#made myself laugh more than once while making this

[engeorged]

Harry's Stag Part Two

Part One here

I must have dozed off for a while. The exhaustion from the day’s indulgences, combined with the weight of my bloated belly, had finally caught up with me. I was jolted awake by the sound of laughter and the shuffling of footsteps. As I blinked groggily, I saw the guys bustling around the room, clearly preparing for the evening.

Jim was the first to notice me stirring. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty! Time to wake up and get ready for round two.”

I groaned and attempted to sit up, but my stomach protested, feeling heavier than ever. I fumbled for my jeans, which had somehow managed to fit earlier in the day but now seemed like a nearly impossible task. I struggled with the waistband, but no matter how hard I tugged, the button wouldn’t meet its counterpart.

Banning, always the one with a knack for planning, seemed to have anticipated this. He held up a pair of jeans that looked just a tad larger than mine, with a grin that could only be described as mischievous. “Look what I’ve got here! Thought you might need a little extra room tonight.”

The guys burst into laughter as I took the jeans from Banning, still chuckling at the foresight. I shook my head, a smile creeping onto my face despite the discomfort. “You guys are unbelievable. Thanks for thinking ahead, I guess.”

I changed into the slightly larger jeans, which were much more comfortable now that my belly was so full. It was amazing how just a little extra room made a difference, and I felt some relief as the jeans fit over my swollen gut without the same kind of strain as before. The guys continued to laugh and joke, clearly enjoying the playful banter.

As I finished adjusting my clothes, Jim popped open a couple of cans of beer and handed one to me. “Here, mate. You need to chug a few of these to help numb that belly of yours. Trust me, it’ll help.”

I eyed the can warily but took it from him, already feeling the slight buzz from earlier in the day. As I took a long gulp, the cool liquid slid down my throat, and I could feel the effects of the alcohol starting to kick in. The guys cheered me on, making exaggerated gestures and shouting playful encouragement.

“Noel, you’ve got to see this,” Jim said, gesturing toward my bloated belly. “Harry’s got himself a full-on beach ball in there.”

Noel laughed, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, and I think he’s about to make it even bigger.”

I took another swig of beer, trying to ignore the increasing pressure in my stomach. The alcohol was having the desired effect, dulling the edge of the fullness and making the discomfort slightly more bearable. The guys continued to poke fun and tease me, but their playful attitude made it easier to endure the tightness of my gut.

Once I’d managed to down a couple of beers, we gathered our things and prepared to head out. The evening was still young, and the guys were determined to make the most of it. As we left the hotel and headed toward the night’s next adventure, I couldn’t help but laugh along with them, despite the persistent ache in my belly. The day had been a whirlwind of eating and drinking, and while I was still reeling from the effects. We finally made our way out of the hotel and onto the bustling streets of Amsterdam, laughter and excitement bubbling among us. The plan was to hit a club and see where the night took us, but as we walked, a familiar golden arches sign caught Jim’s eye.

“Look at that,” Jim exclaimed, pointing across the street. “McDonald’s! We should check it out. I bet there are some unique Dutch menu items we’ve never seen before.”

Before I could protest, the guys had already made up their minds. “Come on, Harry,” Banning said, grinning. “It’ll be fun to see what’s different.”

I hesitated, feeling a mix of dread and resignation. My belly was still stretched tight from the massive amount of food I’d eaten earlier, and the thought of eating more was almost unbearable. But the guys were so enthusiastic that I couldn’t bring myself to refuse. We headed into the McDonald’s, the smell of fries and burgers only amplifying my discomfort.

Inside, we quickly ordered a mix of Dutch specials and regular fare. The food started arriving, and as I picked at the offerings, it quickly became clear that eating more was going to be a challenge. My stomach was protesting with every bite, the fullness now a heavy, persistent ache. Despite my efforts, I struggled to keep up with the pace the guys were setting, who were practically shoving fries and burgers into my hands.

As I tried to push through, I noticed that the guys were exchanging cryptic glances and whispered conversations. Their behaviour was becoming increasingly conspicuous, and I began to feel uneasy. “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice tinged with frustration. “Are you guys up to something?”

Jim merely gave me a noncommittal smile, and Banning’s expression was unreadable as he continued to shove food in my direction. “You’re doing great, Harry. Just a little more, and then we’ll head out.”

As I struggled with the last few bites, feeling like I might burst from the effort, Noel suddenly stood up. “Alright, that’s enough McDonald’s for now. Let’s get going. We’ve got another place to hit.”

I was relieved to leave the burger place, but my relief was short-lived. The guys led me through the streets again, this time toward a place I hadn’t expected—a marijuana café. I eyed the entrance with a mix of suspicion and resignation.

“Seriously? You guys know weed just makes me dopey. I don’t think this is a good idea,” I protested, trying to muster some energy despite my discomfort.

Banning and Jim exchanged one of their knowing looks, a smile tugging at their lips. “Oh, come on, Harry,” Banning said with a grin. “You know it actually works. You always get the munchies.”

Jim nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Exactly. It’ll help with that full feeling and make the experience a bit more fun.”

Before I could argue further, they had already ushered me inside and handed me a massive brownie. It was so large it could have been mistaken for a cake slice, thick and dense with chunks of chocolate. I eyed it warily, feeling the weight of the day’s indulgences pressing heavily on my already stuffed stomach.

“Go on,” Noel encouraged. “Give it a try. It’s supposed to be amazing here.”

With a resigned sigh, I took a bite. The rich, fudgy brownie was delicious, and I hate to say that I ate it pretty quickly. It took a good half hour to kick in but as the brownie worked its way through my system, I could feel myself beginning to sink into that familiar, hazy state. My discomfort was still there, but the marijuana started to blur the edges, making it feel a little more manageable.

The initial dopey haze quickly shifted as my stomach, already stretched to its limit, suddenly craved more. The munchies hit me with a surprising intensity. I found myself eyeing the café’s menu with an almost ravenous interest, craving everything in sight.

“See? I told you,” Banning said, smirking as he noticed the shift in my appetite. “What did I tell you?”

Jim clapped me on the back with a laugh. “Looks like you’ve got room for a bit more after all.”

Before I could fully grasp the change, they were already ushering me out of the café and down to the canal. We found ourselves at a charming canal-side restaurant, its outdoor seating lined with twinkling lights and the gentle lapping of water nearby. The menu was full of tempting dishes, and the guys wasted no time in ordering a variety of appetisers and main courses, eager to keep the food coming.

It started with appetisers—bread baskets, bowls of soup, platters of charcuterie. The moment the first plate hit the table, I was on it, stuffing my face like I hadn’t eaten in days. The food tasted incredible, and I couldn’t get enough. I tore into the bread, dipped it into olive oil, and devoured slices of prosciutto and cheese. Every bite was a burst of flavour that seemed to intensify the more I ate.

Then came the main courses—steaks, pasta, grilled vegetables, roasted chicken. They just kept coming. Plate after plate, the food piled up in front of me, and I didn’t hesitate to dig in. My belly, already stretched and swollen from the beer, started to grow even more. With every bite, it felt like my stomach expanded, pushing against my shirt until it rode up, exposing the taut skin underneath.

The guys were having a blast, cheering me on as I ate. They kept passing me more food, laughing and making jokes, and I was too stoned to care about how much I was consuming. Every time I thought I was done, they’d order another dish, and somehow, I found room for it. The sensation of my belly swelling larger and larger was surreal. It was like I could feel it expanding with each bite, my skin tightening as it stretched to accommodate the growing mass inside.

I glanced down at one point, and it hit me how massive my stomach had become. It was no longer just bloated—it was huge, a round, firm dome that jutted out far beyond what I thought was possible. I looked like I had swallowed a basketball. But instead of freaking out, I found it hilarious. The sight of my enormous belly, paired with the way it kept growing, had me and the guys in stitches.

By the time dessert rolled around—massive slices of cake, ice cream, and pastries—I was barely able to move. My stomach was so tight and full that every breath felt like a stretch, but I couldn’t stop. I kept eating, laughing through the discomfort, enjoying every ridiculous moment of it. The guys were relentless, making sure I had something in front of me at all times, and I was too far gone to resist.

When we finally left the restaurant, my belly was so swollen that I had to lean back slightly as I walked, the weight of it throwing off my balance. I could barely think straight, the mix of food, beer, and weed making everything a hazy, hilarious blur. The guys were still cracking jokes, poking fun at how enormous my stomach had gotten, and I couldn’t stop laughing along with them. I was laughing along with the guys, but deep down, I was starting to feel the pressure of everything I’d consumed.

About halfway back to the hotel, I realised I desperately needed to take a piss. I could feel the pressure building, and there was no way I was going to make it all the way back without stopping. I told the guys, and they pointed me toward a nearby alley, joking about how I might flood the place.

I stumbled over to a corner, barely able to keep my balance with the massive, bloated dome of my stomach jutting out in front of me. When I unzipped my pants, I quickly realised just how much my belly had grown—so much that I couldn’t even see my own junk anymore. My gut was so round and distended that it completely blocked my view. I had to fumble around by touch alone, feeling a mix of embarrassment and disbelief.

Finally, I managed to get a grip, and when I let loose, it was like a dam had burst. The stream was powerful and seemed to go on forever, the relief almost as overwhelming as the pressure had been. I leaned against the wall for support, my head spinning slightly from the combination of the weed, alcohol, and sheer absurdity of the situation.

As the last of it trickled out, I zipped up, chuckling to myself. My belly was still a massive, heavy sphere, pushing against my waistband and making it hard to move, but at least I wasn’t about to burst anymore. The guys were still waiting, and as I waddled back over to them, they couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous I looked, and neither could I.

By the time we made it back to the hotel, I was feeling a little less pressured after that massive piss, but my stomach was still ridiculously bloated, swollen into a tight, heavy sphere that felt like it was carrying half of Amsterdam inside it. I could barely walk straight, and the guys kept cracking jokes about how I looked ready to pop.

I thought we were done for the night, but Noel had other plans. As we passed by a pizza place on the way to the hotel, he suggested we grab some food "for later." I wasn’t really hungry—hell, I was stuffed beyond belief—but I was still stoned and buzzed enough to shrug and go along with it. So, we ended up ordering a ridiculous amount of pizzas—more than any of us could possibly eat on a normal night, let alone after the feast we’d just had.

Back at the hotel, we piled into the room, the boxes of pizza filling the air with a mouthwatering aroma. I collapsed onto the bed, my bloated belly making it hard to find a comfortable position. I was about to tell the guys that I couldn’t eat another bite, but they had other ideas. Jim tossed a pizza box onto the bed next to me and opened it, revealing a perfectly cooked, cheesy, greasy pie.

“C’mon, Harry,” Jim said with a grin, his tone both teasing and encouraging. “You’re not going to let a little food beat you, are you?”

“Yeah, you’ve still got some room in there,” Banning chimed in, patting the side of my swollen belly. “We’re just getting started.��

I tried to laugh it off, but before I could protest, Noel grabbed a slice and shoved it toward my mouth. “Open wide, mate,” he said, still laughing, but there was a glint in his eye that made it clear they weren’t messing around.

Still dazed from the weed and alcohol, I opened my mouth, and Noel pushed the slice in. I chewed automatically, the taste of melted cheese and tangy tomato sauce filling my mouth. It was good—really good, actually—and I found myself swallowing it down before I even realised what I was doing.

Before I could say anything, another slice was ready and waiting. This time, Jim was the one holding it, and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He shoved the slice into my mouth, and I started eating again, feeling the food settle heavily on top of everything else in my gut.

They kept going, passing slices between them, each one urging me to eat more, faster. It quickly escalated from playful encouragement to full-on shovelling. They’d grab slices two at a time, practically stuffing them into my mouth before I even had a chance to swallow the last bite. I was too stoned to resist, too drunk to care, and too far gone to do anything but laugh along with them, even as my stomach started to protest.

With every bite, I could feel my belly expanding even more. It was already tight, but now it was becoming painfully taut, the skin stretching impossibly further to accommodate the endless stream of pizza. I was bloated beyond anything I’d ever experienced, my stomach distended to the point where it felt like I could burst at any moment. But the guys didn’t stop—they kept pushing more food into me, and I kept eating, my laughter mixed with groans as I struggled to keep up.

The more I ate, the more ridiculous the whole situation became. My stomach was so swollen that it looked almost comical, a massive, rounded dome that dominated my torso, making me look like I was ready to give birth to a food baby the size of a beach ball. And the guys were loving it, laughing and cheering as they watched my belly swell even further with each slice.

I lost track of time as they fed me slice after slice, my senses dulled by the haze of intoxication. All I knew was that my stomach was now beyond full—beyond bloated—it was an enormous, heavy, rock-hard ball that had taken over my entire body. I was so stuffed that I could barely breathe, the tightness in my gut making every movement an effort. But despite the discomfort, the absurdity of it all was too funny to ignore. I could barely stop laughing, even as they shoved the last few slices down my throat.

As the last few slices of pizza disappeared into my mouth, I finally collapsed back onto the bed, completely overwhelmed. My belly was a colossal, swollen sphere, so distended that it looked almost alien on my frame. The weight of it pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe, and I could feel every bite, every gulp, churning inside me like a storm. I lay there, panting, trying to process what had just happened.

My mind was a foggy mess, dulled by the weed and alcohol, but as I lay there, something started to gnaw at the edges of my thoughts. I began to piece together the events of the day—the massive breakfast, the endless beers, the feast at the restaurant, and now, this late-night pizza binge. It all added up to an insane amount of food, far more than I would normally eat in an entire week, let alone a single day.

A thought flickered in my mind, barely noticeable at first, but then growing stronger: something was up. This wasn't just a casual lads' weekend or a fun, spontaneous night out. The way the guys had been egging me on, pushing more and more food into me, it all felt a bit too...planned. I tried to sit up, the massive weight of my belly making it difficult, but before I could say anything, Jim, Noel, and Banning exchanged a quick look, and suddenly, they were on top of me.

Before I could react, they had pinned me down, each of them grabbing an arm or a leg. I was too stuffed and too sluggish to fight back, and honestly, too out of it to want to. I tried to laugh it off, but there was a flicker of panic in my voice as I asked, "What the hell are you guys doing?"

Jim, with that mischievous grin of his, pulled out something from behind his back—a massive beer bong. My eyes widened in shock and confusion as the realisation of what was about to happen hit me. 

"Oh, come on, guys," I groaned, but it was too late. They were all laughing, enjoying the moment way too much to stop now.

They propped me up slightly, my bloated belly wobbling as I shifted. Jim positioned the tube over my mouth, and before I could protest further, he pushed it down my throat and started pouring a big tub of melted ice cream into it. The cold, creamy liquid rushed down my throat, and I had no choice but to swallow as quickly as I could, the pressure in my already overstuffed belly intensifying with every gulp.

I could feel my stomach stretching even further, the already taut skin straining to contain the deluge. My belly, which had seemed impossibly huge before, swelled even more as the ice cream filled every last bit of space inside me. As the ice cream finished, they began pouring beers in there as well. The mixture of the ice cream and the frothy beer was intense.The sensation was overwhelming—my gut felt like it was going to explode, the tightness almost unbearable, yet I was too drunk, too stoned, and too out of it to do anything but go along with it.

The guys were in hysterics, cheering me on, shouting encouragement as they poured more and more down the funnel. My mind was spinning, the absurdity of the situation mixed with the physical reality of my massively distended belly. I could barely think straight, the combination of everything I'd eaten and drunk creating a pressure cooker inside me.

I glanced down at my stomach, and what I saw almost didn't seem real. My belly was huge, tight and shiny, jutting out far beyond what I thought was physically possible. It was so large now that I couldn't even see my legs, just this massive, swollen ball that had taken over my entire body.

The guys finally stopped, pulling the funnel away as I gasped for breath, my chest heaving against the immovable bulk of my belly. I was stuffed beyond comprehension, my stomach a grotesque, comically large sphere that defied belief. Yet, despite the discomfort, I couldn't help but laugh along with them, the sheer ridiculousness of it all hitting me like a wave.

They let me go, stepping back to admire their handiwork, and I collapsed back onto the bed, my enormous belly towering over me like a mountain. The pressure was intense, but as I lay there, I couldn’t deny the strange sense of satisfaction that came with it. Even though I knew something was up, I was too far gone to care.

I tried to shift slightly, but any motion only seemed to exacerbate the pressure. I could feel the beer churning in my bloated stomach, and the sensation of it bubbling up made me uneasy. Then, out of nowhere, a massive burp escaped me, loud and forceful. The sound reverberated around the room, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.

The guys erupted into cheers and laughter, their eyes lighting up with delight. “That’s it, Harry!” Noel whooped, clapping me on the shoulder, which made my already tight stomach feel even more cramped. “That’s what we wanted to hear!”

Another burp came, even more thunderous than the first, and the guys’ excitement only grew. Jim slapped me on the back, his grin wide. “You’ve outdone yourself, mate. This is legendary!”

Each belch seemed to amplify their enjoyment, and despite my discomfort, I found myself laughing along. The room was filled with the sounds of my beery burps and their cheering, creating a bizarre but oddly joyous atmosphere. As I lay there, my belly pressing heavily against the bed, it was hard not to feel a bit of pride mixed with the discomfort. The guys were clearly thrilled with the result, and their enthusiasm made it all seem worthwhile, even if my stomach felt like it might burst.

I lay there, my massively swollen belly rising like a dome over me, panting from the effort of swallowing down all that ice cream and beer. My gut was so tight it felt like it might split open at any moment, the pressure inside almost unbearable. I tried to catch my breath, my mind still reeling from the absurdity of it all.

As I struggled to process what had just happened, the guys started to calm down, their laughter fading into chuckles. Jim was the first to speak, leaning against the bedpost with a mischievous grin still plastered on his face.

"Alright, Harry," he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "I guess it's time we come clean."

I looked up at him, confused and still half in a daze. "Come clean about what?" I asked, my voice slightly strained from the sheer fullness in my gut.

Banning exchanged a glance with Noel, who shrugged and smirked. "Well," Banning began, "this whole weekend...it wasn’t just about showing you a good time before the wedding. We’ve been, uh, keeping a bit of a game going on the side."

"A game?" I echoed, the realisation slowly dawning on me.

Noel chimed in, grinning wider. "Yeah, mate. We’ve been taking bets on who could get you to eat the most food."

I blinked in disbelief, my overstuffed belly suddenly making a lot more sense. "You’ve been betting on me? On how much you could stuff me?"

"Pretty much," Jim admitted, not looking the least bit guilty. "Ever since college, you’ve been the champ at eating challenges. We thought, what better way to celebrate your last weekend of freedom than to push you to your absolute limit?"

I stared at them, trying to wrap my head around it. My mind flashed back to all the meals today—the endless breakfast, the brewery tour, the ridiculous feast at the restaurant, the pizzas—and realised they’d been orchestrating the whole thing. It wasn’t just a coincidence that I’d ended up eating so much.

"Are you serious?" I asked, half-shocked, half-amused.

Banning nodded, looking at my distended stomach with a grin. "Dead serious. And I think it’s safe to say we’ve all been pretty successful."

I couldn’t help but laugh, even as my belly groaned under the pressure. "You guys are insane," I said, shaking my head. "I can’t believe you did this."

"But you’re not mad, right?" Noel asked, a bit of teasing in his tone. "You gotta admit, it’s been one hell of a weekend."

I looked down at my massively bloated stomach, then back at them. Despite the discomfort, I found myself grinning. They were right—it had been a ridiculous, over-the-top, and unforgettable experience. And honestly, the absurdity of it all was kind of hilarious.

"Nah, I’m not mad," I said, still chuckling. "I mean, how could I be? You guys planned this whole thing just to see how much I could eat. It’s kind of flattering in a weird way."

Jim laughed, patting my bloated belly. "We knew you’d see it that way. You’re always up for a challenge."

I shook my head, still in disbelief. "Well, congratulations, guys. I think you’ve officially turned me into a human food balloon."

As the laughter and cheers subsided, I lay there, utterly spent and still feeling the aftereffects of the beer funnel incident. My belly was so distended it felt like a drum, and every slight movement or shift was a reminder of just how much I’d been stuffed.

“Alright, alright,” I said, attempting to catch my breath amid the ongoing burps. “Who actually won this little competition? I need to know who managed to outfeed me.”

The guys exchanged glances, clearly enjoying the moment. Banning picked up his phone and started scrolling through a series of photos they’d taken earlier in the day, probably to document the ‘progress.’ Jim, sitting back with a satisfied grin, was the only one not actively engaged in the discussion.

“Well,” Banning said, after a moment of scrutiny, “it looks like Jim here has the lead. We kept track of how much each of us managed to shove in you, and Jim’s the one who really went for it.”

Jim beamed, clearly pleased with the result. “I had a feeling I was in the running. Must say, I’m pretty proud of my efforts.”

Noel chuckled, nudging Jim playfully. “You were relentless, mate. I think we all knew you had the edge.”

I let out a contented sigh, the pressure in my belly making me wince slightly. “Well, fair play to you, Jim. You’ve earned it. And I have to admit, this has been one hell of a stag do.”

The guys gathered around, still buzzing with energy from the day’s events. Despite the discomfort, I couldn’t help but smile at the camaraderie and fun we’d had. It was clear that Jim had taken the crown, but in the end, it was the shared laughter and the ridiculousness of the whole experience that made it memorable.

As I lay back on the bed, my stomach had reached a point that was almost hard to believe. It was now an enormous, round, and tightly stretched sphere, jutting out from my torso like a massive, inflated beach ball. My once-flat belly had expanded to such a degree that it almost seemed to defy the laws of nature. The skin was stretched so tight that it looked shiny and smooth, with veins faintly visible beneath the surface. Every movement was a struggle, and the sheer weight of it made me feel like I was carrying a heavy burden.

The guys stood around me, clearly thrilled by what they had managed to achieve. Their laughter filled the room as they took in the sight of my overly stuffed, swollen gut. Jim couldn’t resist and gave my belly a playful, yet firm slap. The impact made me let out a loud belch, the sound echoing through the room.

Noel joined in, giving my belly a gentle pat, then a light poke, which caused me to belch again. “Seriously, mate, that gut is fucking insane”

I managed a tired chuckle, my hand resting on the massive dome of my belly. It felt like the pressure inside me was never-ending, every breath a struggle against the tightness of my gut.

As the excitement over Jim’s victory settled down, the guys began to show off their own swollen bellies, each one proudly displaying the effects of the day’s indulgences. Jim, with his winning grin, lifted his shirt to reveal his round, hairy belly. His thick, dark hair was matted down, spreading out over his expanded midsection. It was noticeably full but still had a firmness to it. He patted his belly with a laugh, clearly enjoying the moment. “No way I’m the only one feeling the aftermath,” Jim said. “I’ve been eating like mad just to keep the charade up.”

Banning followed suit, lifting his shirt to reveal a slightly flabbier stomach. His belly was rounded and covered in a light layer of fuzz, giving him a softer appearance. He rubbed it with a playful grimace. “I didn’t realise it would get this intense,” he admitted. “Keeping up with the feeding has been a challenge.”

Noel, stocky and also hairy, was sporting a noticeable bulge. His shorter frame made his stomach look even more pronounced, with a sprinkling of light hair across his rounded belly. “Mate, I thought I’d burst a few times today,” he complained, though his tone was more amused than anything else. “Keeping you stuffed was no small feat.”

I glanced at their bellies, each one testament to the sheer volume of food and drink we’d consumed. Jim’s hairy expanse, Banning’s soft, flabby midsection, and Noel’s round, fuzzy belly were all proof of the day’s overindulgence. Despite their complaints, the camaraderie was evident. They each took turns joking about the day’s events, comparing how their stomachs had swelled and the discomfort that came with it.

“Guess we all played our part,” I said, chuckling as I looked at their bellies. “But I’ve got to hand it to you guys, you really went all out.”

Jim took a step back, wiping tears from his eyes as he looked at the scene before him. “Alright, champ, you’ve outdone yourself. But don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.”

I glanced at him, confused and exhausted. “What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow,” Jim said with a grin, “we’re going to find out who can make you eat the most. We’ve still got a whole day left, and we’re planning to push you even further.”

I stared at him, the realisation hitting me that the challenge was far from over. Despite the discomfort and the overwhelming fullness, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and dread at the thought of more eating ahead.

“Better get some sleep,” Banning said, clapping me on the shoulder. “We’ve got big plans for tomorrow.”

The guys finally let me be, their laughter and playful banter continuing as they prepared to settle in for the night. I lay there, my massive belly rising and falling with each heavy breath, feeling a strange mix of pride and disbelief at what I had just accomplished. 

As I closed my eyes, the sensation of my distended stomach pressing against me was both painful and oddly satisfying. The thought of what the next day might bring lingered in my mind, and despite my exhaustion, I found myself eager to see just how far they would take the challenge. For now, though, I had to focus on trying to get some rest before whatever came next.

For more of my stories click here

[androgynouspenguinexpert]

i JUST ordered ubereats

(in order of appearance: vincent - avior - milo - lasko - brachium - david - vega - huxley - vindemiator - asher - damien)

[bpmiranda]

IM BEGGING FOR A LOGAN X FEM READER WHO CAN TURN INVISIBLE BUT WHEN SHES NERVOUS OR FLUSTERED SHE DISAPPEARS INVOLUNTARILY essentially it’s just logan flustering reader till he disappears??? (mostly fluff but also suggestive/smut end)

Your Perfume (Logan Howlett)

A/N: fluffy, age gap, 18+ f!mutant reader (invisibility), kinky!logan, suggestive content towards end

When you first arrived at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, you were quite nervous and flighty. Often disappearing for hours on end in order to avoid talking to anyone, hiding in plain sight while two or three teachers searched for you. More often than not, the only person that could successfully find you was Logan.

“I can smell your perfume.” He’d smirk after having located you in the garage. You appear to him behind the wheel of one of the vehicles where you were reading a book and he chuckles. “Hiding again, kid?” He asks as he leans his forearms on the car door and peers in at you.

“Not hiding,” You say with a light blush on your face as he’s so close and you can smell the cigar and leather on him. “Just creating a quiet space for myself.”

Logan nods and then opens the driver’s door, instinctively you scoot over into the passenger side and he sits next to you. “You don’t like your classes?” He asks.

“They’re fine, the professor’s are lovely, I just-” You sigh as you bookmark the page you were reading. “I don’t want to be here. I miss being home.” Your parents had sent you away at the first opportunity, unwilling to deal with your mutation, and it stung. “I miss my family.”

“You know,” Logan rubbed his face gently and then patted your knee, making you blush again. “I’ve heard lots of other kids say the same thing, and eventually, they realize this can be a family too.”

You smile kindly at him, appreciative of him taking the time to talk to you, and you want to thank him until the garage door alarm goes off and you jump, disappearing completely once again which makes Logan laugh. “Did you find her?” Storm asked after turning the alarm off.

“Yeah, I found her, but we’re gonna have to put bells on her.” Logan teases which makes you giggle, the only thing letting him know you’re still sitting beside him.

Logan’s way of acclimating you to the mansion is quite different from that of the other professors. While the others are kind and helpful in assisting you with resources and encouragement, Logan had gotten a kick out of startling you. It was all fun and games, and it made you laugh each time because you knew his goal was to scare you into disappearing which he always found hilarious.

Logan would sneak up on you in the halls, starling your books straight out of your arms, laughing before he helped you pick them up. He’d see you sitting by the fountain with a friend and rev his motorcycle loudly, chuckling to himself as he watched you disappear. You had planned to get your payback late one night when you found that he was sitting alone in the common area. You focused on turning invisible and snuck up behind him quietly, ready to pounce when he suddenly said, “I smell you, sweet girl.”

You stopped in your tracks and frowned, walking around to stand in front of him and becoming visible again. Logan chuckled at the pout on your lip. “You smell me?”

“Your perfume,” He smirked, bringing the beer he was sipping to his lips while you watched him. “I recognize your perfume.”

“Oh,” You blushed, folding your arms over your middle and smiling shyly. “Good nose.”

“You have no idea.” Logan winked at you and you bit your lip, nodding before quickly returning to your bedroom, your face hot from that interaction.

While you were in the kitchen one evening, fixing yourself a cup of tea, Logan had woken up out of his sleep and wandered downstairs, smirking to himself when he smelled your familiar scent. Quietly, he made his way into the kitchen and saw you standing with your back to the doorway. Changing his mind about his approach at the sight of you in your pajama shorts, he walked closer until he could put his hands on your hips and you gasped.

Immediately, you disappeared and turned around to see Logan grinning, searching through you as you were now invisible to him. “Logan,” You scolded, pushing on his chest, but he didn’t budge. “Don’t do that!”

“Let me ask you something,” He said with a mischievous glint in his eyes that made you flustered. Fortunately, he couldn’t see the blush on your cheeks. “If you’re invisible,” His hand felt its way up your side, gripping onto your top and blindly guiding himself to your shoulder where his fingers pressed into the base of your neck, his thumb smoothing over your collarbone. “And I kiss you, would I fall through you?”

Your eyes were wide as his other hand on your hip continued feeling you, groping you though you weren’t visible to him. Logan’s nostrils flared as he smelled your arousal and he sighed, his tongue peeking out to moisten his lips. “Logan,” You whispered shyly, your hands turned fists against his abdomen while he was closing the space between the two of you. “I-you-”

“I love that perfume you wear, sweet girl.” He murmured, leaning in and smelling your neck where his hand had been holding you. “I can smell you getting excited at the thought.” His lips pressed against your neck and you trembled, you felt him smile against your skin before his tongue poked out and circled the dip of your collarbone. “Let me try something?” He asked, grabbing you firmly and lifting you up to sit you on the kitchen counter, feeling for your knees and then stepping between them as he pushed them apart.

“Okay,” You granted him permission. “But I can’t stay quiet.” You warned.

“Just stay like this,” He whispered, his lips finding yours with ease. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

Your Perfume II

Invisibility kink x Logan?👀

[imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul]

Overprotective- Jacaerys Velaryon

A/N: My thoughts lie only on HOTD, and most of those thoughts are on this PRINCE. I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader Word Count: 3.0k Synopsis: Jace's overprotective nature begins to grate on the reader's nerves as the birth of their first child looms closer.

Legend told that when in the womb, Targaryen babies started out as dragons before transforming into human children. It was nothing more than a silly folktale, your Targaryen family had assured you. But waking up in the dark of night, flinging the covers off of your scorching body, you aren't so sure.

Your nights had been spent like this for nearly two months now. If it wasn't the heat that coated your body, clinging sweat to your brow, it was waking up nearly ever hour to relieve yourself.

The child growing in your stomach was truly a Targaryen - passionate and unyielding.

The first four months of your pregnancy had been wonderful. You had none of the sickness that so many face in the early stages of their maternity. Back then you were often tired, but the child slept whenever you did. And to top it all off, Jace was a perfect husband. He brought you water when you needed it, rubbed your feet when they were aching, and then, you had wanted him constantly, and he had been more than happy to oblige.

But things change quickly during pregnancy, you are coming to understand. Jace wakes up next to you now, sitting up immediately.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing," you say, turning to face him. Your bedroom is dark, but even so, you can see the worry in his eyes. "Just too hot."

"Can I do anything for you? Should I call the Maester?"

"No, I'm fine," you say, straining to get out of bed. He supports your back, giving you the extra push to get up. You hate that he has to do this, that he has to push on your sweat drenched back, in order for you to stand.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"To relieve myself."

"You just got up--"

"I know, Jacaerys," you snap, holding your stomach as you leave the room.

Jace had been wonderful those first few months, when you had been in high spirits. But now, you were in pain constantly, which made you irritable, which made any attempt he made to help you irksome.

When you came back into the room, Jace is still up, his head resting on his pillow. He lifts it a little when you come back in, smiling at you gently. The sheets have been changed - another new routine - but one that doesn't bother you so much. It made a world of difference to lay down in a cool, clean bed after waking in a pool of your own sweat.

"All right?" he asks as you lay down beside him.

"Yes."

"Sure?"

"Yes, why?" you ask, tilting your head up to look at him.

"Because you called me Jacaerys," he says, brushing a stray hair off your brow. "You only do that when you're mad at me." You let out a breath of laughter, but immediately feel like the emotion could change into a sob. Jace must see it, too, because he scoots closer, pulling you into his bare arms.

"Hey," he says, kissing your forehead, "You can call me Jacaerys whenever you like."

"I'm not mad at you," you say, turning into him, so your growing stomach presses into his. "There's just this monster inside of me making me go mad." Jace smiles to himself, nodding his head.

"I know."

"I love you," you say, a hand to his cheek. He leans in to kiss you, his lips cool. When you break apart, you realize the windows are wide open, and while you've been sweating all night, he has to be freezing. You start to say something about it, but he cuts you off.

"I'm fine," he says. "I love you. Please just try to get some sleep."

"Get off me, then," you say, pushing him playfully. He smirks, falling back over to his side, taking your share of the blankets, as well. You lay on your back, and can't help the groan of pain at the pressure the position puts on you. Jace immediately reaches for your hand.

"Jacaerys," you say, squeezing his palm once. He laughs.

"Good night, Y/N."

"Goodnight."

At seven months pregnant, the burning has finally stopped, but you feel weaker still. Every movement puts pain on your back, your shoulders, your feet. You and Jace speak a language that is mostly moans and groans, and not the kind that used to be typical for the two of you.

One morning, when Jace is away at Driftmark, Rhaenyra joins you for breakfast. At the sight of your sovereign, you try to stand, which makes Rhaenyra laugh.

"Don't trouble yourself, Y/N," she says, walking towards you. "I remember when I was your size. Took me all morning just to get out of bed." You give her a tight lipped smile, settling back into the comfy position you had arranged for yourself.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"How are you feeling?" she asks, pouring herself a cup of tea. She motions to you, but you decline with a shake of your head.

"I'm alright."

"Is she kicking?" she asks, nodding to the hand on your belly.

"Only when I'm trying to sleep," you say with a laugh. "You agree with Jace, then? You think it'll be a girl?"

"The way you're carrying, yes, but one never really can tell. What are you hoping for?" she asks.

"For these next months to pass quickly," you say, straining when a nerve pinches in your side. You adjust your position, and find that Rhaenyra is looking at you with a small, understanding smile. "And of course, for a healthy baby."

"Of course."

"I don't know how you've done this so many times," you say. "Does it get any easier?"

"No," she says simply. You sigh, which makes her smile grow. "How has Jace been?" she asks.

"Very protective," you say, smiling. "Maybe too much so. I feel like if I just breathe wrong he's on alert, worried something has happened." A strange expression passes over Rhaenyra's face - equal parts pride and sorrow.

"I'm afraid Jacaerys has seen more than his fair share of pregnancies gone wrong," she says gently.

"I'm sorry, I know," you say, embarrassment passing through you.

"That's not to say that he isn't overbearing," she adds with a smile. "He's much like his father that way."

"Really?"

"He couldn't always be there," she says, "But when he was, he made up for the time apart with his watch over me." You smile at her as the door opens across the room, and Jace enters.

"You're back early," Rhaenyra says, lifting an eyebrow at him. He smells salty when he leans down to kiss you. He smiles at you, then looks to his mother.

"Thought I might join you for breakfast," he says, sitting next to you. "Besides, I was needed here more than at Driftmark." You exchange a look with Rhaenyra.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asks you.

"Just fine, Jacaerys," you say, patting his cheek. "You didn't need to cut your visit short."

"Well, there is something I need to do here nonetheless."

"What's that?" you ask.

"It seems Syrax has laid another clutch of eggs. Joff and I are going to retrieve them, and the younger boys are going to help us pick one for the babe," he says, a hand on your stomach. You smile at him, at the gentle caress of his hand. You know he comes from a place of love with his attention.

"Do you want to join us?" he asks.

"I doubt I could make it downstairs, much less down to the Dragonpit."

"We could bring them to you," he says.

"No," you say, "Decide with your brothers. Just pick out a good one." He nods to you, leaning in to kiss your temple.

At the end of breakfast, Jace goes off to the Dragonpit, but only at your insistence. He wanted to walk you back to your chambers, but Rhaenyra assured him she was more than up to the task. Once he was out of sight, she laughed to herself.

"I see what you mean," she says.

Jace returns to your room that night with a shiny, white dragon egg.

Jace's lips are soft on yours. At eight months pregnant, finding moments with him is getting harder every day. He lies next to you, a hand on your stomach, the other cradling the back of your head.

"Y/N," he hums, each word spoken onto your lips, "I want you." You make a sound in your throat, both in agreement and in discomfort. It has been too long since the two of you have been intimate.

"I'm huge," you say.

"You're not and I don't care," he says, his mouth moving across your jaw.

"The last time we did this," you breathe, arching into him when he nips at your earlobe, "We had to stop because you worried you'd hurt the baby."

"I promise I'll relax this time," he says.

"How could you even get to me?" you ask with a laugh. Jace smiles at you as his hand moves from your stomach to your hip, turning you onto your side easily. He presses up behind you, kissing along your neck.

You sigh, relaxing into him. His hand pulls up the skirt of your nightgown, exposing your legs to the cool night air. It has been so long that you know you're ready for him immediately.

"Just tell me if I'm hurting you," he says. You groan, putting a hand to his face to stop him from kissing you more. "Y/N."

"Jace." You scoot away from him, turning slowly to face him.

"I didn't mean anything by it," he says with a sigh.

"How many times have you fucked me in that same position?" you ask. Jace frowns, frustration evident on his face. "Have you ever hurt me?"

"No, but things are different," he says. "What's the harm in asking if you feel okay?"

"It doesn't make me feel desirable," you say, looking up at the ceiling, stupid, frustrating tears forming in your eyes again. Jace sighs and moves to your side, propping himself up on an elbow so you have to look at him.

"Y/N," he says gently. "Of course you are desirable. You are still the most beautiful, incredible woman I know. And it's because you are so incredible that I want to make sure that I don't do anything that puts you in more pain than I know you are already in."

"I promise I will tell you if I am hurting, okay? You don't have to coddle me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," you say, hand on his cheek to bring his lips to yours. "I'm the bitch for complaining about her kind husband." He laughs and kisses your palm.

"You're not a bitch," he says. You kiss him again. "Now please roll onto your side and let me fuck you." You laugh, doing as he says.

"Of course, My Prince."

Jace is at Dragonstone Castle when you go into labor. He has been anxious for the last month, knowing that any day the baby could arrive. He intended to postpone this meeting with the great houses, but you assured him that the babe would not come today. The only thing that kept him to his promise was the fact that Vermax could bring him back to the Red Keep quickly.

When Joffrey bursts into the room, Jace is immediately on his feet, already fearing the worst.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Y/N has gone into labor."

Jace barely spares a glance at the lords around the table. He urges Joffrey along. His brother had the foresight to request that Vermax be readied for when they arrived upon the shore.

The ride is quick, as he knew it would be, but he still urges Vermax along, wanting and needing to be close to you as soon as he can.

When he gets to the Red Keep, he runs up to your chambers, intending to throw them open and run to your side. Instead, he finds that they are locked. He can hear soft discussion, encouragements, but the loudest sound coming through the door is your screaming.

Joffrey followed him to the door and carefully peels him away. "She's alright," he insists. Jace won't be able to agree until he can see you himself.

Together, they sit outside your door for the next three hours. Joffrey doesn't say much, but when your screaming gets louder, or there seems to be a rise in urgency to the voices inside, he puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

It seems like ages have passed when the doors finally open.

He doesn't wait to hear what the Maester has to say. He rushes into the room, his eyes going immediately to your bed. Midwives quickly take away bloodied sheets, and when they clear, he sees you. You are drenched in sweat, your hair matted all around you, and he's not sure he's ever seen you look more beautiful.

"Y/N," he says, as if he's looking upon the gods themselves. You look up at him, your face breaking into a smile. He rushes to your side.

"Are you okay?" he asks, taking your face in his hands.

"I'm okay," you say, laying a hand over his. He laughs. It's a result of the built up tension from the hallway, and he can't stop himself. He laughs as he kisses you, over and over. You laugh, too, and he tastes the salt of your tears on your lips.

"What is it?" he asks, quickly studying your face.

"Don't you want to meet him?" you ask.

"Him?" Jace's face falls in awe.

"Him," you say. You look towards one of the midwives and they bring over the smallest bundle Jace has ever seen. He sinks onto the bed beside you as the babe is placed in his arms.

"Hello," he says quietly. You lean onto his shoulder, looking down at your son with a smile on your face.

"Isn't he beautiful?" you ask, your voice a whisper.

"Yes," he says, his heart still thundering from the surprise. "What have you called him?" he asks.

"I assumed we'd discuss that together," you say, "But I was thinking Lucerys, if that'd be alright." Jace has tears of his own in his eyes. He bites back his smile, unable to put into words what the name means to him, what you mean to him. He nods his head.

"Does that sound good to you, Lucerys?" you ask, your finger touching the blanket over the baby's stomach. He starts to move around, crying out just a little. Like you've done it a million times before, you take Lucerys into your arms and shush him gently.

Jace kisses your temple repeatedly, until you laugh. You turn towards him and kiss him fully, passionately.

"I love you so much," he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

"I love you, too."

You stay in that position for an hour or so, Jace holding you, and you holding Lucerys. Joffrey is the first to meet the future heir to the throne, and he kisses you on the cheek when he learns his nephew's name.

When his mother enters the room, Jace doesn't stand, wanting to keep you in his arms forever. She is all smiles as she leans over your opposite shoulder. You sit up slowly, and Jace's arm around you helps guide you upright.

"Hello, little one," Rhaenyra says, taking the child into her arms. You sigh happily, watching her interact with him. Jace can't keep from kissing your face a few more times. He doesn't think he has ever been this in love with you.

"And what is the name of our little prince?" Rhaenyra asks, looking between the two of you. Jace looks down at you, but you nod your head to him.

"We've decided to name him Lucerys," he says simply. Rhaenyra's expression changes immediately, her eyes welling up with tears of her own. Holding Lucerys in one arm, she leans down to kiss you both.

"A fine name," she says through tears. "You did well," she says, looking at you. You smile back, tears forming again in your own.

After a few moments in her arms, she hands your son back to you, and departs, letting the two of you get acquainted to your new family. Neither of you say much. You just watch Lucerys with rapt attention, counting his fingers, and touching his soft patch of hair.

"He's so beautiful," you say quietly.

"He is."

"I don't think I'm ever going to let him out of my sight," you say, looking up at Jace with a smile. He smiles back, but notices the exhaustion on your face.

"Maybe you can for a little while," he says, "Just to get some rest."

"Still so overprotective," you say with a smirk.

"I've got two to protect now," he says, "So if you could just once let me take care of you without arguing--" You cut him off with a kiss.

"I'll try," you say. "But don't either of you leave this room."

"I don't think you could kick us out if you wanted to."

Jace stands with his son in his arms, watching as you lay down. The midwives come back in to check on you and Lucerys, before leaving the three of you alone for the time.

"It's okay, Y/N," he says lowly, when you still haven't shut your eyes, your gaze locked on the two of them. "We'll be here."

"Promise?"

"I swear it," he says, giving you an easy smile. He watches you close your eyes, and in a few moments, your breath falls into an easy rhythm, just like Lucerys's.

Jace looks down at his son. He doesn't want to disturb his sleep, but he wants to tell him, here and now, that he'll always be overprotective. So he makes the vow to himself, just like the one he made when he married you. He is always going to protect the people he loves, even if it sometimes drives them mad.

[gutsby]

Honor Among Thieves

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marrying Brooklyn’s most dangerous man was easy. Divorcing him proves to be a bit harder—particularly when you’re pregnant with his child.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (f!receiving). Breeding kink. Hurt/Comfort/We-Almost-Just-Died-Sex. Morning sickness. Manslaughter. Brief coerced kissing. Beefy, mob boss Bucky is a possessive expectant father who just wants to make sure he knocked you up properly

Descriptions of violence throughout.

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Bucky’s words reverberated like a shotgun’s report, skimming across two dozen feet of marble, glass, and stainless steel before reaching your ears on the opposite end of the room. He was standing at the threshold of the kitchen, and your back was turned to him. Lucky thing, too, or else he would’ve seen the smile threatening to tug at both ends of your lips—effectively blowing your cover.

“Really, I don’t have the slightest idea, Barnes,” you told him, and it took everything in you not to laugh. Having just narrowly preserved your composure, you continued, “You keep me locked in this prison all day and expect me not to find ways to entertain myself? Well, this is all it is.”

Like hell it was, you could already hear in Bucky’s head. Feeling him eye you up and down from the archway, take his first steps into the room, loosen his tie, most likely.

“Prison?” You registered a low scoff, and his voice was already so much closer than it’d been five seconds ago.

Your husband was striding as quickly as his smooth, dark, tailored suit would allow, and he was undressing as he walked. You could hear the clothes coming off but pretended not to notice. Instead staring more intently at the crab bisque simmering on the stove before you, you licked the spoon you were holding and hummed a little.

“Yes,” you answered, simply, “Prison.”

Bucky was by your side in no time at all. Up close, he smelled like rosemary, oakmoss, and gunpowder.

“Well, this is news to me,” he said. He dragged out the middle syllables of his words longer than was necessary, likely to make his move sidling up closer to you. The last sound had scarcely died in his throat more than a second or two before you felt an arm loop around your back. A hand coming to rest on your hip, then his voice, again:

“See, I never knew they built ‘prisons’ up in first-class penthouse apartments in Brooklyn. Must be pretty nice.”

Bucky stepped behind you, and you were half-certain the black suit jacket he’d come home wearing was fully removed. Again, you pretended not to see, or care.

“It’s a metaphor, James.” But your voice wavered.

“A metaphor?” Bucky’s head sank into the soft groove between your neck and your shoulder, and he kissed it.

“Yes.”

Your mouth made a sound more akin to a breath than a real, enunciated word, and you knew Bucky felt it too. He sensed this headstrong, no-bullshit façade of yours was sure to come crumbling apart any second, and each new brush of his hands and lips would be making it happen. Knowing this, he wasn’t in a rush to get the rest of his clothes off. He did, however, start to toy with yours.

“Tell me more. Am I really holding you hostage, doll?”

You took a ladle and started to stir, trying to stay cool. Meanwhile, your husband tugged gently on your dress.

“Hostage, housewife, same thing,” you muttered, low.

For once, it was Bucky’s turn to break character, as he laughed. It was short-lived and sweet, and he pressed another kiss to the skin of your neck, as if in apology.

“Right, right. I forgot. You were forced to marry me.”

“Right,” you shook your head, just slightly emboldened by the way you’d made him crack, if only for a moment, “I’m forced to marry you, move into this horrific little shanty in Brooklyn”—gesturing to the multi-million dollar apartment surrounding you both—“and then you leave me here, all by myself, with nothing to do while you go play Godfather with your mobster friends. It’s not fair.”

By the tail end of that last sentence, you and Bucky both were already grinning a little, coming to terms with just how ridiculous it sounded when you phrased it like that. Still, your husband seemed game to keep the bit going.

“Now that’s just not true,” he said, tone all faux offense.

You felt the soft snap of a ribbon coming undone, and in a second realized it was the satin bow holding the back of your dress together. The fabric loosened, and Bucky’s hands slid down your sides, over your front—of course.

“I didn’t leave you ‘by yourself’ at all, doll,” he said, and suddenly, his palms were fanning out, over something, “Gave you this baby to keep you company, didn’t I?”

The ‘something’ he was touching now was your belly. All soft and smooth and protruding out in a perfect little globe beneath your dress, no bigger than when he’d left for work that morning. Bucky treated the bump like it was a novelty all the same—like he was seeing it for the first time and couldn’t believe he was actually the one responsible for making it get like that. It had gotten to be a hobby of his, nearly, just how much he loved watching it grow. He had his fingers splayed out across your tummy virtually every chance he could get, and that didn’t stop whether you were out in public or sharing a moment in the comfort of home; he couldn’t get enough.

Which was why Bucky was right when he’d said you knew exactly what you were doing when he came home that day. You knew just the kind of effect that wearing a tight, white dress while cooking dinner would have on him, and you hoped it would rile him up just like this: with his hands roaming over every inch of your body, making soft, sweet circles along the swell of your belly, and kissing your neck again and again. Biting some, too. Getting so worked up he was all but gnawing at the skin as he drank in your scent and got lost to pure instinct.

If it wasn’t clear that Bucky had had a breeding kink before, you saw it written plain as day across his face every morning and night since he’d first learned you were pregnant. Like all the life force within him was just a byproduct of the knowledge that you were his—and this baby, growing bigger each day, was a mix of you both.

You hated to say it, but fatherhood suited your assassin-trained, mob-heading, bloodlusting husband better than anyone could have predicted in a million years or more.

Presently, Bucky flipped you around and sank to his knees. He slid you over to the counterspace area, away from the stove, and made sure to flip each knob to ‘off’ to make sure there wasn’t a chance you’d get burned. You cast one last look at the crab bisque and knew at once your hard work would have to be put on the back burner for now, because Bucky wasn’t hungry for that.

Still, you kicked a foot in soft, muted protest when you felt him slide his hands up your legs, under your dress, and start to reach for your panties. You let out a breath.

“I spent two hours perfecting the seasoning on that, Barnes,” you chided him, gently and without much admonition in your voice as you pointed to the soup, “You say you want a good little housewife but won’t even leave me un-fucked long enough to try any food I make!”

“And I’m very sorry about that, Mrs. Barnes,” Bucky replied, head disappearing beneath your skirt so he could take your underwear off with his teeth instead.

But, much like your reproach, your husband’s strained apology held less than half of its professed sincerity. Your blue cotton panties were discarded in a second, your hips pushed back against the cool white marble behind it, and Bucky, almost too cheekily, brought his head back up from underneath your dress just to steal a quick look at your belly, then up at you. He was smiling.

“Anything you make tastes amazing, honey. Daddy just needs to eat a little something beforehand, that okay?”

He already knew what you’d say. The sweet, shit-eating grin hovering over your lower half knew all that and more. Bucky just loved to tease, taking the hem of your dress between his index and thumb, and rubbing all the more tenderly, murmuring again, ‘That alright with you, pretty girl?’ and ‘My wife likes getting tonguefucked in the kitchen, doesn’t she?’ while his breaths spread over you.

You nodded that you did. Momentarily forgetting the three-course meal you’d had planned for him since early that morning, you let your knees fall limply apart from one another, and Bucky’s broad form filled the space in between. The fabric of your dress was snug, especially so over your belly. Your husband pushed the material up your hips and let it rest just high enough to expose your warmth to him. Angling your hips back the slightest bit, trailing his fingers up your thighs and inside them, gently, Bucky let out a low groan against your body, and you could feel the vibrations of it travel up your spine.

“I really am mean for keeping you here all day, aren’t I?” he teased, sliding the tips of his fingers between your glistening folds and watching you jolt in response.

“So— so mean. Bucky, please.”

Your voice was far more hoarse than circumstances would seem to beget; your husband had just eaten you out that morning. Nevertheless, your hand was trembling as it reached for his head. Your pull was taut and dire. While your fingers threaded in through his hair and your body opened itself more and more for him, you could feel that kind smile, even if you couldn’t see it. Frankly, the swelling of eight-and-a-half months made it difficult to see much of anything below the waist, but Bucky made sure to let you know he was there. By holding your hand, skimming his lips against your skin, starting, just then, to sink his fingers in toward the heat of your body, and softly pulling his face away so he could look up at you.

“Baby?” he breathed.

Your eyes locked with his as he slid two fingers inside you. The stretch alone was enough to put your brain on the fritz, but, fighting the first shockwaves of pleasure:

“Y-Yeah?”

He withdrew. Pressed them back in and let out a grunt.

“I need you to do something for me.”

You couldn’t fathom what that might be, but you nodded anyway. ‘Anything’ was what you managed to choke out.

“And you might not like it, doll.”

Your eyes widened some.

“O— O-Okay, what?”

Bucky’s fingers curled inside you, and a short, sharp streak of dizzying pleasure pulsed through your body. Your knees felt weak, and your mind even worse, but with what little resolve you had left, you were able to keep your eyes entirely open and fastened to his. A look that struck you as almost bittersweet crossed your husband’s features, and you saw his gaze soften again.

“I need you to wake up,” he said, calmly.

“What?”

Your toes curled tight underneath you, and the warmth between your legs leapt up to over a thousand degrees.

“Melaya, I need you to wake up.”

At the same time, your blood ran cold in your veins. Surely, you couldn’t be hearing him right if the voice he used was so gruff and low—and laden with a Russian lilt.

“Bucky? What— What do you mean?”

But you knew. Or suspected something of it anyway.

Now the sound from your own throat was hardly one that you recognized as yours, so shrill and high and strange—what could he mean by that? Why was he watching you in that way? Your husband wasn’t smiling so brightly anymore, and the once-gratifying conflagration between your legs had grown to an almost scorching degree, no longer nice, generous, or pleasurable in the slightest.

“We need you to wake up now, honey. Right now.”

His tone, too, was distorted. Grating.

“Bucky, I-I don’t underst—”

“WAKE UP!”

“WAKE UP!”

Natasha shook you hard, and it hurt.

She didn’t mean for it to. She just needed you up and out of bed, and you’d been asleep for almost fourteen hours.

You started at the fifth or sixth shake, nearly punching yourself in the face when you tried yanking a set of covers up and over your head and discovered, shortly, that there was none. You were splayed out on a bed in an as-yet unfamiliar home—Steve’s new place—and, while you slept, you’d kicked all of the blankets you’d been given the night before off your body and onto the floor.

Your eyes were wide as saucers as they darted to Nat’s.

There was no need to say what had happened—she knew these dreams were getting worse by the day.

It’d been a week since you fled your Brooklyn apartment in an all-out terror. A week since a senseless, short-sighted idea on your part had led to the discovery that your husband was once part of a HYDRA sleeper cell whose activation phrase turned him into an agent of total destruction at will. A week since you’d seen a half dozen bodies litter your living room floor, more still being bludgeoned by the so-called ‘Winter Soldier,’ as Bucky had formerly been known. A week since you’d sobbed in Natasha’s arms and begged her not to let you go back. A week since you’d been obliged to hide out in Steve Rogers’ new bachelor pad upstate, because, frankly, there was nowhere else you could safely live until this whole ordeal with Bucky was settled—if it ever would be.

A full week since you’d learned you were pregnant, too.

As far as you knew, your husband was wholly unaware of this fact, and of Steve’s most recent real estate purchase up in Buffalo, and you’d been existing in a semi-serene and largely dissociated state for the past seven days.

Your gaze adjusted to the light, and you blinked up at Nat, feeling damp in just about every place on your body. You looked down and found yourself drenched in sweat.

“Hydrate. Please.”

It wasn’t so much a request as it was a standing order: Nat holding out a glass of water and instructing you to drink. Though your first instinct was to make a face and shake your head—you’d found that any new fluids in your body this early in the morning would only get thrown back up when you made your first frantic trip to the toilet—you accepted it anyway. You drank three big gulps to appease the woman standing next to the bed, then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and smiled

“I’m gonna go puke now,” you said.

“Aim for inside the toilet bowl if you can,��� Steve called out from the doorway. By the look on his face, you’d been doing a pretty shit job of aiming vomit lately.

“My bad, Rogers.”

You had a hand on your stomach, slowly easing back up into a seated position, when you heard something being flung across the room, followed by a ‘HEY!’ and a crash.

“Your aim sucks, too, Romanoff,” Steve griped, loudly, “And I was kidding. She can puke wherever she wants.”

By the door, a hefty hardcover book lay open on the floor. Apparently Nat’s options for projectiles had been limited.

“All good, Rogers,” you offered anyway. Fighting a smirk.

You were starting to stand, and your head felt as if you’d just taken your first steps off a rocking boat. Your other hand jumped to your mouth, and you muttered, ‘Fuck’ before brushing past Nat and her outstretched arms.

She held your hair while Steve retrieved the glass of water, as well as a towel. The unsightly first trimester ritual proceeded as it had for all of the last week, with Nat rubbing circles in your back and Steve making well-meaning but completely useless live commentary like, ‘Babies are a real pain in the ass, aren’t they?’ At the conclusion of each new stupid remark, Natasha would shoot a dirty look his way, but you never let her shoo him away. Through no conscious choice of your own, Steve had become something of a comfort blanket over the course of the past chaotic days. At the very least, you two were no longer at each other’s throats flinging accusations and exorbitantly-priced tumblers in the other’s direction, which was a marked improvement from where you were the day after you and Bucky’s wedding.

At length, you lifted your head from the toilet, and he daubed at your cheek with the towel—mostly just trying to wipe off spit and your own queasy-looking expression. He succeeded in clearing away just the former, but you forced a smile all the same, then shared it with Natasha.

Nat couldn’t smile back. In fact, the grimace on her face only etched even deeper, and her forehead creased.

“This is a horrible time to be asking you this, I know—”

“Nat, please.” Steve groaned.

Nat, what? There wasn’t a lot more that could catch you off guard after all the shit you’d come to see that week. Still, Nat’s breaths were both measured and slow, and you could see she was chewing on the inside of her cheek like she wasn’t quite sure how best to phrase her words. This, coming from one of the most astute legal minds this side of the Hudson River, gave you pause.

“Ask anything. I’m pretty numb, if you haven’t noticed.” You rapped on the side of your head for comedic effect, but neither Natasha nor Steve laughed or cracked a grin.

“How do you feel about filing for divorce tomorrow?”

At the sound of Nat’s words, you felt the bile jump back up your throat. You knew there wasn’t enough food or fluid to make much of anything now, but all the same, you craned your neck back over the toilet and retched. When nothing came out, as expected, you turned back.

“What?”

Natasha looked a little ill herself, but still, she continued.

“How do you feel about just…fast-tracking a divorce from him and taking off new? We’ll talk assets later.”

Assets? Fast-track? Divorce? What the fuck?

“What the fuck, Nat?” you repeated as much out loud.

It normally wasn’t your thing to be so blunt with her, but the inquiry certainly seemed to invite some extra candor. You swiped at your mouth for any excess spit that might’ve trickled out, crudely, and in a second, Steve was handing you the towel. Then helping you to your feet, holding your arm and lower back in a grip you could feel was secure. You were unsteady on your legs, so he and Natasha guided you over to the sink, where you could regain your bearings and freshen up a bit. Sneaking a look at your reflection in the mirror was a bad idea; your face was sallow, and the rest of your body had every appearance of being horribly weak, for lack of a better word. You caught a glimpse of a gash sitting just above your left temple and immediately looked away. Stupidly, you hoped Steve and Nat hadn’t seen it.

“He did that to you,” Nat said without missing a beat.

You winced, and you washed your hands, not looking up.

“I thought you said it wasn’t him. Soldat, you told me.” And for a second, your eyes flickered to Steve, whose expression was a touch more sympathetic, if not visibly discomfited now. Like he didn’t want to speak for once.

He did, anyway: “Doesn’t matter if it was Winter or him, really. Point is he hurt you while trying to protect y—”

“And yet, you asked me to forgive him just last week for killing my dad in the same type of rage,” you replied, and instantly regretted the accusatory tone you’d taken on.

Your anger was misdirected at Steve. It wasn’t his fault for sharing the truth about your husband’s—his best friend’s—past when you’d asked him. These were queries you’d made, helping to form justifications for your own decision to stay after what had happened in Madripoor. Obviously, Steve would be biased to help support his friend in a time of need. But now things were different; Bucky had never been activated as soldat and ended up hurting someone he’d loved before. Steve was free to change his mind after seeing that happen and urge you to leave, or at least reconsider, your marriage to Bucky.

The second look you gave him attempted to convey as much, a bit more apologetic as he and Natasha led the way out of the bathroom. Steve smiled and held your arm again, though you probably didn’t need it. You walked downstairs to the kitchen together. Over by the toaster, Sam was inspecting a charred bagel with a scowl

“Rogers, you really need to ditch this shit,” he said, gesturing to the rusted metal contraption that appeared to be from 1918, and had just burnt two bagels to a crisp.

“It was a gift from a friend, piss off,” Steve replied, grinning a little. Reaching for the blackened bread roll and even going so far as to take a bite, crunching loudly.

“Did your friend happen to fight in World War II?” Nat asked. She lent one look to the archaic machine but said nothing further, opting instead to take a seat at the kitchen table, where a sea of papers was strewn about.

Then, to you, “Come. Sit.”

Somewhere in your tentative stroll from where you stood to where she sat, and in the middle of the men’s toaster bickering, Sam called out that he’d have bacon and eggs ready in a second. Steve offered up his singed sesame bagel in the interim, and you told him no thanks. With a still slightly throbbing skull and a nauseous gait, you took the chair next to Nat’s and looked down at her papers.

Honestly, you thought your present condition might warrant some leeway when it came to holding off on the heavy-hitting topics first thing, but, to your surprise, Natasha slid a crisp white packet over almost instantly.

“Nat, what the fuck?” you groaned for the second time.

“Read it. Give it a second to digest, then we can—”

“No!” you cut in, pushing the packet back to her with a little more force than you’d meant, “I-I can’t. Not now.”

On the very first page, in bold and capitalized typeface, there was printed a brief string of words you’d never wanted—or thought you would ever need—to see:

‘VERIFIED COMPLAINT: ACTION FOR DIVORCE’

“It’s just the petition. No harm in taking a look,” Nat said.

You could hear a faintly gentler tone in her voice, even as you shook your head and looked away from the papers.

“I don’t want to. I can’t do this right now.” You kept shaking your head for a couple seconds after, turning your gaze instead to the bay window of Steve’s kitchen.

A nice, sprawling yard stretched as far as you could see. In the distance, a fuzzy white horizon was punctuated the slightest bit by the outline of a wood fence, but apart from that, the land was empty. The lot was secluded. Happy and effervescent in a nearly cloudless sky, the midmorning sun cast its rays without so much as the threat of a storm’s hinderance. You fixed your eyes on the clear expanse above and silently wished it would rain.

Before more than a minute or two had passed like that, Sam was approaching the table with two platters. Steve balanced four more by himself, watching the sway of one plate of scrambled eggs in his arms with a wary look before setting each one of the dishes on the table.

“Bon appétit,” Steve said, butchering his French just about as badly as Sam had the bagels. You and Nat thanked them both anyway and started clearing off the table, pushing papers away in favor of steaming plates. Sam and Steve sat down, and all of you began to eat.

While you dutifully piled on each scoop of eggs, bacon, sausage links, biscuits, gravy, and grits—far more than you knew you could feasibly consume—you wished again for a rainstorm, and maybe a quiet breakfast. One that wasn’t marred by talks of legal separation and lengthy battles in court, if you could help it at all. To this end, and perhaps against your body’s best interest, you shoveled two supersized spoonfuls of egg in your mouth, so that if Nat tried reviving those subjects again, you could put off the conversation by simply continuing to chew. You felt your stomach turn inside you but, stubbornly, ate more.

You had just swallowed it all, about to make way for a warm, flaky buttermilk biscuit, when a sound cut in, and your belly flipped again. Your teeth had barely sunk into the bread a second when Nat set her own food aside, then used two fingers to push something toward you.

“Just skim it. Let me explain what the process can be,” she said, tapping her index on the first line and meeting your eyes as if to plead. She had to have known she’d be met with resistance—from you, of course, but also Steve. She raised a defensive hand to him before he even cut in:

“Come the fuck on, Nat. Will you give her a break?”

“I’m saying this for her sake! I’m doing it for her.”

“And throwing divorce papers in her face over breakfast is really the best way of going about it? Is that for her?”

Sam swallowed whatever he’d been chewing on, glanced down at the top paper, and seemed to brace himself.

“Guys, is now really the right time—” he started.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Steve barked over him.

Natasha ignored the plainly disdainful look from the latter, lifted her hand off the paperwork and instead trained her gaze solely on you. Just like she had in Zurich. Focusing intently on your face, ignoring whatever Steve or Sam were saying in the moment, she turned to you and found your expression was stale. Unmoving. Frankly, half of what was running through your mind right then was how badly you wanted to puke again. As if the eggs had turned rotten in your gut the second they reached their destination in your GI tract, you felt a heavy, oppressive fog of nausea taking shape between your ears, and you just wanted everyone to stop talking.

Sam and Steve continued on without a hitch, agreeing vaguely but also appearing to bicker over other things, like when was the most appropriate time to have this conversation. Natasha was leaning in, reaching for your hand this time, and you knew she meant well. You would bet any large sum of money there wasn’t a malicious bone in her body, and she was doing this for your benefit. All the same, you were grateful when the front door swung back on its hinges, and a new person walked in. Nat, Sam, and Steve all suspended their conversations.

“Hey, wh—” the blissfully unaware, semi-stranger began.

“Sharon!” Steve cried, “Would you tell Romanoff she’s being a goddamn pest with no sense of boundaries?”

Sharon halted at the threshold of the house, skating a look between Nat and Steve at first, then Steve and Sam, then just at you. The look didn’t linger for long, and before you knew it, she was setting down a fistful of grocery bags and twisting her mouth into a frown.

“Will you shut up, Steve?” was her only response.

Sam rose from his chair and pointed as if to say, ‘Yeah, that’ before joining her in the foyer to help carry in the Wegmans bags. Natasha leaned back in her chair with a vaguely pleased look, and Steve just rolled his eyes. He slapped his palm overtop the stack of divorce papers still laying before you and, seemingly undeterred, continued,

“Do you think it’s fair for her to force divorce papers on this poor soul—” pointing to you, the poor soul, apparently, “—when it’s been a week since she left?”

Sharon started handing off the frozen stuff first, sliding a box of Stouffer’s across the counter to Sam, who then deposited it in the freezer. These exchanges took place in relatively quick succession, with Sharon only chancing a look toward the kitchen table once or twice as they did.

“I think she should do whatever the hell she wants,” she said, “And I think their divorce is none of our business.”

Fair enough take. One that you could respect, at the very least, even if you weren’t certain she particularly cared for you at all. You reckoned she had no reason to, and on the whole, appeared to be a pretty reserved person.

You wanted to add a word in her defense, reiterate to Steve that he didn’t have to go to bat for you, the poor, defenseless soul, right now. Instead of being able to speak, though, you felt an upsurge of something heavy in your throat. You clamped a hand to your mouth again, cheeks flushing with the heady sensation and also out of embarrassment, then pushed your chair back and stood.

“I— gotta—” you stammered, just audible to the table, through the wall your fingers had made over your lips.

You sprinted up the stairs without another word.

The first trimester ritual repeated, and ten minutes later, you re-emerged from the bathroom feeling two big spoonfuls of scrambled eggs lighter and still none the happier, healthier, or wiser. You took a peek in the full-length mirror at the other end of the room and discerned from a distance of ten feet that you looked like dogshit.

You flopped down on the bed face-first, heedless of the pool of sweat that still encompassed roughly half of it, and let out a weak, muffled breath into the sheets. Someone had been gracious enough to replace all the blankets and pillows you’d kicked off last night. When you heard a knock on the door, it sounded a lot like Nat’s.

You rolled to the side, eyes screwed shut in frustration.

“If you’ve come to tell me my marriage is a fucking dumpsterfire, I agree completely, Natasha. I’m dumb.”

A little huff of a half-laugh sounded from the doorway. You opened your eyes and saw Sharon standing there.

Up close, she looked a little paler than you’d remembered seeing her last in Switzerland. Soft beads of perspiration dotted her neckline from what had likely been a hot and arduous journey walking up the driveway with all the food, and presently, she seemed tired. She wore a simple gingham blouse that had her eyes shining with vibrance, though, and both hands, you noticed, were full—she had a mug in one and a spoon in the other. She smiled kindly.

“The mob tends to have that effect,” she said, strolling in. Setting the mug on the nightstand and easing the spoon into it, stirring, “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

You had no idea what all she knew about your marriage. You weren’t so sure you could extricate yourself from all the blame of having the thing go up in flames in four short weeks. Nevertheless, you smiled back and offered up something good-humored in return, like, well, I’m not exactly winning wife of the fucking year anytime soon.

Again, Sharon chuckled. It was small. She leaned back against the nearest armchair and, pointing to the cup she’d left to rest on the nightstand, said in a soft voice,

“Give that a minute. It’s hot.”

You glanced over and saw a little string that you guessed was attached to a teabag sitting at the bottom of the mug. The drink smelled like chamomile, maybe. You sat up, readjusted your pyjama top, then slid your socked feet underneath you so you could scoot closer to the edge of the bed. On a deeper inhale, you decided the tea was definitely chamomile. And too hot, as Sharon said.

“Thank you,” you told her.

“It’s not poisoned, I promise,” she replied. Letting out that funny little chuckle of hers—one too low to be considered a full laugh, but very close—and then, seeming to realize what she said might’ve sounded off, “Like— I heard what happened with Schröder. Him trying to drug you after the wedding and all…that. I— I’m sorry.”

Bad time to be making jokes, she appeared to chastise herself, but you just nodded along with the faintest grin.

“It’s OK. I’d pay money to be knocked the fuck out now.”

You grinned bigger, and she smiled too.

“It should make you sleepier, if you wanted to nap.”

You replied that you would, in fact, love to be unconscious right now if it meant not having to put up with all this bullshit morning sickness, and you slowly reached for the mug. Sharon stood up, and while you took your first sips, she fluffed the pillows behind you.

She was right. The tea felt like a hug. You settled under the covers and brought the cup to your lips once more, taking two big draughts before setting the drink aside. Yeah, that shit’ll put you right out, no drugs needed. You sank even further under the sheets and watched Sharon hover between the bed and the doorway, looking around as if trying to find something to do—some way to make herself feel more useful, if you had to guess from the pensive look in her eyes. Finally, she settled closer to the door and gave you one, fairly sanguine look. The warmth of your drink had already begun to nestle inside your weary bones, and your eyelids felt heavier. Still, you tried to return the sunny look before getting fully settled.

“Thanks again, Sharon. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course.”

She started to leave. In fact, she’d already made it three-fourths out of the room when something stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to you, and you looked up.

“This…probably doesn’t mean a whole lot coming from me, but—whatever you decide to do with Bucky…is okay. We’ll support you, whether you choose to raise this baby with him or do…whatever it is you want to do. Don’t let Nat or Steve or Sam or anybody tell you differently. It’s your choice, y’know, whether you wanna stay married…”

Sharon trailed off, and somewhere inside, you could tell she meant to finish with words like, ‘…even if you didn’t get to make the choice to get married in the first place.’ You appreciated it. You beamed with just your head poking out from over the covers and thanked her again.

And, before she left, for the second time, she stopped. She walked over to the nightstand and bent slightly at the waist, just enough to set something small down. You turned to the side and saw a vial—a minuscule tube—on the surface. Your eyes widened, realizing what it was.

“Sam picked it up in Madripoor. He said Steve had given this to you…to, uh, give to Schröder, and I thought you should have it back,” she said, pausing, “Just in case.”

You eyed the little vial of poison on the nightstand and nodded, still not completely understanding. Your head throbbed, your stomach was still turning, churning. Your brain was about ten blinks away from logging off entirely and drifting to sleep. All you could do, then, was repeat what Sharon had said as you exchanged one final look.

“Just in case.”

Your eyes closed, and you fell asleep very soon after.

You couldn’t have been out for more than an hour; you were sure of it. However, the next time you glanced over at the clock on the bedside table, you saw it read 11:04.

P.M.

Shit.

SHIT.

That chamomille tea was no fucking joke.

Just as your thoughts drifted back to Sharon, the conversation you’d shared, the drink she’d given you, the poison she’d left behind for you to keep, you heard her voice all over again—and now, not just in your own head.

Presently, she was standing over your bed again, though the room was much darker this time around. She pressed a finger to her lips, hey, please, please, be quiet, alright? At first you wanted to make a sharp and strangled sound. A cry for help? You weren’t sure. Didn’t know. Couldn’t see very much of the woman at all, except for the outline of her face from the moonlight streaming in through the window. She stared and ‘shh’ed’ some more.

And you were contemplating yelling out a loud obscenity in response to it when next she cut in, markedly gentler:

“Keep it quick. Nat and the guys will be back in thirty.”

You blinked hard into the darkness and waited for your vision, or else your still-missing voice, to return. It didn’t. You just stared back, eyelids going up and down and up and down like a goddamn idiot gone sluggish off one too many Quaaludes, and it was several seconds more before she gestured behind her, into the shadows.

You tensed under the covers, chock-full of terror. You squinted, and shrank, and might’ve nearly pissed yourself were it not for the intervening force of a face.

A familiar face.

Bucky’s face.

You leapt up from the bed, displacing each one of Sharon’s cool and careful warnings from your mind all at once. You didn’t mean to, and as soon as she’d shushed you again, you shut your mouth. Fell still. Sharon slipped out of the room, reminding you both, again, that you had to be quiet, and you had to be quick. Then it was just you and Bucky. Silence and slightly less than five feet of space between you two. Then, shortly, no space to spare at all, as you ran to meet each for a hug a second later.

Your head struck his chest, and it was hard. That, alongside the python’s squeeze he wrapped around your body, hugging you to him in the tightest embrace imaginable, had your mind reeling, skull pulsing just a bit. You pulled back and stood smiling up at Bucky, whose eyes were wide, drinking the sight of you in.

‘Are you hurt?’ were his first words.

You shook your head that you weren’t, still unable to talk.

“Why are you— Who— who brought you— I didn’t—”

It seemed Bucky was equally hard-pressed to form a sentence himself, while his eyes were roaming wildly, all over you. Looking for bumps or bruises or cuts, whatever the wound might have been. He stumbled to the lamp and flicked it on. You tilted your head left, reflexively.

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you said. Sudden and swift, “I’m good.”

But you didn’t move your head too far to the right, either, for fear he might see the cut above your temple—the one soldat had caused when he’d pushed you to the floor, trying to protect you from a threat he couldn’t see.

As it was, your husband seemed to be too much in shock to see anything else apart from what stood immediately in front of him. He hugged you again. He kissed the crown of your head. He constricted your body so tight in his arms you felt a pressure start to build behind your eyes, and suddenly you weren’t so much pulling away as you were wrenching your body from him. When you met Bucky’s gaze again, the sweet blue irises were glossy.

“Nat wouldn’t say where you were, just that you were safe and needed to be…be alone for a while, but I—” He stopped, and it was as if he couldn’t even finish with the words, because his breath was stuck in his throat and his eyes were stinging too much. He looked down, briefly.

You wanted to reach for his hand but hesitated. He took yours a second later, holding extra tight as he continued:

“I thought I’d— thought you might’ve…left. I don’t know. I hadn’t been able to sleep, and then she— Sharon, she called me tonight, said you were here, so— so—”

You felt a pang of guilt holding his gaze, seeing how all the hurt that had come to accumulate behind those eyes over the last week went spilling, at length, into emotions he was either too overcome or sleep-deprived to express. The weight of this suffocated him, made him extra quick to speak his mind but slow to make sense of just about anything that was coming out of his mouth. He stopped, sucked in a breath, then pinched your hand in his, and you didn’t know what to do. You had no idea what to say.

“I was scared, Bucky.”

It sounded pathetic coming out of your mouth. Your husband nodded as though you’d just said the most profound thing in the world. His knuckles went white from just how hard he was gripping your hand, his head bobbed along in agreement, and for a moment, you winced to think that he might hug you again. Instead, the fingers tangled between yours just made a tighter knot.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said.

“You scared me,” you added, voice wavering.

Your left hand was going numb. You didn’t want to give him pause—possibly hurt his feelings—by freeing your touch from his, but that grip was brutal. Deathly rigid and unforgiving. Thoughts of Brooklyn and Madripoor came flooding back; Bucky was so much stronger than he realized. His tone, in contrast, was dulcet and soft.

“I didn’t know I’d get like that. I should’ve told you, doll.”

“I shouldn’t have tried the activation in the first place.”

You shouldn’t have tried digging into Bucky’s past all. When all there seemed to be at every turn was a brand new way for him to hurt you, or the people you loved, maybe there came a time when you had to stop asking questions altogether. Maybe that was what his mother and all the women who’d gone before her had known to do, what you had been too stupid to see all along. There was no knowing these men at all, only taking them as they were and learning to cope with what they became.

Bucky shook his head.

“No, doll, it’s not on you,” he murmured low. Still forceful

Thankfully, he released your hand to cup your cheeks, and he kissed your forehead. You felt your pulse in your palm, throbbing from where he’d held it. When he let go the second time, his expression was considerably softer.

“Listen, I’ll take you home, we can talk things over. As long as I know you’re safe, it doesn’t have to— to—”

Hey. He was already halfway toward the door before he realized you weren’t following him. He turned and gestured forward. He beckoned you, brows drawing in.

“Baby? C’mon.”

You didn’t budge.

Your feet were rooted in place, as though cemented to the floor. No matter how much you wanted to appease him, go along with whatever he asked, you couldn’t. You shook your head, and Bucky tilted his own, confused.

“Baby?”

“I’m leaving, Bucky.”

You couldn’t hear your own words slipping out between your teeth, only the blood rushing through your ears. Bucky stopped and turned to face you completely.

“What?”

“I’m leaving.”

“What— what do you mean, ‘you’re leaving’?”

“I want a divorce.”

That part you did hear yourself. You wished you hadn’t.

You wished you hadn’t seen the light break off from Bucky’s eyes, expression going limp the instant your words registered with him. You nearly wished you hadn’t said them at all, seeing just how far his face fell and how hurt he looked by them—but quietly, from somewhere more rational-headed inside yourself, there was a voice reminding the rest of you that it needed to be done. You couldn’t keep pretending like this wasn’t what had had to come next. What you’d been skirting with Nat all day and hadn’t been able to bring yourself to admit before now.

Your husband still didn’t seem to be computing it fully. He walked closer to you, and his gait was unsteady.

“Divorce?”

Your vision was bleary; you hadn’t even realized tears had begun to brim at your waterline as you watched him.

“It’s what we need, Bucky,” you could barely get it out.

“I don’t,” he shot back, not missing a beat, “I don’t.”

“It’s what I need.”

“You don’t mean that.”

His voice was hoarse, face shifting from lax incredulity to one of a wince—screwed up in a way that said he felt ill. You shook your head but couldn’t look away from him.

“You don’t mean that,” he repeated.

“It’s what I want,” you pressed on, just as sick yourself.

“You said what you wanted was me.” Again, Bucky’s voice splintered, and you could feel the pain in it.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me, Bucky.”

Gritting your teeth, unsure where else to fix your stare on his face but those eyes—while your own betrayed their feelings too easily, fraught with wet, rolling tears—you shouldn’t have been surprised when his went wider.

“What are you talking about?”

The question was short, sharp, and biting, spoken with such haste as might be mistaken for anger, but the eyes softened his look at once. The anguish painting them now as he stared back at you were a proof, beyond a doubt, that it was betrayal, not rage, which steered him. He turned, and it was as if he couldn’t see a thing but you; his elbow clipped the lamp and knocked it over, but still, he just stared. In turn, the ceramic appliance rolled onto its side, toppled the mug and the vial beside it, and all three went crashing to the floor. Bucky didn’t blink.

“Wh—” he started again, but you didn’t hear the rest.

You remembered Sharon. Heard a flash of her last admonition in your head—be quiet, be quick—and without thinking, you fell to your knees. You tried retrieving what pieces of chipped lamp and shattered mug you could, quickly. You spotted the small vial on the floor and shoved it in a pocket. Your hands swept over the broken pieces without any real idea of what you were doing—all except needing to clean Bucky’s mess—and then swiftly, stupidly, you tried picking it up by yourself.

Of course, a shard cut you. The little slit that was left in its wake could have been no wider than a fraction of an inch, but still, it bled. You looked down at the cut, just then starting to sprout red from left to right along the side of your palm, when a new sight crossed your vision. It was fast, too. All but thoughtless in the way it broke in, gripping your hand in his, and yanking you to your feet. Bucky hadn’t seen that you’d cut yourself, it seemed, and, out of instinct, had grabbed your hand to help you up. As before, his grasp was like a vice, and his thumb pressed right inside the lacerated flesh, sending a whole new maelstrom of pain shooting up your wrist and arm. Now, as then, he was heedless of his strength and his sheer, brute force, that he didn’t even see the effect of his grip. He just held on, held you, tighter, tighter, and—

“STOP!” you shrieked.

You shoved him off. Pried his touch off your palm and gripped your forearm in your other hand and pored over the sight, seeing the gash almost doubled in size from just where Bucky’s finger had sunk into the fresh wound. You let out a sharp, muffled cry through lips that tried to stay closed—remembering Sharon again. You shook your head, clenched your jaw, and tore off the other direction.

And when your husband reached out, eyes wide with their own shock and apologies, ‘Baby, fuck, I’m so sorr—’ you threw him off again. With your non-bleeding palm, you thrust your hand against his chest and pushed hard:

“Don’t touch me!”

When he reached for you again, as if by force of habit, you held up a defensive arm and sobbed out, ‘Stop!’

‘Don’t touch me, don’t—don’t—don’t fucking touch me.’

You screamed it. You didn’t mean to. Thinking only vaguely of the need to be quiet, and almost entirely on the stabbing pain in your hand, the imprint of Bucky’s touch on your body, and the blood trickling down your forearm, you darted into the bathroom and threw the door closed behind you. You locked it. You meant to.

Twenty minutes might as well have been twenty years in Bucky Barnes’ mind. In a moment like this, following yet another supreme fuck up on his part, he felt powerless. He had had to fight the instinct to barge into the next room over with every fiber of his being, and, making fists by his sides and pacing the floor and hating himself was all that seemed capable of occupying his mind just then.

He’d knocked on the bathroom door at least ten times. He’d been ignored each time, no matter the duration.

He still had your blood on his thumb, and it made him ill.

You said you wouldn’t hurt me, Bucky.

While he uncurled his hand from a fist just long enough to stare at the streaks of red stretched over his finger, he heard those words replay over and over again in his head. He’d said it—swore it—himself, and still your blood was turning a cool, dark, dry shade of crimson on his thumb.

This wasn’t how he’d meant for any of this to go. Still, notwithstanding his best intentions, none of it mattered. He’d seen a sincere look of fear in your eyes looking up at him, and nothing in the world would change what he’d done, or who he was. He’d caused you pain tonight, last week—though his memory of that was still so hazy and dark he hardly knew what else had happened, even now—and above all, he’d failed you as a husband, a protector.

You were likely curled up in a ball by the bathroom sink, cowering in fear because of him. The thought sent another tidal wave of nausea thrumming through his skull, a lump in his throat growing larger alongside it, and before he knew what he was doing, Bucky was striding back to the bathroom door. He banged his fist against it.

“Honey?”

No answer.

“Baby, please open the door.”

More silence.

The moment brought to mind a memory from the night you two had been married. How you’d fled to the en-suite bathroom and locked yourself in it; how Bucky had rattled the whole doorframe with the force of his knocks, demanding you come out. He’d hardly known you then. You hardly knew him now. The realization of this made the weight in his throat all the more excruciating as he stood, and, wincing with pain, Bucky kept knocking.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry.”

Pleading now. His voice was hoarse all over again.

Had he been the slightest bit more desperate and reckless, he might’ve been tempted to muscle through, kick the door in with his boot. But Bucky knew better. He could already guess how much that action would terrify you now, while tending to an injury that he himself had inadvertently made worse. Barreling inside would be neither romantic nor sweet, just sinking what may then be a lethal dose of salt in the deeper, metaphorical wound. He refrained. Instead of continuing to knock, he dropped his forehead to the door and closed his eyes.

“Please believe me, baby,” he tried again.

He’d said it so quietly he feared you might not hear it. Then, a little bit louder, ‘Please, please believe me.’

No sound to be heard inside but running water.

“You mean everything to me, doll.”

By now, his voice was clogged with pain, teetering on the brink of agony as he rested his hands on the door, and willed you to open it. Say something to him. Anything.

“I’d never mean to hurt you. Not in a million years.”

For a moment, he heard nothing more. Just how desperately he needed to hear a voice in reply could not be overstated. Craving a new sound worse than oxygen in his lungs. At first, when he heard something other than himself nearby, it nearly knocked him back with joy.

A voice right next to his ear, “But you did, didn’t you?”

The joy lasted less than a second.

The voice beside him was low. And close. Not coming from the other side of the bathroom door, as he might’ve reasonably expected from you, and not even in the tone of a female’s voice, as he might’ve seen, were Sharon to have appeared by his side. This new voice was deep, and masculine, and in his ear now, chuckling some as a gloved hand pressed the barrel of a gun to his temple.

Bucky didn’t blink.

You stepped outside not wanting to see him.

The bleeding had long since stopped, thanks to the aid of a cool, damp washcloth and a few minutes’ pressure, but even once it ceased, your legs were reluctant to carry you back. You dreaded the thought of having to resume your conversation with Bucky—of having to look him in the eye and tell him all over again that it wasn’t safe for you to be married to him. But you didn’t have much of a choice now, either. This wasn’t your honeymoon, where you could stay locked in the bathroom, try climbing out a window, and hope for the best like you’d done before. You had the man’s child inside you, for fuck’s sake.

That uncomfortable subject and at least a dozen more were already swarming your brain as you made your way out of the bathroom. You’d taken a few extra squares of toilet paper to press into the cut, were looking down at it with a tense, uncertain gaze as you ventured out, when you were obliged to stop just a few steps into the room.

“Hi, honey.”

It wasn’t Bucky.

Your eyes snapped up to the source of the voice in an instant, and, on seeing you were right—that it wasn’t Bucky but a gaunt, grinning blond with a gun to your husband’s head—you almost screamed at the sight.

You’d wanted to scream, anyway. It would’ve been the sane thing to do, and one that nobody could’ve blamed you for in the moment, you reckoned, but strangely the sound never came. You just stared at the two, eyes wide and jaw slightly more lax as your lips made an ‘o’. Bile jumped up in your throat. You wished it would choke you.

‘Please. Don’t.’ was all you could get out.

Johann Schröder’s smile stretched wider.

“Don’t what?”

The question was clearly meant to be derisive, rhetorical. Still, with your fingers trembling, you tried answering:

“Don’t hurt h—”

“Why?”

You watched the gun sink deeper against your husband’s face, and he flinched. Your stomach clenched inside you.

“Why shouldn’t I hurt him, hon? Seems like he’s gotten pretty damn good at doing it to you,” Schröder sneered.

His words stung. The grin didn’t flinch. And, as if to punctuate his sentence, or else remind your husband that he was tied to a chair and entirely at his mercy now, Schröder struck Bucky in the face with the butt of his gun. If an onlooker hadn’t known better, they might’ve mistaken you for the one who’d been hit, though—at last, you unleashed that scream, and you reached out for Bucky, hands open and pathetic and desperate to help.

“Think it hurt as bad as your hand?” Schröder hummed.

Your feet were stumbling forward, “He didn’t mean—”

Another resounding thud against Bucky’s skull, this time hard enough to split his lip in half. If he’d grimaced in the slightest, you would’ve seen the teeth smeared with blood. But, true to form, James Barnes didn’t wince. He hadn’t even seemed to acknowledge the blow as it landed. Just stared at you and, with eyes as hollow and deadened and faintly pleading as you’d ever seen them before, manifested their silent apology to yours—again.

“Bet he didn’t mean to hurt anyone as the Winter Soldier, either. Still couldn’t have felt too good for all the folks he butchered, though.” At that, Schröder’s sick amusement morphed into a laugh, and he was taking Bucky’s collar in his other hand. Shaking him lightly while he spoke.

“Couldn’t have felt all that great for your dad, I bet.”

The diversion turned to you, all toothy smiles and mocking eyes. He didn’t care. He let you stagger another step toward the two of them, even try to get your hands close to Bucky. But when you’d drawn too close, he stopped you cold. Not thinking much else in the moment, you made a move to push Schröder’s arm away, hard, and were shortly rewarded with a shove of your own. He knocked you sideways onto the bed, and you landed on the hand you’d hurt. Before you could let out so much as a sound yourself, Bucky’s voice tore in:

“Schröder.”

Schröder turned. He raised his Ruger to your husband’s head again, as casually as if he’d asked him for the time.

“Yes?”

“Don’t touch her.”

Schröder turned to you. Though he didn’t move the Ruger again, he did point his finger at your form, haplessly curled into itself amidst the covers and pillows.

“Why? Saving all the rough stuff for later, are we?”

You cowered as his free hand reached for you, and just as your husband’s eyes went wide and a vein nearly tore through his skin from how hard it protruded, you cried,

“What do you want?!”

Schröder stopped. He brought his hand to a halt just south of your thigh—and then he dropped his weight on the bed beside you. He gestured indistinctly, almost disbelievingly, toward Bucky. The latter appeared near-apoplectic, nails raking down either arm of the chair.

“What do I want?” Schröder quipped, incredulous, “What do you want, doll? To stay married to him?”

And you knew he’d intended the question to be hurtful; you knew it by the glint in his eye, the goading tone of voice and the look he’d flitted to Bucky—nondescript and yet saying a world more than words could ever convey. He knew what had gone on between you, had likely heard your last conversation in its entirety, and was now using it against you. Mostly to taunt, then to injure your husband with truths he hadn’t yet uncovered himself.

Schröder’s eyes were shining with sadistic delight as he took your hand in his. He didn’t waste another second.

“No, no, that isn’t what you want at all, is it?”

Ignoring the screech of Bucky’s restraints as he tried to lunge out of his chair. Hearing him curse when he failed.

“—you said you’re leaving him, right?”

Schröder slid the thin, glistening ring off the hand he’d been holding before you could even think to stop him.

“—said you want a divorce, is that it?”

Then his grin got so big and conceited and enlivened by the sight of pain working its way onto Bucky’s face that any good sense you’d had left inside you was abandoned in a blink. You didn’t hesitate, or else try and make a pass to retrieve your ring—you just hit the man in the face.

Your fist was small, and his chin was hard. You knew before you ever threw the punch that it’d probably hurt you more than him, but you did it anyway. It succeeded, at the very least, in catching Schröder by surprise and swiftly pissing him off. Seeing this and feeling a bit bolder, you were somehow able to dodge his hands when he lurched for you again. Inside, your own anger flared.

“Why the fuck do you care?” you spat.

You found momentary respite in the corner of the bed, sliding back against a wall that would only protect you for so long. As soon as Schröder regained his bearings, he had you back in his sights and his grasp just as quick.

He dragged you back. He pulled you up. He dug the tips of his fingers so hard into your side that you thought the flesh might tear in two across your ribs. But it didn’t. Crescent-like indentations did leave their mark in a grisly set of five, though. You felt the sting of it as Schröder loosened his grip, then sucked his next breath through his teeth as if calming himself. Your gaze only hardened.

“I care,” he said, once he’d completed this slow inhale. He replaced his touch by pinching your face in one hand and bringing it up to his, expression more like a snarl. Then, raising the gun to your face in his other hand, “because I made a deal with your father. Remember?”

You did. Your head jerked back by force of instinct, but he held it. From every direction, then, you had nothing to hear but the sound of your own pulse thrumming a fast, panicked tempo in your skull. You tasted blood in your mouth without a drop on your tongue. And, had that deafening fear and revulsion been anything less, you likely would’ve heard something else beneath it all.

Would’ve felt it, if you weren’t already so numb: Schröder’s hand sliding its way down your body, diamond ring still stuck to the tip of his index finger. You sensed it as though seeing yourself from another perspective—watching his hand trail lower, lower, lower until something in Bucky split in two and he bellowed:

“SCHRÖDER—”

He said something more after that; you were sure of it. You just couldn’t hear him, or see him, or discern much of anything else but your own racing heart as the man who’d just beat your husband twice and lifted a gun to your head proceeded to press his touch to your belly. Almost conscientious and gentle as he lowered it.

“Was this part of the deal, too, doll?”

Your eyes widened. Realizing—then feeling fear seize you completely. Forgetting the metal at your temple and shaking your head with a force, but slow enough that your husband wouldn’t see it. Meanwhile, across from you both, Bucky seemed more than sufficiently occupied by his own blinding rage—he spit a glob of blood to the floor and, with his teeth bared again, swore he’d kill him.

Over and over and over again, oaths of taking Schröder’s life and making it gruesome and painful and slow filled your ears, but none of it stuck, for either you or Schröder. Instead, your maniacal captor just smiled, leaning in.

“I said, was this part of the deal, Mrs. Barnes?”

The heel of his palm sank into your stomach, and as the shock of his first words began to fade, a pain replaced it. His hand made an impressive demonstration of flattening and forcing itself so hard against the skin that a flurry of stars cropped up in your eyes, and you cried:

“Stop! I-It wasn’t— just— just stop. Stop.”

“Stop? Was it part of the deal or not?”

Schröder bore down even harder.

“It just happened!” you keened. Unsure why you felt compelled to answer for what had gone on at all—addressing the baby in this awful, oblique way—though reckoning it had something to do with the pressure he was applying to your stomach. You tried to squirm back.

But your stuttering pulse and your pleading gaze and the ache in your stomach proved to be all too much for any real progress to be made. You’d scarcely moved off an inch before he drove his palm deeper, and with the agony of a body about to rupture beneath it, a shriek clawed out of your throat. Your mouth fell open, and for once, you couldn’t curtail the pain, or fear. Schröder’s hand had just forced the noise from your mouth, along with some mindless, broken pleas to stop pushing, it hurts, please, please, when the face above yours only brightened. Schröder’s cruel, snide mouth flashed a smile above you, and before you could whine again—

He kissed you.

It couldn’t have lasted for more than a second.

Still, the moment seemed to stretch indefinitely. And felt perverse. So deeply nauseating and unsettling to every last nerve, muscle, tendon, and bone in your body that the response it evoked could be nothing less than visceral. You didn’t need to think at all to shove him off. Whatever might’ve given you pause with a loaded gun to your head was forgotten in a second, and soon enough, you weren’t alone in letting your reproach be known.

It started off with a crack, then a harsh, crude splintering of wood. A violent rift, from what you could hear of it, and when you turned your head, your suspicions were confirmed: Bucky had snapped half the arm of his chair away from the seat, and his right hand was almost freed.

Whatever barrier he faced in being bound more than four times over with rope seemed immaterial to him now. He could strain as hard as he pleased—feel the coarse synthetic fibers dig into his flesh and leave streaks of red, if not break the skin itself—and any pain, as before, hardly appeared to register with your husband at all. He just muscled through it, thrusting his wrist even harder. The whole force of this movement rocked the chair on its legs, and just when you sensed it might collapse beneath his weight, you felt Schröder stand up. The man didn’t need to move too far or do much else other than drop his hold on you and flip his gun to point it at Bucky instead.

Even when he had, though, Bucky didn’t flinch. His hands were in fists and his drive was like a machine’s—he tried forcing his way out of the right hand’s restraints, and the second the wood gave way, he was shoving it off.

Blind to the firearm Schröder was holding, or his words:

“Stay where you are, Barnes.”

Bucky was just then shaking off the rope that had been loosened by the break in the wood, jaw still tight as ever.

“You’ve got three other limbs to free, my friend, just—”

Schröder was still speaking when you saw his finger slip to the trigger, and it seemed to you it was itching to pull.

“James, stop!”

That plea came from you. More of a strangled cry, really—no more pleasant for either man to hear than it was for your throat to shriek. It did, however, stop Bucky cold. Your husband paused just long enough to meet your gaze. And in it, you saw, at least, that he was all there, if not enraged. But not soldat, or anyone else but himself.

You sighed in relief, despite what seeing two red rivers seeping out of Bucky’s mouth might otherwise provoke.

It was him. You might’ve smiled if another hadn’t cut in.

Schröder seized Bucky’s wrist. With it, you saw his hand just as mangled and bloodied as his lips. Knuckles cracked, slit, and soon to be littered with bruises of every shade, he shocked you again by how calmly he took it. Even when Schröder sank a thumb inside a big, gaping crater of a flesh wound he’d found on the back of his hand, your husband didn’t blink; he just looked at you.

‘I’m sorry.’

When the barrel of the gun returned to his head—this time, at the rear, as Schröder had circled back around the half-broken chair and was leaning over him—you could see the apology lodged in his eyes on full display.

“For safekeeping.” The man wielding the gun seemed almost pleased as he dropped your ring inside the breast pocket of your husband’s shirt, before patting it gently:

“Now where were we?”

A beat. Bucky’s right hand twitched beside him, but evidently, he knew better than to move in that moment.

“Right, right—” Schröder pretended to be remembering, tapping steel to Bucky’s skull, “She’s leaving, isn’t she?”

More silence.

You wanted to speak, beg Schröder for mercy, anything.

“Do you know why that is, Bucky?”

But before you could utter even a word of protest, the voice pressed on. Schröder was leaning in his ear.

“—what you did to her?”

The baby. Brooklyn. All the bloodshed that had ensued last week, leaving your husband completely in the dark. Of course, he couldn’t remember. He hadn’t been himself, and was scarcely more able to control his actions as the Winter Soldier than he could in a dream.

To your horror, Schröder reached down for Bucky’s hand, and, still holding the gun to him with the other, lifted it.

Pointed it.

Pushed it closer to you.

“C’mon, Buck. You don’t want me touching her, right? Why don’t you feel for yourself what she’s been hiding?”

Your blood turned to ice. You’d never felt so immobile—paralyzed—in your life, but seeing the hands drift closer and closer and feeling defenseless to their course, your body went numb. Your limbs grew heavier than lead.

And when you felt the smug, smiling blond guide your husband’s touch toward your head, you understood it all.

You were perched at the edge of the bed a foot away. Schröder was nudging Bucky forward in his chair, urging him to reach out and tilt her chin a little, go on, that’s it. And neither one of you had a choice, so he touched you. His fingers, directed by someone else, were obliged to brush the skin of your chin, your jaw, your cheek, and your brow, before finally settling above your left temple.

Your husband felt the cut—touched the stitches.

You winced, but not from any physical pain. It was Bucky’s face as the tips of his fingers skimmed the wound. The look of chagrin that crossed his eyes. Then bewilderment. Fear, as plain as anyone could see it— was he the cause of that? Had the hurt been from him?

You couldn’t bear to answer him, so you looked away. It was Schröder, again, who had all the power to speak.

“Can’t remember pushing her down?” he said, tone dark, “Making her split her head open on the bedside table because soldat didn’t know his own strength—only that he had to keep her safe—and sensed a threat outside?”

Bucky shook his head. His face was grave.

Schröder kept making him prod the skin.

“It’s bruised here, too. You feel it?”

Your husband did, and you thought it might break him. So tender and forlorn were the eyes, raking over every spot where a touch, his touch, had left you hurt before.

If nothing else could bring you back to your senses, the wounded look in Bucky’s gaze was sure to get it done.

You hardly thought again, just croaked: ‘It’s not his fault.’

Schröder’s hand then descended your neck, your torso.

As if he hadn’t heard you at all—

“You already saw what happened to her hand.”

—and forcing Bucky’s touch lower still.

“But what about here?”

Your breath hitched in your throat when you felt your husband’s hand come to rest on your stomach.

It was like a fire had ignited in your lower half, and nothing close to the soft, pleasurable kind. Not the flutter felt in anticipation of a touch from your husband, not the desirous sort. In fact, you dreaded it now; seeing Schröder over his shoulder, urging him closer, making him flatten his big, broad, scorching palm over your belly.

What should’ve been the ecstatic scene you’d conjured in your mind at least a hundred times since marrying him—the picture of domestic bliss as you said it, smiling, I’m pregnant—was now nothing short of torture. Choice all but stripped from you here, forced to emerge inside this terrible place, you found yourself needing to shrink back, shake your head, look to Schröder’s stubborn, unyielding gaze and beg him not to make you do this now. Not now.

Not here, with Bucky’s skin a shade of glacial white and his eyes going wide, taking on a look you’d never seen.

“What do you—”

He stared hard at the hand on your belly, but it didn’t last for long. As if realization were trying to seep in, he couldn’t meet it. His eyes flitted back to your face.

“Baby, what’s—” he tried again, stammering.

“—right, that’s it, Mr. Barnes.” That was Schröder.

Satisfied in the suspense of the moment keeping your husband still, he lifted his hand from Bucky’s and snapped, that’s it, and clapped him over the shoulder.

Congratulating him before the truth had even sunk in.

“A baby, that’s right! You’re going to be a father, Buck.”

And how far was the look on Bucky’s face from the one you’d dreamed before. The lips you’d envisioned in a smile now twisting bleakly, parting slightly, and the eyes you’d once hoped to be bright and elated only staring back with rings of red enveloping the irises. Whatever tears formed at his waterline were decidedly not of joy.

Only guilt.

“You did it.”

Desperation.

More moisture in his eyes as his hand started to tremble across your stomach, voice hoarse and soft, “Is it true?”

You didn’t need to nod. You just watched him, let your own eyes fill with the worst, stinging tears you had felt in your life, and from the silence that followed, Bucky knew.

As if the life beneath his palm were something dear, but still too much for him to comprehend, he shook his head. He stroked his thumb over the cotton of your pyjamas and tried inching closer, as much as his restraints would allow him. Then, with words that were audibly strained, but always gentle, he lowered his voice—as if to keep the communication between you two, despite your position:

“I love you.”

His hand was still on your belly as he said it. He reached up to cup your face. Even lower than before, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

That much was evident from every look he’d given you tonight. Every move he made a de facto apology, all actions in the vein of atonement, it couldn’t possibly escape your mind or his that he knew he’d done wrong. It was only a matter of accepting this—maybe coming to terms with the fact that your life wasn’t safe in his hands—for the guilt plaguing Bucky to multiply. Paralyze him.

There was no better time for Schröder to strike. Just as the anguish had flooded Bucky’s face completely, and his hand had had to lower itself from want of strength, a sound split the air. Bucky was so lost in his thoughts that it didn’t even register at first, but the impact was real, and it was harsh: Schröder punched him squarely in the jaw. The next, swift snap was his nasal bone taking a blow, and breaking beneath it. Blood breezed down and into his mouth. Feeling warm, his lips and chin doused in a second, he sensed nothing else. He might’ve groaned.

He caught another swift right hook, and his mind went blank. Nothing of substance threatened to materialize between his ears, save for the rush of blood through and from his skull and the dim recognition of something ugly.

Something horrific.

He couldn’t protect you.

His body was as much an idle waste as it was a danger. Useless now, as he was tied to this chair, and a risk to your well-being even if he weren’t. The hazard was him.

Schröder hit him again, and Bucky realized that the ringing he’d heard in his ears was your screaming.

“I’m doing her a favor,” Schröder spat before shoving him back in the chair, almost knocking it sideways.

The blond advanced with ease. His knuckles were drenched in blood; none of it was his. When he reached for Bucky again, the resistance was slight, and a simple, firm grip on the collar was all that was needed to drag his frame to sit straight. Bucky was barely upright for a second before the next—and worst—blow struck his face. His whole head rang with it, reeling, but still, he could make out the words as they were spoken to him.

“She’ll never be safe with you, Barnes. Never—” and at the last, Schröder lowered his gun. Started to loosen the rope from Bucky’s left arm, “—I could free you now, and you still wouldn’t get within an inch of what you want.”

He nudged the rope away and let it fall to the floor. Bucky lifted his hand, but the effort was in vain. No sooner had a finger of his stirred than Schröder was delivering a kick to the chair and letting it splinter. Topple. Skitter a half-foot across the hardwood floor with Bucky’s ankles still bound to it, before finally, gracelessly, breaking apart.

Bucky was on the floor, blinking through a stream of blood and a sea of muddied thoughts when Schröder kicked the chair again. The rope slackened some more.

“Her own father knew as much, so he made me a deal to take her off of your hands. Settle his debts the way he should’ve done the first time around,” Schröder said, and now his tone was lower. Lethal as it ever was, and stern.

“I know how much you hate to lose your playthings, Buck, but this one’s better off with me, I promise.”

And, as if to emphasize his point, Schröder turned and reached for you. Bucky’s own hands were slow, fumbling in fits and bursts to get the rope unwound from his ankles, but they were determined. He just couldn’t get the bleeding to stop, the ringing to subside, or his brain, in its concussed state, to let him move with a little more agility. He’d been hit too many times. He could barely lift his head off his shoulders and hold it straight, so he was forced to stay where he was, keep at his task, and listen.

“You’re weak when you’re not soldat.”

Using his knuckles, Schröder brushed the blood that was evidently all Bucky’s across your cheek, and you flinched.

“When you make the switch, still…you’re inhuman.”

Then he tilted your head, making you show them both the mutilated, stitched-up flesh above your temple. Again, you tried to slink away, but his touch was firm.

“Don’t you think your bride deserves better than that? Your child? Forced to live in fear of that thing you are?”

Blood coursed down Bucky’s face, and his lips were curled apart in a grimace, mouth hanging slightly ajar. His eyes fixed their look on you. The rope was undone.

He’d just started to try and stand when the edge of his vision blurred. He felt the lacerations in his face pulse as one, and with it, half his sight went skewed to the left. Schröder couldn’t help but crack a smile seeing him stumble, pitch back, and barely catch himself on the bedside table. When he stood, he was mostly hunched.

“Look at you, Buck. You can’t try and save her like this,” Schröder taunted, drawing you closer, “So stop trying.”

The man’s hand was like ice holding your face. The grip grew tighter when he saw your husband limping your way, and before either one of you could move, the index of Schröder’s other hand had slid down to the trigger. He didn’t wait to give another warning before he did it—just pointed the gun and fired one shot over Bucky’s head.

His aim was good. The bullet missed your husband by less than an inch. The gun had gone off by your ear, and immediately, you seized the side of your head as a sharp, searing pain cropped up. Your skull was still ringing when you heard the thing discharge again, and you realized it had been aimed at Bucky’s neck. He’d ventured another step, and Schröder had fired a second round to graze the top of his shoulder. Crimson bloomed through his shirt.

Bucky should’ve stumbled again. He might’ve staggered back with a grunt of pain, lifted a quick, reflexive hand to feel the wound, but the sense of it all was slow to reach him. The moments that passed him were delayed just the same, as if the world around him were distorted—the fibers of time tugged and stretched before his eyes—and he could hardly keep himself straight. When he got another look down the barrel of the gun, he didn’t blink. Couldn’t see, really. It was all misshapen sights and sounds and a dim recognition that his mind was in a fog.

Somewhere from within that mist, he heard, faintly:

“I’ll go— I’ll go— I’ll go with you, I’ll go— just stop.”

Schröder turned to you, and the smile that he wore was cruel, but Bucky wasn’t able to make out the expression.

All he could see then, to the faintest extent, was you—your face, gripped hard in another man’s hand, eyes pleading and wet with tears, and a slightly slack jaw.

“Leave him for me?” Schröder repeated, sneering.

You nodded. Blinked. Rolled your tongue along the inside of your cheek before pulling it back and biting down once. There was a hint of a wince in your eyes, but, from what Bucky could tell, it vanished just as fast as it came.

Your lips parted again. Your eyes widened a little.

“So the girl has some fucking sense.” That was Schröder.

He’d had his weapon re-holstered and your face firmly seized in both of his hands in no more than a second.

What came next surprised no one, though the sensations of disgust and rage were as quick to turn a stomach as the shock would have done. Schröder bent down and, having pulled your face closer to his, kissed you again.

Schröder’s mouth was glistening with a grin and Bucky’s own blood—smeared all over your face from how hard he’d been holding you—when he looked up and turned.

“Sensible and sweet, isn’t she? Tastes like it, too.”

Bucky saw nothing but red. It wasn’t just blood crowding his vision now but violence and rancor and outright hatred, stirring his limbs to start moving again when the rest of his body was plainly too battered to venture an inch in that condition. He staggered again, watched you again, and had made it almost halfway across the room when another sight slowed him, if only for a moment.

Schröder’s lips were back on yours, as if to mock him, but what startled him, really, was the way you’d opened your mouth. You couldn’t mean it. Clearly. Schröder was gripping your jaw, forcing it open—it had to be—and he was coaxing your tongue out from inside and weaving it with his. Once more, time moved like molasses, and that was all your husband had had to see: you kissing him back, gripping his arm through the thick, black tactical gear, and still parting your lips more and more for him. Like you needed a touch, or something, worse than ever.

That stalled Bucky, though he was nowhere close to stopping now. Briefly preoccupied, and seemingly shocked as well that you’d accepted the kiss so eagerly this time, Schröder didn’t see the approach. If he had, he likely would’ve turned and made a move for his Ruger, but as it was, he had only to blink—and there was Bucky.

He hit him with a force that was blinding, directly to the side of his head so hard that he’d had no choice but to separate from you. Schröder was stunned one second and on the floor in the next. Bucky threw him there, kicked him down, and, wavering for only a moment to cock back the shoulder that’d been shot, he ignored the pain and punched the man again. And again. And again.

There was a callousness, an indolence, and an ease with which he was able to inflict the pain, that much was evident. What didn’t seem so natural, at least in Bucky’s mind, was the weight that was in his hands: Schröder’s body felt limp before he’d even landed the second blow.

The pressure grew heavier and heavier in his hands the harder, and more frequently, he delivered each hit, but for now, he didn’t care. Bucky kept on punching until the face beneath him was gnarled and bloody, and his own fist, too, slashed every which way with more cuts than he was able to count. He would’ve kept going—could’ve ignored the stabbing pain in his shoulder for as long as it would take to ensure the man was dead—but as it was, he refused to ignore the voice he heard. It was yours.

Muffled now, as your body was bent to the side and your head drooped lower still. Your voice was soft but clear:

“Bucky, please, stop.”

He did.

He dropped the man’s collar from his hands as soon as he’d heard you say it, and he turned away as if nothing had transpired behind him at all. His focus was on you.

“Baby—”

To his surprise, he watched you spit on the floor.

Your face was grim and almost sick, and you spit again.

The look grew even worse, and afterward, you didn’t waste a second more; you stood and left the room.

Bucky was stunned at first, and his instinct had been to follow. Then he heard a rattling sound beside him. He glanced down and paled, seeing Schröder there.

His face had turned blue much sooner than Bucky had expected—and not from any bruising but a lack of oxygen in his lungs. He was choking, foaming slightly at the mouth while he gasped for air. Surely, it hadn’t been the hits that caused it. The whites of Schröder’s eyes were as conspicuous as he’d ever seen them. Desperate.

Bucky swiftly got the sense that the life of his former captor was lost, and frankly, he didn’t care enough to watch him die. He left what remained of Schröder’s form to continue writhing on the floor, choking and sputtering for a breath that would never come, and went after you.

Downstairs, he found you hunched over the kitchen sink—spitting, retching, and trembling, too, but breathing.

You let the water from the faucet fill your mouth, and you rinsed again. You winced as something stuck your cheek.

Bucky drew closer, quickly, and when he was right by your side, he saw you spit a shard of glass into the sink. He looked over to the counter, and he spotted three more

They were minuscule, really. Nothing quite the size to leave a wound too deep, but sharp enough to cut your lips, your tongue, or the insides of your cheeks. When Bucky leaned in, he saw droplets of red joining the flow of the water beneath it. You coughed over and over again

“Don’t,” you croaked, seeing Bucky reach for the glass.

Before he could reply: “It’s the poison. From Madripoor.”

Your husband’s blood went cold in his veins. He didn’t touch the glass, but he did press closer to you, feeling his insides churn as the cogs started to turn in his head.

The vial of poison you’d been given to slip in Schröder’s drink at the Foxy Den—how the hell had you gotten it back? Why would you think you needed it, if he— but no, that couldn’t be the case. There wasn’t a shot you just—

“—put it in your mouth?” Bucky couldn’t curb the fear in his voice. He reached for you and spun you to face him.

“Did it kill him?”

Your eyes were wide for entirely different reasons. Bucky couldn’t believe what he was seeing; his mouth was dry.

“I didn’t want to kiss him,” you went on, voice shaking a little, “I didn’t— I just— I couldn’t get him the poison any other way. I knew he’d kiss me again, and when he did—”

“I know,” Bucky said. He smoothed the hair from your face, shaking his head. Feeling his stomach clench with fear and dread as he hurried to get a look in your mouth.

You’d snuck the vial inside your cheek, then crushed it between your teeth before Schröder had kissed you. You’d all but forced him to swallow the poison, shoving your tongue down his throat, but what of the stuff that remained? The rough, trembling fingers of Bucky’s hand were trying to pry your lips apart as gently as they could, ensure all the serum was out, but at present, you wouldn’t let him. You pushed back gently, though not too far to prevent your own touch from roaming his shoulder.

“The bullet—” you started.

“Barely nicked me,” Bucky cut in, “Baby, I need to see—”

That you’re safe. That you won’t be hurt in any way. He couldn’t finish the thought himself, having seen what the poison did to Schröder. Instead, he just held you closer and fought the lump that was starting to form in his throat. Adrenaline had worked well enough to clear his mind of the haze, but the rest of him was all high-strung.

Your clothes clung to you both, wet with blood and sweat. Your breaths were fast. Your expressions were feral, eyes no calmer as they scanned over the other’s form and soaked in every trace of what had happened. Bucky in his formalwear and you in something close to a chemise—like your honeymoon night all over again—you each got a glimpse of the gore ornamenting yourselves and let the room fall quiet, if only for a minute or two.

Your husband was the one to break the silence, at length, with cracked and grisly hands sliding down to your hips.

“You’re okay?”

His touch shifted you back in place to sit on the counter.

“I’m alright.”

You wanted to say more; assure him, in a voice as sedate as you could manage, that this wasn’t his fault. Whether he would believe a word of what you said was a separate question, but, at any rate, it didn’t matter. The next thing you knew, Bucky was slotting himself in the space between your legs and pulling you into his arms.

In spite of himself and all the wounds, he held you tight.

“You’re alright,” he repeated.

His face sank into the crook of your neck, and you felt his muscles contract again—pulling you closer—as he drew a shaky breath against your skin. You hugged him back.

“Are you?” Your voice was small.

In a blink, Bucky resurfaced. He lifted his head from your neck and, still holding you, hadn’t seemed to have heard.

“The baby,” he said quickly.

He stepped back. Lowered his gaze and his hands to trail over your hips and near your stomach, and he stared, as if trying to make sense of something dire. His blue eyes were wide, and they assumed such a look of panic that you feared a blood vessel might actually burst in one.

After all the great lengths he’d gone to, ensuring you were safe and taking extra precautions, on the off-chance you might be pregnant, here you were.

And there he went, sliding his touch lower and lower again until his hand was pressed into your belly, and the gaze you’d once thought soft before had all but melted into tenderness—delicacy. Complete, loving unreserve.

When his eyes met yours a second time, they were shiny.

Wet with the only kind of tears you’d want to see in them.

“You’re really…” he started, just to taper off, blinking.

And then his cheeks were dotted with the tiny, round droplets, and he’d finally ventured a smile for the first time in what seemed like ages and you couldn’t keep from reaching for him. The second you’d lifted your arms you were back in his, lips and nose smushed against the front of his stained white button-up and breathing deep.

Or trying to, anyway. Bucky had you squeezed so tight to his chest you had nothing but his shirt to inhale at first. You didn’t mind, and when he pulled away a moment later, you realized that your eyes, too, were filling up quick. You had to steel yourself against a maelstrom of emotions that threatened to emerge—the aftermath of a half-dozen traumas laid bare over the last hour—but the longer you were here, and the more your husband stared at you like that, the quicker your courage was depleted. In the span of five seconds, your senses were shot to hell. All you could think was what you could feel, and all you felt was Bucky: his arms and his hands and the raw, blistering heat between your bodies. The rest was noise.

It surprised you both when you kissed him. Physically, your mouth and his were hardly up to do it, injured as they were, but the impulse was strong, and it flowed between you. As soon as your lips latched onto his, Bucky was holding your face, molding his body to yours without so much as a second thought, and the mouth you met was sturdy. Hungry in the way it kissed back.

A string of words from Schröder flashed in your mind—‘Never be safe’—and you grit your teeth together, snagging the cusp of Bucky’s lower lip as you did it. He groaned. Before you could even try to apologize, though, he was gripping your face harder in his hands and coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. His front was still flush with yours, and your legs were starting to wind around his hips. Your husband nudged you back against the cabinets, and from the force of that push, you felt it.

Felt him.

Surely, it had had to take two very fucked up individuals to get all hot and bothered from a bloodbath that had just taken place; but, again, here you were—together.

And there you went, grinding your lower half with his.

“Doll?” Bucky broke out, word slurred just a little.

For a second, you thought he was going to stop you. Your eyes scanned his, and you were already planning to apologize for being so horny, it must just be the—

“You know I love you, right?” he breathed.

You blinked. You were about to nod, when you felt the bulge in his slacks start to rub against your barely-clothed heat, and something akin to a shockwave coursed through your frame. It couldn’t be helped. A monsoon of hyper-sensitized pleasure trembled over the skin in a way you’d never felt it before, and suddenly you were letting out a moan: a muffled cry of, ‘Yes, I-I know.’

Your husband swallowed and stared, slightly taken aback by the reaction his erection had produced. He’d never felt that either. At least from what he could remember.

The truth was that he’d never had a pregnant wife before—someone whose body was now extraordinarily responsive to his touch, nearly aching for him.

When you scooted your butt to the edge of the counter and dug your heels in the backs of his legs, humping him, almost, he got the idea. Bucky swallowed again.

“I love you too, I— I—” you started, already out of breath, “I just really need you to fuck me. Can you— please—”

Bucky didn’t need to be asked once, much less twice. He already had his belt, button, and zip undone before you could even look down, and then your own pyjama shorts were sliding off too. The counter was cool against your skin, but your husband’s warmth was more than enough to compensate for the loss. You smiled again, sheepish.

“It’s just…hormones,” you said, quieter toward the end.

You weren’t sure why you felt so ashamed to simply say, ‘James, I’ve been damn near insane with desire ever since you put a baby in me. Can you give me five more?’ But you did. You felt your cheeks start to heat as your lower half was left exposed to the air, and Bucky slipped his hand down between your legs, practically groaning:

“Honey, you’re soaked.”

There wasn’t one iota of shame in his tone.

He was more than happy to find you drenched beneath his touch. He had a smile on his face and a warmth bleeding from every fingertip as he caressed that soft, tender spot. You didn’t need to tell him what was on your mind, either. He sensed something was making you shy, and rather than have you say it aloud, he just touched you gentler, stroked the skin more affectionately, and tilted his head so only you could hear him, quiet as ever:

“That’s my girl. Feeling good for me?”

You felt your heartbeat between your thighs.

“My baby,” Bucky went on, voice dulcet and slow.

Your body was trembling at the edge, waiting. Impatient.

“My wife,” he said that with a smile, into your neck.

He lowered you onto his length, and you whined.

“Mother of my child.” The smile got bigger.

You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Feeling him slide inside the most precious, wet, pliable part of you, stretching you out, you couldn’t help the sounds you made. You felt full in a whole new way; the groan Bucky let out when you were impaled down to the base of his cock said he shared the feeling. He throbbed inside you.

“You’re—fuck.” Bucky’s words broke off at the sensation.

Your walls were as slick as ever, your body delicate, rolling your hips to the first gentle thrusts that his shaft carved inside. Neither one of you could last long like this.

Still, at the threat of sublime pleasure, you felt fear, briefly: Schröder’s implacable stare—and the thousands more like him in HYDRA. You couldn’t help but grip Bucky tighter, willing these thoughts away with the rhythm of your body over his. Feeling him fill you up, fuck you with quick, deliberate thrusts and hold you, ‘That’s it, take what you need, sweet girl, you’re okay.’

You wished you were. You wanted to be. With every stab of Bucky’s hips, you hoped this would be the last night you ever feared for you or your child’s life, but deep down, you knew that wasn’t true. This was everything your husband’s varied ‘enterprises’ entailed, and a life with him meant never knowing a day without it—fear.

The head of Bucky’s cock grazed an especially sensitive ridge in your walls, and you whimpered into his shoulder.

You smelled blood.

He pushed you back against the counter and pounded harder, breaths heavy and labored and gruff as he spoke:

“You’re okay, baby, it’s alright.”

Your mind tried clinging to that thought, nodding along as if to convince yourself. The pleasure grew stronger, and your body was hot. Everything was heightened. Bucky couldn’t keep his eyes or his lips or his rough, bloodied touch from roaming you wherever he could reach, and he kept rutting his hips, assuring you gently, again and again, that it was all okay. He was right here.

The pleasure from the depths of your body was beyond your control—you couldn’t help it when the band inside of you snapped. You held Bucky closer and you moaned, more desperate and needy and soaking for him, taking something from him, and knowing the bliss you felt would only steal the dark thoughts for a moment or two.

Bucky’s eyes said it just the same. He couldn’t keep stuffing you full, feeling his pleasure hit its peak, and finally painting your insides without sharing that look.

You were less than halfway down from your highs when you felt him go still, panting fast, then hold your face.

“I love you.”

It was desperate. Hoping for something.

“I love you, too,” you told him, and you meant it.

But there was more. Both of you knew there was more.

“I can’t be married to you, Bucky.”

You didn’t know why it had to come out now, but the emotions were there—his gaze had all but drawn it out.

Still sheathed inside you, your husband tensed. He looked as if he might try and shake his head, but the movement was stalled by his own momentary shock. He’d known the words were coming, but the sound of you saying them now wasn’t any less jarring to hear. Before he could reply, you found yourself cutting back in:

“Not now, at least. We need some…time. To think.”

You weren’t sure what you were saying, just that your lips were moving and every new word was hurting him more.

“Even with Schröder gone, there are so many…dangers for both—or, all—of us, and I don’t know…I just can’t—”

—imagine bringing a child into a world like this. Like his.

You didn’t need to say it.

The pain in Bucky’s eyes already communicated as much, and the conviction in your own only convinced him that you’d meant it—and what you said was the truth. You couldn’t stay in a marriage that wasn’t safe.

Just as you opened your mouth to say something more, the man surprised you when he squeezed your hand.

Nodding, almost imperceptibly, in front of you.

“I can wait,” he said, “Whenever you’re ready, doll.”

His voice was hoarse, words strained from the lump in his throat as he spoke, but the message was sincere.

“Whenever you feel safe,” he added, softly.

You wanted to hold him again. Like before, your eyes began to well with something stinging and harsh, but the look you’d fixed on him was filled with nothing but love. You would’ve reached for him then, if he hadn’t moved his hand to his pocket. He felt around inside it, briefly.

Then Bucky retrieved your wedding ring.

Holding you up against him, pressed snugly into the counter with your legs still wrapped around his lower half, he pinched the silver band between his forefinger and thumb and held it up to you. It glistened in the light.

“The next time you wear it, I want it to be because you chose to marry me. Not for anything, or anyone, else.”

Nothing arranged, no game, no being forced to stay.

You nodded and had to blink through a layer of tears.

Bucky’s thumb traced the moisture, cupping your cheek in one of his hands. He’d had to keep blinking himself, and before you could reach for him, he kissed you.

“I really hope you marry me again one day, Mrs. Barnes.”

You smiled, having parted but still holding on.

“I think I would like that, too. One day.”

The next thing you heard was a sound at the front door: what sounded like a crash. Half a dozen sets of feet stumbling inside, crowding the foyer, making a loud, frantic clamor that you and Bucky knew only too well. The two of you scrambled to get your clothes back on as Steve, Nat, Sam, and Sharon all seemed to yell at once.

You had one hell of a story to tell them.

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[6esiree]

Confessing To Them That You’re A Virgin

Imagine you confess to Alastor, Lucifer, Husk, Vox, and Adam that you’re a virgin before you have sex for the first time?

Alastor:

The sound of your sweet, innocent voice softly whimpering ‘I’m a virgin,’ against his lips consumed Alastor’s mind to the point that his hand paused its leisure trek across the lacey fabric of your underwear, eliciting a disappointed whine from you. He reluctantly parted from your shared kiss, staring down at you in an attempt to find some semblance of a lie, only to discover that you were telling the truth behind your heavy-lidded gaze. In short, your words were a welcome surprise to the man hovering above you.

“Well, isn’t that just lovely?” Alastor hummed with an unmistakable gratification in his voice. His thumb gingerly pressed against your clothed clit almost in reward, applying just enough pressure to alleviate the growing ache in your core. “In fact, that simple revelation is even lovelier than any sound you’ve made thus far, ma chérie.”

“That is…relieving,” You nervously laughed, arching your back off of the mattress and into his touch in search of some desperately-needed friction, your wetness seeping through and pleasantly staining his thumb. “Oh, that feels nice,” You said, your chest heaving in anticipation. “But I think I need more than that. Please, Al.”

Alastor chuckled, mumbling ‘Of course,’ hooking his fingers into the lacey waistband of your underwear, pulling them down and revealing your cunt—so, so ready to be spoiled by him and him only. You tried to clench your thighs together, feeling very much exposed underneath his stare, but Alastor quickly reassured you. He parted your legs, shooting you a tender smile before dipping his hand into your folds, locating your clit and massaging it to slowly ease you into the act.

“Like this?” The wet sounds that emitted from his ministrations made it so that all you could do was feverishly nod in response. Alastor’s other hand traveled up your plush thigh, making you suck in your stomach with a gasp. “Relax, ma chérie, I must prepare you. It’ll burn at first, yes, but you’ll thank me when I finally make you mine.”

Despite his eagerness to claim you as his own as he gently prodded at your entrance, Alastor focused on pleasuring you instead of the manner you greedily swallowed him. You were just so warm, wet, tight, and inexperienced, your cunt fluttering at the pad of his fingers curiously feeling around your gummy walls. What a welcoming sight you made for his straining cock, writhing and mewling while he simultaneously massaged your clit and pumped his hand into you, but Alastor withheld himself because he loved you.

Lucifer:

A shiver crawled up Lucifer’s spine at the feeling of your plush lips softly murmuring ‘I’m a virgin,’ the revelation caressing his ear in a way that shouldn’t have felt as delicious as it had. But in his passion-addled mind, the simple phrase only served to spur his efforts to make your first night together unforgettable, the once delicate grip he had on your hipbones tightening after he overcame his initial disbelief. To know that an attractive sinner like you had abstained from sex even in this damned afterlife just…astonished him.

“Oh, honey, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t honored to be your first,” Lucifer sighed into the column of your throat, pulling your half-naked bodies flush against each other. “Would you be offended if I told you that I doubted you at first?” He tentatively added, “Seriously, you’re so, so perfect I was asking myself, ‘How is that possible?’”

“Oh, shut up, Luci,” You giggled before interrupting yourself with a breathy moan, his hands traveling underneath your bralette and enveloping your breasts. But nothing could compare to the way he thumbed at your soft nipples. “You don’t really mean that. I’m just…another sinner, there’s nothing special about me.”

Lucifer pushed up the cotton barrier separating your now hardened buds from his awaiting mouth, shaking his head with a, ‘No, no, I’ll show you,’ before latching onto a breast, eliciting a pleased gasp from you. He stared up at you with raw, utter adoration as your eyes fluttered shut, clearly lost in the throes of passion. His tongue sensually swirled around your nipple, all while one hand dipped into your underwear, collecting the slick in between your folds to prepare you for the long night ahead.

“Does that feel good, honey?” Lucifer asked as he pulled back from your breast with a ‘Pop!’, the pads of his fingers effortlessly massaging your clit with the help of your wetness. “Yes,” You breathed out, and he would have responded if you hadn’t reached down and gently palmed his erection, a groan escaping his throat.

You tried to ignore the pleasure building up in your core as you shakily undid Lucifer’s pants, but unfortunately, that proved to be a difficult task for your inexperienced self. He inserted a finger into your entrance, your warm, wet, gummy walls immediately clamping around him; but as his thumb circulated your clit, you adjusted to the intrusion, allowing him to slip in another finger, and yet another. While Lucifer craved your touch, he’d rather focus on demonstrating just how much he appreciated being your first.

Husk:

How could a straightforward phrase such as ‘I’m a virgin,’ put Husk in a daze? Perhaps it was the way you had innocently uttered those three meager words against his cheek, your usually confident demeanor wavering in your state of nervousness—or perhaps it was because if your revelation held any truth at all, that meant you had chosen him out of every sinner in Hell to be your first. As you writhed on his lap, his clothed erection bumping against your slick-drenched cunt, he wondered what ultimately made him worthy.

“Christ, are ya just tryin’ to rile up this old man or…?” Husk dared to ask, his hand leisurely traveling down the delicate swell of your belly, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. You quickly shook your head, slightly jutting your hips forward. “Shit, babydoll, I can’t believe ya chose me to be ya first time.”

“You know, Husk, you’re too hard on yourself,” You said, your back relaxing against his chest as he finally touched you where you needed him the most, his fingers slowly massaging your swollen clit. You craned your neck and kissed at his fuzzy jaw, eliciting a pleased groan from him. “I wouldn’t want anybody else but you to have me like this.”

Husk dipped his head and captured your lips in a languid, passion-filled kiss, trying to communicate how grateful he felt over your words through this simple act. You understood, and he knew that by the way you reciprocated the kiss with equal fervor. He rewarded you by massaging your clit a little faster, chuckling as you parted from him to let out a thankful moan, your thighs trembling. You were close already, unused to being touched by a hand that wasn’t yours, but you refused to finish so soon.

“Come on, don’t hold ya’self back,” Husk rasped against your neck, eager to prepare you for your first time with him. You had no idea how much of an adjustment his cock would be because of his form. “Ya need to finish at least two times,” He added, his sandpaper tongue darting past his lips to lap at your skin. “Got barbs there too...”

You moaned at the revelation, excited but also slightly nervous. Still, you held yourself back, the embarrassment you felt over your inexperience motivating you to hold onto whatever was keeping you from finishing right then and there. Nothing could get past the wise old bartender, however. ‘Mm, ya ain’t slick, babydoll,’ Husk chuckled, his other hand coming down to part your folds, collecting your wetness before sinking in two fingers. You bit your lip at the intrusion, stubborn, but oh did he love that about you.

Vox:

There was no way the pretty little thing straddling his hips had whispered ‘I’m a virgin,’ against the edge of his screen, almost making him short-circuit. But as Vox sunk back into his office chair, taking in the sight of your dipped head, flushed skin, and plush lips quivering in embarrassment, a gratified smile immediately spread across his screen. Despite the lingering doubt simmering in the depths of his stomach, the idea of stripping you of your innocence was just far too tempting for a somewhat old-fashioned individual like him.

“So, what about me convinced you that I was the one, sweetheart?” Vox asked, masking his excitement with nonchalance as his hands leisurely traveled up your thighs, pushing up your skirt and revealing your lacey, slick-drenched underwear. “Assuming that you’re telling the truth and not trying to appeal to the time I came from.”

“Vox, we’ve been together for half a year already,” You started, but then he proceeded to press two fingers against your cunt, teasingly massaging you through the cotton barrier. “Yeah, I’m well aware that we’re in Hell,” You shakily continued, your clit throbbing at the stimulation, “But I’m not going to sin left and right, either.”

Vox hummed—you had some good points, admittedly. Six months and the most the two of you had partaken in was passionate make out sessions in between meetings and quick, mutual handjobs until his body ultimately succumbed to the exhausting nature of his hectic work schedule…and nothing more. At that moment, the doubt in Vox’s stomach was quickly washed away by guilt, something he rarely ever felt. But the realization only inspired him to make your first time with him memorable.

“Shit, you’re right,” Vox said, the sudden apologetic tone in his voice catching you off guard. He reached out to you with his free hand, caressing your nape before pulling you in for a kiss that left your lips feeling slightly shocked. “We’re not fucking in my office—I’ll just tell Papermint to rearrange my schedule.”

Soon enough, Vox had you writhing underneath him in the comfort of your room, his fingers pumping in and out of your tight, wet, squelching cunt as his thumb massaged your clit. But nothing could compare to the way he unashamedly stroked his weeping cock in front of you, his pants hanging loose around his hips. ‘Fuck!’ You arched your back and whined, clenching around him as he curled his fingers and hit up into your walls, already teetering along the edge. Oh, was Vox ready to selfishly claim you.

Adam:

A groan seeped past Adam’s lips at your murmured admission. It was such a simple, straightforward phrase, yet the way you had sweetly uttered ‘I’m a virgin,’ against the shell of his ear filled him with an overwhelming need to plunge his cock into you and have you scream his name until your throat was spent. However, he managed to withhold himself from doing that, the logical part of his mind reminding him that you were a sinner. How could somebody damned for eternity be pure in any way whatsoever?

“Shit, as much as I want to feel honored for being the one to pop your cherry,” Adam said, his hands squeezing your breasts from underneath your bra, eliciting a moan from you as he thumbed at your soft nipples. “You can’t expect me to believe you. I mean, you’re in Hell…explain to me how a babe like you hasn’t been fucked.”

“I haven’t even been here for a year, Adam,” You said, slightly taken aback, but at least he compensated for the mild offense he caused you by pushing your bra up and latching onto a nipple, his eyes fluttering shut while his tongue circulated your hardening bud. “And I sort of, um, died before I could find the right person…”

Adam’s ego inflated at that, and while he didn’t wholeheartedly believe you, he still decided to reward you. You let out a sigh as he reached down and pulled your underwear aside, the cold air kissing your cunt and making you shiver. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ he chuckled, his hand gently cupping you, one thick finger collecting the slick in between your folds before sinking into your entrance without any warning. ‘You’re terrible,’ You hissed, holding onto his shoulders, bringing your chest closer to his face.

“Me, the angel? Terrible? Sure, babe, whatever you say,” Adam said, pulling back from your breast with a wicked smile. You narrowed your eyes at him, your lower lip jutting out with a pout, but all that did was amuse him. “Come on, you can’t blame me. I mean, fuck, you’re just so gorgeous,” He sighed.

Your heart fluttered at his words…and so did your cunt, which only served to spur on Adam. He grabbed your wrist and pressed your palm against his erection, all while he inserted another finger into you, his thumb slowly circling your clit to soothe the burn of being stretched. He huffed, his throat bobbing in anticipation as you freed him from the confines of his briefs, the head of his cock lathered in his precum. ‘Can’t wait to make you mine,’ Adam eventually admitted with a whisper, lost in the way you pumped him.

Taglist:

@cosmiiwrites @pumppkinlynn @spookieroz @gxstiess @polyo-nym-y @cosmiccandydreamer @vvzhyxx @shinynewboots @freakyfrye

[jamminvroomvroom]

second time around.

ln x fem!reader

in which he’s quite desperate to have a second kid.

staying in my active era! there is honestly no excuse for this one, i just simply couldn’t help myself. it’s porn, yes, there is plot, but it’s just. porn.

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!! where do i even begin? smut, more smut, breeding kink (kinda the whole point), choking, overstimulation, general sex acts, public sex, car sex, shower sex, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of the kid they already have, lando being a little shit, sex somewhere unhinged in the mtc, a brief moment of angst, dom!lando, rough sex? yeah.

3.9k words

take: 1

the season is coming to an end.

somewhere between italy and singapore lando decides he wants another kid.

it’s a warm day in the middle of september when he proposes the idea to you. you’re watching your daughter toddle around the garden, soaking up the last remnants of sunlight before the darkness of autumn encapsulates the warm beams until march.

she giggles, pushing her toys around in the grass. you let her play, lost in her own little world of wonder. lando turns to you, scanning your side profile, watching you watch the little girl. he’s awestruck, enamoured totally by the family he’s created, by the woman he loves. he doesn’t think, he just opens his mouth and let’s loose his big idea.

“want another one?” he cooes, sliding closer across the bench, until he’s nosing at your cheek. kisses are pressed to your puffy face. it’s still early.

at first you think he’s offering you another coffee, so you hold out your almost empty mug to him. you’d been nursing the drink, letting it go cold in the naturally cooler air. he laughs at you, and that’s when you clock what he’s actually asking.

you turn to him, facing each other now. lando looks excited. you wonder if you can find a way to mirror his expression.

“lando…” you start. his face drops at your tone, letting him down easy. “it’s not that i don’t want to, it’s just-“

“i’ll be home more. i’ve worked it all out. if we get to work now, baby will be here around the summer break.”

you mull over his words.

your first baby was a shock to you both, and you didn’t fancy doing that again. you loved lando with every fibre of your being, just as you did your daughter, but being away from him so much in the lead up to her arrival shot every one of your nerves to pieces.

but another baby would be on the agenda eventually - you both desperately wanted to add to your beautiful family - and you supposed that if he’d done the math…

“by get to work now, you mean…?” you cock an eyebrow at him. he lights up like the christmas tree you’d be putting up in a few months.

“she’s going down for her nap soon.” lando smirks, voice edged with that excitement once again.

-

his head is between your legs mere moments after he shuts your bedroom door.

you’d been waiting for him, stripped bare in anticipation. your baby girl would be down for a good few hours, more than enough time for him to draw out everything you had to offer and fill you back up.

his tongue runs over your flesh; he’s messy with it. you’re choking out whimpers as he licks and laps and tugs with his teeth. your pussy clenches around nothing and he notices, sliding his fingers all over where you ache. they’re quickly wet enough to slide inside of you, and he grinds them deep, luring traces of an orgasm into the pit of your belly. it’s familiar, the way he winds you up, and you want him like this every minute of the day.

“getting you ready, honey. gonna get you so fucking ready.” lando is slurring words into your cunt, letting them get lost to your sodden folds. you hear every word perfectly. they make you shake and shake until you’re undone.

when he looks up at you, his mouth is glistening. his fingers are, too. he hates wasting a drop of you, so he laps up the mess you’ve made while he shuffles up the bed. when he’s finally hovering over you, he’s desperate, but you’re worse. you could cry from the urge.

something carnal is taking place; he’s staring into your soul, finishing up the remnants of your taste, and you’re begging with your eyes, hands slinking all over your own body. you must be dripping by now. your body is restless and you raise your hips, inviting him close, deep.

when he thrusts into you, he’s pinning you down into your shared mattress. you’re completely at his mercy and he fucking loves it. you love it more. you go slack underneath him, and he starts a slow grind. he’s not thrusting, not yet, he’s just rolling into you, deeper, deeper, deeper. you feel the first tears threatening to fall. he feels so good, it’s unbearable.

he nudges at your most sensitive spot, over and over and over. you whine carnally and he swallows it, licking into your mouth. his curls tickle your forehead, you’re pressed so close together. he sees the pools in your eyes and then he looses it completely.

hand on your neck for leverage, he starts thrusting, harder and harder, faster than you can ever recall. he knows you can take it, knows how bad you want it, and that thought alone spurs him on. you have the same goals, the same shared instincts. you feel nothing but pure fucking bliss everywhere.

“you want me to fill you up? you want my baby, honey? want me buried nice and deep?” you hear him grunt, but he sounds so far away.

you are lost to the void when you come. you can’t even try and resist, not when you can hear how wet you are, not when you can hear the quiet whimpers he tries to fight at the way your pussy convulses around him. you cannot see anything but the stars in his eyes.

you go limp and he spills, fucking it even further into you. his eyes are trained on where you’re still joined, and where he’s still fucking you. you’d be screaming if not for the hand wrapped around your throat. the most delicious piece of jewellery you own.

lando needs to know he’s gone as deep as he can, that you’ve come as hard as he can make you. he feels unhinged when his fingers find your clit, switching between short spasms of his finger on the nub, and grinding down on it with his palm. you’re both overstimulated, soaked with sweat and other things. you’re gripping his cock so fucking tight that he can’t stop the rush of moans, your name mumbled like a prayer between expletives.

but still, he needs to know it’s deep enough.

an hour later, you can finally move, and you sink deep into the bath.

your head is on his chest, he washes you gently. you wonder if it’ll be a boy or a girl.

-

date night

almost a month passes. no sign of baby number two.

it’s fine, you tell yourself. you tell lando, too. all the more reason to keep practicing.

every opportunity he gets to bury himself to the hilt inside of you is a win in both of your books. he grabs every single one of those opportunities with both hands.

you’re dressed up nice for dinner, little black dress hugging you well. you watch the scenery flick past you. lando’s in the drivers seat, making small talk, his left hand heavy on your bare thigh. you’ve just dropped your daughter off with her grandparents, your mother hugging lando tight. he’d been gone a while.

fingers skim higher up your thigh. you want to let him carry on but this car is new, untainted by his adventurous personality and your willingness to comply. your legs snap shut and you watch him smirk out the corner of your eye.

“later.” you whisper.

his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

“i know. don’t you worry, honey.” he doesn’t sound convincing, no, he sounds like a man with a plan and you dread to think of what he has in store.

the restaurant is tiny. a hole in the wall. it’s intimate, exclusive, slightly extortionate, but lando likes to treat you. you order, and he behaves. you sip wine, and he behaves. you drag your heel up his leg, and still, he behaves. you know something is brewing behind those stormy eyes.

he launches his attack during dessert.

vanilla ice cream hits your tongue when he strikes, leaning back in his chair. his thick neck captures your attention, the dim light accentuating him just right.

“would your prefer we take this to the car or the bathroom? it’s pretty spacious back there, you know.”

lando speaks so casually, and slightly too loudly. your cheeks are aflame.

“lando!” you hiss in warning. you’re sputtering over his boldness, catching some ice cream with your tongue. he watches the way it moves over your lips intently.

“actually, as tempting as the bathroom is, we still need to break in the new car.” lando sounds like he’s talking about the weather, or a shopping list, not the location of your next sexcapade. you swear you see the old lady at the next table over wink at you. “your choice, honey.”

you’re staring daggers at him. he leans in closer, elbows resting on the table and a shit eating grin contorting his pretty face.

“i’ve been gone too long, i need to remember what that pussy feels like.” his voice has dropped an octave but it’s still too loud. you inadvertently grind against the chair. the candle on the table flickers from the force of the shaky breath your expel.

“if you shut up now, you can have me anywhere you want me.” you mumble, bringing your napkin to your lips. the ice cream is melting and you have more important things on your mind.

“i’ll have you anyway, honey. because no matter what happens, we’re gonna go back to the car and you’re gonna crawl into my lap, aren’t you? you’re not gonna be able to help it.” he keeps going and you want the ground to swallow you up. maybe you want to crawl over the table and jump on his lap right here. you fight every natural instinct.

“lando.” you try to scold him again but it comes out breathier, a feeble attempt at shutting him up. it’s hard to be convincing when you want nothing more than for him to bend you over in the middle of this restaurant.

“and after i’ve had you shaking on my lap, i’m gonna fill you up, yeah? you’ve been waiting for weeks, poor thing.”

you usher over the waiter, and ask for the bill.

-

he’s got you home in one piece and all the way up to the shower.

you’re still delirious from the car. he’s still dripping out of you.

he pushes you against the shower screen, your cheek resting on the fogged up plastic. the combination of yours and his first orgasm is enough to slick him up and he slides right back inside of you, as if he’d never left.

your head is spinning, car lights and nail prints in leather seats flashing through your mind.

he’d been right in the restaurant. you’d crawled straight into his lap and he’d been waiting, seat pushed back, cock slapping up against his tanned belly. he’d swiped his fingers through your folds, determining that you were wet enough already, and then you’d sunk straight down on him.

at first he’d just watched you lose control, bouncing and grinding and whining on his lap. you were growing tired when he stepped in, pushing you back against the steering wheel, the angle change making your eyes roll back. you came twice with his fingers on your clit and his other hand holding you down so he could grind up into you. he’d released deep into you, all you could do was shudder, collapsing into his chest.

now, he’s taking you again, the hot water cascading over you both. you’re almost limp, caught between the cold screen and his hot, restless body. this it was three weeks apart does to him, and the urge to claim every part of you is at the forefront of his mind.

you’re writhing. there’s no room to move; he’s pressed so tight against you, breathy moans sounding straight into your ear and you want him impossibly closer. you always missed him so much it hurt, but that pain had increased tenfold lately.

you try to roll your hips back into him, needing him deeper, somehow. you’re so wet and tight around him, and your attempt at moving on him has you clamping down on him.

lando whimpers when he lets go, marking you as his.

he washes your hair and you fall asleep together naked.

-

the fear

lando is due back from qatar.

any minute now, he’ll be walking through the door.

he’s taken a podium, so you are expecting somewhat high spirits, despite the slight issue that had been the sprint race.

a podium is a podium, you’d tried to tell him on the phone late on saturday night. you knew that a podium was never just a podium.

you’re cleaning the kitchen up, your sweet daughter tucked up tight in her bed upstairs. a random playlist is sounding from the speakers and you flit around in just his hoodie. it hits mid thigh and it’s keeping you shielded from the biting october air.

you hear keys in the lock somewhere in the distance. you grin stupidly. god, you always fucking miss him. you turn to face the doorway, eagerly anticipating his face, longing for one of his speciality hugs.

instead, a storm enters your kitchen in the form of your boyfriend.

you raise and eyebrow.

“lando?” you question.

your hips are in his hands before he can answer. he’s walking you backwards until the granite of the counter is digging into your lower back.

“turn around.” his voice is gravelly, commanding. you do as you’re told.

the hoodie is bunched around your waist, your panties are tugged to the side. you can hear the rustle of fabric, assuming he’s getting himself ready. two fingers gloss through your folds while he pushes you down, bending you over for him. he’s rubbing circles into your clit and you’re keening into his touch.

“you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” you manage to choke out. he grunts in response.

“just need to get inside you.” is all he replies. well, okay then.

lando rearranges you, hiking one of your knees up so that’s it’s resting on the countertop. your other foot barely touches the floor when he fucks into you, ruthless. you cry out, reaching blindly behind you for him. you graze his hip and he shivers, pushing into you even harder.

he’s frantic, messy with it, thumbing at your clit. there’s hardly any room to move his hand, so he’s grinding the pad of his thumb as best he can. the pressure builds in your belly embarrassingly fast. you love when he gets like this, but you will pry what’s wrong out of him later when he curls up into his chest.

“gonna give you another one. s’all i can think about. fucking you full.” he mutters. your back arches into him.

“please.” you whimper, slurred. it’s all you can think about too.

your plea ushers along his orgasm, and he drops his head against your back. you’re shaking when you finish; he stays buried deep for a moment, silence washing over you.

when he helps you stand up, he kisses you deep. he brushes the hair from your face, says hello properly.

“wanna go see her.” he mumbles.

-

when you finally manage to climb the stairs, you see straight into your daughters room.

lando is stood over her crib, watching her sleep in the lamp lit room. he’s cooing something to her that you can’t make out. your knees are weak at the sight. you want to fill this house with children that look like him and laugh the way he does.

he catches you watching, sending you a wink, a promise that he’ll meet you in bed. when he finally does, drawing back the sheets and dropping into bed beside you, he wraps himself around you instantly.

“talk to me.” you command, toying with his hair in a way that you know turns him into mush in your hands.

“can’t win a race, can’t give you another baby. just- fuck.” he sighs, voice so small. you tear up but you push that aside for now.

“stop, lando. don’t do this to yourself.” you try to sound firm, attentive.

“just- am i good to you? am i good to her?” he needs to hear you say it, that’s the only thing that will talk him down from this spiral. he’s exhausted, and this is often a consequence.

“sometimes i think you hung the stars in the sky.” you hum, kissing his forehead.

gentle snores lull you to sleep.

-

quickie

you go with him to austin.

it seemed logical, after the events of qatar. your daughter has been stolen away by lando’s dad, who is showing her the paddock and introducing her to mechanics. you watch on, momentarily, because then lando is stealing you away.

“haven’t you got fp3 in a minute?” you ask, coy smile on your face. he’s pulling your jeans down and kicking them away.

“this won’t take long.” he smirks.

you crave the upper hand for a change. his race suit is already undone, so you make your move. you tug down his fireproofs, taking his cock in your hands. he’s hard already, glistening for you. he groans, but doesn’t make you stop.

you’re watching him through your eyelashes, his head tipping back in pleasure. you work your hand around him, up and down, applying pressure at the base and around the tip. it’s flushed red, wet in your hand and he looks too pretty to stop. he can have you later, in your hotel room, you think. right now, you’re having him.

lando is panting, thrusting into your hand when he comes for you. you’re soaked through, and he can probably see the damp patch on the panties. his release hits your stomach, painting your flushed skin white. your eyes scan the room for something to clean yourself with, but he beats you to it.

thick fingers swipe through the mess he’s made. your panties are tugged to the side and then he’s fucking you with said fingers. you cannot produce a thought, mouth gaping open in the shape of an ‘o’. the sight before you has you gushing, and he uses that leverage to speed up.

“you think i’m gonna let it go go waste, honey? silly girl. pretty, pretty girl.” he mutters.

your hips are bucking into his hand when he pulls out of you, collecting more of him from your belly, and then he’s thrusting them in again. you tear up from the pleasure coursing through you, white hot. he’s crazy, you think, but he’s so fucking beautiful, teasing glint in his eye as he curls his fingers deeper.

“want it so bad, don’t you? gotta keep you full for me, don’t i?”

you’re sure you can be heard from the garage when your orgasm hits.

-

office party

a burnt orange dress clings to your hips and a curly haired man clings to your hand.

the mtc is lit up for another gala that you and lando have to attend. the season is over and they’ve had a great run, so a toast must be made to celebrate that.

you watch him get passed around the room between sponsors and other important people, proud of what he’s achieved. you hate sharing him, but it’s a necessary evil, so you drink champagne with oscar’s girlfriend, lily, and natalie pinkham.

when lando comes back to you, his PR smile is dropped and that genuine, boyish grin returns that you have so missed in his momentary absence. he introduces you to some people, proudly showing you off, sinking drinks as he does.

it’s nearing 10pm when his actions become questionable. his hand stays on your ass, his words whispered in your ear are filthy and his sly kisses on your neck stop being quite so sly.

you remove him from the main event, just for a moment, just to try and get him to compose himself before you jump him against one of the vintage racing cars. he sees this as an invitation, however, and then everything goes awry.

he’s dragging you into the lift, kissing you against the closed doors. when you stumble out a floor up, you can still hear the function in full swing. he’s pulling you down a hallway and into what you assume is an office. when he has you sat on a desk, you realise where you are.

“is this zak’s office?” your eyes pop out of your head, bewildered.

“maybe.” he shrugs. he’s smirking like a bastard.

“you’re insane.” you shake your head, standing from the desk, but his lips ghost your ear and you’re putty in his hands.

“you’re driving me insane. coming here in this tight fucking dress. can’t stop looking at you, thinking about this.” his hand rubs over your lower belly as he speaks, and then you’re back on the desk.

lando’s on his knees, peeling the silky material over your thighs until your barely there panties are in his face. he mouths over them briefly, and then they’re gone and his tongue is buried to the hilt in your cunt.

it doesn’t take him long to get you off, the alcohol and the thrill of being in the one place you should never have sex pushing you quickly towards your orgasm.

the glass wall of windows is too inviting for lando to pass up, so on shaky legs, you’re pressed up against them, looking out over the pond and the fairy lights when he pushes into you.

he’s kissing over your shoulder, your neck, holding your down on him while he thrusts up into you. you turn your head to kiss him, to let him swallow up your noises that could give you away.

“you’re so fucking good for me, honey. letting me have you here like this just so i can give you a baby.” he slurs against your lips, pussy drunk and ravenous.

he finds your clit, fast fingers making small swipes against it and you want to cry.

“gonna make this time count, yeah, honey? gonna keep it all inside of you until we get home?”

you try to nod, try to say something but you’re choking on air and dripping all over him. a couple more thrusts and you’re the perfect vessel for him to release into, throbbing and hot around his cock.

“beg for it, honey, come on. tell me how much you want it.” lando mumbles right in your ear.

“lando, please. please, please, please.” you whimper. “come for me, baby, need it inside of me.”

you leave the office a lot more composed than when you entered it. well, aside from the remnants of him that are running down your inner thighs.

-

a month later, lando’s laughing. he’s actually laughing, while you cringe, burying your blushing face in his chest.

you’re holding a pregnancy test in your hands, finally a positive one.

when you do the maths, you realise where baby norris was conceived, and you try and make him promise never to tell anyone that it was in his boss’s office.

“it’s a funny story.” he tells you. there are tears in his eyes.

“you’re so lucky i love you.” you roll your eyes. you are also dangerously close to crying.

but truthfully, you’re the lucky one. he carries you to bed that night, claiming that now you had a baby on board, you had to be careful!

you dream of him, that night. the man that hung the stars in the sky.

-

once again, idk what came over me i’m sorry lmfao

-

taglist

@boysthatgovroomvroom @thegirlinthefandoms @welld0nebaku @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @rachstash @infinitebells @multilovebot @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @nokiaholland @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239

removed any tags that weren’t working! lemme know if you wanna be added or removed <3

[aamircoeur]

celebrity gossip 2 ー ken sato.

the moment when japan's "it girl" decided to confess on live television, too. PREQUEL. PART 1. sfw, fluff. scenario & situations r made up! enjoy reading <3

"wait, okay. no, gods, wait," you rambled. you and your two best friends, tamayo and shau, were currently watching ken sato's interview in 'evening, darlings'.

shau laughed at your obvious nervousness. "just sit back and enjoy the show, [name]!" they exclaimed.

the flat screen showed ken sato in a black shirt that fit him so perfectly, while his iconic smile was visible on his face. "and may i just ask, my darling, of what your favourite thing about coming back to japan is right now?" the interviewer asked, placing their elbows on the arm rest of their chair.

"mmh," ken sato leaned back and had his hand on his chin. "without a doubt, playing for the giants. it was my childhood dream, you know." he started.

"of course. we've yet to interview mister shimura on his thoughts about his team's recent win and overall thoughts now that it includes you." the interviewer answered.

ken sato nodded. "oh, yeah, it's definitely better now," he joked, receiving heartful laughs from the audience and from the interviewer. "but, really, the team is what actually made me better myself. they're great, lively, amazing people filled with talent. in the fields and out, they've really showed me that people can be genuine, and i appreciate that." the interviewer had an awed look on their face.

"he's really such a great baseball player, no?" tamayo commented.

"i know!" shau chimed in. the two discussed the giants' recent game while you were in between them, wherein each player showed their strengths, highlighting ken sato's swift home run the moment he became the batter. you blocked out their conversation because for one, you didn't know shit about baseball, and two, you had ken sato's second interview for 'evening, darlings' aired in front of you right now.

"i came to japan for my father, too. he has been my greatest supporter since i was a kid alongside my mom, and it was about time i thanked the old man." ken sato smiled. "and, of course, you can not miss the japanese cuisine." the camera focused on him alone, showing his sly smirk while he winked at the camera, making the audience scream, and you, internally.

the interviewer and ken sato continuously talked about any topics that the former threw in, but now, the topic was about ken sato's social life. more specifically, the topic was about his answer during his last interview there.

"if it matters that much, i like [surname]." ken sato said, his thumb swiping underneath his nose to try and cover up a forming smile.

"[surname]? the [name] [surname], japan's "it girl"? that matters so much, darling!" the interviewer squealed.

yeah, that.

it seemed like their yomiuri giants talk had ended, for shau wrapped their arms around you and pressed their cheek against yours. "and once again, japan's "it girl" is the talk of the town," they smiled while watching the interview with you.

"i don't even know how i got that title." you laughed.

tamayo wrapped her hands around you as well and leaned her head on your shoulder. "'don't know', my ass." she said, making the three of you giggle. "ah, i could never imagine ken sato admitting that he likes me on national television." she added.

"he does not like me." you said, wiggling out of their bear hugs.

"'does not like me', my ass." shau said, making tamayo laugh and you playfully rolled your eyes. "shush, now! the topic's juicy!" they said, turning their attention to the tv.

"so, my darling, do you remember your answer when i asked you if you had a special someone in your life?" the interviewer asked.

"ah, yeah," ken said. "i like [surname]."

what the fuck.

while the two girls squealed almost as loud, if not louder, than the audience did in the studio, you were a hot mess. you were smiling sheepishly from ear to ear, face and ears all flushed from embarrassment as your eyes stared up at the flat screen.

"there is absolutely no way." tamayo squealed, hitting your shoulder after each word that she said.

"my darling!" the interviewer said, trying to catch the attention of everyone.

"yes, darling?" ken sato answered. the interviewer obviously liked that response, undeniably with the huge grin on their face.

"you are such a flirt, mister sato." they said, playfully making a hitting motion with their hand. "am i your celebrity crush now?" they said, laughing, and earning some laughs from the audience as well.

"ah, no. not at all. it's still [surname]." he answered cooly.

what the fuck.

the audience and the girls beside you collectively lost their shit once more, and right now, your face felt so hot that one might get a third degree burn upon touching it.

the camera focused on ken sato, making the viewers see his features so clearly. dear god, was this man handsome. "i have yet another question, ken." the interviewer spoke.

"fire away."

"from your guest appearance here, darling, you've left quite an impression on our audience. i think you might be their brand new eye candy." they said.

kenji laughed and ran his hand through his hair. "i'm flattered, but then again, i get it." he said, winking at the camera.

"will the audience ever stop squealing at ken sato?" tamayo said.

"as if you weren't just squealing with me a minute ago." shau replied, and you laughed heartily at this. "[name], how are you so composed right now!" they commented.

you looked at your two friends with a flustered face then put your face in your hands out of pure embarrassment. shau hugged you again and rocked you back and forth while tamayo just laughed at you. the interview finally ended with a wave goodbye from ken sato. while talking to your girls about what happened, your phone played your ringtone as it lit up, showing you an incoming call from your manager.

"excuse me, ladies," you told you girls and they just nodded as you went out of the room for privacy. "hello, hanabi. is something the matter?" you greeted.

"good evening, [nickname]. you seen the interview with ken sato?" she said in a teasing voice. you audibly sighed as a joke and the two of your shared a laugh. "crazy stuff, huh? anyway, i'm just here to inform you of recent additions to your schedule this month." she said.

"additions?" you echoed.

"mhm, nothing too big. the photoshoot in paris, france scheduled this thursday is still on the go," they started. "and you are to guest in 'evening, darlings' the following week on sunday, aired on tuesday."

you had a surprised look on your face. "woah, what? right after ken sato's stunts?" you asked.

"yup! perfect timing, i think it's to stir drama by hearing your side of the story. whatever their intentions may be, we can use this to our own advantage. i figured that engaging with his romantic advances would be good for you. it would be a good opportunity to switch your target audience, too. and i don't think it'll be that hard to convince you, knowing that you fancy the guy," she murmured the last part quickly as a way to tease you and you just laughed.

"but, seriously, i fear that you've been too sexualized, and i know you're just more than how the media portrays you, but then again, so is everyone else in the industry," she said sadly, and you felt touched that she didn't want that kind of fame for you and actively wanted to change that. she really was more than your manager, and you were glad to have her with you.

"th-thank you, hanabi. really." you said.

"it's nothing, dear! anyway, you'll have your rest days from monday to thursday, and on friday, you have a duo photoshoot for a sports brand called, 'royals'" hanabi added, talking quickly with her reason being to save the two of your time.

"oh, interesting. i think tamayo had a photoshoot with them before. which model will i be doing it with?" you asked her.

"there's no model, [nickname]."

"huh?"

"you're doing it with ken sato."

p.s., huge thank u to @shauu for allowing me to use their name <3 !! also, the cuisine joke from paragraph 9 is a reference to ambessa medarda from arcane when she said that she wanted to try piltover's local cuisine (the men) :^P

taglist: @lunaryasha @vrxouei @m00nd0v3 @despacito-uwu16 @lovingyeet @moon-shampoo @hashxu @manjimeowmeow @sylvirmist-s-cottage @warlike-morning @beabadobeee @procastinatingbitch @zagreustomb @ttulipwritezz @/everyone else untaggable :(

[pierregazly]

simply a joke ꨄ lewis hamilton

lewis hamilton x assistant!reader

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), lewis was pining and reader was oblivious [1.6k words]

request: 🌶 I would request for Lewis Hamilton and [20. “I’m gonna fuck you so good you forget all about that bastard.”]

The bill was placed down on the table, the waitress giving you a sympathetic look as she openly asked whether it would be cash or card.

“You don’t mind paying right? I’ll forward you the money, just forgot my wallet of course, such a lapse of memory sometimes,” he said, an arrogant smirk on your blind date’s face while he waited for your response.

Humming in acknowledgement, you muttered that it would be on card to the waitress. 

You didn’t give him much of a chance to say anything further, bidding him a farewell the moment the bill was paid, and a denial to a second date. The shock on his face made your smile grow when you whirled around, making the trek towards your car while you contemplated how your life had even got to this point.

A quick text sent off to the only person you actually wanted to see was met with an easy ‘I’ll leave the door unlocked, see you soon’, prompting you to direct your car in the opposite direction of your own home.

Lewis was always happy to have you over, saying more than once you may as well just move in with him with how often you were there anyways. Always shrugging the comment off, you would just laugh and remind him the two of you see each other enough during the week and that you were pretty sure Mercedes would be unhappy with a driver and his team-assigned assistant living together.

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what they would want, actually? Full access for both of us, love,” Lewis practically had the response memorized, a shove to his shoulder the only answer he ever received to it.

Huffing as you flopped down on the couch next to the Brit, Lewis quirked a questioning eyebrow at you, silently imploring as to what could possibly be creating your current set of emotions.

“I’ve just come back from a date, what an absolute nightmare, Lew. I’ve never met someone who managed to talk about themselves more than that guy. Don’t think I even got a word in,” you complained.

A small chuckle fell from Lewis’ lips, his hand gently patting your knee with a sympathetic expression falling across his face.

“Like… am I the problem, Lew? Be honest, because I’m going insane here, I don’t think I’ve even had sex in months. I genuinely think I’m on the verge of insanity,” you said, practically begging for a response from the Brit.

Huffing, Lewis turned his gaze onto you. Looking you up and down, you felt yourself heat under his gaze. You would never admit it aloud, but you couldn’t deny that the Mercedes driver was borderline gorgeous. 

“I think if all you’re looking for is sex, going on a date in the outfit you’re wearing right now… well it’s not doing you any favours, really.”

Pouting at him, you looked down at your outfit while trying to decipher what was wrong with it.

He continued, “before you start, there’s nothing wrong with the outfit. You look gorgeous, really. But you’ve got the buttons up all the way to the top, the pants aren’t formfitting at all, and you’ve got incredible legs, you just refuse to wear shoes that accentuate them. You’re dressed like you’re going to a business meeting, not like you’re going on a date with the intention of being taken home after.”

He emphasized his words by coming closer, flicking open the top four buttons, allowing the top of your breasts to peak through, the lacy bra you were wearing visible to the open-eye. 

“You don’t get it, Lew. Sure, I could wear a shirt that shows off my breasts, pants that accentuate my ass… but I don’t just want sex. Sure, yes, I want sex… but I want to be taken seriously, I want to be taken on a real date and actually enjoy myself.”

“I could give you both, but you keep denying my offer,” he shrugged his shoulders, turning his attention back towards the television.

Trying to wrap your mind around his words, “You act like your offer is ever serious, Lew. We both know it’s a joke.”

“You’re the one who says it’s a joke and that I’m not being serious. Not sure what else I’m really meant to say that’s going to make you believe me, love,” he said.

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. He had been making jokes like this for years. It was easy to assume they were comments he made with everyone, his personality naturally flirtatious.

Your body moved on instinct, pressing yourself closer to him as you contemplated your next words.

“Can I kiss you, then?”

He didn’t give a response before he was pressing his lips to yours, his hand instantly pressing to the back of your neck, tugging you closer to his body. His lips were soft, his tongue wet as it pressed gently at your lips, begging for an entrance. 

A soft moan fell from your mouth when Lewis pulled your body on top of his, your legs encircling his waist. You ground your core against his, a rumble of a groan falling from Lewis’ own lips, his head falling back against the couch behind him.

“God, baby. I’m gonna fuck you so good you forget all about that bastard, about fucking all of them, I swear.”

The whimper that fell from your lips was unintentional, your body subconsciously grinding down against the hardness growing between his legs; the pit in your stomach growing, the desire for him so prevalent in your actions.

You had never realized how much you truly wanted this, how much you wanted those comments you thought to be jokes, to be real.

“That better not be a joke, Lew,” you moaned, his lips pressing to your neck as he guided your hips back and forth over his lap. 

You felt your back hit the couch, Lewis’ body crawling over top of yours as he began kissing down your body. The buttons on your shirt having come undone at some point making it easier for the Brit to continue his ministrations across your skin.

Looking up at you imploringly, his tattoo-covered hand tugged gently at the waistband of your pants, a silent question in his eyes. You nodded eagerly, lifting your hips slightly so he could tug the offending material off.

He lightly nipped at your hip, pressing a kiss to sooth the heated skin before continuing his actions to the other side. Small love bites, kisses, short presses of his tongue to your skin as he continued to move down your body. Lifting a leg to press a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh, you moaned at the action.

It didn’t take long for your panties to join the discarded pants, his eyes hungrily taking in the display. You couldn’t help the self-conscious thoughts, your legs instinctively closing around his body. 

“Nuh-uh, none of that, pretty girl,” he said, his hands pushing your legs open.

A finger gently pressed to your core, parting your lips as he ran a finger through them, collecting the wetness that was seeping from you. A tiny whimper departed your lips as you watched Lewis bring the finger to his mouth, sucking the collected juices from the digit.

It was like watching a man possessed as he got in between your legs, your hands finding their way to his head as the first press of his tongue resonated throughout your body.

There was no surprise that he was skilled with his tongue, the same way he was skilled with his fingers; the same way he was skilled when he put his mind to anything else he desired success in.

His fingers moved in tandem with his tongue, pressing against the spot inside your core that had you practically keening for him, your hips pressing up against his face; the only thing keeping his mouth from drowning in your wetness was the hand he had pressed to your pelvis, pushing you back down against the bed.

A loud moan fell from your lips as Lewis sucked at your clit, a third finger joining the other two inside you, a squelching sound vibrating throughout the living space as you felt yourself hit your peak.

Your orgasm crashed through you, your legs shaking as Lewis’ fingers and tongue slowed down, allowing you to ride out your orgasm. Your head was still thrown back when you heard the sound of more clothes hitting the floor, your eyes peaking open to a view that had your mouth practically watering.

It was common knowledge that Lewis was an incredible sight. From his hardened muscles, to the pops of ink that covered his body, everyone knew he was gorgeous. But his cock? All you wanted to do was wrap your lips around it, which in time, you knew you’d be able to.

But for now? All Lewis wanted to do was press inside you, feel the way your walls pulled him in, the way your wetness coated him, the way you’d stretch so lovely around him.

“On your knees, pretty girl. I wanna’ see this lovely arse when I push inside you for the first time, been thinking about it lots.”

You were quick to do as he demanded, flipping your body over so you were on your knees, resting on your elbows as you felt the couch dip behind you.

A low whimper fell from your lips as you felt him run his length through your wetness, coating his cock in your juices before pressing the tip inside. The stretch was delicious, your body pushing back against his, begging for more.

Obliging, his entire length pushed forward, your lips wrapping around him, the wetness dripping from your core making it easier for him to slide inside.

“Gonna fuck you so good, make you never wanna leave, baby. Can’t wait to feel you cum all over my cock, been wanting to feel that for ages,” he whispered in your ear, biting at the lobe as he pulled away.

Moans and grunts fell from your lips with every thrust of his hips, his body seeking the release he knew yours could give him. The way he made you feel, the feelings his body evoked from yours; it made you insatiable, made you crave the feeling more and more. Made you regret ever believing his comments were simply a joke.

anyways. i got carried away. please enjoy (reader has a hand kink specifically for lewis as i also do sorry!!! bye!!!)

[luveline]

Hey gorgeous fic idea: gf being like "thanks for being so nice to me" and Remus is just there 👄 like baby nothing in me wants to be mean to u Being kind to u is easy

thank you for your request <3 fem!reader

That morning, Remus pulls you down into his lap with a smile that says please, gives you a little thank you kiss when your head lands on his thigh, and spends the hours before lunch stroking the slopes of your face with his fingers while you watch TV. If it were anyone else you would struggle to believe he’d do it for nothing, that this isn’t because he owes you, or that he's started a particularly tender form of foreplay. He’s just touching you to touch you, occasionally leaning down when he remembers you’re there to kiss your nose. 

You turn to stare up at his jaw. You can see the scruff of stubble coming in. He usually shaves everyday, but today’s Sunday, a rest day for you both. You don’t mind enduring a scratch whenever he kisses you, though, and you won’t complain, raising a hand to his neck to stroke skin you’d kissed last night before bed. 

He put a glass of water on the nightstand he’s started calling yours with a coaster and a nice smile, walked back around to climb into bed himself still wearing it. When he laid on his side across from you and pulled the blanket up to his shoulders, he made sure it was covering you too, telling you he loved you with a smushed kiss pressed somewhere between your mouth and your nose. You’d hidden in the curve of his neck to hide how happy it made you. 

“I’m gonna make sandwiches for lunch, if that’s okay. And maybe cut up some fruit, do you want that?” he asks, peaceful, his hand slipping down to your neck and sewing gently across it like a hug. The weight of his hand is strange. He could press down and hurt you, but he never would. 

“You’re gonna make it yourself?” you ask. He’d said ‘I’m gonna make it’. 

“Is that a problem for you?” 

His hair falls in his eyes as he leans down. You’re sick of seeing him the wrong way up but you’re not wanting to move. You should know already that he’d simply find another way to be affectionate with you if you did move, but this is too nice. He’s always so kind. 

“I’m gonna help.” 

“I can make two sandwiches by myself, that’s okay. Then for dinner we’re gonna have,” —he strokes your neck with his thumb as his voice turns to a softer shade of itself— “pasta, do you think? Something nice and fancy, vodka and chilli with heavy cream, or…” He hums. “You look tired. Can I have a kiss?” 

You pick your head up. Remus puts a hand behind your back and your eyes close before he’s reached you, scrunched tightly, cruel heat behind your nose.

Quick kiss. Quicker question. “What’s wrong?” he asks, curling his hand closed behind you to soothe you with his knuckles. 

You shake your head, and tell him, “Nothing,” though you regret this and decide he deserves honesty, and praise, too. “Thanks for being so nice to me. You’re always nice to me.” 

Remus cups your cheek. You open your eyes like he wants, relieved to find him not laughing or judging you, simply smiling. He does seem startled in the set of his brows, if only mildly. “You know, nothing in me wants to be mean to you. You’re easy to treat gently.” He rubs your cheek back with his thumb. “Baby,” he says, which is rare on his lips but said with his usual quietness, “you’re easy to be nice to, because you’re you. You deserve it more than anyone.” 

“Remus, you’re just kind.” 

“No. If I’m kind it’s because you pull it out of me. I look at you and you’re so beautiful,” —he’s laying it on thick now, sincere and teasing at once— “you’re so lovely, I don't even think about it.” 

You rub your cheek against his chest. “Love you,” you whisper, not wanting to cry and ruin a nice moment. 

“Love you,” he says back. 

Remus slouches to encourage you higher, your face sliding into the space below his chin like he was made for you to rest there, his face falling to the side of your head. He wraps both arms around you to take the pressure off of your twisted back, another thoughtless gesture that gives away how much he likes you. He starts kissing little slow lines down your cheek to further prove your point, murmuring something you can’t make out, likely far too kind. 

[cutielando]

stream | l.n.

synopsis: in which his fans want you to stream with him

my masterlist

"Babe, do you need anything else? I'm about to go stream for a bit" Lando asked you as he was getting ready to stream, wanting to make sure you didn't need him for anything.

"No, I'm okay. I'm gonna watch my show for a bit while you stream and then make us some dinner" you smiled and pecked his lips, making him smile and depart to his streaming set up.

Now that the winter break had finally arrived, Lando wanted to get back to interacting with his fans before you two would begin your travel calendar that would take up almost the entire break.

And what better way to interact with his fans than hopping on Twitch to stream?

"Are you gonna watch?" Lando yelled from his chair moments before he went live.

"Always!" you yelled back, opening the app on your phone to watch his stream in parallel.

You settled into your cocoon of blankets on the sofa, your show playing quietly in the background while Lando's stream was on-going on your phone.

Watching him stream and interact with his fans was one of your favorite things about him. Even with his busy schedule, he made sure he made time to interact with his fans as often as he possibly could.

It didn't always go to plan, but Lando made efforts to make sure he wasn't neglecting anyone, not you and certainly not his fans.

"Where is Y/N? She's in the living room watching her show, she's been obsessed with Grey's Anatomy for a while now. She always ignores me to watch it" Lando said, chuckling once he saw the comments defending you.

You smiled hearing him laugh, loving the fact that his fans would always ask him about you whenever you weren't on the stream with him.

"Don't out me" you commented, making the chat explode once they noticed you in the comment section.

"Hey, babe. Nice to see you giving me some attention now that I've called you out for it" he said once he managed to find your comment.

"Y/N, come on stream we miss youuuu😭😭"

"Lando, please convince Y/N to come on the stream with you"

"We want Y/N"

The comments were overflowing with demands that you join the stream, something that would happen almost every time he would go live.

"Babe, come here for a second. Everyone is ignoring me because they want to see you" Lando shouted from the room, making you smile and pause your show as you made your way to the stream room.

His voice tried to sound annoyed, but you secretly knew he loved having you on stream with him. He loved seeing the fans interacting with you, wanting to talk to you about anything really. He knew how much pressure you were under with dating him, so he thanked God that his fans loved you as much as he did and supported your relationship fully.

You stopped in the doorway, watching him for a moment with a smile on your face. When he noticed you on the camera, he turned around and smiled at you, outstretching his hand towards you.

"Come here" you made your way over to him, taking a seat on his lap and wrapping your arms around his shoulders for support.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek before you diverted your attention to the chat.

"Hi chat" you greeted them, seeing all the comments freaking out over your presence.

Lando frowned a little when he saw the excitement towards Y/N, his presence seemingly already forgotten.

"I think the chat likes you more than me" Lando grumbled from behind you, making you giggle and ruffle his hair.

"That's not true. They love you just as much" you said, but the comments from the chat weren't helping your case.

"We love seeing Y/N on streams"

"MOTHER IS HERE"

"Y/N needs to be on stream more, Lando don't keep her away from the camera"

You smiled sheepishly back at Lando, who just rolled his eyes but couldn't keep the smile that was threatening to break out on his face at bay.

"What should we do?" he asked, typing away on the computer.

"I could stay and watch you play some F1, if you want. I don't think the chat wants to see me make a fool of myself because I such at it so badly" you proposed, trying to read the chat for any reactions.

You certainly didn't expect to see everyone demanding that you play the game yourself, the fans already somewhat bored with watching Lando, an actual Formula 1 driver, play it constantly.

"Looks like the chat wants precisely that" your boyfriend joked, beginning to set up the game for you.

"But I suck, they're just gonna make fun of me like you do when I play" you whined, knowing you would quickly become a meme on Twitter due to how bad you were at the game.

"I don't make fun of you" he defended, but one look from you made him smile innocently.

"It's going to be fun, you'll see" he said, the game set up for you to start playing.

You sighed, but agreed nonetheless. You got more comfortable on your boyfriend's lap, his arms wrapped around your waist to hold you against his body. 

Exactly as you had predicted, you did an awful job, coming in the last positions in almost every race you had attempted. Lando had tried helping you many times, but you were far too stubborn to accept his help with anything. 

The chat was having a blast seeing you so focused, but the thing that got their attention every time was the way Lando would look at you, his eyes so star-struck like you had just hung the moon and stars for him.

"Okay, I think it's enough embarrassment for one day" you declared once you had finished once again at the back of the grid, for the 10th time in a row.

"You were getting the hang of it towards the end" Lando tried cheering you up, rubbing his hands on your waist.

"You have to say that, you're my boyfriend" you pouted, turning sideways on his lap and resting your head on his shoulder.

Lando spent a half an hour more on stream, just chatting with the fans. Once he decided to finish up, he noticed that you had fallen asleep on his lap, your breathing even and your eyes closed softly.

He smiled to himself and whispered a goodbye to the stream before scooping you up in his arms carefully and bringing you to your shared bed.

"Goodnight, my love" he whispered, kissing your forehead and tucking you into bed.

You mumbled something, drifting back to your deep sleep.

Safe to say, the stream had tired both of you out, Lando falling asleep while cuddling you as soon as his head hit the pillow.

comments and re-blogs help us grow!

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[atlabeth]

family line

pt 2

pairing: spencer reid x gideon!reader

a/n: pardon the end where i just go into endless conversation for no reason but i cannot control myself. anyways thank you sosososo much for all the love on the last part and gideon!reader as a whole it makes me so happy!! enjoy some dad-daughter-spence car convos(arguing) and some elle time

wc: 3.8k

warning(s): the usual! r and gideon argue, gideon is not a good dad(but theres some reconciliation), angst, hurt/comfort, but some fluff between r and gideon & spence. more of a set-up chapter

The drive over to the safe house is a long one, and unfortunately, not a quiet one. 

Spencer takes the back seat, leaving shotgun for you with your dad. He spends the entirety of the drive briefing you on what living in a safe house will entail, all the things you can and can’t do. 

You can’t use your phone because it could be tracked. You can’t leave the place without Spencer because you are, in fact, being stalked. You’re not to reveal anything about your location to anyone—you’re basically shut off from the world until the unsub is behind bars. 

And once he’s done briefing you, he basically starts interrogating you. 

“Have you been contacted like this before in any way?” 

You huff a laugh. “What, with creepy pictures of myself? No.” 

“Anything unsettling,” he clarifies. “A text message, a call, an email— anything that rubbed you the wrong way that you might’ve just passed off as a joke or spam.” 

“No,” you repeat. 

“You’re sure?” 

“How many times do I have to say no?” You pull your phone out of your pocket and stare at your dad. “Go through it if you want. You won’t find anything.” 

He pauses, then he nods. “Reid.” 

You shake your head with a slight laugh, then turn it over as Spencer extends a hand. He flips it open and starts to go through it, and you just cross your arms and stare out the windshield. 

“We should really hand this over to Garcia,” he says. “She’ll be able to do a lot more than I can. I don’t really—”

“Like technology, I know,” your dad finished. “We will. Just trying to get all the leads we can upfront.” 

You sigh, but you keep quiet. You guess you can’t really consider it an invasion of privacy when there’s a stalker after you. 

“We typically talk to stalking victims for a while to figure out their lifestyle and possible suspects, as well as the type of stalker we’re dealing with,” Spencer says. “We don’t exactly have the time for that here.” 

“This unsub has already been watching you for a month, maybe more,” your dad says. “He’s made his first move by reaching out to me—that means he wants us to know about him, wants you to know about him.” He glances over at you. “He wants to scare you. You’re not going to give him that satisfaction.” 

“You’re jetting me off to a safehouse before you’ve even gotten the chance to look into any leads,” you say. “It looks like we’re pretty scared, Dad.” 

“It’s preparation,” he says. “The unsub has made his first move—I’m not going to wait around for him to make another and compromise your safety.” 

“This could also be a lot more dangerous than we think,” Spencer says. You still hear him clicking through your messages, and you’re beginning to regret your decision to turn it over to him. “Our unsub could be someone after Gideon using you as collateral.” 

Your heart stops for a split second and your attention snaps to your father. “What?”

“…It is a likely option,” he says. “Very few people know you as my daughter. Someone who wants to hurt me could try to use you to do it.”

“So I was right,” you say. “This is only happening because I’m your daughter.”

“Do you want me to say yes?”

“Yes!” you exclaim. “Yes— I want you to admit that I’ve missed out on all the positives of you being my dad and gotten stuck with all the negatives!”

“This is not the time,” he says. 

“How is it not the time?” you ask with a laugh. “You’ve said it yourself several times— my life is in danger. There’s someone out there that might kill me to get back at you. What is a better time than this to talk about how shitty of a dad you’ve been?”

“A better time would be when we aren’t this high strung,” he says evenly. “Neither of us are thinking as properly as we should be. We don’t want to say anything we’ll regret.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll regret any of this,” you say. “After all, I could be dead soon, right? I should get all those regrets out of the way.”

“Please stop arguing,” Spencer interrupts hastily. “This— this is very uncomfortable.”

You scoff. The flames burn just as bright, but for some reason, you decide to hold them back a bit. 

“I’m sure it’s real hard for you, boy genius.”

The silence lingers. You can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Your dad, to his credit, doesn’t stoke the fire.

It looks like you’re all capable of restraint today. 

“I— I went through all her messages,” Spencer continues. It irks you that he talks like you’re not here. “There’s nothing suspicious there, at least.”

“Good,” your dad says. “I’ll hand it over to Garcia after I drop you both off.”

“We’re not gonna have a car?” you ask.

“You’ll have this one,” he says. “That’s why Agent Greenaway is following us.”

“Elle’s coming?” Spencer asks, and you see him perk up. You belatedly wonder what that deal is. 

“Just so she can drive me back to the office,” your dad says. “She offered.”

“What’s everyone else doing?” 

“Garcia is digging through some of your personal records for the team,” he says, glancing at you. “JJ is in contact with the local police stations so they’re ready once we have a profile. Morgan and Hotch should be looking through every case I’ve closed to get a running list of suspects.”

“Great,” you say as you lean back in your seat. “Nothing like getting my whole life aired out and put under a microscope.”

“It already is,” Spencer says. “You’ve got a stalker.”

“Thanks, Spencer,” you mutter. “I forgot.” 

-

The rest of the drive goes by with ease—at least, relative to how difficult you’ve made everything else. 

You’re already sick of Spencer Reid by the time you get out of the car. You don’t know how you’re going to survive such close quarters under these kinds of circumstances. 

Another car parks next to you as the three of you get out, and your eyes are drawn to the woman that steps out. 

“Easy drive?” your dad asks. 

“I was right behind you,” Agent Greenaway says. “You drive like an old man.” 

Your dad just barely smiles. “Stay with her, Elle. Reid and I are going to check the perimeter.” 

“You can’t be serious,” you cut in. 

“I already told you I’m not taking chances with this,” he says, and he takes his gun out. “This won’t take long.” 

Spencer takes his out as well—he carries it with both hands, like it’s actually weighing him down, and it’s a bit ridiculous—and they split to cover both sides of the house and the surrounding area. You sigh and shake your head as you cross your arms. 

“He’s certainly spirited,” Agent Greenaway says. 

You huff a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.” 

“I’m Elle, by the way,” she says. “I know we haven’t been formally introduced.” 

You nod your acknowledgment and say your name. “Nice to meet you.” 

She turns to fully face you. “Do you mind if I say a few things?” 

“If it’s about my dad—”

“It’s not,” she interrupts with a wry smile, “I promise.” 

You shrug. “Then sure.” 

“First, I just want to ask if you’re doing alright,” she says. “You’ve gotten a lot dropped on you all at once.”

“I’m as good as I can be,” you say. 

Elle nods, and her eyes soften. “I’m not gonna tell you to take it easy on Gideon. He’s an incredible agent, but that makes it hard to be a good dad.”

You don’t say anything, and she continues. 

“My dad was on the force too. I resented him for a lot of my childhood because he was gone so often, but… then he was killed in the line of duty.”

You frown. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Elle nods in thanks. “I’m not trying to get sympathy. I’m just saying I know what it’s like.”

You shift your balance and sigh, glancing away momentarily. “Everyone here sees him as a hero, and— and he is. He started this whole thing and you all save lives every day, but it feels like he’s missed my entire life because of it.” You huff a bitter laugh. “I think you all know him better than I do.”

“I think you’re probably right,” she admits. “You deserve to be angry. And honestly, I think you deserve to hate him some for it.” 

You huff a slight laugh. “You’re the one person who hasn’t tried to make me feel bad for it.”

She shrugs. “You’re in an awful situation and it might be because of him. You don’t have to have endless grace.”

“Any chance I can get you to stay in here with me instead of Spencer?” you ask.

She smiles. “I don’t think Gideon wants to stick the two of us in a house together. But I am gonna make sure we catch this guy.”

“These kinds of assholes go after vulnerable women because it gives them the attention they crave,” she continues. “They worm themselves into their lives and disrupt it all and it makes them feel powerful—you have to play to their whims.”

“Sounds like you have a lot of experience with this,” you murmur.

“I have a lot of experience putting away sick men,” Elle says. 

“Do you have any advice, then?” you ask weakly. 

“I’ve only been around you for a few hours, but I already know you’re better and stronger than whatever bastard is after you,” she says. “He wants to control your life. Don’t let him.” 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “I’m… really glad you’re on my side.”

She smiles again. “Just doing my job.”

Your eyes latch onto your dad as he and Spencer come back around the front, and they both tuck their guns back into their holsters. 

“It’s all clear,” your dad says. 

“And I’m not dead,” you say. “Looks like we’re all doing good.”

He chooses to ignore you, instead looking at Elle. “Did you go over anything with her?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Just gave some advice.”

“Great,” Spencer says. “Just what I need.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Reid,” Elle says. “You’ll be fine.” 

You don’t miss the look he gives her, and your dad clears his throat. “Can you take her inside and check everything? Reid and I need to talk.” 

He frowns. “We do?” 

“Sure,” she nods. 

You stare at your dad this time, and he doesn’t entertain your annoyance with some of his own. “We’ll be in soon.” 

“Sure,” you repeat. 

You follow Elle in—you don’t feel like getting a lecture on safety just yet—and when you pass a glance over your shoulder, you meet Spencer’s eyes. He was watching you. 

His eyes dart away just as quickly, and you huff the slightest laugh. You don’t know if he’s scared of you or just tired of you already, but whichever one, you don’t really care. If you have to be stuck in this house with him, he has to be stuck in there with you too.

Elle shows you around the place, and it’s nothing special—a one story house with two bedrooms and a noticeable lack of windows, furnished plainly with a couch and a few chairs, a small kitchen table, a television. You’re honestly surprised at how nice it all is. 

But as she takes you on the impromptu tour, you can’t stop thinking about her words. You can’t stop thinking about all of it, honestly. 

A month ago, you were driving home in silence after your dad forgot about the plans you made. A week ago, you were out for drinks with friends. 

Today, you’re hunkering down in a safe house because there’s a stalker after you, and you have to do it with your dad’s stand-in kid. 

That’s what gets you, you think. That you know more about Spencer Reid than anyone at his job knows about you—that your dad ignores you in favor of his work, and instead of trying to fit you into his life, he finds an FBI replacement.

Your jaw clenches. It takes a few seconds for you to realize you’ve completely tuned out Elle, only really coming out of it when she says your name.

“Sorry,” you say. “I was distracted.” 

“I don’t blame you,” she says wryly. 

You’re about to respond when Spencer walks in with your dad. His face is slightly flushed and, as opposed to all the other times, he won’t make eye contact with you. You can only imagine what your dad decided to talk to him about. 

“You showed her around?” your dad asks. 

Elle nods. “The basics. She and Reid can figure out the rest.” 

“Thank you,” he says. He looks at Spencer, who has his hands stuffed in his pockets and is very intently focused on the wall behind you. “Help Elle get the rest of the things out of her car.”

He frowns. “Elle doesn’t need my help.”

“Come on, Reid,” she says as she starts to walk. 

He blinks and nods. “Oh. Uh— yeah.” 

You feel his eyes on you as he goes, but you don’t meet them. You just stare at your father.

“Is it my turn for a lecture?”

His eyes soften as he says your name. “This isn’t how I want things to be between us.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, “it takes a decade or two of neglect to get here.”

“You’re right,” he says. “You wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for me. But I’m going to get you out of it.”

“I hope so,” you say. “Because I don’t really know how Doctor Reid is going to help.”

“Don’t take it out on Reid,” your dad says. “Hate me all you want, but leave him out of it.”

“You’re the one that pulled him into it,” you retort. “He’s more your kid than I am.”

“And I regret it,” he says. Your eyes widen a bit, and it actually gets you to shut up. “I regret that it took something like this for me to be a part of your life again. But I don’t want our last interaction before you’re sequestered for the indefinite future to be a fight.”

“That’s all I’m good at when it comes to you,” you mumble. The wind has been taken out of your sails considerably. 

“And I want to change that,” he says. “But first, we have to get through this. And we’re going to get through it together, sweetheart.” 

The term of affection feels strange coming from him. Ever since your teenage years, he’s felt less like your dad and more like some estranged cousin. You hate it. You hate how unfamiliar everything feels with him. Jason Gideon has been a profiler longer than he’s been a dad and it shows in your every interaction with him. 

But still, your heart aches. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“You promise?” you ask. You feel like a kid again. 

“I promise,” he says. 

Then your dad pulls you into a hug, and for a moment, you freeze. You can’t remember the last time he hugged you. 

Despite the anger inside of you, the bitterness built in your bones, you can’t help it—you hug him back. You practically melt into his arms as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to stop the sudden threat of tears. 

Because deep down beneath it all, you’re scared. You’re fucking terrified, actually, and right now you’re just a girl who wants comfort from her dad. 

“I love you,” he says. 

“…I love you too,” you mumble.

Neither of you pull away for a good thirty seconds. When you do, you turn around to wipe your eyes, not wanting him to see. You hear the door open and start, but it’s just Spencer and Elle with some bags and boxes. 

“Elle’s got some groceries,” your dad says, clearing his throat. “We’ll deliver more if necessary, but you’ve got the basics for a couple weeks, at least.” 

“And a whole lot of books and movies,” Spencer says, hefting the box in his hands. “Did you know that there have been approximately 122 million unique titles published since the invention of Gutenberg’s printing press in 1440?” 

“That’s less specific than usual,” Elle says. “You sure you’re feeling okay?” 

He frowns. “I couldn’t find statistics on the exact number.” 

“Why were you even looking at those statistics?” 

“I get bored sometimes.” 

Elle just laughs as they continue into the living room. You feel your dad’s eyes on you, and you sigh. 

“I’ll take it easy on him,” you say. “Mostly. Maybe.” 

And he actually smiles. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say offhandedly, but you find the slightest smile creeping on your lips as well. You kind of hate it. 

Everything else goes by relatively quickly now that you’re not arguing every single thing—you have to fight your instincts not to, but you manage—and eventually, after another lingering hug and some promises to be safe (and one from Spencer to your dad to keep you safe)—you’re alone in the house with him. 

“So,” you say as you settle on the couch, “this is what the indefinite future is going to be like.” 

“If it makes you feel better, last time we dealt with a stalker we caught them in a few days,” Spencer says. “She watched her for a good while, though.” 

“It doesn’t make me feel better,” you say. “Thanks.” 

“...Sorry.” 

You shrug your indifference and Spencer walks past you, focusing in on some of the paintings hanging on the wall. You’re sure he knows the artist, title, and meaning behind every single one, so you speak up before he can start.  

“What did you and Elle talk about?” 

“How this place doesn’t have a pool,” he says.  

You frown. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “What’d you and Gideon talk about?”

“We fought then made up,” you say. “It was… weird.” 

Spencer looks at you. “How?” 

You shrug again as you cross your arms. “You’ve seen how we are. We don’t exactly get along.” 

“Has he really been that bad of a dad?”

“It’s none of your business,” you say. “But… yes. He’s barely been a dad at all.” 

Spencer shakes his head. “I don’t get that. He’s so different in the field.” 

“That’s why he’s barely been a dad—because he’s so busy here.” You tilt your head. “Don’t you have some facts or whatever on the percentage of fathers that are workaholics?” 

“Well, 89% of dads work full time,” Spencer says. “And fathers typically work around 47 hours a week. But I don’t have anything on workaholics specifically.” 

“Great.” You stand up and walk over to the box of DVDs Spencer set down on the table, and you start rifling through them. “So, what’d my dad tell you about me?” 

Spencer blinks. “What do you mean?” 

“When I came in here with Elle and he kept you out there,” you say. “Did he give you the run-down? Warn you on how difficult I am to be around? Tell you that I hate you?” 

His Adam’s apple bobs. “Uh— no. He just… talked to me. Gave the rundown on everything.”

You hum. “You can tell the truth.” 

“I— I am,” he says. He’s clearly not. “He didn’t say anything bad about you. Promise.” 

“Whatever you say.” You land on a DVD and glance over at him. “How do you feel about Groundhog Day?” 

He shakes his head. “I don’t like Bill Murray.” 

You frown. “That’s ridiculous. How can you not like Ghostbusters?” 

“I love Ghostbusters.” 

“How can you like Ghostbusters but not Bill Murray?” 

“Because I like the concept more than I like him,” he says. “I love Halloween.” 

You shake your head and move on. “Who put these together?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Gideon? Or maybe some random BAU office worker.” 

“It’s an interesting compilation.” You look up at him again. “How about Dirty Dancing?” 

“No.” 

“No reasoning?”

“I don’t feel like dealing with a musical right now,” he says. 

“So you choose to deprive me of Patrick Swayze,” you tut. You grab one movie out of the back and hold it up. “If I put on Goodfellas, will you interrupt every five seconds with facts?”

“...I can push it back to every thirty seconds,” he says. 

“Five minutes,” you say. 

“One minute.” 

“Two.” 

“One forty-five?” 

“Two—take it or leave it.” 

“Technically I have all the power here,” Spencer says. “I can talk nonstop about anything. Putting down a movie narrows that down.” 

“...One fifty.” 

He nods, and you huff a disbelieving laugh as you put the DVD in the player. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re ridiculous?” 

“A lot,” he says as he sits down on the couch. “I usually get insufferable or weird or annoying, though. So ridiculous isn’t too bad.” 

“Well, you’re certainly something.” 

“That’s also not too bad,” he says. “I could even take it as a compliment.”

You sigh and pick up the remote before you sit back down. You look up at the clock on the wall and bite back a curse. 

“It’s only been ten minutes,” you mutter. 

“Ten minutes and thirty-four seconds, actually,” Spencer says. “Did you know that Scorsese actually cast real mobsters as extras? The cast members were told ahead of time so they could show the necessary respect to them while they were on set. There’s a whole mafia hierarchy, and only full-blooded Italians—”

“I haven’t even gotten to the start screen,” you interrupt in disbelief. 

Spencer shrugs. “You said every minute and fifty seconds. Not how long I could go on for.” 

You let out another sigh as he continues on. You bet Spencer could probably recite the whole movie from memory if you asked, but you honestly don’t know if you could take that. 

There’s one plus, at least. When you’ve got a human encyclopedia next to you that can spout off whatever information he wants any time he wants, you think you’re gonna have a hard time thinking too much about your stalker. 

You look over at Spencer when you finally make it to the opening scene, still talking but now about the different crime families in the United States. His eyebrows are surprisingly animated when he talks, going up and down depending on his inflection, and you find yourself thinking that it’s charming. 

It’s annoying how pretty he is, and it’s annoying how annoying he is. 

You look away. 

This is going to be a very long lockdown.

[pucksandpower]

Say My Name

Oscar Piastri x streamer!Reader

Summary: when fans mistake Oscar for your ex while he is hanging around in the background of your stream, you get introduced to a side of Oscar that you’ve never seen before

Warnings: 18+ content

Your fingers fly across the keyboard as you narrate the intense battle unfolding on your stream. “Oh damn, that was close! I almost got sniped there.” You lean in, eyes narrowed at the screen. “Gotta be more careful or this round is over.”

The chat explodes with messages cheering you on. Being one of the top female gaming streamers has its perks, like an incredibly loyal fanbase that hangs on your every word.

You glance at the viewer count — over 50,000 watching live. Not too shabby.

“Okay team, let’s rush B, I’ll try to draw their fire.” You move your character into position, heart pounding with anticipation.

Suddenly, a quiet thump comes from the living room behind you. You start, whipping your head around, but see nothing amiss through the open doorway. Must have been your imagination.

You refocus on the game, calling out tactics to your teammates. Another muffled sound, like something soft hitting the floor, catches your attention. You turn off your video and hit mute on your mic. “Hello? Is someone there?”

No response. You’re just about to unmute when a very familiar face pops into view from the hallway. It’s your boyfriend of nearly two years.

Your face splits into a huge grin as you take in his messy hair and the rumpled clothes he slept in on the flight. “Oscar! You’re back early!”

He crosses to you, bending to press a kiss to the top of your head. “Missed you,” he mumbles against your hair.

You tilt your face up for a proper kiss, “I missed you too, ba-”

But you’re cut off as his lips crash into yours, insistent and heated. Heat blooms in your cheeks at the sudden, passionate embrace. Far too soon, Oscar pulls away, leaving you flustered and breathless.

“Sorry,” he says with a smirk that suggests he’s anything but. “Couldn’t help myself.”

You shake your head, laughing. “You’re ridiculous. I’m working, you know.”

“So I noticed.” Oscar settles onto the couch just off-camera, casual as can be. “Don’t mind me, keep going.”

“You sure?” You eye him skeptically. The stream has been on a short period without your commentary and the chat is getting restless. “I can take a break if you want.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “No, no, I’m just going to hang out here for a bit. Go ahead.”

Hesitating only a moment, you turn your video back on and unmute your mic. “Alright folks, sorry about that little pause. I, uh, got a surprise visitor.” You gesture vaguely toward where Oscar lounges behind you.

The chat instantly lights up with questions about who was there. Smiling to yourself, you ignore them for now, re-focusing on the game.

Over the next hour, it becomes increasingly difficult to concentrate. Oscar keeps distracting you, making silly faces and gestures whenever you glance his way. More than once you have to stifle a laugh after catching sight of him. Your fans seem to find your giggly mood delightful, though they remain oblivious to the cause.

Finally, in a rare break between matches, you swivel in your chair to face him. “You’re being so disruptive,” you stage-whisper. “Don’t you have better things to do than pester me?”

Oscar feigns innocence. “Who, me? I’m just sitting here, love.”

Rolling your eyes, you stretch your arms overhead with a groan, back popping from sitting so long. Oscar’s gaze shamelessly rakes over you, darkening.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, fighting a smile.

“Like what?” His eyes glint with mischief.

You open your mouth to respond, but a new donation notification pops up on your stream, cutting you off. “Oh, wow, thanks for the ten thousand bits, Legend27!” The expensive donation isn’t that unusual, but the comment attached gives you pause.

I’m so happy you and Eric made up! You two are couple goals for real.

Frowning, you scan the new barrage of messages flooding the chat … and find dozens echoing similar sentiments.

Your stomach drops as you finally realize what your viewers think is happening. They assume Oscar is actually your ex, the one you briefly dated and had an awful breakup with over two years ago. Apparently his surprise appearance has led them to believe you two have reconciled.

Heat floods your face at the misunderstanding. Objecting seems pointless though — you’ve learned it’s better not to discuss your private romantic life on stream. “Ah, thanks guys, you’re too kind,” you finally say, aiming for a neutral tone.

Beside you, Oscar stiffens, catching the implications of the messages. His jaw clenches and you watch as his face cycles through a series of micro-expressions — first surprise, then confusion, quickly followed by displeasure and … jealousy?

Uh oh. This could get messy fast if he gets worked up. You try to subtly shake your head at him in a silent plea to ignore the chat.

No such luck. His brow furrows deeper and you can practically see the tension ratcheting up in his shoulders.

Suddenly, Oscar surges to his feet with a muttered curse. Before you can react, he’s stalking around the side of your chair until he’s directly in view of the camera’s frame.

“Oscar, what are you-”

But he cuts you off by cupping your face in his hands and kissing you hard. Your startled squeak is smothered by his fierce, possessive mouth moving over yours.

Powerless to resist the onslaught of sensations, you melt bonelessly against him as the kiss stretches on and on. Only the escalating number of notifications showing the shock and exclamations from your viewers finally breaks through the heady fog.

With extreme reluctance, Oscar ends the kiss, both of you panting. He keeps his face buried in the crook of your neck, lips brushing your flushed skin as he growls, “She’s mine.”

Then, before you can respond, he reaches past you and slams his palm into the power button of your streaming setup, shutting everything down.

The simultaneous howl of outrage from tens of thousands of confused fans cuts off abruptly as the screen goes black. Only the two of you are left in the ringing silence that follows.

“Oscar!” You finally manage. “What was that?”

He pulls away enough to meet your wide-eyed gaze, his brown eyes blazing with an intensity that steals your breath.

“I got … jealous,” he admits, seeming almost surprised at his own vehement reaction. “When they thought I was your ex. I didn’t like that at all.”

Your expression softens at his uncharacteristic show of vulnerability. Reaching out, you trace his sharp cheekbone with gentle fingers. “You have no reason to be jealous, silly man. It’s only ever been you.”

Some of the blazing heat in his stare banks into smoldering embers at your reassurance. “Yeah?” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Good.”

He leans in again until his lips are a hairsbreadth from yours. “Because you’re mine, okay? And I’m yours.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, dizzy with wanting him. “I’m all yours, Oscar.”

The possessive words seem to flip a switch in him. With a low, rumbling sound of approval, his mouth slants over yours once more in a searing, demanding kiss that makes your toes curl.

The abrupt ending to your stream is already causing a social media firestorm of epic proportions. But surrounded by the circle of Oscar’s arms, his familiar warmth and love, you can’t find it in yourself to care even a little bit.

After all, you think dizzily as he deepens the kiss, your fans should have recognized that you two were a couple from the very start — because Oscar Piastri is most definitely not your ex.

He’s your everything.

***

Oscar’s hands are everywhere, seemingly unable to get enough of you as his kisses grow more and more fervent. Your back hits the wall with a gentle thump as he crowds closer, caging you in with the solid warmth of his body.

“Missed you so much, love,” he rasps against the heated skin of your neck. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

A whimper escapes your lips at the scorching path his mouth blazes over your pulse point. “I m-missed you too, Oscar.”

His name falls from your lips like a prayer and he rewards you by sucking a mark into the sensitive spot just below your ear. Pleasure zings along your nerves at the hint of delicious possession in the act.

When he finally pulls back to gaze at you with dark, hooded eyes, his lips are reddened from enthusiastic use. The sight sends a molten flare of desire arrowing straight to your core.

“Say it again,” he commands roughly, voice gone low and gritty in that way that never fails to make you melt.

You blink up at him, momentarily lost in a lust-fueled haze. “W-What?”

“My name.” His large hands skim over the curve of your waist, bunching the fabric of your shirt. “Say my name again.”

“Oscar,” you breathe without hesitation, watching raptly as his pupils blow wider at the sound. “Oscar, Oscar, Oscar ...”

Each breathy iteration seems to stoke his hunger hotter. His fingers flex against your sides like he’s holding himself back from something.

On a daring whim, you slant your mouth near his ear, letting your lips brush the shell with every word. “Oscar Piastri,” you practically purr. “My Oscar.”

A broken groan is your only warning before he’s on you again, mouths crashing together in a heated crash of lips, teeth, and tangling tongues. His hand comes up to cup the nape of your neck, angling your face for deeper exploration.

When you finally manage to tear your lips away, you’re both panting harshly, chests heaving. “What’s … gotten into you?” You pant.

Rather than answer, Oscar just shakes his head and dives back in for more fervent kisses, like a man dying of thirst and you’re the most delicious drink he’s ever tasted.

It’s not until he suddenly grips your waist and spins the two of you around, depositing you on the desk with a surprising lack of finesse, that you realize just how wildly affected he is.

Oscar licks into the seam of your lips like he’s staking a claim and something within you shatters at the stark, naked wanting in his eyes when he pulls back the tiniest bit.

He just stares at you, chest heaving, gaze roving hungrily over your features like he’s memorizing you all over again. His pupils are blown wide, just thin rings of molten brown remaining around the black.

When he speaks, his voice is low and gravelly in a way that vibrates through you. “Say. My. Name.”

“Oscar,” you respond immediately, not even having to think. His hungry gaze burns over you and you feel stripped bare and vulnerable under the weight of it.

But rather than make you want to cover up, it has the opposite effect — you’re reeling him in, hands fisted in his shirt to pull him closer. You never want this delirious, frantic sense of possession and desire to end.

“Again,” he grinds out, sounding utterly wrecked already.

“Oscar.” You bare your neck for him as you say it, like presenting an offering. He groans low and deep, instantly ducking to mouth along the column of your throat.

His hands are everywhere, pushing up the hem of your top, kneading along your sides and ribs as he nips and sucks bruising paths across your collarbones and chest.

“Don’t stop saying it,” he orders, more plea than demand.

So you let his name become a breathless prayer falling from your lips, over and over between gasps and keening whimpers. You lose yourself in a heady feedback loop — the more you speak his name with naked wanting, the wilder it seems to drive him until his touch grows scattered and devouring.

At some point his hands finally succeed in tugging your shirt up and off. Your name doesn’t even register when his scorching mouth closes over one peaked bud, your back bowing at the shuddering bolt of sensation that lances through you.

All you can seem to process is the feel of his calloused palms mapping every inch of newly-exposed skin and the desperate mumble of “Oscar, Oscar, Oscar ...” spilling shameless and endless from your lips.

Eventually, the heated exploration of his mouth and hands becomes too much to simply lay there and take. With a low, guttural sound you haul Oscar upright and swing your legs around his hips, relishing his full body shudder.

“Not enough,” you accuse roughly, rolling your core against his in clear invitation. “Need you closer, Oscar.”

His heated groan at your wanton demand is music to your ears. Strong hands grasp your thighs to hitch your legs higher around his waist as he surges against you.

“So impatient, my darling girl,” he teases. This close, you can make out the faintest brush of freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose and cheekbones that you’ve mapped and memorized with lips and fingertips a hundred times before.

You can’t help but reach out to graze them with your thumb, gazing up at him with naked adoration. “My Oscar,” you murmur reverently.

His eyes slip shut for a beat, jaw ticking as if your words have an unexpectedly profound effect on him. When he opens them again, his gaze is fierce and intent.

“Yours,” he vows simply, leaning in to seal the promise against the plush of your lips.

The kiss is somehow softer and headier than before. You get lost in the lush glide of his mouth, every sliding brush of lip and tongue shorting out whatever rational thoughts remain until all you know is his name — the shape and taste and weight of it against your own.

It’s the only thing that seems real, vital, until at some point Oscar’s mouth leaves yours to trail hot, openmouthed kisses down your chest and stomach and lower still.

Your back bows as you squirm incoherently against the press of his lips and tongue. His restraint seems to have finally snapped, movements growing hungry and rough as he works you steadily higher.

“Oscar,” you sob out his name like you’re breaking apart, pleading for something you can’t quite name. He answers with a rumbling sound of satisfaction that vibrates hotly against your sensitized flesh.

More, is all you can think as he redoubles his efforts.

At some point, you must have arched helplessly off the desk because suddenly his hands are at the small of your back, fingertips digging in hard as he holds you arched for his questing mouth.

The intimate angle of his positioning has your jaw dropping open on a silent scream of overwhelmed pleasure. All that escapes is a strangled gasp of, “Oscar!”

He growls something incoherent against you that might be praise, might be reassurance, might just be your name groaned out roughly in shared bliss. But you honestly can’t tell anymore — you’ve transcended far past coherent speech and rational thought.

Everything has devolved into just sensation and feeling and the endless loop of his name spilling over and over from your lips like a benediction.

Oscar, Oscar, Oscar ...

Just when you think you might actually shatter into pieces from the intensity he’s wringing out of you, strong hands are abruptly hauling you up and off the desk in one smooth motion.

You cling to him with heavy limbs, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he staggers the few steps to your shared bedroom. At some point his shirt has vanished, allowing your hands free rein to roam over flexing muscle and heated skin.

When the backs of his legs hit the edge of the mattress, he pauses to claim your mouth in another searing, shattering kiss. He whispers something fervent and intense against your lips, your name perhaps intertwined with endearments or promises.

You can’t be sure. All you know is the shape of his name against your tongue, the only word your mind seems capable of holding onto as he lowers you reverently to the sheets and stretches out over you.

When he finally sinks into you with a harsh groan of relief, your back bows and you let out a broken, high keen — his name once more torn from your lips in breathless ecstasy.

“There you are, that’s it love,” he growls hoarsely as he begins to move, words interspersed between drugging, thorough thrusts. “Let me hear you, let me hear my name on those pretty lips.”

So you do, shamelessly loud and incoherent now as he gradually unravels you from the inside out. His name and gasped pleas and frantic praise all blur together in a continuous stream of blissful delirium.

At some point, his own control seems to splinter apart, hips snapping hard and deep as his pace turns utterly unrestrained. Still, you chase that shattering edge, crying out for Oscar as your whole world narrows to the merciless intensity of his driving thrusts and demanding hands kneading your flesh with staking ownership.

When you finally go soaring over that dizzying peak with his name torn hoarse from your throat, he follows you over almost violently with a ragged shout. Oscar’s arms shake dangerously as he holds his weight off of you, pupils swallowing up the copper of his eyes entirely in onyx pools of spent lust.

As you slowly float back down from that searing high, limbs heavy and sated, you reach up to trace the sharp line of his cheekbone. He turns his face into your palm with a shuddering exhale as if grounding himself.

For several long breaths, all that can be heard is your shaky inhales mingling together while your racing heartbeats gradually return to normal.

Finally, Oscar presses a warm, lingering kiss to the center of your palm before shifting to stretch out beside you, his weight dipping the mattress.

You immediately curl into the reassuring heat of him, despite the sweat still cooling along your skin. One of his arms bands around your waist, holding you flush against his side while his other hand comes up to card soothingly through your hair.

Nestling your face into the curve where his shoulder meets his neck, you press a gentle kiss to the hollow of his throat and whisper, “Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” he murmurs back, low and slightly scratchy in the aftermath. You can hear the smile in his voice as his fingers keep carding idly through your hair.

Silence falls again, comfortable and peaceful in the aftermath of your frantic passion, both of you simply basking in the warmth of shared nearness.

Eventually though, the question you’ve been avoiding asking slips out in a hazy murmur. “What brought all … that … on, Oscar?”

He’s quiet for so long, you begin to wonder if he fell asleep. Just when you’re about to shift to look at him though, he speaks up.

“When your fans assumed I was your ex … the way they were celebrating that the two of you got back together ...” His fingers stroke almost absentmindedly through your hair as he pauses. “I dunno, something in me just .. .snapped a little. Seeing them say over and over how perfect he was for you ...”

He trails off with a low chuckle, and you can’t resist craning your neck to glance up at him curiously. When your eyes meet his, his expression is rueful.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of any other name on your lips, love. Even your own.” His fingertips trace the line of your jaw with unbearable tenderness. “All I wanted was for you to say my name like that — like it’s the only word that matters in the entire world.”

Just like that, a fresh ember of want rekindles low in your belly at the slightly awed honesty in his voice. You exhale a shaky breath, searching his stormy gaze for … what? Evidence of how crazily affected you are by such a simple revelation?

Whatever he finds reflected in your stare seems to give him pause as well because his eyes almost immediately darken with renewed hunger.

“Say it again then,” he husks, rolling until he’s leaned over you, hands planted on either side of your head. There’s no demand in the words, just low, thrumming need thrilling between you both.

So you reach up to cup his face in your palms, rubbing your thumbs over the sandpapery stubble along his strong jawline as you gaze adoringly up at him.

“Oscar ...” you breathe out his name like a sacred invocation. “My Oscar.”

His eyes slip shut and he makes a low, ragged sound of pure satisfaction on an exhale that ghosts across your lips.

“Yeah,” he rasps, bending lower until his forehead rests against yours. “That’s it, love … that’s all I ever want to hear.”

You pull him back down to you then, unable and unwilling to resist sealing the promise of those words against his lips with your own.

And as everything inevitably dissolves into heat and need and formless ecstasy once more, you lose yourself to the endless chant of his name on your lips — your entire world whittled down to just that one exalted word, over and over and over.

Because really, what other name could ever matter when Oscar Piastri is the only name you’ll ever need?

[cindyss]

• - I DARE YOU TO RIDE HIS THIGH - •

PAIRING(S): mattheo riddle x fem. reader !

WARNING(S): thigh riding, his pov, smut

SUMMARY: y/n gets dared to ride mattheo’s thigh, and after pausing the game, they manage to get locked in alone in Draco’s room.

A/N: im thinking maybe threesome theo and mattheo for my next write?

——————————————————

You and pansy decided to attend a party hosted by some of your fellow slytherin friends at their house. You got your dress on, got there, and began your night.

You got lost into the night, drinking and dancing and drinking and dancing. You met theo, one of the hosts of the party, and danced with him for a bit before the two of you were called to play a game of truth or dare.

Everyone got in a circle to begin the game. Astoria, Pansy, you, draco, theo, blaise, mattheo-theodore’s roommate, who youve never met before, and many, many more. You’d heard about Mattheo before, the dark lord’s son, but what you didn’t know is how fucking attractive this man is.

The game began and so many secrets were revealed and dares were made. Astoria and Pansy were dared to kiss, blaise shared his mom’s number with everyone, draco admitted to once clogging the toilet in his 2nd year, and much more funny stuff.

Theodore spun the bottle and it landed on mattheo. Theo immediately smirked before speaking “i dare you to sit on a chair, while one of the girls rides your thigh for a minute.” A bunch of “oos”were shared in the room. Mattheo just shook his head in disappointment at his friend’s dare.

“Okay so here’s how we’re gonna pick the girl, we’re gonna spin the bottle again.” Theo spins the bottle and it lands on you. Fuck. You were attracted to this man, but thats not how you were planning to get his attention.

Everyone laughs, ready for the show to begin, and you looked up to see mattheos reaction to which you found him staring at you. He came near you and got close, you could feel his breath on your ear “you don’t have to do this if ur uncomfortable.” he whispered. “ its fine.” You stated before you both got to your spot.

He sat on a chair and they started playing music, you got close to him as he manspread, providing enough space for you. You were wearing a dress with just your panties from the bottom, meaning your already wet clit was gonna rub his thigh.

You place yourself on him, grinding slowly at first. Your hands grab his thighs, fingers digging there to remain balanced. He places his hands on your waist guiding you as little moans and whimpers leave both your mouth and his. Good thing the music was loud enough so that the others wouldnt hear them.

his pov:

Gosh, how did i ever end up in this situation. Ive only met the girl for 30 mins and now shes riding my thigh. That asshole theo knows my weaknesses and he decides to use them against me when i tell him about the attractive girl. She’s so good at it it’s driving me insane.

Her clit is rubbing at my thigh and i can already feel myself harden, god fuck she probably felt that. Im now a whimpering mess, i need more than this. This girl is fucking amazing i need her closer. It takes every muscle in me not to kiss her or even throw my head back but this girl is driving me out of my mind.

your pov:

Your wet clit was rubbing against his bare skin since he’s wearing shorts. The only thing separating your skin was your panties. Suddenly, you feel something poking your stomach, you know what this is and you are aware of this situation.

God, this was the longest minute of your whole entire fucking life. “Times uppp!!” Theo shouts making you jump up.

“Alright everyone, for Christ’s sake we’re taking a break” Blaise spoke as everyone separated from the area. “Woahh, that was fucking hot y/n” Astoria spoke. You smiled at her and glanced Mattheo’s way only to find him already looking at you while his friends tease him about what just happened.

“Yo mattheo, y/n needs to use the bathroom, mind leading her there?” Pansy joked as the boy nodded. Confused and pissed at your friends for this act of embarrassment, you play along and follow the slytherin boy up the stairs. Just then, as you’re both making your way to the bathroom, someone pushes you both into a room and locks you in there. “Have fun in there losers.” Fuck.

As you were confused on what to do, you turned around inspecting the room before you were met with the boy right in front of you. “Heyy, sorry if it was awkward before, i did not want that to be our first impression,” he apologized. A smile tugged at your lips as you said “no worries, i enjoyed that anyway, plus you made a horrible job at covering your boner.”

He smirked playfully as he blushed, then you turned around and before you could walk to the bed, he grabbed your hand, making you turn as he connected your lips. You kissed him back rapping your arms around his neck. He smirked into the kiss as he pinned you to the wall.

His eyes full of lust, his hands working on removing both of your clothes as trails kisses down your collarbone. You help him to remain just in your red set of lingerie. “Fucking hell.” He whispers before carrying you to the bed. You get on top of him kissing him as his hands roam your body. “This is draco’s room, he’s gonna be mad as fuck.” You both chuckle.

He kisses you again and slips his tongue in your mouth, you grind on him moaning quietly. “Gaaa..d” he moans into the kiss, grabbing your hair. You help him out of his pants and boxers laying between his legs. Your lips only inches away from his hard cock, you take him in your hands, preparing him.

He’s now sat down you the bed, you between his thighs. You tease his tip, giving it a kiss with your mouth before wrapping your lips around his cock, taking everything he has to give. He groans at your actions, grabbing you by your hair guiding you. You even make a few gagging noises which makes him throw his head back “haaaa.. fuck yeah. just like that baby… mmh.”

You then bob your head up and down, speeding your movements. “fuckkk.. shit yeah. hell yeahh ..hmm fuck- faster faster.. hmhh” he whimpers. just then, he cums in your mouth making you swallow every bit. He grabs you by the face kissing you “good girl”.

Then, he unclasps your bra, while leaving soft kisses on your neck. Your boobs pop out, “fuck wow.” he speaks before beginning to pleasure you. He begins nipping and sucking on your left tit, his other hand cupping your other breast. He flicks your tit in his hand, pinching it, making you moan and whimper against his touch.

Trailing kisses down your stomach, he grabs your panties pulling them down, adding them to the pile of clothes that has now formed on the floor. “You’re already this wet hmm?” he smirks to which you nod at. He slips two of his fingers in, curling them inside you, he connects your lips, not allowing any loud sounds to be heard. He speeds his movement as you’re now under him, arching your back to feel him closer, he uses his fingertips to trail your hipbone.

“Mattheo…” “yes, sweetheart ?” “I need you inside me please right now.” his lips tug into a smile before he says “whatever you want baby .” then, he removes his fingers, holds your hands and pins them above your head. He lines his hard cock with your entrance, teasing your clit. Then, suddenly, he pushes inside you making you moan loudly.

“FUCKKK” you scream. “Shh, sweetheart, i don’t want anyone to hear your little moans.” He leaves you to adjust to his size before he begins thrusting inside you. He lowers his face to kiss you, slipping his tongue in. He bites your lower lip, licking it before moving down to your neck. Just then, you speak. “mmh gonna cum” you say with your eyes closed from the pleasure.

“Not yet love,” mattheo then lifts you up, pulling out of you. He places you on the bed, sat and not anymore facing him. He then places his legs above yours, before pushing inside you. This was much deeper and better. You throw your hands above your mouth to keep from making noises as he begins rubbing your clit. You scream as you come clean on him. “Good girl” he praises before pulling out of you.

“We have to clean this shit up or draco will kick me out.” You both chuckle as he goes to the bathroom (in dracos room) and turns the bath on. “I cant walk mattheo.” He laughs loud before pulling you off the bed and carrying you to the shower. “I guess this will be our room for tonight, draco will have to deal with it” you both laugh.

[rose-gold-bullet]

[𝐢 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰] - Giyuu Tomioka x Reader

Summary: You get injured while fighting a demon and Giyuu helps to bring you back to health.

warnings: none aside from the injury the reader endures and maybe a gross amount of fluff

"It hurts."

"I know." Giyuu spoke softer than usual in an attempt to calm you down as he took off his haori to create a makeshift bandage.

You struggled to maintain your breathing technique as you bled out on the forest floor. The pain you felt in your dominant arm was horrid, but it was nothing compared to shame you felt as you were sloppily nursed back to stability by your companion for the mission you were assigned. You were a member of the Hashira after all; how could you let yourself be torn down in battle by such a low level Kizuki? You were able to land the final blow, but not without substantial damage to your own body.

If you wanted to be honest with yourself, you knew exactly what impeded your typically flawless movements; you were distracted by him. The same man frantically wrapping his haori around your wound in a subpar attempt to stop the blood loss.

You couldn't help it; as cliche as it sounds, you felt like his eyes were designed to get lost in.

"Can you stand?" His voice pulled you from your thoughts.

"I hope so. Can you help me up?" Your response was shaky and barely loud enough to be heard.

He slowly stood and pulled you up with him. You tried as hard as you could to steady yourself once he let go, but all the motivation in the world couldn't stop your legs from buckling. You gasped as you shut your eyes and waited for the harsh impact with the cold ground.

Unsurprisingly, such impact never came.

"Thanks." You muttered, trying to hide your embarrassment as you were being carried bridal style through the forest and soon onto a dirt road.

'As if I couldn't appear any more pathetic...' your brain assaulted itself with more negative assumptions than ever before, and you dug your face into Giyuu's chest to hide the upset expression you could feel plaguing your usually neutral features.

The walk to the Butterfly Estate was a bit of a long one, but it was necessary for a Pillar to receive the best care for mangled limbs.

Much of the said trek was made in silence.

After some time, you shifted your body so you could watch your surroundings. If it weren't for the trail of blood you were leaving with every step the visibly concerned man took, it'd be a perfect night.

"Giyuu, isn't it lovely out tonight?" You finally spoke.

"You're sounding dangerously similar to Shinobu. I have more important things to worry about, as do you."

A breathy laugh escaped your lips. You could tell your own injury was making you a bit delirious.

"You needn't be so serious. We both know I'll recover," you took a ragged breath, "I know you're a Pillar, but we're both allowed to enjoy life sometimes." You explained. As expected, there was no response.

You looked up at the night sky before taking another shaky breath, "You remind me of the moon."

"What?"

"Though, it's not nearly as handsome as you are." You spilled. You were too exhausted to care about whatever his response may be, and too inattentive to notice the slight blush that crept onto his face.

"I'll be sure to have the caretakers at the estate check for a concussion."

Once again, silence filled the open dirt road you were now following.

"I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused tonight. I should know to make myself more useful."

"You were more tha-"

"I think I'm going to fall asleep. Is that alright?" You intentionally cut him off as you knew you weren't strong enough for that sort of conversation. You glanced up at his face and waited for a reply.

He hesitantly nodded, "I'll wake you up if your breathing gets to slow. Dying isn't an opt-" Once again, He was cut off. This time, by the gentle snores escaping your lips. He sighed, exasperated, but was glad you were at least safe for now. With that peace of mind, he allowed the guilt he was struggling to carry lessen in weight ever so slightly.

'As if I couldn't appear any more useless.' He thought as he replayed the moment you cried out in pain over and over in his mind, wincing at every opportunity where he had the power to change the course of the fight but couldn't think fast enough in the moment.

---

You awoke in a bed you recognized almost immediately. You were one of the more frequent visitors at the Butterfly Estate, not because you were weaker but because it wasn't unheard of for you to throw yourself in front of enemy attacks aimed at others (most often protecting Giyuu).

"Oh good, you're awake! We'll let Mr. Tomioka know immediately." Three girls stood at the foot of your bed with a polite smile pasted on their faces.

"Wait- What are my injuries?"

"A severe laceration in your (dominant) arm as well as a fractured humerus and 2 broken ribs. Don't worry, Aoi took the necessary measures and you should make a complete recovery in around 3 weeks."

"Why would you let Giyuu know I woke up?"

"He's always the most concerned, miss! This time, he tried to sit in your room as you slept so he'd be there when you came to." One girl spoke up and they laughed in unison after. With that, they placed water and what you assumed to be pain medicine on your nightstand and left the room.

You laid completely still for a few minutes longer, piecing together the events before you blacked out. You felt your face heat up as you recalled the short exchange you had with Giyuu as he carried you to safety, and silently prayed he forgot about it.

Your thoughts were cut short by rapid footsteps increasing in volume from down the hall. Seconds later, there was a quiet knock at your door.

"Come in." Your voice was still weak, but it was a massive improvement in comparison to the night of the injury. The door slid open to reveal your evidently dejected friend. "Why are you still upset? The residents said I'd make a full recovery and the mission was successf-"

"I'm sorry." It was Giyuu's turn to speak over you. He hesitantly walked towards your bed and kneeled beside it. "I could have stopped this from happening. I could have saved you so much pain."

"That's not your responsibility-"

"It is. I'm there to keep you safe just as you're there to protect me. I failed." He closed his eyes and for only a second, you saw emotion far more intense than you've ever witnessed him showing before.

It almost broke you.

"You can't blame yourself for that! You're the one who kept me alive." You quickly tried to sit up to emphasize your point but flopped back down on the bed upon realizing you had no movement of your dominant arm to support you. "... A cast?" You shook your head in annoyance upon seeing it.

He spoke up once again. "Let me aid you back to health," there was a brief pause as he tried to find the right words, "As an apology for my negligence."

Normally, you'd immediately decline. You have far too much pride for your own good and would never want Giyuu to assume you were weak regardless. But a broken arm is beyond annoying, and maybe some extra time with him outside of life threatening missions would be nice.

You thought it over for a few seconds longer, "If you insist!" you offered a smile although you were nearly certain you'd somehow regret this decision later.

Needless to say, you were right.

---

"Giyuu, let go! I need to train!"

"You need to rest. How do you expect to even lift something as heavy as a sword with a cast on?" You desperately tried to squirm out of his grip as he pinned you to the bed.

"I'll figure it out! Come on, Aoi said I could!"

"No I didn't!" You both heard her call out from the hallway in response.

It was no use. The whole world was against you. You gave up, but not without pouting and complaining for another 20 minutes before making another pitiful attempt at escaping again.

"How have you managed to make full recoveries in the past?" Annoyance dripped from the poor man's lips.

"I'm lucky!" You grinned, before shutting your eyes and going back to sleep. You missed his eyes soften as he watched your sleeping form, before standing up quietly and leaving for a little while.

'Nows my chance!' You stood up and left your room, only to be carried back by the exasperated water breather, both passive-aggressively bickering all the while.

---

"I don't need constant care, you know. It's just a broken arm..." You trailed off as you thought of a way to get him to leave for a while. You enjoyed your time with him, but it was beginning to feel like you were being babysat.

No reply.

You stood up from your bed once again, this time receiving a suspicious glare from Giyuu. "Calm down, I'm only going to get some food."

He nodded at you, but didn't leave your bedside.

"You're... free to join me, you know." You specified once you sensed he wasn't quite sure what to do in your absence. He nodded once more and began trailing behind you as you made your way to a sort of cafeteria where recovering demon slayers can find food.

The food they offered at the time was ramen, which you graciously accepted, though knew from the start it would be a battle to eat it considering your injuries. You took two bowls, found a seat, and waved Giyuu over.

"Thanks so much for making sure I'm alright," you started, "but I swear I'll be fine." You stared down at your ramen before glancing at the chopsticks beside it, then back at the bowl. Maybe you could wait to eat until Giyuu leaves so you don't have to worry about making a fool of yourself, or perhaps you could say you weren't hungry after al-

"You should eat. You haven't had anything all day aside from your medicine."

You looked at Giyuu, then back at the chopsticks. You took a determined breath, then shakily grabbed your chopsticks with your non-dominant hand.

'I can do this,' you thought as you slowly picked up some noodles. Let's just say you weren't exactly ambidextrous. In fact, it's a miracle you got your feeble hand to hold the chopsticks at all.

'I can do this, I ca-' the very few noodles you were able to grab flopped back into your bowl and you could feel the hot liquid splash back in your face. 'No. No, I definitely cannot.'

Meanwhile, your so-called caretaker was struggling to keep his calm demeanour and you caught a glimpse of his mouth twitching up. "It's rude to laugh!" You huffed, but you couldn't keep a straight face either.

After a few moments, his expression shifted back from amused to concerned. "Let me help."

"...What?"

He took the chopsticks from your hands and picked up some noodles before putting them in front of your face. "Eat."

Your face became redder than you thought was possible as some recovering demon slayers snuck peaks at the the two Hashiras apparently sharing a meal.

"I'll pass." You choked out. Giyuu feeding you was not on your plan for the day. He furrowed his brows a bit and inched the noodles closer. You would've held your ground, but the growls coming from your stomach begged you to accept the help. You closed your eyes and quickly took a bite.

"Wow, I had no idea Tomioka and (L/N) were together!"

"I wonder if they were keeping it a secret. I always knew they were in love!" You both overheard the hushed voices erupting from a few of the recovering demon slayers in the room, but neither of you wanted to correct them as you took another bite.

---

You led Giyuu out to the gardens after your rather embarrassing meal.

"I'm not letting you train." He said firmly.

You laughed, "I know. After being stuck in the manor all day, I just figured we both could use some fresh air." What you said was mostly true; yes, you needed the fresh air, but it was more so to calm you down after what happened in the cafeteria.

He nodded, and you both stood in silence as you watched the sun begin to set. Being alone with him so long only confirmed for you just how much you fell for him; it was the comfortable silence that proved it.

You began to walk around the garden, admiring the way the plants glowed under the setting sun. Giyuu grabbed your good hand as you both continued to walk and you blushed at the contact.

"Don't worry! I'm able to walk on my own at least," you laughed in an attempt to hide your bashfulness, "it wasn't my legs that were injured!"

Giyuu admired your blushing face before revealing a soft, yet genuine smile.

"I know."

Notes: -2,204 words -maybe i'll update this with a cringe warning -cross posted on AO3 and Wattpad if you want to support me there as well <3 thank you for reading!! new to tumblr so bear with me here lol

[hgfictionwriter]

Jackpot

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: You and Jessie place a bet - neither of you think the other can survive a month without sex. Winner gets to have their way with the other.

Warnings: G!P smut. Edging/teasing, masturbation, cunnilingus, marathon sex, unprotected/risky sex, breeding/preg kink.

A/N: I combined a few requests to write this fic. It's LONG. Hopefully still good though. Hope you enjoy.

“You are so handsy tonight,” you laughed as Jessie wrapped her arms around your waist while you cleaned up after dinner.

“I can’t help it if you’re attractive,” Jessie reasoned, unbothered.

You pushed your hips back into her, giving a purposeful roll of them and bit back a smug smirk at the low groan that came from her.

“And you do things like that,” she complained before giving you a slow, teasing kiss at the nape of your neck, causing a shiver to go down your spine.

You tucked your head down, raising your shoulder and pulling away slightly, snickering at how she let out a noise of disappointment.

“I have to finish cleaning up. And I have to finish some work tonight. I can’t get,” you paused to give her an amused, but pointed look, “distracted.”

Jessie grumbled furthermore, resting her head heavily on your shoulder.

You turned in her arms, wrapping yours around the back of her neck now and not able to help yourself from smiling as her pout slowly transformed into a small smile. You gently rolled yourself against her and bit the inside of your lip at how her eyes drifted shut at the action. You loved even more how you could feel her starting to grow hard against you.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you said, a slight lilt in your voice, “I love how hot we are for each other.” You smirked, reaching between your bodies and gently rubbing her through her pants. “And how hard you get for me.”

“But?” Jessie asked, forcing herself to open her eyes and look at you as you teased her.

“But nothing,” you shrugged. A thought crossed your mind and you couldn’t entirely hold back your laugh. She frowned at you in question.

“[Y/friend] was talking about ‘No nut November’ and,” you looked her up and down rather smugly, “I’m not sure you’d be able to make it.”

Jessie’s jaw dropped, blatantly affronted by the accusation.

“Are you serious?” She asked, holding her hands up in defense. You leaned in, trying to give her an appeasing kiss on the check but she dodged it. “No. No, you don’t get any kisses after that.” You laughed and gave her an apologetic look.

“I was just teasing,” you said.

“No,” Jessie said, folding her arms across her chest though a smirk now crossed her lips. “You weren’t kidding. You think I’m just horned up and can’t behave myself? We’ll see about that,” she went on rather haughtily. “You’re just as bad as me.”

You narrowed your eyes at her playfully. “Really now.”

“Really. I bet that you can’t go a month without us having sex,” Jessie challenged, head held high.

“Oh my god,” you said, rolling your eyes before mimicking her body language. “I bet you can’t either. One month, no sex.” You tapped your chin in contemplation. “We can masturbate once a week; we’ll just have to do that on the honour system.”

Jessie chuckled. “And what does the winner get?”

“Whatever kind of sex they want,” you said as you cocked your head. You held up a hand, “Within reason. It has to be consensual, of course, but you get the idea.”

“I do,” Jessie said before holding out her hand. “Deal.” You took her hand and gave it a shake.

“Deal.”

—————

To say the following weeks were a challenge would be a massive understatement. You’d gone in rather confident, thinking of all the ways you’d tease Jessie, but you didn’t anticipate how she’d tease you back.

There were many close calls. For both of you. And if it was anyone other than Jessie, you probably would’ve laughed off the bet, but as with anything else in her life, she was taking it very seriously.

You learned the night the bet was made, in fact, how seriously she was taking it. You’d gotten into bed after her and scooched up against her, your ass on her hips and nestled in. Immediately, she grunted and shifted back, a totally foreign reaction to you. You complained and pulled her arm around your waist to spoon you.

“I just want to cuddle,” you said. But that was quickly disproved when you began to grind back against her. She’d jerked away and grumbled something about you not playing nice and went to sleep on the other side of the bed.

The next morning, Jessie went out for a run and when she came back she put on a bit of a show, though she’d never admit it, but she knew damn well it would drive you wild.

She came into the bedroom, you still lying in bed, and lifted up her shirt to wipe the sweat off her face. She was well aware of your eyes on her sweat covered abs.

When she took off her shirt, she let down her hair and pushed it back, her biceps flexing as she did so and she turned to speak to you, arms still flexed. She made up some excuse to reach for something across the bed, reaching over you, her sweaty, sexy body brushing against you.

She nonchalantly went about her routine, closing out with coming to speak to you fresh from her shower, a towel held precariously in front of her cock, but the rest of her body on display.

“That’s your one for the week,” she said pointedly with a knowing smirk at the end of your conversation. She turned to leave, your cheeks reddening as she walked away. Guess you weren’t as quiet and discrete as you thought you were when she was in the shower.

The days carried on like that. Some flirtations subtle, like a hand brushing against a thigh or a waist. You wearing sexy underwear and make sure she got a glimpse. Some less subtle. Like when she not so subtly came out to the couch and sat down in boxers and a sports bra, legs spread and hands behind her head as you watched a show.

You reciprocated by turning to her, kissing her on the shoulder and down her chest, pulling an unfiltered glare from her. Undeterred, you looked down at the subtle bulge that was beginning to form in her boxers and sat back up and began to pull your hair back into a ponytail.

You forced yourself to not react as she watched you steadily, almost a sense of disbelief on her face before you sat back and returned to watching your show. You snickered at the frustrated exhale she released.

The worst of all was when you’d been out with friends one night and your hand wandered as Jessie drove you back home. She’d complained about how that wasn’t fair and was a borderline violation. You stopped, but you didn’t recall rules around words.

“God, baby. I’m dripping wet for you. My panties are soaked because I want your hard cock inside of me so badly. I want to feel you stretching me out, my needy pussy wrapping tightly around you. I want your hips slamming into me as you fill me up so good again and again.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Jessie said chastising, though by the look of the growing tent in her pants, in arousal as well. “That’s not allowed.”

“Dirty talk wasn’t included in the rules,” you argued.

“It’s simulating sex though, so it’s against the rules,” Jessie argued.

“What are you going to do, baby?” You asked as you eyed her. “I know you already got yourself off earlier this week. Want me to take care of you?”

“No,” Jessie said curtly, her grip tightening on the steering wheel while she pulled into your parkade.

She got out of the car in a huff and you stifled a laugh as she rounded the car, her erection obvious as her pants stretched tightly across her.

You were about to make a smart remark when she pushed you against the car and ground herself into you as she met you in a heated, hard kiss. Though surprised, a moan worked its way up your throat as she bent her knees and pushed her hips up and into you, the firmness in her pants pressing against your heat and causing an immediate reaction in you.

You made out, shamelessly grinding against one another.

“You can take me upstairs, you know,” you offered.

“Are you asking me to?” Jessie asked between kisses.

“No,” you forced yourself to say. “I’m just saying you can if you like.”

“No can do, babe,” she said with a crooked grin. “As much as I want to, that’d be admitting defeat. Not going to happen. But if you want me to carry you upstairs and pound you until you’re screaming my name, your legs shaking as you cum all over my cock, I’d love to.”

You whined, your knees almost growing weak at the visual, but you found your resolve and turned her down.

The challenges escalated that night until you mutually decided to call a truce and stop teasing each other. It was an uncomfortable time for both of you coming down off of your arousal without any real relief, but stubbornness won out.

You were about a week away from the month being over when Jessie and you were on the couch watching a show together, you cuddled in next to her with her hand on your thigh. Her hand gently caressed you, very slowly moving higher until you shot her a look of warning.

“No?” She asked, a glint in her eye. “Is it getting you worked up?” You grumbled.

“You know it is,” you said as you nudged her.

“That’s too bad,” she said lightly. “I like touching you, knowing how you’re getting wet as you start thinking about my fingers or my cock or tongue in you.”

“Babe,” you scolded.

“And too bad you already used up your one pass for the week already,” she said with a fake look of apology. “I, however, have not. And, what can I say, thinking about you gets me worked up, too.”

She glanced down, drawing attention to the bulge starting to form in her pants. Before you could think of what to do or say, she undid her pants, shimmying them down her legs until she was clad in her boxers.

Your jaw dropped. Was she going to do what you thought she was? Jessie had never masturbated in front of you. By the time you looked up at her she had a faint blush on her face, but it was overshadowed by a smug smirk as she reached into her boxers and pulled out her swelling cock.

You let out a small exhale and she nipped at your neck.

“What’s wrong, baby?” She asked.

“This can’t be fair,” you told her.

“There’s no rule against it,” she countered as she licked her hand and began to stroke herself up and down. She locked eyes with you. “See what you do to me?”

“Oh God,” you said as your hand came to the back of your neck and rubbed agitatedly.

“How is it making you feel, baby?” She asked. “You seem restless,” she went on as she grew to full length and slowly pumped herself up and down. “I wish this was your hand. Or your mouth,” she said with a look to your lips.

She circled the thick head of her cock with her thumb. “And of course even better if I was slipping inside of your heat. I can practically feel your walls gripping me, pulling me in and massaging me.”

“I thought you said this kind of talk was against the rules,” you said as you squeezed your legs together in a vain attempt to find some relief.

A faint laugh escaped Jessie’s mouth as she nodded towards your lap.

“I know you’re thinking about how good it would feel - me filling you up, so deep inside of you. God,” she picked up her pace, letting her head fall back against the couch, “I can practically hear it. How wet it sounds every time I thrust in and out of you. I love the way you drip down my cock; knowing I made you that wet.”

You watched her, her hips thrusting up into her fist, the visual she painted for you, all the while a cute frown on her face as her cheeks reddened.

This whole bet was ridiculous.

You reached out, placing your hand over hers. She stopped the second you touched and looked over at you in surprise.

“I give up,” you told her. “I don’t care anymore. I want you. I’m so desperate for you.”

She seemed to process your words for a moment before her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she smiled.

“Thank god,” she said in blatant relief. Her smile grew as you stood up and began taking your clothes off in a rush. She reached up now and then to help you and took off her clothes fully as well.

"God, you're gorgeous," she breathed as you pushed her back against the couch and were about to straddle her. You let out a small squeal of surprise when she flipped you so you were sitting and she was on top, swiftly dropping to her knees in front of you. She locked eyes with you and pushed your legs apart.

"Oh fuck yeah," she said appreciatively as her eyes fell to your dripping wet entrance. "God, I've missed you so much," she said, her shoulders falling as she spoke.

She reached under your legs, her arms hooking under your thighs and she pulled you to the edge of the couch. Not bothering with her typical teasing or foreplay, she buried her face in your slick folds right away and lapped hungrily at you, drawing a cry from you immediately. You clawed desperately at the couch moments in, the feel of her tongue and mouth on you something you'd been craving for weeks and been denied.

"Oh my God, Jess," you panted. "That feels so good," you breathed as she rocked her face into you and sucked on your clit.

You bucked your hips up into her as she tended to you with a determination and drive that had you peaking within a few short minutes. She licked and sucked and it sounded messy and wet, and it felt so incredibly good.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum already," you said, your face tensing up as your impending orgasm approached. She simply moaned and continued to care for you, her attention not wavering in the least.

Inevitably, your orgasm came crashing down on you. Your thighs flexed around her head and your hips jerked erratically up into her. It was so intense that any moan was caught in your throat and came out a strangled whimper instead.

When Jessie came up for air, she wiped her face with a shirt off the floor, rest her arms across your thighs and leaned up to kiss you. You languidly kissed her back, still finding your way through your post-bliss haze.

"I won the bet, right?" You heard her say as she settled back onto her heels. You slowly opened your eyes to see her looking at you curiously. You gave a nod.

“Yeah, I hate to admit it, but you did,” you said with a wry chuckle. You gave her a small smirk. “Which means,” you sat up, cupping her face and kissing her slowly, “you get to have your way with me.”

You watched as Jessie immediately grew flushed, her gaze flicking away momentarily. You cocked your head at her and couldn’t help but chuckle.

“What? Isn’t it a good thing?”

“It’s not necessary. It was just a fun bet. There’s no need. I didn’t have anything in mind,” Jessie went in to kiss you and you allowed it, but pulled back shortly.

“Wait. That can’t be true. You held on for that long, that determinedly, with nothing in mind?” You asked skeptically.

“Yeah, I'm competitive,” Jessie reiterated though the deeper shade of her cheeks and nervous smile told you there was more to it. You narrowed your eyes at her.

“Babe. Just tell me. I want to know,” you insisted. She didn’t immediately reject your request, but shied away still. You implored further. “Come on. Please. I want to know. And who knows? Maybe I wanted the same!”

“I doubt that,” Jessie returned with no hesitation. Now you were really curious.

“Well now you definitely have to tell me,” you said.

She looked away and chewed the inside of her cheek before huffing quietly and running a hand through her hair. She eventually looked back at you, holding your gaze but remaining wordless.

“Please tell me,” you urged softly as you cupped her face and thumbed her cheeks gently with one hand, but grasped her length with the other and stroked slowly. Her eyes closed momentarily before she held your gaze for a few long seconds and spoke.

“You can say ‘no’. Please know that. I 100% won’t mind. I only want to do it if you’re into it, too.” She waited for you to acknowledge her and you gave a nod. “I want to be inside of you, but…” her gaze flit about, “no condom.”

“Oh,” you said, many tones in one. She immediately looked concerned and you head her off. “That’s all?”

She frowned. “Yeah? I mean. It’s risky - you’re not on birth control. And I mean, I could pull out! But I know that’s still risky, so I totally get it if you aren’t comfortable."

“That sounds hot to me,” you responded, not needing long to think and she looked suspicious.

“Seriously?”

“Mmhmm,” you voice as you scooted to the edge of the cushion. You grabbed her hand and placed it between your legs, ensuring her fingers came into contact with the wetness that was already starting to form again.

“In case you need convincing,” you whispered in her ear. She groaned and her fingers began to massage you.

Her cock twitched when she felt how wet you were. She rose up onto her knees, grasping your ass and pulling you even further off the cushion. You let out a small yelp, but laughed as she smirked at you and began rubbing her cock up and down the length of your slit.

“Fuck, baby. I’ve missed you so much,” she said as she watched the way your lips parted as she pushed through your folds and over your clit. You spied the bead of precum that had formed at the tip of her cock over the past few minutes. You moaned.

“I need you inside of me,” you told her. She glanced up at you, pausing for a second before lining up the head of her length at your entrance. She watched intently as she shifted her hips forward ever so slowly, biting her lip as she watched the way you gradually stretched out around her, accommodating her width.

“God, you look so amazing taking me like this,” she said as she remained focused on the visual before her. Her mouth fell into an ‘O’ as she pushed inside and felt your walls surround her.

“Oh god,” she said, her forehead creasing in a frown, “you feel so incredible. I missed being inside of you. And you feel beyond amazing like this. Even better than I imagined. Holy fuck.”

It didn’t necessarily feel different to you, but just the thought and understanding that she was in you bare brought things to a whole other level. You pushed your head back into the couch and pulled her by the waist further into you.

“Fuck, babe,” she said with a light chuckle as you caused her to bottom out. “Jesus, slow down or I’m going to bust right away.”

You grinned and pulled her down into a kiss and rolled your hips against her.

Soon, Jessie had you half reclined on the couch, your legs wrapped around her waist as she pumped into you. The room was soon filled with whimpers and cries from you coupled with moans and grunts from her. The sounds of her hips bouncing off of you along with the sounds that came each time she thrust in and out of your wet tunnel were intoxicating.

“Hear how much I missed you? How much I need you?”

“Jesus Christ,” she grunted as she gripped your hips. “Fuck, I’m close already,” she said as she screwed her eyes shut.

She let out a quick exhale and wrapped her arms around you, one under you and another up along your back as she hoisted you off the couch and carried you into the kitchen, remaining inside of you. She kissed you as she set you down on the counter.

She held herself still as she played with your clit and kissed your neck. You flexed around her subconsciously and she groaned against your skin.

“Fuck, just being inside you is too good.”

When you were getting close she began to pull her hips back, drawing out to the tip before thrusting to the hilt once more.

“Baby, I’m so close,” you told her as you clutched her to you.

“Me too,” she panted as she pumped into you, having to pull you back towards her on the counter now and then from the force of her thrusts. She pumped into you a few times more before speaking again. “I can pull out.”

You dug your nails into her skin.

“Or not,” you said. Her pace faltered and she leaned back to look at you. You went on. “I want you to cum inside of me.”

“Oh fuck, babe,” she said, eyes shutting as she spoke. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not. I want you to finish in me,” you told her.

She grunted, her fingers gripping your hips. “And…what if something, you know, happens?”

“Then, we can cross that bridge when we get there.” She watched you wordlessly and you smiled. “Honestly? It’s even hotter knowing that it’s all being left up to chance. That you’re so hot for me right now that you want nothing more than to spill yourself inside of me.”

“Jesus,” she said, her eyes rolling into her head before she screwed them shut. “That’s so sexy. God, I want to cum as deep inside of you as I can.”

“Then do it,” you said as you pulled her in for a kiss. The kiss broke off a few moments later as Jessie’s body tensed up as she pushed up into you, her hips rutting into you as a few short groans fell from her lips. She held herself tight against you as she pumped her cum into you.

Eventually, she drew her hips back and gave a few slow thrusts. She looked down at where your bodies were joined and her mouth fell agape in wonder.

“Holy,” she said as she saw a mixture of her cum and yours pooled around the base of her cock and the edge of your lips. The strings of cum stretched along her cock with every stroke. “This looks so fucking amazing, babe.”

She continued to slowly pump in and out of you, mesmerized by what she was seeing until she softened and fell out of you.

You spread your legs further, inviting her to watch as you reached down and rubbed her cum through your lips and circled your clit. You dipped two fingers inside of you. When you withdrew them they were coated in cum and you locked eyes with her as you brought them to your mouth and sucked them clean.

“Jesus Christ,” Jessie breathed with a laugh of appreciation. She ran a hand through her hair before rushing in to kiss you hard. You wrapped your legs around her once more and she began to grind herself against your core again. It wasn’t long before you felt her start to grow hard against you.

“God, I need you again,” she moaned into your heated kiss.

“So take me,” you said. Her chest rumbled as she lifted you off the counter and carried you over to the wall, pinning you against it before filling you in one swift motion.

A cry fell from your lips and she chuckled smugly into your neck as she began to rock herself in and out of you.

“I want to cum inside you again. Make you mine. Claim you all over this apartment,” she panted.

“Fuck, Jess,” you said as you clawed at her back. “You feel incredible inside of me. Make me yours.”

Soon, she had you bouncing up and down on her cock, your back rubbing roughly against the wall as she fucked you silly. Her fingers dug into the underside of your thighs and you knew she’d leave bruises but it turned you on even more.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to take you like this? No barrier - just you and me,” she said. “And God, it’s been impossible not fucking you these past few weeks. I’ve never wanted someone so badly. You’re so perfect.”

You moaned needily, each thrust causing your moan to stutter as her hips slammed into you.

“I can feel our cum dripping down my leg, baby. God, it’s so messy and I love it.”

“Fuck,” you hissed as you started cumming over her cock again. You tore up her back, which she’d give you heck for once you were both out of your lust-filled frenzy.

She grunted and clutched you tighter as she started to cum in you once more, her cock pulsing as she spilled rope after rope of cum in you.

She pressed you into the wall as she drained herself into you before gently lowering you both to the floor.

Your chest heaved as you fought to catch your breath and Jessie did the same. She eventually rolled off of you, a soft popping noise coming as she withdrew from you. You heard her chuckle softly.

“We are making an absolute mess,” she said, her smugness thinly veiled as you glanced down to see a small pool of cum beneath you where she’d just pulled out. You slapped her shoulder playfully and she laughed further as she laid on her back.

“I know how clean you like the apartment to be, so this really speaks to how horny you are,” you chuckled.

A couple of minutes passed and you sat up, looking down at her as she laid there with her arms behind her head. You straddled her and a crooked grin crossed her face. You kissed your way along her shoulder, up her neck and nipped at her ear before whispering.

“Did I mention that you’re the first person I’ve ever let cum inside me?”

“Oh shit,” Jessie said as her fingers gripped you. “That is so freakin hot. You don’t even know.” She kneaded the juncture between your hips and thighs and looked down at your core. “And I hope it stays that way.”

“Mmm, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want that,” you said.

“Yeah? You like me enough to stay?” She teased.

“You like me enough to keep me?” You countered.

“You know I do,” she said. “Sex aside and all. I love you and you know it,” she went on before rolling her hips against you. “And the fact that you get me hard back to back so quickly should tell you something too.”

“Mm,” you voiced as you rocked against her hardening member. “I do love having that effect on you.”

You rose up enough that the tip of her erection jutted against your entrance. You held her gaze as you sat down on it, arching your back at the sensation of her filling you up again.

Soon, you were riding her in the entry way of your apartment, her hands on your breasts as you bounced up and down on her thick cock. Your knees would be red and bruised after, but you really didn’t care in this moment.

At one point she grabbed your hips and started hammering into you from below and you moaned shamelessly at the feel of her stretching you out repeatedly.

“Fuck,” you cursed, eyes shut, your head falling back as she sent jolts of pleasure through your body.

When your legs began to shake from the effort combined with back to back orgasms. She held you in place for a second before nodding for you to get off. You wordlessly obliged, having trouble processing much of anything right now and she got up and carried you to the bedroom.

She shot you a salacious grin as she tossed you onto the bed. She grabbed you by the hips, flipped you over and tugged you up onto your knees as she climbed up behind you. She slapped your ass, the sound erupting across the room before she stroked your clit and lips several times, loving the way you fell onto your forearms with a whimper, ass angled up at her.

Another wanton moan tumbled out your mouth as she mounted you, her cock hitting your g-spot as she filled you.

She reached around and continued to circle your clit as she began to pump in and out of you.

You rolled your head back and forth across your arm as pulse after pulse of pleasure coursed through you as her hips bounced off of you.

She held you up as your legs shook. You felt a different type of pressure and heat building between within your core with every stroke. Your mouth opened several times and you stammered your bliss before it crested and you felt yourself gush against her.

“Fuck,” you managed to say as you squirted, your legs spreading wider as your juices ran down her legs and onto the bed.

“Oh my God, you’re so amazing,” Jessie said in awe, pausing inadvertently as she processed what was happening.

As she saw the pool of arousal on the sheets from you squirting, your heat stretching tightly around her cock, cum from your various rounds coating you both, her mind was in a total haze. She wrapped an arm underneath you and pulled you sharply against her, grabbing your shoulder with her other hand and started fucking you with abandon.

You felt pleasure and tension building again already as she railed you from behind. You were going to be so sore the next day, but it felt incredible.

“I’m going to pump you so full,” Jessie panted. “Fucking you so good you won’t ever want another cock.”

You wanted to respond, but you couldn’t formulate any words. All you could do was moan as you buried your face into the bed and bundled up the sheets in your fists.

“I love you so much,” she said, voice shuddering in exertion. “I’m only ever going to fuck you like this again. My cum leaking out of you as I keep fucking you raw. So if you don’t want to have my baby, we better get you some birth control.”

She grunted as her hips continued to slap into you, causing your body to jostle further into the mattress.

“I would offer to get snipped, but I want you to have my baby someday. So…”

You whined and you white knuckled the sheets even more. Her pace picked up and her whimpers rose in pitch.

“Here it comes,” she said before letting out a short yell as she doubled over you, pressing you into the mattress as she came impossibly hard inside of you, despite it being her third orgasm of the night.

She grunted a couple more times as her cock twitched inside of you. She laid heavy on top of you as you both lay there sweaty and spent.

“Oh fuck,” she eventually said as she rolled off of you. “Best bet I ever won,” she breathed.