#doing good works without attachment

[obscureoldguy]

We DO NOT Control the FATE of This World #fate #ego #truth #wisdom #spir...

[memorys-skyscraper]

taking donations of any and all good employment-related vibes rn

[freebooter4ever]

I dont know how to force myself to sit down and transfer/update my new computer so i can feel comfortable drawing again ;_; but i need to

[asha-mage]

DnD Character Concept: A Cleric who insists stubbornly and earnestly that their obviously evil patron deity (I'm thinking Lolth or Asmodeus but really any Evil Greater God would do) is actually Good and Benevolent and Just and dismisses all evidence to the contrary as slander from rival deities. Their proof to their claim? Using their divinely granted powers for the most intensely Good tasks and quests they can find: feeding the hungry, protecting the weak, curing the sick- all done in the name of their Terrible Dread Lord and without any expectation of compensation or string attached.

The deity in question is all "???" but keeps granting the cleric power because all that free worship and influence from the people who now pray to them is nice, and hey if the cleric wants to put in the leg work to launder the deity's reputation what reason do they have to say no?

Only it turns out that the cleric is actually playing 4D chess because of the way faith works in Faerun (and most DnD settings). As more and more worshipers start believing The Terrible Dread Lord is actually a Good and Kind and Noble god they start to be influenced by that to become Good and Kind and Noble. Slowly but surely they find themselves warping to match the perception of the masses. It starts by just giving a few random blessings out of what they think is pity, or maybe sending a sign to help someone who is lost on what the deity insists is a whim....but it snowballs until you have Lolth smiting down slavers or Asmodeus sending out devil's to drag down a tyrant to the depths of hell and then they realize 'oh oh no' but by then it's to late: the religious reform movement within their flock is too massive and been ignored for too long as benign. They can't just turn around and smite their own followers- not only because it's tacky but because they feel... compassion and responsibility for those that look to them for guidece.

And then you have the cleric, who at level twenty is literally their most powerful agent and also the high priest of this out of control heresy smugly sipping their tea because they where right all along. Their faith in their deity is vindicated- after all what is faith if not believing in something so strongly, against all evidence, that it becomes truth unto itself?

[joelsgoldrush]

“guilty pleasure” | 8.6k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader. reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes. age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age). oral sex (f receiving). fingering. finger sucking. soft dom!logan. wade being the funniest asshole. logan calls reader "kiddo/kid”.

A/N: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you. 

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.” 

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend. 

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong 

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair 

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison 

Allison: 

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch 

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss. 

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.” 

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features. 

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules. 

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up. 

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail. 

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients. 

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment. 

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you. 

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him. 

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his. 

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on. 

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?” 

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days. 

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you. 

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble. 

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[madlori]

My ankle journey

I am sharing this with all you good people on the dash because I am so fucking mad it took so long for me to learn it and if I can spare one (1) person the agony it will be worth it.

So for like...oh, 8 or 9 months, I've been struggling with pain/inflammation/tendinitis in my left Achilles tendon. I don't know what caused it. It just started up (welcome to middle age, this shit happens). It wasn't severe enough to be debilitating, but it was annoying and limiting. It was also intermittent, in that some days it would be very painful and other days hardly at all. The kind of shoe I was wearing affected it a lot.

Now, I have bone spurs on both heels (it's just a thing that happens as you get older sometimes). I'm also aware that heel pain is usually the result of tight calf muscles that pull and irritate the tendon. I tried stretching that calf muscle. You know the stretch, this bitch right here:

I did it all the time. I also iced the ankle after walking for awhile, hoping to avoid inflammation. Results were...unsatisfying.

I went to:

A chiropractor

A podiatrist

A physical therapist

A bodywork coach

They all gave me some variation on the "strengthen your calf muscle, stretch your calf muscle" advice. I continued doing this without results.

I was getting frustrated, and a little afraid that this was just my life now. Finally, I thought...maybe some targeted massage might help. I asked for rec on a local FB site and was pointed to a woman who specializes in therapeutic massage including cupping, etc.

I went to her a week ago.

She spent over half our first session working on my left lower leg. Within about 10 minutes of making my eyes water, she uttered the sentence I did not know I had been waiting to hear:

"Oh, it's your soleus."

Excuse me, what?

"It's your soleus that's the culprit. It's all tied up and stiff." She started digging into it and I felt literal sparks run up my leg as she released adhesions and got the muscle moving a little. When she finally put the leg down, it felt like it was on fire with all the blood rushing into it.

She said, "You'll need to stretch your soleus. It'll clear up, but it'll take a bit of time - tendons take ages to heal."

But I HAVE been stretching.

"No, you haven't. The usual straight-leg calf stretch only stretches the gastrocnemius, that's the big belly muscle in your calf. That's not your problem. That stretch doesn't stretch the soleus. Don't worry, I'll show you how to stretch it."

My mind is spinning.

So here are the muscles in question:

The gastroc (as the pros call it) just attaches down the back but the soleus runs underneath it from the knee around the side to the heel. The lower part above the ankle is where it typically gets tight and forms adhesions.

To stretch it, you do the same calf thing where you put your foot back and press your heel to the ground, but you have to do it with your KNEE BENT:

The bent knee keeps the gastroc from engaging. It's one of those selfish muscles (like traps) - if you give it an inch, it'll just take over and prevent other muscles from working or stretching. There are other ways to stretch the soleus but this is the easiest and you can literally do it anywhere. I've been doing it while standing and waiting for things (the elevator to come, the toast to toast). You just put the heel back and bend the knee. It's kind of like curtseying.

The minute I did this stretch, I could FEEL where it was pulling on my tendon. I knew that THIS had been the problem.

The massage therapist also told me to stop icing my heel. She said icing is for an acute injury, but a more chronic aggravation needs heat, to increase blood flow for healing. She recommended elevation with heat every day (I've been doing it in bed during "phone before bed" time).

I have been doing the soleus stretch at least half a dozen times a day for almost a week, and the ankle is at least 70% better. It is still a little tight and tender, but the improvement is significant. I think a few more weeks will have it feeling normal.

I am...blown away by this. This massage therapist was able to pinpoint an issue in only a few minutes that eluded all the other professionals I saw. I can't wait to go back to her and have her solve all my other problems, tbh.

[a-hermit-pining]

LADS Men When You Move in with Them

AN: Sorry for anyone who followed for jjk but that phase is over for now people. I am playing LADS and kinda obsessed so I just have to write about it. I'm still finishing main story so let me know if I'm off but this is just fluff for fun. I might just extend my househusband series for LADS bois.

Pairing: Lads boys x fem reader

Genre: fluff

Summary: How do LADS men react to reader moving in with them.

Xavier:

The second you’re out of sight, Xavier is on a mission. Your skincare collection? Compromised. Tiny vials of serums and creams vanish into his hands as he experiments, utterly fascinated by how good you always smell.

Did he scream when he mistook your fake lashes for worms? Yes. Would he ever admit to it? Absolutely not.

So don’t be surprised when your shampoo, conditioner, serums, and lotions start running out at an alarming rate. This other worldly prince will not hesitate.

Zayne:

Zayne, dressed in his eternal black-on-black, will take an unreasonably long time staring at his closet once you move in. Because next to his monochrome fits? Your colorful, glittery clothes. He’s fascinated. Maybe even a little in awe and jealous.

You might even catch him pulling out his secret stash of cardigans from the depths of the void, trying to match your vibe just a little.

Also? He loves watching you do your hair. The man is mesmerized by air wrap, loves running his fingers through freshly curled hair.

And his watch collection? Now proudly displayed next to your jewelry. (He's so cute istg ><)

Sylus:

Does the sudden invasion of cutesy decor completely wreck Sylus’ carefully curated aesthetic? Yes.

Does he resist it? Hell no.

Be it Hello Kitty blankets on his sleek black leather couch or tiny fairy garden decor in his study, Sylus lets your presence take over his space without a fight. A cute blanket is a cute blanket, perfectly good for cuddling.

Also, Mephisto? Number one fan of pecking at your shiny trinkets.

Rafayel:

Your foster kitten loves him.

Rafayel, the man who wants 'nothing to do with cats', suddenly finds himself the chosen one. The second you move in, the tiny gremlin attaches itself to him. Following him from room to room, napping in his studio, demanding attention with its judgmental little eyes.

And despite his dramatic sighs and endless complaints about your “vicious monster,” you know the truth.

Because one day, you catch Rafayel casually working while the kitten sleeps in his lap. And before he can argue, you adopt the little guy permanently.

(Oh, and you get another cat for yourself, because fair is fair.)

Caleb:

Caleb owns a ridiculous amount of tactical gear. More than you, even.

But never in his life did he think he’d see a penguin-themed holster.

Yes, he was aware of your growing plushie empire. No, he did not expect the theme to continue onto scabbards and grips.

And yet, here you are. And here he is. In awe.

Does he judge? Not at all. Does he join in? Absolutely.

He now owns matching sock complementary to your gear aesthetics.

Colonel in the streets, pookie in the sheets.

[r4spb3rr13s]

things they do that make your heart skip a beat

♱ bakugou, kirishima, midoriya, todoroki, kaminari, shinsou

fluffy and suggestive 😔

disclaimer this could all js be niche stuff i find attractive…

bakugou

♱ wears black compression shirts and tank tops that cling to his biceps, shows uncharacteristic patience helping you with schoolwork, blushes when he catches you looking at him, grabs your hips when he walks past you, cooks shirtless with a ‘kiss the cook’ apron on, chronic manspreader, reverses the car with his hand on your seat and looking over his shoulder yk exactly what im talking about

kirishima

♱ makes you sit on his back when he does press ups - will then proceed to do one handed press ups while grinning at you in the gym mirror, poses after a work out for you, wipes stuff off your face and (if edible duh) licks it off his thumb, has the worlds deepest morning voice, hugs you from behind CONSTANTLY - if he could glue himself to your backside you better believe he would

midoriya

♱ IS RESPECTFUL TO HIS MOTHER 😫😫, will hurl himself out the car to come open your door for you, gives you the most insightful opinions of clothes, makeup, whatever, rubs his thumb over your hand when he holds your hand, holds the door open for you without a second thought, the sidewalk rule <3, saves every. single. photo. you send him

todoroki

♱ pays for everything before you can protest, sends you flowers with little notes attached randomly, brushes/styles your hair for you, will sit for hours in changing rooms w you and make you do 360s for every outfit, takes candids of you and refuses to delete any of them, constantly leans down so you can speak in his ear and you get a big whiff of his fancy cologne, speaks diff languages 🥹

kaminari

♱ leans his hands on the tops of doorways when he’s talking to you, pulls you in by your belt loops to talk to you, leans over in the middle of serious conversations to whisper a stupid joke in your ear that you have to struggle not to cackle at, wears rings and lets you play with them, calls you “m’lady” and “ma’am” when you’re annoyed at him, whenever he zips you up in a dress or buttons you up he’ll kiss the back of your neck and your shoulders, is really good with his little baby and toddler cousins 🩷🩷🩷

shinsou

♱ “yeah?” “mhmm?” WHEEWWW SIR, plays guitar for you and sends u vids of him playing songs u request, stretches and his shirts always lift up to show off his happy trail 🙂‍↕️, drags you down to sit in his lap for EVERY activity he does - paperwork, video games, whatever, has constant bedroom eyes???, tugs on your hair to get your attention, had to lean back and adjust himself everytime he sits down bc he wears the baggiest pants in existence

do i need to start a taglist?

[burner141]

First post ☆

Thinking bt retired 141 all settling down in a nice suburban neighborhood. So nice, so peaceful. So different from what they're used to. So boring.

Then they meet you. The charming new neighbor with a pretty voice and an even prettier smile. They crowd around you like a pack of wolves aiming for their next meal. But you're nervous, antsy, and they can't have that, now can they? They back off, some more so than others, and instead, politely offer to help with your boxes.

They're well-behaved from then on. Truly willing to just be good, friendly neighbors. Until you're comfortable enough to let them bite.

Kyle takes the opportunity to bring you home-baked pie that he learned how to make a few nights before - he was always a quick learner. Johnny leaps to show you around town. A little too eager, so you decline, saying you still have some moving in to do. Oh, but he can help with that. Building furniture? A cinch. Mounting the television? Light work. Mowing your lawn? Only if you'll invite him in after for some lunch. Ghost lingers around, but occasionally, he'll tell a joke bad enough for you to giggle at, which makes him more okay, I guess.

John, however, he's biding his time. He doesn't want to throw himself into the fray like an uncouth schoolboy. He knows better than to just attach himself to the newest attraction. You never go on an amusement ride without getting a ticket. So he plans.

You leave your window curtains open as you prance around your newly-furnished home, all thanks to him and his boys. And John's just across the street. He can observe you whenever he pleases. What convenience. He can see you getting ready to go out. To the grocery store, he presumes, considering you haven't been going out much since you moved in two weeks ago.

He follows you from aisle to aisle, just out of your peripheral, a jar of peanut butter in hand so he doesn't look too out of place. As soon as he sees you struggling to reach a product - one of the last on a particularly high shelf - he swiftly positions himself behind you. Just enough for you to feel the heat of him.

"This what you wanted, love?" He grumbles out as he procures your item for you.

As you look up at him with such grateful eyes, he knows he and his boys won't be bored anymore.

[yongseungkim]

.

[acorviart]

everyone should attempt an artisan craft at some point in their life because it would cut down the number of comments questioning why handmade goods like ceramics or textile craft or woodworking are so expensive

and this is an unrealistic expectation, but I think the attempt should include seeing through to the end at least one "finished" item, no matter how clumsy or lumpy your first attempts might be. like to me, there's a huge difference in perspective between attempting to learn how to crochet or throw a pot for a few days, acknowledging that it's harder than it looks and giving up, versus committing to finishing that scarf or clay pot you started and working on it for weeks while you painstakingly learn from your mistakes and grow attached to your project while also simultaneously hating it.

once you finish the latter, your perspective changes from "why does this crocheted blanket cost $200" to "holy shit I can't believe they're charging $200 for this crocheted blanket instead of $2000" because you may have known crocheting is hard, you may have easily agreed with the idea that "handmade goods take time and effort" even before attempting a craft, but now you know firsthand the absolute time sink it takes to make things. like yeah dude, that one item took you 2 months to make and probably wasn't even an ultra complex item if it was the first thing you made, now imagine attaching an hourly wage to that time to calculate the cost (and this is ignoring every nuance of the artistic element and master crafters being able to work faster/charge higher because of their years and years of experience)

anyway this rant has been motivated by a comment I saw on someone else's ceramic post asking why a mug was $60 and they understand it's handmade but $60 just seems overpriced, and bro do you know how long ceramics take to make. that mug probably took at minimum 3 weeks between how long it takes to throw the mug, dry partially, trim the mug, dry fully, bisque fire, wait a day for the kiln to cool, sand and paint and glaze, glaze fire, wait a day for the kiln to cool, take product photography of the mug, write description and list the mug online for sale, im not even including the skill needed to complete all these steps without the mug literally exploding or collapsing while also making it an appealing piece of art, aaaaaaaaaaaaa

[aomiiine]

somnophilia, sexting, creampie

older bf! zayne who takes care of your needs, day and night, without fail. Working overtime at the hospital doesn’t stop him either. He’s using every opportunity to check his phone, searching for your name on his notifs. And when he does, he opens it to see an attachment. It was a photo, of his pillow squished between your bare thighs, skirt hiked up just enough to see the blooming wet patch of your cum on the cover.

older bf! zayne who sends quick texts asking you were able to take good care of yourself in his absence. Except, he knew damn well you were frustrated beyond belief. Struggling to replicate the feeling of his thick calloused fingers rubbing your clit in slow, caring circles with your own or his pillow. He could imagine it, really. You laid on his bed, hair sprawled on the pillows with your legs taking up his spacious bed, toes curling on the sheets as you played with your messy pussy, unable to sleep without your loving, more experienced boyfriend taking care of you.

older bf! zayne who hums in amusement at your reply to his message, words mostly misspelled, no doubt holding your phone with one hand. He teases you further, fingers flying across the screen to spell out a brief yet blunt text saying ‘you shouldn’t bother me at work, dove. You know how noticeable my boners are.’

older bf! zayne knew the mere mention of his cock would send you into a frenzy, getting you to form a mental image of his bare, heavy dick being pumped by his fist lazily before he plunged it into your tiny cunt. And he absolutely loved it—knowing you’d only add yet another digit into your pussy that cried for his girth to stretch you open.

older bf! zayne who’d come back home past midnight to see you passed out on the bed, nightgown bunched up above your midriff, exposing your drenched panties that hung low enpugh to give him a glimpse of your pussy. Just one look at you in the dark of his bedroom was enough to rile him up more than he already was after getting off his phone. Now, he knew he had to take care of you. He wouldn’t ever dream of leaving his girl unsatisfied no matter how long he left you hanging.

older bf! zayne who’d scoop you knees under his hands, pushing your legs up to your gently heaving chest, belt and zipper left open to let his pants hang low, cock standing at attention. He didn’t have to do much with the thin fabric of your panties, merely tucking it to the side enough for his bulbous tip to delve past your folds to notch into your entrance. He tries so hard not to force it all in with one swift thrust, willing his entire body to restrain his flexing muscles as he held your legs in place.

older bf! zayne who’d bottom in and out of you so fucking good, his fat cock nestling deep into your fluttering pussy with needy throbs that would lull you back to sleep. He’d shush you back to sleep softly, voice tight yet soothing still even as he worked to satisfy both of your needs. He’d hiss curses underneath his breath, mumbling and cooing tender praises into the dead of the night, hoping your slumbered self could hear him in your dreams.

older bf! zayne who’d pick up the pace when he feels himself getting dangerously, the coil in the pit of his stomach tightening with each slap of his balls against your plump ass. You weren’t far off either and he could tell—hands prying up for the covers of the pillows beneath your head, balling up to fists with needy mewls leaving your parted lips, your brows knitting into a look or pure ecstasy—the same look you’d have whenever you’re about to cum too, he notes.

older bf! zayne who plunges his spurting cock deep inside your spasming cunt when he cums, jets of thick hot semen spraying your womb white. Your whines grew louder, strands of your hair sticking to your sweat sheened skin. He’d stay still even when his orgasm fades, thrusting shallowly to prolong your pleasure—and hear the lewd squelches of the mess your cum made on his cock, the nest of hair below his pelvis glistening with your nectar.

older bf! zayne who pulls out slow, careful to not wake you up from your resuming slumber. He’d put your legs back down, getting off the bed while tucking his dirty cock back into his pants half-heartedly, not bothering to zip himself up. He’d walk over to the wardrobe, picking one of your clean panties to slip back up your legs, making sure it’s cups your dripping cunt snugly, not wanting a single drop of his cum to ooze out of you in your sleep.

[incognit0slut]

A little death

Softcore In which you provoke his jealousy, and he learns a lot more about himself.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 8.3k…. yeah Content: Jealous spencer, bratty reader, dom!spencer, fingering, edging, overstimulation, squirting again (do NOT look at me i am just a girl), and voyeurism if you squint bc someone overhears them a/n: don't you just looove it when they match each other's freak

-

Spencer doesn’t get jealous.

Jealousy, he believes, requires a certain level of entitlement. He’s never really had that. Never let himself believe he owed anyone’s affection, let alone their attention when his romantic history is threadbare at best, sparse enough that he could count past relationships on one hand and still have fingers left untouched.

Even calling them relationships feels generous. Fleeting moment of interest sounds more accurate, a handful of clumsy encounters that never made it past the shallow end of connection. False starts, quiet exits. Nothing solid or lasting. Certainly nothing that ever made him feel like he had the right to be possessive — not since he learned, in the cruelest of ways, that love and loss could be spoken in the same breath.

So no, he doesn’t get jealous. He’s never been presumptuous enough to think that someone could be his to lose in the first place.

Yet what he feels right now is something uncomfortably close to it.

It’s inconvenient, very uncharacteristic of him. And when he catches himself spiraling over things that defy reason, he attempts to pin it down with logic. The empirical part of his brain would call this a reaction to perceived threats to his social attachments. A primal response encoded in his DNA for survival and mate retention, which is nothing more than an evolutionary glitch. A relic of human competition.

A defense mechanism.

A biochemical reaction.

But knowing the terminology doesn’t stop the twist in his stomach as he watches the pretty curve of your smile settle on that overgrown boy scout of a man.

And you’re not even his.

Not in any official capacity. Not in any way that grants him the right to feel this way. Still, there’s something aggravating in the notion of another man soaking in your attention.

"I'm serious," a confidently smooth voice declares.

His gaze flicks to the side, just enough to catch Detective Palmer standing a little too close beside you. The same man who had spent the past two weeks slipping in offhand flattery towards your way whenever the opportunity came.

Unprofessional would be a strong adjective to describe what’s happening in this tight space when there’s technically nothing wrong with a little friendly praise. But Spencer has seen enough human interaction — has studied enough human behavior — to know the difference between a compliment offered in good faith and one laced with ulterior motives.

Motives that aren’t as pure as they appear. Surely, you see it. You must see it. He refuses to believe that someone as sharp as you is oblivious to the way Palmer’s shoulder barely brushes yours under the guise of casual proximity. But then you tilt your head and let out the loveliest laugh. A sound Spencer has never been on the receiving end of.

And his vision starts to blur.

“No, you’re not,” you chide. Teasingly, he notes. A hand on your hip, the other clutching a file. You’re currently in the middle of clearing out the desk everyone has been using for the past couple of days.

“I am,” Palmer counters. “Think about it. Steady hours, less travel. You wouldn’t have to worry about flying all over the country.”

“I don’t mind the travel.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice to have some stability?”

“Stability?”

“And a place where your work doesn’t get buried under a mountain of paperwork.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You’d be able to focus on what you do best without all that bureaucratic red tape.”

“Well, I happen to like politics,” you say, slipping a another document onto your growing pile.

“No one likes politics,” the man scoffs lightly. “People tolerate it, and I don’t take you for the kind of person who enjoys tolerating things.”

The prickling sensation burns behind his eyelids now. Spencer can’t decide whether it’s from his contacts settling uncomfortably out of place, or if he’s forgotten to blink while listening to this nonsense. It gets even worse when you shift your weight, subtly pushing your hip against the edge of the table.

He can’t tell if the curve of your mouth is leaning toward a smirk or a frown. “I’m actually more patient than I look.”

Palmer clearly sense an opening. “Patience is one thing, tolerating missed chances is another. Especially when a better opportunity presents itself.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what you’re saying is I should quit my job and settle down in a quiet little town where, oh I don’t know, you’ll take all the credit for my work?”

Even your sarcasm seems to delight the man. “Not at all,” he grins widely. “I’m saying I’d make sure you get all the credit you deserve.”

The stack of papers in his grip slaps against the table with a deliberate thud. Two sets of eyes snap toward him. One pair burning a pointed hole into his skull, and the other narrowing in awareness that someone else is very much listening to the conversation.

Spencer keeps his head down.

“We should discuss this somewhere else,” Palmer proposes, eyeing him once more before shifting his attention back to you. “Tonight. Over dinner.”

His reflex betrays him. His head lifts before he can stop it, eyes finally landing on the man he’s been stubbornly avoiding.

And he immediately wishes he hadn’t. Because Palmer is… pretty decent to look at. Polished. Light, neatly trimmed hair, sharp cheekbones, and a confident set to his jaw that speaks of someone who’s never had to work too hard to hold attention.

He also seems young. Not inexperienced, exactly, but young enough that the difference is painfully noticeable. Young in a way Spencer can’t help but acknowledge, with the easy confidence of someone closer to your age than his own. Closer to the kind of man he imagines people expect you to be with that it would be easy to find you together in one of those chic little restaurants this town probably prides itself on.

But you’re awfully quiet, and he wonders if even half of his existence resides in your mind right now. He finds himself waiting for your answer too, against his better judgment, as he sweeps up stray papers and photographs scattered along the surface.

“Unless… you have someone waiting for you back home?”

His fingers press into the worn edges of the papers and skirts around the table. A quiet shift in orbit as he walks just within the edges of your periphery.

Your gravity pulls him without permission, an invisible thread compelling him into alignment. A cautious step left, another hesitant drift to the right. By the time his shadow spills gently across your shoulders, he isn't sure you’ll acknowledge his presence — or if you’ll pretend not to feel anything at all.

“So, do you?”

You clear your throat, then offer Palmer a shrug.

“No, I don’t.”

He quickly falls off your orbit.

“Perfect,” Palmer chimes, extremely pleased with your answer. “I’ll pick you up at Seven.”

Spencer crosses the short distance toward the door as your eyes follow the taut muscles of his back.

“Sure. Seven it is.”

He stalks out of the room without a word.

Time is supposed to be constant. Linear. A dependable, predictable stream moving forward at exactly the same pace. But it starts to feel uneven after he left the precinct. Minutes stretch themselves thin while seconds snap by in disorienting bursts, turning the hours into something unbearably long and frustratingly fast.

At five fifteen, Spencer steps into his hotel room and heads straight for a cold shower, hoping the water might wash away the tension clinging to his skin. It doesn’t.

At five forty-seven, JJ calls him about the team heading to the local bar for one last night out before flying home tomorrow. He politely declines.

At six twenty-two, he opens War and Peace he had stuffed into his bag for the trip, but the words slip past his focus.

At six thirty-eight, he gives up entirely, his feet pulling him into restless loops across the carpeted floor.

By six five zero hour, he’s already knocking on your hotel room.

It takes exactly forty-two seconds before the latch clicks and the door swings open — then he forgets how to speak.

You’re standing there in a blouse and slacks he’d seen you wear earlier this week. Nothing is out of the ordinary, yet somehow the familiarity feels different. A few buttons at your neckline remain undone. Your hair is styled differently, and though he doesn’t fully grasp the concept of makeup, he notices how your lips are a shade warmer.

There’s no question in his mind that your beauty has always captivated him, but then his eyes catch on the delicate stretch of skin along your cleavage, and suddenly his mouth turns sour.

A deep scowl knots between his brows. “You’re really going?”

Your chin lifts up at the judgement in his voice. “Excuse me?”

“With Palmer. You’re actually planning to go?”

Silence, then you square your shoulders.

“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”

He does. In fact, he has at least half a dozen reasons that are all perfectly logical and justified, but there isn’t a way to voice them without sounding like a jealous fool. So he settles for the simplest objection he can manage.

“You barely know him.”

You’re clearly not impressed by his argument. “He seems nice.”

“You think he’s nice when he’s trying to sell you the idea of staying here?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t mind hearing what he has to offer.”

He can't decide which is worse. The thought of you entertaining another man or that you might actually be considering something bigger than that. A different job. A different city. A whole different life, one that unfolds without him in it. There is no mistaking the tension carving itself across his face.

“Why are you doing this?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Why do you care?”

His breath pulls in sharply through his nose.

A fairly good question, and he can’t think of an answer. At least not one that wouldn't cross a line you've both silently agreed not to cross. He knows the rules with you — he helped make them. Casual. Unattached. Simple in theory, but infinitely complicated in practice. You don’t owe him the space you take up in his thoughts.

If anything, he’s the one who owes you. For letting things be what they are even when it doesn’t always make any sense. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when he started taking everything for granted, or when he stopped wondering if you’d stay and started assuming you would.

He realizes how precarious that assumption is. The notion carries his feet forward until he looms over you, close enough to feel the gentle warmth rising from your skin. Close enough to remind him it’s been nearly a month since he’s spent any real time in your proximity. A month defined by long, relentless cases and a tension that hasn’t faded since the night he confronted you for stepping too close to danger.

A danger he thinks hasn’t exactly passed. Not entirely, because the risk isn’t concealed in some reckless threat. It’s in this room.

In the careful distance between your bodies.

In the doubt that lingers between unspoken truths.

In the quiet hesitation of his next breath.

“Because it’s late,” he decides to answer, “and you don’t really know this town.”

A flimsy excuse. One so weak that even he feels embarrassed the second it leaves his mouth.

Your lips twitches. “I think I’ll manage.”

“You don’t know what he’s expecting.”

You fail to hold your disbelief with a tiny scoff. "And you do?"

He knows nothing for certain, only what he suspects when he lets his thoughts stray too far. What he does know is that he’s never been good at expressing his feelings without making it sound accusatory or desperate. And with aggravating clarity, he realizes he’s already toeing that line. The thin line he crosses meekly as he makes the decision to close the door before he can think better of it.

An audible click echoes in the room.

He sees a myriad of emotions travel through your pinched expression. There’s a slight tightening around your eyes, a faint crease forming between your brows. Still, he closes the silver of space between you, drawn by a need he can’t quite articulate and tries to quell your confusion. Skims a wide palm over your arm with more weak excuses on his tongue.

“He’s not good for you.”

Neither is he.

“He doesn't deserve you.”

Neither does he.

It’s irony in its purest form, laid bare unapologetically in its cruelty. He knows he doesn’t have the right to say this. That if he was any better than any other man, any less selfish, he’d be the one stepping aside. Although he’d argue that logic has never done much to stop him when it comes to you.

And you look as conflicted. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards. Stop is all it would take for him to put back the distance. He’d call it a night and walk back to his room even if it left him wondering what he could have done differently.

But the tension in your stance unravels in quiet increments, each taut line of muscle easing under the rough pads of calloused fingers. Though your body relents before your mouth does. That much is clear. Stubborn is the tilt of your chin, the way your lips part to let out words that contradict the softness he feels beneath his hand.

“It's dinner,” you assert. “I can handle myself.”

Your voice comes out softer than expected, and he would pull back if you weren’t leaning toward him a fraction closer. So he hums agreeably in a way that isn’t agreement at all and trails his hand upward, unhurriedly in its journey, until it brushes the base of your throat.

Warm breath fans over his face when he thumbs over your pulse. “I mean it.”

"Mhm.”

He can tell there's very little resolve left in you. Your eyes are hooded, depriving his lips of the attention they were given. The last shred of defiance that kept you upright is gone.

“You do realize you have no right to act like this,” you manage, aiming for composed but landing somewhere closer to breathless. He treats it like permission to flush his body against yours.

“I know.”

"You can’t just… walk in here and go all alpha male on me or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

The term feels absurd the moment it leaves your mouth.

“I’m aware,” he slowly replies, tries to soften his tone.

“You also need to let go of this ridiculous idea that you get to make any decision for me.”

He acknowledges that too, of course. Although it hardly feels like a decision when your body’s already answering for you, leaning closer despite your stubborn protests. His thumb drags along the side of your neck, right over the place where your pulse kicks the hardest.

“Should I leave then?”

He will if you ask him to, without a doubt.

He’ll question his own sanity if it comes to that.

But after painstakingly long seconds, after watching the resolve slowly dim from your dainty eyes, you gradually shake your head — to his utmost delight.

He selfishly grabs your jaw and kisses you.

There’s no time for pleasantries. No time for careful touches when every nerve in his body has been screaming your name.

His lips part like he’s been holding his breath for too long, slotting his tongue against yours while hindering your movements with fingers holding your cheek, which is unnecessary because you give in without hesitation. Wholeheartedly, like you always do. Surrendering to the rhetorical desperation of a taste you haven’t had in a month.

He tastes like smoldering tension. He tastes of a man fighting a feeling he can't seem to agree with, even as every stolen breath betrays him.

The very breath you drink — humid air thick with shared saliva. Wet in every sense. Glossed on every inch. Your mouth, your teeth, your chin. Spreading a different kind of wetness between your thighs the moment his other hand trails along the waistband of your pants.

He dips his fingers inside, bypassing layers of fabric until your mouth falls open in shock at how suddenly deep those long fingers delve between your folds.

He presses his middle finger inside you.

“Fuck,” you hiss, nipping at his lower lip, and he chastises you by inserting a second finger.

You’re not even that wet. Damp, preferably. Enough to let him in, not enough to mask the awkward stretch. Although that hardly registers when he’s too aware of the tender patch of nerves he knows will have you drenching his fingers in seconds.

You melt against his chest instantly, and it’s very much embarrassing to admit how quickly you always fold for him. One moment you're fighting off his petty arguments and the next thing, your hips undulate to chase friction, grinding down into the curl of his hand with no shame at all. Your pride barely has time to protest before it’s drowned out by the wet squelch of his fingers working you open.

You're being absolutely ravaged. He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can reach, while his fingertips press into your walls as deeply as your pants allow. The confinement barely seems to matter — it’s enough to make your knees buckle, worse when he picks up the pace. Faster than usual, more urgent than his usual rhythm when he asks for sex. He normally takes his time upfront, teases, tempts.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he’s ragged. Focused.

You notice it in the tension of his forearms, the way they flex with each thrust of his hand, how he moves with a kind of voracity that could be mistaken for hate if you didn’t know him better.

But hate is too strong of an emotion to ever explain the scorching jealousy radiating from him.

"Don’t—"

He curls his fingers upward.

"Go—"

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"Don't want you to see him."

Your legs shake, the bones melted beneath your skin as he reduces you to this pliant mess. You don't know what to say to that — you're not even sure it's something you could put into words without making a complete fool out of yourself. So instead you shift, just enough to rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm.

Because that's what he wants anyway. It’s what he’s offering, in the only language he knows. Touch, control, denial. And you’ll take it as long as it distracts you from having to respond to his admission.

But it’s then that he stops moving his fingers, leaving your walls to clamp around them as they fall still.

“Stay.”

You ball your fist in his shirt. “Your hand is inside my pants in the middle of a goddamn hotel room. I’m not going anywhere.”

You can practically feel the tension roll off his shoulders in waves, but then he pulls his fingers out, and a wounded sound slips past your lips before you can stop it.

“Spencer…”

“Come on, let’s move to the bed.”

You’re grateful he’s holding you up, because your legs feel one good shudder away from crumbling. Every step is clumsy and floaty, like your body’s lagging half a second behind your mind, as if sensation is still catching up to motion.

You don’t even remember your clothes hitting the floor, only that his hands were everywhere. Your shirt comes off. Then your pants. The cold air bites your thighs, cool against the heat of your skin. By the time he sinks onto the bed and tucks you between his legs, you’re stripped completely bare.

The soft cotton of his shirt clings to the sweat rising on your back, and you squirm when a certain hard pressure brushes your ass. This isn’t the position you expected to be in, slotted between his thighs while being the only one lacking any fabric at all. But you don’t complain. You melt into the way his large hands slip between your arms to cup the soft weight of your breasts. Your body goes slack as he rolls stiff nipples between the rough pads of his fingers and the smooth press of his thumbs.

You’re nothing short of liquid when his lips brush your ear and tells you to open your legs, a command you follow as easily as breathing. By the time his hand travels between the supple skin of your thighs, you’re already pool of aching heat.

Every nerve in your body seems to funnel down to that one point. Your clit swells shamelessly beneath his fingertips, and the sheer sensitivity makes your head spin. You feel it pulsing, and keeping quiet becomes less of an option when he starts to wet the rest of your sex, dragging his fingers through every swollen ridge.

You shudder when a finger prods your hole.

But he does nothing with it. Just stays there motionless, making you keenly aware of how empty you still are.

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, glossy lips finding the side of his neck, tongue dragging along the skin just to feel the way his throat bobs beneath you. Your way of pleading. A signal he usually listens to. Only this time he leaves your cunt untouched, choosing instead to let his fingers tap lightly on your clit. He saviors the stiffness under the pads of his fingers, how the more he skims them over it, the harder it gets.

You feel quite the opposite.

The scrape of his stubble burns against your mouth, but it’s nothing compared to the spark of frustration curling tight in your belly.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

He is. Even he can admit to that—though he’d rather bite his tongue than call it what it is.

“Define purpose.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t play semantics with me. Is this about him?”

He hates how easily you read him.

Hates more that you’re not wrong.

“Thought we were already past that,” you observe.

He doesn’t say anything, but the tension rippling beneath your lips speaks volumes. You suck the exposed flesh on his neck where his little mole resides.

“What—” you huff, words trembling as starts to l stroke your puffy little clit, “did you finally decide I needed reminding? Is that what you’re doing?”

Is that what this is? He didn’t have an exact definition in mind when he started this. No plan, no clear intent, just the magnetic pull that always exists between the two of you. He was going to touch you the way he always does when he can’t help himself.

But then the coil in his chest tightens again. The image of you with that smug excuse of a man still clung to him like smoke — too much smile handed to someone who didn’t earn it. Which is why his touch became measured, his rhythm a shy satisfaction that isn’t enough to break you open, but close enough to remind you where your body fits best.

His focus leaves your clit and shifts behind you, hooks your legs over his to lock them securely in place with his calves. The slight flare of your pupils doesn’t go unnoticed before he cocks his head.

“What if I am?”

Your smile reminds him of a match just before it lights. “Are you punishing me right now?”

The flame in your eyes sears low, and he’s not sure he should play with fire.

Punishment wouldn’t be the right word for it anyway. There’s no retribution in what he feels. No malice, no need to correct. Hurting you is the last thing he wants to do. But you’ve placed the match right in his hand, and if you ask him to strike it, he doubts he’ll be able to stop the burn. It’ll be consuming, a wildfire racing through every carefully drawn boundary to smoldering ashes scattered between your bodies.

He’ll scorch every inch of you with the excuse you gave him until there’s nothing left but smoke and the heat of his name in your mouth.

“Is that what you want?”

You wiggle under the weight of his hand. “You know I’ll take whatever you give me.”

True enough, but what he wants to hear the need blooming along every frayed nerve in your body when you can’t seem to stop yourself from grinding your hips as he trails down your inner thigh.

“Be more specific,” he presses. “Tell me what exactly.”

You huff and try to reach for his lips. “Want you to make me cum, old man.”

A gentle slap falls onto your clit.

“Without the attitude.”

He swallows your gasp as you jolt at the shallow sting. “Fuck—okay,” you mutter, trying to keep a shred of control even as your knees inch further apart. “Will you make me cum?”

“Where are your manners?” He hums, and drags a long finger along your clit with infuriating patience. “I think you can do better than that.”

You groan and let yourself sink further against his chest. “You’re seriously gonna edge me over politeness?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. Just draws another excruciatingly slow circle over your sensitive nub so light it leaves your breath faltering. He counts the seconds in your sighs, measures the quiver of your hips, then meets your increasingly desperate gaze with eyes that fall short of the jeer in your voice, because while your body pleads, he knows you have something sharp tucked up your sleeve to use against him.

And while he’s weak to the way you’ve always twisted him, he’s even weaker to the things you do without trying. The act you play so effortlessly. That faint, practiced whine you let slip just before you wet your lips and bat your pretty lashes.

“Please, Spencer?” You whimper. “Will you please make me cum?”

The sarcasm drips so thick he could wring it from your tongue. He wonders if he should drink every last drop and savor the sweetness that coats your words, but the sudden shrill of your phone cuts through the air, its screen lighting up on the far edge of the bed.

You both glance toward it simultaneously as he presses his mouth to your ear. “Are you expecting someone?”

The laugh you let out is incredulous. “I was until you decided to barge in here and lock me in place.”

His eyes drag over the length of your body tucked between his legs, knees conveniently hooked on each of his thighs. He watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest, how your pulse flutters beneath his palm resting across your collarbones. He’s holding every trembling muscle of you still as his other hand swirls over your aching clit, yet his mind seethes with the memory of why he had decided to knock on your door in the first place.

It’s that flicker of spite that has him reaching for your phone, and sure enough, the word Detective glares at him across the screen followed by that grating name — those syllables that shouldn’t hold weight but dig like splinters all the same.

“He’s probably waiting for me in the lobby,” you jest, and jealousy, he realizes, is something he’s entirely capable of feeling. Even though he’d suspected it all night, no amount of logic can dull the ache that comes with the confirmation.

It isn’t just a primal response encoded in his DNA for mate retention that drives his actions.

It’s far more complex than a mere defense mechanism, woven with threads of genuine emotions that goes beyond the physical.

And biochemistry can’t explain the visceral satisfaction he feels when your body softens the moment he finally buries two fingers deep to the knuckle.

It doesn't account for the way you shudder around him, for the helpless roll of your hips that tells him he's exactly where you want him to be. He observes the tension in your jaw falter, the way your breath catch in a rhythm he now knows as well as his own. But even that doesn’t fully settle the unfamiliar thing gnawing inside him. So he clutches your phone and presses the device into your open palm, even as his other hand remains buried between your damp thighs.

“You should answer it,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “Tell him you won’t be coming down.”

“What?” you heave. “I can’t answer right now.”

“Sure you can, it’s the polite thing to do. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “You’re insane.”

He doesn’t respond, at least not with words. He hooks his middle and ring finger against that unbearably soft spot along your walls, and a choked sound punches out of you before you can stifle it while the insistent buzz of your phone continues to mock you.

“Go on, answer it.”

“He’s—I—” you stammer, trying to summon some coherent protest but your thoughts are hopelessly scattered, all mush and molten heat. A free hand reaches back to clutch at his thigh. “I don’t—fuck, stop doing that. I can’t think straight.”

“Do you really want me to stop?”

The lull that follows is cruel. His fingers slow to a near crawl, and the absence of intensity makes the growing ache so much worse. You roll your hips once, twice, trying to urge him without giving him the satisfaction of words, but he stays painfully still as the ringtone on your phone keeps hissing, then it stops. A brief silence. And just as your heart starts to settle, it begins again, that repetitive chime clawing at your nerves.

You grit your teeth, shame burning under your skin as your shoulders slump.

The word scrapes along the roof of your mouth before you can stop them.

“…no.”

“Answer the call,” he insists, lips pressed on the side of your flushed face. “The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll let you finish.”

You glare at the phone in your hand before lifting the device to your ear, and the moment the line opens, his fingers resume their rhythm. Perfectly timed with the soft “Hello?” on the other end.

You inhale a sharp breath.

“Detective... Palmer?”

Your brows screw in a wince at how your voice pitched higher than intended.

“Yeah, hey, I’m calling to make sure we’re still on for dinner tonight. I’m in the lobby.”

You clench your jaw, swallowing a moan so hard it burns your throat. “I’m sorry,” you breathe out, “I—I got held up.”

“Held up?” Palmer’s voice tightens with worry. “Are you with someone? Everything alright?”

Spencer’s lips skim softly beneath your ear, warm breath ghosting over your pulse just before he plunges his fingers deep enough to send your eyes scattering upward. Your vision blurs, the dimly lit room tilting dangerously around you. You don’t even realize you haven’t responded until he nips gently at your neck with an amused smile tattooed on your skin.

“You might want to answer him.”

You blink hard.

“I—yes. I mean no—I mean…” you gasp, arching sharply as the heel of his hand rolls against your clit in tandem with his fingers. “Everything’s fine. I just… I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching thin as you struggle to breathe evenly.

“You sure?” Palmer asks. It’s hard not to miss the sudden edge of suspicion in his tone, carefully tucked behind forced concern. “You sound a little off.”

You don’t even have the energy to care how obvious you’re being. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away, pressing your forehead into the scratch of unshaven jaw to regain some semblance of dignity. You'd have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this pathetic, strung out on the edge of pleasure with someone’s fingers buried deep inside you while another man’s voice lingers in your ear. Your pride, what little of it remains, is dangling by a thread. And pride is the one thing you always thought you could keep intact around Spencer. He’s a smart man, observant. But soft in all the places that made you believe you could stay one step ahead.

Apparently you’d underestimated him. Gravely. You forgot that the same man who knows the weight of every word you’ve ever spoken also knows the weight of your silence, and you’re humiliated by how easily he can reduce you to this pliant mess. Even more humiliated by how badly you want him to keep going while your name abruptly echoes in your headspace.

Spoken by someone else entirely.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

There’s nothing but weakness sitting in your throat. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.”

Another beat of silence. Then you feel the pointed brush of his nose along your shoulder before gentle teeth latch onto your skin.

“You should get some rest then,” Palmer continues to press, the same way Spencer’s fingers keeps digging into that soft patch of flesh inside. “I’ll check in on you in the morning.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you still flying back tomorrow?”

“…yeah.”

“How about breakfast—”

The relentless pressure of gruff fingers buried in your cunt sends your heels kicking against the mattress.

“I-I’m sorry, Detective, but I really need to go. It was nice working with you.”

You barely manage to hear his reply before your phone slips from your grip, landing between the sheets with a muted thud. In the back of your fucked-out little brain, you figure the call must have ended by now — surely he would have cut it off. But the timer keeps increasing. The quiet count of seconds continue to tick away unbeknownst to you.

But not to Spencer. He’s keenly aware of the numbers climbing on the screen.

00:50

00:51

00:52

By the 01:00 mark, he’s already made up his mind.

And he’s not proud of it — as to every touch he’s given you tonight. He’ll call this as instinct, or maybe inevitability, anything but what it truly is: selfish.

Selfish in the way he rams his fingers back and forth inside you, the heel of his palm grinding over your clit with unrelenting force. Selfish in the pace he sets himself with. Selfish in how he reads your body like it’s his to interpret, all written in a language only he claims fluency in.

The curve of your spine bows as you lean back helplessly, mouth parted in a perfect, silent “O”. Your eyes are glassy and fixed on the dull ceiling above, as if it might offer some kind of reprieve from the flood of pleasure he’s practically dragging out of you.

And somehow he’s managed to drag you right to the brink without letting you topple over the edge.

You don’t know whether you want to cry or come. Your hips jerk to chase more pressure, more friction, more anything, as your lips part in a desperate sound that’s slurred and barely audible to his ears.

“What was that?”

“Wanna cum,” you gasp around humid breath. “Please.”

He peers at your phone still laying innocently on the bed, the call blinking at 01:24. “A bit louder.”

You choke on a whimper, and for the first time since you’ve tangled your limbs with him for the past few months, your pride isn’t enough to hold you together.

“Please,” you beg, sounding a little pathetic. “S-Spencer—please, need to cum.”

He makes a satisfied sound of his own the moment he feels you leak around his fingers. “Look at that,” he mutters, watching the slick sheen of your arousal coating even to his wrist. “You’re making a mess.”

“Fuck—yes yes, right there.” Your hips buck shamelessly into his hand. “Don’t stop, don’t stop. Please…”

He can’t even if he wanted to. You’re chanting his name over and over again like it’s the only word you know, a mantra that sends ripples of heat low and thick in his gut. His cock throbs painfully against his zipper, but he pushes his own desperate need to the back of his mind, focusing entirely on his fingers plunging in and out of your poor swollen hole until he feels you clench helplessly around him.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this helpless. The sharp edge of your smart mouth is gone, melted away under the rhythm he’s carved into your body. There’s a flicker of something like pity in his chest, because even if he doesn’t feel like the best version of himself right now, he still doesn’t want to push you too far beyond your limits.

So he starts to pull his fingers from your soaked, fluttering cunt.

Or at least he tries. Because the second he begins to slip away, you grip his forearm with surprising strength, pushing him firmly back between your spread thighs.

God forbid he stops now.

He pulls his legs apart just to drag yours along for better leverage, and focuses on the wet hood of your clit. Three fingers stroke in fast motions, the delicate skin folding and bunching while you weakly claw around his wrist. He wonders if you’re still conscious of the noises you’re making, or if the tears pooling at the corners of your eyes have blurred away any sense of awareness. He wipes them off with a slow drag of his lips and savors the way your clit tense even more under the pressure of his hand, the stiff kink of nerves coiling tighter to its limit.

It only takes a few more flicks until your second orgasm tumbles right through you. Wrecks you out completely — back arching, thighs clamping around his wrist in a futile attempt to slow him down. He probably should, you’re already an overstimulated mess of body fluid. Arousal coating your thighs, drool catching at your mouth, sweat beading along your hairline.

Purges of sensation seeps through every corner of your pore, but now he wonders how far he can wring you dry. His stubble scratches your already blotchy cheek, “One more, give me one more.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing.

“Spence—” You croak, slightly pulling back to speak. “I-I can’t—Stop.”

“You can,” he hums, and presses a soft peck to your jaw. “I know you can.”

You slowly shake your head.

But Spencer has been in this position too many times that he understands the precise way your body folds when it’s too much. The lack of safe word you both agreed on tells him you’re still greedy for more despite how far gone you look.

“Red?” He asks, doubling his effort on your clit.

You blink through heavy lids, and he presses his mouth to your the shell of your ear.

“Come on, answer me,” he urges. “I’ll stop if you say the word.”

Your nails clutch at his skin. The press of your eyelashes clamping shut accompanies another quiet sob, followed by a firmer shake of your head.

Your answer isn’t clear enough, he tries to question you again.

“Red?”

The frantic rhythm of your heartbeat kisses your chest, and slowly, very weakly, you guide him back to your hole with a wet sigh.

He can’t stop himself from letting out a torn sound that rumbles in his throat. A noise that feels like it extends from a place so deep it feels unfamiliar. You shouldn’t have this much power over him. Shouldn’t be able to tear down every carefully built barrier and unravel him to his very bones with nothing more than the tremble of your thighs and his name clinging onto your lips. Lips that would normally spit fire are incredibly soft as he chases them with his own.

They’re still burning, nonetheless.

It sears through him the moment your mouths connect, a slow spreading heat that starts in his marrow and flows outward like molten lava, sliding down his arms until it lingers at his fingertips where you’re unduly scorching in his palm.

You feel it too, don’t you? It’s impossible not to with the way his hand glides in harsh motions between your legs, building a friction that’s equal parts brutal and addictive. So addictive that you find yourself chasing a numb, blissful escape in the ceaseless waves of sensations that threaten to wash away every coherent thought.

Your toes curl.

Your stomach tightens.

Speckles of liquid spatters across the sheets the more he drags his fingers through your dripping, swollen cunt, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.

He greedily swallows each gasp in his mouth, tastes your pleasure in every pant.

“Oh fuck! Fuckfuckfuck—”

A sudden rush spills over his hand. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot into the thighs of his pants where your legs are still slung over him. He couldn’t care less about the fabric sticking to his skin, or the growing discomfort of wet clothes when it’s nothing compared to the discomfort written your pinched brows. He’d actually think you were slipping into another dimension from the way your features crumple if it weren’t for the ghost of a smile curling lazily at your mouth.

He slightly leans back and studies your profile. You’re clearly out of it, but there’s no mistaking the ecstasy etched into every line of your pretty face. A little strange, given everything he’s done to you. Even more out of place is the slurred compliment you offer after a long, dreamy sigh.

“You’re getting too good at that,” you mumble, cheek softly pressed to the ridge of his shoulder blade.

Your voice is uncharacteristically sweet, but he can’t let it stroke his ego when he catches the black screen of your phone lying forgotten on the bed. A quiet unblinking thing, and guilt starts to curl in the space where pride tried to form, souring any sense of satisfaction before it ever fully sinks.

He absently runs a hand along your inner thigh and swallows the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

It earns him a puzzled frown.

You try to blink the drowsiness from your eyes, unsure if you heard him right or if your mind is still swimming too deep to trust the shape of words. But the tight pull of muscle beneath your cheek gives him away, which deepens your confusion because an apology doesn’t seem to belong here. Nor does it fit easily with the usual rhythm of wandering hands and biting retorts that define your interactions.

“Where is this coming from?” You ask.

He hesitates, his hand resting loosely on your thigh, then lets out a long exhale. “I’m not sure when the line cut off.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a high chance he heard… most of it, or enough to know that you’re not alone.”

It’s your turn to play semantics with him. “Define high chance.”

“Somewhere between eighty and ninety percent.”

That’s an oddly specific high range. It’s precise enough to make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on.

Your eyes touches his, so close now you can see the enlarged pupils eating at the brown irises. You might think what you’re doing is profiling, but you know it’s more about noticing the little details you’ve come to memorize over time. The subtle shift in his jawline, the tension at the corners of his lips. The patterns are familiar they make his thoughts almost transparent.

And somehow you can read his mind, though you need to confirm if what you’re sensing is mutual, if the unspoken words you’re catching are the same ones circling behind his glossy eyes.

“Were you aware the call kept going the whole time?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and the pause alone feels like an answer on its own. Your brows rise sharply.

“So it was intentional.”

“No. Yes.” He looks away. “Maybe?”

You don’t say anything at first, save for the slow breath you draw in through your nose.

You try to vivisect your own mind while he sits uncharacteristically still, attempting to determine why the possibility of him leaving the line connected doesn’t disturb you as much as it probably should. Why, despite the implications, part of you isn’t shocked.

The answer eludes you, buried perhaps deeper than you care to dig. You’d already tasted the bite of his jealousy long before he stepped foot into your room tonight. Felt it in the taut set of his shoulders whenever Palmer so much as looked at you when the three of you shared space. Even after he’d folded you into his arms and wrung a quake of orgasms from your body, you could still sense it humming under his skin.

But the extent to which this jealousy has driven him to is what baffles you. It’s as startling as the faint thrill fluttering traitorously through your heart.

You huff out a short, disbelieving laugh. “All because he asked me out to dinner?”

It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably, guides your legs together until your knees touches and rakes his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

Two apologies in one night — a record, as far as he’s concerned.

Yet it feels like he’s only skimming the surface of what you deserve.

The intricacy of your relationship has always defied easy definitions, but even in the mess of it, he’s never stopped respecting you. While he often questions your judgment or disputes the way your opinions cut so differently from his, you’re nothing less of smart, and perhaps this is where your clever mind finally puts a stop to this nonsense. Drawing a line he’s long since blurred.

He wouldn’t even blame you. He’d decide the same outcome if he were in your shoes. After all, he knows he’s too much of a burden, too wired for disaster to offer you anything but chaos. And no matter how tempting chaos can be, it never leads to anything good.

Goodness, as he’s come to accept, is far from his reality.

Tonight only serves as another proof of how right his presumption is.

The dampness from his wet slacks slides across even wetter sheets as he moves, a clammy sensation that replicates the sweat beading along his palms. His arms loosen from where they’d caged you in, falling away with a hesitant drag until he finally touches your gaze. Your eyes are already honed in on him, but there’s no trace of animosity in those sharp depths. No shards malice. He doesn’t even discern any hint of anger. Your face is soft, head tipped the slightest degree, but it’s the faint curl of your lips — the barest hint of a smile — that truly undoes him.

Along with the trace of fingers placed over his heart. He’s sure you can feel its wild rhythm beating through the thin fabric.

“Thought jealousy wouldn’t look good on you,” you slowly declaim, thumb idly tracing little circles around a button. “I’m starting to believe it does.”

His throat scrapes like sandpaper.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. Your fingers worry a stray thread over the seam of his shirt like you’re stitching together all the wrong parts of him as if it makes them right. It’s disorienting, and he can’t decide whether your soft words and even softer touch align with the conclusion already forming in his mind. A conclusion so unlikely that it twists every time he tries to pin it down.

Because if you truly accepted his jealousy, it would mean his worst impulses weren’t entirely unwelcome. It would also validate the possessive instinct he’s buried to claim you as his. And that, in turn, would feed the dangerous notion that he’s entitled to you in ways he has no right to be.

But you’re still smiling, and he’s just a man. A man whose logical brain stands no chance against the delicate curve of your mouth.

The right course of action would be prying the truth between those softly spoken words. Wisdom dictates caution, but fear grips him more fiercely than the cold hand of reason ever could. Terrified that one wrong placed question might send you retreating behind walls he’s only managed to breach, and that dread pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds him in silence as he rides the comfort of your satiation like it grants him the access to stay.

Again, he’s selfish.

Yet it’s a ruinous habit — one that slips over him as easily as breath. Too easy to indulge when you’re letting him with no objection.

You don’t even flinch when he gathers you onto his lap.

Not a single word of protest when his lips touches your hair.

"She sought death on a queen-sized bed." A Little Death—The Neighbourhood

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 13.0K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), friends to lovers, angst, jealous & angry john, descriptions of violence & injuries, wound tending trope, talks of insecurities, “she fell first but he fell harder”, confession of feelings, john is emotionally constipated, extreme levels of yearning, john’s praise kink, grinding, dry humping, dirty talk, making out, biting, hair pulling, fingering (fem!rec), handjob, mutual orgasm. aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is a pretty big fic (sorry not sorry) and I worked really hard on it! I really hope that you guys enjoy, a lot of time & effort went into it! Thank you guys for your support! 🫶

John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle vulnerability.

He comes close, teetering along the edge in soft-spoken conversation through the early hours of morning, or in the aftermath of a particularly rough and arduous mission.

Validation was something he subconsciously craved, the desire to feel wanted, to feel as if he was greater than the sum of his parts. Losing his rank in the military and losing Captain America screamed inadequacy; he was learning to be better.

In that journey, somewhere, he found himself getting closer with you. It often manifested in the form of teasing and sarcastic jabs, banter to keep things light, but as months ticked by, he found himself opening up.

Vulnerability strikes fear into him, greater than that of a weapon being waved in his face, or thrown into any warzone.

There’s something effortless he’s found within you, something comfortable, and that scares him. It’s kept him distanced, watching from afar, attempting to keep you at-bay, knowing the consequences of what could happen if he let himself get attached.

Everyone who gets close to him always loses — Lemar lost his life, Olivia lost a partner, his son lost a father. John had come to the realization that he didn’t want to lose you, too.

On more than one occasion, you catch glimpses of a shattered man who’s still picking up the pieces, directionless; a man who’s trying to do good, but still can’t quite get it right.

It wasn’t easy, befriending him — his cocksure smirk and arrogance often warded away others, but you, in all of your optimism, had waded through without complaint.

He’s militant, rigorous, rough; though, you’ve managed to dig just beneath the surface, where a softer man resides. He’s known for sharing, for being zealously overprotective, and for his dry, sardonic humor.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone on the team when your feelings are revealed.

The both of you are two halves to a whole, lamenting to a buried and burning flame, continuing to dance around one another.

Unbeknownst to either of you, the feelings are there, and it’s powerful — you want him, he wants you.

Admittedly, you felt that it was glaringly one-sided, you liking him; you assumed it’d be unrequited for the rest of your days. The more he began to keep you at a distance, the more accepting you became of the outcome.

On the quinjet, it’s hushed with preparation, the deep breath before the plunge. The mission is somewhere oceanic, aboard a hijacked S.H.I.E.L.D helicarrier swarming with mercenaries and thieves.

The darker realm of espionage, violence, and deception is somewhat newer to you. Before being inducted into the New Avengers, you were scouted by Valentina for your abilities, avoiding time in The Raft for something you didn’t do.

Now, it all feels strange — you’re traveling the world, you’re helping people, you’re a hero.

“You’ll drop in here,” Bucky’s brows are furrowed together, a visage of stoic calm, adopting more of a leadership role. He’d run thousands of missions, dismantled armies — none of this was unusual for him. “With Walker.”

Strapped into his webbed jump-seat, John bristles at the mention of his name, and yours. He gets heated before a mission, as if he’s working himself up, noticeably coiled like some predator waiting in the wings.

There’s a visible tension in his jaw, a weight in his shoulders, white-knuckling his still-bent shield as if it’s a vice. He isn’t nervous — just impatient, ready to get the job over with.

“Say we drop in, and it’s compromised,” With a low hum, you point to the scanned layout of the helicarrier, attempting to discern a backup plan. “What should we do?” It’s a fair question, and you’re worried about the specifics.

“Double back to here, and wait for Ava to clear the path to you,” Bucky affirms, peering at Walker, who’s partially tuned-in, partially brooding. “If all goes according to plan, you shouldn’t have to rely on the backup position.”

Bucky’s close to you; too close.

John catches it in heated glances, countenance riddled with the face of jealousy’s ire, blonde brows pinched together. Unfortunately, he doesn’t mask anything well, letting his sentiments reveal themselves, rear their ugly head.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, you’re leaning in; for you, it’s an involuntary thing. Bucky’s similar to an older brother figure, offering a sense of comfort when things seem to be too much.

Though, John doesn’t see it that way; all he sees is Barnes invading your space as if it belongs to him, and you’re none the wiser.

His abdomen twists into knots, as if he’s swallowing his rage, only to make room for misery.

John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle his own affections, either.

It was simple for him to pinpoint when exactly he realized he’d liked you, too. A few months back, he’d gotten sick with frustration, toiling over Olivia moving on, finding someone else. He couldn’t blame her after everything, but the fury hadn’t subsided.

Instead, he was left raw, with this amalgamation of emotions that had twisted into some catalyst, a maelstrom of everything he’d done wrong in life.

Through this tide of navigating newfound feelings, there were plenty of moments where he’d wanted to get closer.

John thought about it often; draping a blanket over your shoulder when you’d fallen asleep in the common room, hands brushing when you’d reached for the same object, bodies ghosting over another during training sessions, his lingering stares when he thought no one else was watching.

There you were, staying up with him into the early hours of morning, before dawn’s first scrap of light could pierce the black horizon. He thought about that night more times than he could count — he thought about how much you cared, how kind you were.

It was more than he deserved, admittedly. Without a shadow of a doubt, John knew that he didn’t deserve to have you in his life, let alone like you. Things were less complicated when he kept you distanced, even if it felt completely wrong.

He figured that you getting with Bucky was his punishment for fumbling your friendship and isolating you, avoiding you. Nothing hurt worse than seeing the look in your eyes whenever he dismissed you, or kept you at arm’s length.

Then again, he didn’t want to see your blood on his hands, or have to stomach the sight of your body if he messed up, or if he let you get too close.

If he wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect you — he didn’t want you to end up like Lemar.

Between Bucky droning on about the mission at-hand and Alexei attempting to give some inspirational speech, your eyes find John, brows furrowing together.

There’s an established familiarity, one strong enough for you to know that he’s upset about something, frustrated. He’s not as adept at concealing his emotions as he thinks he is; whatever he’s going through, it’s branded into his countenance.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the far side of the helicarrier, John’s forlorn stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away — somewhere else entirely.

For the past month or two, he’s pushed you away, shut you out as if he’s slammed a door in your face. It stings even still, an embittered thing, and you’re left to wonder why.

You were friends, closer to him than the rest of the team, much to everyone’s amazement. Something doesn’t feel right whenever you look at him, as if he’s dragging around a weight, unwilling to let anyone else shoulder the burden.

Your feelings for him seem to complicate everything.

Quiet, you decide to sit in the jumpseat beside him, buckling yourself in, pondering how to broach the tenuous silence that lingers between you. Before, he might’ve said something insolent or made a sarcastic remark; instead, you’re met with nothing.

“When we drop in, should w—” Before you can rationally discuss tactics, John interjects.

He cuts you off, as sharp as a blade. “When we drop, you stay on my flank and don’t engage unless I tell you to.” John gruffs, uncharacteristically quipped with you, and everyone else seems to notice, too.

Startled, you’re mildly taken aback, left confused as to why he’s treating you like this. You aren’t prone to outbursts or snapping back with the same cutthroat demeanor, resorting to a sullen silence.

Yelena grimaces, nose wrinkling in a thinly-veiled disdain. “Walker, relax. She is just trying to help.” She murmurs, still attempting to work around her twinge of uncertainty about him.

John’s haughty gaze floats toward Yelena, as if he’s winding up to say something callous. Instead, the words seem to turn to ash, retort buried somewhere in the depths of his throat.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done this hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

“Ready?” Bucky calls over the comms, quinjet descending through darkness, making a quick flight for the small helipad toward the back of the vessel.

As the hull opens, you’re quick to clamor behind John, who’s often barreling first into danger without blinking an eye. The two of you jump first, and it’s a shorter fall to the helicarrier’s landing zone, tucking and rolling as you make it down.

Swallowed by darkness, the only light happens to be the glow from various posts scattered around the area, making it difficult for you to follow his silhouette. For a man of his size, he moves quickly, enhanced by the super-soldier serum.

To your relief, your drop point isn’t compromised, not swarming with mercenaries as you thought it’d be. John takes two of them out with ease, leaving you to rush to catch up, scrambling after him as best as you can.

“Slow down, John.” You urge, watching as his shoulder rolls, head twitching as he draws his pistol. It was a waiting game, now; letting the others secure their portions of the ship and make their way forward.

“Watch my flank,” Flat, John knows that no one is likely to ambush from behind, given your location. It gives you something to do, something to distract so he can keep you pinned behind him. “That’s all you need to do.”

“I can’t do that if you’re rushing into this,” With an urgent protest, you keep watch nonetheless, eyes peeled through the darkness for any unforeseen threats. “If something happens, I don’t know if I can react in-time …”

With your powers, you’re still adjusting — it’s a constant work in-progress, testing the limits, trying to see how much you can handle. Telekinesis is nothing menial, however, you’re struggling to fully grasp the boundaries of your abilities.

“Stay behind me.” John barks, cadence akin to an angry drill sergeant instead of your teammate, your friend.

Emotions run high in the wake of his sharp tone, and you’re inclined to react, hopelessly lost as to why he’s upset with you.

“What’s wrong?” Bad time to ask, but you can’t help it anymore. “John, we’re friends. I know that something is making you frustrated.” Your poignant line of questioning invokes his scorn as he turns around, pushing you into the wall of a shipping container.

He isn’t rough, but it’s done with urgency as you narrowly avoid the prying barrel of a rifle, armed with a flashlight attachment. With bated breath, he waits for it to pass, firmly keeping an arm on your waist, caging you against cool metal.

Looking as if he’s on the verge of succumbing to rage, his nostrils flare, jaw locked as he directs his wave of anguish onto you. It’s everything, all at once — his jealousy, his anger, his feelings for you and unwillingness to act.

“We’re not doing this.” He grits, and it’s a command, not a suggestion. His voice is low, pitched with something indiscernible, and you can taste the anguish that wafts from him in hot waves.

Conceding, you appear as if you’ve been struck, wilting beneath his sharp tongue, succumbing to the blade he sinks into you. “I’m sorry — I won’t ask anymore.” Firm, your words ring in his ears; he’s guilty.

Silent, you gently step away from his grasp as if he’s burned you alive, skin stinging where he kept his hand on your waist. Deciding to focus on the mission at-hand, you leave your affections there, for now.

John’s gaze shifts toward the ground, brows pinching together, countenance warping into a mask of frustration. He’s angry with himself, above all; he hates that he’s doing this to you.

Armed mercenaries patrol the open spaces of the main deck, guarding crates of illegal weapons smuggled from various battles. There’s supposed Chitauri equipment inside, Asgardian, remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D and H.Y.D.R.A, too.

It’s easier to follow his lead, his experience far outweighing yours as he moves to find some level of cover. “We’ll make for that wall,” John murmurs, motioning toward a divot of sleek steel, several feet to your left. “Go on my mark.”

The vessel groans, shockwaves pulsing beneath your feet as an explosion fires off in the distance, a large chunk of the command center blown apart. You’re quick on the comms, pressing a button that’s built into your suit.

“Was that us or them?” You question, watching as an eruption of fire consumes the deck. John winces, moderately impressed as the both of you hang back, waiting for the right opportunity to push ahead.

“I had to improvise — you can all thank me later.” Ava’s voice reverberates over the comms, and you can envision her smirk through it all. As the mercenaries scramble to move shipments away from the blast, John’s ready to move.

As he hops over the short, concrete barrier, a sudden click hisses behind you. Every nerve in your body seems to freeze, recognizing the noise as the safety of a gun being unlatched.

“Don’t move.”

Three mercenaries stand behind you, rifles drawn, blasting columns of light into your eyes. You’re like a deer in the headlights, brain wracking, scrambling to try and figure something out.

John acts quickly, throwing his bent hunk of metal at one of them, gun clattering from his hands as he draws his pistol. He huffs like a bull when he fights, body pumping with adrenaline, jaw locked as if it might shatter.

He’s primal when he’s dismantling his opposition; smooth, experienced, and hotheaded. When it comes to morally bankrupt mercenaries, he doesn’t pull a single punch, moving like some barricade of brawny muscle.

You’re trying to disarm the second with your powers, though it’s faltering, exceedingly difficult to concentrate. Between the poor lighting, John’s agility, and your scrambled psyche, you come up empty-handed.

In the midst of the scuffle, you notice a rifle being aimed at John. It’s as if your powers know when to bleed through, as you shove him away with a pulse of your mind. He stumbles, flails, and loses his balance.

Though, it’s momentary, just enough to be a distraction so John didn’t get hurt. It’s difficult to distinguish what’s happening through the dark, save for the lights strapped to the end of rifle barrels.

The mercenary that you’d tossed to the ground is getting back up, angry.

Instead of attempting to use your abilities again, you resort to throwing a wrench at him. Before you can follow through on your movement, a gunshot rings out — and it’s not John who gets hurt.

Something sharp and piercing penetrates through your suit, slicing through thin kevlar, going right into your abdomen, somewhere on the right side of your ribcage. Agony blossoms over you, like tendrils of a scorching heat blistering over your skin.

The bullet whistles clean through, exiting with more bite and tear than how it entered. You’ve never been shot before — maimed and bruised, perhaps, but nothing grievous like this.

The wind ripped from your lungs, as if someone had stolen every scrap of air from you. It was all shock, burning and burning still, before you collapsed in a heap, hand immediately clutching at your ribs.

John’s still roughing up the remainder of the mercenaries without a shred of mercy, and once they are grounded, no longer a threat, he sees you.

It feels like he’s in Latvia again — feels like yesterday, the suffering too raw and too visceral, as if he’s reliving the memory. Time slows to a crawl, his heart nearly bursting from his chest.

Crimson begins to flourish through the fabric of your bodice, wet and hot, but you’re beginning to feel dizzy. Everything is spinning, and fear begins to settle, you’re scared. You don’t know if you were hit somewhere critical.

“John?” You croak, feeling something firm catch you before your head can knock against the concrete.

He’s not there, he’s trapped in a nightmare; reality settles in with its bitter sting and cruelty when he feels your blood on his fingertips.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” John’s clinging onto you, shield slung on his back, cradling you in his arms, trying to get you to stay alert. “Shit, come on — She’s hit! Bucky, I’ve — She’s down!” He sounds as if he’s speaking in half-sentences, babbling and broken.

A haze forms at the fringes of your vision, blurry, and that’s when the pain begins to surge, like a hot iron being dug into your flesh. A cry of torment rips through your diaphragm, every breath feeling labored, as if you’re heaving.

He’s carried men from the trenches of war torn countries, he’s saved hostages, he’s dragged barely-conscious bodies through the desert.

Nothing could’ve prepared John for this, for you laying bleeding in his arms, latching onto him, startled and in unimaginable pain. Any sliver of calm has left him, replaced with anguish, with panic, with an amalgamation of emotions.

“You’re gonna be fine,” John chokes, attempting to calm you and himself, but nothing is working. “Gonna be okay, just — Hey, just focus on me.” He’s lifting you into his arms, knowing that it might make things worse, but he’s got to get you somewhere safe.

The trauma he carries with him still seems to split open like a dam, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of anguish, of suffering. John is suffocating beneath the weight of it all, and in that darkness, he’s scared of losing you.

He should’ve told you how he felt, he shouldn’t have pushed you away, should’ve been a better man — should’ve been stronger, faster.

John feels like he’s drowning, swept away within a riptide, an unforgiving current that’s threatening to wash him away. He wonders if that’s what he deserves — erased, to slip away and let the world forget.

When he feels you gripping his arm like a vice, those feelings begin to disappear. “J—John,” You stammer, voice hoarse, thick with turmoil as you cringe at the pain. “Don’t go anywhere, please.” Able to get out a string of words, your consciousness begins to waver.

“I’m right here,” John’s stoic cadence warbles, wrought with the thickness of emotion as he tries to stay calm for you. He’s trying to pull you to safety, get you onto the quinjet, holding you firm to his chest. “Stay awake, stay with me.”

“Walker, what’s your location?” Bucky doesn’t sound nearly as panicked as John, but there’s a terse edge to his voice, something coiled.

Another explosion shakes the deck, and he nearly barrels over, keeping his footing firm to avoid losing his grip on you. You’re threading along the fringes of consciousness, gaze half-lidded, visage drawn up into one of discomfort.

“Drop point,” John shouts over the comms, petrified, something fearful in his voice, which happens to crack at the end. “She’s hit bad, you need to get here now!”

Struggling to keep yourself afloat, your grasp is weakening, anchored to the front of his body armor like a tether to reality. “M’okay,” You slur, your voice little more than a murmur. “Still here.” It’s mostly to placate John, who’s looking completely lost.

Panicked, cerulean hues stare at you through the dark, holding steadfastly to you as the quinjet descends a few feet away. John moves, trying to avoid jostling you around as the hull begins to open.

“I got you, I got you.” John’s chanting it to himself like some mantra, noticing the glazed look in your eyes. Tendrils of burning agony continue to plume through your abdomen, blood warm, oozing from your wound.

In the back of the quinjet, there’s several crates of items stolen from the helicarrier, one of which Valentina had specifically asked for. The rest of the team is there, and Yelena moves to the edge, helping the both of you in.

Everyone becomes blurry, hovering around you, but you can’t see faces. You hear John more than the rest — he’s angry. “Put pressure on the wound,” He barks, feeling his hand shakily smooth over your crown. “Bucky, you need to hurry!”

Bucky’s reply is indiscernible, but you can only assume that he’s attempting to console John from the pilot’s cockpit. John says something back, sharp, like a dog that’s biting at a handler.

Voices begin to drown away, as if it’s all become mere background noise, a dismal hum. Consciousness wanes, bleeding away at the edges, and your grip on John’s chest falls slack.

All at once, everything fades to black.

Dizzying, blanched light pools around your peripheral when you finally rouse from unconsciousness, and the agony that’s festering in your ribs has become a dull, incessant ache.

A sharp inhale pierces your lungs as you attempt to gather your bearings, and you feel something soft, cushioned beneath you. The Watchtower’s medbay is stark and glittering, a newer addition that’s seen some use.

Beneath your brow, your head throbs something awful, and as the grogginess begins to wear off, your surroundings become crystalline. Everything seems too sterile, too sanitized.

Tangled in pale hospital sheets, you glance to your left — nothing, empty; save for the other medical beds and metallic fixtures.

It’s what’s on your right side that startles you.

John is slumped in a chair, half-dressed in his suit, navy-blue compression shirt clinging to his musculature. He’s dozing off, head tilted back along the seat’s rim, chest rising and falling with shallow, steady breaths.

Blonde tresses are disheveled, glistening with a layer of dampness; he must’ve taken a shower. There’s a yellowing bruise behind his left ear, countenance grizzled with his beard, noticeably rugged.

Something wet clings to your ribs, prompting you to pull up the hem of your shirt to find a cluster of gauze and bandages wrapped over your wound. Dried crimson stains the linen, but in much smaller amounts than before.

Inevitably, your gaze shifts back to John, whose visage seems less anguished when he’s resting. His brows are still furrowed, but there’s a prominent lack of frustration present.

He was painfully handsome; you always found him attractive, but it’s enhanced when he’s simply existing. Part of you wonders how long he’s been sitting here for — how long you’ve been bedridden.

In his lap, he’s got one of your sweatshirts, which is a peculiar sight, one that makes you curl with warmth. Gooseflesh courses over your spine, a shiver following after as you shift against the mattress.

Swinging your legs out from underneath your sheets, you attempt to stand, wobbling slightly as you find your footing. The tile is blisteringly cold beneath your heels, and you feel jabs of a throbbing ache spread through your side.

The bed creaks, a faint metallic grinding that reverberates throughout the room. Before you can quietly creep from the mattress, John is stirring in the chair beside you.

“What are you doing?” It’s the first question he asks, tone clipped, as if you’re doing something wrong. Running a hand over his face, he lets out a soft grunt, readjusting to his surroundings.

“Getting something to drink,” Through a hoarse croak, you swallow, attempting to quench the dryness that burns in your throat. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I’ll get it,” John murmurs, aloof as he stands from the chair with a low groan. Muscles are sore, bone-deep from the mission, but he knows that he’ll endure. “You sit back down.” His command is noticeably gentle.

“Thank you,” With a smile, you shuffle back into bed, nonplussed by the ripples of slight pain. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting the wound to feel so light; it’s only aching. “How long have I been out?”

Striding toward the sink, John fills up a glass of water, sleeves of his shirt rolled toward his elbows. Corded muscle wraps taut around his forearms, dusted with blonde hair and a myriad of scrapes and bruises.

“Twelve hours, give or take,” His bedside manners are surprisingly intact, more than you thought possible. He’s avoided you so much lately that having him back feels nice. “Might need to change your dressing.”

Quiet, your hand falls to your ribs, fingertips lightly flicking over the gauze, over tufts of white. “Have you been here the whole time?” Your tone was gentle, tender; everything seemed to crawl to a low hum.

Through terse shoulders and a brief sigh, John answered you. “Bucky came by a little while ago,” He murmured, returning to you with a glass of freezing water. “Yelena, too.”

He didn’t answer your question fully, which didn’t go unnoticed. With a nod, you took several greedy swigs of water, your throat soothed by cool liquid, adjusting your position.

“I didn’t ask about Bucky or Yelena,” Clicking your tongue, your gaze shifts to John, almost pleading with him for some semblance of truth. “Thank you for staying with me.” Maintaining a cordial smile, you placed the glass aside.

John nodded, a subtle gesture that held more meaning than he let on. A silence settled between, more uncomfortable than tranquil, prompting him to rifle around for medical supplies.

Basic first aid was ingrained into him, but there was some wariness he felt with patching you up. It was all closeness, a growing intimacy that made his bones blister.

He liked you so much, wanted you so terribly that it began to gnaw away at him — and he felt entirely undeserving.

Bruises dust his knuckles, hands visibly rattling with a subtle tremor. He’s steady when he fights — assured, confident, lethal.

With you, in the gentle silence and unspoken feelings, he starts to feel the pressure mounting, the nerves.

“Should be healed in a few weeks,” John murmurs, stepping towards the edge of the mattress, subtly gesturing for you to move closer. “You got hit at close-range.” He says it as if it’s a painful memory.

Memories float at the fringes of your mind, and what you remember most is John; he never once left your side, toiling over you, and the panic. The mortifying fear in his eyes was something you remembered the most.

“It doesn’t feel that bad.” With a shrug, you move toward the edge, swinging your legs over the side. Awkwardness sweeps in as you lift your shirt, shy beneath his stare, which is unusually warm.

John swallows, jaw ticking, knuckles white as he clutches the roll of gauze. When you lift your shirt, there’s a blotch of dark crimson, nothing too severe, but he’s left feeling guilty.

He told you to cover his flank, and you were ambushed — he should’ve known better. Cerulean hues settle over your wound, brows furrowing before he reaches down to unravel the soiled bandages.

Calloused fingertips brush over bare flesh, and the both of you shiver as if you’ve been electrified. Gooseflesh follows in a wave, snaking over your flesh, causing you to clear your throat to relieve a sliver of tension.

He’s standing between your legs, broad musculature creating something of a gap, staring down at you with an indiscernible gleam. The closeness is sudden, exhilarating; you can feel the heat wafting from his body.

“You’ve been really distant lately,” It’s quiet, your observation; your cadence lacks any real malice, only perturbation. “I miss our friendship.” Sullen, your confession makes him inhale, a sharp and poignant sound that splits his lungs.

John distracts himself by prying your old linens aside, tossing them onto a metal tray that sits beside your bed. “Yeah,” He knows it’s his fault. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” A partial truth, but it’s better than fibbing to you outright.

He’s jealous, he’s angry, he’s riddled with guilt.

It’s an amalgamation of everything negative, of everything sour and rotten that sits inside of him, burning a hole right through. John knows that he isn’t a stellar example of a man, but he’s trying to do good. He wants to do right by you.

“How long will it take for you to realize that I’m here for you? That I can handle the truth, no matter how ugly it is?” Even then, you never raise your voice, sitting soundly as John inspects your stitches, countenance pinched together.

“I don’t want to get in the way.” He grits, and he fights the urge to sound disgustingly bitter. Jealousy is an emotion he doesn’t handle well, something volatile; anger, too.

Bewildered, you wince when he dabs antiseptics against your agitated flesh, and he’s swift to apologize. A soft groan of discomfort slips past your mouth, teeth clenching.

“Sorry,” John soothes, blonde brows creased together, his visage one of immediate apology as his hand recoils. “I’m sorry.” He huffs, flesh crawling when he realizes he accidentally hurt you.

Bruised knuckles graze over your abdomen, as if he’s offering another apology through touch alone. The sensation makes you quiver, digits tensing into the pale sheets beneath you.

“It’s alright,” With a smile, your gaze flutters toward his hands again, mapping every bruise, scrape, scar — you notice the slight tremor again. “You’re good at this.” You remark, attempting to placate him.

With a sardonic chuckle, John makes a face, as if he’s in a state of mild disbelief. “Not really.” He counters, gruff, gently cleaning your wound, eyes traveling over your features. You’re so beautiful, and it makes him nervous.

“Take a compliment, John.” There’s a softer lilt to your tone, one that eases the coiled frustration that carries in his shoulders. The smile you give him is saccharine, the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.

Writhing around, your movement makes it increasingly difficult for him to steady the gauze over your wound. “Stop moving.” He quips, as if he’s reverting back to being in some perpetual state of frustration.

Nodding, you mumble an apology, allowing him to thread the linen around your torso. He ensured that he was exceedingly gentle when it came to the flesh around your wound.

There’s a beat of silence, one that stretches on for too long, causing you to break it with a question. “Why do you think you’re getting in the way?” Your inquiry takes him by surprise.

“What?” John plays dumb, knowing that he shouldn’t have said anything. You’re often too curious, but you care — you care so deeply for him, and it’s written on your face.

“You said that you didn’t want to get in the way,” Trying again, your brows crease together, chin jutting forward as you maintain a steady stare. “I’m not sure what you’re getting in the way of.”

Cornering him, John doesn’t know what to say — maybe he needed to say it, to get it out in the open. If you acknowledged your relationship with Bucky, maybe it would be what he needed to try and move on from his feelings for you.

His jaw is tight, unnaturally so; the muscle might snap into two from how hard he’s clenching. With a stinging inhale, he decides to broach the subject with a blunt tone, but the bitterness sits heavy.

“You and Barnes.” John grits, hearing the startled gasp that escapes your mouth. Judging from your expression, this came as a surprise to you.

He’s jealous — the realization hits you all at once, and everything begins to slowly click into place. The indifference, the avoidance, the sudden bite of frustration — he thinks you’re with Bucky. It couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“John,” Bewildered, you attempt to refute his claim, but he’s interjecting, as if his mouth is flying before his brain has time to catch up. “That’s not …”

“Wish you would’ve told me.” He grouses, even though it isn’t remotely close to the truth. The distance between bodies is nearly nonexistent, and you’re face-to-face with his sternum, feeling his fingers ghost beside your thigh.

“I don’t like Bucky,” You mumble, which visibly catches him off-guard. “I’ve never viewed him as anything more than a brother, and he feels the same way.” Once that’s out in the open, John feels incredibly stupid.

Dumbfounded, his countenance contorts from a thinly-veiled frustration to something forlorn, and then he realizes how blind he’s been. He’s been punishing you for something you had no part in, keeping away because he thought it best.

Through a tight throat and dry mouth, you know then and there that you want to tell him — tell him everything. Your feelings are overwhelming in the heat of the moment, coercing you into a confession.

“I don’t like Bucky because I like you,” In one tremulous exhale, you say it, let it slip into the gap of silence and sit with it. “I wish you’d stop pushing me away.” Through a whisper, you try to slow your breathing, but it’s quick.

John freezes, blonde lashes fluttering as he attempts to register what you said. There’s a sense of disbelief that accompanies the shock, but it dissipates when he looks at you.

It’s love he sees, a tender affection that doesn’t scorn his past or see the facade — you see him, and that’s what matters most. “I don’t think I’m good enough for you.” He says it through a throttled neck, cadence thick with anguish.

“That’s not true,” Insistent, you reach for his arm, digits cold over his flesh, like kisses of ice. “John, when I look at you, I don’t see your mistakes. I just see you, and I like the man that I see.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, of everything, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out.

He was glad that he never went through with it; he found you somewhere along the way, and that was more important to him than anything else. There’s still part of him that hates himself — but he’s healing, he’s making room for you.

John shakes his head, nostrils flaring. “This is my fault,” He gruffs, brows pinched together. “Shouldn’t have told you to watch my flank. You wouldn’t be here right now, you’d be —”

“Stop it,” Before he can spiral into an infinite cycle of self-blame, you interject, ensuring that he doesn’t rake himself over the coals for this. “You can’t predict the outcome. You didn’t know we’d get ambushed.”

“But I should’ve known,” John snarls, malice not directed at you; it’s inward, and he’s crawling with fury toward himself. “I’m better than that. If I’m not, if I lose you …” He huffs, shoulders tight with tension.

“You didn’t. I’m right here, I’m fine — John, look at me,” Through a tender utterance, you coax him into meeting your gaze, breath hitching. He’s staring at you with the look of love. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Hushed, his head jostles in a nod of acknowledgment, opting to take your words to heart, even if the guilt still lingers. One hand holds your hip, thumb tracing circles over your exposed flesh, keeping you close to him.

“You’re too good,” John utters, knuckles dragging along the underside of your jaw, the gesture making your breath hitch within your throat. “I don’t understand how you do it.” A brief huff sticks in the back of his throat.

“I’m not perfect, John — nobody is,” All of you wants all of him; imperfections, flaws, heart — everything matters to you. “What I do know is that I’m tired of going on like this, tired of not being with you.”

Crimson snakes over his features, an incessant heat that consumes him like wildfire. He’s tired of it too, pretending like he doesn’t want you. He cups your jaw, palm rough like leather, thumb smoothing over your cheek.

“I think you’re perfect,” He whispers, reverent as he gazes longingly at you, heart aching so bad that it produces a dull throbbing within his chest. “You’ve got me.” John confirms with a sense of finality, foreheads ghosting over one another.

John doesn’t fully trust falling in love after his divorce — but he does it anyway, he keeps falling for you, and falling again.

Beneath your chest, your heart is nearly ripping right from your sternum, threatening to combust as you wait for him to say something. Maybe you’re waiting for the real rejection, or something else — you aren’t sure.

Cerulean hues study the delicate curve of your jaw, sweeping over your mouth; it’s familiar, he’s done it a hundred times whenever you weren’t looking. This time, it carries a certain heaviness, a torrent of feelings finally revealing themselves.

“Can I kiss you?” John rasps, as if he’s a man dying in a desert, desperate for the quench of water. His hands shift to cradle your hips, thumbs circling over your waist.

“Please.” Nearly breathless, you’re nodding, feeling him dip to your level, scratch of his beard prickling against your mouth. It’s a slow kiss, oozing with unbridled affection, the one he’s staved off for so long.

He’s typically rough; a rough mouth, rougher disposition, rough around the edges.

It comes as a surprise when he kisses you as if you’re delicate, something he’s terrified to break. He moves sluggishly, a crawl that only seems to build, the tension rising to steady simmer.

The kiss stretches on without pause, and you’re melting into him. Within the threading limbs and desperate mouths, your heartbeat crescendos, nervous system alert, nerves set ablaze.

It is in your kiss that he finds a semblance of peace, hunger continuing to grow until it becomes some ravenous bite. Mouths ceaselessly collide, wet and fervent, prompting you to reach for his bicep in order to anchor yourself.

Digits thread themselves into his compression shirt, tensing over spandex, involuntarily tugging him closer, distance between bodies now nonexistent. John is caged in around you, withdrawing enough to feel your exhale plume over his lips.

Wordlessly, he’s searching for you to continue, and you do, mouth returning to his own, intimately comfortable. It’s something he’s dreamt about a thousand times — and now, it’s a fantasy made reality.

The kiss deepens, warping into something passionate, embers kindled to a low flame, igniting a wildfire within your belly.

You’re craving his touch, feeling rough palms stroke soothing circles over your hips, grazing bare skin.

He feels safe, a sanctuary that you’re content to dwell within. As if to test the waters, your hand begins to trail from his chest to his shoulder, fingertips dancing upward.

Your palm splays over the nape of his neck, toying with blonde tresses. A low grunt splits through his chest, the kiss beginning to climb with intensity, mouths clamoring, desperate.

Footsteps reverberate somewhere from beyond the medbay, swiftly approaching, which prompts John to untether himself from you. He’s disappointed, stepping away from you with an agitated sound as Bucky lingers in the doorway.

Scarlet clings to John’s neck, a low huff escaping him as Bucky clears his throat. “You’re awake,” He remarks, noticing Walker’s unusual demeanor and your startled expression. “Feeling alright?”

The way you look at Bucky is humorously pointed, as if you’re mildly annoyed by his untimely interruption, and John sees it. You really do look at Bucky as if he’s some pesky older sibling; it’s not the way you look at him.

“I’m just fine,” You assure, hands folded within your lap as you attempt to squash the butterflies floating around in your stomach. The smile you’re wearing is infectious, happy. “John’s been looking after me.”

Bucky doesn’t conceal his smirk, pretending to act innocent, as if he has no clue about anything. You’ve confided in him more than once about your feelings for John — and John’s reluctantly done the same thing.

“Right, I’m sure he has,” Through a flash of pearlescent teeth and a streak of teasing humor, Bucky takes the terse silence as his queue to leave. “There’s pizza, if either of you are hungry.” He offers, leaning off of the doorframe.

John feels as if he’s burning, the back of his neck singed with heat as he peers at Bucky, and there’s a knowing look that passes between. “Thanks, Barnes.” He murmurs, mouth twitching into a brief smile before Bucky wanders off.

When he’s out of your periphery, John sits down next to you, leg-to-leg, hand gently resting over your thigh, thumb tracing circles over soft skin.

There’s a tranquil hush that passes between, the two of you sharing a longing glance. Leaning in, you find your purchase again the bulk of his bicep, firm beneath your cheek.

“I like you, too.” John murmurs, low and rumbling beside your ear, ensnaring your attention without any effort. Admittedly, he knew what he felt for you was stronger, overpowering — he was falling hard, and falling fast.

The bravado and swagger seem nonexistent when he’s alone with you, as if he’s stripped down to the rawest parts of himself, the parts he’s only willing to let you see.

Whatever facade he puts on, whatever barriers he constructed, they drop.

Tucking strands of hair behind your ear, he’s effortlessly charming, oozing with a veiled affection as he leans in to claim your mouth. The kiss is briefer than the one before, and he feels your hand press over his knee.

John can taste the sweetness of your lips, the way that you absentmindedly lean closer, ignoring the wretched ache that pulses through your ribs.

He caresses the small of your back, digits teasing bare flesh, thumbing over your bandages. A shudder passes through you, caught within the labyrinth of his mouth, a maze that you have no desire to escape from.

As if to shatter the moment, your stomach snarls with hunger, and you realize that it’s almost been a full day since you’ve last eaten anything. You reluctantly withdraw, visibly embarrassed as you clear your throat.

“Ruined the moment,” You murmur, but John doesn’t seem bothered, a smirk curling at his mouth, blonde brows lifting in amusement. “Did you mean what you said earlier, about liking me?”

“Yeah,” There’s a sincerity in his tone that you don’t often hear, but he’s genuine; he means what he says. Low, his cadence drops to a lull, timbre wrought with warmth. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.” He murmurs, brows furrowing.

A hitch forms within your throat, an exhilarated sound that he catches between his teeth, visage swirling with a torrent of emotions.

John is a storm — tempestuous, veiled with scars and insecurities, a maelstrom of a man that you’ve learned to navigate. He calms with you, finds a sense of peace in the quiet, and he lets you read his heart.

“What do I do to you?” Barely above a whisper, you’re vexed to know what he means, what feelings have lingered, long repressed. It’s an innocuous question, festering with underlying implications, and he knows this.

A soft huff escapes him, and he smooths a kiss over your brow, easing you off of the mattress. “Think you need to eat first.” John chides, and you don’t pursue his earlier remark, letting him help you onto solid ground.

Flustered, you’re moving together, and he grabs your sweatshirt from the chair, helping you to pull it on over your head to help with the chill.

There aren’t any surprised faces when you and John come to dinner together — and frankly, it was long overdue.

Everyone notices — he sits closer, he’s hovering around you, serving you food as if you’re incapable, smothering a smile when you aren’t looking.

Though, John tries his best to keep it subdued, even if it’s far from the truth.

“She lives! Was so worried about you!” Alexei bellows, caging your upper half in a bear-like hug, his knuckles scratching over your crown. “Ah, but she’s strong, eh? Not even bullet can stop you.” He grinned, prompting you to laugh.

John has the expression of a worried father, jaw terse, twitching when Alexei manhandles you. “Easy,” He warns, afraid of you getting hurt, or something else. “She’s still recovering.”

Ava rolls her eyes, amused by John’s behavior — he’s so in love that it’s sickening to behold. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Walker.” She mused, feet kicked up onto the arm of the couch, a slice of pizza lodged into one hand.

“Thank you, Alexei.” You smile, patting the Russian’s thick forearm before he releases you. You’re quick to eat, staving off starvation, sating the incessant growl that lurches within your stomach.

When dinner is over and the team disperses, John is nearly attached to your hip; he’d deny it, but it’s glaringly obvious. He’s by your side when he walks you to your room, your gait sluggish as you make it to the door.

“Feeling alright?” John probes, ushering you inside before the thick pane hisses shut behind you. You’re met with a welcoming hush, rubbing the sleeves of your sweatshirt together.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Placating, you clear your throat, shuffling towards your bed. “Do you … Do you want to stay the night here?” The question itself is shy, shrewd. You don’t want to overstep any boundaries, but you don’t want him to leave, either.

John exhales; it’s subtle, hitched with a twinge of exhilaration. He nods, pretending that it’s under the guise of watching over you, but in all actuality, he wants to be close. “Someone’s gotta watch you.” He murmurs, prompting you to smile.

“I think we can be honest with one another,” Your remark carries as you wander toward the bathroom, planning on brushing your teeth until your gums ooze with mint. “It goes beyond that.”

He’s like a watchdog, a protector, trailing after you even when you’re only a few feet away. Lingering in the doorframe, arms loosely folded over his chest, he’s ogling you. “You caught me.” John’s cadence softens, jaw tight.

Admittedly, he hasn’t felt this since Olivia — and even then, they were high school sweethearts. John hadn’t had another partner other than her, he never loved someone like he loved you.

There’s a sliver of awkwardness that accompanies him, as if he’s wading into uncharted territory; thrilling, but it makes him nervous. He doesn’t want to screw anything up with you like he almost did before.

“I like you a lot,” He utters, low and confessing. Toothbrush in-hand, you swivel just enough to face him, doe-eyed, ardent. “I don’t want to screw this up.” John admits, as if it’s painful for him to do so.

Talking about his feelings, being vulnerable — it’s all relatively new for him. Though, he knows that he trusts you wholeheartedly, and he knows that this is how he heals, how he improves.

He wants to be the best that he can be for you.

Smitten, you gaze at him as if he’s everything; he was your friend first, but now, he’s something more. It all feels right, like a puzzle piece slotting into place, and you can’t imagine it differently.

“You won’t, John. We’re in this together.” Reassuring, you flash a tender smile, leaning against the bathroom counter as a brace, lashes fluttering. You have faith in him, believing in him when he scarcely believes in himself.

John’s mouth twitches into a threadbare smile, still observing you as you begin to brush your teeth, using an obscene amount of arctic-mint toothpaste. His nose wrinkles at the sight. “Jesus, bad breath?” He teases.

Through furrowed brows, you’re scrubbing at your teeth as if they’re covered in grime, hastily dragging the bristles over the flat of your tongue. You repeat this pattern longer than what’s considered appropriate before gargling water.

“No, just … If we kiss again, I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t off-putting.” Your admission is one of embarrassment, but he doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. It’s the opposite — he’s magnetized by you, instead.

“If?” His head cocks to the left, as if the mere idea of not kissing you is preposterous. Blonde tresses sweep near his temples, disheveled, amusement scrawled onto his features. He swaggers closer, one hand dropping to your hip.

A shaky breath coagulates within the back of your throat, lips parted. “If.” You confirm, but it’s shattered, and he stoops down enough to capture your mouth in a passionate kiss.

A soft whine escapes your mouth, swallowed by your entanglement, lost within his lips. John kisses you gently, pouring his need into it, all of the pent-up affection he’s wanted to give to you.

A calloused hand steadies over your hip, thumb gingerly circling over your hip bone, the other ghosting across the small of your back.

Wedged against his musculature, your hands shift to the nape of his neck, fingertips toying with the blonde tresses there. He’s so warm, extinguishing the prevalent chill that grips your body.

His beard scratches against your mouth, a pleasant prickling that reminds you he’s real, flesh and blood, a beating heart. John exhales; a steady, exaggerated sound, attempting to cling to the fine line of restraint.

A charged passion echoes through the kiss, becoming increasingly heated, the longer you stand and reciprocate. Lips meld together, seamless, as if you’re made for one another.

Everything feels perfect — John’s been wanting this for months, and now that he has it, it’s almost overwhelming.

Snaking beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, his palm finds your bare flesh, caressing circles over the base of your spine. Another sound scrapes from your throat, digits interlocking over the back of his neck.

Each kiss oozes with a fiery want, and the more you entangle yourself into him, the more he wants you.

John is trying to keep things tame, given that your newfound relationship was in its infancy, but he couldn’t help himself.

Reluctant to withdraw, he stops, checking you to see if you’re still comfortable. “Still with me?” He murmurs, body flush against you, firm expanse of his chest brushing over yours.

With a nod, you’re unable to smother your smile, peering up at him through your lashes. Hands wander toward his broad shoulders, and then to his biceps, digits tensing over the muscle there. “Yeah,” You hum. “I’m a little cold.”

“Think I can help with that.” John’s mouth curls into a brief smirk, one that ignites a low fire within your belly. He plants another kiss to your jaw, catching the shudder that fans throughout your body.

You catch a glimpse of that cocksure, smug demeanor that had enticed you so much in the first place, followed by an underlying softness. Behind closed doors, he’s the first to succumb, handling you with a disarming gentleness.

“You’re a saint.” Your smile widens to a smitten beam as the both of you make for your bed. It’s as if you’re choked by your own anxieties — you can’t remember the last time you shared a bed with someone else.

John huffs, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let me go change.” He nods, moving to slip out of your room. He disappears, leaving you alone, even if it isn’t for very long.

With measured steps, you crawl into bed, comforter shrouding around your body, and you’re met with some relief from the cold. There’s a gap of quiet — gives you time to think, process what’s happened.

It almost feels ethereal, as if you’re trapped in a distant dream; John likes you, you like him. A smile tugs at your mouth, giggling to yourself like some excitable schoolgirl with a glaring crush.

Settling against your pillow, your hands loosely fold over your chest, a dull stitch pulsing through your right rib cage. Minutes tick by as you wait for him to come back, drumming your fingers over your comforter.

Another minute passes, and then five; the door suddenly opens, startling and sudden as you lurch within your bed. Your gaze flutters toward him, glued to the compression shirt and sweatpants combination.

Wordlessly, John gets into bed with you, making sure that he sticks to your left side. For him, it’s been a long time since he’s slept with someone — even before his divorce, he was sleeping on the couch.

John stills, laying on his back as he invites you closer with an arm. “Come here.” It’s soft, he’s soft for you. The mattress shifts beneath you as you scoot over, keeping to your left side, curling into him with your head against his collarbone.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

He adjusts, cerulean hues flickering toward you, taking in the delicate plate of your visage. You rip the air from his lungs without even trying; John’s hand caresses the back of your shoulder.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; it sends pleasant waves through your stomach. Attentive, he waits for your question, turning enough to see you fully.

“Why didn’t you tell me about how you felt?” You’re not accusatory, just curious. Even then, you want to know what stayed his hand, or prevented him from telling you the truth.

John’s jaw tenses, a catalyst of something forlorn brewing within his eyes. There’s a brief pause of consideration; he wants to be transparent, you deserve that. “Didn’t think you’d want me, because of everything I’ve done.”

Blinking, you roll onto your left side, albeit sluggishly, and he lets you rest your head against his bicep. A dab of cologne clings to him, and you nearly smile; that’s what took him so long to come back.

“John …” Through a gentle murmur, your hand slides toward his chest, circling over his collar. “We’ve all made mistakes. I don’t expect anything different, and you’re healing.” You caution, and he seems somewhat appreciative.

The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope.

Oftentimes, he felt like the greatest mistake of all, a dog who needed to be put down. It was a dark mindset, taking him to a place that he’d worked tirelessly to claw out of.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” He grits, tongue running over his teeth as he shakes his head. “I didn’t want to tarnish you, or drag you down with me. I …” John tapers off, throat working, shoulders tight with tension.

Sometimes he goes around pretending as if the weight of his past doesn’t crush him; with you, the load feels lighter, a burden he can shoulder. You’re waiting, expectant yet patient, mere breaths apart, and you’re understanding.

“I am scared of losing you,” With that confession, a heaviness seems relinquished from his chest. He isn’t one to admit that he’s afraid, let alone drag it out into the open. “Scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know who I’ll be if you’re gone.”

A hitch forms within your throat, lips parting as a gasp inhabits your lungs. Everything shifts, his admission leaving you burning; your hand searches for his own, ice upon fire.

“You won’t lose me,” Insistent, you curl closer, flush against one another; you can hear his low, sharp inhale, warmth radiating from his body. “I’m yours, John — for as long as you want me.”

John swallows, gaze turning to something incendiary, shadowed by ardor and by desire. A rough hand snakes to hold your hip, curling into the cotton material of your shorts. “Yeah?” He utters, lips dangerously close.

“Yeah.” The way he’s staring at you is nothing short of complete and utter devotion; that’s how you know he’s genuine. The palm that’s pressed over the back of your shoulder slides over your spine, and you shiver.

“I want to show you how much I want you,” He gruffs, cadence thick with something husky, something needy. John knows where this will take him, take you — he’s never wanted anything more. “If that’s alright.”

He’s charming — effortlessly handsome, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. Intimacy with him is something you crave, and you’re ready for it; you need him as you do air.

“More than alright.” You whisper, breathless, and his mouth hotly clamors for yours. It’s an explosion of fireworks, of pent-up affection, of an ardor that’s been smothered beneath uncertainty.

The both of you are certain now, and that’s what matters most. His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

Lips collide, collide, collide — you swear that he kisses you hoarse, beard scratching over your mouth, the sensation pleasant.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — kissed you with a sense of finality.

A low moan bubbles from your throat, trapped within the snare of his kiss, and you’re pressing into him. John subtly slots a thigh between your legs, causing you to spasm at the sudden contact.

“John,” With a hoarse whisper, his name rolls from your tongue, wanton. A warm exhale feathers over his mouth, lips ghosting over one another, never too far apart. “John.”

John grunts, hot breath fanning over your features, mouth peppering across your cheek, instead. His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

He’s careful, steady — he takes his time with you, savoring, wanting to explore your body. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it.

Something firm sits heavy, just below your belly, oozing with heat. A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan when you shift against him.

“That’s what you do to me,” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. “You drive me crazy.” He huffs; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

He’s strong, secure — there’s a protective edge to him, caged around you. Again, you shift, allowing your core to rock over his thigh, knee brushing over the growing tent in his sweatpants.

Swallowing a groan, John’s hands curl into the hem of your sweatshirt, nudging at the fabric. “Don’t want to hurt you.” He rumbles, asking for your consent before taking things further.

“You won’t.” Reassuring, you shuffle, sitting up enough for him to pry your sweatshirt aside, gingerly lifting the baggy garment over your head. You’re still wearing a t-shirt, which you initiate in removing.

The both of you are partially beneath the comforter, the room cast in an inky darkness, save for the soft glow of the light over your headboard. Tension blisters like wildfire between you, bodies flush, clothes shuffling.

Timidly, your hands wander to the hem of his compression shirt, gaze searching his, and he’s happy to comply. “Little eager, huh?” John chides, tone low, playful. It makes you flustered, shrewd beneath his stare.

“Maybe.” Through a sweet whisper, you recline backwards, just enough to give him space, navy spandex peeled away to reveal raw muscle. Your jaw slacks, mesmerized; he’s stupidly handsome.

Broad shoulders coil with slivers of tension, blanketed in light freckles, scars, and nearly-healed bruises. Biceps curl beside you, thick and firm, something for you to hold onto.

A dusting of blonde hair covers his chest, trailing over his abdomen and slipping beneath his waistband; it makes your head spin.

John exhales, cerulean hues drifting over your body, over the pallid gauze, mapping out every inch of you like you’re a constellation. “You’re so beautiful.” He purrs, palm grasping at your haunch.

Rough, careworn hands begin to caress beneath your dress, digits snaring into the soft cotton of your shorts. Sluggishly, he teases the waistband, neglecting to push past like you want him to.

“You can touch me,” Coaxing him, you notice the little twitch of his jaw, gaze glazed with a sheen of unbridled desire. “Don’t think I can go the whole way, but I still want you.”

“When you’re healed up, we’ll do this again.” John says it like a promise, a solemn oath that you desperately want him to keep. His lips search for yours, and he’s urging you in for a kiss, hand slipping between your legs.

Between slow kisses, you’re prodding him. “Already thinking about the next time?” With a teasing lilt, you shiver when calloused fingertips slip beneath the waistband of your shorts.

John bites back a smirk, palpable against your mouth as he plants a kiss there, musculature enveloping you, impenetrable. “Can you blame me?” He murmurs, digits finding your core.

Urging him in for another kiss, you’re lost within the heated labyrinth of his lips, savoring that rugged scratch of his beard. A low moan rouses within your chest, caught between your mouths.

Seeking the warmth between your legs, you nearly choked upon a strangled gasp as John’s digits ghosted along your slit. Arousal had gathered there, akin to the sticky sweetness of honey, prompting you to shiver beside him.

Wordlessly, he pushed deeper still, fingers pressing into your cunt. As he pushed past your folds, you moaned, the noise strangled, lost between the constant kisses and clawing sighs.

“You like that?” John gruffs into your mouth, a half-growl, pulling an excitable gasp from your lungs. He feels you nodding, and he begins to adjust, hovering over you, hand working against your cunt.

You squirmed, cunt aching for him in every way imaginable, hips jolting into the sensation of his practiced digits. He began to find a steady rhythm, worn digits sliding along the length of your cunt, letting you hold onto him as much as you pleased.

As if to even the score, you’re reaching for the front of his pants, noticing the glazed look in his eyes. John huffs, letting you touch him, palm grazing over the noticeable bulge.

A muted buzz courses through your body, legs spreading to accommodate for him, flesh burning with heat. An amalgamation of limbs and heat, your body feels sensitive, a live wire.

Any scrap of friction you received drove you mad, desperation climbing to new heights as your hips rocked forward into his hand. Planting a kiss to your jaw, he continues, hand fervently working to pleasure you.

John lowers, mouth pressing against your throat, showering your flesh in a myriad of kisses. A low moan split past your chest, thighs twitching, legs unsteady as you brush your hand over the swell in his sweatpants.

“Jesus,” He groans, low and husky beside your face, rumbled into your neck. His beard scratches ragged over your flesh, and your other hand sinks beside his ribs. “Stop teasing.” He hisses, tone audibly pitched with arousal.

His lips caress over the bend of your shoulder, to the velvety hollow between that and your throat. A string of kisses manifested there, digits continuing to caress over your slit.

The rhythm was agonizing, your body screaming with ecstasy. Bodies twist together, writhe — a mess of heady sighs, moans, grunts.

Thick digits continued to warm you, prodding against your entrance as he introduced his thumb, allowing it to circle around your clit. A sharp moan ripped through your throat, agonizing.

John’s teeth suddenly puncture the juncture between your neck and shoulder, harshly grazing over your soft skin. Another pleading moan erupts from your throat, finding pleasure in the sting of his rough bite.

As your hand worms past the waistline of his sweatpants, you’re clamoring, finding his cock, masterfully well-endowed as your digits brush over the flushed head. He’s not small by any means, causing your stomach to flip.

His cock throbbed incessantly, the pressure coiled within his abdomen, unexpectedly seizing when your hand wrapped around his length.

“Christ,” John groans into your shoulder, propped on one hand, the other buried into your cunt. His fingers stutter, fleeting, digits grazing over the bundle of nerves. “S’good.”

He’s painfully hard in your palm, bleeding heat, slick within your grasp as you give his cock several sluggish, gentler strokes. Another grunt stirs within his chest, flush to yours.

There’s a tension prevalent in his shoulders, one that slowly begins to unfurl, the more you touch him. It’s a mutual exchange of bliss, touching one another, bodies twined and grinding.

“I need you,” You sputter, a half-whine, hand moving to grasp at the nape of his neck, feeling his hips urge into your palm. “Needed you for s—so long, John.” Tapering off into a moan, his body shudders against you.

John’s gaze sears a hole through you, crackling, festering with heat as his mouth draws away from your throat. He clings to your words as if they’re a lifeline, kissing you hard, enough to make your chest burn.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. It’s all teeth, tongue, and want — veiled attraction spilling to the surface.

Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch on your bottom lip.

“You’ve got me.” John gruffs, blonde lashes fluttering, kissing the rugged skin beneath his eyes. He slows the kiss, savoring the sweet taste of your mouth, knowing that you are what he wants, forever.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. He’s passionate, exploratory — his digits trace back to your clit, thumb beginning to circle over it.

Between your hand stroking at his cock and his hand drawing slow circles over your clit, you’re both on the edge of combustion.

As you draw your hand along his length, caressing from the base to the flushed tip, John shudders, hips rocking forward into your palm. The sensation is maddening, coil pulled tight within his stomach, the pleasure mounting.

His thumb languidly circled your clit, other digits sliding against your cunt. You squirmed and careened forward, insides hot as liquid warmth pooled between your thighs.

“John,” You moan, singing his praises as he ruts his fingers into you, his forehead flush to yours. Noses ghost over one another, lips pressing into his with another bruising kiss. “M’close.”

Never wavering in your ministrations, your hand continued to stroke along his cock, pace developing into something evocative. It was all a haze of want, touching one another as if you were bitten by a fever.

John groaned, eyes half-lidded, pliant mouth parted as a string of satisfied grunts escaped him. As your thumb dragged over the swollen head, he nearly buckled, huffing against your mouth.

The simmering flame of desire burned brightly within the pit of your stomach, his digits continuing to piston in and out of your cunt. A cry of delight tore past your lips, nails digging crescents into the nape of his neck.

Pain throbbed, an incessant ache that rippled through your ribcage, something that you actively fought to ignore. You were too enamored with John, hovering above you, stomach tight as he nears his release.

“Christ,” He gruffs, husky and rumbling as he jolts forward another time or two, cock pulsing with heat as he curls his fingers inside of you. The reaction you have is visceral, blissful. “That’s it, that’s a good girl.” John huffs.

Instantaneous, your cunt clenched tightly around his thick fingers, hips urging forward, nearly crashing into his as his thumb nudges your clit.

The sweet nickname he uses nearly sends you into some frenzy, chewing at the inside of your cheek. You want him to say it again, but your body reacts first, blindsiding you with a white-hot haze.

Teeth lightly catch your bottom lip as the both of you reach your release, a mutual entanglement, feeling his hot spend rope over your palm. You cum on his fingers, a knot of coiled tension that unfurls with a vengeance.

Stars sweep through your vision, back arched, begging for friction as you brush against him, warmth coating the juncture between your thighs. John grunts, huffing again, the noise tantalizing as he curls into you.

It’s searing and feverish, as if you’ve been washed in fire, all-consuming. He’s touching you still, grinding over your clit, breathing heavily beside your ear as if he’s running a marathon.

Perspiration smatters along his brow, countenance furled into a look of stern bliss, lips parted to make room for another groan. There’s a mess between bodies — sweat, arousal, heat.

Drawn-out sighs escape you in an attempt to recuperate, catch your breath as you lay beneath him, legs trembling from your orgasm. It’s been a long time since someone touched you and meant it, and it was a satisfying feeling.

John moves off of you, collapsing in a muscled heap at your side, knowing he’ll have to go change again. A gap of silence stretches between the both of you, comfortable, and you’re sluggishly climbing down from your peak.

“You okay?” John murmurs, chest rising and falling, breathing beginning to steady out. His head tilts, cerulean gaze traveling over your body, appreciative — the light blankets you perfectly.

“Yeah,” Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you glance at John, half-lidded with a thinly-veiled affection. “That was really nice.” You confess, thighs still shifting together to relinquish some of the tension.

With a cocksure grin, John’s body shakes with a brief laugh, and he’s sitting up, gaze warm and never wavering from you. “Hope so,” He murmurs, planting a kiss against your jaw. “Want something to drink?”

Made you cum so hard you saw stars, and now he’s asking if you want a drink; you’re beaming, head jostling in a nod. “If you don’t mind. I think I might need a painkiller or two, too. The ache is a little much.” You sigh, and he nods.

“Right.” John is often one who prefers acts of service — it’s how he displays his devotion, his affection. He does it all seamlessly, leaving your room with a confident spring in his step.

When he returns, he’s holding a bottle of prescription ibuprofen and water, along with another change of clothes. He offers you both with a brief nod, letting you relax as he slips into your bathroom to change again.

You catch a well-lit glimpse of his body, muscles raw and sinewy, shoulders broad, a layer of sun-kissed brawn. He’s impressive, handsome, strong — your gaze travels over the labyrinth of bruises and scars.

Slipping back into your raggedy t-shirt, you take several swigs of water and a lower dosage of medication, swallowing it all down before you recline back into the pillow.

He’s crawling back into your bed, scooping you up into his embrace, keeping your good side wedged against him. Exhaustion settles in, and you’re quick to cozy up to him, hands idly tracing over his abdomen.

“I could get really used to this,” You remark, soft as he plants a kiss to your brow, palm splayed out over the small of your back. John takes comfort in that, knowing that he shares the same sentiment. “Spending the night, waking up to you, being together.”

“Yeah?” He husks, scarlet settling over his visage as he nods in agreement. “I think I could, too.” John hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.” He grouses, as if it’s an inconvenience.

A hint of something playful lingers within his tone, prompting you to press a kiss over his scruffy jaw. The sensation makes him preen, caging you in against his musculature.

“If it’s anyone, I’d want it to be you.” Curled beside him, you feel tired, letting the haze of exhaustion begin to overtake you. He’s spent too, eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a low hum of acknowledgment. “Falling asleep on me?”

“No,” John grumbles, nose wrinkling slightly. “Your voice is putting me to sleep.” His light teasing sends your heart soaring, and you can’t help but smile, content to have him hold you.

“Really smooth,” Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you make yourself comfortable, eyes closing as you decide to let yourself rest. “Goodnight, John.”

His mouth quirks into the ghost of a smirk, happening to open one eye as he turns his head, mouth meeting yours in a brief kiss. “I’ll see you in the morning.” John murmurs, warm breath pluming over your cheek.

You fall asleep in his arms; the pain in your ribs subsides.

[oh-dameron]

SecUnit armour should attach directly to anchor points on the construct. If you're building something designed to wear armour then including couplings for it just makes sense. A human should not physically be able to wear SecUnit armour not because it's too heavy (though it probably would be too heavy/cumbersome to move well in) but because it doesn't have straps and buckles or lock to itself like human armour does: it clips onto the underlying foundation (the SecUnit).

It's disposable plating meant to take hits and then be replaced, but it's also an extension of the construct's body.

I have a lot of Feelings about Murderbot and its armour, how terribly it misses its opaque faceplate and how naked and vulnerable it feels every time it goes into combat without it. How in System Collapse it feels weird about taking Three's armour, and whether that's an extension on how it feels about armour in general, taking Three's specifically, or its evolving feelings about being expected to charge into combat in the first place. It's a component Murderbot lost early on and has never been able to replace, an exoskeleton it's struggling to learn to live without even as the humans around it don't even register it as a loss.

I think it's pretty likely that given the choice, it would generally prefer to chill in the argument lounge in full armour with its faceplate opaqued. Without that option it's been forced out of its comfort zone and has connected with its humans in a way that Mensah correctly predicted it never would have otherwise, which. Yay. But now it's done all this hard work and uncomfortable growth I hope eventually it gets its comfortable shell back.

Not to wear all of the time, because ART's crew uniforms are very soft and don't have seams or logos that it doesn't like, and ART's argument lounge and Preservation Station are safe places where it can be around humans without needing it. But next time shit hits the fan I hope ART gets to do a dramatic reveal of the bleeding edge armour it contacted the PSUMNT AI that has a special interest in materials science to make. It upgraded its fabrication units to be able to build it. It hacked Company blueprints to get a design schematic to scoff at and then improve. It's got the stealth coating they lifted from the NE hostiles. It's got extra data storage and processors tucked in there big enough to carry an ART partition. It comes with a whole fleet of matching drones. It's Perihelion blue. You can't buy armour this good (who would ever spend this much to protect a construct?), but it would hypothetically cost more than a fully kitted-out brand-new top-of-the-line CombatUnit. ART paid for it out of its own accounts and will not be taking questions about PSUMNT mission budgets at this time.

The wall retracts to reveal a secret armoury like in a spy movie, complete with theme music and coloured lighting, both because ART is Extra and because it knows that Murderbot has some mixed feelings about armour and having nice things. Giving it cheesy melodramatic presentation to nitpick and protest over will be comforting, even as they both unironically enjoy the homage to the episode of Timestream Defenders Orion with the chrono-displaced space knights.

This got away from me, but tl;dr: let the awkward turtle have its shell back!

[rafesangelita]

thinking about rafe and bambi!reader whilst she’s ovulating and how she climbs onto his lap all pretty and desperate, needing his lips and hands on her, her pretty lace panties already soaked beneath her sundress and the heat alone makes rafe groan beneath her. and she’s all pathetic, mewling and whimpering as they make out, her hips languidly grinding and the growing erection in his shorts, his large hands gripping the flesh of her ass beneath her dress as she ruts against him like a cat in heat. rafe being rafe, can’t help but chuckle as he watched her;

“look at you, pretty girl, can’t get enough o’ me, huh?”

“my poor baby, is that pretty pussy achin’ for me, hm? tell me, baby…”

“fuuuck, look a’ you, rutting against me, s’that bad, baby? need me to take care o’ you?”

and bambi!ready can barely form a coherent thought when he speaks to her that way that even when she’s on top of him, she’s too fucked dumb to even do much of the work, rafe using his large hand to grasp her cheeks as he thrusts slowly into her from beneath, “this what you needed, pretty girl? needed me to stuff that pretty pussy? god, you’re fuckin’ squeezin’ my cock so good…”

foamin at the mouth rn bye

warnings: descriptions of an ovulation cycle, bambi is super desperate and whiny loll (sorry in advance), mentions of finger sucking and edging, manipulation (?), making out, dry humping, heavy petting, tit play, teasing, praise, dirty talk, superrr cock drunk bambi (not a single thought in that pretty head of hers), dumbification, breeding kink, creampie

a/n: anon i need to give you a kiss on the cheek for this one!! usually i’ll skip over long asks but this one was too good <3

rafe would be lying if he said he couldn’t wait for this time of month to roll around for you. the incessant humping and clinging onto him for dear life, the crying and acting like you were going to die without him near all contributed to his ego, of course, but it turned him on to see you so much more desperate and needier than usual. while you never had a problem with submitting to rafe in the bedroom, your submission was on a whole other level when you were ovulating, the surrender coming to you naturally in all areas of your body and mind.

you might as well have been a ragdoll when you were so passive and pliant like this. it was almost like your brain was on sleeping mode for this short period of time, any and all thinking was rather done by rafe instead. of course, your boyfriend would take advantage of this and treat you like a brainless little fool while bending you to his every will. making you suck his fingers before teasing you and edging you to tears, encouraging you and whispering filthy obscenities in your ear while you humped his thigh, leg, knee, pretty much anything you could get your needy cunt on.

his personal favorite though was when you couldn’t resist crawling in his lap and smothering him with kisses. despite him acting annoyed, he secretly loved that you couldn’t keep your hands and mouth off of him. “c’mon.. m’trying to watch this.” you whined when he swatted your hands away, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips when you huffed out in frustration. “forget the tv!” you straddled his thighs, your heat sitting right on top of his clothed cock, “touch me, ray. please!” rafe sighed through his nose before planting his hands on your hips as if it was such a chore.

“kiss me too..” you stared up at him with those doe eyes, his jaw clenching at the sight before attaching his lips to the sensitive part of your neck, licking and nipping the flesh there. you moaned softly while your hips moved on their own accord, your clit rubbing against the lace material of your panties as you grinded down on your boyfriend. rafe swore he could feel your wetness through the layers of clothing between you two, his suspicions confirmed when he moved you over and was met with the sight of a wet patch on his shorts.

both of you looked down, his cock growing rock hard in an instant as he snaked a hand underneath your dress and felt the mess between your thighs for himself. “poor bambi, this pussy is just aching for me to fill it up, huh?” you nodded frantically, a pathetic whine leaving your lips before you leaned in and kissed him sloppily. rafe groaned, keeping his hand there between your legs in order for you to ride his palm, the sound of your slick driving him to damn near insanity. “fuck, just look at you, ‘pretty. you can’t get enough..” he teased, deciding to take matters into his own hands and drag your soaked pussy up and down his erection.

you were mewling and whimpering as you two kissed each other feverishly, your lips now glossy with his spit. your hands were balled up tight in his t-shirt, your eyesbrows knitted together in pure bliss while his fingers dug into the plush flesh of your thighs. you were practically dripping for this man already, your skin hot to the touch as you desperately angled your hips for more friction. “fuckkk, look how you’re rutting against me, baby. you need my dick so bad, you want me to take care of you?” you cried out and begged as if he’d never ask, your arms raising above your head as he slipped off your dress.

he circled one of your sensitive buds, drawing a yelp from your lips as he knew how tender your tits were during this time. you held his head in your hands, your cheek resting against his scalp as he took himself out of his boxers. ripping your panties down your legs, rafe left the white lace dangling off of your ankle before you felt his length spring up against your tummy. he was hot and heavy, his cock standing mean and ready to split you open. pulling you against his chest, rafe guided himself at your entrance, giving you a few teasing strokes before entering you agonizingly slow.

your head dropped to his shoulder, your train of thought diminishing with every inch he filled you up. it wasn’t until he bottomed out that he grabbed you by your cheeks, the look on your face telling him everything he needed to know. you might as well have been dead to the world, the way you looked at him as if you didn’t have a brain, your eyes glassy and void of any emotion. you were truly, utterly cock drunk. rafe smiled, keeping his eyes trained on your face as he began thrusting into you. “this is what you needed, bambi, hmm? ‘needed me to stuff this pretty pussy?” you mumbled a mix of nonsense in response, eliciting a laugh from your boyfriend.

“aww it’s okay, you don’t have to make sense, baby, you’re a little dumb right now.” rafe continued thrusting into you, telling you how he was going to fill up your womb with his seed, making you the ‘prettiest mama kildare island has ever seen’. “imagine that. ‘carrying my baby around, being living proof of the filthy shit you let me do to you..” he shushed you when you cried out, his large hand rubbing your back soothingly as he pumped in and out of you. “yeah, let’s make that happen.”