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tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

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• Words of Command •

Tw: Cussing, angst, mentions of blood and grime.

Words of Command - Part 1

The lobby of Stark Tower gleamed with too much glass and not enough warmth for your taste. Sunlight pooled through the towering windows, hitting the polished marble floors and refracting off the chrome detailing of the modern decor.

You sat behind the main reception desk, perched on a tall stool with your legs swinging slightly.

The desk itself was a sleek black curve, embedded with holographic displays and a touchpad that still didn’t always respond when you tapped it with freshly moisturized fingers.

A nameplate identified you only by your first name, the letters tastefully etched in a clean serif font.

At the moment, you were staring at the printer behind you like it had personally offended you. It made a soft whirring noise—then stopped.

A flicker of smoke puffed up from the feeder tray. You yelped.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., I swear, I didn’t even touch it this time!”

"Miss, respectfully, you did attempt to print a double-sided image from an incompatible file format.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “You’re not even here physically. How would you know?”

“I am connected to over 2,000 sensors in this room. Shall I list the ones currently monitoring your error?”

“Rude,” you muttered, grabbing the paper that had jammed mid-print.

You shook it like it was a bad dog chewing your shoes. “This is sabotage. You're trying to make me look bad in front of Mr Stark.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Stark has been made aware of your printer challenges. He found it... 'endearing.’”

Your cheeks flushed.

The sarcasm was biting, but the thought that Tony Stark had discussed you at all—even mockingly—made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t proud of.

The lobby doors hissed open with that smooth mechanical slide, and you looked up automatically.

When Captain Rogers walked into a room, it was like watching someone pull the '40s into the present. He was tall, and looked slightly rumpled in civilian clothes—a dark blue hoodie stretched over broad shoulders and a plain T-shirt underneath.

He wore jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice gentle but somehow carrying in the echoey lobby. “You’re the receptionist, right, the wizz with phones ?”

You nodded quickly and smiled. “Y-Yes, Captain Rogers. Morning.”

He returned the smile, slower, steadier, as if trying to ease your nervous energy. “Please, call me Steve.”

Right. Like that would help.

You stood, still barely reaching his chest, and smoothed down the front of your cardigan. “What can I help you with?”

He stepped up to the desk, pulled something from the pocket of his jeans, and placed it on the counter. A Stark-Phone. One of the newer ones Stark had issued.

You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting.

“I, uh…” Steve scratched the back of his neck, clearly sheepish. “I pressed something and now it’s speaking Korean. I think.”

You gently picked up the phone and pressed the home button. “Oh. You activated the language cycle shortcut. Happens if you triple tap the lock screen.”

You tapped through the settings with practiced ease. “There. Back to English.”

Steve watched you like you were performing magic. “I don’t know how any of you keep up with this tech.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze with more courage this time. “Honestly? I mostly argue with the printer. J.A.R.V.I.S. does everything else.”

Steve chuckled, a warm, earnest sound that made your heart thump faster. “Well, you seem to be holding your own.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “I like your necklace, by the way. It suits you.”

You looked down, brushing a finger across the tiny pendant resting at your collarbone. “Oh. Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

He nodded like that meant something to him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you’re done. Then adds, almost sheepishly, “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to throw a shield at them.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re... not that scary.”

His grin is warm, boyish. You find yourself smiling back, unexpectedly grounded.

The elevator dings, and in breezes Tony Stark like a whirlwind in thousand-dollar shoes.

He’s on a call, two steps ahead of his own thoughts, sunglasses on indoors because of course they are.

"Yeah, just tell Fury he can bite me. In Morse code. Bye."

Phone snapped off, sunglasses up, and he zeroes in on you. “Sweetheart. You jammed the printer again.”

“I did not jam the printer,” you say quickly. “Jarvis is just being dramatic.”

“Jarvis is always dramatic, but in this case? He’s right.”

Tony leans on the desk, eyes squinting slightly. “Do you intentionally make the tech hate you? Is this like your rebellion arc Thumbelina? First it's the printer, then you’re reprogramming him to swear in Gaelic.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you murmur, looking down. Then pause. “Wait... JARVIS can swear?”

Tony smirks. “Atta girl. Knew there was a fire in there somewhere.”

He straightens up, hands in pockets, a half-laugh escaping him as he walks toward the elevator. “Keep her, Rogers!” he shouts over his shoulder. “She’s the only one who’s not afraid to talk back to Jarvis.”

You blink.

Captain Rogers is still standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with something between amusement and... curiosity.

Maybe even admiration.

The city never sleeps, but it sighs in the early hours of morning—hushed traffic, glimmering reflections on wet pavement, a lull between the pulse of nightlife and the rise of commuters.

Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows that cling to him like a second skin.

He moves like he’s not sure he’s real.

Each footfall is heavy but hesitant, like the ground might reject him. His hair is a tangled mess, matted and unwashed, sticking to his face and jaw.

The stubble on his cheeks is rough, uneven, and clings to him like dirt. His clothes are soaked in sweat, grime, and old blood—some of it his, some of it not.

His left arm is bare and gleaming beneath a tattered coat sleeve, metal fingers twitching involuntarily, as though searching for a rifle that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember where he’s been.

Only fragments, screams, commands in harsh syllables, red flashing lights. A corridor. Restraints. Cold.

Oh God that biting cold.

He walks past windows and glass doors, catching glimpses of himself in reflections—a shadow, a haunted smear of what used to be a man.

He doesn’t know his name.

Not truly.

Not right now.

But somewhere, deep under the static in his brain, there’s something.

Maybe he had a name.

And then he looks up.

It rises above him like a monument, gleaming even in the grey blue of pre-dawn. STARK in large, defiant letters. The light at the top pulses. He stops walking, just… stands there.

His breath fogs the cold air, erratic.

His chest heaves, ribs visible through the threadbare shirt beneath the jacket. His boots are worn to the sole.

Everything about him screams survival, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—recognition.

Stark.

Mission report.

Howard.

December.

Blood.

Sixteen.

Comply.

1991.

Zimniy Soldat.

Soldat.

The words slam into him like gunfire, and he stumbles forward, metal hand clenching hard enough to groan under its own pressure.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He only knows the building is important.

And maybe... maybe someone inside can make the noise stop.

The automatic doors whisper open, parting slowly to let him step into the warmth of Stark Tower’s front lobby. Inside, the polished floors shine, reflecting the subtle glow of the early-morning lighting.

The scent of fresh polish, faint coffee, and recycled air fills the space. It’s clean. Too clean. Sterile like a medical wing, like some place where experiments happened.

He hesitates in the doorway.

The light overhead flickers slightly, casting a quick stutter of shadow across his face—an echo of something dark beneath the skin.

You stand behind the front desk, holding your phone in one hand, uncertain. His body is massive in the entrance, his shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for a threat. That left arm, slick and inhuman, gleams under the overhead light, fingers twitching like they have a mind of their own.

He takes two steps forward.

You don’t move, but your fingers close slowly around the base of your mug—some deep instinct reaching for something solid, something real.

"Hi… I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here," you say softly, trying not to let the nervous quiver in your voice show.

He tilts his head.

Not sharply. Not mechanically. Like a man trying to understand.

His lips part. You can tell it’s painful. His throat works around something—speech, maybe, or just the ghost of it. His voice comes like gravel, dry and shredded.

“Pomohgeet-yeh…" Help.

Your brows knit. You don’t understand the words. But the way he says them makes your chest hurt.

He tries again.

“Gde… eta?" Where… is this?

The effort it takes him to speak is visible.

He trembles.

Not with fear, but exhaustion. His whole body is strung tight like a stretched wire, ready to snap. One wrong move and he could bolt. Or lash out. Or break down.

You hold both hands up in that gentle, universal please-don’t-run gesture. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying. But I want to help. I can call someone. Or—I can get Mr. Stark if you want, or—”

At the name, something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Stark.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, he shifts—too fast. That metal arm raises slightly, just a fraction. You freeze. Not because you think he’s going to hurt you—but because for a moment, he doesn’t look like a man anymore.

He looks like a ghost wrapped in combat training, forged in violence.

His eyes dart around the lobby—scanning exits, angles, security cameras.

His stance changes subtly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, as though he’s ready to take someone down.

And you—you’re just standing there.

He opens his mouth again, lips cracked and barely moving.

“Ne khochu… drat’sya." I don’t want… to fight.

You still don’t understand the words.

But you understand the tone.

Soft. Strained. Pleading.

“uh-huh,” you whisper.

You take a slow step around the desk. Not too close. But enough that he can see your hands, see your face.

You keep your voice low. “You look like you need help. Food? Water?”

He doesn’t answer. But his eyes track your hand as you slowly lift your bottle and offer it to him.

He reaches for it with his metal hand—but stops. There’s shame in the hesitation.

Holy Shit, is that metal ?

The faintest flicker of emotion across his dirt-streaked face. He switches to his right hand and takes it.

He drinks.

Not quickly. Like every swallow might be a mistake. Like he doesn’t trust it not to hurt.

As he drinks, you take him in quietly.

He looks... wrong in this space. The marble floor, the sleek design, the soft hum of Jarvis’ systems in the walls—it makes him look like something out of time. Like a soldier in a museum.

And then it hits you.

There’s something familiar about him. Not just the metal arm. Not just the way he looked at the building. But something in the jawline. The eyes.

You move slowly back to your desk, heart thudding as you open a file of security images.

"Who are you?" you whisper to yourself.

He doesn't answer.

He just watches you.

You move quietly to the comm panel, still keeping one eye on the man sitting stiffly in the chair near the lobby’s edge.

Tony had given you a comms piece to use in emergencies, is this a emergency ?

Stranger, built like a fridge, with a metal arm ?

Definitely.

The stranger in question hasn’t spoken since you gave him the bottle of water. His fingers—bare and bruised on one hand, cold steel on the other—grip it like it might disappear. He hasn’t drunk again. Just stares at the wall like he's trying to make sense of what a wall is.

Your voice is hushed as you speak into the receiver.

“Captain Rogers? I—I’m sorry to bother you. But there’s someone in the lobby. A man. I don’t know who he is, but I think… I think you should come down ... please.”

You don’t say that he’s filthy, trembling, starved.

You don’t say you’re afraid of how quiet he is.

You don’t say that even Jarvis, hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.

As though the building itself is holding its breath.

You hear him before you see him—the heavy, purposeful footfalls of combat boots against tile. The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and Captain Steve Rogers steps into the lobby like a storm arriving with restraint.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You watch the expression on his face collapse.

From soldier to friend.

From Avenger to broken-hearted brother.

“...Bucky?” he breathes.

The name falls into the room like a thunderclap.

But the man in the chair doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might spook him.

The man’s eyes track Steve—but only briefly. Recognition doesn’t register.

No emotion flickers. Just calculation.

The Winter Soldier, watches Steve Rogers like he’s a possible threat. Like a target.

You step back instinctively, not out of fear, but because the air has changed. Thickened.

Like the moment before a fight. Or before someone remembers something too painful to hold.

Steve is trying. You can see it.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. 40s. We grew up together.” His voice cracks.

But there’s nothing behind those eyes. Not the kind of nothing that comes from confusion.

The kind that’s been scraped clean.

Programmed.

Buried.

The man’s body tenses. A tic in the jaw. A breath held too long.

His fingers flex on the water bottle, crack—plastic gives under his grip.

Then, that guttural voice “Ne znayu tebya." I don’t know you.

Steve flinches. Not physically. Not visibly.

But you feel the break.

He kneels in front of him, ignoring the metal arm, the set jaw, the violence in his posture. His voice lowers to a whisper, so raw and aching it doesn't feel meant for anyone else to hear.

“I thought I lost you. I never stopped looking.”

The soldier’s gaze doesn’t soften.

His eyes scan Steve like he’s a file to be decrypted. A puzzle, not a person.

He shifts in the chair.

Not toward Steve—but away. Just a few inches. Enough to feel like a rejection.

The lobby is quiet again. Bucky? Or The soldier?—or the shell of him—sits in the corner like a statue draped in rags. His posture stiff, eyes half-lidded but never soft.

Like a soldier awaiting deployment, tension simmering beneath his skin.

Steve touches your arm gently and gestures toward the hallway off the reception desk. His voice is low, heavy with something that feels like grief soaked in guilt.

“That’s Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes. We grew up together. He enlisted before me.”

You blink up at him, trying to marry the image of the blank, cold-eyed man in the lobby with the idea of someone’s best friend.

Steve swallows hard. “But… that’s not who he is now. Hydra got to him. They—”

He stops. The words taste wrong in his mouth.

“They erased him. Broke him down and rebuilt him into something else. A ghost with a gun. They called him ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“They didn’t use his name. They called him Soldat." Steve whispers, making sure only you hear.

You murmur the word aloud without thinking, testing it, you feel disgust claw at your spine at the idea of someone being stripped so bare.

“Soldat…?”

The sound barely leaves your lips. Just a sound.

But across the lobby—the man moves.

Fast.

Sudden.

Mechanical.

The chair clatters backwards as he rises in one sharp, fluid motion. Spine straight, feet planted.

His metal arm clenches, whirring softly. His eyes, once clouded with the fog of confusion, snap into unnatural focus.

Like a trigger has been pulled.

His gaze lands on you.

Not Steve.

You.

Then, in that same guttural, rasping Russian:

“Gotov k vypolneniyu." Ready to comply.

Your heart lurches. You don’t know what he said—but the tone tells you enough.

Cold.

Obedient.

Trained.

Steve steps forward sharply, hand raised. “Bucky—no! She’s not—”

But Bucky isn’t listening. His head turns ever so slightly toward you, chin dipped in rigid respect, but eyes locked like a weapon sighting a command post.

Then, another word in Russian.

“Rukovoditel’" Handler.

Shit. SHIT

You freeze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as you stare at the man before you.

He’s taller than you by what feels like a foot, broad-shouldered and imposing, hair tangled, blood on his temple not yet dried. But it’s not his appearance that terrifies you.

It’s how still he is now. How controlled. How conditioned.

Like someone flipped a switch inside him.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder suddenly, protective, grounding.

“He thinks you’re his handler,” Steve says softly. His voice is tight, like he’s struggling to remain calm. “Hydra trained him to respond to words 'Soldat' must have triggered it.”

You glance at the Soldier—and feel a cold chill crawl down your spine.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

As if he’s expecting you to give him an order.

You whisper, almost afraid of your own voice, “What do I do?”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give him commands. Don’t say anything that sounds like one. We’ll get Bruce or Tony down here, maybe they can—”

The sound of polished leather shoes and the hiss of elevator doors heralds Tony Stark’s arrival.

He strides into the lobby like he owns every inch of it—which, of course, he does. A tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses he doesn’t need indoors, and a cup of coffee he’s already bored with. His tone, dry as ever.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man himself.”

Tony stops a few paces from the soldier, surveying him like a potential weapon. Or worse, a ticking bomb.

“You gonna sing ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ or…?”

No response.

The Soldier—still as a statue—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands in that unnatural way. Tense. Straight-backed. Alert. His metal hand twitches faintly at his side, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it.

And you definitely are now.

You stand just behind Steve, hands clasped nervously in front of you like you’re trying to shrink into the floor. But you feel the weight of his stare. Not Tony’s. Not Steve’s.

His.

The Soldier.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, are pinned on you.

Tony raises an eyebrow and leans toward Steve. “So this is the guy you were willing to punch me in the face over?” He eyes the torn tactical gear and matted hair. “Charming.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is firm but quiet. “He’s not well. Hydra programmed him. We think he… believes she's his handler”

Tony turns toward you, glancing you up and down, not rudely, just… curious. “She gets winded carrying a bag of flour.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then The Soldier moves.

Not toward Tony.

Not toward Steve.

Just… a slight shift. He angles his body protectively between you and Stark.

And then he speaks. Russian again.

“Rukovoditel"

His voice is hoarse, barely a growl.

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. That means ‘fearless leader’?”

Steve sighs. “It means ‘handler.’ I told you Tony, he thinks she’s his handler.”

Tony takes off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. We’ve got a murder machine who’s latched onto Thumbelina.”

He turns back to The Soldier, then tries his best Stark-brand sarcasm. “Hey, RoboCop. You like shawarma? Puppies? The Bee Gees?”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

His gaze stays locked on you. Like Stark isn’t even in the room.

“Gotov k vypolneniyu" Ready to comply.

Tony paces a bit, muttering to himself.

“Okay, okay… Steve brings in a half-feral Hydra brain bomb who only listens to the human equivalent of a cupcake, and I’m just supposed to—what—build him a bunkbed?”

Steve steps between them, voice low and serious. “He’s not dangerous to her. You saw that.”

“Oh yeah, I saw it,” Tony shoots back. “Saw him zero in on her like a guided missile with a crush. Only she’s not trained. She doesn’t even speak Russian. What happens if she says the wrong thing?”

You flinch a little at that, the weight of it finally settling in your chest.

Tony softens for a half-second. Just a breath. His eyes flick to you. “No offense. I’m sure you’re a lovely hostage.”

Then, toward The Soldier again. “You got anything else in that scrambled brain of yours? English? Stark tech? The weather?”

The Soldier’s only movement is the subtle tightening of his jaw. The slight widening of his stance—defensive. Watching Tony too closely now. Like he’s assessing threat levels.

But then… his eyes return to you.

You whisper, half to yourself, “He’s waiting.”

Tony raises a brow. “For what?”

You shrug helplessly. “An order. I think.”

The lobby feels heavier. Like a suspended moment, stretched too tight.

Tony watches the two of you, something calculative slipping into his expression.

“This is a problem,” he murmurs. “Because if she’s his focus, and we can’t get through to him otherwise—he’s not just broken. He’s tethered.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Then we don’t break the tether. We use it. Let her anchor him.”

Tony scoffs. “Oh, sure. Let’s just traumatize a receptionist, make her the sole translator for Hydra’s favorite murder puppet. What could go wrong?”

But even he can’t ignore the truth, the Winter Soldier isn’t reacting to threats, or commands, or charm.

Only you.

Fuck.

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cherryyluvs · 3 months ago

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Yours To Keep

Yandere! Mark x Reader p2

Synopsis: Mark took something of yours, he should give it back, but he’s not ready to let go.

Mark knows everything about you now, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're nervous. He knows what time you leave your dorm, what routes you take, and what time you come back. He shouldn't know these things, these little details, but he does.

And now, he's inside your dorm room.

The first time was a test, your door wasn't fully shut, and the temptation was too strong. Just a quick glance to see how your world looks like when you think no one’s watching. But the second time? He lets himself in.

You left your window unlocked. You really shouldn't do that. What if some weirdo came in to harm you??

Mark steps inside, closing the window quietly behind him. The air smells like you, like your shampoo, your soft, and sweet scent. It's intoxicating and overwhelming. He takes a slow breath, letting it settle into his lungs.

His fingertips touch your desk, your notebooks, the abandoned coffee cup from this morning. He presses his thumb on where your lips had been.

Staring at the open laptop that displays an unfinished assignment, he taps the touchpad. His name isn't anywhere, no messages , no social media searches.

That's fine. You'll be thinking about him soon enough.

His eyes wander to your bed. Your sheets are slightly messy and the blankets kicked back from when you left in a rush this morning. He leans down, touching the fabric before grabbing it and bringing it to his face.

A deep inhale.

God, you have no idea what you’re doing to him.

A sound outside makes him stiff. Foodsteps, Your footsteps. Mark is gone before you even reach the door. You never realize someone was here. That someone was so close, standing in the very place you think you're safe.

Till you notice something.

A few days pass before you even realize it's missing. You're standing in your room, rummaging through your closet, your laundry pile and even under your bed. “Where the hell is it?” you mumble with frustration.

Your favorite hoodie had gone missing. Soft, oversized, and comforting. You could've sworn you left it on your chair. But now? It's just.. gone.

Meanwhile, across campus, Mark knows exactly where it is.

He’s in his bed, curled up under his sheets with your hoodie clutched tight in his arms. The scent of you makes his mind hazy with obsession. Burying his face in it, inhaling deeply, fingers gripping the fabric like he never wants to let go.

He took your hoodie thinking you wouldn't even notice if it was gone for a bit, right?

That was days ago.

He wonders if he ever crosses your mind, If the loss of your hoodie lingers in your mind the way its presence lingers in his.

He told himself he’d give it back, he tried but.. Just couldn't.

Not when it still smelled like you.

Not when it made him feel close to you in a way he shouldn't.

Maybe he'll give it back one day. Maybe.

Or maybe.. He’ll keep it just a little longer.

Just one more night.

Just until the scent fades

But for now? He pulls it closer, a small smile tugging at his lips.

It's his.

Pt 1

#invincible #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson #yandere #stalker #yandere mark grayson x reader

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mattsundaes · 3 months ago

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suna rintarou x f!reader — 18+ only, 1.3k, piss kink, fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, roommate!suna, perv!suna, based on this drabble

Rintarou wants to laugh at the irony of it—what’s currently staring back at him from your laptop screen.

He covers the bottom half of his face, hot breath curling against his palm as he lets out a ragged exhale of disbelief.

The thing is, he’s found plenty of things that have left his cock twitching eagerly with interest since he adopted this fucked up habit of perusing your incriminating porn tabs of choice whenever you forget to close out your silly little incognito browser window.

It’s like a game of roulette, the way his thumb hovers over the touchpad before clicking over to the next tab to see what else could have possibly contributed to draining your vibrator battery last night.

Spitting in her mouth!!!

Anal sex (no lube just SPIT)

I choked him and he came untouched??

If Rintarou was a good roommate and friend, he would have immediately closed the browser window full of filthy porn tabs the first time he went to borrow your laptop and found them staring back at him.

hot wet messy snowballing

Edging her till she’s begging for it (three orgasms)

Or at the very least, he wouldn’t have made a goddamn habit of it.

FIRST TIME SQUIRTER HUGE MESS!!!!!

But it's been fun, all of these little discoveries. The things he’s learned about you through clicks and keystrokes. Because Rin’s seen the guys you’ve brought home before—

—and he’ll bet his own goddamn balls that none of them has ever grabbed your face and made out with you after busting a hot load of cum in your pretty mouth.

Amateurs.

But this—

This.

This is…

Rintarou weakly rubs his fingers over his eyes, like it’ll somehow change the one and only tab that was waiting for him on your screen today.

And in the back of his mind, idly, he wonders if you closed out all the rest and forgot to dispose of this final piece of evidence.

Or if this video alone was enough to get you off that quickly—

(And it’s dangerous, that thought.)

He slowly closes your laptop.

—-

Rintarou’s calm, mature decision to turn over a new leaf and stop fucking his fist like a pervert to the knowledge of what gets you off lasts approximately four and a half minutes.

Four and a half minutes, and he’s in his room with his boxers discarded somewhere between the bed and the door, flushed, leaking cock gripped tightly in his fist.

Two strokes and his balls are already seizing up.

Suna Rintarou’s dick is twitching between his fingers on a hair trigger—

and you—

you—

—you have a piss kink.

His mind is already far beyond the memory of the two faceless participants in the video you’d been watching. Miles and miles past SHE PISSED ON MY DICK (huge cumshot!!).

Rin doesn’t give a single fuck about whatever else he missed out on in the remaining five minutes of the video that he promptly closed out of.

Because all he can think about is you.

You and those flowy sundresses you like to wear as soon as a hint of warm weather hits the forecast.

You and those lacy little white panties that you sometimes forget in the corner on the bathroom floor after showering.

You and your abysmally small bladder.

Rintarou’s mind is caught in a hazy fantasy, one that finds two of you making out in his bed. You’re wearing that yellow dress that he really likes, and the thin material slips up your thighs like butter when he grasps your waist and pulls you on top of him.

Your lips slide against his, soft moans slipping up your throat as you straddle him, his sweatpants doing absolutely nothing to obscure the sheer amount of blood that’s rushed to his cock in the time since the two of you hit the mattress.

And then you giggle, murmuring something shyly against his lips about how wait, wait, you have to pee.

Logically, because you live together and you share a bathroom and Rin knows you, he should offer you a slightly dramatic, put-out sigh, hands resting behind his head as he waits for you to return.

But Rin’s so goddamn hard and your cunt feels so warm grinding against him, even through your underwear. And he honestly doesn’t really care about these sheets or this mattress.

Rintarou doesn’t give a fuck about much of anything besides the thought of how it wouldn’t just be warm, but hot if you—

“Just go.”

You laugh, gentle and amused. Like he’s joking.

Like he didn’t just ask you to piss on him.

“Rin—”

He pushes up the skirt of your dress, exposing those white panties and the obvious wet spot of arousal that’s already soaked through the material that hugs your swollen folds.

You blink down at him, breath hitching in your throat.

“Rin, I really have to—”

He brushes a finger down your slit, featherlight, not missing the full-body shiver that courses through you.

You whine.

Hooking a finger in your panties, he tugs them aside to expose your cunt.

“You have to what?” he asks calmly, pressing his thumb into the puffy, throbbing button of your clit.

You exhale silently, eyes falling shut for a moment like it’s taking everything in your power to keep holding it in.

“I have to pee.”

Rintarou uses his free hand to push down his sweatpants and boxers, letting his cock spring free. He stares up at you.

“Prove it.”

Your eyes go a little wide, bottom lip getting caught between the trap of your teeth as your thighs tremble slightly.

“I can’t—”

Rin traces your fluttering entrance with the pad of his middle finger, and your hips stutter as you bite back a moan.

“Why not?”

He slides a finger in, and fuck, fuck, fuck you’re so wet for him.

Your pussy clenches around the digit.

“We’re in your bed. It’ll…it’ll make a mess…”

Rin smiles, because this is just some fucked up fantasy he conjured, and he can buy a hundred goddamn beds for you to piss all over if he wants to.

“And?”

Two fingers.

“Rin I’m—”

A warm trickle slides down his knuckles. He slowly pumps in and out of your pussy.

“Do it.”

More drips out.

He pulls his fingers out of you and rests his palm flat over your bladder.

“Oh—”

Rin pushes down at the same moment that he slides his hard cock lengthwise down your wet slit.

And all at once, you release.

Hot piss floods out of you, spraying all over his cock.

And Rintarou groans, gasping at the sensation, at the feeling of it coating his cock and dripping down his balls.

You’re still pissing when you start grinding your cunt against his dick again, desperately, frantically, whining like you’re about to—

You come hard, shaking and sobbing his name against his chest, and Rin’s already halfway to stroking his piss soaked cock to his own completion when you gasp, “Fuck me, Rin. Fuck me. Please fuck me.”

It’s obscene how wet you are, how easily he pumps his cock right into your dripping hole. Rin flips you over onto your back, fucking into your pussy with uneven, shallow strokes because it’s all he can manage before blowing his load.

And because Rin’s a filthy pervert—

“That’s all?” you weakly laugh into his shoulder as he collapses against you afterward, softening cock still nestled in your cunt.

Rin mouths at your collarbone.

“Just say it if you want it.”

You sigh.

“Rin.”

Hand drifting to the base of his cock, he rubs his fingers against the place where it meets your fucked out folds.

He lets out the slightest dribble, just enough to have you gasp with awareness.

“Rin please.”

He shifts, mouth slotting against your lips, tongue lazily sliding into your mouth as a hot flood of piss floods your cunt.

(You’re a filthy, wet, needy mess of cum and piss when he’s finished finger fucking you over the edge of another orgasm.)

–

Rintarou wakes up to the sound of the heavy front door to the apartment closing, your shoes clicking across the laminate flooring down the entryway.

His hands are sticky with dried cum, sweatpants damp and soaked through with more than just his seed as they cling to his thighs.

He's already hard again.

"Fuck."

#suna rintarou x reader #suna rintarou #dee writes #cw.piss

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ticifics · 3 months ago

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𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲

── dave lizewski x f!reader

sexual content, mdni

Dave had found out by accident. It wasn't like he was planning it. No, he had just decided to visit you. As usual, he went straight to your room, dropping his backpack on the floor and throwing himself into the chair in front of your desk. You had shouted something from the bathroom, your voice above the sound of the water. Your room was as usual, your scent intoxicating the air, confusing his senses.

But it was your laptop that caught his attention. Not that Dave was the type to intrude, but he couldn't resist seeing the unlocked screen. And you had known each other for years, what could be so shocking? He adjusted his glasses and leaned in, his fingers sliding across the touchpad as his eyes scanned the open page.

His mouth fell open in the next second.

He knew the concept of fanfiction, he knew that there were entire works dedicated to iconic characters. But he never, not in a million years, would have imagined that there would be stories about him—about Kick Ass.

He swallowed, realizing that the page displayed one of the works. His eyes skipped over the first few lines, feeling his face heat up at the sight of the bullet points.

Smut, p in v, overstimulation, unprotected, sub!reader, slut shaming.

Was that what people wrote about him? No, that wasn't what mattered, it was another question he had to ask himself: was that what you read about him? He knew you had no idea he was Kick Ass, but he couldn't help but feel pleased that you were reading about him.

Believing that cows could fly took less effort. You were sweet, always looking at him with beautiful eyes, always with kind words on the tip of your tongue. It was hard, almost impossible to believe that you consumed that kind of content.

Unable to believe, his eyes dropped to the first paragraph, then the next, and the next. The words told of him after a patrol, of how he’d slid through your window, his face still streaked with blood from a fight. Of how gentle hands had cleaned the cuts, soothed the bruises. Of how he’d bent you over the bed, and without taking off his suit, thrust himself into you in one thrust. Of how he’d held you down until finger marks had formed on your hips, of how fucking good he’d felt while he fucked you.

Images flashed through Dave’s mind, heat pooling beneath his skin. Of what it would actually be like to slide through your window after a patrol and be greeted by a babydoll version of you. Of what it would be like to kiss you while he still tasted the metallic taste of blood from a cut on his lip. He wondered if, like in the story, you’d prefer he kept his suit on. A part of him wanted to believe otherwise, that you would rather watch his face as he sank into your pussy, as you became nothing but a mess of moans and sighs, cum leaking between your legs.

That you would say his name, how beautiful your voice would sound. Your eyes would cloud with pleasure as your nails dug into his back. How it would feel to have your body pressed against him, to feel the softness of your skin, the heat. He imagined how beautiful your breasts would feel as they bounced in time with his thrusts, how he would suck them until bruises formed.

How you would squeeze him against your velvet walls as he made you come, screaming his name as you came undone. He thought about how your eyelashes would flutter, your lips swollen and parted as he kissed you again and again, until the taste of you was etched on his tongue forever.

He wondered if you would like that.

The sound of a door opening brought him back to reality. In one awkward movement, he closed the laptop screen and pulled a pillow onto his lap to hide the tent he had pitched in his pants.

You emerged in an instant, your hair wet and your face flushed, your eyes wide and darting to the laptop. Dave swallowed hard, clearing his throat in an attempt to find his voice.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a crease between his eyebrows.

You looked up at him hesitantly, biting your lip, returning your gaze to the closed laptop as if to make sure it had always been this way. “I… uh, sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dave rolled his shoulders, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. “How was I supposed to know?”

“Dave, you… you didn’t…?” The sentence trailed off, but by the way your fingers twitched, he knew what you were getting at. He did his best to remain indifferent, as if he hadn't just discovered that you were reading dirty things about him.

You sighed, looking resigned as you rubbed your temples. Then, deciding to believe in the possibility that the laptop had never been left open, you said, "It's nothing, really."

And even if Dave had agreeing with a weak nod, he couldn't help but think about what it would be like to turn that fiction into reality.

#dave lizewski #dave lizewski drabble #dave lizewski fanfiction #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #atj #dave lizewski x reader #dave lizewski x y/n #dave lizewski x you #kick ass #kick ass x you #kick ass x reader #aaron taylor johnson #atj x reader #no use of y/n #reader insert

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miguelhugger2099 · 1 year ago

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Him and I (1/2)

Summary: You get thrown into another, another dimension while on a mission with Miguel. You end up meeting Miguel's variant where lingering feelings lie. Next Comic!Miguel x Reader x ATSV!Miguel, SMUT, PWP, Word Count: 6,808 CW: just a smidge of voyeurism

It was rough how you ended up here in another dimension and it wasn’t ideal either. Earlier, you were on a mission with Miguel and doing the usual of tracking and containing anomalies. However, this one was a little rough, giving both you and Miguel a hard time with how slippery it had been. Arriving at the scene, Miguel quickly barked orders at you to scan the place to track and trace any possible disrupted canon events. While he went one way, you went the other and for a while, neither of you had been able to grab it. Until your watch pinged with a hologram of Miguel’s face calling to tell you he found the anomaly and was leading it towards you for some backup. Putting on your mask, you swung away on your webs to meet him halfway.

One thing led to another and both of you were hollering at each other different plans and strategies since this anomaly was somehow escaping every chance it got. Miguel grabbed on its neck and yanked it back which made it screech and slam him against a brick wall. He grunted and let go from the sheer force of it. The anomaly went head first for you to which you jumped on its back. Eventually, you held onto it and tried to use your watch to open a portal. The anomaly tried ripping you off it, scratching your watch and damaging the touch pad. Whatever number you tried putting in, was jumbled up and yet a portal opened up anyway. Time and space warped around you two, the wormhole trying to suck up anything. The anomaly then grabbed you and ripped you off its back, throwing you into the portal which shut right after you went through. So here you are, in a dimension that isn’t your New York, but it did look like a certain someone’s Nueva York. Tall buildings, hovercrafts and holographic billboards were plastered everywhere. You looked down at your watch and saw claw marks on the touchpad, small sparks of electricity fizzed out but it wasn’t too damaged, you decided. You weren’t glitching so you counted that as a win. You heard a familiar zip of web shooters being used from above. Tilting your head up, you saw the familiar red and mostly blue suit swinging by and ignoring you. You squinted at the figure leaving.

“Miguel…?” You whispered to yourself. Pushing the watch problem aside, you began following him, trying to catch up to him. “Miguel!” You called out through the whipping winds as you gained speed.

His figure thwipped around, seemingly trying to get you off his tail. You grew frustrated. Why was he just avoiding you? If he was here, that means the anomaly had gotten away and it’d be more work for both of you.

He then made a sharp turn around a tall building. You nearly passed it but you stopped yourself just in time to swivel your head around to see where he had gone. Your eyes honed in on his figure crawling up the side of the building and into an open window. With determination, you shot your web to the building and began crawling up. Once you made it to the damn near very top, you opened the window and crawled in. With your feet now planted on the floor, you took off your mask and looked around. It was a bedroom and a large one at that with a giant king sized bed and a giant set up where you assumed would display a holographic screen. You noted it was dark too with all the lights switched off and Miguel was nowhere to be seen. You were sure you saw him crawl in this room. You began walking around the room just to make sure, trying to find anything. When you didn’t–the lack of pictures was appalling– you made your way over to the bedroom door and took a peek outside of it. The hallways were just as dark, if not darker. You took a step out and squinted your eyes, hoping your vision would adjust to the lighting.

You heard a shift far in front of you and paused in your steps. You tried focusing on whatever was in front of you and that’s when you saw red eyes. You froze and held your breath while the eyes simply watched you, slightly moving as it seemingly saw you through the dark.

These eyes were familiar to you and so you dropped your guard. “Miguel…?” You called out again. “What the hell? I was right behind you! Did the anomaly throw you in here too?”

You tried approaching him but then backed up when he came closer as well, at a faster rate than you thought. Your gasped and your spider senses went haywire. With a bit of difficulty on your end, you looked up to see someone who wasn’t Miguel. Or you thought.

The man had Miguel’s scarlet orbs, but instead of brown hair he had dark red hair to match his eyes. Instead of brown skin, he had white skin. He had a similar face shape with the same sharp cheekbones and strong jawline but his face was a bit longer than that. You noticed a five o’clock shadow he might’ve been planning to shave off soon. His height was shorter than your Miguel but it was still tall enough to tower over you. His face was in a scowl, teeth bared and claws unsheathed, on guard for the danger that he decided you were. You took a glance down his chest, the spider emblem different than you remember–much sharper than your Miguel’s geometric shapes.

“Who…who are you?” You asked, taking a few steps back and this man following, his eyes never leaving yours. If you searched for a while longer, you would’ve seen a hint of disbelief and hidden fondness.

“Miguel O’Hara. Who are you?” He growled. You gulped flinching when your back hit the wall and his clawed hand struck the space by your head to cage you against him.

You stated your name with a shake of your voice. It seemed to anger him further.

“Don’t lie to me.” He grit his teeth, his lips curled to show his fangs.

“It–It’s not! I swear!” You insisted. “Listen, I can explain. I’m from another dimension. I–I’m part of this society full of other people like us—with spider powers. I got…blasted here by some villain when I was with you—or the variant you–but I’m not here to fight some more.” You sighed, hoping he could have some sense and maybe believe you.

Miguel’s eyes narrowed down at you to search and scan for just an ounce of lying in your tone but he found none. His facade cracked for a moment, almost melancholy and sad before hardening again. He separated from you, standing taller and retracting his talons back to his fingertips. You saw him hesitate to lift his hand up but he decided against it. “How did you get here?” He asked lowly.

You lifted your wrist to show your damaged watch. “It’s more or less a dimension hopping device,” You elaborated. Miguel attempted to slip it off your wrist but you stopped him. “I have to keep it on or else I’ll start glitching and–it hurts.” You laughed nervously a bit at the end. Miguel’s facial expression didn’t waver. He only held your wrist–gently at that– and turned it around to examine it.

“I can fix it.” He murmured nonchalantly with a raise of his reddish eyebrow. You sighed. Even in another dimension, Miguel is just as sure of himself. He looked up to meet your eyes, softer but still guarded. “If you’ll let me.”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes, please, of course. That’d be great. Thank you.” He let go of your hand and turned around to a space in his home where various inventions laid around and you followed suit with big eyes. “Woah… This is..cool.” You mumbled. Miguel looked over his shoulder as he walked, a ghost of a fond smile on his lips when you weren’t looking. Then suddenly, a bright yellow figure popped up. She was life sized with long white blonde hair in a side part with a white long dress.

“Welcome home, Miguel,” She placed her hands behind her back and gave him a dimpled smile. Her smile faltered when she saw you. “Is that–”

Miguel cut her off by introducing your name to her. “She’s from another dimension. That’s all, Lyla.” You couldn’t see Miguels face but you did see Lyla’s–which you were surprised at the stark difference. You saw her eyes glance at Miguel and then stand up a bit taller, her smile coming back. It was as if they had a mutual understanding.

“Of course, Miguel.” She closed her eyes and phased out again, leaving the two of you alone again. Miguel turned around to face you and gestured to a stool by a nearby table. You walked over and sat on it, Miguel grabbing another chair–and a toolbox it seemed–and placing himself beside you. He offered his hand and you gave it to him, your size difference being much clearer. Miguel took off his suit gloves which surprised you once more since your Miguel’s suit wasn’t necessarily standard fabric like this one. But since this one had claws too, the suit must also be made of some technology you’re not aware of.

Miguel took a look inside the damage the claws had done to the watch and began working on it silently. You took the time to notice his features and began comparing it to the other Miguel subconsciously.

The five o’clock shadow you had noticed before was also coming in red. It seemed like this version of Miguel leaned more into his Irish side. His hair was in a short side part, with his fringe falling on his forehead but he didn’t seem to pay any mind to it. The small glances he took at you made you see his eyes more clearly. They were the same red as your Miguel and equally as beautiful.

You pushed that thought away. It was strange to think that way about your boss’ variant, much less your boss himself. You admit he’s handsome–the two of them– and you could also tell that they knew that.

“Had enough staring?” He asked when you turn away to shake off your thoughts. If you didn’t know any better, it’d sound like he was teasing you.

“Have you?” You shot back. “I saw you staring too.”

“I was.” Miguel answered simply. He placed a screwdriver down, popping open the screen and examining it further. “Sorry about that. You…remind me of someone.”

The air had felt heavier. You had a gut feeling and you decided to see if you were right. “Did you know another me?”

Miguel nods, not looking up. “My own you, she passed,” He picks apart the device carefully, making sure to not damage it further. “Seeing you and sensing you…I was convinced you were some villain trying to haunt me. But I know now that it’s not true.” He says with little to no emotion. Maybe he was just hiding it under a facade. It wouldn’t be the first time you were on that end.

“I’m sorry,” You tried to apologize but he stood up, taking a piece of your watch with him.

“Nothing’s really damaged other than the screen. It shouldn’t be a problem to fix.” He says softly, and turns away to another side of the room. You purse your lips, deciding whether or not to play into his bad habits of closing off when he just opened up. You decided the former and asked another question.

“How long will it take?”

He pauses. “Do you hate it here already?”

“What?! No. No, of course not! I mean, I can't hate what I don’t know. Not to say I don’t know you. I know a Miguel just maybe you’re different. Which isn’t a bad thing but it’s just I can’t overstay–I need to go home because that would be invading your space.”

Miguel looks over at you and the corners of his lips are turned up. “I was joking.”

You stop your rambling and frown at him. “Your humor is bland.” Miguel laughs through his nose and shakes his head.

“You’re still the same…” He murmurs to himself. He shrugs off that thought, thinking it was disrespectful to the you that he once knew.

“It won’t take long,” He speaks to you. “I don’t have the exact materials as this but it’s still possible to make them. It should take a couple days. Maybe a little more or less a week.” He pulls up a holographic monitor and touches across the screen.

A week, you thought to yourself, at best. Miguel took another look around the damaged screen he’d plucked off your watch.

“Did I make this?” He looked over at you and you instinctively sat up straighter. “The other me.” He clarified.

“Well, yeah,” You shrugged on one side. “Made the blueprint and had Lyla help make it.”

“Lyla?” He hummed with a raise of his eyebrows. “Hm.” His jaw clenched, feeling a tinge of envy for his counterpart. He did dimensional travel and he had you around? It wasn’t fair. With a click of his tongue, he placed the screen back down and moved away from the table, opting out to type things you couldn’t see on another monitor.

You felt awkward sitting there with nothing to do so you stood up and looked around, keeping a respectful distance from Miguel and his things. You didn’t notice the way he stopped typing and admired you through the reflection of his monitor.

Same curve of your nose, shape of your jaw, same way your eyelashes fluttered. Miguel wished you were a ghost in that moment, maybe then he wouldn’t feel that agonizing itch to hold you again. “Do you…want a change of clothes?” He asked you, pulling you out of your bubble. “I have some of her things still here, lying around.” He offered, trying to appear nonchalant. You looked down at your spider suit. It was a bit dirtied from being thrown around so you could use a pair of comfortable clothes.

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t want to ruin her things or anything.”

Miguel shook his head and made his way out, ushering you to follow him. “I insist. I’d rather her things be used than lying around anyway.” You two had walked into his bedroom again. He opened his bottom drawer and pulled out some shirt and sweatpants. He held onto them a little longer before inhaling and passing them to you.

You looked at the clothes, noting how he looked at them “I really don’t have to wear them–”

“Please.” Miguel insisted. You blinked once and licked your lips, giving him time to make sure before you took it in your hands. You held it close to your chest.

“Bathroom?” You asked. He pointed down the hall and you followed, closing the door behind you and leaving Miguel alone with his thoughts. He rummaged through his drawer to find his own set of comfortable clothes outside his suit. He thought to himself, thinking about you and trying to find any differences. Your nose bridge was different but the tip of it was the same. Your hair texture was the same but you had a slightly different hue.

He didn’t know whether or not he wanted to help you. On one hand, you were the ghost of his past–the figure that taunted him of his failures as Miguel and as Spider-Man. But on the other hand, he missed you. All he ever wanted was to see you again and he wanted to selfishly keep seeing you. He sat at the edge of his bed, battling with his inner thoughts until he heard you come back.

Miguel looked up and got the wind knocked out of his chest. They fit you perfectly like you bought these yourself. You smiled awkwardly at him, thinking it was weird for him to see you in his dead girlfriend's clothes but he just nodded.

“Looks like it fits.” He choked out.

“They do. Thanks, again.” You smiled wearily. One week. He’d enjoy you for one week and maybe–just maybe– ask if you can come back.

Miguel didn't like the fact you offered to stay in his penthouse while he did his Spider-Man duties. Even more so when he knew you didn’t like sitting still either and only offered out of politeness. He guessed that if you were anything like him now, a being with super powers, it meant you also felt a responsibility to do something and help people. So, he invited you to join his patrols.

You declined at first. “I’ve already crashed your universe–”

“Would it kill you to just join me without being so high and mighty?” He asked with a pointed look knowing you were too nice for your own good even in his universe. You sighed through your nose and reluctantly agreed, still feeling awkward around him despite his not so stubble attempts to make you comfortable. Which was strange considering your initial hostile encounter.

For the next few days, it seemed patrolling was a nice bonding time for you two. Surprisingly, you worked well together like he knew just how you worked and acted accordingly. He knew once you spotted a small crime going on, he’d let you get the first punch in since you were a bit competitive. While swinging, he figured out you liked to hang in the air for a moment longer before using your webs again ao he swung at a distance while you could do your flips and jumps. For the entire week, you had forgotten you were technically stranded here but that fact didn’t seem to bother you.

Along with that, Miguel worked on fixing your watch, creating a small wristband that would delay your glitching while he took the device. Eventually, he did fix it and turned it brand new again. You were incredibly grateful and he just smiled softly at you through his shaded glasses. You slipped it on and was prepared to head home when he stopped you and asked if you’d like to go on a final patrol with him. You fiddled with your watch, debating but you did feel a small part of you not wanting to leave him, strangely enough. So, you went.

It had been late by the time you came back to his penthouse, opting to crawl through the window of his bedroom. The night was hotter than expected, both of you leaning on the wall to catch your breaths after ripping off your masks.

“Made sure no one followed?” You asked with a heavy sigh. Miguel propped himself off the wall and leaned over to glance outside the window beside you, his hand placed next to your head and his hand subconsciously held your hip, making you freeze. He didn’t seem to notice even as you stared shamelessly up at him. Miguel’s eyes were focused and sharp, a stark contrast to the way he squinted under his sunglasses during the daytime. His arm by your head flexed as he moved to keep himself steady but the hand on your hip was warm and comforting that left your heart fluttering. Sure, he was handsome–but you couldn’t, right? Right?

Miguel’s eyes found yours again and for a moment was confused why you seemed so stiff. You looked up at him with beady and bashful eyes that made his heart skip a beat. He instinctively looked down at your lips and back to your eyes, his hand moving up to your waist. He hunched over you, caging you to the wall and making you feel the heat radiating off his body. You stared straight even as he closed in on you by your ear, your heart pounding in your chest and down to your abdomen.

“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop.” He whispered by your ear, his thumbs by your waist caressed your hip bone, a subtle reminder of his sweetness underneath his rough exterior. Despite the short time spent together, he was sure you felt something for him after basically living with him. He was still at a distance but with your lack of reply, he took that as an answer and took a step back away from you.

Before he could, you grabbed onto his arms, keeping him in place and close to you. “No,” You said quickly. “No, don’t stop. Please.” You whispered, your heart hammering inside your chest.

Miguel came back to you, his arms securing himself around you, his own heartbeat increasing in speed. “Are you sure?” He asked softly.

You nodded. “Please.” You whispered again. Miguel took one arm off your waist to cup your cheek and tilt it up to face him. You felt heat crawl up to your cheeks meanwhile Miguel looked like he was about to take a bite of the forbidden fruit that was you. He was entranced and a little needy and eager to feel your lips on his again. Despite you being a different version of the one he knew–it was still you. Down to your hair, eyes and lips. Even the way your nose would scrunch in disgust and the way you walked and fiddled with your fingers. It was all still you. He wasn’t going to lose his chance.

So he kissed you.

He kissed you like a man starved, practically bending your back as he curled himself on top of you. You wrapped your arms around his neck to gain some stability while he pulled you close enough for you to go on your tiptoes. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss and his hand left your cheek to bend slightly to pick you up. You got the hint and wrapped your legs around him and Miguel pressed you up against the wall. His growing erection grinding slowly on your clothed heat, making the two of you moan.

Your fingers curled into his fiery hair just the way he liked and his hands grabbed at every piece of flesh he could squeeze in his palms. Miguel’s lips separated from yours, a string of saliva connecting the two of you until he brought his lips down to your neck. You leaned your head back on the wall while he worked his magic, licking and nipping at your flesh with care due to his fangs. You heard him moan, gripping you tighter as he tasted you and your breathing became heavier.

Miguel lifted you off the wall, hurrying towards his bedroom and plopping your body down on the plush, soft mattress. He took your thighs and separated them to see the wet patch seeping out your spider suit. You felt his talons gently probing your skin and his eyes met yours again as he paused.

You nodded once again and with new vigor, he took one clawed hand and slashed the bottom half of your suit apart along with your panties. You gasped.

“Miguel…!”

“I’ll get you ten shocking suits. Just let me have you.” He groaned and delved between your legs. He licked up a stripe and your breath hitched, your hands immediately finding his hair. Miguel felt himself strain in his own suit, bucking his hips pathetically against anything he could find while he ate you out. His tongue probed your entrance and his nose rubbed against your clit that made your arch your back and thrust yourself on his mouth. His fingers joined his mouth in pushing you to your limit, coaxing more moans and whimpers from your pouting lips.

You covered up your mouth with your hand, covering up your face in embarrassment. The sounds of Miguel slurping and licking up your essence made you so much more wet and weak. You squirm underneath his hands and Miguel growls, using his strength to keep your legs in place and apart while he indulges in the taste of you. His eyes are closed, salivating and devouring your juices with every lap of his tongue. His fingers spread your lips open, sliding one finger in and swirling his tongue in your pussy. You clench around his wet muscle and finger, feeling him smirk against you.

Miguel continues to ease his finger inside you, pumping it too slowly for your liking. You whined which made his cock twitch and you pleaded for more. Drunk on your sweetness, he complied and added a second finger, the stretch becoming evident. You arched your back off the bed and you felt Miguel's other hand caress your thigh comfortingly. His moans send vibrations to your clit and grind yourself desperately on him while squealing his name.

“Hmm–Fuck, Mi-ggy…” You whined, pressing your thighs around his head. You felt Miguel pause for a split second, the nickname you’ve given him had gone straight between his legs. He gained more confidence to please you, taking his fingers out to grab your breast and sucking on your clit. The sensation of him forcibly spreading you apart again and the combination of your nipple being tweaked pulled and his tongue made you feel shocks of electricity down your spine. You felt the pit of your abdomen growing with your upcoming climax and you started thrashing around as much as you could with Miguel holding you down.

“Miggy! Fuck–Don’t stop!” As if he would ever, now that he’s tasted your delectable pussy. He only continued the same pace that had you squirming and chasing you high. His fingers teasing your nipples after every swirl of his tongue and the bubble pops inside you.

You scream his name into the air and grip on the sheets beside you while screwing your eyes shut. You humped on his eager mouth, drinking in whatever you gave him with a satisfied hum. He pressed closer to make sure he could lap up as much as he could but still, drips of you slid down his chin and around his lips. You mewled when the high finished and you were left with a sensitive pussy that he still made sure to clean you up with his mouth.

With hazy eyes, you stared at him still between your legs, watching with a smirk as you collected yourself. Miguel swirled his tongue around his lips to clean himself off and even used his hands to scoop up the parts he couldn’t reach to lick it off spotlessly, not a single ounce of your cum going to waste. It made you burn in embarrassment but also gaining a weak pulse to your twitching pussy.

He kneeled over you, drinking in your naked body from the flyaways in your hair to the way your legs shook after just orgasming. His stare was intense and it made you want to hide yourself from just how long he’d been looking at you for. You didn’t know it, but Miguel felt a twinge of heartache in his chest. He missed you–the other you dearly– and it felt strange that in a way you’re still here but different. He felt afraid that this might’ve been on impulse. You look like her, sound like her, but yet you haven’t experienced things with him like her. The you in front of him was, in a way, a whole different woman.

“Miguel?” You gently pulled him out of his mind. Oh, how your eyes still send his heart racing when he looks at you. Your eyes held concern and worry in them. Was he regretting it? Should you stop? It was the opposite. One look at you and Miguel’s worries had faded.

It’s still you down to your core. The one he had truly fallen in love with. In every lifetime and in every universe, he was meant to be beside you. He leaned in to nuzzle against the softness of your neck and pressed a lingering kiss to your jaw. “Nothing,” He eased your worries. “You’re just simply gorgeous.” He murmured and you felt a blush crawl up your neck.

Miguel made his way down your neck to your chest where he continued to leave kisses in his wake. His head of red hair curled slightly from the sweat that had built up between the two of you and it tickled you on his way down. Your bashful state was cut short when he flicked your nipple with his tongue and it made you whimper. Your mind had gone up in the clouds once more when he began suckling on the bud, the nerves of it sending signals to your pussy, making you wet again.

Miguel took a moment to rid himself of his own suit and underwear, returning to please your tender breasts. His knee had gone in between your thighs to push one leg away and his hand delved down to rub your swollen clit. His fingers rubbed in small circles that made you melt and lean your head back while his mouth continued its attack on gently biting your now hardened nipples. Your hands ran through his hair which encouraged him further and you both moaned in unison.

Miguel pulled away from your tits, a small smirk on his lips as he saw the bitemark around your bud beginning to form. His hand left your sopping cunt and licked off the sweet nectar that was you with a hum of his voice. The sight left you shivering and he leaned back down to kiss you, making you taste yourself. You mewled as he forced his tongue inside to find yours in a heated dance. Your eyes rolled back and you pressed your chest up which made him groan when he felt your hard nipples graze his skin.

You felt a blunt poke at your entrance and Miguel pulled away just enough for his forehead to be above yours. He looked into your eyes, another check to see if this is what you wanted–what you both wanted. You nodded again, firmly this time, and he didn’t need another second.

Miguel pushed his fat cockhead between your lips to coat his length before entering it inside you. You winced and Miguel buried himself in your neck, his hand on your hip, caressing you and encouraging you to hold onto him. You wrapped your arms around him as he pushed further inside you, his size being nothing you’ve experienced. “I know, I know,” He shushed you, kissing your neck to distract you. “Such a pretty girl. You can take it, sweetheart.”

You whimpered at his praise, digging your nails in his back that left red crescents behind, a faint click sounding out that neither of you heard when you bumped your hand on his shoulder. “Miguel…” You moaned, spreading your legs further apart while he shook, sliding himself inside you.

Miguel moaned your name back, finally pushing himself to the hilt and his balls slapping your cunt with a wet smack from the combination of your weeping core and his spit. You wiggled your hips at the snug fit and tried to get used to his size but he stopped you, hissing and digging his nails in your flesh to anchor himself from cumming immediately. He kissed your cheeks to ease you while he gently pulled in and out in small strokes.

“More….harder…” You mewled, your walls finally used to his girth and clamping down on his throbbing cock to suck him in deeper. Miguel grabbed your hips and lifted it up with his inhumane strength and began moving, his cock glistening with your slick when he pulled out and hearing it squelch inside your wet cunt when he pushed back in. Your nails scratched at his chest and he grabbed one of your hands to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist. “You’re driving me crazy,” Miguel moaned. “This cunt’s just been waiting to be fucked, huh?” He huffed, slowly gaining speed. When you didn’t respond, he slammed into you and made you scream from his tip hitting your sweet spot. “Yes!” You sobbed, feeling his hands push your legs up to your chest and hammered himself in your pussy. You wrapped your arms around him while he pounded into you, hiding yourself in his neck. The bed creaked below you two, sheets shuffling from the force of Miguel ravaging your body. Miguel rested his arm above your head and held onto your thigh, making sure you were spread open while he adjusted his position to be more comfortable while pistoning his throbbing cock. He let out small grunts and moans, nipping at your neck and being careful with his fangs. With his dick hitting a different spot, you wrapped your legs around his waist to push him deeper. It seemed like even with him stretching your walls and splitting you apart, it was never enough–you wanted more. In the pit of your stomach, you knew you needed to have something more. His fucking was still mind-blowing, his talons gently poking your plush thighs and balls slapping rhythmically to the sounds of your whimpers and cries, which he adored. “So pretty, you sing so pretty for me,” He murmured, choking on his own pleasure as he felt you gushing around him just from the sheer ecstasy that coursed through your veins. “So tight and so warm—oh, god–” He groaned, picking up pace that had you squealing and clenching around him. “Lemme fill this pretty pussy, hm? Can I? Hm?” He moaned, trailing his wet lips down your chest to latch onto your nippled again, His tongue flicking the perky nub and pulling it between his teeth.

“Yes, yes, yes–God, yes–please!” You wailed, your hands scratching his shoulder blades and digging into his skin for purchase while you bucked in time with his thrusting. You eyes rolled back then closing them to focus on the way his cockhead was slamming into your sweet spot at just the pace you liked. You felt Miguel suck on your nipple, switching to the other side to give it equal amounts of attention. You shuttered and cried his name, finally feeling the dam break inside you. “Miguel!” Your vision going white and the euphoria of it washing over your body while you felt your pussy cum all over his length and squeezing him. Miguel let out a guttural groan deep from his throat when he felt you cum and clamp around him. Your cum slicked his cock and pelvis, and he then went faster to reach his own orgasm. You thrashed under him, feeling incredibly sensitive while he kept slapping against your pussy and pounding inside your walls. You moaned that you were just too sensitive, tears collecting at your eyes from overstimulation. He let go of your nipple and kissed you quickly to stop your whining. He lifted his head to watch you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping onto him tightly and whimpering. His eyes were bewitched with the scene of your tits bouncing, bite marks littered across the plump flesh. His eyes scanning down to see your slick making a mess between your legs after cumming, the way small strings connected to his person. But the sight of his massive cock sliding easily inside your pussy, your folds welcoming him by wrapping around him–he snapped from within and came hard. Miguel quickly grabbed the sheets so his talons could rip through them instead of you, his body curling as he let out a final groan and his cock spurted his seed in you. He continued to pump his load, feeling his cock soften and twitch out the rest of himself in strings of salty cum–a white ring forming on the base of his dick. He huffed, shaking as he made sure all of his cum stayed inside you. When he pulled out, a small white string connected from his tip to your pussy, slipping apart when he was far away enough. He watched the mess between your legs for a moment, breathing heavily as his seed oozed out of your folds and his heart began to beat a little bit faster.

Miguel carefully lifted himself off the bed to go to the bathroom and returned with a towel to clean between your legs. He carefully wiped your clean, being extra careful around your abused pussy. He watched you to make sure you weren’t in any discomfort, but you nearly fell asleep with how gentle he was. Miguel tossed the soiled towel into his hamper and slid back into bed with you. He brought you into his chest while he laid on his back, and he brought his covers up to your chin. You wrapped yourself around him and he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, his hand running up and down your arm soothingly.

For a while, neither of you spoke, a strange comforting silence in the air. That is, until Miguel broke it.

“Miggy?” He asked. You grunted, still half-asleep and barely conscious.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, thinking it was rude of you to call him something so casually. Miguel huffed and looked down at you, his other hand petting your hair back.

“No, no. I didn’t mind. It was cute,” He smiled even if you couldn’t see it. “Do you…think you could stay?” He asked hesitantly.

His question made you wake up, the tone had gone a little serious but you knew what he meant. “I can’t,” You whispered and you felt his chest deflate. You felt horrible but you knew better than to stay in a dimension that wasn’t yours. “But…maybe I could come back?” You offered.

Miguel stiffened and you heard his heart beating faster. “Really?” You nodded and snuggled against his chest.

“I can’t stay but it’s not against the rules to visit other dimensions.”

Miguel scoffed at the mention of rules but if he got to see you again then that’s all that matters. “Will you go in the morning?” He asked, hoping you’d say no.

“I think I’ll stay a while.” You murmured sleepily and Miguel grinned to himself, letting you sleep peacefully in his arms.

While you had fallen asleep in the comforting arms of your boss’ variant, you failed to notice the shutter of your watch clicking off from a call.

Miguel O’Hara, leader of the Spider Society and the one who had been looking for you all this time, was sitting alone in his office panting heavily. Sweat accumulated on his forehead and thighs, a hue of crimson across his cheeks as he let go of his softening cock. Splatters of his cum, drenched his hand and desk and he groaned realizing what he had done.

He hadn’t meant to spy on you and your intimacy with whoever you wanted. He wasn’t expecting to hear from you after losing you on a mission, much less moaning his name. At first, he was relieved that you were alive and was about to speak until you squealed his name so sweetly. Miguel froze, wondering if you somehow got home and didn’t tell him. Whatever you did on your time was yours, but you were calling out to him. Eventually he learned it wasn’t him, but a different version. He debated whether to click out or not but some sick and twisted emotion inside him reveled in the way you begged and writhed underneath his variant.

Miguel had phased his hardening cock out of his suit and began pumping it slowly in time with his variants thrusts. He focused solely on you rather than the man that looked nothing like him. Another sick thought in his head wished his variant looked more like him, so he could imagine himself fucking you properly. Miguel made sure he was muted as he grunted and cursed under his breath, muttering praises to you in Spanish he knew you couldn’t hear. He made sure to edge himself, wanting to cum when he heard you scream his name. He bursted a fat load onto himself and the desk as you cried out your orgasm, watching you throw your head back and clutch onto his variant while you shook violently around his cock.

He grit his teeth, jealousy brewing in his heart at how hard you came. He could do better.

Once his mind had cleared up, he blushed heavily, shame overcoming his previous desires and covered his face. Despite being alone, he felt someone watching–which was hypocritical given what he had done. Before he ended the call, he traced your coordinates to find where you had been stranded all this time. Tomorrow, he’d find you and get you back.

A/N: i'm a proud lover of all versions of miguel !!!!! please be patient for part 2 🙏

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderman #miguel spiderverse #miguel ohara #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut

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shadyfestivalperfection · 2 days ago

Text

“That’s Not Me… Is It?” ~Oneshot

Summery: Bucky accidentally stumbles onto your secret Tumblr—filled with fanfiction about him.From soft tropes to unholy smut, he dives headfirst into the world of fics, fluff, and feelings.Now you’re writing stories together… and maybe living one, too.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

||Part 2: softvibraniumdaydreams||

The night had started so peacefully.

You’d had the rare luxury of an empty common room at the Avengers compound, a warm blanket over your legs, and a mug of peppermint tea steaming gently at your side. The lights were dimmed low. Outside, New York traffic whispered beyond the windows. The tower was asleep.

And so was your dignity.

Your fingers hovered over your laptop’s touchpad, scrolling down a page littered with pink fonts, emojis, and hearts. Tumblr.

But not just Tumblr.

Your blog. Your secret, sacred space. A fanfic archive so shamelessly devoted to one James Buchanan Barnes, you were surprised it didn’t explode every time he entered the room.

Your eyes trailed the text you’d been reading — a new fic from your favorite writer, updated only an hour ago. Your cheeks heated as your brain processed the paragraph:

“He growled, metal fingers curling around your wrist like it was the most delicate thing in the world — dangerous, yes, but reverent. Possessive. Like he’d tear the world apart just to protect what was his.”

You choked lightly on your tea.

“Jesus,” you whispered, adjusting your blanket. “Who writes this stuff?”

A beat.

You bookmarked it.

Instantly.

You were mid-way through a scene involving Bucky in a henley and nothing else when your stomach gave an ill-timed grumble. You paused. The craving hit like a freight train: popcorn. Chocolate. Something salty and sweet to match the spicy chaos on screen.

“Screw it,” you muttered, pausing the scroll.

You set the laptop gently on the coffee table — still glowing, still open to the very sentence where fictional Bucky was threatening to ruin the reader against a fridge — and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

You didn’t hear the footsteps in the hall.

Didn’t hear the water droplets hitting the floor from a damp towel.

Didn’t hear the soft intake of breath as a certain ex-assassin entered the room.

But he saw everything.

⸻

Bucky Barnes had only been looking for water.

Fresh out of the shower, his hair damp and sticking to his temples, he was still towel-draped and low-energy when he stepped into the common area — expecting it to be empty. He planned to grab a drink, maybe sneak back to his room without interacting with anyone.

What he didn’t expect was the open laptop glowing like a beacon of doom.

Curious, he stepped closer.

At first, he thought it was some kind of classified document. A mission report maybe. The layout was unfamiliar. A little… glittery.

Pink font?

He squinted.

There were hearts in the sidebar. Tags. Gifs of himself shirtless.

And then he saw the title:

“Touch Me and Die (or Don’t): A Bucky Barnes x Reader Smutty Slowburn”

Bucky froze.

“…What the hell is Tumblr?”

The site had a comment section. Notes. Hundreds of little usernames like wintersdaddy89 and metalarmforyou reblogging the post with keysmashes and emojis.

He frowned and scrolled.

“He moved with lethal grace, metal hand clamping down on your thigh as he whispered, ‘You belong to me.’”

“…Oh hell no,” he muttered.

He blinked, face growing steadily redder as the next sentence described something involving whipped cream and the kitchen counter. His name was in it. HIS NAME.

He scrolled back to the top.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS A YANDERE—?”

“Hey, Buck, I—OH MY GOD!”

The popcorn bowl in your hands launched itself into the air like a missile. Kernels rained down over the rug in a sad cascade of snack death.

You looked from the screen to Bucky’s wide-eyed stare. He was clutching your laptop like it had just insulted his mother.

“…What is this?” he asked, voice pitched halfway between horror and betrayal.

Your soul departed your body.

“Nope,” you said, lunging forward. “Give it!”

He dodged you with the grace of a man who once assassinated heads of state. “Y/N,” he said, holding the laptop above his head. “Are these—stories? About me?”

You froze mid-lunge. “…I can explain.”

“Please do.”

“They’re… fanfictions.”

He blinked. “Which is…?”

You sighed and sat down, burying your face in your hands. “Made-up stories. People write them about characters. Sometimes real people. It’s a thing.”

Bucky stared at the screen again.

“Do I actually growl this much?”

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “I didn’t think you’d see it.”

He sat down beside you, laptop still in his lap. His expression was unreadable.

“So you do read this stuff?”

You mumbled, “Sometimes.”

He nodded slowly.

“…Alright,” he said. “Educate me.”

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned back on the couch, scrolling slowly. “We’re reading them together now.”

—

An hour later, Bucky Barnes was deep into his seventh trope.

He’d read fluff.

He’d read angst.

He’d been a florist, a mechanic, a single father with a child named Muffin, and at least three different versions of himself with memory loss and deep emotional trauma.

And now, apparently, he was in a story where you died in his arms.

“He held her close, trembling, whispering promises he’d never get to keep. Her blood stained his hands. Again.”

You sniffled. “That one gets me every time.”

He looked shaken. “Why do they keep killing you?”

“I dunno. Feels poetic?”

“It feels like a gut punch.”

He kept scrolling.

“Oh god. Here’s another one with a baby.”

He sighed, reading aloud:

“Bucky held little Muffin to his chest, whispering, ‘You have her eyes, you know.’”

“…This is the third Muffin.”

“Don’t question it,” you whispered. “Just let it happen.”

He read the soulmate one next. The one where he sees color the moment he meets you. You had to pause halfway because he stopped breathing at the sunrise scene.

And then came the dark!Bucky tag.

He clicked with a gleam in his eye.

“This one says I kidnap you.”

“That’s a popular trope,” you said weakly. “Dubcon is… a thing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You read that?”

You turned bright red. “Not often!”

“…You bookmarked it.”

“BETRAYED BY THE NOTES COUNT.”

—

You should’ve known better.

Really. Truly. Deep down, some part of your soul knew the second Bucky Barnes sat beside you with your Tumblr blog open, it was only a matter of time before he stumbled into… the abyss.

And stumble, he did.

One misclick. That’s all it took.

You were busy defending Muffin’s existence when Bucky’s finger landed — fatefully, tragically — on a fic tagged simply:

soft dom!bucky | smut | praise kink | ‘gonna ruin you’ energy

A pause.

You blinked.

He blinked.

“…What is this?” he asked cautiously, eyes scanning the screen. “Why is it tagged NSFW?”

You choked. “It’s… not for—uh—well, it’s for adults.”

He started reading.

“‘His voice dipped low, gravel against silk, as he leaned in close—’”

He blinked again.

“‘—his metal fingers tightening around your throat with possessive hunger—’”

You lunged. “YOU DON’T HAVE TO READ THAT—”

“No,” he said, like a man on a mission. “I need to know what people think I do with my fingers.”

You slapped your hand over your face.

The silence that followed was broken only by scrolling.

A beat.

Two.

Then:

“…Am I biting someone’s thigh?”

You squeaked. “It’s fiction! It’s not real! That’s artistic license!”

“Artistic—?” He turned red. So, so red. “I say that in this?!”

He pointed at the screen.

“‘Gonna ruin you for anyone else, sweetheart.’”

You nodded meekly. “That one’s pretty popular.”

He slowly turned his head toward you.

“…Have you read this one?”

“…No.” (You had.) “Okay, yes.” (Multiple times.) “Don’t judge me, okay?!”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

Then—his hand lifted. And he hurled a couch pillow straight at your face.

You burst into laughter so loud it echoed.

—

Somehow, it was now 2 a.m.

You and Bucky were draped over the couch like two feral creatures surviving on popcorn, emotional trauma, and fanfiction-induced whiplash.

The laptop was balanced between you.

You’d read every trope imaginable.

Amnesia Bucky? ✔️

Fake dating Bucky? ✔️

Accidental baby acquisition? ✔️

Soulmates, reincarnation, enemies-to-lovers? ✔️✔️✔️

One bed? You nearly passed out.

Bucky had started keeping score.

“Okay,” he said, finishing another fic. “That’s nine times I’ve died, three Muffins, and two bathtub confessions.”

You wiped a tear. “You forgot the cowboy AU.”

He groaned. “I blacked that one out.”

“No, you lassoed me with a flannel and said, ‘You’re mine, darlin’.’ I remember it vividly.”

His face fell into his hands. “Why is Tumblr allowed.”

⸻

You leaned back, stretching your arms with a yawn, when Bucky suddenly stilled.

“…Wait.”

You turned. “What?”

He clicked.

Another tab. Another fic.

You peered over.

And there it was.

A new fic, different author, different tags.

But the pairing?

Sam Wilson x Reader

Bucky blinked.

He gasped. “SAM HAS FANFIC?!”

Y/n clicked faster.

The fic started sweet. You were a new recruit. Sam was your guide. There were coffee shop scenes. Shared smiles. Mutual pining.

Then—fireworks on a rooftop.

“And this time, he finally stayed.”

The two of you squealed.

Like children.

Like banshees.

Bucky grabbed a pillow and shouted into it. You kicked your legs like it was 2009 and this was One Direction.

Which is exactly when Sam walked in.

The water bottle crinkled in Sam’s hand as he stopped in the doorway.

He stared.

You and Bucky were tangled up under a blanket, laptop glowing between you, eyes misty with emotion.

“…Are you crying over fanfiction?”

Bucky looked up, wild-eyed. “No.”

You sniffled. “Yes.”

Sam slowly took a sip of water.

Then—deadpan:

“You guys are so weird.”

He turned and walked out.

Neither of you could stop laughing for ten minutes.

—

It started subtle.

Bucky’s phone usage increased. He was asking more questions.

“Hey, what’s a ‘slowburn’?”

“Why do I keep dying in the ‘hurt/comfort’ tag?”

“Do people really like the ‘knife kink’ thing or are they just messing with me?”

Then came the moment you found him sitting in the compound kitchen — coffee untouched — staring intently at his phone.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

He looked up.

Paused.

Then flipped the screen toward you.

Tumblr.

A blank blog page.

Username: @softvibraniumdaydreams

Bio: “Not a writer. Just a man who needs closure.”

Header: A low-res photo of a cat holding a knife.

Icon: Your Bitmoji. He’d clearly stolen it.

“…You made a blog?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Had ideas.”

You leaned over, scrolling through his first posts.

• Post #1: “Why do people keep giving me a tragic backstory? I already have one.”

• Post #2: 450-word drabble about holding hands in silence after a mission

• Post #3: “Stop killing my fictional girlfriends 2k25.”

You grinned. “You’re one of us now.”

He smirked, that familiar glint in his eye. “God help me.”

—

Three days later, he posted it.

“First fic is live. Be kind.”

You clicked on the link.

It was… beautiful. Quiet. Poetic.

Set after the war. The reader couldn’t sleep. Bucky made tea. He held her hand. They didn’t kiss. They just sat — their shadows stretching across the floor as dawn began to rise.

“He didn’t say ‘I love you,’ but it echoed anyway, loud in the silence between their palms.”

You stared at the screen.

Breathed out.

And then reblogged it.

Your comment:

“Sorry (not sorry) for making you read smut at 1 a.m. 💕 Let’s write one where you get a happy ending.”

Minutes later, he tagged you in a new post:

Collab coming soon:

Bucky finally gets the girl. And this time, no one dies. 💌

-to be continued

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