get her attention. “Abby, I.. I know other people have reacted that way but I would never—”

Her cheeks tinge red, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth and a small smirk etching its way onto her face. “I know, Y/N”

“You— You do?”

She nods, looking up to meet your eyes. “Yeah, I know. I, uh.. I figured that out.”

Your face pulls together again in confusion and slight annoyance, if she knew that then why did you spend the last week getting ghosted?! “What do you mean?”

“You have this look that comes over your face whenever you get turned on… Normally see it whenever I’m getting you off but, uh… That day, when you walked in on me? You had it when you were looking at me”

Your mouth drops open, breathless as you take that in. It’s no surprise though, you had been incredibly turned on at the sight, even thinking about it now has a wet spot forming in your panties at just the thought of Abby’s legs spread to unveil that beautiful cunt.

Shaking off the haze of lust, you focus on Abby. “So… Why did you, I mean I was happy to wait as long as you needed — I mean, again, I walked in on you a-and you needed to process that shock — but… why did you wait so long to talk?”

She heaves out a slow sigh, scratching at the back of her neck. “It was just weird, this bizarre 180 I was experiencing where this thing about me and my body that was always… weird for others and that I was kind of, y’know, expecting to be weird for you was suddenly attractive. That made you get that fucked out, horny expression on your face and I… I couldn’t believe it.”

“And now?”

“I mean… I believe it”

At that, your hand comes out to lightly smack at her arm, the both of you falling into light rumbles of laughter. Your hand lingers on Abby’s arm, dropping after a moment too long.

“Asshole,” softly you shake your head, a smile forming on your lips as you dip her head down. “I meant and now what? I mean, I take it this isn’t you breaking up with me like I was worried about?”

Her eyes widen in slight horror, like she hadn’t considered all of the nightmare scenarios that had been swarming in your mind over the last week. “N-No, no, absolutely not. Shit, you didn’t think— God, okay. No, no breakup was ever considered for the record”

That definitely eases the weeks worth of tension that had built up. 

You bite your lip, leaning forward into Abby’s space slightly. After a moment of silence, your needy eyes lift to meet Abby’s “Can we just skip to the part where we kiss and make-up?”

The other girl barely gets her own eager nod out before you’re clambering onto her lap, hands in her hair as you kiss her hard and messily. Your tongue licks into her mouth aggressively, small noises falling from the two of you as your hips rocks against hers. You missed this, missed how Abby tasted, how her tongue felt against yours as she explored your mouth just as thoroughly.

“I missed— missed you… so.. much” Heavy pants bracket each and every word, only broken by Abby pulling your lips back to hers as she devours you whole. She only pulls back with a high-keening hiss when you roll your hips in a certain way against her that makes her clit throb in her boxers. “Fuck, baby, careful” She sounds so pretty when she whines, her lip bitten as her head rolls back against the back sofa cushions.

Her head rolls to the side, looking at the kitchen before she swallows thickly, looking back at you. Her large hands move down to your hips, tapping the hip bones to get you to stand up. 

“Gonna save the food before we forget and burn the apartment down, you… Get in the bedroom” The way she breathes the words out, like she’s as affected as you are makes your head spin and you’re quick to scramble off her lap and into her bedroom.

Abby’s on you quicker than you realise, shoes barely kicked off before she’s at your back and kissing down the column of your neck with her hands running up and down your sides. Turning to face her, you drag her down into a punishing kiss until you feel her bed hit the back of your knees. You don’t fall back though, turning the two of you so Abby now has her back to the bed.

You’re panting when you break the kiss, wetting your lips despite the messy kiss as you look up at Abby through thick lashes with deep arousal. She looks equally as fucked, hair messy from where your fingers have gone through it as you both made out and her blue eyes dark with need. “Get on the bed for me, Abs. Like… Like you were that day” You sound fucked out already, thinking back to when you caught her touching herself like a wanton whore. You see the moment it registers in Abby’s mind what you’re asking her to do, a single raised eyebrow as she breathes heavily.

Slowly she strips her clothes, kicking her own shoes off. You spend equal time helping her discard her clothes as you do standing back and admiring her form, salivating as her tits spring free of her sports bra. She’s just got her boxers left when she crawls onto the bed, laying back against the headboard before lifting her hips and pulling them free.

She pulls them past her ankles and throws them on the floor, landing with a soft noise by your feet. Not that you notice, no, you’re too focused on Abby. Lay back on the bed, completely bare with only her knees propped up straight and infront of her to cover that pretty pussy of hers.

Your eyes are dark, hungry as you stare ahead, right where you know her crotch is covered by her legs. “Abby, that’s not how you were lay when I caught you” The words are low, almost rough as you wait, watching.

Her long hair, free from the braid she always wears, cascading messily down her shoulders is pushed behind her nervously before she slowly spreads her thighs and finally mirrors the position you’d caught her in a week ago.

Her heels aren’t quite digging into the mattress with need the way they were that day, but Abby isn’t nearly as worked over as she was then either. Still, you move forward hungrily, almost drawn to her like a magnet with your palms spread on the mattress to catch yourself as you instinctively move to get closer to her glistening slit. You look like a predator, crawling up from the foot of the bed and settling between her thighs, eyeing her pussy like prey.

She’s wet, so fucking wet you know your fingers would glide with ease through her folds. It makes you dizzy with lust, watching how her large clit throbs as you stare it down.

“Fuck, what… What now?” Abby whines, voice soft and breathy.

“Show me what you were doing before I walked in” Your voice is low, rough and your eyes don’t lift once from her drenched core.

You can hear the needy whines from Abby, her soft little moans that make you want to bite and kiss at her skin but she does as she’s told. Her hands come down to her pussy, one hand spreading her lips wide to show you everything while her other eases in with slow circles against her clit.

Not that she needs warming up, not with how quick she is to react to the barely there circular motions she does. “C’mon baby, you can do more. What did you do with this pretty pussy after that?”

Bottom lip drawn between her teeth, Abby can’t help but watch your darkened gaze as she drags two of her thick fingers through her slick, coating them with her juices before working them inside her hole.

Instinctively you lean in closer, inhaling her scent as you watch her twitching hole stretch to take her digits. Each time she fucks her fingers into herself, slowly and so fucking erotically, you watch as her hips lift slightly to meet her fingers, clit bumping against her palm and leaving a messy trail behind.

“So fucking gorgeous, look so pretty stretched around your fingers” You barely register your own voice, that you’ve said anything as you practically drool at the sight. No, wait, you’re actually drooling. Okay, between that and the obscene sounds of Abby fucking herself you can’t stop yourself, deciding you’d waited long enough to give.

Still, you can’t stop yourself from teasing before you stop her as you begin by kissing up her ankles. Your lips make sure to suck the occasional hickey the closer you get to her inner thighs, laughing low and wickedly when you hear her whine so pretty and the muscles of her thighs quiver. By the time you make your way close to where she wants you — and more importantly, where you have been wanting to be all this time — you have to take a moment to just… stare.

Take it in.

Fucking beautiful.

Licking a stripe up her pussy, slow flat tongue against her before sucking her fat clit into your mouth and laughing as she keens, hips lifting off the mattress before moaning at the taste of her. Above you, Abby’s head eventually falls back against the headboard with a soft thud as she makes a low, whining noise.

That’s when you start eating her out like a woman starved, messy and unashamed as you go to town. Licking her long and rough, spit falling from your mouth as you suck her clit into your mouth and lay one of your hands flat against her abdomen to keep her from lifting off the bed. She melts like honey on your tongue, the sheets beneath her messy with a mixture of her arousal and your saliva as it drips both down her ass and off your chin.

You’re eating her out half with the desire to bring her over the edge, to show her what all her other partners should have been giving her this entire time, and another part of you wants to just lap at her pussy with no regards. Hungry for the taste of her juices on your lips, to swirl your tongue around her protruding bud like you’re lazily licking an ice cream cone.

Her hands are in your hair, torn between yanking you off her when you suck harshly on her fat clit, laughing as she whines and whimpers, or pressing your face against her cunt to keep you fixed in one spot when you start to go rogue

“Oh.. Oh god, yes!” She’s a mess, completely gone beneath you when you finally decide to focus on getting her off. She’s soaked, dripping down your hand when you do touch her, and flooding your mouth with her arousal so much that when you grow desperate — yanking her up and throwing her on her hands and knees, eating her out from behind — you can’t stop the way her arousal drips onto the sheets beneath. She’s too damn wet for your mouth to capture all of it and the thought makes you feel feral.

“C’mon, Abs, I wanna feel you cum on my tongue okay? Wanna feel that pretty clit throbbing in my mouth”

You’ve got your hands at the junction where her thighs and her ass meet, spreading the skin so you have the max amount of access as you bring her over the edge, Abby’s neighbours no doubt able to hear her reaching her apex with her wailing. You move one of your hands down as you focus your mouth on her clit, fingers pushing inside of Abby’s warm heat again and sighing against her slick as her hole sucks them in greedily.

It doesn’t take long until Abby goes rigid, screaming and babbling that she’s coming with her head thrown back as you continue your ministrations, working her through her orgasm happily.

“Fuck, you coming from my fingers or my mouth, Abs?” You tease against her pussy as she gushes down your wrist practically, lapping her juices up with your tongue and feeling it drip down your chin. 

Her strong fingers thread through your hair and practically have to rip you off of her once overstimulation sets in, toned thighs twitching, desperate to slam shut and hide her pussy away from you. You let her pull you off, licking your lips with a wicked grin as you hover over her.

She’s redfaced, skin glistening with sweat and she looks completely fucked out. It’s a good look on her.

“What’s the verdict?” You ask with a teasing lilt, watching as she huffs out a laugh with her chest rising and falling rapidly still.

“Uh… Might let you do it again” She tries to play it casual but you swat at her chest lightly and she quickly falls into laughter. “Fine! I loved it, 10/10, I’ll write a damn Yelp review if you want me to”

“Who the hell even uses Yelp anymore, damn how old are you” You tease, caressing her cheek. “Promise me you’ll let me do that more? No more hiding” Your voice is tender as you speak, eyes warm as you look down at her. Abby’s breath catches in her throat at the softness, the love she can feel and she nods up at you. “I promise. No more hiding away.”

[slvbum]

POSTPARTUM OVULATION ♡ Rafe Cameron!

content WARNING: Rafe Cameron × Bunny!Reader marriage, mentions of breastfeeding, postpartum ovulation, pain, cock warming, sexual content, +18 MDNI.

based on this request HERE!

Ovulation made her body a battleground of hormones, and the pain this time was excruciating—a sharp pinch deep in her pelvis, radiating through her lower abdomen like a cruel twist. Between the exhaustion of breastfeeding and the endless days caring for their four-month-old, the pain was her enemy, sapping what little energy she had left.

Rafe noticed immediately when he stepped in, his sharp eyes catching the tension in her shoulders, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. He’d been working late, but his concern overriding everything else.

“Let me take her,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble as he reached for Marie Thérèse.

She hesitated, her arms trembling, but she nodded, too tired to argue. Rafe lifted the baby with practised care, cradling her against his chest as he murmured a quiet lullaby, carrying her to her crib. The room fell silent as he tucked her in, her small breaths evening out, and he returned to find his wife gone from the nursery.

He found her in their bedroom, sprawled on the floor in a starfish position, her silk nightgown hiked up to her thighs, her head tilted back as she stared at the ceiling Her face was etched with discomfort, a soft groan escaping her lips.

“I can feel this horrible pinch,” she muttered, her voice laced with frustration, her hands pressing uselessly against her lower belly. “It’s so annoying.”

Rafe’s heart clenched at the sight, and he moved quickly, kneeling beside her.

“Come here, baby,” he said, sliding his arms under her, lifting her effortlessly as she winced, her body limp against his chest.

He carried her to the bed, laying her down gently on the soft sheets, her nightgown slipping further to reveal the curve of her hips.

Rafe’s hands were warm and firm as he began massaging her, starting at her belly, his fingers kneading the tense muscles just above her pelvis.

“You need to relax a bit,” he murmured, his voice soothing but firm. “Breastfeeding and taking care of Marie all day is wearing you out, mama.” His hands moved lower, working her thighs with slow strokes, easing the tightness in her legs as she sighed, her body starting to unwind under his touch. He shifted to her feet, his thumbs pressing into the arches, rubbing circles that drew a soft moan from her lips. “I’ll take care of everything tomorrow,” he promised, his gaze locked on her face, watching the pain ebb. “You just rest.”

Her eyes fluttered open, a mix of exhaustion and longing in her gaze as she looked at him.

“I need you,” she whispered, but she shook her head weakly. “But I’m too tired…”

Her words trailed off, her body aching for him yet drained from the day. Rafe’s cock twitched at her admission, his desire for her simmering beneath his concern, but he nodded, understanding.

“Alright,” he said, sliding onto the bed beside her. He pulled her close, guiding her to straddle his lap, her nightgown bunching around her waist as he freed his hardening cock from his boxers, the thick length pressing against her slick, fertile cunt. “Just feel me, then,” he murmured, easing her down slowly, her tight heat enveloping him inch by inch.

She gasped softly as he filled her, her pussy stretching around his girth, the sensation a mix of relief and pleasure despite her fatigue. She nestled against his chest, her face buried in the crook of his neck, her breath warm against his skin as she moaned faintly. Rafe’s arms wrapped around her, holding her tight, his cock buried deep but still, resisting the urge to thrust as he felt her pulse around him.

“Fuck, you feel so good, mama,” he groaned, his hands stroking her back, keeping her secure. Her hips shifted slightly, a subconscious grind, and the friction sent a wave through her, her clit brushing against him as her arousal built.

She came with a small, relieved sound, a whimper escaping her lips as her body shuddered, her cunt clenching around his cock, milking him without him moving. The orgasm was gentle but profound, easing the pain in her pelvis, her exhaustion melting into a soft haze. Rafe kissed her forehead, his lips lingering as he held her close, his own need unfulfilled but his heart full.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, letting her rest against him, her breathing evening out as she drifted toward sleep, still impaled on him. “Sleep tight, mama.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

[redvexillum]

"EPISODE 5 ISN'T A RAGATHA EPISO--"

So I just finished watching Episodes 4 and 5 of The Amazing Digital Circus for the third time because I’ve clearly given my life to this show and Gooseworx owns my soul. Genuinely, what phenomenal writing. I've seen mixed reception for episode five but I’m thrilled that the majority of the fandom can agree this episode was amazing. Because that means I can scream with all you FunnyBunny shippers and dedicated emotional wrecks alike.

Now. Let me get into why Episode 5 wasn’t just a Jax episode (though it very much was)—but why it was, at its core, Ragatha’s episode. This is gonna be long and laced with “am I overthinking this?” moments. Buckle up.

WHO IS RAGATHA?

When we first meet her in Episode One, she’s nice. Incredibly kind. Super peppy. But there's this teeny-tiny crack in that candy coating. She spirals, just a little, and we see a nervous, anxious edge slipping through her “positive vibes only” persona.

And that spiral? It’s not a one-time thing. It gets worse. The deeper you go into the series, the more you notice how her overbearing positivity feels less like optimism and more like a coping mechanism. A weaponized smile. She’s not just trying to cheer everyone up, she’s gaslighting herself into believing she has to be happy. She has to be likable. That it’s the only way she’ll be accepted.

And in the Digital Circus, where identity is shredded (like you forget your name for fuck's sakes) and everything’s performative? That’s not just sad...it’s devastating.

EPISODE 4: THE CRACKS BEGIN TO SHOW

Episode Four set the entire foundation. When Ragatha gets “stupid sauce” in her eyes and all her emotional filters drop, you finally see her. She stops curating how she’s perceived and just exists...and what comes out? She reminisces of her life (which gets confirmed in Episode 5). Gangle tries to warn her she might get hurt, and her response is almost eerie in how casually she brushes it off.

Sure, it could be a nod to Raggedy Ann and all that doll-abuse lore, but when you learn about Ragatha’s real past: abusive, narcissistic mother, high-society pressure cooker upbringing...that “hurt” starts feeling very literal. Maybe this line wasn’t just random doll humor. Maybe it’s a whisper of childhood trauma, manifesting through a false smile.

And then comes the Gloink Queen. The way Ragatha lights up at the idea of a mother who genuinely cherishes every single one of her hundreds of children? I fucking felt that. It wasn’t just admiration; it was longing. Desperation. Like she never got that kind of love growing up, so the concept itself is intoxicating. It’s this quiet heartbreak that adds a whole new layer to her need for approval.

She hates Jax. Let’s be real. He antagonizes her constantly, pushes every one of her buttons (he literally threw her in a goddamn vat of boiling oil for fucks sakes). But the part that wrecks me? She doesn’t want him to hate her. Not because she likes him, but because anyone disliking her is unbearable. Being disliked means she failed. Means she’s unworthy. Means she’s alone.

That’s why her facade, this grinning, chipper armour? It's everything. And the more we see of her, the more we understand that it’s crumbling.

I NEED YOU ALL TO LOCK THIS SCENE INTO YOUR BRAINS, OKAY? Because this exact emotional thread gets replayed like a broken record all throughout Episode Five. It’s not just a one-off moment, it’s the theme. The cast knows Ragatha’s cheer is fake. And honestly? It makes sense. They’ve been stuck together for who-knows-how-long, and you learn a lot about someone in that kind of nightmare.

But here’s the thing: when someone keeps pushing toxic positivity, constantly trying to “cheer you up” without actually listening, it doesn’t help. It hurts. It makes the person reaching out feel like they’re talking to a wall. Ragatha so badly wants people to open up to her, but she’s terrified of doing the same in return, and that’s where the entire disconnect lies. She’s hyper-aware of how she’s perceived. Her self-image is a prison. And at the core of it all?

Rejection.

Her biggest, ugliest, most soul-deep fear. Because rejection leads to isolation. And isolation? Leads straight back to the kind of loneliness she probably drowned in as a child.

Now, you're probably wondering: why am I still going off about Episode Four when I promised this was a breakdown of Episode Five?

Because Episode Four is the breadcrumb trail. It's the soft warning. The writer’s subtle little “hey, pay attention to her” moment. It’s the appetizer. It preps us, emotionally and narratively, for the main course of Episode Five, where Ragatha's carefully-constructed image begins to crack and we finally, finally, start to understand the full scope of her trauma.

Let’s address the big criticism real quick: a lot of people think this was a Jax-centric episode. And I get it. Jax got depth, growth, actual backstory. But here’s my take: Jax and Ragatha are each other’s foils.

One is warm, soft-spoken, always smiling, but secretly repressing everything real.

The other is brash, rude, antagonistic—but when he opens up? He’s real. He’s genuine.

They’ve been clashing since Episode One, and their dynamic works because they’re mirrors: distorted, but parallel.

Why was using Jax as Ragatha’s foil so brilliant? Because it does two huge things. First, it finally shows us Jax as a person instead of just telling us he’s a dick with a smile. But more importantly?

It amplifies Ragatha.

A foil, by definition, is a character who highlights the traits of another character by contrasting with them. And what better way to show Ragatha’s entire internal collapse than by placing her beside someone who, while difficult and abrasive, actually manages to connect with someone else?

Because as Jax grows closer to Pomni, the very connection Ragatha has been chasing since Day One, it throws Ragatha’s failures into painful high-def. She’s tried everything. She’s been kind, supportive, the “good friend.” And yet, it’s not her Pomni opens up to. It’s not her Pomni laughs with.

And that is why Episode Five is a Ragatha episode. Maybe not in the obvious, center-stage way. But in the subtle, devastating unraveling that plays out just beneath the surface.

Now, let’s talk receipts. I’ve got observations, breakdowns, and repeat viewings of Episodes Four and Five loaded and ready.

I don’t know if it was a deliberate artistic choice or just an organic part of the scene composition, but I can’t not point out how telling it is that the characters are all paired off: Jax and Pomni, Kinger with Zooble and Gangle, and yet Ragatha? She’s standing off in the distance. Alone. Isolated. Visibly excluded from every natural dynamic.

And I really want to believe that was purposeful. A quiet visual cue for us, the audience, to understand not just the social dynamics of the group, but how deeply disconnected Ragatha truly is from the others.

Honestly, I think this was the moment her carefully held-together mask started to split. The start of the spiral. Go back to the earlier episodes and you’ll start noticing it: Ragatha drops a lot of sharp, snarky comments. Some subtle. Some cutting. Whether intentional or not, those little moments are emotional leaks. She drops her filter more often around Jax, which makes sense, she hates him. She doesn’t bother hiding it. But the fact that her snark surfaces at all tells us something: the mask is slipping.

Think about Episode One, when Ragatha spirals, it’s visceral. It’s raw and disturbing in a way the others’ breakdowns just… aren’t. Why? Because for Ragatha, cracking isn’t just about stress or fear. It’s about exposing something she’s worked so hard to hide: her real, “ugly,” human feelings. She’s repressed them for so long, forced herself to smile through it all, because she believes that if she isn’t likable, if she isn’t “good,” she’ll be abandoned.

And now? That bottle’s starting to shake.

I'll circle back to this moment when I dive into the bar scene later (because oof—there’s so much there), but let’s keep things chronological for now.

Right after Ragatha leaves, Jax drops a line on Pomni: “[She] is taking advantage of you.” And it hits especially hard because just before that, Gangle told Pomni she didn’t think Ragatha was genuine. That? That’s when the discomfort surrounding Ragatha starts to really take shape.

Here’s why I think that hit a nerve with the rest of the cast.

They are all constantly fighting for their sanity. For their identities. They’re trapped in this surreal, terrifying digital purgatory where reality is questionable at best and all they’ve got are each other. That’s it. Just a bunch of strangers trying not to fall apart or, worse, abstract.

And when you're in that space? Vulnerability becomes everything. And it’s risky.

Being vulnerable to the wrong person, someone who doesn’t reciprocate, or worse, uses your openness against you is traumatic. It teaches you to close up. To withdraw.

To stop trying.

Now imagine reaching out to someone like Ragatha, who seems supportive on the surface, who says the right things, but there’s a disconnect. You don’t feel like you’re being seen. You don’t feel safe. You don’t feel like you’re talking to someone who’s willing to meet you in the mess.

And when that happens? Of course they gravitate elsewhere. Of course they pair off, find comfort in each other, and leave her on the fringes.

What hurts the most, though, is this: Ragatha wants connection. She’s starving for it. But she doesn’t know how to give it back in a way that feels real. She’s so wrapped up in being “the nice one,” the peacemaker, the cheerful glue of the group, that she can’t drop the act—even when it’s pushing people away. Even when it’s exactly what’s isolating her.

She wants to be close. She just doesn’t know how to be vulnerable.

Now, the biggest lore drop of Ragatha's past, let's break this down:

Throughout the entire series so far, Ragatha always speaks with this carefully curated tone: gentle, friendly, overly polite. But every time she gets a moment alone to monologue? It always derails. Every time. Her words unravel, her tone falters, and what starts as “everything’s fine” ends with something much darker, much sadder.

And this scene? God. This one hurt. Because when she starts talking about her mother, it stops feeling like just another breakdown. It feels like the core of her trauma is being yanked out into the open. She’s clearly an adult. Had a life. A career. Probably responsibilities and routines. And yet, that wound from her mother is still festering: deep, raw, and most importantly?

Completely unresolved.

This is where you see her coping mechanisms in full force. Ragatha has this heartbreaking tendency to downplay her own pain. She’ll smile through it, make a light comment, move on like it doesn’t ache. But it does. And that habit? It sabotages her ability to connect with people in a real, vulnerable way. Because how can someone share mutual pain with you if you never admit to having any? If you can’t even be real with yourself?

Remember when she confessed she hates Jax, but she doesn’t want Jax to hate her? That moment says everything. That desperate need to be liked, even by someone who openly antagonizes her, speaks volumes about her internal wiring. She’s terrified of rejection. Of being disliked. Of being seen as not enough.

And this scene, to me, is one of the most heartbreaking moments in the show. Ragatha is caught in this awful limbo: she wants connection, deeply. She wants friendship, understanding, belonging. But the second she senses discomfort, awkwardness, even the slightest ripple of tension, she backpedals. She shrinks. She brushes it off with a laugh or a sugar-coated phrase. And that’s exactly why the others can’t reach her.

She’s surrounded by people and still completely alone.

This scene also confirms what we’ve suspected all along: her mother had impossibly high standards. That nothing Ragatha did was ever good enough. That she had to perform perfection just to maybe receive love. It was a transaction. "Be the perfect little girl, the perfect daughter, the perfect doll, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll earn affection."

So of course she acts like this now. Of course she wraps herself in forced smiles and gentle words. Because somewhere deep down, she still believes that if she slips, if she messes up, if she shows anything “ugly”...then no one will love her.

Jax was a grade A asshole for this one. No sugarcoating it. He knew how badly Ragatha wanted to be Pomni’s friend. He’s not clueless. So when he swooped in and started getting close to her? Of course it triggered Ragatha. You could practically see her flinch.

And that sting? It echoes through the rest of the episode five from that point onwards. Especially when they get to the ball game scene.

That was the moment Ragatha finally let some of that bottled-up frustration out. She flat-out called Jax out, asking why he was trying to influence Pomni into acting like some careless, insensitive jerk. And yeah, on the surface it seems like just another clash between the two of them, but if you look a little closer (and maybe I’m reaching this), there’s something deeper going on.

From earlier episodes, we’ve seen Ragatha has this habit of telling Pomni how she should feel. She does it in this oddly motherly tone, like she’s trying to guide her, but in a way that almost infantilizes her. In Episode Two, in the candy kingdom bit, Ragatha starts talking to Pomni like she’s a child and Pomni immediately shuts it down: “I’m not a kid.”

That wasn’t just sass.

That was a boundary.

And it clicked for me: Ragatha might be echoing her mother’s behavior here. That condescending tone disguised as “help.” The “cheer up, it’s not that bad” mindset. The insistence that things should be okay, instead of just lettingpeople feel. Maybe that’s all she ever knew. And now, she’s unknowingly replicating it.

So when she follows Pomni’s advice to “try being a jerk sometimes,” and it backfires, when Pomni looks at her, clearly uncomfortable, it hits Ragatha like a rock. That same feeling of rejection, all over again.

And did anyone else notice the glitch when she apologized? Because I sure as hell did. It was subtle, but holy fuck, please don't be the next abstraction!

Then came the "Pomni Saves the Day (Almost)" scene, when it’s her turn to bat. She asks Ragatha if she wants to take her place, to "redeem" herself from her earlier miss. And for just a second, Ragatha lights up. It’s this tiny flicker of hope. Maybe this is her chance. Maybe she can fix things.

Maybe she’s needed.

But then… the game was already over and they won before she had a chance to bat because their evil version is basically KO'd. She turns to Pomni and sees them.

Pomni and Jax. Laughing. Close. Connected.

And suddenly that hope? It deflates.

Just like in the stargazing scene, we get this physical distance motif again. Ragatha is always just far enough to see the connection—but never be part of it. And in that moment, you can see it on her face, this quiet, confused heartbreak. The kind of grief that doesn’t explode...it just sinks in. Like she’s trying to understand why her kindness, her effort, her presence was never enough. Why being “nice” only pushed Pomni further away.

That expression she gives, caught somewhere between confusion, disappointment, and slowly-processed loss? God, that got me. It wrecked me. Because in that moment, she’s not angry. She’s not dramatic.

She’s just... alone.

And then finally… the nail in the coffin. The moment where the silent divide between Pomni and Ragatha becomes undeniable. The moment the entire show has been quietly building toward since Episode One.

Ragatha, who has tried so hard to make Pomni smile. To be her rock. To forge a connection. She wants that closeness. She craves that intimacy. But instead, she watches as Pomni laughs, genuinely, mind you, and effortlessly at Jax’s antics. And the second Pomni notices Ragatha looking? Her smile drops. Instantly. That joy disappears, replaced by awkwardness, tension, that same guarded expression we’ve seen before.

And it says everything.

Pomni can’t be herself around Ragatha. She doesn’t feel safe doing so. She might think Ragatha is a “nice enough” person… but that’s it. That’s where the connection ends. She doesn’t let her guard down. Doesn’t let Ragatha in. Because Ragatha, in all her curated cheer, never really opens up either.

And then the show drives it home with brutal elegance: the group starts to drift off, one by one, naturally falling into their new little dynamics. And Ragatha? Left standing in the middle. Alone. Forgotten. No one turns to her. No one invites her. She’s just there.

For all the time she’s spent in the Digital Circus, Pomni managed to connect with everyone else. Even Jax. And that, right there, is pure devastation for me.

Because all Ragatha has ever known is people-pleasing. That’s how she survives. That’s what she was taught. Be the sunshine, be the good girl, be agreeable and comforting and helpful then you’ll be loved. Then you’ll be safe. But what happens when that mask doesn’t work? When it actually pushes people away instead of bringing them in?

She doesn’t know how to express her loneliness. She doesn’t know how to say, “I’m hurting too.” Because that’s not what was modeled for her. That’s not what her mother taught her.

And this...this right fucking here is why Gooseworx was so right when they said this was a Ragatha episode.

Because Ragatha’s character flaws, the heart of her tragedy, are brought into the light not by spotlighting her, but by quietly contrasting her with a pair of characters we never expected to bond: Jax and Pomni.

From the start, we’re fed this narrative: Jax is an asshole. He teases Pomni. He’s rude, smug, abrasive. And yet… Pomni starts to soften around him. She connects. She even laughs. And you start to wonder...why is he getting through to her when Ragatha can’t?

Because Jax, in his own messed-up way, gets real. He opens up. He admits things. He’s emotionally messy, but it’s genuine. And that rawness, that honesty, is something Ragatha can’t allow herself to show. So while Jax slowly reveals the depth beneath his snark, Ragatha clings to her role: the always-smiling, ever-positive comfort character.

And that contrast? It’s heartbreaking.

You see it at the very end. How alone she is. And the cruel twist? She’s probably the one who needs connection the most. But she’s so stuck in her pattern, so locked in that internalized belief that she has to perform to be loved, that she ends up isolating herself even further.

I can’t stop thinking about this: Ragatha feels like someone who’s spent her entire life just close enough to be seen, but never close enough to be reached. She’s the background character in her own life: present, smiling, helpful… and utterly alone.

And maybe the reason so many people felt like this episode was more about Jax than Ragatha is because we’re supposed to feel her slipping into the background. Just like the cast is starting to overlook her, we as the audience are starting to, too.

That slow fade?

It’s intentional.

Thank you for coming to my rant. I never done a character analysis before, but I just fucking love this series so much.