#which is skinned in holograms | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tteotlma · 8 months ago

Text

craving control

— neither of you could resist what was always meant to happen.

alpha!bucky x omega!reader (9.2kw)

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, dubcon a/b/o dynamics, possessive behavior, biting/marking, power dynamics, including praise kink, size kink, rough intimacy, physical restraint, sexual tension, emotional dependency, desperation, and themes "feral, uncontrollable need.", elements of mating/claiming, explores intense feelings of vulnerability and submission.

a/n: honestly,, i have no words -- weeks in the making and im not satisfied w how this turned out. like when you stare at something for too long. and it starts to look weird

———

On the day of Bucky’s arrival, it was safe to say the only one truly excited was Steve. The air in the compound felt charged, heavy with anticipation and unspoken tension.

Tony walked up beside you and Nat by the massive window, the sharp scent of machine oil mingling with his expensive cologne as he wiped stubborn grease from his hands. Years of working together had made their commanding presence familiar and comfortable, like the steady hum of lab equipment around you.

The window shook as debris kicked up from the descending helicopter, which was landing in the middle of the field. Tony inhaled deeply, his dark eyes meeting yours and Nat’s with a characteristic assessing look that instinctively made others straighten their spines. Nat smirked and raised an eyebrow, prompting a small smile from you, though you couldn't fully shake the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

The helicopter door slid open in slow motion as Steve emerged, his broad shoulders and confident stride capturing every gaze in the vicinity. He turned and, stepping out behind him, a dark figure followed—a stark contrast, night to Steve's day. The moment Bucky appeared, the air seemed to shift—a raw, untamed energy that made your breath catch and your pulse quicken. Even from a distance, there was something different, something dangerous about him, that made your skin prickle with awareness, and your fingers curl tightly around the tablet in your hands.

"Disperse, disperse," Tony muttered, his natural authority causing everyone to instinctively move as he turned away. The others followed suit, including an omega technician who stumbled in their haste to appear busy at their station.

You turned back to your workstation, pressing your palms to the cool steel table to ground yourself. You could feel Steve and his companion approaching—Steve’s familiar warmth contrasting sharply with the newcomer’s intensity.

The familiar scents of solder and circuitry should have been calming, but they couldn't quite mask the oncoming storm of Steve’s sunlit warmth mixed with something darker and wilder—like pine needles and leather and crisp winter air.

When the main doors opened, the room was flooded with alpha energy, subtle yet impossible to ignore, like fog rolling in at dawn. "Guys, this is Buck," Steve said, the sound of his hand landing on leather echoing in the sudden quiet.

"Bucky," came the correction—a voice like gravel over silk, sending a shiver down your spine as you gripped your soldering iron tighter, the metal warm against your suddenly trembling fingers. It wasn’t their presence that unsettled you; it was the way your instincts responded before you could think.

Nat’s silent approach gave her the air of a predator as she circled closer. "Barnes," she acknowledged, her voice cold and steely. The space between them crackled with unspoken assessment, neither yielding nor challenging.

"Good to see you again, Robocop," Tony called out, his voice cutting through the tension. His hologram's blue glow cast shadows over his face as he peered over his glasses. "Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable." His words, casual yet sharp as ozone before a storm, hung in the air.

“The rest of you, back to work—we have a deadline,” Tony added with a wave of his pen, and like magic, the lab resumed its rhythm, though the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted.

You bent over your work, hyper-focused on the tiny components scattered across your station, but every nerve seemed attuned to Bucky’s presence. The familiar lab scents—hot metal, coffee, and sharp electronics—were muted beneath this new awareness.

"Y/n~" Steve’s warm, knowing voice rolled through the space, and your fingers stilled on the circuit board, your heart stuttering. The approaching footsteps seemed to echo with your pulse, each step tightening the coil in your shoulders. That scent—leather and pine now mixed with something metallic and sharp—grew stronger, drying your mouth.

You managed a confident smile and turned, only for Steve to pull you into an embrace, lifting you slightly off your feet. His familiar scent—soap and sunshine—wrapped around you like a blanket, momentarily drowning everything else.

"Missed ya, kiddo," he murmured, affection coloring his tone. Warmth bloomed in your chest, and you relaxed into his comforting presence.

"Missed you too, Cap," you managed with a breathless laugh as he set you down. Movement caught your eye—Bucky shifting behind Steve—and that new awareness crashed back like a wave. You met his gaze for a split second before he looked away, but that brief connection felt electric. His storm-gray eyes held something untamed that made your knees weak.

“Buck, this is Y/n,” Steve introduced. “Y/n, Buck.” The contrast between them was dizzying—Steve's golden warmth beside Bucky's winter-sharp presence. Suddenly, your workspace felt too small, the air heavy with unspoken things.

"Bucky," he repeated, his voice rougher up close, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. He stepped closer, hands at his sides, yet his presence seemed to fill the entire space around you. The fluorescent lights reflected off the plates of his metal arm, casting shifting shadows. Your throat felt dry, and you resisted the urge to fidget with your tools.

Steve’s voice cut through the thick tension, either unaware of it or ignoring it. "Listen, I tried the magnets again," he said, the sound of leather hitting steel making you jump slightly as he tossed his gloves onto your workstation. His worn leather scent mingled with Bucky’s, making focus difficult.

You raised an eyebrow, grateful for the distraction. "And...?"

"And I hate it." He rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the tension. "It's just not the same."

You glanced between the gloves and Steve's sheepish expression, ignoring how Bucky’s gaze seemed to track your every movement. Even without looking directly at him, you felt his attention like static electricity, raising goosebumps along your arms.

"Think you could just yank 'em out for me?" Steve asked with that irresistible smile, though your attention kept drifting to Bucky, who stood silent and watchful.

You scoffed and shook your head, stepping around the counter to switch on the table light. Sitting on the stool across from Steve, you shot him a look.

“Fine, fine,” you said, picking up the gloves. “Guess you still have a chance to dread the day I say no.”

Steve grinned. “I don’t even wanna think about it.” He gestured subtly towards Bucky. “Figured you could handle this too. Bucky’s got some gear that might need adjustments.” It wasn’t a command, just Steve’s assumption that Bucky would be sticking close.

“Sounds good. I’ll find some time this week to schedule you in, so we can see what I’m working with,” you said, motioning to his arm.

“Okay,” Bucky replied, his voice low with a hint of warmth.

---

That was two weeks ago. Since then, you’d been buried in projects with Tony and Banner, testing prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark’s tech.

Missions came and went, but you mostly stayed at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and keeping Stark's experiments from exploding (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet lately, your normally steady hands trembled at unexpected moments, your concentration slipping at the sound of familiar footsteps in the corridor.

There wasn’t much time for that one-on-one work with Bucky you’d promised, though you occasionally glimpsed him around the compound. Still finding his footing here, he was a shadow at Steve’s side, quiet and watchful. Tony would drag him into the lab occasionally to discuss modifications—if he wanted any.

You tried not to notice how his eyes found you whenever he was in the lab, lingering until you accidentally met his gaze. At first, he’d look away, jaw tightening as he focused on whatever Tony was explaining. But minutes later, you’d feel it again—his attention like a compass pointing north.

In brief hallway encounters, your greetings came out softer than intended, his response a quiet rumble that stayed with you long after he walked away. One time, both of you reached for the lab door handle simultaneously. His fingers brushed yours, sending electricity up your arm. He pulled back, muttering an apology before disappearing around the corner, abandoning whatever awaited him in the lab.

It was ridiculous how such small moments left you distracted for hours.

Then one morning, Tony burst into the lab, with Steve following closely behind, practically dragging a reluctant Bucky.

“Hey, kid,” Tony called out, startling you. You lifted the magnifying goggles off your face, welcoming the cool air. Banner, hunched across the table with identical goggles, glanced up briefly.

“Please tell me we have Barnes’ baseline readings from when he got here,” Tony said, his tone implying a slight scolding. You looked at Banner, embarrassed. When you shook your head, Tony groaned dramatically.

“Seriously? Three weeks and—“ He took a deep breath, hands on his hips as he surveyed the cluttered lab, evidence of recent activity. “Okay, that’s on me. Fixed. Now.” He practically pushed Bucky onto the stool beside your workstation.

“Do your thing. Science, data, all that—" Tony trailed off, looking at Banner, who took the cue and clumsily exited, engaging Tony in a transparently forced conversation about a new gadget. Steve left shortly after, flashing an encouraging smile that made your cheeks burn.

The moment they left, the lab felt impossibly smaller. Bucky shifted slightly behind you, and though he was quieter than quiet, his presence seemed to fill every inch of space around you. He kept a respectful distance, but it didn’t matter—you could feel him, each breath and subtle movement stirring the air, making your skin prickle with awareness.

Your hands trembled slightly as you pulled up the diagnostic programs. "I'll need to..." you began, voice softer than you intended, "run some basic tests first. It might take a while." Turning toward him, you found his storm-grey eyes already fixed on you, dark and intent.

“Okay,” he replied, his gaze heavy and unrelenting, as though he was trying to read the thoughts you couldn’t quite form. Your throat tightened under the weight of his stare, and your hands instinctively curled into fists to ground yourself.

“I’ll need you to…” You gestured vaguely, your voice catching. “You’re gonna have to take off your sh-shirt. Just... so I can get a better look.” Your voice faltered, and heat bloomed across your cheeks.

For a beat, Bucky didn’t move. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached behind his neck, tugging the navy henley over his head. The fabric slid away, revealing his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, veiled by the thin fabric of his white tank. The subtle shift of his muscles as he moved sent a quiet jolt through your system, making your breath catch.

He tossed the henley carelessly over his shoulder, and you tried—desperately—to stay focused.

“Extend your arm for me,” you murmured, the words coming out softer than intended. He complied with that same quiet grace, his frame stiffening as you gently adjusted his arm.

Without thinking, you stepped between his legs, close enough that your hips grazed his thighs. The heat of his body radiated toward you, and the scent of pine, winter air, and leather curled around you, heavy and dizzying.

Bucky shifted again—a slow, unconscious movement as he spread his legs a little wider, as if making room for you without realizing it. The gesture was likely nothing, but to you, it felt far too intimate, and it took all your willpower not to react to the heat pooling in your belly.

You focused on the smooth metal of his arm, running your fingers along the seams and joints, marveling at the precision of its construction. His hand found your waist. The touch was light at first, perhaps just to steady himself, but his palm lingered, broad and warm over your lab coat.

The weight of his hand sent a shiver up your spine, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin. His thumb brushed the hem of your coat where the white fabric met your wine-colored shirt, as if testing its texture. Your breath caught involuntarily.

Slowly, your gaze traveled from his fingertips up the seams of his arm to his face. When you looked up, his eyes were already on you—dark, intense, unreadable, but consuming. His gaze dropped briefly to the curve of your collarbones peeking through your shirt before flicking back to meet your eyes, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

The room shrank around you, the tension pulling taut—an invisible thread tugging you closer. Neither of you spoke; neither of you moved.

The air between you stretched, heavy and charged, the weight of his hand on your waist making it impossible to focus on anything but him. His thumb grazed the edge of your shirt again—soft, deliberate—and you swore the world slowed down, teetering on the edge of something inevitable.

The comm system beeped, loud and sudden, shattering the moment. Both of you jerked slightly, like surfacing from deep water.

"Y/N?" Tony’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Banner needs you in the main lab—now."

Bucky’s hand slipped from your waist, his jaw clenching as though grounding himself. You took a step back, heart pounding, the absence of his touch making the space between you feel colder and emptier than it should.

Clearing your throat, you looked anywhere but at him. “I–uh, I should go.”

He nodded once, slow and unreadable, as you turned quickly, your hand dragging hesitantly down his arm, slipping out of the room before the tension could pull you back in.

You slipped out of the room, heart still racing, Bucky’s presence clinging to you like static electricity. Even as you tossed and turned in bed later that night, the moment lingered—his hand on your waist, his scent in your lungs, and the weight of his gaze heavy on your mind.

That evening clung to you like a live wire beneath your skin, but the next few days brought subtle shifts in the compound's atmosphere. Where Bucky once moved like a shadow, now he inhabited spaces differently. During morning briefings, you noticed him leaning against workbenches instead of standing guard by the wall, his gaze still watchful but carrying something new—curiosity, maybe.

Since that evening in the lab, you buried yourself in projects with Tony and Banner, testing new prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark's tech. Small out-of-town missions came and went, but you remained rooted at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and preventing Stark's experiments from turning into full-blown disasters (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, focus had become a luxury you couldn't afford. Your usually steady hands betrayed you, trembling at the worst moments, especially whenever familiar footsteps echoed down the corridor.

If Bucky did come into the lab, there weren’t many opportunities for one-on-one work, though you’d catch fleeting glimpses of him. He still seemed to be finding his footing, a shadow at Steve’s side—quiet and observant, as if measuring every person and place before stepping too close. Occasionally, Tony would bring him into the lab to discuss possible modifications, though Bucky seemed reluctant, deflecting with grunts and unreadable glances.

But it was impossible to ignore how his eyes always sought you out. Whenever he entered the room, your senses sharpened, drawn to him without permission. His gaze lingered a second too long—enough to make your stomach flip, your pulse flutter beneath your skin. But whenever you met his eyes, he’d glance away, his jaw tightening as if wrestling with something unspoken. Yet, moments later, you’d feel the pull again—his attention returning like a compass that couldn’t help but point north.

This awareness began to happen outside the lab too, in brief, inconsequential encounters that left you unraveled. Once, passing each other in the hallway, your soft greeting was met by his low, rumbling reply, curling around your senses long after he’d disappeared. Another time, reaching for the same door handle, his fingers brushed yours, the shock of contact sending electricity racing up your arm. He pulled back as though burned, muttering an apology before vanishing without explanation. You stood there, stunned, wondering how such a fleeting touch could leave you restless for hours.

Each day made it harder to maintain composure. It was as if your body had developed a traitorous awareness of him—heart stuttering beneath your ribs, skin flushing at the slightest thought of him, senses sharpening to track his movements before your mind even registered he was near. No matter how hard you tried to lose yourself in work, even Tony’s endless stream of projects couldn’t silence the way your pulse leapt whenever Bucky’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.

These changes appeared in fragments—a barely-there smile when Tony's prototype backfired, sparks shooting across the lab; the way his shoulders lost their rigid set when Steve drew out his dry humor during mission prep. Each small victory revealed another layer beneath the soldier’s facade.

Your paths began crossing more often. Sometimes, he’d appear in the kitchen during your late-night tea runs, nursing coffee while reading news on a tablet. His silent nods evolved into a new half-smile that never failed to make your heart race. His scent—pine and leather—began to carry warmer notes, softening from sharp winter to something more approachable.

Then, when Sam suggested movie night, every instinct screamed at you to decline. The thought of being in an enclosed space with Bucky—away from the clinical safety of the lab, surrounded by comfortable, dim intimacy—made your stomach flutter with anxious energy. But before you could find an excuse, Nat flashed you a knowing smile, firmly pulling you from your workstation. You barely had time to protest.

Now, nestled between Nat and Sam on the couch, you tried to focus on the movie, but your attention kept drifting across the room to him. Bucky sat in an armchair like he owned the space, his relaxed body only making him look more dangerous. His legs were spread wide, one arm draped over the back, the other resting on his thigh—a casual pose that somehow felt deliberate.

You told yourself to stay present, to engage with Nat and Sam’s easy banter, but Bucky’s presence made it impossible. His scent—faint but unmistakable—hovered at the edge of your awareness, a mix of pine, leather, and something deeper that spoke to a part of you beyond reason.

Then it happened. During a lull in the movie, when everything fell quiet, you felt it—his gaze.

A pulse of heat spread through your chest, as if an invisible thread had tugged you toward him. You risked a glance, only to find him already watching you. Even in the dim light, his storm-gray eyes were locked on yours, intense and unwavering. His expression was unreadable, but there was a weight to his stare that made your pulse stutter and breath catch in your throat.

The flickering blue light of the TV softened the sharp lines of his face, but it did nothing to dull the tension humming between you. For a moment, it felt like the room had fallen away, leaving only the two of you in the dark—silent, secret, caught in a moment neither dared to acknowledge.

You tried convincing yourself he wasn’t really looking at you, that maybe he was watching Sam or had drifted off into thought. But the flip in your stomach, the way your pulse fluttered beneath your skin, told a different story.

Bucky didn’t look away. His stare held steady, as if something deep and instinctual was keeping him tethered to you—as though he was drawn to you in the same way you were to him. The connection between you wasn’t just a passing glance. It felt ancient, inevitable, as if some unseen force had been guiding you to this moment long before either of you realized it.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t quite define, and you were certain that even if you could name it, neither of you was ready. Your scent, warm and sweet, had changed in subtle ways—just enough for Bucky to notice, to make his chest tighten with a growing certainty. This wasn’t just attraction; it was recognition. Instinct. Raw instinct clawed through him, responding to the quiet, subtle shift in yours. You were close—too close—and every part of him, from the deepest part of his mind to the tension winding through his muscles, felt it.

The spell broke when Steve shifted on the couch beside him, dragging you both back to reality. You blinked, heart hammering as you tore your gaze away, heat blooming beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire, a faint sheen of sweat on your brow.

You swallowed hard, trying to refocus on the movie, but the moment lingered like a phantom touch. Even as you stared straight ahead, you could feel the weight of his gaze, its memory humming along your nerves, leaving you restless and aching in ways you didn’t understand.

When the movie ended, you escaped as quickly as you could, muttering a rushed “good night” and fleeing to your room, hoping the familiar comfort of your own space would ground you. But even surrounded by your belongings, wrapped in your own scent, you couldn't quiet the hum of awareness thrumming beneath your skin.

Bucky's scent clung to you, lodged in your senses like a memory you couldn’t shake. Pine, leather, and something darker—something wild that kept teetering you on the brink of losing control. There was something building inside you, a slow-burning awareness you weren’t ready to acknowledge, hoping no one else could sense the change taking hold of you.

Each encounter with him pulled at something deep within you, like a tide responding to the moon. His scent overshadowed everything, lingering in your senses long after he was gone.

And Bucky—you noticed everything now, every detail sharp and vivid, though you tried to convince yourself you were reading too much into it. The way his eyes lingered a second too long—but of course, people always stared at him. The slight flex of his fingers when you passed by—a habit, surely. The barely audible catch in his breath when you were near—probably just your imagination, heightened by whatever was happening to your body.

Maybe you were imagining the way his carefully controlled demeanor seemed to slip around you—those tiny cracks in his composure you couldn't stop noticing. After all, a man like him, always so disciplined, wouldn’t be affected by someone like you… would he? Yet, something raw beneath his surface called to you, making your heart race whenever he was close. The air felt electric between you, crackling with possibility—even as you tried to tell yourself it was just his effect on everyone, that you weren’t special, that it was just your body playing tricks.

After tonight, you couldn’t deny it any longer. During movie night, his stare had lingered like phantom touches, and your skin had felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents, you couldn’t escape the memory of pine and leather.

And as days passed, it only seemed to worsen. When Fury assigned you to oversee the team’s training equipment and Tony ensured you continued working with Steve, observing Bucky was already inevitable. Watching him felt different than those first weeks. You’d glimpsed the man beneath the careful control—caught fragments of dry humor in mission briefings, witnessed quiet camaraderie with Steve. The dangerous edge remained, but now it felt more… intentional. Like he was choosing to let people see beyond the soldier’s facade, revealing glimpses of the man underneath.

These glimpses made training observation even more daunting. Because now you knew what lay beneath his cool exterior—had witnessed the subtle humor in his eyes, the careful way he was learning to exist in spaces without defending them.

Your fingers trembled against the tablet's smooth surface at the thought of watching him work. Being that close to him during combat training, with his presence at its most intense… The thought alone made your mouth go dry.

Training sessions became their own kind of exquisite torture. Your role was simple—monitor the team’s gear, run diagnostics, and ensure everything functioned. But watching Bucky spar was anything but simple.

Between rounds, you brought him water—a straightforward task that became anything but as his eyes tracked your movement across the training room. Your fitted jacket clung to your curves, and you felt the weight of his stare as you approached. It was refreshing, seeing him like this. The quiet, brooding soldier was still there, but lately, there had been glimpses of something else—a playful charm that felt both dangerous and irresistible.

"Tryna’ keep me hydrated, doc?" His voice was rough from exertion, teasing in a way that sent heat pooling in your stomach. This was the Bucky emerging more and more lately—the one who’d somehow found his footing again, letting his guard down just enough to allow a trace of Brooklyn charm to slip through.

"Can’t have our best asset passing out from dehydration," you managed to reply, proud of how steady your voice remained. When you handed him the bottle, his fingers brushed yours, sending electricity skittering across your skin.

"Our best asset, huh?" He tipped his head back to drink, and you couldn’t help but watch his throat work, beads of sweat trailing down his neck. His eyes met yours over the bottle, darkening as they drifted to where your jacket dipped low. "Like what you see?"

This was dangerous territory—this newfound confidence of his, the way he was testing the waters between playful and flirtatious. "Just making sure you’re drinking enough water," you murmured, but the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you. You wondered if he could hear how your heart stumbled in your chest, if he sensed the hitch in your breath when he licked a stray drop from his lower lip.

He moved with a predator’s grace—smooth, controlled, and lethal. Each punch, each fluid shift of his body, sent a pulse of heat through you. Your throat felt dry as you watched the muscles in his back ripple beneath his fitted shirt, the metal of his arm gleaming under the lights. You told yourself this was normal, that anyone would be affected watching him move like this—but deep down, you knew this was different.

At one point, he had Steve pinned to the mat, his arm flexed, holding Steve in place with ease, chest heaving with exertion. His gaze flicked to you, locking eyes for a split second that sent butterflies surging in your stomach—and a darker, more primal flutter somewhere lower. That slow-burning awareness inside you flared hot and urgent.

Your fingers slipped, and your tablet clattered to the floor with a loud thunk. Everyone turned to look, including Steve, but all you could focus on was the faint grin curling at the edge of Bucky’s mouth. Your face burned with embarrassment, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes—a look that made you wonder if he could sense the changes in you, if he could feel how your body was betraying every attempt at control.

You couldn’t bear to face the team after that display��after dropping your tablet like some starry-eyed recruit. Your skin felt too tight, too warm, your body thrumming with an energy you couldn’t contain. You retreated to your room, but even buried in your own blankets, you couldn’t escape the memory of his knowing smirk, the way his eyes held yours like he knew exactly what was happening to you.

The next few days passed in a haze of mounting tension. Your skin felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents and belongings, you couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental was shifting inside you. Sleep became elusive, your body alternating between feverish and chilled, leaving you restless and aching for... something.

By the time you wandered to the kitchen at 3 AM, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, but sleep remained just out of reach. The compound was eerily quiet at this hour, the hum of electronics the only sound as your slippers whispered across the cool tile.

You sat at the kitchen island, elbows resting on the countertop as you flipped through your options—tea or coffee. Settling on tea, you rose to grab your favorite mug from the cabinet. The dim lighting softened everything, making the space feel smaller, more intimate, as if the night itself carried a promise of something unspoken.

You were so focused on your task that you didn’t hear him approach.

"Can't sleep?"

His voice, low and rough with sleep, startled you enough to make you gasp softly. You whirled around to find him emerging from the shadows, stepping into a sanctuary—one where, in this moment, it felt like only you and he existed. The dim light traced the sharp lines of his face, deepening the shadows beneath his cheekbones and along his jaw.

He wore soft sleep pants that rested low on his hips, and the black shirt clung to his frame, leaving little to the imagination. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier with something you couldn't name—something that thrummed between you, waiting to be acknowledged.

"I…" Your voice faltered, throat dry under his gaze. You cleared your throat and tried again. "Just wanted some tea."

Bucky stepped further into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, like a wolf closing in. For someone so large, he moved with unsettling grace—silent and fluid. "Having trouble sleeping?" he asked, though his question held a depth, as if he were offering more than conversation.

You turned back to the cabinet, reaching for your mug, but your fingers trembled. Before it could slip from your grasp, his hand wrapped around your wrist, steadying you.

"You okay?" His voice was closer now, concern threading through the rough edges.

"Yeah, I’m—" you began, but stopped as you felt his thumb pressing unconsciously against your pulse. The gentle pressure sent electricity dancing up your arm, and you couldn’t help but track how his throat worked as he swallowed.

"Hey," he murmured, voice low. His eyes darkened as they searched your face, and you watched something shift in his expression—recognition, maybe, or realization. His nostrils flared slightly. "You’ve seemed… off lately."

"I'm fine," you managed, but your voice came out breathy, unconvincing. "Just haven’t been sleeping well."

He held your gaze a moment longer, then stepped back slowly, as if it took effort to put distance between you. The absence of his touch left your skin tingling, aching for contact you couldn’t afford to want.

"Maybe some chamomile, then," he suggested, his voice rougher than before. You noticed his fingers curling into fists at his sides, his jaw clenched as he worked to maintain the distance.

You managed a small nod, turning back to the cabinet with unsteady hands. Though he’d released your wrist, he hadn’t moved back far—still standing between you and the island, leaving you caught between his body and the counter. His presence lingered, heavy and warm, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

The small space between you crackled with electricity, making it impossible to focus on the simple task of making tea. The kettle felt too loud in the silence, steam rising like a physical manifestation of the tension thickening the air.

When you finally turned back around, gripping your mug like an anchor, you found his eyes stormy, his jaw set as if he was fighting something within himself. He took a deliberate step back, creating distance that somehow made the air feel even heavier.

"I should…" he started, voice rough. "Let you get some rest." But he didn’t move immediately, as if reluctant to leave.

Something in you wanted to tell him to stay, but the words stuck in your throat. The space between you felt charged, like the air before a storm. His scent—pine and leather—wrapped around you, stronger now, making your head spin.

He moved first, turning toward the entryway with careful control, his movements almost rigid. But he paused at the threshold, his metal hand gripping the wall frame with enough force to make the material creak softly.

"Get some sleep, doll," he said without looking back, his voice carrying something dark and hungry that made your skin prickle with heat. Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the cooling tea and the phantom sensation of his touch still burning around your wrist.

After standing frozen in the kitchen for what felt like hours, you finally forced yourself back to your room. Your skin felt too tight, every nerve hypersensitive as you stumbled through the doorway. The trek down the hallway was torture—his lingering scent clung to your clothes, your skin, leaving you dizzy with desire.

You barely made it to your bed before your legs gave out. The sheets felt rough against your fevered skin, and you kicked them off with a frustrated whimper. Your wrist still burned where he touched you, the memory of his thumb against your pulse making your breath hitch.

Rolling onto your back, you pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But behind closed lids, all you could see was the way his eyes had darkened in the kitchen, the tension in his jaw barely contained. Your body thrummed with awareness, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as waves of heat washed over you.

You forced yourself to breathe deeply, counting each inhale like Banner had taught you during training. One breath, then another, even as your skin prickled with need. The steady hum of the air conditioning became your focus, not the memory of Bucky's voice, rough and low in the darkness.

Slowly, exhaustion won over the fever burning through your veins. Your muscles ached from fighting against the tension, and eventually, your body surrendered to the pull of sleep. The last thing you registered was the ghost of pine and leather clinging to your shirt before darkness claimed you.

Consciousness returned slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The first thing you registered was warmth on your face—sunlight streaming through your windows, casting everything in hues of honey and gold. Your room looked almost dreamlike, dust motes dancing in the amber rays.

As your vision focused, you noticed signs of Banner’s care—a bowl of soup on your nightstand, now cold; several water bottles arranged within reach; and a damp cloth on your forehead, long since losing its coolness. The quiet thoughtfulness of it made your chest tighten with gratitude.

You sat up gingerly, testing your body’s response. The fever hadn’t broken—if anything, it burned hotter now—but the rest had given you enough strength to make you restless, to make the walls of your room feel like they were closing in.

The water bottles mocked you, lukewarm and useless against the heat coursing through your veins. Ice. You needed ice. The thought became an obsession, driving you to your feet despite shaky legs. You pulled on a thin robe over your sleep clothes, ignoring how even the silky material felt too rough against your sensitized skin.

The hallway stretched before you, bathed in that same golden light that made everything feel surreal. Your slipper-clad feet made no sound on the cool floor as you made your way toward the kitchen. The compound felt different—eerily still, as if everyone had vanished. No voices from the labs, no footsteps down corridors. Just silence, with the strange amber glow making everything look softened, dreamlike.

You moved as if in a trance, your body feeling both heavy and weightless. The fever made everything hazy, like you were watching yourself from a distance. Each breath drew in air that felt too thick, too warm, despite the steady climate control.

Your feet carried you forward without conscious thought, your path wavering slightly as you trailed a hand along the wall for balance. The golden light streaming through the windows turned the hallway into something otherworldly, making the simple journey feel infinite.

Then it hit you—pine and leather, winter air and something darker. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, drawn to his scent like a moth to flame.

As you reach the living room, your destination becomes hazy, forgotten. The room opens before you, bathed in honeyed light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hardwood floor gleams like liquid amber, stretching toward where Bucky sits, his broad frame sunk deep into the plush sofa, seeming to melt into the cushions.

His eyes lock onto yours over the book he’d been reading, and even through your fevered haze, you see the way they darken, storm-gray deepening into something darker. Neither of you moves. The air between you feels charged, heavy with unspoken words.

"Y/N," he breathes, your name a warning. His whole body tenses as if to rise, but something keeps him frozen, fingers white-knuckled around the forgotten book. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard. "You shouldn’t—you need to go back to your room."

To him, you must look like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on his self-control. Your silk robe catches the light as you move, revealing glimpses of your tank top and shorts underneath. One sock has slipped down your ankle, and your hair falls messily around your face. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted in shallow breaths.

You take an unsteady step into the room, looking as if you’re floating across the hardwood, each faltering step a deliberate tease. When you reach the armchair, your robe slips further off one shoulder as you grip the chair for support. "I needed…" The words trail off. Did you need ice? Water? Everything feels secondary to the pull you feel toward him.

The room sways slightly beneath your feet. Bucky shifts, fighting the instinct to reach for you. You watch his chest rise with a sharp breath as your scent reaches him, sweet and heavy in the golden air. A bead of sweat trails down your neck, disappearing beneath your tank top.

"You're burning up," he says roughly, his voice holding a darker edge that makes a heat pool in your stomach. His pupils are blown wide as he tracks every small movement of your body.

You attempt to lower yourself into the armchair, but the world tilts. Your knee catches the edge of the coffee table as you stumble, a breathless giggle escaping your lips at your own clumsiness, and your robe slips down to reveal more of your shoulders.

"Shit," Bucky mutters, finally breaking his careful stillness. "You're gonna hurt yourself." He rises in one fluid motion, crossing the space between you in two strides. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. "Let’s get you situated."

"M’okay," you insist, though your legs feel like jelly, and you sway into him unconsciously as your robe slips off completely. His hands finally make contact with your bare arms, and the touch sends electricity racing across your fevered skin. "Just needed to sit..."

"Yeah, I can see that." His voice is strained, almost amused, but you hear the concern underneath. He tries to steady you, guiding you toward the chair, but your knees buckle in that moment.

"Alright—" He catches you against his chest, the sudden contact drawing a small huff from you. You feel more than hear his sharp intake of breath. “You alright?” he asks, peeling you off him, holding you at arm's length.

“Mm—” Your body aches at the loss of heat, eyebrows scrunching in annoyance. You sigh, dragging your gaze up Bucky’s large frame until you meet his darkened eyes. “Yeah, m’fine.” Huffing, you look away.

“Don’t lie.” He steps closer, pulling you in. Your breath hitches.

“I’m not…” Sweat beads on the back of your neck, and a lump forms in your throat. You try to take a deep breath, but with Bucky so close, it’s unbearable. Unknowingly, you grab at Bucky’s shirt, fisting the fabric in your hand.

“Tell the truth.” His gaze drops to where your hand grips his shirt, and something unreadable flickers across his face. He gently pries your fingers from the fabric, his own hands lingering on yours a moment too long. His voice is low, almost a growl. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll.”

The nickname makes your throat tighten, pulse jumping, skin prickling with awareness. You should step back, say something to break the magnetic pull between you, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you lean in closer, closing the small distance between you. God, you wanted him so badly, and it was excruciating.

He inhales sharply, his hands settling on your shoulders, as if to steady you—or maybe himself. “Doll…” The word escapes him again, rough and raw, like he’s barely holding back. “Say something—tell me to leave.” The command is more a plea, his voice thick with barely contained desperation, brows drawn tight in concern.

He watches you, his words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You feel their weight pressing down, his warning wrapped within the plea. Your mind races, considering every reason to step back, every way this could complicate things.

“I—” You rake your hands up his torso, fingers dragging lightly against the fabric of his shirt. Snaking your arms around his neck, you pull him impossibly close, sharing the air between you. Neither of you speaks, neither of you moves. You feel his chest heaving against yours.

“Y/N…” he whispers, almost painfully. His hand, still warm on your arm, travels up to cradle your neck, thumb on your jaw as he tilts your head. His hooded eyes linger on your lips, and you unconsciously lick them. He sucks in a sharp breath.

The golden light streaming through the windows catches in his dark hair, turning the loose strands framing his face into threads of amber. Your hands slide up, fingertips brushing the back of his neck, where his shoulder-length hair falls free, some pieces tucked carelessly behind his ear. You let your fingers tangle in the soft strands, feeling them slip like silk between your fingers. You hesitate for only a second before you whisper, “I need to know I’m not the only one.”

For a heartbeat, he’s utterly still, his eyes searching yours, and then his hand tightens just slightly on your waist, with a tenderness that steals your breath. “You’re not,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose against yours, his voice rough and honest. “Not even close.”

The moment his words register, your last thread of control snaps. You finally, finally meet his lips with all the desperation that’s been building for weeks. A rough sound escapes him, vibrating through your chest as his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss is devastating in its intensity—wild, demanding, and absolutely consuming, like you’re both trying to devour each other whole.

His lips press firmly against yours, the scrape of his stubble rough on your heated skin, and a pained whine escapes your mouth—whether from pain or need, neither of you can tell, but it spurs Bucky on. He deepens the kiss, his hands pressing you closer, tighter.

Your fingers, tangled in his hair, tug at the strands as you push yourself up on your toes, arching into him, your body ignited by his touch. A wave of need crashes through you, driven by every instinct you’ve been holding back, and you’re already pushing him back toward the sofa, your movements frenzied as his hands trace the curve of your waist, his fingers firm and possessive.

As you push him toward the sofa, a flicker of guilt pierces through the fog clouding your mind. It’s quick but sharp, cutting through the pull that’s been building for weeks. Everything’s moving too fast, crossing boundaries you haven’t even had time to define, and the uncertainty knots inside you. But your body refuses to listen, as though it recognizes him in a way your mind can’t fully grasp, holding you close.

You stumble back with him until his legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he sinks down, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his lap. His hands slide up to grip your hips, steadying you as you settle over him. The moment you feel his body beneath you, hard and solid, a fresh wave of heat surges through you, causing you to grind your hips against his slowly, testing the waters.

The guilt slips through the haze once more, cutting into your thoughts like a knife. You press your hands to his chest, fingers splaying over his muscles, and pull back enough to see concern flicker in his eyes.

“Buck,” you whisper, caught between confession and apology. “I wanted us to take our time…” Your hands drift lower, grazing just beneath his shirt’s hem, brushing over the coarse hair trailing downward. The warmth of his skin under your fingertips makes your breath hitch, and a shiver runs through you as you continue, voice softer, more vulnerable. “To let this mean something.”

Your fingers trace over the waistband of his pajama pants, then dip lightly between the open buttons, your touch featherlight, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. His body jolts beneath you, jaw clenching in response. His hands flex on your hips, holding you steady, his gaze dark and hungry, struggling for restraint.

“I can’t… I can’t stop myself,” you murmur, voice thick with need. Yet, your hands betray any hesitation, moving slowly, steadily, opening each button, exposing his skin inch by inch, the heat radiating from him only spurring you on. The admission escapes your lips, almost a whimper. “I feel like I’m losing control.”

Bucky’s breath comes out ragged, his fingers pressing into your skin as he fights to stay steady beneath your touch. “Then lose it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire, his thumb tracing slow circles over your hipbone, sending warmth through you. “Take control, baby.” His tone is a low, commanding murmur, yet open, a willing offering beneath you. “I’m here to give you exactly what you need… use me, all of me.”

“God, you’re unbelievable…” You laugh breathlessly, but with his words, all your anxieties dissolve, the tight knot inside loosening as he smirks and pulls you down for another heated kiss.

With his permission, something inside you snaps, all restraint dissolving as his hands guide your hips down onto his, pulling you in close. You both let out a guttural moan as you sink into his lap, the thin layers of fabric between you doing nothing to dull the intense pressure of his thick length pressing up against you. Heat radiates from him, his arousal straining beneath his pants, sending a dizzying surge of need through you, leaving you breathless.

With each roll of your hips, you’re consumed by him, the ache pulsing through your core, tethering you to the warmth of his body and the intoxicating pull of his scent. He presses against you, hard and unyielding, a promise of everything you crave, every inch of him driving you closer to surrender. A shiver runs down your spine, every nerve alive with anticipation; it’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

A low chuckle escapes him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as he watches you grind on him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. His hands wrap firmly around your hips, guiding your movements in a possessive grip that leaves no doubt he’s claiming you in every way. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich, gaze sweeping over every inch of you. “Such a needy little omega, strung out and desperate, aren’t you?” The words ripple through you, sparking heat that surges through your body, making your heart pound, filling you with a warmth that blurs your vision.

A soft whimper escapes your lips, each grind amplifying the tension clawing through your chest, and it’s overwhelming—almost too much. You’re losing yourself, each moan growing louder, desperate, until Bucky’s thumb presses over your lips, quieting you.

Bucky’s hand covers your mouth gently, a warning smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep it down, sweetheart,” he whispers, his tone edged with danger, but you can’t help the needy sound that slips past his hand, your body bucking in response. You pull back slightly, eyes wide, voice a breathless murmur as you ask, “Where is everyone?”

The gleam in his eyes darkens, and he grabs your jaw, pulling you close until his breath brushes your lips. “Forget them,” he growls, voice low and possessive, “Focus on me. Eyes on me, omega.” His grip tightens, his words sending a rush of warmth through you, making your hips grind harder, a needy whimper spilling out as he pulls you into a hungry, messy kiss. Teeth graze, tongues tangle, his control evident in the way his hand holds you in place, claiming every shiver, every gasp.

“Alpha… please…” you gasp, voice cracking as you press yourself harder against him, slick soaking through the fabric, feeling the thick, throbbing bulge of his knot beneath you. “Need you… need it so bad.” Your words spill out, desperation lacing every syllable, your body responding to his presence in a way that both thrills and terrifies you. The pressure, the heat, his intensity—it’s everything, almost too much, yet somehow not nearly enough.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he growls, voice dark with possession as his hands slide up to grip your waist, fingers pressing with a force that makes your skin burn. “You’re mine, all mine… dripping for me just from grinding on me.” His words spark something wild and primal, your body moving without thought, surrendering to the rhythm, feeling yourself unravel beneath his gaze.

But as the tension mounts, something inside you starts to break. It’s overwhelming, an aching need so intense that your chest tightens, a gasp escaping as tears begin to blur your vision. It’s too much—the pressure, the pleasure, the helplessness of being so completely in his hands, needing him but unable to take it all just yet. A single tear slips down your cheek, and then another, and soon you’re trembling in his hold, soft, helpless sounds falling from you as you press closer, uncertain if it’s pain or pleasure overtaking you.

Bucky’s eyes narrow as he notices, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his gaze softening for a moment. “Look at you, all worked up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, yet laced with something almost tender. “Can’t handle it, can you? My little omega, so sensitive.” His words make the ache worse, the tears coming faster as he leans in, pressing a possessive kiss against your lips, swallowing the soft, broken sounds you make.

“Shh… you’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich in your ear, a shiver coursing through you as his hand steadies you, grounding you in his hold. “Not yet, but soon. I’m going to give you everything,” he promises, his tone thick with possession as he presses you firmly to him. “Fill you, claim you, mark every inch of you until there’s nothing left but us, nothing left but me inside you.” His grip tightens, his words a dark promise, and your pulse quickens.

Slowly, Bucky shifts, guiding you back as he leans forward, tilting you until your neck is exposed. Your breath hitches, anticipation winding tight within you, thinking for a split second he’s going to mark you. But instead, he presses a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone, his lips grazing down your skin as his hand holds you steady. Each soft kiss along your collar sends a thrill through you, his mouth tracing up to the nape of your neck, where he lets his teeth graze lightly, nipping just enough to make you shiver.

Then, with a low growl, he pulls you closer, thrusting hard against you as his teeth sink into your skin, just shy of a mark. The sharp bite sends you over the edge, your body trembling, every nerve igniting as you come undone in his arms, shaking as he holds you steady, his possessive touch grounding you through each wave of pleasure.

Your body quakes in his hold, tremors rolling through you as you cling to him, breathless, every pulse of pleasure leaving you weightless, completely taken. Bucky’s arms stay wrapped around you, grounding you, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot he just bit, his tongue soothing the faint sting as you gasp softly against him.

“There we go… that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick and velvety as he strokes your back, one hand pressing into the small of your spine, holding you close as your breaths slow. His eyes are dark, filled with satisfaction as he watches you, savoring the sight of you so vulnerable, so utterly his.

Your body settles against him, the intense high fading into a soft, hazy warmth. Almost instinctively, you continue to move your hips in slow, gentle circles, soft whimpers escaping as you melt into his shoulder, eyelids growing heavy, drifting somewhere between bliss and sleep.

His hand strokes up your spine, grounding you with each possessive touch. “You feel that?” he whispers, his mouth brushing your ear, his words sending another shiver through you. “This is just the beginning, sweetheart. You’re mine, and I’m far from done with you.”

A small, needy sound slips from your lips as your hips press against him, despite the exhaustion pulling at you. He smirks, fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns along your waist. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied growl. His hand grazes your hip, drawing gentle circles. “But I want more. Think you can handle that?”

You manage a nod, a sleepy, eager response, melting further into him as your eyelids flutter shut. Just as you’re drifting toward sleep, he chuckles softly, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “First, let’s get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice a gentle command as he lifts you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest.

The golden hour light that once bathed the room has deepened into the cool, quiet blue of night, shadows settling around you as he carries you to the bed. The ache in your body has softened, replaced by a warmth, a certainty that relaxes you in his hold, knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

As he lowers you onto the sheets, your fingers instinctively curl into his shirt, needing to keep him close even in your drowsy haze. His hand brushes tenderly over your cheek, the glint in his gaze a promise that makes your heart race yet leaves you calm, knowing he’s yours, that you’re meant to be right here in his arms. The last thing you feel is the weight of his touch grounding you, a promise of what’s to come as sleep finally pulls you under.

---

a/n: all i feel is frustration

#bucky smut #bucky fic #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes #bucky buchanan #james buchanan barnes #james barnes #winter soldier smut #winter solider x y/n #winter solider x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #alpha bucky x omega reader #alpha bucky x reader #alpha bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n

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servicpop · 3 months ago

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electric fueled adefemi akinola ( cyberpunk oc ) x racer ! bttm ftm reader

ⓘ a bit more dialogue heavy than I'd want it to be, implied you've been hooking up, unprofessional doctor / medical play(?) , he uses his vibrating fingers , use of pussy and cunt like once or twice

The city of dreams they called it. Nothing short of a dream when you're seeing holograms reach out to you, and people on the streets with metal and wires embedded into their skin. Adefemi was no stranger to it, having one fully cyberware arm himself.

Day and night he ran this little shop, favored by racers who badly beat up their rides on those hellish courses—only the best of the best could make it through without missing at least a bolt or more. People drove their vehicles in and out, scratched and dented for him to fix with a price.

Though, he had one recurring customer he'd always slip in a discount, for whatever reason he could find.

“'Nother crash?” Adefemi chuckled as he saw you duck under the roller, and push your bike towards him.

You'd come almost everytime he was about to switch that open sign closed, everytime the sun lowered it's harsh rays past the horizon and just barely seeping through the cracks of those high rise buildings. Nonetheless, Adefemi had his shop on the outskirts of the city, so there was nothing but desert and maybe a few gas stations out front. It was far enough that the sun could come through without the disturbance of the buildings.

“Yeah,” he hears you sigh, walking out from behind his workbench as he takes a good look at the state of your bike. All battered and bruised like you'd deliberately swung a bat at it just for an excuse to see him again—or so he'd hope you did.

He ran one metallic finger over the flat surface of your bike, running over the jagged edges of metal from concrete slashes. It seemed like you really had a tough time this race.

“I could probably fix her up in a few days,” He concluded, pulling away from the bike as he rose to a stand from his previous squatting position. He glanced down at your back and then back to you, taking that damned face of yours.

“Say, you came here few weeks ago didn't 'cha?” Adefemi tucked one arm under another as he tilted his head slightly to the left, his metal arm glinting in the low light of the shop. “If you just wanted an excuse to see me, just walk in,” he shrugged, his dark eyebrows raising with the rise of his shoulders.

“Before I get to work, any metal needin' fixing for you?” One thing he liked about you was how human you were. You strayed away from bulky cyberware sticking mainly to little enhancements, never anything flashy like a metal spine or a chrome leg. It made Adefemi think of you less like a metal zombie.

“Maybe just a routine check-up will do.” It didn't hurt to get checked up occasionally seeing that you pretty much neglect your metal needs. You didn't have anything flashy enough to constantly take care of, which was good in a way.

Adefemi nods, hand on his hip as he juts his thumb behind him, pointing to the medical recliner chair hidden behind the plastic translucent curtains. It was very much like a medical setting, one you'd find in a hospital if it wasn't so worn out and stacked with metal parts and whatnot.

You climb onto the chair, laying awkwardly down on it. The fabric of the chair sticks to your bare skin as you adjust your position on it to get comfortable.

Adefemi comes in shortly, pulling those plastic curtains around the two of you as if there were people to see—there wasn't. But it undoubtedly sets the "doctor" mood.

He's wearing one blue glove on his hand with flesh and bones while he disinfects his metal one. They're a sort of silicone material for his fingers, but his palm and the rest are full metal. But it always changes, everytime you come Adefemi always has a new set of fingers like he switches them out based on preference.

“Just a regular check-up aye?” He leans on the side of the recliner with one forearm along it before pushing himself off of it to grab a few tools. “How's your eyesight? I could enhance your night vision if that suits your fancy.”

Night vision. Crucial for races in the dark, especially when those other sadistic assholes always push to ride in the night. You were never one to be into that sensory depravation stuff when it comes to races, preferred to know when you're about to hit the curb and total yourself and your bike.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Adefemi doesn't need a verbal confirmation from you, he just knows from that look in your face “This might sting or feel a bit weird but if you need—one—nice, warm hand to hold onto, I can take off my glove.” What a charm.

You almost consider his proposal when the tweezers come dangerously close to your eye; he's already done the necessary calibrating and loosening screws to ease the process but you can never get used to having your eye plucked out of your head.

It's jarring feeling yourself lose vision in just a second, all you could do is hear Adefemi walk around with his heavy boots against stone cold floors. He's talking—which is a relief—about anything just to reassure you that he's still there and he hasn't disappeared.

Your fingers twitch a little when he's slotting your eye back into its socket; a few blinks and everything seems just a tad bit sharper, clearer.

“What a big boy,” He's praising you, but in the way a mother would do to her son, which only slightly offended you, “Didn't need me to hold your hand, so brave.”

His chest puffs out every time he laughs and he's ruffling your hair before moving on. You see his eyes flicker a gentle blue as he scans your whole body in what you guess for any signs of injury. It was common that you'd get at least a few scratches or cuts from your races.

He pauses after seeing a particularly nasty gash running from your hip bone down to your inner thigh. You must've taken quite the fall to get something like that, to have a gash all the way from the side of your hip to your thigh.

“Nasty,” he grimaces, almost as if visualising how you got it. “I gotta get a little close n' personal, hope that's alright,” He raises his palms, holding his hands up in surrender and to show his peace.

He's unbuttoning your pants and sliding it under your legs, folding it neatly and placing it on the table beside him. You can tell he's been raised well, folds your clothes efficiently and neatly, makes you wonder if he's the type of person to have his closets and drawers all tidy like that.

He pushes the bottom of your underwear up to see a little more of that marred skin. He takes a good look at it before grabbing a cotton ball and gently dabbed it along the cut. There were some awkward moments were he had to blindly apply the medication to the gash that was covered by your clothing. The cotton ball was coated in some sort of antiseptic which inevitably stung, and before you could squirm or start kicking him in the face out of pain, Adefemi uses his cold, metal hand to hold you down by your thigh.

“Don't go thrashing your legs like a madman, you'll hurt yourself more than me,” His voice is lazy, almost tired but still has a playful lilt to it. His hand eventually travels to your lower stomach, and he applies a gentle heat to his hand to soothe you—an enhancement he gave himself.

It's a new one, since you've never seen him use it before but it's nice, like a heat pack resting on your tummy.

“New enhancement?” You ask, and momentarily the stinging pain is forgotten.

“Yeah, you like it? I got a few others too,” His eyes are trained on your wound but his mind is focused on your words. A true multi-tasker. He lifts his head to reach for some bandages, before he looks back up at you.

“I'm gonna take off the uh—rest just so I can bandage you properly,” He's sliding down your underwear extremely slowly, giving you enough time to back out and tell him to stop if you ever got uncomfortable. He slides it down your legs and off from your feet, placing it on top of your folded jeans.

He lifts your thigh up just enough for him to roll the bandage under and over the flesh. Both his hands are on you, one metal hand gently cupping the side of your thigh while the other secures the white bandages over your wound. You're staring at his face, gazing at the way his eyes always seem to flicker to one specific spot. It makes you concious to say the least, but you'd trust him with your whole body.

Adefemi seems to notice your darting eyes and he sighs with a small smile, shaking his head as he looks up at you.

“Gettin' nervous are we?” He drawls, his voice a low rumble as if etched with a lack of sleep—or too much, “We can check that up too, If you're up for it.”

You can't bring yourself to say no, it's been awhile since you've really been able to spend time with your good ol' mechanic in that way. Though you're not entirely sure if he genuinely means to check or if he's inviting you to do something else.

“Y'know dysfunction is gettin' real common lately.”

Right.

“Can't hurt to treat it early, can it?”

Right.

You slowly nod, tilting your head to the side mostly out of embarrassment. He's so slow in his movements, gently brushing his fingertips along your folds, using two fingers to push them apart in a V shape. Its a strange feeling, cold metal on the warmest part of your body, it makes you twitch. Adefemi stays in that position, just staring at your flesh, taking note of whatever he's observing.

“Looks good, I'll run a few tests alright?” You know what he's implying with that, and he's taking it a step further by flexing his metallic hand “We can test my new features while we're at it.”

He shifts to stay beside you rather than at your legs, one hand leaning over the table beside your recliner with a pen between his fingers while his other hand rests low on your pelvis.

“At anytime you feel any pain or uncomfort, let me know,” He's using that fake tone of his to make himself sound a little more like a real doctor. More than the back alley mechanic he is.

He's careful with his movements as he slips a finger over your slit, the base of his finger brushes against your clit as he dips the tip into your opening. He hears you gasp a little and you can faintly hear a small chuckle to himself, followed by the scribbles of pen on paper.

He's so slowly rubbing his finger in and out, ensuring everytime he pulls his finger out, he digs the ball of his palm against that sweet nub. The mechanical heat from the rest of his metallic hand on your lower stomach doesn't help either; its almost soothing despite how agonisingly gentle and lazy he's being with you.

Adefemi glances back down at you before speaking, “Don't freak out, yeah? I ain't here to hurt you. It's just a little buzz—it'll feel good in a sec'.”

You feel a soft vibration from his finger, like a slow massage gun. He lets you adjust, getting all your squirms and soft whimpers as you restrain your back from arching up into his hand.

He slots another finger in—his ring finger alongside with his middle—firmly warming his fingers deep within your tight walls before upping the intensity. He arches his hand up from its resting position along your body, pressing his thumb against your clit. Adefemi rubs it in deep circles, observing the way you rake your fingers against his poor chair and hike your knees up to half-assedly alleviate the overwhelming sensation.

“You enjoying yourself?” He snorts at the tremble of your eyelashes and the whines bubbling in your throat, “Feels good don't it? Got it just for seein' pretty boys like you come all unwrapped.”

He pulls his soaked fingers from your cunt, rubbing your aching pussy like a gentle caress before delving his fingers back inside. You would've thought the soft scribbling in the background would drive you insane but its hard to think about what pisses you off more than what pleasures you.

“You gonna come pretty boy?” He teases slowly, the drowsiness of his tone was pretty much hypnotising—the things this man could do with his voice alone. His lazy chuckles were a product of seeing your pre-cum spray out from the frequency of the vibrations his hand was giving off, and the desperate raise of your hips to meet his fingers.

“Hmm... ain't that right?”

He writes down something for one last time before he places the pen down, turning his full attention to you. His free full flesh hand comes down on your head, stroking along the direction your hair sprouts from the crown of your head.

Adefemi's gentle head caresses have a great difference to his other hand. He's taken the responsibility to get you across the edge, curling his fingers agaisnt your sweet spot as he starts thrusting his fingers. It makes an obscene plap noise each time he pounds his thick, metal fingers into you.

With the hand so delicately stroking your hair, he grips it enough to manipulate the angle of your head, tilting it back so he can better hear all those noises spill from your mouth.

As your legs shake and your eyes squeeze shut, Adefemi hums softly, watching as you soak his recliner with the evidence of your orgasm. He works you through the after-high tuning down the vibrations and focusing on making it feel comfortable.

“Better than I thought,” He notes, sliding his fingers out before walking over to the sink to wash his hands. He glances back at you, legs shut and your head tilted back as your chest rises and falls from your breaths.

“Nothin' to worry about,” he swivels back around, grabbing your underwear as he wipes your bottom half with a warm cloth, slipping the fabric over your ankles, up your thighs and around your hips.

He reaches over and grabs your pants, helping you put them back on and even doing up your buttons for you.

“Next time though, if you just wanna see me, you don't hafta' crash your bike over it.”

#servicpop — fics/drabbles #bottom male reader #male reader #oc x male reader #sub male reader #x bottom male reader #mlm #x male reader #uke male reader #x male y/n #x ftm reader #ftm reader #transmasc reader #trans reader

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improbable-outset · 8 months ago

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📄 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤

Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.0k

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Mama+Wife!Reader, lot’s of fluff, talks of sexual vulnerability, mentions of loss, mild emotional angst

𝐀/𝐍: Another vent fic…shocker. Loosely inspired by @cupcakeinat0r prof!Miguel story chap 8

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A late night talk with Miguel leads to unexpected confessions, drawing you closer to your husband.

The ethereal glow of the floating holograms filled the room, illuminating a soft light around Miguel. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly, muscles taut with the weight of responsibilities.

He studied the swirling projections of different universes as his fingers moved expertly across the controls. The precision of each motion reflected how deep he was immersed in his task.

If it was so late and you weren’t so sleepy, you might have stood there longer. You would have watched in quiet awe as the muscles in his back flexed with every movement. The definition of his form stood out against the low light— powerful yet weary.

Instead, you lingered at the doorway, cradling your daughter in your arms. He hadn’t noticed you yet, too engrossed in his work. The weight of his responsibilities exhibited in the tension of his posture.

The soft hum of the hologram and the quiet hum of Lylas digital voice blended in the background, harmonised by the soft breaths of Maria, your one-year-old baby, who stirred slightly in your arms.

It was Lyla who noticed you first, her digital form glowed brighter as her eyes met yours. She offered a small wave, then disappeared with a soft glitch, leaving Miguel to glance over his shoulder.

When his eyes finally found you, they softened instantly. The soft glow of the marigold hologram flickered in his crimson eyes, casting a tender reflection back at you.

“Someone wants her papa,” you whispered. The moment Maria’s face lit up with a smile, Miguel’s stern demeanor melted away, his workaholic armor disarmed in an instant.

You always knew how much of a soft spot he had for your daughter, especially when she reached out for him like this.

“…and papa wants her too,” his voice soft and tender. “How come you’re both still up?”

Miguel extended his hands, carefully taking Maria from your arms. His usual sharp, deliberate movements softened as he turned to face you both.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment, a quiet reverence in his eyes, before lifting her gently and cradling her small body against his broad chest.

Maria nuzzled into his neck, finding comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Her tiny fingers brushed against his bare skin. Miguel’s free hand instinctively moved to her back, gently tapping as he lowered his chin to rest on her soft head.

“She wouldn’t settle,” you explained. “I think she's been waiting for you to put her to sleep.”

A low hum rumbled in Miguel’s chest as he gazed down at Maria, whose eyelids were already drooping. Her breath slowed in the comfort of his arms.

She was already sleepy, but you knew if she hadn’t been, her excitement as seeing her dad would’ve kept her wide awake.

Miguel’s eyes flickered back to you, his voice a whisper so he wouldn’t disturb the precious peace that had settled around you both. “She missed me, huh?”

You watched as he cradled Maria in his arms, his hold gentle but firm. There was something calming about seeing them both together, the strength of his form contrasted by the softness in which he held her.

But as your gaze shifted to his face, your chest tightened. The visible bags under his eyes were stark against his tanned skin— an unmistakable sigh of his exhaustion.

But what concerned you more was his constant drive to push himself past his limits, something he often didn’t seem to notice, or refuse to acknowledge.

“You’ve been working for hours.” You said gently, hoping your tone would coax him into resting. “I think it’s time you hit the hay.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, the subtle crease between his brow deepening. You knew that look— he was preparing to push back. To insist he could handle it, even though his body told him otherwise.

“I know, cariño,” his voice edged with weariness. “But I just need to finish a few more things.”

You sighed, stepping closer. “You said that an hour ago,” you reminded him, trailing your fingers lightly over his forearm. The warmth of his skin sent a familiar ripple through you. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

You knew the effect you had on him when you touched him like that, your fingers tracing deliberate patterns.

His breath hitched slightly, his resolve wavering as yoh leaned closer. “You know I’m right,” you lowered your voice to a sultry tone. “Look at your eyes.”

Miguel took a quick glance at the holograms, clearly trying to hold onto his stubbornness, but you could see the struggle in his face— the pull between duty and the weight of his exhaustion.

It was a battle he was already losing.

His shoulders sagged over slightly as he exhaled a long, defeated sigh. When he looked back at you, his demeanour softened. The tension slowly fading from his posture.

Without another word, he switched off the holograms, the swirling projection disappearing into nothingness.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer and finally surrendering to your touch. “You’re playing dirty.”

“Yeah?” You resorted, hands resting against his chest. “Only because it works.”

You headed back to the bedroom, tucking yourself into the warmth of the blanket while waiting for Miguel to put Maria down in her crib. The soft murmur of his voice, soothing your daughter to sleep, could be heard from the other room.

“She was restless for a while, you know,” you remarked once he joined you in bed.

You pulled the blanket tighter around your body to ward off the cold. Miguel slid besides you, his large frame instantly bringing warmth.

“She was probably restless without me,” he grinned, the prideful glint in his eyes. “She’s daddy’s girl through and though.”

You smiled at his confidence. You knew he loved that role— being a father, a protector. It was something he wore proudly, dispite the heavy burden he carries as Spider-Man.

Letting out a long, tired yawn, as you moved closer to him. The weight of the day— and the late hour— was finally catching up to you. Your eyelids grew heavier by the second.

“Looks like both of you can’t stay awake around me,” Miguel teased.

“We’ve been waiting for you to get to bed,” you replied with a sleepy voice. “You’ve been taking so long.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, tone full of guilt as he pulled you closer. “I wish I didn't have to work so much. I'd be in this bed with you every night.”

You pressed yourself against his warmth, your face tucked against the crook of his neck to inhale his familiar scent.

“Eres mío,” your words were muffled by the skin of his shoulder.

“Sí, amor. I’m all yours,” he hushed, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Completely, utterly yours.”

His lips brushed against your neck, warmth and soft. “I missed this,” he confessed between tender kisses. “Touching you, feeling you.”

“I missed you too…you’re still my doting husband, though.”

“Of course I am. I’ll always be here to dote on you.”

You felt his hands slide down your back, lingering at your hips. The familiar tension between the two of you sparked, but the exhaustion weighed heavy on your limbs.

“I hope Maria’s actually sleeping,” you said if more to yourself, trying to distract how tired you felt.

“Don’t worry, she’s fast asleep. The baby monitors on, and I checked on her before I came in. She’s completely knocked out, trust me,” his lips grazed your collarbone, but his voice was tempting. “Now, stop worrying. It’s just us, remember?”

“Mhmm. I don’t want to do anything tonight…just talk until we fall asleep,” you said before barely suppressing another yawn.

Miguel pulled away slightly, enough to see your face. There was a hint of feigned disappointment in his expression, but he masked it with a small smile.

“Just talk?” he asked, pulling his lower lips in a pout “You sure? I was looking forward to doing a lot more than just talking.”

“I’m tired…”

Miguel sighed softly, his fingers tracing light circles on your back. “I’m pretty tired as well. I guess we can do it another time.”

“Mhmm, I don’t want to get pregnant again, not until Maria’s three at least.” your voice was firm through the sleepiness.

You already had your hands full with a one-year-old, and adding another baby to the equation— especially with Miguel’s dimension hopping work schedule— felt overwhelming.

You could already imagine the sleepless night, the extra demand, and the toll it would take on both of you.

Miguel looked back at you, his brows furrowing slightly, clearly mulling over your words. The hesitation was written all over his face. It wasn’t that he disagreed, he just wanted to consider everything carefully.

He let out a low sigh before he spoke. “So…uhm, are you suggesting we should use protection?”

“Protection?” you echoed. The word caught you off guard.

“Yeah,” Miguel said, running a hand through his hair, choosing his words carefully. “I was just thinking, you know, if we want to be careful… it’s up to you. I won’t get you pregnant again unless you want me to.”

You thought about what he said, letting the words turn over in your head. Realistically, you knew abstinence wasn’t going to work— not for three years. The attraction between you was magnetic, and it wasn’t something that could be easily ignored.

So, it only made sense to use some protection. Still, the thought of it made you wrinkle your nose in distaste.

“Hmm…I never really liked the feel of the rubber,” you said truthfully. You didn’t see the point in sugarcoating it.

That seemed to set him off. Miguel’s eyes twinkled in amusement as soon as the words left your mouth. You saw the corner of his lips twitched upwards.

“And what if I told you I’m not a fan of them either, hm?” his voice dropped lower to a purr.

Before you could respond, his lips brushed over the sensitive spot just bow your ear, sensing a shiver down your spine. His hands hike up your sides, as if he couldn’t keep himself from touching you.

“You sure you don't want to change your mind about just talking?” there was the familiar hunger edged in his tone. “I'm sure we can keep it quiet enough to not wake up Maria..”

“Yeah, I’m sure…not tonight,” you felt Miguel’s grip loosened as he pulled away, respecting your space. Though, you could feel the reluctance in the way he did.

As you basked yourself in the silence like a comforting blanket, your thoughts began to wander. As peaceful as the moment was, it stirred some memories— of how far you’ve come, of every obstacle you faced before reaching this point.

You never imagined yourself in this role: a wife, a mother. The journey to get to where you were was winding, filled with doubts.

You’ve built walls, thick and impenetrable ones. They were meant to keep you safe from disappointment, from hurt, and things you’ve convinced yourself you didn’t need.

But then, there was Miguel.

Maybe it was the way he understood— truly understood— when you said no just now. He never made you feel pressured. Instead, he held you and let the silence do the talking.

That’s when something inside you shifted, tugging at the edge of memories from a past you would rather forget.

Meeting Miguel felt different from the start, but you didn’t know why at first. Things between you weren’t rushed or fixed, they unfolded naturally. As if fate guided you both to this very moment.

You still remember that early time in your life— the time when you began to heal, when you started to unlearn all those harmful lessons from before.

You were rediscovering yourself.

The moment you were first introduced to Miguel, you were intrigued by his sharp mind, his serious demeanor, and the way he could command a room without even trying.

His no-nonsense attitude should’ve repelled you, but instead, it pulled you even deeper. Maybe that was what made him so trustworthy.

With him, those walls didn’t come crashing down all at once, but rather they crumbled slowly, piece by piece. Everytime he looked at you with that silent understanding, when he respected your space without question, a part of those barriers chipped away.

Back then, you hadn’t realised he felt the same, at least not until the subtle clues vague to surface. You laughed at yourself, remembering how he went out of his way to wear a particular cologne that had aphrodisiac qualities.

As if he needed it. You’d already been captivated by him long before.

Now, as you lay beside him, watching his eyes fluttering closed and his arms wrapped around you protectively, you couldn’t stop the words from spilling.

“You know…” you began, your soft voice matching the dim glow in the room. “Before we got together, I always found intimacy quite…uhm…”

The words were harder to pinpoint than you expected. You paused, biting your lips as you searched for how to explain something so complicated— something you’ve kept buried for so long.

Miguel opened his eyes at the sound of your voice.“Go on, I’m listening,” he murmured, his deep voice anchored you in the moment. There was no judgment, just patient understanding.

Your heart skipped a beat under the intensity of his gaze. There was no biting back your words now. You started this conversation, and he was waiting, ready to hear what you had to say.

“Growing up, I was taught that sex and intimacy weren’t things that should be discussed, or explored openly,” you hesitated, the memories making your throat tighten. You let him digest your words before continuing. “It was seen as a stigma. And it was always the man’s domain to take control in those situations.”

You swallowed thickly, trying to moisten your dry throat. It felt like a release, but also terrifying— like exposing a part of yourself you’ve always kept hidden.

Your hands trembled slightly, and you gripped the sheets tighter, bracing for his response.

Miguel didn’t say anything at first, just watched you with a thoughtful expression. Then, his hand moved to gently cover yours.

“That must've been hard,” he said quietly, voice filled with empathy. “Having a strained view on something that’s natural and should be enjoyed without guilt

He squeezed your hand softly, silently reassuring you. The warmth of his touch eased some of the tension in your chest. He didn’t need to ask for more details or push you to explain further. He simply accepted what you shared, offering his quiet support.

For so long, you had carried the burden of that discomfort— the feeling that something that should be good and intimate only made you feel exposed and vulnerable.

It has left a lingering sense of fear and guilt, like you weren’t allowed to enjoy something so deeply personal. A special bond that was supposed to strengthen you as a couple.

You thought about how different things could have been if someone had told you earlier that it was okay— that intimacy didn’t have to come with shame. You deserved to feel safe, to desire more, and enjoy it.

But maybe the timing didn’t matter as much. What mattered was that it felt right now— with him. And you were grateful with how far you came.

“You make it feel natural,” you whispered, the fragile truth followed by a small smile.

Miguel mirrored your expression and took a hold of you hand, lifting it to his lips and pressing a tender kiss to the knuckles. “Because it is natural. And I’m glad I’m the one who gets to help you feel that way.”

You wouldn’t want it any other way.

“There was a point when I found it hard to appreciate and accept romance or intimacy. I always saw anything remotely romantic as revolting or uncomfortable,” you let out a shaky breath, feeling your face getting hotter as more words trembled out. “I was really at my lowest then. I saw sex as…dirty.”

Miguel’s expression shifted, his smile fading into something more serious, more pained. His eyes darkened with empathy, as though your admission had quietly fractured something in him.

You could see the weight of your words sinking in, and it made you wonder why it was so easy to share this with him. Perhaps because Miguel created a space that made you feel safe, even about the darkest parts about yourself.

“There’s nothing dirty or shameful about sex, amor. It’s a way of expressing love and desire. I hate that you had to go through that kind of pain,” you could hear the strong conviction in his tone. “You’re my wife and the mother of my child. I promise I’ll never let you feel that way again. I’ll always honour and cherish you.”

You knew that. It had taken time but deep down, you understand the truth of his words. Yet, hearing him say it, with such tenderness in his voice, made your stomach flutter.

It wasn’t often that Miguel spoke like this. Soft, sweet words weren’t his usual language. But when he did express himself like this, it always felt sincere.

He never said things just for the sake of it, or just to fill the space. He meant every word, and that made the weight of his promise feel more powerful by ten folds.

The tears came unbidden, welling in your eyes and spilled down your cheeks as the gravity of his words settled straight to your chest.

Miguel noticed immediately, his thumb brushing against your damp cheeks. His touch was delicate, full of concern.

“Hey, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to make you sad, just expressing how much you mean to me,” he said softly, a slight tremor of worry in his voice as he tried to console you.

You shook your head, blinking through the tears. “I’m not…they’re not sad tears. Promise.” You sniffled, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hands before letting out a small, shaky laugh.

“Oh, I see. I'm glad to know they’re happy tears then.” His hands remained on your cheeks, his touch soothing. “You’re so strong and resilient, you know that? Carrying our baby, giving birth to her…I’m so proud of you.”

“But I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“I guess it goes both ways. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you either. You brought so much joy and love into my life. You’re my rock.”

You let out a small laugh of disbelief. “Oh please—”

“Oh please, nothing. It’s the truth.” His eyes softened as he looked at you. “You’re the only one who’s believed in me, supported me, and loved me no matter what. You make me a better person, amor, and I’m so grateful for you and our little family.”

“I could say the same for you. I’m glad I shared about my previous experience and what I’ve been through.”

“I’m honoured that you trust me enough to share that part of your past with me.” Miguel said.

You felt the familiar sting of unshed tears pressing at the corner of your eyes, a reminder of how hard it had been to keep everything inside for so long.

You glanced back at the baby monitor, watching the slow rise and fall of your daughter. The sight filled you with something unnamable, a joy you had once though was out of reach. “I’ve never told anyone about this. I was in a dark place…”

His brows furrowed with concern again. “A dark place? What do you mean?”

You hesitated, letting the bleak memories flash briefly behind your eyelids. The ache of the loneliness, the numbness that followed. “I don’t know, but maybe because I had no job back then too. Nothing to keep me busy, to keep me occupied. No drive.”

“I know what you mean,” he said quietly. “It can make you feel like you’re not worth anything, like you’re not contributing…but just remember you always have so much to offer.”

You looked at him expectedly, waiting for him to continue. At first, you thought he’d follow up with something sappy or cheesy, but this was Miguel. Sappy came in rare, fleeting moments— like shooting stars you barely caught.

“Like the coffees you make for me every morning,” he grinned at you knowingly. “You know you make the best coffee, right? And that’s coming from a perfectionist. I don’t think I’d survive without you bringing in my morning fix”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling at his comment, but the warmth didn’t last long. Once your laughter died down, you noticed his expression shift.

His eyes turned distant, the corner of his mouth pulling down into a frown. It was like a s bleak cloud loomed over him.

“Miguel?” you asked softly. “What’s on your mind? You just went quiet on me.”

Even after five years of marriage, there were still parts of Miguel that remained a mystery to you— layers he kept hidden, even from you.

Moment like this made you wish you could see into his mind, to understand his thoughts without needing the words.

You longed for that kind of connection where you could read his mood through subtle cues— the way his jaw clenched, or the way his eyes darken when something weighed on him.

But now, all you could do was wait and hope he’d let you in.

“I don’t…I don’t want to make this about myself when you’re talking about your own struggles. But…” he let out a sigh, you could pick up on his reluctance to continue. “Hearing you talk, it made me think about my own issues too.”

You squeezed his hand, gently urging him on. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m here to listen too.”

Miguel let out a breath, his chest rising and falling, like he was trying to steel himself. His hand tightened around yours as he began.

“I guess I’ve been carrying more than I realised,” his voice was low, almost strain. You watched as his Adam’s Apple bobbed with a thick swallow. “Being Spider-Man, losing Gabriella…sometimes I wonder if I’m worthy of the life I have now. You, Maria…all of it.”

You could still recall the early days before marriage, when Miguel first opened up about his struggles. It had taken time and patience, and more than a few long nights before he allowed himself to be vulnerable.

But when he finally did, you could see the weight he had been carrying lift, if only slightly, as he shared his pain.

Hearing the full extent of his past had left a knot in your stomach that day. The loss, the guilt— it was staggering. The thought of someone you loved bearing such an immense burden was almost overwhelming.

You had questioned if you could be enough for him, if you’d be able to say the right things to provide the confront he truly needed.

But as time passed, you saw Miguel in all his complexities— the man behind the hero, the man who fought everyday not just for the multiverse, but for his own fragile sense of redemption.

And with every moment spent together, you understood more of what shapes him into the leader of the Spider Society.

“Miguel, you’re more than worthy. I know you’ve been through a lot, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve happiness,” you gently stroking your thumb over his knuckles, hoping to have the grounding effect on him that he craved.

Miguel gaze fixed on your intertwined hands. “I know…logically. But it’s different when you’re in the middle of it. Everyday I wake up with the memories of everything I’ve lost. I don’t know how to let go of it.”

“You don’t have to let go of it all at once. But maybe…just start with accepting that you deserve good things too,” you looked up at him with a soft smile. “You’ve done so much for so many people. Don’t you think you deserve a little bit of peace?”

Miguel’s lips twitched into a small, weary smile too. “You always know what to say to get through to me.”

“Because I know you. And I’ll always be here to remind you when you forget.”

It didn’t take long before you both drifted off to sleep. Tangled in each others arms and the trouble of the day slipping away.

Having a negative experience with sex and should probably talk to a professional ❌❌

Writes a fic about it😗✅✅

I’ve mentioned this on AO3 but I’m gonna put it on here too, please don’t be mean (._.) while I welcome constructive criticism, there’s always an approachable way to give feedback without sounding condescending, rude, or sarcastic. Even though I don’t let hate get to me, I don’t have the thickest skin.

I also want to mention that many of my older fics, mostly from last year, were written during a phase where I was still exploring different tropes and writing styles. So, looking back, some of them might seem forced or rough, especially in areas where I was experimenting with kinks or tropes that I’m simply not familiar writing.

After writing Miguel for a year, I’ve found tropes I’m most comfortable with and happy to post. If these don’t suit your tastes, feel free to move on …💕

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @smokeywhalee @nina-from-317 @thealleydog @f1-hoff @nommingonfood

@kavimoo @honey-bee2002 @club-danger-zone @sp0ck136 @youhaveraybies

@deputy-videogamer @laysmt @hyperstardaydream @crimin4llyins4ne @yougoodsis10

@asterrrrose

#★— ayrus writes #❤︎ scientist husband ❤︎#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara imagine #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara fanfiction #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel x reader #miguel x you #miguel x y/n #spiderman 2099 #spiderman miguel #miguel spiderman #spider man 2099 #spiderman 2099 spiderverse #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 x you

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aster-draws · 1 year ago

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“What do you-” And then he nearly jumps out of his own goddamn skin, because there is a man sticking through the wall and through his torso.

“Hi there, hi, yes, uh, excuse me.” He says, and Tim changes his initial appraisal- he has the frame of a lean man, but he’s still young. Eighteen at the oldest. His hair is so white it nearly glows, and it makes his olive skin look much tanner than it reasonably is, in comparison. Tim darts out of the way- he moves through him easily, as if he's made of less than air, like a hologram, but his presence in the room is undeniable. He floats in, wrapped in a cloak made of night sky, predator-green eyes surveying the small office. “Constantine.”

Ghost King Danny design from my fic Better Halves (and other such falsehoods), specifically his appearance in chapter 2. Listen. I don’t think Tim can be blamed for any actions he makes in pursuit of this man they’re all totally justified

Bonus transparent Danny below so y’all can see his pretty cloak which I put a totally regular amount of effort into

#my art #art #dp x dc #danny phantom #better halves (and other such falsehoods)#dead tired ship #ghost king danny

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eyelambspider · 10 months ago

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𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝. - König

Part One || Part Two

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : The WX 400 model, or König, had been sitting in a Cyberlife store for nearly six months without so much as a glance from customers. He had been repurposed from a hard laborer to a sort of domestic care-giver... but the thing was, consumers only wanted the newer models. Until you came by. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 1.2 k 𝐚/𝐧 : consider this my masterpiece, probably will write a second part 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 : fluff, hurt/comfort(?), domestic fluff

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐘𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄. From the sleek tiled floors, to the large window panes that were cleaned daily, to the Androids that stood on display within.

On white pedestals, circled with fluorescent tags and holograms indicating their model numbers and generic purposes: Domestic housekeepers, caretakers, companions. Smaller synthetic machines that had friendly faces and sparkling eyes. Built for a life amongst humans.

He wasn't built for that. No.

His slate-colored eyes had watched for months, lingering over Cyberlife's newest models at the front of the store. A blank expression as each one smiled hopefully. Perhaps something they were programmed to do. To appear friendly?

He considered it a possibility, sure, but the 'front of the store' androids were a stark contrast to his own model.

The WX-series of androids had been built with only one purpose: hard labor, or to put it more simply, construction work.

When customers came into the store they only wanted one thing: a shiny new companion.

Everyday the eyes of those strangers would frown when they saw him. Hardly sparing the WX a glance before they turned around and considered an AX 400 instead.

An android built for housework and taking care of children, with a soft round face and a smile that reached all the way up to her kind blue eyes...

It seemed a diluted plausibility that one day the repurposed WX would eventually find a purpose. With everyday he inched closer to the possibility of being discarded. Simply unwanted.

Until a particularly cloudy day in May, one of the stares had caught his attention, even in his low power mode. Only able to shift his tired seeming eyes and move at a slow pace. Meeting that oddly new curious gaze of yours. The eyes of a stranger finally lingering on him.

Him.

"Excuse me?" You held your hand up sheepishly, asking for assistance from one of the android retailers, a young looking man with a head of soft brown hair and a blue circular LED on his right temple. The holographic label on his chest reading: Ethan.

"Hello, How can I help you?" Ethan stepped next to your side with a light smile.

You pointed to the WX in front of you, feeling a bit silly for even asking but... "Could you tell me about this one?"

The android salesman nodded, hands folded politely behind him, following your gaze towards the decommissioned android, unable to show the usual grimace humans showed the WX.

"Of course," he agreed easily, "This particular model is a WX 400, a decommissioned laborer. They aren't often sold in stores, but if you are interested I could tell you more about it."

The WX watched you nod, his eyes flickering occasionally between you and the sales-android.

"Why is he decommissioned?" you asked quietly, letting the question linger momentarily before Ethan perked up again, unbiased.

"The WX 400 was only decommissioned in its primary purpose, which was doing manual labor," the mechanical man explained with a synthetic smile, gesturing with his hands for your eyes to follow. "It works perfectly fine, and besides some damage to its synthetic skin and body, and a few replaced parts," he managed a soft light-hearted chuckle, "This model works perfectly fine, just not for its intended heavy lifting purposes. It will work perfectly fine for housework. Is that what you were looking for?"

As the sales-android considered the new possibility, he prompted a new question: "We have many other fine models if you are interested in something else."

The statement, whilst a little profound to you, meant next to nothing to the two androids who patiently awaited your answer.

"I was looking for someone to help around the house," you confirm.

The WX before you, nearing seven foot tall easily in the display case, glanced down at you. Unmoving, but like all androids, his eyes held an uncanny humanity within those blue depths.

He could see the consideration on your face. The way your eyes wearily, almost tenderly, traced the lines and deep scars on his synthetic skin. Deep grooves and lacerations running from his fingers, up his strong forearms and disappearing under the fabric of his standard Cyberlife shirt.

Even the androids face, while once maybe even considered handsome, had a deep scar running over its left side. Over his dirty blonde brow and high cheekbone, tracing over his lips to his chin.

It was a wonder he even worked properly, and the unspoken question must've been written all over your face again.

"The WX has had his diagnostics run perfectly well. I assure you the android itself works perfectly fine," Ethan smiled boyishly when you blushed.

"I don't doubt it," you assured him with an unintentionally adorable grin. "I've just... I've never seen an android like him," you admitted softly, those soft eyes meeting the WX's again.

He was looking right at you again.

Immediately your gaze dropped down shyly, unintentionally reading the blue holographic labels that surrounded the short white pillar he stood on.

"He has a name?" You asked, glancing over to Ethan for confirmation.

"Of course, but if you'd like to reset it-"

"No," you stopped him, feeling a bit more confident than you had when you first entered the store.

"König sounds fine to me."

König watched from his display, with a hint of utter- well... what would you call this?

Disbelief? Surprise?

Surprise when your complexion lit with a smile. Surprise when you said his name and turned to walk with the other android to the front of the store? Surprise as his eyes trailed after your form, unable to comprehend you.

For what reason could you possibly want a repurposed android like him?

It didn't make sense in the slightest, and although he watched you, he felt lost, considering possibilities that felt underwhelming in their answers.

His price was lower than others for being damaged. But so many had passed him by.

It was something König considered for a while, never finding a suitable answer until a new initiative popped across his sensors. Jolting him awake once more.

He was registered now to you. Your name popping across his vision like a directive.

"Thank you," you waved to the man who had helped you with a soft smile, getting a vaguely surprised gesture from him.

"Oh- You're very welcome!" Ethan smiled back and watched for a moment longer as you headed up to König, whom at that moment, was given back full control over his mechanical body. Unlocked from his low power mode.

The blue Thirium that cooled and powered his circuits rushed back into him. Circling through his veins and giving him back full control of his body. The world no longer running in slow motion.

König's hands lifted up slowly. The WX inspecting his hands and flexing his fingers into gentle balls. The two of you watched in silent awe as the large android moved once more, no longer destined for a Cyberlife disposal facility... but for.

König's vision refocused as you reached out. Your tiny hand taking one of his. Warm, and unmarred in contrast to his, and he could feel the almost imperceptible beating of your pulse beneath the contact.

"Come on," you smiled, not quite helping him from the stand, but guiding him down the small step. "I'll show you how to get back home, König," you mused, feeling the large androids cut up hand grip yours a bit tighter.

Next >

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themoonweaversden · 11 months ago

Text

All 179-244 (or so) codes that were found so far (no spoilers)

Note: As far as I'm aware if you input any word after selling your soul to Bill and press the knob you'll get the same result. I still think it's important to highlight the ones that didn't have any result once you imput them normally the day the website updated (AUDIOLOG, BUBBLES, CLEAR, CONTRACT, SMALL) these may have been just an error since it has been fixed since then

3466554

29121239168518

333 Sundapple Lane Cozy Creek IL 60714-94611

ABUELITA

ADASTRAPERASPERA

ALEX HIRSCH / ALEX / HIRSCH

AM I BLANCHIN

ANSWER

AXOLOTL

BAAAA

BABY / BABY BILL / LALALALALA / MOMMY / DADDY

BILL / BILL CIPHER / CIPHER / ILLB / LLIB REHPIC / REHPIC

BLACK SHEEP

BLANCHIN / BLANCHING / BLANCH

BLENDIN

BLIND EYE

BOOBERRY

BURN SIDE

BURNED INSIDE

BYE GOLD

CAESAR ATBASH VIGENERE / MULTILEVELMARK

CARD

CARYN

CIPHERTOLOGY

CLONE / TYRONE / PAPER JAM

CONSPIRACY

CRAY CRAY

CRYPTOGRAM CODEX

CURSE WITTEBANE

CURSED

DEATH

DEER TEETH

DESTRUCTION IS A FORM OF CREATION

DIONARAP

DIPPER

DIPPY FRESH

DISCO GIRL / BABBA

DISNEY / MICKEYMOUSE

DISPENSE MY TREAT

DIVORCE / BREAKUP

DORITO / NACHO / CHIP

DUCHESS APPROVES / THE DUCHESS APPROVES

DUCKTECTIVE

EASTER EGG

EMMALINE BUTTERNUBBINS

EUCLID / SCALENE / SCRIMBLES

EUCLYDIA

EVEN HIS LIES ARE LIES

FAMILY MATTERS

FBI / CIA / NSA

FILBRICK

FIXINIT1

FORD / SIXER / STANFORD

FORDTRAMARINE

FORGET THE PAST

FUCK / SHIT / BITCH / SLUT / SEX

FUCK YOU ALEX

GIDEON

GIFFANY

GLASS SHARD BEACH

GLOBNAR

GOD / HELP ME / SAVE ME / FRILLIAM

GOODNIGHT SALLY

GRAVITY FALLS

GREBLEY HEMBERDRECK

GUN / THE GUN

HAROLDS RAMBLINGS

HECTORING

HEY NERD

HISTORY

HOLOGRAM

HORROR / CREEPYPASTA / ANALOG HORROR

HOTXOLOTL

HOW WILL I DIE / WHEN WILL I DIE

IM STILL ON YOUR MIND

IRREGULAR

IS HELL REAL

IS THERE AN AFTERLIFE

JOURNAL 1

JOURNAL 2

JOURNAL 3

JUST BLEND IN

JUST FIT IN

KINGS OF NEW JERSEY

KOOK

KUBRICK

L IS REAL 2401

LIAR LYRE

LIES

LIFE

LOVE / BOYFRIEND / LONELY

LOVE YA BRO

MABEL

MASON

MATH / GREECE / SHAPES / GREEK / PLATO / GEOMETRY

MCGUCKET / FIDDLEFORD / OLD MAN MCGUCKET

MEOW / MEOW WOW

MONSTER

MORALITY

MOUNTAIN DONT

MYSTERY

MYSTERY SHACK

NAITSUAF

NOT A PHASE

NOTHING

OCCURREMUS ITERUM

OH YES THEY BOTH

ONE EYED KING

OROBOROUS

OWL TROWEL

PACIFICA

PAPER IS BOOK SKIN

PEAK

PINATA

PINES

PLATINUM PAZ

PORTAL

QUESTION

R34LITY

RAT

REALITY

RIDDLE

ROBBIE

RUBBERHOSE

SCARY / SPOOKEMUPS / SPOOKY

SCIENTOLOGY

SEASON 1 / SEASON -1

SEASON 2

SEASON 3

SEVEN EYES

SEVERAL TIMES

SHAVE YOUR GRANDMA

SKELETON

SKIBIDI / FORTNITE / ELON / CRYPTO / DOGE / GYATT / RIZZ

SOMETHING

SOOS

SORRY

STAN / STANLEY PINES / STAN PINES / STANLEY

STOD EHT TCENNOC

SUCK IT MERLIN

TAD STRANGE

TANTRUM

THE BOOK OF BILL / BOOK OF BILL

THE DUCHESS APPROVES

THEORY / MATPAT

THERAPRISM

THEYLL SEE / THEYLL ALL SEE / I SEE

TINSEL SNAKE

TITANS BLOOD

TJECKLEBURG

TOBY DETERMINED

TORTURE MENTALLY

TOURIST TRAP

TRIANGLE

TRIGONOMETRY

UNIONMADE

UNIVERSE

UNREALITY

VALLIS CINERIS

VIRUS

WADDLES

WEIRD

WEIRDMAGEDDON

WELL WELL WELLBEING

WENDY

WHICH RELIGION IS RIGHT

WHO ARE YOU

XGQRTHX

XYLER / CRAZ

YES

YOU CANT KILL AN IDEA

YOURE INSANE

Will update if more are found

#bill cipher #book of bill #gravity falls

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l1tw1ck · 2 years ago

Text

finding out miguel's secret~

sub!bottom!ftm miguel x dom!top!spider!amab reader

cw: afab language, masturbating, daddy kink, voyeurism

You quietly enter Miguel's office after knocking a few times with no answer. The door was cracked open so you thought it'd be okay to enter without permission. That, or he's in some sort of trouble. You hop onto the ceiling and quietly crawl around the office, looking for him and any possible assailants. As you're searching, you can hear faint noises coming from Miguel's private break room. He doesn't take breaks with the rest of the spiders, who could blame him though. You crawl down the wall and press your ear against the door.

"Uh~" A moan. "It's all in, Daddy~"

Your cheeks rise in temperature. What's going on in there?

"Please– please call me a good boy..."

"Good boy."

Another moan.

That sounds an awful lot like your voice.

You slowly open the door and peak through the crack. It's Miguel sitting on a bed. He's naked and has a dildo inside him. And then...there's....a hologram? A hologram of you? It's watching him masturbate. You feel bad that he has to do this in front of a soulless digital copy of you.

You open the door all the way, startling Miguel. He looks at you in fear.

"I- I can explain-" He quickly covers himself with his hands.

"Please, enlighten me." You smirk, closing the door behind you. You walk over to him and move his hands away. You grab the base of the dildo and slowly thrust it in and out of him.

"I um- I gave Lyla a....a new skin...to mimic you-" He bites his lip, feeling even more pleasure just from having you in his presence.

"You're that shy? Couldn't even ask me out first?" You chuckle. "You don't deserve to be called a good boy."

Miguel blushes in embarrassment and arousal.

"But you know what you can do to earn it?"

Miguel shakes his head.

"Use your words, darling."

"What?" His voice is trembling. You didn't think you'd ever hear him sound like this.

"Show Daddy how you use your little toy." You let go of the dildo and step back.

Miguel bites down on his lip and slowly fucks himself with the toy, staring at you in the eyes as he does so. He's had lots of practice with Lyla. Speaking of which, she's already left the room. But the real thing is much different. The look in your eye is real, and it's hungry. His eyes trail down to your crotch. He wonders if you've masturbated to him too. His mind starts to wander as he starts to imagine that. Would you use toys too? Do you have a fleshlight that you imagine is him? He twitches at the thought of you roughly rutting into a pocket pussy while thinking of him. He hopes he'll be replacing it.

You decide to give him what he so clearly wants to see. You pull down your pants and then your boxers. Miguel immediately snaps out of it when he sees your cock. He swears in Spanish, you're bigger than he anticipated. He stares at it as you slowly stroke it, precum dribbling out of your slit. He speeds up the pace, roughly fucking himself with his dildo. He wishes he could suck you off.

"You're drooling, Miguel." You chuckle. "You want this?"

He nods rapidly. "I want it, Daddy– I want it in my mouth and- and in my pussy~" He's breathing heavily. "Please- please-" He gasps, squirting.

"Good boy."

#wicks🕯️shorts #top male reader #male reader #bottom miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x male reader #miguel smut #miguel o'hara smut #sub miguel o'hara #🕯️miguel o'hara #🕯️spider man

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l3monlem0n · 1 year ago

Text

Some Murder Drones Episode 7 screenshots I thought were interesting and my thoughts on them :>

SPOILER WARNING!!!! is spoilering

Nori, despite being a middle aged woman with a child, appears to be an Otaku or otherwise likes "edgy" and "scene" stuff, as well as listening to nightcore, very much like her daughter. Good for her tbh you're never too old to have fun

She also has a photo of Khan and what I can only assume is baby Uzi, though it appears to have blue eyes, but maybe it's just the lighting. Still very cute she has a pic of her husband

As well as all the previously mentioned Otaku stuff, she also drew herself as an anime character. She has a skinsona. Phenomenal (pos)

Nothing much here, just Uzi coughing up blood. Girl got the goop (gore) inside of her already

Lab Space. Apparently the Church was just down there and not even the humans know why. The canonicity of this is questionable; it could just be a joke

OT, as per google, stands for "Occupational Therapy". Makes sense for the context, and makes the bottom text funnier

"Fun Time To Universe Big Crunch: 87". The Big Crunch is a hypothetical way the Universe could end, where the universe folds on itself and shrinks into a single point. 87 "what" I don't know. If it's months, that 7 years and 3 months

Honestly the Murder Drones lore is super confusing. I think what this is trying to say is that every other Zombie Drone is doing poorly, (Except for Yeva), they are trying to reactivate 002 (Nori) via the USB. I'm not sure what this means. Maybe they only got the results they wanted from the two of them, and are trying again with Nori since she was the only other one that worked (also why they got Yeva when she failed; this may all be referring to how the episode opened up) Also, the date says SER. As revealed in the episode Cabin Fever, Copper-9 has months that Earth does not. SER most likely stands for Seramorris, the month revealed in that episode

Looks like the "bad event" wasn't the first one. Certainly was the last one though lol

Just a good pic of ghost/hologram V with the scary stuff. Might use this as a wallpaper

You can literally see the hole in his neck where N bit him in...

...And it's to the point his HEAD FALLS OFF. (including because I didn't notice the first time around)

Yup, the idea that Uzi became the Admin for N and V is completely true. I wonder what would've happened if she didn't, since Cyn didn't react whatsoever

friggin bug (very pos)

You would not believe how difficult it was to get a good pic of this (I'm using snipping tool lmao). Always a pleasure to see Uzi's doodles. Things her gun can do (upper right):

NOT judge her

Forced prom date (?)

Allows her to say she had friends before she frickin murdered them with sci-fi machinery

The cut off text at the bottom: Plan B: Normal gun + Shoot really fast

This is while Tessa is looking for something in the lockers. Claws, chains, magnets, Wings, and scribbled "HELP". Looks like the lockers were all specifically to hold the infected worker drones. Oof

We are in the future now baby. We have rererererereCAPTCHA. Funnily enough, it still couldn't stop a robot

There is a message board where someone who doesn't like robots is talking. They also are scared. Also no one else is using this system, which is unsurprising. "Ur aight ;)" Wait is the winky face intentional foreshadowing? Or unintentional?

We get the names of a bunch of other Worker Drones. Unfortunately for all 029 fans, her name was not visible. (also can someone tell me what "JWEB" could be short for?) And Yeva is said to have a patch. That may be the crucible thing idk

Cyn (which I will be calling this version Skyn [Skin + Cyn]) apparently took of the space suit just to give Doll the Withered Foxy jumpscare. Honestly really terrifying. If this photo was teased before release I think the fandom would've exploded

Just N being a good boy :3

The MDs, Cyn's pets. Nori refers to them as "Nerfed" so the "Entity" can ensure control, and says they were made to destroy other hosts. I don't know why Cyn would want them dead, but I'm not the loremaster here. YouTube line is there because I couldn't be bothered after the Railgun image

Probably already confirmed, but doubly confirmed that a symptom of the Solver is giving Drones organic insides. A Worker Drone body with a rib cage and guts. I wonder what would happen if the infection continued uninterrupted (also R.I.P. Doll I loved you :frown:)

I'm sure everyone noticed, but when Uzi tried to manipulate Tessa, the ERROR noticed appeared. Already hinting Tessa is not all she says she is

Apparently the Solver can create Black Hole Saws. Interesting development (Blackhole Blitz)

I know most people (I think) see this as a joke and N just being a bit of goofball. But honestly, I think he did it intentionally to shock Cynuzi and give Nori a chance. In the Pilot, he licked V's sword to surprise her too, which means he isn't unfamiliar with doing something weird and surprising for the advantage

Skyn eating Doll's core. R.I.P. Doll again. Seriously, was that Doll in Core Form like Nori was? Or was Nori a fringe case because she was "Exorcised" and this is just a regular core? Questions, questions. Also yeah the Solver also gives you a Core. Fun

This tag makes me think that this body is Cyn's actual body. Not longer a hologram, but her actual body from the mansion. The reason Tessa gave N, J, and V their names was because that was the first letter of their Serial Designation (she's very uncreative). However, Cyn's tag was slightly faded, which meant her SD couldn't be seen, so Tessa gave her the name "Cyn" after her P/N, even though the other 3 already have the same P/N as Cyn (Tessa, again, is very uncreative)...

...and for some reason, Cyn or the Solver, which ever theory you subscribe to, decided to wear Tessa as a skin suit for some twisted reason. It did help her with the Captcha. Also scary because this doesn't have the right proportions for an adult (unless Cyn really forced that skin on), which leads me to believe that this is a Younger Tessa, and she faked having an older voice. Maybe I shouldn't call her my wife... I'm sure Eldritch J is still available :^)

(Seriously, the eyes are burnt out, leaving two eye holes over the visor, so she gives herself two X eyes so it looks better. Also yeah we found out what that thing on the "It Came From Copper-9" poster came from. It really was Cyn or Skyn)

Just a frame of the final...frame... for coolness. I'm probably also going to use this for a background. Also, this is definitely Copper-9. You can see the ring and ringless moon together on the right. Uzi somehow got sent to orbit after falling in the meat hole

Well that was all for now. This series has consumed me entirely, body and soul, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Goodbye and goodnight

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starkeymeow · 1 month ago

Text

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT part sixteen, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, victory tour + victory ball shenanigans, beginning of y/ns trafficking trauma, one step closer to the thorns idea!! beware, also rmbr act 2 are more imagines than cohesive chapters so if anyt comes fast thats why

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

pre-tour interview

the announcement comes just days after the interview. you barely have time to breathe, barely have time to adjust to a life outside the arena. it’s the victory tour, of course. you knew it was coming.

what you didn’t expect was how loud the capitol got about it.

they’ve already started whispering, “we haven’t seen enough of them,” as if rafe and you are dolls kept locked behind a glass case for too long.

snow is apparently disappointed that your recovery took as long as it did, even if most of panem agrees these were the bloodiest games in a decade—two victors, both nearly dead, both dragged from the brink by a miracle or stubborn will or something close to divine. the cameras caught the blood. the finale caught the kiss. and now, they want the reward: you.

they clear the others out of victors village. or at the very least advise them to stay inside. no one’s allowed to ruin the symmetry of the new narrative. just you and rafe today, fresh and polished, stepping out of your home and into the camera.

because the first stop isn’t a district. it’s your porch.

they want an interview. just a quick one, valis assures you with a smile too big to be real. just to capture your first official appearance in the village before the victory tour would commence.

so they fit you in something warm. your dress is long-sleeved, fitted like second skin. your hair is swept back casually, makeup light but careful. they keep saying the same phrase over and over: soft but strong.

rafe is getting the same treatment in the other room. you don’t see him until they bring you both together to wait by the door. his coat is thick and black, cut clean like something military, but he wears it casually, his sleeves rolled up just slightly, like he’s not fully on duty. his hair’s a little messy, and it suits him. somehow, it all suits him.

he tugs at the collar with one hand and gives you this look, almost like, it’s not the worst thing i’ve worn, right?

you smile. because it’s not. because it’s the most human he’s looked in weeks. at least for the capitol’s eyes. or everyone’s eyes, you guess. you forget sometimes that everyone’s watching you now.

valis won’t stop touching your hair. you don’t mean to flinch, but you do. she’s tugging too much, pressing flyaways down that no one will notice, murmuring something about angles and the right kind of messy when suddenly the door clicks.

rafe opens it from inside side. “val,” he says, grinning like he’s joking but with that firm edge that means i’m not.

valis snaps back upright, laughing nervously, backing away with her hands up. “you’re right, you’re right.“

she disappears before the cameras can see her. meanwhile you glance at rafe, smoothing your sleeves. he offers his arm.

you link yours through his, and he doesn’t say anything, but when your eyes meet, you give him a soft look. a thank you. not just for the save. for understanding. then you step outside.

you expect chaos, like caesar, a full crew, cameras swarming like hornets. but instead, it’s quieter than you thought. there’s a few cameras on long arms, lights following your movement automatically, broadcasting you to the rest of the country. no crew in sight. no caesar.

how fucking lazy are they?

instead, his hologram flickers to life in the center of the village between your home and rafe’s old one across the way, warm and smiling in that trademark blue suit. he waves gently, as if he can see you. you’re pretty sure he can.

you glance down and notice the faint white chalk x on the ground, someone’s marked the perfect angle for you to stand. you think of enobaria. she was here. she probably stopped by earlier just for this.

you and rafe walk to the spot, pausing on the x, arms still linked.

caesar’s hologram begins to speak. you nod, you smile. rafe answers a few questions, like how are you settling in, what does it feel like to be back, are you two still just as in love as the night you both won? you offer the usual lines, the approved ones and the sweet laugh. rafe gives a softer smile than you expect, hand on the small of your back. and you play it all.

and then, right before the hologram fades, caesar says, “give us one more for the road, would you?”

you lean up. rafe tilts his head slightly. and you kiss him. it’s not long, not passionate. just soft. it’s practiced. it’s enough.

victory tour

the environment smells different depending on the district.

you start noticing that around seven, like something metallic clinging to the walls like copper, the air thicker than usual, not exactly dirty, just different. but it starts in twelve.

district twelve is the first stop of the tour, and it sets the tone for the rest.

you don’t know what you expected. more smiles? more warmth? snow said beloved, said the whole country adored you and rafe. said they were already selling posters and branded forks and dresses ‘inspired by y/ns final look.’ but the second you step onto the stage in twelve, it hits you.

no one cheers.

there’s no booing, not outright, but it’s silent. people stand still like statues, eyes half-lidded, arms folded. they don't clap when you're introduced, they don't laugh when caesar’s pre-recorded hologram tries to make a joke. they just watch. and even then, barely.

you read from the card anyway, say the words that valis coached into you like a school lesson. it feels empty.

the next stop, eleven, is the same. then ten. then nine.

people don’t look at you with awe. they look at you like they can’t stand the sight of you, and maybe they can’t. maybe they don’t see a girl who survived. maybe they just see another person the capitol crowned for killing their kids.

you try not to let it show but even rafe looks uncomfortable sometimes, especially when he glances at you in the train between stops and sees the way you’re starting to sit more and more quietly, your cards limp in your hand.

you don’t say it out loud, but it starts circling in your mind like a wasp: they hate us. even if we weren’t the ones who killed their kids. we’re still responsible.

and they don’t just hate you, but all victors. maybe they’ve hated all of you this whole time.

because if someone from their district didn’t win, then someone from their district died. and that’s your face, your name, your photo burned into their memory now, every time they walk past the town square.

what makes it worse is knowing they’re not wrong. but you get through it until district four. that’s where it starts to unravel.

you knew it was coming. you knew their names would be said, their photos would be displayed. kie and jj, your tributes from four. both of them died in ways you can’t forget, especially not kie. especially not when you still wake up from dreams where you’re covered in blood and it’s hers.

you tell yourself you’re ready for it. you tell yourself it's just another speech. but when you step onto the platform and look across the square, you freeze.

their faces are plastered across those massive screens, side by side. remember them, the message says beneath in blocky white letters. and underneath the screens, standing stiff in the cold wind, are their families.

you see kie’s mother first. she’s small, frail, holding someone’s hand but barely able to stay standing. jj’s dad has his jaw clenched tight, eyes locked on you like he’s trying to burn a hole straight through your chest. no one claps here either. but the quiet is more personal.

you forget the first line of your card.

you don’t realize how long you’ve stood frozen until you feel rafe’s hand brush yours. he doesn’t grab it, not right away, just lets his fingers find the edge of yours, waits until you curl back. when you do, he holds your hand like he’s saying, i’m here. i’ve got you.

he clears his throat and steps forward slightly. and instead of reading from his card, he speaks.

“kie,” he starts, the wind tugging at the collar of his jacket. “she was sharper than anyone gave her credit for. she didn’t use a standard weapon like most of us. i think a lot of people underestimated her because of it, but she was smart. she knew when to speak and when to strike hard. and she fought hard.”

he pauses, eyes flicking to the screens.

“jj was the same—clever, stubborn, funny when he wanted to be. he could’ve made it all the way if the games were fair.” his voice dips a little at the end there. “he was a fighter too.”

there’s still no applause, but someone sniffles in the crowd. you hear a shaky breath. someone’s shoulder quivers.

you finally manage to speak. the card in your hand crumples slightly.

“they were . . . they deserved better,” you say. and it’s not rehearsed, same as him. “they were more than just tributes. sometimes i wish i’d met them under different circumstances. they were real people. and they were good. and i’m sorry.”

you can barely look at the families. your voice catches, and you want to say more. you want to cross the platform, to tell them to their faces that you remember everything and that you’ll never forget, but the peacekeepers step in.

the moment you try to step forward, one of them touches your shoulder.

“that’s enough,” someone says quietly.

and then it’s over. they’re escorting you back into the building, cameras still running, but no one talking. rafe walks behind you. you don’t cry, but something changes in you in district four. and you don’t think it’s going back.

anyway, district three is a blur. you barely remember the stage, the speech, the names. there’s static in your brain the whole time. your mouth moves, the words come out, but your head is somewhere else. you think it’s just exhaustion.

rafe notices. he’s been noticing more lately.

he fills in when you pause too long, presses his hand to your lower back when you start to sway a little. you think he’s trying not to hover, but it’s hard when you’re not saying much these days.

district one is next. that’s another one that hits you like a steel rod to the gut.

you haven’t looked at topper’s face in days, not even when his name’s been said before, but now it’s there.

you blink hard, swallow down the lump forming fast in your throat. you step forward when it's your turn.

“topper . . .” you say, “he wasn’t just strong. he was good. he had a way of making people feel safe, even in the arena. even when he had every reason not to be kind, he still was. and he always had our back.”

you take a beat to breathe through your nose.

“he shouldn’t have died the way he did. he deserved better than that.”

rafe doesn’t say anything right after. he doesn’t have to. he just stands there with his jaw tight, eyes lowered, like he’s remembering it all too clearly.

then you look at diamonte’s face on her screen, and your heart twists, but not in the same way.

you hated her. still kind of do. and you hate that you feel guilty about it.

she played her role perfectly, the loner, all the way up until she dropped whatever mask she had. the second she saw a path to the finale, she turned into something else entirely. maybe that’s what the games do. or maybe it was always in her.

her family is smaller than you expected. there’s just one woman in a pale dress, holding her own hand.

you don’t say anything for diamonte. you bite your tongue, hard. rafe does the same. and you don’t miss the way her family doesn't even look up at you, like even they know there’s nothing to say either.

you’re escorted offstage minutes later and you disappear to the last car before anyone can stop you.

you’ll be in district two tomorrow.

it’s quiet in the train car though, and the window, like the massive fucking window, shows you everything you need to see and nothing you need to speak to. it’s all soft hills and changing sky.

you lie on the couch, head on a pillow, half wrapped in a blanket someone must’ve left behind. maybe cassaline. she’s been fussy lately. she always is right before a final stop.

meals come and go.

cassaline calls you both to the dining car like it’s a family dinner, like this is some quaint gathering. but it’s just you, rafe, and your mentors picking at food while cassaline goes over camera cues and schedule timing like it’s gospel. you eat slowly, barely. you nod when she needs you to. but mostly, you just wait for it to be over so you can come back here.

and when you do, the sky’s turned a softer gray-blue. you lie down again, head to the window, arm resting on your stomach, fingers idly picking at the hem of your shirt.

you don’t hear the door open, but you feel the presence before you register it.

rafe doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make it a thing. he just crosses the room, shrugs off his jacket, and lowers himself onto the couch beside you. he stretches out long, arms behind his head, exhaling slow. his thigh presses against yours.

you don’t move at first. but then you shift instinctively, laying into his side. your arm drapes across his hips, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. your head finds the space just under his collarbone, and you breathe there. he smells like clean cotton and something smokier. it’s familiar to you now.

when you get to district two, it’s nothing special. at least, not to you.

it’s louder here, of course. there are cheers that rise up like thunder as you and rafe step onto the stage. two victors, standing side by side, returned from the dead to bring another win home to two. the district eats it up, just like they always do. they’re usually hunger games fanatics with wide eyes and open arms, the kind of people who’d volunteer in a heartbeat if their name wasn’t called.

but all you can think is: if they only knew.

if they knew what you had to see, what you had to do. they don’t know that winning doesn’t feel like winning. you smile anyway because that’s what they expect. you play the part, shoulders back, chin high.

rafe’s talking beside you, saying something about how honored he is, how proud. your gaze skims the crowd, scanning over faces. some you recognize like classmates or old training partners. a few of them clap with tight smiles, the kind that don’t quite reach their eyes. others nod at you with something colder, like they’re sizing you up, like they thought they were going to win this year, and somehow you stole it.

and then there are the ones who look straight through you as if they can see it, what’s under the surface. what you’ve become.

you spot your mom near the back. she’s easy to find, even in a sea of people.

she’s not waving and she’s not shouting. she just stands there, quiet, like always. and there’s a faint, soft smile on her face that you’ve missed so much it makes your chest ache. you lock eyes with her, and for a second, everything else fades.

you feel like a little kid again, like you’re back in school and she’s in the crowd, and your voice cracks during your part in a play but she still claps louder than anyone else.

you nod, smile back, cheeks flushed. you look away like it’s too much. you love her.

and then you step forward to speak, mic warm beneath your fingers.

“we’re proud to be bringing the win home to district two this year,” you say like you practiced in front of enobaria a thousand times. “it’s an honor to represent a place that values strength, resilience, and determination. we’re glad to be back. it’s good to see all of you.”

they eat it up, but the moment is fragile.

you don’t even see it coming.

something sharp whips out from the left side of the crowd, too fast to process, too quick to react, and it nicks your forehead hard enough to make you stumble back a step.

you barely register the sting before your vision blurs for a split second, your fingers flying up on instinct. there’s a boo, then a roar of angry confusion from the crowd. peacekeepers start yelling.

rafe’s hand is on you instantly. “hey, hey—“ he turns you toward him, eyes scanning your face, his thumb brushing right under the scrape. “you’re bleeding.”

your hand joins his, fingertips coming away red. the crowd’s chaotic now. peacekeepers break through the square as the yelling grows louder, focused on someone thrashing in the middle of the mass.

you squint through the blur, and there’s a man, screaming something incoherent, something angry about the games and about you. about them all.

his voice cracks and carries even as the peacekeepers reach him, dragging him by the arms. he doesn’t stop. and maybe he’s not wrong.

your legs feel unsteady. before you can really look at what happens to him, brutus appears out of nowhere, barking at rafe, grabbing his arm, and pulling you both off stage before the situation spirals even worse.

rafe tugs you protectively behind him as you duck into the building. enobaria is already waiting in the wings with a towel in hand, dabbing at your forehead with quick, efficient motions. she barely winces. “you’ll be fine. just a scratch.”

“a scratch? someone threw something at her,” rafe snaps, clearly on edge. his voice echoes off the walls like he’s not used to yelling indoors.

brutus stands with his arms crossed, jaw tight, looking like he wants to roll his eyes at the situation but he says nothing. he doesn’t have to.

cassaline hurries in next, eyes wide and glittery with concern. “oh, sweetheart. that was awful. are you alright? do you need to sit down?”

you shake your head. you’re fine. it’s just a scratch. it was rude as fuck but it shouldn’t be anything to worry about.

“did my mom see that?” you murmur more to yourself than anyone, because that’s the part that hurts most. it’s not the scrape or the blood. not even the shock of being hated in your own district.

it’s the thought that your mother might’ve seen it happen. that her soft smile might’ve fallen the second you were struck.

you don’t know why, but that’s what sticks with you. you just hope desperately that she knows you’re okay.

“c’mon,” rafe murmurs, tugging on your sleeve as the others begin to head back to the bullet train for your last stop tonight. the capitol.

the victory ball

you feel the zip of the dress at your back before you ever see yourself in it.

the fabric is heavy and luxurious. it’s a deep onyx, veined with hints of dark red, almost like dried rose petals pressed into the seams. when you shift, you swear you catch a shimmer under the lights. it’s subtle, but it’s there, a glitter woven into the bodice, reflecting in slow flickers, like embers.

the shoulders are cut in a way that frames your collarbones like something out of a statue. the back dips low, enough to make you feel exposed, but not fragile. never fragile. you think that’s the point.

your makeup contains smoky eyes, glitter along the brow bone and tucked into the corners of your eyes like stardust. there’s this rose-gold shimmer across your cheekbones, catching light with every slight turn of your face. your lips are a muted berry. enough to draw attention, not enough to overshadow the rest.

your hair is done half-up, half-down, loose curls that cascade over your shoulders, but pulled back just enough with tiny gold pins in the shape of thorns to keep your face clear. you look expensive to say the least.

cassaline claps her hands when she sees you. “oh, valis has done her best yet again! you’re going to kill them. i mean, metaphorically, of course,” she laughs, nervous as always. “just wait until the photographers see you. you’re going to be on every broadcast across panem by morning.”

enobaria just hums in approval. “it suits you,” she says, simple as that. she doesn’t say you look beautiful, but she doesn’t have to.

“this is what they want?” you ask, adjusting the dress even though it fits like it was sewn to your bones.

“it’s what they expect,” enobaria corrects. “but you might as well make it yours.”

the ball is at snow’s mansion.

they call it a home but that’s a joke. nothing about it feels like a place meant for living. it’s too perfect, too polished. every corner gleams. every hallway smells faintly of white roses and something sharper, like bleach. the ceilings are high, the walls lined with golden trim. it all just feels cold inside.

outside it’s packed. tables overflow with food that’s almost too rich to eat, like glazed meats, sculpted desserts, drinks that sparkle like liquid gold. waiters with blank expressions circulate with trays, offering glass after glass of glittering champagne.

everywhere you look, there’s someone staring.

you’re used to it by now. you’ve been on camera for weeks. but this is different. these aren’t wide-eyed children watching the games. these are adults, politicians, gamemakers, victors, and men in suits who don’t even pretend to hide what they’re here for.

you grip your glass tighter.

meanwhile rafe looks like he’s stepped out of a capitol fashion spread with a simple black tailored suit but a deep wine-red shirt, no tie, collar open like he doesn’t care what they think of him.

you spend the first part of the evening at his side, sticking close, offering polite smiles, murmuring quiet comments between the two of you that he responds to with smirks or eye rolls.

you try to enjoy it. you try.

but you’re still chewing when you realize you’ve made a mistake.

the dessert looked innocent enough. it was shiny, pastel pink, glittery, shaped like a blooming rose just for you. it looked like it would taste soft and sweet and maybe melt on your tongue like sugar. instead, it’s . . . gelatinous. and gross, chewy in a way that defies explanation. the flavor is floral, but in the worst possible way.

your eyes widen and rafe notices instantly. he’s standing just beside you, swirling something gold and fizzy in a tall glass and trying not to look bored. but then he glances over and sees the panic in your face, the way your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek like you’re begging for salvation.

you lean in and whisper, voice muffled behind a clenched jaw, “i can’t swallow this. it tastes like shampoo.”

he raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “spit it out?”

“literally where?” you gesture subtly around you. everything is so capitol it hurts. even the potted plants look expensive. you’d rather die than spit into one.

so rafe, because he’s rafe, holds out his hand.

you blink. “are you—”

“just give it to me,” he mutters, already reaching for the napkin in his breast pocket.

you turn your head and discreetly drop the half-chewed blob of horror into the linen, mouthing a desperate thank you as he casually tucks the napkin away, moving toward one of the bush monstrosities near you. he leans down slightly, pretending to examine some flowers, and when he stands again, the napkin is gone.

“you two seem to be enjoying yourselves.”

you both freeze.

rafe straightens immediately, you do the same. because you know that voice. it’s snow. and if you’re not careful, he’ll remind you what you cost him.

you paste on a smile as you turn, your heart already climbing into your throat. hopefully he didn’t just see that.

he’s standing just a few steps away, dressed in pale gray with silver accents that gleam. there’s a glass in his hand, but he hasn’t touched it. instead, he’s surrounded by three other men. benefactors, you assume, from the way snow gestures to them like a proud collector showing off a prize.

you and rafe step closer, both of you defaulting to smiles that don’t reach your eyes. you hug snow, kiss his cheek.

“you’ve both exceeded expectations,” he says, lips curling. “panem adores you.”

you know better than to say thank you. instead, you turn toward the men.

they’re dressed like they were given no rules but that’s literally just how it is here. one wears a glittery green suit with a high collar and matching lipstick. another has a ruffled yellow shirt under his lavender blazer, his facial hair styled into thin curls that loop outward like vines. the third is in deep red, all velvet and shine, with a brooch shaped like an open mouth pinned to his chest.

they smile when you kiss their cheeks. well, you try to. one of them leans in too fast and you hesitate, nose brushing against his skin, the scent of powder and wine overwhelming. you force yourself not to gag.

“this is y/n,” snow says smoothly. “a shining example of what the games can give back to the people.”

you hate the way he says that.

the men nod. one of them steps forward to take your hand, his fingers cold and lingering. “your performance was unforgettable,” he says. his voice is too soft, too interested. you want to pull away but don’t.

“and this,” snow says, turning to rafe, “is rafe. just as valuable, though less practiced in diplomacy.” he says it like a joke, but there’s teeth under it. rafe just nods, jaw tight.

you catch one of the men glancing at rafe. not just looking, but staring. his eyes flick over him slowly, like he’s sizing up meat at a market. your stomach flips. rafe doesn’t notice. he’s too busy pretending not to be bothered by snow.

you shift subtly, putting yourself between them. snow keeps talking.

“these men are generous, important contributors to the capital’s . . . entertainment budget. they have a particular interest in victors, like supporting them, nurturing their success, guiding them into the next phase of their legacy.” his tone is light, but there’s something else underneath. something curled and slimy.

you nod along and smile, but your chest feels tight. when snow talks about guiding you, it doesn’t sound like advice. it sounds like ownership.

the way the men look at you, at both of you, feels too heavy. it’s too weird.

but you tuck that thought away and ignore it. because if you let yourself think too hard about it now, you’ll ruin the entire night. and you can’t afford that. not here. not with snow watching you.

so you smile. you laugh. you listen. and eventually, snow and his little entourage drift off into the crowd.

you lean into rafe’s side more than usual after, your mouth close to his ear as you whisper, “these people are freaks.”

he huffs, amused but stiff. “you’re just figuring that out?”

you shake your head. you don’t want to talk about it anymore. you just want to go for a walk or something, get some air even though you’ve been outside this whole time, but you don’t get far.

you’re walking toward the greenhouse, just far enough from the noise to breathe, when one of the benefactors finds you again.

he’s alone this time. the one in velvet, red like wine.

“i hope i’m not interrupting,” he says, eyes flicking toward rafe, who stands just a few steps away, facing the other direction.

you smile tightly. “not at all.”

he steps closer. “i was hoping to find a moment with you. something more . . . personal.” his eyes flick down your body, and then back up. “are you free later?”

you blink. “sorry?”

“after the ball,” he says. “i’d love to talk. privately. i’m staying at the promenade. i’m sure you’ve seen it. it’s a beautiful space. intimate.”

you laugh. you don’t mean to. it comes out startled and awkward. “i don’t— i think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

he tilts his head. “has there?”

you glance at rafe. he’s turned halfway now, like he might have caught your voice. the man notices. his smile spreads wider.

“he doesn’t have to know,” he says. “unless you want him to.”

your mouth goes dry.

you don’t know what to say. not really. so you shake your head. “i’m not interested.”

the man’s smile falters. he steps back and leaves without a word, but the look on his face makes you wonder if he thought you were genuinely supposed to say yes.

you watch him go, and for the first time tonight, you feel it.

it’s been clawing at the back of your mind since you walked in. it’s the way snow spoke, the way some of these men looked. it’s the way this whole event feels staged for you but not about you.

some of these men aren’t even here to meet you.

they’re here to buy you.

reader confronting snow at the v.b. still

you’re standing near the edge of a balcony, trying not to draw attention. you haven’t touched another bite of food since the pink dessert fiasco, haven’t let go of rafe’s hand unless someone insisted on pulling one of you away, but for the past few minutes, he’s been talking to someone across the garden, like someone high-ranking probably from the way their sleeves glitter and their teeth gleam.

you’re just debating whether to go back to him when you feel a hand slide against your back.

“my dear,” snow murmurs.

your body locks up before you even turn. you look up and there he is, president snow, smiling like he’s proud of you. like he thinks this night is for you.

“join me for a dance?”

you want to say no and literally just run, but you nod instead, because you’ve already made too many waves tonight and you can feel them under your skin. all the watching eyes, waiting mouths. you take his hand.

the dance floor is doused in slow waltz music, soft strings winding through the air. the other guests spin in perfect rhythm, so pristine it almost looks choreographed.

snow leads you into it as if this is a celebration, like he’s your date.

your hand lands on his shoulder, the other in his. his palm is rough, callused, not at all what you expect. his breath is faintly sour, his cologne sharp and clean, like hospital soap. he’s too close, so you lean back as subtly as you can, trying to maintain distance without making a scene. you’re close enough to count the veins in his eyes, and they look too red, too raw. he’s so fucking ugly.

a/n: sorry not donald, may u rest, i just HAAATEEEEUH snow

“i must say,” snow begins, “they’ve done wonders with that scratch on your forehead.”

your gaze snaps to his. he smiles wider, pleased.

“the medic team. after the . . . unfortunate incident this morning in district two.” his voice stays light like you’re talking about the weather. “the antibiotics, the serum, the cream—remarkable work. you’d never know you were bleeding just hours ago.”

“cut the crap.” your voice is quiet, barely audible under the swell of violins. “what’s going on?”

he raises his brows, still smiling. “such strong language.”

you keep staring at him, fingers twitching slightly where they touch his suit. you feel sick. you feel small. but you refuse to back down.

“are you talking about the benefactors from earlier? you didn’t think they were here for conversation, did you?” his words land like ice water.

you stop breathing already. your feet falter, and he quickly adjusts his step to pull you back into rhythm like nothing happened.

your heart beats louder than the music now. “you can’t be serious,” you shake your head.

his smile only widens. “come now, y/n. i know you’re not stupid. i was curious to see how long it would take. clearly, not long at all.”

he says it like he’s pleased that you’ve solved some little riddle he left out for you. congratulations, victor.

you stare at him with something close to revulsion.

he just keeps leading you through the slow turns, moving like this is any other normal conversation. like he hasn’t just confirmed your worst nightmare.

you glance over his shoulder, desperate for air. across the dance floor, you spot rafe. he’s with cassaline now. she’s taken his hand, spinning him gently across the marble, her dress glimmering like starlight. she’s smiling, talking, trying to keep him company. trying to distract him, maybe. or shield him. she’s always been kind.

you swallow hard and look back at snow.

“so . . . what?” you ask. “you’d let me fall into human-trafficking? are you really doing this? to me?”

he blinks. “doing something to you? no, no, my dear. we’re merely maintaining the peace. the capital thrives on gratitude. generosity. access.”

your lip curls.

“there are benefactors who have supported these games since long before your time. some do it for the drama. some do it for the spectacle. and some,” he says with a shrug, “do it for the pleasure of being close to the victors. physically.”

you stare at him, horror settling into your bones.

“not everyone is requested,” he goes on, dragging you into another slow turn. “but some victors, ones like you, well. the pretty ones don’t always retire quietly.”

you can’t speak. your mouth is dry.

“there are women who will approach you soon,” he adds casually. “you’ve only met three men so far, and already they’re lining up.”

your head spins. you knew it.

“just don’t touch rafe,” you mumble.

you think of the man in red, the one who asked for you with no shame. you think of the way another man looked at rafe, like he’d already bought him. you wonder how many other victors have gone through this, how many are still going through it now, how many were your age when this happened to them.

you’re seventeen.

your voice shakes as you say it. “i said no.”

snow tilts his head. “what’s that?”

“i already declined one of them.”

he doesn’t miss a step. he doesn’t even flinch, but something shifts in his eyes.

“hmm,” he says mildly. “a shame. some of them are very influential. but perhaps you’ll learn soon that your choices aren’t really yours.”

the music softens, winding toward its end.

you breathe through your nose, gripping his shoulder a little tighter, trying not to break. you want to just go home. you stare straight ahead as he finishes the dance with you, calm as ever.

and just before the final note fades, he leans in. his mouth is close to your ear, “you’re owned, my dear.”

you go cold.

“by panem. by me. and by the peace that you now help us keep. you’d do well to remember that.”

he steps back, offers a shallow bow like nothing just happened, and disappears into the crowd.

you stand there alone, the music gone silent.

you don’t cry. you don’t scream. you just watch him walk away.

you stand in the middle of the square, visibly struggling to swallow it down. you feel like throwing up.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

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tranquilreign · 2 months ago

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superhuman | series | 18+ | teaser

pairing; jungkook/reader genre: mafia au! dystopian au! warnings: sexual themes, knives, 18+ word count: 708 synopsis: the year 2107, seven years after the first superhuman was confirmed. Though few in numbers, they are dangerous. deadly. as their appearances have become more frequent, you have you identity hiding for your own safety. but the superhumans seem to be one stop ahead. taglist: @taekrve @taerjin @softhaes

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

"Breaking news. United Kingdom political parties sign a contract to provide South Korea with doctors as the country prepares for America's next move. Reports have claimed that South Korea's president Lee Soo-Hyun has offered a peace treaty to help end the suffering of South Korean and American citizens, and hopefully put a stop to a potential fifth world war."

Small grunts and whines reverberated throughout the small room as the TV played quietly in the background. The headboard banged against the wall every time he pushed into her with such force that she was almost left breathless. His large tattooed hand wrapped itself around her neck, pulling the woman up so her back was pressed firmly against his chest, allowing him to push further into her. His other hand secured tightly around her waist, ensuring she wouldn't lean forward while he ruined her.

Her moans grew louder as she tried to talk, the feeling of his length hitting her sweet spot sending her into a state of euphoria.

"Come on, use your words and beg me to let you come," he grunted, pulling her earlobe in between his teeth, and proceeding to kiss and suck at the delicate skin on her neck - which was already covered in black and blue.

"P-Plea-" she choked out, barely even finishing her words when he grew impatient and slammed into her at such an inhumane speed that she came without warning, eyes rolling to the back of her head. The feeling of her walls tightening around his cock was enough to push him over the edge. He continued to thrust into her, slowing down a little to help him ride out his high.

He pulled out gently, making sure not to cause any discomfort for the woman. He grabbed her clothes, handed them over to her, and politely asked her to leave. She smirked, running her hand over his chest. Before she left, she leaned forward to whisper crude things in his ear. She pulled back and sent one last wink to the man, turning to leave and gently shutting the door behind her.

He slipped his sweatpants over his muscular thighs, letting them lie securely on his hips. He sat down at the edge of his bed, watching as videos of Lee Soo-Hyun were displayed on the holographic television screen. His blood boiled as the president smiled, his urge to put a bullet between his eyes only growing stronger.

He let out a growl, grabbing the throwing knife under his pillow and hurling it at the hologram, the weapon going straight through the image and piercing the oak wood wall. He exhaled - an attempt to calm himself - and moved to grab his knife when he stopped, noticing how the video had paused when his knife went through the projection. He squinted his eyes and then smirked when he confirmed his suspicions. Swiping his finger along the image, it minimised and moved to his hand, almost as if he was holding a phone to look at it.

Pulling out a small black metal slab from his pocket, he tapped the bottom of the screen, allowing it to light up. His eyes scanned through his contacts until he found who he was looking for. Almost as soon as he dialled, the caller answered.

"What is it, Wraith? You know you should only call if-"

"Listen up, IQ. I've finally figured out a way to bring Soo-Hyun down. And we're going to strike right at the core."

to be continued...

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

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sourszt · 9 months ago

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𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑 | aphrodisiac + exhibitionism

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 — tenth doctor x fem!reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — nsfw, aphrodisiacs, exhibitionism, reader and doctor are being watched, dub-con if you squint (aphrodisiacs are administered without consent), slightly ooc doctor, kidnapping (?)/slight hostage situation, penetrative sęx, top!reader, “doctor” is said/taken sexually, “sweetheart” used, lmk if i forgot anything!

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 — so the aphrodisiacs aren’t really aphrodisiacs but like a truth serum, if that makes sense. slightly misleading but it has a similar effect and result so ask me if i gaf! idk something about david tennant lately just has me rolling around with my fist in my mouth.

you and the doctor often found yourselves in indescribably wacky situations, but this one was by far the one that took the cake.

the doctor was feeling challenging that morning and decided to take the two of you to a distant planet over a million years in the future to find another adventure. it had been a while since the last one and you two were growing bored. what he didn’t expect was to be immediately overpowered and taken prisoner by this new species.

neither of you even had a chance to identify them properly before being knocked out with a needle to the neck and tossed into a shared cell. which, oddly, wasn’t even the strangest part.

when you awoke, you found the room was decorated with cameras in every corner, only one large bed, a small separate bathroom, and a rather large mirror that was likely double sided for observation.

it all felt a little too… intense. invasive.

the doctor was laid beside you on the ground, still asleep. his hearts were still calmly beating when you pressed your fingers to either sides of his neck. the only abnormality was that his skin was warm to the touch. you were quick to get to your feet, screaming eto be let out. but you found it was a little more difficult than it should have been.

it was like your bones had been replaced with lead and your skull stuffed with cotton. your stomach was a similar story. it was uneasy and empty from having been asleep for however long you were, but you didn’t quite know if it was because you were scared or starved. had they used some alien compound drug to knock the two of you out?

no, that wouldn’t make sense. the doctor was almost immune to stuff like that.

still, something was definitely off.

you struggled to keep yourself upright and grasped onto the tiny ledges that the room had to offer you. it was harrowing; the silence that answered your cries for help. surely something should have revealed itself by now. a voice or perhaps some hologram in the middle of the room.

the technology was sure to be advanced, you just didn’t know how much. it was certainly advanced enough to keep the two of you indefinitely locked in the room.

it took you a while to accept that nothing was going to work, so you turned to waking the doctor up. you knelt by his side and shook his shoulder, frantically calling his name. he jolted upright after a few hard shakes and took in his surroundings, looking to you to fill in a few gaps.

“doctor, what is this place?” you asked, panic quickly subsiding now that your smarter counterpart was up and inspecting.

he didn’t respond for a long time. his wide eyes scanned the room from top to bottom while his hands patted each of his suit pockets. “i’m afraid i’m not going to be much help. for the first time, i don’t quite know.” the doctor shook his head and pulled at the collar of his shirt. his face subconsciously twisted into one of discomfort. “they took my… my screw- sorry, is it hot in here?”

his question caught you off guard and you suddenly became aware of the clothing clinging uncomfortably to your body. it felt like it shrunk a size and the temperature was raised to triple digits.

you peeling your jacket off like it had a venomous spider on it answered his question. he mirrored you and removed his blazer, then loosened his tie. “can’t tell if their plan is to roast us alive or if this is a negotiation tactic.” the doctor’s eyebrows furrowed as he attempted to think.

“what’s there to negotiate?” you knew the answer wasn’t going to be good. but the doctor never gave you one for he was too deep in his own thoughts.

you watched realization, or something adjacent, creep onto his features before it suddenly melted into worry. “oh, no. no, this isn’t right.” he pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and to his flushed cheeks.

that panic from earlier only heightened. “what? what is it?”

“whatever they injected us with… seems i’m not immune to it.”

it was a response too vague for your liking. “what will it do to us? kill us?” it felt like you were beginning to run a fever. the heat went beyond external and it was reaching you from the inside. everything felt like it was on fire, but it was far from painful.

the doctor gave you a brief once over before averting his eyes. he searched for something to stare at. “quite the opposite. i think it’s some sort of neural catalyst. a bit like a truth serum but…”

“what’s it, like an aphrodisiac?” everything clicked into place. it made sense. the symptoms: the spike in temperature, the way your breathing felt like it was slowing down, the way the doctor suddenly looked undeniably attractive. “my god, have they given us an aphrodisiac?”

“if it’s as advanced as it should be, i don’t think it’s that simple.” the doctor froze, his head swiveling towards you. “i suppose it’s some kind of… stimulus that brings the truth of someone’s desires to light. i guess it was a negotiation tactic, if someone’s true intentions were to bring harm to ‘em. what do you mean aphrodisiac?”

your eyes narrowed at the doctor, who grinned down at you. “don’t try to tell me you don’t feel it. you said it yourself, even you’re not immune to it.”

“yes, but i never said anything about aphrodisiacs, you naughty thing.” the doctor never missed an opportunity to taunt you, even through his own discomfort.

you were too worked up to fight him back. instead, you dove for the bed and tried to concentrate on anything else but the growing heat in your stomach. it was starting to become unbearable. “well then, how do we fight it off? there’s got to be some sort of override to it.”

“i’m sure you’d like to override it, ay?” the doctor jabbed with a cocky laugh.

“doctor!” you scolded him, trying to remind him how serious the situation was.

it appeared he was already well aware, but was far too deep into his own symptoms to even begin to think of a solution. “right, right. sorry.” he tried to clear his head but it was to no avail. the serum made its way past his defenses for the first time and he had no idea how to handle it.

“you know, if i wasn’t so hot and bothered myself, i’d say i was flattered. you were never the most subtle thing, but…”

you were hardly paying attention. your attention was zeroed in on the massive mirror across the room for the past minute. “d’you suppose they’re watching us now?” you glanced at the cameras mounted in each corner of the spacious room.

“perhaps.” not an ounce of concern carried through in the doctor’s voice. if anything, it sounded a little deeper than usual. that playful, teasing bounce to it was gone.

you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, knowing you were just a breath away from snapping and releasing your inhibitions on the man. out of the corner of your eye, you knew the doctor was already staring you down.

“what are we meant to do, doctor!” it was less of a question and more of a cry of defeat.

“look at me.” such a simple instruction, but it made your face flush red. you physically couldn’t comply because you knew what would follow and you had no idea how many eyes were on the two of you. “that’s what you’re meant to do. look at me, sweetheart.”

the doctor knelt on the other end of the bed, his hand tucking itself underneath your chin and turning your head. he didn’t have to force you, only a gentle beckon. the look in his eye was nothing out of the ordinary.

there was no strange hypnosis in them nor the lifelessness of manipulation. he wanted this. truly.

“doctor,” you whispered. you gravitated towards him, the proximity nearing dangerous.

he sighed. “have you always called me like that?” he seemed to be indifferent to your concerns about being watched. then again, the doctor was always one to give a show. perhaps that was a part of his desire. “you know there’s no other way out of it. if you don’t want to, i’ll find another way but you need to say something now.” he spoke with an urgency that sounded painful, like the thought of your rejection physically hurt him.

you were quick to close the gap, pulling him in by his collar. he sighed into the kiss like it was the antidote to his problems.

everything was a blur after that. the doctor’s hands were all over you as you shifted to straddle his lap. he grabbed at your hips, your ass, your thighs, your face and neck. it felt better than you had ever imagined. and his lips were utterly intoxicating.

you couldn’t help the breathy moans that would slip amidst your mad scramble to get each other’s clothes off. the doctor couldn’t get enough of those gorgeous noises. “c’mon my dear, don’t get all shy now.” he whispered breathlessly against your throat before pressing a chaste kiss to your skin.

kisses that trailed down to your chest while he searched for the clasp to your bra. “you’ve no clue how bad i’ve wanted this.” he murmured against your skin. his hands cupped your bare breasts, which elicited a whine from you.

instinctively, your hips rolled into his lap and you could feel him through the thin fabric of your panties. he was hard. and big. you moaned at the thought alone, desperately reaching for the buckle to his belt.

“needy thing, aren’t you?” the doctor teased, watching you with hooded eyes as you undid his trousers and freed his cock. he hissed at the contact alone, his head rolling back with a low whine when you started to slowly fist his cock. it seemed he was just as sensitive as you were.

you ducked down to catch his lips in a deep kiss that he gratefully accepted. he hooked his fingers into one side of the waistband of your panties and very impatiently ripped the fabric until it fell off of you in two pieces. you hardly expected something like that from the doctor.

in your momentary stupor, he roughly grasped your hips and guided you over his cock, running the head through your impossibly soaked folds. he watched each muscle in your face twitch with pleasure before sinking you down onto it.

his forehead pressed against your chest with a weak moan and sharp curse, though they were drowned out by the cry that tore from your throat. the feeling of your tight, wet cunt squeezing around him already told him this wouldn’t last much longer.

“shit,” he groaned when you finally started to move. it was well against your better judgment but you couldn’t resist it anymore. your body was on automatic now, itching for release.

you steadied yourself with a hand on the doctor’s knee as you rode him, angling your body back which allowed him a spot that made your mind go blank. the doctor quickly caught on to this and worked to meet your thrusts until he was fucking you from underneath.

“please don’t stop, don’t stop,” you pleaded, blinking back tears. “doctor, don’t stop!” it was all you could manage to say, chanting it over and over like a prayer.

“god, you’re fuckin’ filthy,” he muttered through gritted teeth. you had him nothing short of mesmerized. the way your tits bounced with each thrust, the way your cunt so greedily sucked him in, the way your head rolled back with each scream you let out. he couldn’t believe he didn’t do this sooner.

he could tell that you were close by the way your pussy clenched around him. “come on, that’s it,” he pressed his palm to your lower stomach, his middle finger rubbing circles around your clit.

the final stretch that broke you. your thighs tensed and your body arched into his hand as you came. the cries that came from you were likely to be heard by everybody within a mile of the room.

the doctor followed not long after, lifting you off of him with seconds to spare before releasing on your inner thigh.

neither of you were quick to move, adjusting to the slow return to homeostasis. it felt like the temperature had gone back to normal and your minds began to register what happened.

when you found the doctor’s eyes, you were worried they would be full of regret or disdain. but they stared right back at you with something you’ve never seen in them before. you didn’t have the strength to analyze it, though.

instead you collapsed beside him and prepared for a nap. “if those things were meant to observe us, i’m sure they got enough material.” you remarked.

the doctor laughed softly. “oh, i’m sure they did.”

lowkey dook but idc this came to me in a vision.

#doctor who kinktober #doctor who smut #doctor who #tenth doctor #tenth doctor smut #david tennant #david tennant doctor #kinktober #kinktober 2024

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