miruna

22

[godmadeaterribleerror]

what if he's mine

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦

✦wc: 7.5k✦

✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦

You think you might be a freak.

Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.

Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.

You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.

You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.

Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.

Bucky.

The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.

But you.

You’d been a fucking goner.

Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.

Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.

You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.

“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.

“Think so. Just maintenance?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”

You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.

But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.

Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.

“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.

Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-

He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.

“What?”

His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.

“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.

You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.

You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.

“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.

God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.

“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”

You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”

“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”

“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”

“I don’t know things from the 80s.”

You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.

You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.

“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-

“You want me to go?”

Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“

Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.

God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.

“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.

“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”

“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”

“Too much time with Sam.”

“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”

“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”

You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.

And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.

“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.

“Do you like cowboys?”

“I’m neutral.”

“Do you like space?”

“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”

You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”

Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”

“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”

Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.

“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.

“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.

He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.

“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.

It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.

“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.

You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”

He nods. “Just like you told me to.”

You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.

“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”

“Sam’s right.”

Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”

You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.

It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.

“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”

“That is my favorite kind of thing.”

“I know.”

Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”

You shrug. “The grocery store?”

Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.

The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and  you let it take over.

How much you want him. How much you need him.

You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.

“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”

And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.

“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.

This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.

“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.

“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”

You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.

“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”

Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.

Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.

You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.

But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.

That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.

It’s all just a fantasy.

You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.

He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.

You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.

You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.

That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.

“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.

You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.

“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.

“Nope.”

“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”

“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”

Bucky’s lips twitch.

The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.

“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.

“You don’t have to.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Good for you.”

“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”

You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”

“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”

Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.

“Ah. So it’s something.”

“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“

“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”

You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.

“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.

You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.

But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.

“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.

He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”

You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.

“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.

Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.

You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“

“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.

“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.

His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.

His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.

When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.

There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.

Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white  knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.

“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.

“Yeah.”

“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.

You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.

“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.

“What?”

“Princess Bride.”

“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”

Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”

You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”

“Stark says you get invited.”

You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.

“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.

Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.

But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.

“Oh- Okay.”

Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.

He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.

“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.

You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.

You get messy. He has no idea.

That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.

You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.

He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.

“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.

“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”

Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.

“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”

You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.

When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.

“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.

You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.

But your hand finds nothing.

Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.

Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.

You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.

“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.

There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.

Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.

“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”

“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.

“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“

“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.

“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”

Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.

You last ten minutes.

The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.

You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.

Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.

The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.

Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.

You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.

And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.

You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.

You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.

Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.

He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.

The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.

Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.

“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.

He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.

“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”

Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.

He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile. 

When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.

You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.

“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.

Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”

You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”

Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.

You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.

“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“

You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.

“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“

You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.

He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.

Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-

“Something on my face, doll?”

You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.

Bucky looks worried. He said something.

“Hm?”

“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.

You’re so, so fucked.

It only gets worse.

Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.

“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.

“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.

For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.

You last about a week, with that one.  Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.

“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.

“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.

Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.

You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.

His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-

Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.

“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.

Always so kind.

“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.

“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.

“Anything I can help with?”

You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-

“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”

“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.

You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.

“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”

And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.

You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.

First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.

Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.

You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.

“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”

And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.

Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.

“Bucky, I can’t-“

“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”

You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“

“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”

You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.

“Bucky- Get off-“

He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.

He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘

“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.

“I- I don’t know-“

“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”

You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.

He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”

You shrug. “You wanted me to.”

Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.

“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.

You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.

It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.

Then something shifts.

He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.

He’s hard.

Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.

You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.

And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.

Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.

“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”

He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.

Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.

What the fuck just happened.

Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.

“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”

You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”

You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.

Bucky hisses, hips jerking forward. “Careful,” he grunts. “Gonna strangle me.”

“S- Sorry-“

“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”

You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.  

“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”

You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.

But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.

Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.

You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.

He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.

He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.

It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.

And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.

It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.

And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.

But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.

But only ever in his head.

✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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[cainettles]

Cain Family 🤎

[unpunishbl]

[thatorchias]

let me in.

@tankhall

[superbassbuck]

18+ minors do not interact.

just a small group of friends who happen to also be bucky writers coming together to present you a world of different buckys. sit back, relax, and enjoy.

be sure to read all content warnings listed on each fic prior to indulging. please remember that fiction cannot hurt you! if you don't like what you see, please exit. as always, you are responsible for your own media consumption. @firingstars™

title gif by the sexy @barnesonly || winter soldier dividers

buckyverse — @firingstars

⤷ welcome to the buckyverse— a collection of bucky barnes au fics written by insane fucking idiots that spent the past two+ weeks gooning in a discord chat. please enjoy!

bwatober! — @houseofhyde .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️

⤷ one, two, bwa is coming for you… what’s scarier than one bwa collab? another bwa collab! welcome to our rendition of kinktober/flufftober, a collection of 17 bucky fics featuring select prompts. the only thing more terrifying than our deadlines is the emotional coin-toss you’ll be playing with each fic… so what will it be: dick or sweet?

once upon a time...⏾⋆.˚— the tales of bucky barnes masterlist— @superbassbuck

⤷ “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a man named Bucky Barnes. Some say he was a devoted prince, others whispered of a pirate adrift on wild seas, and others claimed he was an ugly beast cursed by ruin.Yet no two tales of him were ever the same, for not every story follows the path as old as time.”

the twelve days of christmas — @chateaubarnes ❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

⤷ 'twas the night before christmas, and all through the house, not a bucky was stirring, not even to pout...

lifting the pink veil — @spdrveil

⤷ bucky writers’ association (2026)　×　lifting the pink veila duo collaboration starring @pinksplace and @spdrveil .ᐟwith a special bonus feature from @unificsation ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃

✶ 𝓣AKE 𝓑UCKY 𝓗OME .ᐟ — @superbassbuck

⤷ i, superb ass, and my right hand man, @houseofhyde, are returning to our origins as directioners and bringing you 6 fics, inspired by one direction songs.

spring into stardew — @pinksplace

⤷ After suddenly finding himself the owner of a new (admittedly decrepit) farm located in the quiet recesses of Pelican Town, Bucky Barnes has to face his toughest challenge yet: growing parsnips. Oh! And of course, falling in love.

.ᐟ all writing and work belongs to their respective writers. as a collective, the writers tagged in this post do not give their consent for their work to be redistributed to other platforms to be reposted, translated, or re-worked by any means. we do not give consent for our work to be used in any form of artificial intelligence (ai) training.

[superbassbuck]

this is an 18+ space that contains bucky barnes x reader content. some of these stories can be extremely wholesome, and some of these stories can be extremely sensual and/or dark. please take note of the warnings before proceeding. I am not responsible for your media consumption.

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

nav. ➞ 🤍 fluff ❤️‍🔥 spicy ❤️‍🩹 angst 🖤 dark

✮.ᐟ 𝐩*𝐫𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 ❤️‍🔥 ⠀ camstar!bucky x virgin!reader

⤷ You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen. Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you. ⤷ part of my 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! mini-series

✮.ᐟ just don't look! [7.2k] 🤍❤️‍🔥

⤷ Bucky is the perfect boyfriend. Clingy, loving, and respectful. But months into, and you still haven’t slept together. He’s holding back, afraid he’ll lose control, but you’re determined to break that good-boy resolve. Now, in the night slip he bought you, his only defense is simple: don’t look.

✮.ᐟ 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 [13.7k] ❤️‍🔥 ⠀ pool cleaner!bucky x rich girl!reader

⤷ Your house is big enough to host a hundred people, but the only one you want in it is your maddeningly hot pool cleaner. You want him—bad. Yet no matter how hard you flirt, he never seems to take the bait. What you don't realize is that Bucky wants you just as badly, he's just very good at hiding it. ⤷ part of my 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! mini-series

✮.ᐟ 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧 ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🩹🤍 [mini-series] ⠀ dirtbag!barnes x popular!reader

⤷ What happens when Bucky Barnes, the campus dirtbag, has a secret relationship (if you can even call it that) with the most popular, unapproachable girl in school? You get broken drumsticks in a fit of rage. You get smeared lipstick from heated make-out sessions. And most importantly, you get dirty little secrets. ⤷ part of my 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (steve coming soon...)

✮.ᐟ runnin' down the road, loosen my load [18k] 🤍❤️‍🔥 ⠀ farmer!stucky x reader

⤷ Bucky and Steve live in a town filled with an endless stretch of green, animals, and their only company is other strong men and elderly women. When an attractive, young woman visits town for a research project, the touch-deprived boys can't help but want to play with the new piece of candy.

𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞-𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐬 🤍❤️‍🔥❤️‍🩹 ✦— single dad!bucky x teacher!reader

⤷ Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. His world revolves around his daughter, Rebecca, and he likes it that way; steady job, cozy home, no room for romance. After a less-than-pleasant first meeting, he discovers you’re Rebecca’s elementary school teacher. He's determined to avoid you at all costs, and he definitely doesn’t plan on falling for you… especially since you’re a grade-A pain in his ass.

𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 🤍❤️‍🔥❤️‍🩹 ✦— single dad!bucky x florist!reader

⤷ After your grandmother’s death, you inherit her failing floral shop and an empty house. A bad first day in town gets worse after a run-in with the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes. You instantly despise each other and vow to stay apart. But in a town this small, that’s impossible, especially when you unknowingly hire his moody teenage son to work at the shop.

𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚 🤍❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥 ✦— congressman!bucky x america's sweetheart!reader

⤷ Reformed assassin turned congressman Bucky Barnes is drowning in bad press and public distrust. Desperate to save his career, his team proposes a bold fix; a marriage of convenience to you, the beloved daughter of a decorated war hero and America’s sweetheart. The arrangement is strictly business, benefiting you both. But behind the cameras, you can’t stand each other, but pretending otherwise may be the hardest part.

✮.ᐟ 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 🖤❤️‍🔥 ⠀ winter soldier x reader

⤷ You were nothing more than Hydra’s gift to the Winter Soldier, a prize he claimed after every mission, a toy to use as he pleases. But when the base collapses in chaos, you brace for him to finally cast you aside. Instead, he makes a choice so unexpected it shatters everything you thought you knew.

✮.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧! ❤️‍🔥 ⠀ includes house tour, p*rnstar, 40-love, need a ride?

⤷ introducing you bucky's employed era, where ❝ bucky barnes is trying to earn some bucks.❞ employers fear him, his clients eat him!

✮.ᐟ 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 🤍❤️‍🔥 ⠀ congressman!bucky x secretary!reader

⤷ Bucky Barnes never expected that his timid, shy secretary—who could barely greet “Congressman Barnes’ office!” on the phone without stuttering—would be writing filthy, inappropriate fanfiction in the workplace. The most logical thing to do would be to fire you, but for some reason, he just can’t bring himself to do it.

✮.ᐟ thirty, flirty, and... trying? [2.4k words] 🤍 ⠀ ⠀ bestfriend!roommate!bucky

⤷ Trying to find romance when you live with your best friend, who also happens to be a guy, is not the easiest thing ever. It especially doesn't help when the best friend in question just happens to be jealous and territorial as fuck.

✮.ᐟ give it up for the thunderbolts*! [4.9k words] ❤️‍🔥 ⠀ ⠀ rockstar!bucky

⤷ What was supposed to be a fun Friday night at a concert with your friends resulted in reuniting with your past high school sweetheart, who now also happens to be the lead guitarist in a new uprising rock band, the thunderbolts*.

✮.ᐟ first class [2.1k words] 🤍 ⠀ pilot!husband!bucky x wife!reader

⤷ Bucky is the pilot everyone knows. Top of his game, perfect safety record, and no room for nonsense on his flights. He doesn't chat much with the crew—rarely even cracks a smile. He's respected, but also feared. But when you—his wife—is on board, he turns into complete mush.

✮.ᐟ everybody knows that i'm a good girl, officer 🖤❤️‍🔥 ⠀ cop!bucky barnes

⤷ You were driving late at night, and you got pulled over for something so trivial—it felt targeted. You think you might get away with a warning if you play your cards right, but Officer Barnes has a dark look in his eyes, and he doesn't like to be messed around with.

✮.ᐟ soft around the edges [1.1k words] 🤍 ⠀ chunky!beefy!bucky x pregnant!reader

⤷ Ever since you got pregnant, Bucky has been putting on extra weight—specifically around his stomach area. He's been feeling insecure, thinking you won't be attracted to him anymore. But little does he know, you absolutely fucking love his body.

✮.ᐟ right my wrongs [3.6k] ❤️‍🩹

⤷ arguments with your boyfriend bucky always upset you, but it's the aftermath of the fight that leaves you hurting the most.

✮.ᐟ i put a spell on you [14.2k words] 🤍❤️‍🔥❤️‍🩹 ⠀ salem witch au

⤷ Bucky never believed in love, yet you haunt his thoughts after only a few stolen words. Unable to explain the obsession, he convinces himself it must be witchcraft. And if you’re the cause of his torment, then there’s only one way to stop it… with fire.

✮.ᐟ candyman [3.1k] 🤍❤️‍🔥 ⠀ 40s!bucky

⤷ what happens when a hopelessly devoted, broke brooklyn boy spends his last few cents on a lollipop just for you? well, you lick it up, he gets hard watching you, and then you come up with a much sweeter way to pay him back.

✮.ᐟ boo!-ty call [10.2K] 🤍❤️‍🔥 ⠀ virgin!bucky x sex operator!reader

⤷ According to Steve and Sam, Bucky Barnes is a hopeless virgin with a crush on a phone sex operator. Dragged to the frat’s Halloween party to finally lose his v-card, he strikes out—until he hears a voice that sounds strangely familiar.

✮.ᐟ if your man wanna get buck wild. [6.3k] 🤍❤️‍🔥 ⠀ mob boss!bucky x mob wife!reader

⤷ After seeing your husband discreetly forward half a million dollars to a mysterious woman, you can't help but suspect Bucky isn't being loyal. So, you grab his wallet and make him pay for it all, because revenge is better than money.

✮.ᐟ I ❤️ MY BOYFRIEND [4.7k] 🤍❤️‍🔥❤️‍🩹 ⠀ beefy!bucky

⤷Bucky Barnes never imagined he’d be ready for a relationship. Maybe he still isn't fully, but being with you has shown him just how much his world can change for the better through soft, vulnerable moments.

✮.ᐟ my congressman gave to me [8.0k] ❤️‍🔥 ⠀ congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

⤷ Secret Santa goes wrong when you draw your boss and nemesis, Congressman Barnes—and gift him something wildly inappropriate. What you don’t expect? He drew your name too.

✮.ᐟ once bitten, and twice shy [3.8k] 🤍❤️‍🩹

⤷ bucky hated christmas. growing up poor meant no fancy trees, gifts, or home-cooked meals. and the snow, for obvious reasons, he despised it. unfortunately for him, his girlfriend loves christmas, and you're trying to get him into the holiday spirit: starting with decorating.

✮.ᐟ take it easy [4.6k] 🤍

⤷ Bucky hates working on the boat, but when the Wilsons’ pretty family friend is the one barking the commands, he doesn’t mind it one bit.

✮.ᐟ super-soldier problems [4.6k]❤️‍🔥

⤷ After having a girlfriend, Bucky’s finally learning that there is much more that cums with the super-soldier serum than just muscle and strength.

✮.ᐟ so, this is love? [19.6k]🤍❤️‍🔥❤️‍🩹 𝓹𝓽.2 ⠀ king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au

⤷ The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.

✮.ᐟ let me in, baby [5.3k] 🖤❤️‍🔥 ⠀ vampire!bucky

⤷ After months of silence, Bucky shows up at your door in the middle of the night—bloodied, beaten, and his pupils blown wide with a hunger for you that you've never seen before. Despite everything telling you to push him away, your heart can't help but invite him inside.

✮.ᐟ table for two one. [4.6k] ❤️‍🩹🤍 ⠀ mob husband!bucky

⤷ One arranged marriage, one homemade dinner, two cold plates... and a husband who showed up three hours late, drunk, and heartless.

✮.ᐟ smooth as tennessee whiskey [20k]❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥 ⠀ dbf!cowboy!stucky

⤷ Eager to travel the world after college, your father decides to step in and choose the countryside as your reluctant first destination. He's concerned for your safety, so he arranges two very close friends to watch over you as you set out on your new journey.

✮.ᐟ the brooklyn special. [10.1k]🤍❤️‍🔥 ⠀ 40s!stucky

⤷ After Steve is injected with the super soldier serum, Bucky decides to show his best friend what it truly means to be a man—and what better way to do that than through you, their lifelong childhood friend?

✮.ᐟ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞! ── .✦ one direction inspired collab w/ @houseofhyde

⤷ i want you to rock me ! ⤷ do you like the way we kiss in the dark? ⤷ you say you're a good girl.

✮.ᐟ artficlly's moodboard event ⤷ keep the lambs away. [11.4k]❤️‍🔥 ⠀ lumberjack!bucky

⤷ After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.

size difference ⟡ coney island baby ⟡ somno ⟡ crying and breeding ⟡ sick bucky ⟡ jealous bucky ⟡ bucky after a fight ⟡ domestic bucky ⟡hyperspermia ⟡ read more here

[buckyscaptain]

“bucky?   who   the   hell   is   bucky?”

about! → elle, 22, nsfw reposts. don't write explicit smut but do reblog it. nerdy!college bucky lover, lee bodecker enthusiast. some fluff, some darker stuff. audhd so my brain comes up with weird things sometimes. not responsible for your media consumption, read the warning tags!

asks → open

requests → open

find my req rules here!

bucky fluff | vitamin bucky , christmas came early , secret santa claus paws

college!bucky | per noctum ad astra, jealousy jealousy

blurbs | stoner!bucky, can you lift my car with your hand? no like… can you?

dad!bucky | second chance, fake makeup and blueberries

thunderbolts! bucky | hot chocolate and you’re my hero, how not to watch a film, operation kiss and go, down memory lane, drunken promise, worrying issue

jamie "bucky" barnes (female!bucky barnes) | practise what i preach

dbf!bucky barnes | sneaking around

mob!bucky | a very bucky christmas, thinking about...

stucky | things the war couldn't take

general bucky | on the road again, filling the gaps, emotional hypothermia, all he had to do was ask

series masterlist | january scribbles masterlist | misc. seb characters | taglist

[jellyfishsthings]

Hiii can I request a Jason x reader where the reader faints at a party or one of Bruce’s galas and everyone is freaking out but it just turns out she’s pregnant? 🩷🩷🩷 thank youuuu

The Gala Incident

navigation , dc navigation

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

You've been to enough Wayne Galas to know the rhythm of them. Arrive fashionably late (Jason's preference, not yours), endure exactly forty-five minutes of small talk with Gotham's elite (your limit, not his), find Bruce to make an appearance (mandatory), and then hide in a corner with appetizers until it's socially acceptable to leave.

Tonight is not going according to plan.

For one thing, the smell of the hors d'oeuvres is making your stomach turn. For another, the room feels approximately eight thousand degrees despite the October chill outside. And for a third, you've had to excuse yourself to the bathroom twice in the last hour.

"You okay?" Jason murmurs in your ear, his hand warm on the small of your back. He looks unfairly good in his suit, tailored perfectly, making him look less like a crime lord and more like he actually belongs among Gotham's wealthy elite.

"Fine," you say, which is a lie. You've been feeling off for days. tired, nauseous, emotional over the strangest things. Yesterday, you cried because Jason came home with the wrong brand of coffee creamer.

"You've been saying that all week," he says, eyes narrowing. "And you barely touched dinner."

"The salmon was too..." You stop, swallowing hard as another wave of nausea hits. "It smelled weird."

"It smelled like salmon."

"Exactly. Weird."

Jason looks like he wants to argue, but Dick appears at his elbow with two champagne flutes. "There you are! I've been looking for you guys. Bruce wants a family photo and... hey, you look pale."

"I'm fine," you insist, taking the champagne glass on autopilot. The smell hits you immediately.. sharp, acidic, wrong. Your stomach revolts.

"Whoa, hey." Jason takes the glass from your hand before you drop it. "Maybe we should get you some air."

"I'm fine." But even as you say it, the room starts to tilt. The chandelier above you seems too bright, the conversation around you too loud. Your vision goes spotty at the edges.

"Babe?" Jason's voice sounds far away. "Babe, look at me."

You try. You really do. But the floor is rushing up to meet you, and then everything goes black.

You wake up to chaos.

"—call Dr. Thompkins—"

"—is she breathing—"

"—someone get Bruce—"

"—EVERYONE SHUT UP!"

That last one is Jason, his voice sharp with panic. You're on the floor, you realize, your head in someone's lap. Jason's lap, based on the expensive suit fabric under your cheek.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is gentler now, shaking. "Hey, there you are. Stay with me, okay? Don't close your eyes."

"M'okay," you mumble, trying to sit up. Bad idea. Your head spins and your stomach lurches.

"Don't move." Jason's hand is in your hair, keeping you still. "Someone's getting a doctor."

You force your eyes open properly and immediately wish you hadn't. You're surrounded by concerned faces, Dick hovering anxiously, Tim on his phone, probably calling every medical professional in Gotham, Damian looking uncharacteristically worried, and Bruce pushing through the crowd with Dr. Leslie Thompkins in tow.

"I fainted," you say unnecessarily. "At a Wayne Gala. That's so embarrassing."

"That's what you're worried about?" Jason's hand is shaking in your hair. "You just collapsed. You could have hit your head, you could have—"

"But I didn't." You reach up to touch his face, trying to reassure him. He looks terrified, all the color drained from his face. "Jason, I'm okay. I just... I've been feeling a little off lately."

"Define 'off,'" Dr. Thompkins says, kneeling beside you with her medical bag. She's been the Wayne family doctor for decades, has patched up more vigilante injuries than she probably cares to count. "Any pain? Dizziness? Nausea?"

"All of the above?" you admit. "And I've been really tired. And emotional. I cried at a cat food commercial yesterday."

"The one with the kitten?" Dick asks. "That one is pretty sad."

"It was about senior cats finding homes," you say. "I sobbed for twenty minutes."

Jason is staring at you like you've grown a second head. "You didn't tell me any of this."

"I thought I was just stressed." You let Dr. Thompkins check your pulse, your blood pressure, shine a light in your eyes. "Work's been busy, and you've been dealing with that thing in Crime Alley—"

"I don't care about Crime Alley right now. I care about you." He says it fiercely, and you can see the fear underneath the anger. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"

"Because you worry," you say softly. "You worry so much already."

"Of course I worry. You're—" He stops, jaw clenching. "You're everything."

Dr. Thompkins is watching you both with an expression you can't quite read. "When was your last period?" she asks casually.

You blink. "What?"

"Your last menstrual period. When was it?"

"I—" You try to think back. "I don't know. A few weeks ago? Maybe... six weeks?"

The room goes very quiet.

"Oh my god," Dick says.

"Holy shit," Tim adds.

Damian just stares.

Jason has gone completely still, his hand frozen in your hair. "Six weeks."

"Maybe seven?" You're trying to do math in your head, but everything feels fuzzy. "I haven't really been tracking it. I'm usually pretty irregular when I'm stressed, and—" You stop, the implications finally catching up to you. "Oh."

"Oh," Dr. Thompkins agrees, a small smile playing at her lips. "Combined with the fatigue, nausea, emotional sensitivity, and fainting spell... I think we should run a test."

"A test," you repeat stupidly.

"A pregnancy test," she clarifies, and the word seems to echo in the sudden silence.

Pregnant.

You might be pregnant.

You and Jason might be having a baby.

"I need—" You try to sit up again, and this time Jason helps you, his movements careful and mechanical. "I need to take a test."

"I have one in my bag," Dr. Thompkins says. "Always prepared for situations like this. Bruce, is there somewhere private?"

"My study," Bruce says immediately. He's been quiet this whole time, watching with that unreadable expression he gets. "Third floor, first door on the left."

Jason helps you stand, his arm around your waist like he's afraid you'll collapse again. Maybe you will. Your legs feel like jelly and your mind is racing.

Pregnant. You might be pregnant with Jason Todd's baby.

The walk to Bruce's study is a blur. Dr. Thompkins walks ahead, Dick and Tim trailing behind like anxious ducks, Damian muttering something about "another Todd" that you don't have the energy to process.

Jason hasn't said a word.

In the study, Dr. Thompkins hands you a small box. "Bathroom's through there," she says, pointing to a door you hadn't noticed. "Take your time."

You look at Jason. He's staring at the box in your hands like it might explode.

"Come with me?" you ask quietly.

He nods, still not speaking, and follows you into the bathroom.

It's awkward, taking a pregnancy test in Bruce Wayne's private bathroom while your boyfriend watches. You follow the instructions with shaking hands, set the test on the counter, and then you both stare at it.

"Three minutes," you say, reading the box. "We have to wait three minutes."

Jason makes a sound that might be acknowledgment.

"Are you—" You turn to look at him. "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" He laughs, but it sounds slightly hysterical. "I don't know. Are you okay?"

"I don't know either." You lean back against the counter. "This wasn't... we weren't planning this."

"No." He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling. "We weren't."

"If it's positive—" You stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.

"If it's positive," Jason says slowly, "then we're having a baby."

"Yeah."

"A whole baby. A tiny person."

"That's typically how it works."

He's quiet for a moment, then: "Are you scared?"

"Terrified," you admit. "Are you?"

"Fucking petrified." He moves closer, taking your hands. "I died once. Came back wrong. Spent years being angry and violent and doing things I'm not proud of. I'm not exactly father material."

"Jason—"

"But if you are pregnant," he continues, his grip tightening on your hands, "if we're really doing this, then I'm in. Completely in. Because you're not doing this alone, and this kid, our kid, they're going to know they're wanted. They're going to know they're loved."

Your eyes are burning. "You really mean that?"

"I've never meant anything more." He pulls you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. "I'm scared as hell, but I'm also... if you are pregnant, I'm happy. Is that crazy?"

"No." You're crying now, tears streaming down your face. "I'm happy too. Scared, but happy."

"We should probably check the test," Jason says, but neither of you moves.

"Probably."

"I'm terrified of looking."

"Me too."

You stand there for another moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync. Then, at the same time, you both turn to look at the test on the counter.

Two lines.

Very clearly, unmistakably, two pink lines.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

"Oh my god," Jason repeats.

"We're having a baby."

"We're having a baby." He says it like he's testing out the words, seeing how they fit. Then, louder, with a growing smile: "We're having a baby!"

He picks you up, spinning you around, and you're both laughing and crying at the same time. When he sets you down, he kisses you, deep and thorough and full of promise.

"I love you," he says against your lips. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." You cup his face, memorizing this moment. "We're really doing this?"

"We're really doing this." He grins, and it's that rare, genuine smile that makes your heart skip. "Holy shit, we're having a baby."

There's a knock on the bathroom door. "Everything okay in there?" Dr. Thompkins calls.

You open the door to find the entire family crowded in the study: Bruce, Dick, Tim, Damian, and even Alfred, who must have been summoned at some point.

"Well?" Dick asks, practically bouncing with anticipation.

Jason wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close to his side. "We're pregnant," he announces, and his voice cracks on the words.

The room erupts.

Dick literally screams, launching himself at Jason for a hug that nearly knocks you both over. Tim is grinning so wide it must hurt. Damian looks torn between horror and something that might be excitement. Bruce... Bruce is smiling, a real, genuine smile that makes him look years younger.

"Congratulations," he says, pulling you both into a hug. "I'm so happy for you."

"I'm going to be an uncle!" Dick is still screaming. "I'm going to be the best uncle! Tim, we're going to be uncles!"

"I'm already planning the nursery security system," Tim says seriously. "And a background check protocol for potential babysitters."

"The child will need proper training from an early age," Damian adds. "I suppose I can make time in my schedule to ensure they're not completely incompetent."

"That's very generous of you, demon spawn," Jason says dryly, but he's smiling.

Alfred appears with a tray of tea and water. "Congratulations are in order," he says warmly. "Though I must insist you sit down, miss. You've had quite a shock."

You let Jason guide you to the couch, suddenly aware of how shaky your legs still are. He sits beside you, his hand never leaving yours.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks quietly while the others chatter excitedly around you. "Do you need anything? Water? Food? A hospital?"

"I'm okay." You squeeze his hand. "Better than okay. I'm pregnant."

"You're pregnant," he repeats, like he still can't quite believe it. His hand moves to your stomach, resting there gently. "There's a baby in there. Our baby."

"About the size of a lentil right now, if I'm doing the math right."

"A lentil," he says, wonderstruck. "That's so small."

"They'll get bigger."

"Yeah." His thumb strokes your stomach through the fabric of your dress. "They will."

Dr. Thompkins appears with some pamphlets. "I'll want to see you in my office next week for a proper examination and blood work. In the meantime, start taking prenatal vitamins, get plenty of rest, and call me if you have any concerns. No alcohol, no caffeine—"

"That explains why the coffee tasted wrong," you murmur.

"—and take it easy. Fainting can be normal in the first trimester, but I want to keep an eye on you." She smiles. "Congratulations to you both."

"Thank you," Jason says, still staring at your stomach like he can see through to the tiny cluster of cells that's apparently making you both parents.

The rest of the evening is a blur. You never make it back to the gala, Bruce makes excuses for you, and nobody questions it. Instead, you stay in the study, surrounded by the family, drinking tea and fielding a million questions and listening to Dick and Tim argue about godfather rights.

"I'm the oldest," Dick insists. "I have seniority."

"I'm the smartest," Tim counters. "I can teach them practical skills."

"I am the only one with the discipline to raise a child properly," Damian adds.

"Nobody's raising this child except us," Jason says, but he's smiling. "But if we're talking godparents..." He looks at Dick. "You're loud, irresponsible, and you let Damian use your car as target practice last month."

"That was ONE time!"

"You're in," Jason finishes, and Dick practically tackles him with another hug.

"What about me?" Tim asks.

"You once stayed awake for seventy-two hours straight working on a case. You're not allowed to babysit until you learn what sleep is." Jason pauses. "But yeah, you're in too."

"I suppose I can serve as well," Damian says with an air of great sacrifice. "Though I expect the child to address me with appropriate respect."

"They're going to call you Uncle Dami and you're going to deal with it," Jason says.

For once, Damian doesn't argue.

Bruce appears at Jason's shoulder. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Jason tenses slightly, but nods. They step away, speaking in low voices near the window. You can't hear what they're saying, but you watch Jason's shoulders gradually relax, watch something soft cross his face. When Bruce pulls him into a hug, Jason hugs back.

When they return, Jason's eyes are suspiciously bright.

"You okay?" you ask.

"Yeah." He sits beside you, pulling you close. "Bruce just... he said he's proud of me. Said I'm going to be a good father."

Your heart clenches. "You are. You're going to be an amazing father."

"I'm going to try." He kisses your temple. "I'm going to try so hard."

"I know you will."

It's past midnight when Alfred finally insists you both go home and rest. Jason doesn't want to leave, convinced you might faint again, or something worse might happen, but Dr. Thompkins assures him you're stable and just need sleep.

The ride home is quiet. Jason drives with one hand on the wheel and one hand on your thigh, like he needs the physical contact to believe this is real.

"We're having a baby," you say into the silence.

"We are," he agrees.

"We're going to need a bigger apartment."

"We'll find one."

"And a crib. And diapers. Oh god, so many diapers."

"We'll figure it out."

"What if I'm a terrible mother?"

Jason pulls over, right there in the middle of the street, and turns to look at you. "You're going to be an incredible mother. You're kind, patient, smart, and you put up with me on a daily basis. That alone proves you can handle anything."

"What if you're a terrible father?"

"Then you'll tell me, and I'll do better." He takes your hand. "We're going to make mistakes. Probably a lot of them. But we're going to love this kid with everything we have, and we're going to figure it out together. Okay?"

"Okay." You bring his hand to your lips, kissing his knuckles. "Together."

"Together."

When you get home, Jason immediately starts googling everything about pregnancy. What to expect, what foods to avoid, what vitamins you need, symptoms to watch for. He makes a list of baby books to order, creates a spreadsheet of potential names (which you'll probably never use, but it's adorable that he's trying), and sets reminders to make sure you take your prenatal vitamins.

"Jason," you say finally, watching him from the bed where you've collapsed in exhaustion. "Come here."

He looks up from his laptop. "I'm almost done. I just need to finish reading about first trimester development—"

"Jason. Come here."

He sets the laptop aside and climbs into bed with you. You curl into his side, his arm coming around you automatically.

"We have nine months to figure all this out," you remind him. "Tonight, let's just... be happy."

"I am happy." His hand finds your stomach again, resting there like it belongs. "I'm so happy I don't know what to do with it."

"Kiss me," you suggest. "That's a good start."

So he does. He kisses you soft and slow and sweet, and when he pulls back, he's smiling.

"I love you," he says. "Both of you."

"We love you too."

You fall asleep like that, Jason's hand on your stomach, his voice soft in your ear as he talks to the baby that's barely bigger than a lentil. He tells them about the family they're going to have, the uncle who will spoil them rotten, the grandfather who will teach them everything he knows, the butler who will sneak them cookies.

He tells them about their mother, about how strong and beautiful and perfect she is.

And he promises them, voice thick with emotion, that they will always be safe. Always be loved. Always be wanted.

It's the best promise you've ever heard him make.

Bonus : Seven Months Later

"I can't believe you're making me go to another Wayne Gala," you groan, trying to find a comfortable position. At seven months pregnant, comfortable is a relative term.

"It's the last one before the baby comes," Jason says, helping you with your shoes because you can't reach your feet anymore. "Bruce promised it would be quick."

"Bruce's definition of quick and mine are very different."

"We'll stay for an hour. Two tops." He stands, offering his hand to help you up. "Besides, everyone wants to see you. Dick's been asking about the baby every single day."

"Dick's been shopping for baby clothes every single day," you correct. "We have more clothes than the baby could wear in a year."

"That's what I told him." Jason's hand goes to your stomach, something he does constantly now. The baby kicks in response, and his face lights up like it does every single time. "Hey there, little one. You ready for your first gala?"

"They better not decide to make an appearance tonight," you mutter. "I did not spend an hour on my hair just to go into labor."

"If you go into labor, your hair will be the least of our concerns."

The gala is exactly as tedious as you remember, except now you have a convenient excuse to sit down. Jason doesn't leave your side, bringing you water and snacks and glaring at anyone who gets too close.

"You're being overprotective," you tell him.

"You fainted at the last gala we attended," he reminds you. "I'm allowed to be cautious."

"That was seven months ago!"

"And I'm never going to forget the feeling of catching you as you collapsed." He squeezes your hand. "So yeah, I'm being overprotective. Deal with it."

Dick appears with a wrapped present. "I know we're supposed to wait for the baby shower, but I couldn't help myself."

"Dick, you just bought them a bouncer yesterday," you say.

"This is different! This is special!" He's practically vibrating with excitement. "Open it!"

It's a tiny leather jacket, replica of the one Jason wears as Red Hood.

"Absolutely not," Jason says immediately.

"It's adorable!" you counter, holding it up. "Look at the little zippers!"

"Our child is not wearing a Red Hood jacket."

"Our child is going to look amazing in a Red Hood jacket."

You're still arguing about it when Bruce finds you, a rare smile on his face. "How are you feeling?"

"Large," you say honestly. "Very, very large."

"You look beautiful," he says, and it's so sincere that you want to cry. Pregnancy hormones are no joke. "Jason's been telling me about the nursery. Sounds like you've got everything ready."

"As ready as we can be." Jason's hand is on your stomach again. "Though I keep thinking of things we forgot. What if we need—"

"You'll be fine," Bruce interrupts gently. "You're going to be wonderful parents. Both of you."

Later, after you've made your rounds and satisfied everyone's need to touch your stomach (why do people think that's okay?), you and Jason escape to the balcony for some air.

"Seven months ago, I fainted right over there," you say, pointing to the ballroom. "And now look at us."

"Now we're about to be parents." Jason wraps his arms around you from behind, his hands cradling your stomach. "Best fainting spell ever."

"I don't recommend it as a pregnancy announcement method."

"No, probably not." He kisses your neck. "But I wouldn't change a thing."

The baby kicks hard, and you both feel it. Jason laughs, the sound full of joy and wonder.

"I can't wait to meet them," he says.

"Two more months."

"Two more months," he agrees. "And then everything changes."

"Everything already changed," you say, turning in his arms to kiss him. "The moment we saw those two pink lines."

"Yeah," he says softly. "It really did."

And as you stand there on the balcony of Wayne Manor, seven months pregnant with Jason Todd's baby, surrounded by a family that loves you both, you can't help but think that fainting at a gala was the best thing that ever happened to you.

Well. Second best.

The best is sleeping in Jason's arms every night and kicking your ribs every day.

You can't wait to meet them.

[srenique]

-- PRETTY BOY ANTHEM

VICTIM #1 : jason peter todd. you saw him, you wanted him. quiet boy in the back of the library, too built for a guy with his nose shoved in a battered copy of jane eyre. he thought he knew girls like you, the same shaking tactic worked every time. not this time, you weren’t the girls who tried to win him over with batted lashes. you just had a stronger will than them.

WATCH OUT .ᐟ smut, MANEATER!READER, glasses!jason todd, booksmart!jason todd, he thinks he’s capable of resisting maneater!reader but noooo, riding, marking, thighsman!jason, he also low-key is a tits man, reader chews bubble gum, rich!reader, munch!jason, shy!jason, yes, reader is a player but she really wants jay, body rolls because we all have them and this is size-inclusive, we’re not all skinny bitches, phone sex??? kinda, dirty talk, switch!jay, canonically bi!reader, genius!literate!reader, she's smart, y'all, chance encounters, jason really wants that cookie, glasses kink (reader’s side), panties kink!jason, m.masturbation, seduction, shameless!reader, he quickly becomes obsessed with reader in a sexy way, dw, whimperer!jason, we love a reader who’s a bad person

ADDITIONALS : bad girls (m.i.a)

The librarian took an eyeful of your ass when you walked in. She was on the phone with her loving boyfriend.

You didn't mind one bit. You'd come in for a copy of Sense and Sensibility so you could scoff at the characters, but it wasn't like you'd dress for the occasion. Even if you stuck out like a sore thumb in tiny denim shorts.

The library was pretty much a hunting ground. More often than not you found the best fuck from the boys and girls with their heads in a book. Bars had been filled with men who think they're more well endowed than they are, but the three inch dicks spoke for themselves.

A nerd you had sex with last week sidled up to you, rubbing the back of his neck. The vomit green sweater he had on almost made you retch. Some guys had such terrible fashion choices. "Hey." He murmured, side-glancing you, your nose almost wrinkled. "Remember me? You said you'd call me."

You almost laughed. "I did, didn't I? I guess the bad sex just put me off."

"You said it was amazing." He mumbled, his face flushing. You didn't miss his glance to your tits.

You actually laughed this time, snapping your fingers in his face. "Eyes up here." You smirked, looking him over. Your hand ran down the coarse fibres of his sweater. "Practice how to fuck a girl, then I'll call you." A six foot two hunk of something walked through the shelves behind the guy you were currently talking to.

This guy had your attention. He'd settled himself at a table with Jane Eyre, pushing his glasses up his nose as he opened the book, perusing the front page. Huh. Graphic tee, leather jacket, worn jeans and this guy was musing over a classic.

Your eyes swept him, the lip bite was involuntary but he just triggered that. His jaw was begging for some purple marks, you could lick up that popping vein in his neck. Leather creaked and strained against his biceps— mm, what you wouldn't give to ride those. The pretty flush on his cheeks, they'd bloom a deep scarlet when you get him under you. Not if, when.

Who's this? And did he know he was making your panties wet?

"Bitch." The guy beside you — Mark, or something boring like that — grunted as he walked off.

"This bitch made you call her mommy." You clapped back, eyes still on the fine man across the room. His lips were rosy, you just knew this man ate pussy.

Your heels thunked on the carpet as you strutted over. "Have we met before?" You asked, drawing his attention away from the book. "Could've sworn I've seen you from somewhere." Yeah, the line was overused. That was the point.

"Uh, no, we haven't." Jason replied awkwardly, even more so as your palms rested on the table. He got a full view of you. Your skin had the glow of body oil, your gloss put a magnifying glass to your lips, crisp eyeliner, sunglasses perched on your head — who the fuck wore those to be indoors — chain dangling from your neck. Following the metal led to a clear view of your chest hidden by the lace of a bra peeking over a leopard print cami. You looked like you'd walked out of a Y2K magazine, like all the girls who’d shoved their tits in his face. He wasn’t dealing with that again. "Can I... help you with something?" He had pretty eyes. Where does a man get off, having those eyes?

You pointed to the book about American history beside him. “Can you pass me that?” Of all the god-awful flirting tactics that usually worked, it didn’t this time. He just muttered “sure” and passed you the book, going back to Jane Eyre.

What the fuck? How thick was his skull?

You walked out with frustration bubbling under heated skin. That was the first time a man didn’t stutter at the sight of you. He’d just acted like a book was more interesting than your lips. Fuck him for being that sexy and playing hard to get.

You’d missed his flush when his eyes fixed on your thighs as you exited.

Your stupid Carerra Cabriolet had broken down on the side of the road, when it was fucking boiling out. At least you’d chosen another tank today, it made things a little easier for you when you had your tools out, bent under the bonnet of the car, trying to figure out the problem.

The roar of a bike almost deafened you, until it stopped right beside you. Your eyes locked on faded Levis, biker boots, but those arms were unmistakeable. The tip of your tongue traced the outline of your canine, lips stretching the longer you recognised that build, those god-gifted hands that were tracing the pages of a book just a few days ago.

Would you look at that. The library hottie.

He lifted his helmet off, ruffling his flattened hair so it’d stick up. The black fell in front of mossy green eyes, which took you in. You were the same girl from the library, the one who he accidentally checked out when you walked away. The sun kissed your thighs from its perch in the sky, his gaze trailed up, up, tracing, memorising the black lace of panties peeking above the waistband of your shorts like they did again with your tank top. You seemed to be a fan of that. Your chest rose and fell with every laboured breath. He caught the tongue tracing your canine. Maybe he shouldn’t have stopped.

“Car trouble?” He asked, hooking his helmet on the handlebars of his bike. “That’s some great luck, in this heat.” His eyes followed a bead of sweat trailing down your neck. His tongue ached— fuck, why was it doing that?

“I sure am lucky.” You replied, velvet voice making something in his fingers twitch. And somewhere else that he wouldn’t mention right now. “D’you know your way around cars? I could use some help here.”

He should say no. He should say he didn’t know shit then drive off in his bike, but he wasn’t a liar and he wasn’t gonna strand you out here in high heats. So, yeah, he took his swelteringly hot jacket off — fashion over comfort if he wasn’t Red Hood — slinging it over your car’s trunk. “Yeah. Yeah, I can help.” He was so going to regret this.

Your eyes were still on him. The black highlighting your eyes only making warmth creep up his spine and making its way to his ears, but you didn’t budge. You just stared. His hands hovered by either sides of your waist, eyes tracing the curves, the rolls of your stomach as you bent a little towards him. A soft “fuck” was at the tip of his tongue.

His hands gripped your waist, moving you gently— shit, the callouses on his hands. They were rough on your skin; you weren’t afraid to somehow into that. Maybe all the men who overuse hand cream sensitised you to the guys who actually used their hands. “Sorry, can I just…”

He was keeping talking to a minimum. It made you smile, especially as his black tank brushed your back and his fingers pressed into the skin where your tank rode up. “Sorry.” He mumbled again, looking under the bonnet. His eyes caught the spark plug. “Here.” He gestured to your spark plug. “You’ve got a worn spark plug. Got a spare?”

“Yeah, I do.” You bent down, you felt his eyes slide over your ass, greedy, and down your legs, stopping at your high-heeled boots. Ripping his eyes away from you as you stood up, crisp wing striking again. He didn’t miss the glint in your irises when he took the plug from you, manicured nails scraping his fingers. His soft muttered “thanks” punctuated the replacement of the spark plug, and without another word, he backed off to his bike. Hoping to get away before his brain betrayed him.

“Can I get your number?” Your voice stopped him in his tracks. He tried not to look at your lips, your moving jaw as you chewed on spearmint gum that burned the back of his throat. “In case this kinda thing happens again. I could use a guy who’s good with his hands.” You really would use him.

“I, um, ok.” He swallowed, putting out his hand for your phone. You gave it to him, the freakishly soft pads of your fingers caressing his knuckles this time. He was fucked. But he keyed in his phone number, pressing the ‘save contact’ button and giving it back to you. You read the contact name.

“Jason.” His name slid over your tongue, through his veins, straight to his dick. What was it about you? He swore he was better than this. “Can finally put a name to the face.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t.” He regretted that as soon as it left his mouth. Now he couldn’t avoid making a connection, treating you like you actually meant something in his life. If he let you mean something, you’d distract him, he knew your type.

Oh, he didn’t know shit about you.

Your laugh shot up his spine, your name rang a million times in his brain when you gave it. It rang in the daydream of you on top of him, clothed pussy moving slow, languid, over his cock. It rang every time he moaned your name in that fucked up image. He— he had to stop that. Now. “See you.” He almost tripped over his words, swinging a leg to mount his bike. Your smile was fresh in his head. Your tongue, your teeth that and caught your bottom lip as you watched him drive away.

You’d have him. One way or another.

Your name lit up his phone one random Friday afternoon. A text, a simple one. Your shower stopped working suddenly and you needed his help.

“M’not a fucking plumber,” He muttered, but it was pathetic how quickly he stood up and got his jacket on. Pathetic was how fast his index hooked his keys like he was, line and sinker. Maybe he was your plumber. And mechanic. He could be anything you wanted him to be.

This was either the start of a really bad joke, or highly erotic pornography.

He hesitated before knocking on your door. Ignoring how he’d spent the last five minutes driving above the speed limit. Denial was one of five stages of grief, or its distant cousin: horniness.

He waited. One minute second, two minutes seconds, three— the door swung open.

A silk robe was wrapped around your body. Tied in a knot. Damp hair plastered to your cheeks, valley of your tits covered with cascading droplets that disappeared down the V of the fabric. Very… flimsy fabric that was covering you. Barely. Your no-gloss smile still stole his gaze. How were your lashes curled with no mascara? Your leg peeked out from beneath the silk. His breath hitched. His face flushed. “You came.” You purred.

“You called.” He replied stiffly, stepping in. Kicking off his shoes by the door. Your apartment was… luxurious, but he wasn’t expecting less. He was almost expecting a brothel. But that was stereotyping, he wasn’t a big fan of that. “So, your shower just stopped working?”

“Out of the blue.”

“What makes you think I know how to fix it?”

“A hunch.” The grin you had on made him feel like he ate shit. The defeatist sigh was his white flag.

“Your hunch would be right.” You notched the win on your robe’s belt. You watched his ass as he disappeared into your bathroom. Bingo.

It wasn’t like you were lying about the shower, it had stopped right before you were about to put on a hair mask. It just gave you a very good excuse to call your pet project over.

“Looks like it’s a pipe issue, I got it.” He called over his shoulder. This bathtub was bigger than his single bed. But then again it attested to the difference between la bourgeoisie and la pété thune. Draped over a radiator was your loungewear. Tiny things— rib-knit cami, sleep shorts that probably stopped just short of your ass, matching white panties. In a row, right there.

The panties caught his eye. They were soft, lace at the trim, satin otherwise, fuckin’ gorgeous. You wore those. Just to sleep, you wore those. What the fuck. Why the fuck. Why the fuck was his mouth watering? His tongue heavy? Aching? Begging to circle your clit over the fabric with his tongue just so he could watch the fabric dampen, drench, cling to your cunt? He had to get out of here. Drive off. Start a new life, maybe crash at Dick’s place in Blüdhaven. He’d be safer there.

He found the pipe problem. He fixed it, it was backed up. The panties called his name; since when was he susceptible to that?

“Those were a gift from Victoria’s Secret.” He hadn’t noticed his gaze was fixed on the white fabric draped on the radiator. It snapped back to you. You were leaning against the doorframe, tongue back on your canine. Now that he looked again, he realised it was pointy, like a vampire.

Now that he looked again, he wanted it to drag up his neck.

He looked back at the panties, back to you, tripping over his tongue. “I—I didn’t mean to—” He still stood up, ready to plead guilty and for forgiveness, but your hum stopped his train of thoughts.

You pointed at the panties, tilting your head. “You can keep those.” His brain almost short-circuited. Huh? “I don’t mind.” This was… if you were sane, you’d kick him out. Scream. Maybe get a restraining order.

“I—” Words caught in his throat, “you—”

“Keep them.” You insisted softly, picking up the panties, finger hooking into his belt loops. A sharp tug brought him close, too close for his dick to be comfortable in his jeans. Your fingers slipped into his front pocket of his Levis, tucking the satin panties into them. Never breaking eye contact. Your spearmint breath fanning across his lips. “Never gave you a proper thank you. For saving me twice.”

“You don’t need to do that.” He almost leaned in himself. To get a taste of whatever was on your tongue, to satiate himself while he didn’t have access to your pussy.

Your lips tugged. Into a smile that burned his insides. “Sure?”

“No.” He breathed, and his whole body melted before your lips even captured his. More like devoured. That was a better word for the nasty smack of lips on lips and how your nails carded into his hair. How you pushed your saliva into his mouth with your tongue, forcing his lips apart with a sharp tug to the hair at his nape.

He couldn’t stop the moan. The whine. His hands helplessly grabbed at your thighs, silk bunching up, itching to undo the robe, lips attaching to your jugular, sloppy, open-mouthed, greedy kisses stamped onto your skin.

You got him.

You’d got him, but you pulled him off your neck by the collar of his shirt. “Another time, sweetie.” His head followed the drag of your finger down his jaw, pressing into your finger as it trailed down his chest. “Gotta finish my shower.”

“When?” He rasped, pupils blown. Dick hard. Breath laboured after you pulled all the oxygen he had from his lungs.

You paused, pouting as you mused. “I’ll call you.”

Fuck.

He wished it was you riding him. He had to settle for your panties instead.

The fabric was soft against his palms, even more so against his dick as he fisted it. This wasn't even a measured affair, his sweats were haphazardly pulled down so the waistband collected around his upper thigh. Same went for his boxers, sheets only covering him from the knees down. Everything was silent, too still, save for his frantic breaths, whimpers and faint thwaps of his hand moving up and down his cock.

He needed your cunt to drag up his dick and make it wet, he needed your pussy to suck in his dick, to use it, use him, he needed your mouth by his ear telling him how good he made you feel. He was incomplete without it.

"Fuck, ma, please," He didn't know why he was begging, when you couldn't hear him. You were in your apartment, you couldn't hear him calling out your name to God knows who. Maybe worshipping at your altar was enough to grant him permission to, y'know, come.

Some sick part of him wanted to call you up. Ask you whether he could finally have an orgasm he'd been chasing for the last thirty minutes, it was a twisted thought, but his hand scrambled for his phone on his bedside table. Almost knocking it over amidst his moans.

He’d put you on speed dial at some point. He’d blacked out when he did, apparently, he couldn’t remember when. Sometime between fantasising you on top of him and picturing eating your pussy. The two weren’t mutually exclusive.

His thumb frantically tapped on the green button, knowing it was an ungodly hour of the morning. Knowing you said you’d call him when you wanted to fuck. He just wasn’t pressed to wait.

But you knew it’d happen. You’d been ticking off the hours in your head, laying on your king-size, for when this six-two hunk of a man would crack and call you, desperate for your permission. You’d played the waiting game before.

So you waited again.

Let the phone ring for ten seconds, really dragging it out, letting him delay himself that tiny bit more for an ego trip. He stared at your caller ID the longer his moans grew louder. His hand slowed down because he hadn’t heard your voice yet, he hadn’t asked you—

“Hello?” Your voice, sickly sweet, rang out from the phone. He put you off speaker, slamming the phone to his ear, so close, so ready, whining into the microphone. Your lips curled on the other end.

You could only hear his breathing. His paced up puffs of breath punctuated by needy whines which had your panties soaking through. Gosh, this really was something. “Speak up, Jason.” You sing-songed, prompting a low groan from him.

“Need t’come, ma.” He couldn’t recognise his own voice. Raspy, hoarse, from all the broken sounds he’d been letting out for god knows how long. “Can I—? Please — shiiiit — please lemme, m’so close.”

Your laugh was taunting. It only shot a shiver up his spine. “Oh, Jay,” He could practically hear your smirk through the phone, “you really need my pussy, huh?”

“Fuck, yeah, I do.” He nodded frantically, hand picking up the pace around his cock. Satin dragging against his skin. “Wanna — haah— feel that fuckin’ pussy around my cock, wanna— wanna taste it, m’gonna eat you so good, ma—”

Huh. You’d managed to break this guy in a matter of a week, an incredible feat, even for your standards. Here he was, babbling about going down on you. Your index crept down to circle your clit over your shorts. Your long sigh soothed his ear. “Mhm, Jay, I know, baby— come f’me?” The sugar talking earned you a deep moan from the other end, the shallow breaths and whimper of your name telling you he’d definitely come. His head thudded back against the pillows, covering his dick with your panties so they caught every thick rope of come. He felt so dirty. “Sounded so good, sweetie." That made it feel better. Less pervy.

There was a pause as he caught his breath and composure. “Fuck, ma, when m’I gonna see you?”

You'd never felt like this before.

Jason's tongue dragged over your cunt, almost folding you in half in the effort to make your thighs clamp around his head. His face was buried in your pussy, slurping whatever you had to give him, so much so that saliva mixed with your dripping arousal. He was moaning, moaning, against your clit, bumping it with his nose.

He was too fucked out to be methodical. Too fucked out from fucking his fist with your satin panties for a week when "I'll call you" was a long time coming. You'd finally told him to come over, after seven tortuous days.

He'd narrowly avoided getting a speeding ticket.

He rolled his hips, humping the bed so his dick would get some friction, pads of his fingers sure-fire bruising your skin, they'd be visible for days. You'd be walking around with his fingerprints blooming just under the hem of your shorts. That was hot.

Obscene slurping sounds had you gripping his hair harder as his thumb flicked and teased your clit, two fingers filling you up. "Oh, shiit, Jay," Your eyes rolled back at the intrusion. You were keeping him, for sure.

His fingers were long. Thick. Crooked from being broken one too many times. They instantly brushed your g-spot, he curled them just right, you couldn't help the moan that came when his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked. Stacking one thing on top of another so he could make you feel as good as he did over the phone.

"Look at this—" He stopped to whine against your pussy, vibrations sending your head knocking back against your headboard, "this pretty fuckin' pussy, huh?" He was just babbling at this point, trailing off into incoherence the longer he licked you clean. "Kept me waiting so long, ma, jus' wanna make you feel good."

He'd never felt this bliss before.

Your clit dragged on the base of his cock every time you lifted yourself up and dropped back down. Hard slaps of skin on skin was the soundtrack to Jason grabbing your thighs in a frenzy, pupils blown, unable to look away while letting out the most lascivious moans you'd ever heard in your life as his glasses tilted with every bounce of you on his cock.

This was either the start of a really bad joke or highly erotic pornography.

That question got answered real quick.

He propped himself up, to be able to fuck up into you but also kiss the tits that had been taunting him for ages, sucking your nipple into his mouth like it owed him rent. You couldn't help the grab onto the strands of his hair that desperately needed a trim as he sucked insistently, one hand sliding between your thighs so he could rub his name onto your clit with two fingers. You'd spelled out your name in hickeys that spanned his neck and chest. Lipstick prints spanned his jaw and scarlet smeared over his lips.

His green eyes were desperate, looking up at you. "Fuuuck, ma, s'good," He mumbled incoherently, releasing your tits with a slick pop to run aimless kisses over your neck, "s'warm, feels fuckin'—" The smacks of his hips against yours, the smacks of his lips on your skin, they sent you barrelling to a new high.

Your hand messed up his hair, other leaving red trails across his back. Scarlet that any girl would look at and realise that this man belonged to someone. If they didn't get the hint from the smudged lipstick and hickeys. "Yeah, Jay, you're so good, huh?" You praised, his hips picked up the pace. Your head tilted back, clamping down on him, he swore into the crook of your neck. "I'm— m'coming, baby, come with me, yeah?"

"Uh-huh — shit, I — haah —" It was a wave submerging him that reached you too. A cry of each other's names that would end up with a noise complaint at your door the next morning, considering the headboard had been knocking the wall for the past two hours. He'd come inside you, warmth filling you till you felt it in your throat, hand stroking his hair as his breath shuddered against your neck. You were keeping him, for sure.

He lifted his head from your neck, you reached out to wipe the sweat from his flushed temple. His head followed your hand like it held his will to live.

He swallowed, panting. "Was that good?"

© 2026 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED : NXBODYSANGEL. DO NOT MODIFY, REPOST, PLAGIARISE, TAKE DIRECT INSPIRATION FROM OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOUR OWN WITHOUT PERMISSION OR GIVING CREDIT.

[melxdigz]

sick, but he wouldnt have it any other way. | survivor!3fs x zombie!reader

: ✶ summary ⸝⸝ : you dont know how this happened. you arent aware of how the world started crumbling down just overnight. but you know you dont care anymore. not when the urge in you to feast on flesh that isint yours gets overwhelming.

: ✶ a/n ⸝⸝ : hhheyyy.... gulp. this isint the usual way i would write my fics, but i really wanted to see if yall would allow me to romanticize the dark and grotesque. no i dont condone anything like that truly, but its just for the aesthetics okay ill shut up erm! just ignore this post if you dont like it lolz.

: ✶ wc ⸝⸝ : 1487 words | not proof-read at all

: ✶ warnings ⸝⸝ : VIEWERS DISCRETION IS ADVISED! ; descriptive gore ; death ; zombies ; blood ; axe used as a weapon ; english is not my first language ; angst with slight comfort ; lowkey the state of the world is in shambles and almost everyone is dead so not much hastag hopecore

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

“B-back off!” Max gritted out as he tried to shove off a zombie from on top of him, his head craning to avoid being infected. The disgusting drool and vile, rotting smell of a decomposing human invades his senses, making him grimace strongly.

The zombie only groaned and slurred, swatting a clawed hand in a sluggish attempt to attack the brunette. Max panicked and swinged his axe towards the undead, leaving the weapon stuck onto the zombies neck — yet it sat unfazed, giving Max the opportunity to push it off and stomp its head. When the slow writhing stopped and the gurgling turned silent, Max could take a breather and pull his axe back from the corpse.

Unfortunately the sight of gore didnt make him that queasy anymore. He hated how numb he became towards it. Max just wished he could return to the normal life he had, where he didnt have to constantly worry about saving his own skin and the undead walking after him with each step he took. The man swallowed shallowly, tightening his grip on the bloodied fireman axe as he stood stiffly for a bit over the decomposing body. Thinking. He wasnt sure why he kept fighting even after watching the whole world fragment before his very eyes, dying right now was definitely an easy way out, but there was still this flickering light of hope in him. He took a step back, another, before turning around fully to continue his trek in search of… something. Max didnt want to go the easy way out, not just yet.

-

Max flinched strongly when he heard the gut-curdling scream of a person, just a few feet from his frail hideout, his hand automatically reaching for the axe — still uncleaned from last night (He really ought to though, unless he wants to get infected with whatever blood is on it).

He knew he shouldnt be sleeping so peacefully in such a vulnerable way, but he hasnt been able to get a wink of sleep for the past couple of days when wandering the streets. Normally he wouldve been called homeless and a hobo by the neighbours by now, but its not like theres anyone left to reprimand his odd behaviour now. Back to the matter at hand though, he pushed himself up from the ground and slipped out from his hiding like a little meerkat trying to scope out for any nearby danger. His heart almost stopped entirely when he saw a zombie huddled near the ground, just under the streetlight. Eating away to its sickened hearts content. It was feasting on something fresh, he could tell even if he couldnt see exactly what. The hopes of it being a poor wildlife animal instead of a human was crushed to smithereens when he stealthily approached the undead and saw what he feared most.

A human with sterile eyes, a ripped limb and an exposed ribcage. Max carefully changed his stance without alerting the zombie in front of him, lifting the axe over his head like a lumberjack readying himself to chop some wood, before striking efficiently and finishing off the monster. The second time his heart stops was when he realised he was far too late to save you. You were probably the very same person that screamed like that when it attacked you. Maybe if he wouldve been a bit faster when waking up, he couldve saved your life. Maybe not save you from any attacks, but he wouldve gladly offered some of his bandages, just so he could have someone he could talk to. He swore he was going insane, not being able to talk to another human being and all that. With a shaky and dispirited sigh, Max just shifted in his shoes and turned around, deciding to look for food and scraps now that he is already up and outside of his hideout. What he didnt know though, was how fast the virus in your body began to spread. Or how fast you were already sitting up on your knees, head tilted to curiously watch him loiter around the street. The hushed whisper that sounded a lot like the word “human…” had him freezing up again. Max carefully turned around, just to see you seated on your knees on the concrete, head lolling to the side like it was too heavy for your neck to hold. Your other (and only) hand rested on the ground, like trying to keep your body from collapsing. The oddest part was the fact you didnt try to inch closer towards him, nor make any other noises despite some whines. Call him crazy because he stepped closer towards you, despite knowing how zombies usually act to a human. Call him crazy but he thought you seemed friendly.

-

“Stay here, okay?” Max mumbled quietly, hand reached out like trying to teach a puppy to sit still. He still had no idea if you even understood a single word he was saying. But hed guess that if you really didnt understand what he was saying, you wouldve already attacked him long before. You seemed to be a lot more aware and complex than most zombies.

He took another step back from you, only for you to slur out a whine and trail after him like a kicked puppy. … so much so for teaching you simple orders. With a defeated yet soft sigh, Max let you limp up towards him and wrap your arms around him. You were a little cold, but it was definitely better than being jumped by a famished zombie. This wasnt the first time youd touch him without the intent of hurting him. “How am i supposed to take care of you if you dont sit still, hm?” the man teased with a small chuckle, but wrapped his arms around you. “.. Ah- i guess i dont really… need to take care of you, actually. Youre not alive.” Its been at least a month of having you trail after him, and he cant lie — its nice having someone to chat with. Even if you didnt necessarily always respond back. Max rubbed the heel of his palm against your spine, but slowly willed himself to pull back, even if you kept clinging onto the sleeve of his shirt. “Alright, seriously though. Stay.” He repeated, guiding you to sit down on the floor. 

“Ill be back” he promised

-

But it took him a couple of hours to finally return. When he did push himself past the slip of the entrance to the shared hideout, he was wounded. A huge gash on the side of his collarbone just over his shoulder, crimson blood soaking the fabric of his shirt. And all you could do was just stare. Stare and lust over a bite like the zombie you truly were. You stood up from the ground and took a step closer towards him. Max didnt move first, but when he noticed the crazed hungry look in your eyes, he stumbled back. His back bumping into the wall. He laughed nervously, gripping onto his shoulder stronger. “H-hold on– i- im sure we can find you something else to eat, love…” But Max felt pity for you, he really did — he knew you havent eaten anything since the two of you met, and he couldnt blame you if you were extremely hungry by now. He was surprised you havent eaten him in his sleep before already. The brunettes mind raced further when you stepped closer again. Surely there was another way to feed you, right?? Though his mind silenced instantly when you pressed your chest against him, head gravitating towards his shoulder and licking the dripping blood. As much as he didnt want to die now… he couldnt help but wonder if life maybe would be easier and more convenient if you both were zombies. All the time he has spent with you tagging along with him, he has developed a small… liking towards you. No matter your missing arm or your pale skin.

Call him crazy but he loved you. Your jaw slackened further, and he knew his time was running out already. He had to make a choice. And living without you just seemed too cruel. You were just hungry. With a shaky sigh, he tilted his head further to the other side of you, giving you all the space you needed to cram him down. It would probably hurt like hell, but hed rather die a painful death than live knowing he has to kill you someday if theres no cure.

And you took your sweet fucking time with him. Devouring his shoulder bit by bit, until the only thing coursing through his veins was the virus and — oddly enough — your love. Now the two of you could lurk in the dead silent streets, together, fingers interlaced.

He was sick, but he wouldnt have it any other way. ୧‿̩͙ ˖︵︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵︵˖ ‿̩͙୨ wait i actually kinda fuck wit dis WAIT NO PLS DONT EXECUTE M

[lacyydollette]

BABYDADDY!RAFE X BABYMAMA!READER WORKS . . .

MEET THE CAMERONS

ᢉ𐭩babydaddy!rafe intro post ᢉ𐭩babymama!reader intro post ᢉ𐭩their story && background explained in the series

BLURBS && REQUESTS

ᢉ𐭩a day in the life with babydaddy!rafe && babymama!reader ᢉ𐭩babydaddy!rafe && babymama!reader’s night time routine ᢉ𐭩“what does babydaddy!rafe && readers sex life look like?” ᢉ𐭩how bsf!rafe used to react to reader going out to dates with other guys ᢉ𐭩babydaddy!rafe dealing with a teenager + how they are when they’re family expands

DIGITAL MEDIA

ᢉ𐭩texts with babydaddy!rafe && babymama!reader p1 ᢉ𐭩texts with babydaddy!rafe && babymama!reader p2

𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐘𝐘𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 — est. 2026 © do not copy, claim or take inspo of my work anywhere.

[ivysjournal]

𝒓umor has it !?

the entire internet seems to ship you and finn─except finn is painfully offline, so he doesn't know. you, on the other hand, decide to have a little fun with the rumors.

❪ masterlist. 2.9k words. fluff, co-stars/friends to lovers. cw: alcohol consumption. dedicated to @eviesjournal and the convo we had about how we'd do the famous thing wayyyy better than finn. silly little fic, hope you enjoy! ❫

It was somewhere around three in the morning, and you stared blearily at your screen as the bridge of Ayo Technology by 50 Cent backed a few slowed down, lovingly color-graded clips of you and Finn from an interview on your For You page. At certain angles, it looked like you were kissing.

People surely didn’t lack imagination.

You and Finn had known each other for years. Two awkward tweens when you first met on the set of the first season of Stranger Things, and you’d somehow latched onto each other. That bond only tightened over the years. By the fifth season, ten whole years later, you couldn’t picture your life without his dark and perpetually unruly hair and tall frame draped across your living room couch. There were snacks stolen between takes and clothes migrating from his closet to yours. The comfort of growing up side by side. Best friends was the obvious label. However, the internet had other ideas.

The shipping had started when you were young. You’d always been aware of it, and honestly, you’d found it more funny than anything. (Once, you and Sadie had gone on a deep dive through fanfiction websites with no shame and several shots of tequila. In hindsight, it was one of the best nights of your life. Some people were alarmingly creative.) Still, for reasons completely beyond your comprehension, the intensity of said shipping had skyrocketed in recent months. The onset of season five promo hadn’t helped. Every so often, a TikTok would ambush you, a solemnly narrated analysis of the way Finn looked at you on a red carpet, or the moment you’d collapsed in his arms laughing during an interview. Undeniable proof you’d been married for two years and owned a dog.

Okay, fine. Maybe you did act a little over the top sometimes, but you were both just clingy people. That was just… your thing.

Finn stayed blissfully unaware. You still weren’t sure how someone could be so offline, but one glance at his phone, bereft of social media and needless notifications, told you everything you needed to know. The shipping between was your own little secret (and the rest of the cast and staff, apparently… everyone except his.) You weren’t sure why you kept it that way. You just did.

So it was three in the morning, and yet another edit of you and Finn had crossed your recommended, and tiredness had enough of a hold on you to give you an idea that planted itself as the funniest thing you ever thought of.

After Stranger Things wrapped, it would take an absurd trick of fate for you and Finn to ever land on the same set again. Putting aside the idea twisted your stomach unpleasantly at the thought, the shippers would surely be in mourning, grasping at straws and the last blurry screenshots they could get. You wondered, what better way to thank them for years of unintentional entertainment than to just… fan the flames a little? A simple playful lean into the rumor mill as a send-off?

Honestly, it sounded hilarious.

You’d sent a text to Sadie then. hey, remember the Vanity Fair interview? i’m gonna need us to swap seats during that.

Her reply came fast. what are you plotting, and you could only grin at that.

The day of the interview came. The night before, Finn had slept over like he so often did with his dedicated toothbrush in your bathroom cup and pajamas folded at the end of your bed. It was basically your, plural, apartment. He’d left earlier this morning to get ready, and in his wake he’d forgotten the sweater he’d worn the day before slung over the back of your couch. A sweater you distinctly remembered being photographed on him. Your stylist had not been convinced, but gave up after a bit of verbal wrestling even though she questioned your insistence. You slipped the sweater on, paired it with a nice skirt, and headed off to hair and makeup. 

When you arrived at the interview set, Sadie was already seated beside the spot she’d given to you. She zeroed in on the sweater immediately before she looked up at you with amusement dancing across her face.

“Oh, so you’re really doing this,” she laughed.

You nodded with a self-satisfied smile. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. The rest of the cast filtered in soon after, settling into their seats. Caleb shot you a knowing look. “Nice sweater.”

Finn arrived last and sat down beside you without second thoughts. That is, until he glanced over. You could practically see the gears turning in his head as you did your best to keep in your laugh.

“That’s mine,” he intelligently noticed, leaning closer and running the tip of his fingers against the familiar sleeve in disbelief. “That’s the one I left this morning.”

The touch made you shiver, but you masked it with a composed smile. “It is, actually. My stylist thought it’d go well with the outfit. What do you think?”

Either it was a trick of the light, or his pale complexion flushed a darker red. Lips pursed, he nodded. “It looks good. It suits you. You should—uh—you should borrow my stuff more often. The oversized thing, and all, it’s… it’s nice. Y’know.”

“Guys, focus, please! The cameras are rolling!” 

The bubble burst and both of you snapped out of it as the interviewer launched into her first question.

Two days later, the interview dropped, and you and Sadie cackled like Salem witches sprawled  on her couch as you scrolled through the corner of Twitter dedicated to you and Finn. You tried very hard to ignore the pleasant tug in your chest when someone pointed out how Finn’s gaze seemed fixed on you, and his sweater, the entire time. You quite liked the way he looked at you.

Your little scheme dragged on for a while—months, to be precise, filling the gap between Volume One and Volume Two with ideas you devised during sleepless nights. Sadie contributed when boredom struck her. The next hit was a picture taken at your local coffee shop, one fans had noticed you often went to. Sadie came with you that day, and she just so happened to have a trenchcoat that looked a lot like Finn’s brown one. Like a pair of middle-schoolers, you spent ten minutes arranging her hand just right so it could be his. You posted it to your story with a Beabadoobee song. Subtlety was not the goal. Your notifications blew up right after.

Surprisingly, a reply came from Gaten’s account. whos that lol, the text read. it’s finn btw. i stole gaten’s phone.

You couldn’t help but feel more than a little delighted.

Purely because of the fans’ reactions, of course.

Even though Finn and you had always been touchy, at least with each other, you turned the dial all the way up. In the middle of interviews, you’d lean over to fix his collar or pluck imaginary lint out of his hair. You took an unreasonable amount of pleasure in watching him flush, stumbling all over his words to scroll through the carnage online afterward. According to the internet, you were official now and dropping hints for the fans to pick out.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for Finn deciding to play right back, though.

All of a sudden, he was everywhere in your space. A hand resting casually on your thigh, an arm slung over the back of your chair, his shoulders brushing yours just enough. He started handing you his jackets, teased you more boldly during interviews, his eyes lingered longer… There was the panel incident too, in California, when—

“If I was El,” you’d said into the microphone, emboldened by Millie’s enthusiastic finger-clapping beside you. “I’d totally have broken up with the guy.”

Finn shot you an affronted look while Sadie and Caleb, who shared the panel with you, burst into laughter. He reached over and practically yanked the mic from your hands. “You’re totally exaggerating. Mike’s isn’t that bad, he’s a teenage boy! He’s just confused!”

“All teenage boys are assholes Finn. I’ve been around you wayyyy too much during that part of your life. I’d know.”

“You’re all conspiring against him,” he accused, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re doing.”

“We are not! You’re the one exaggerating now,” you argued back. Sadie leaned forward and cupped her hand around her mouth. “We are!”

Finn turned to you. “Baby, I—”

He couldn’t go any further as the audience erupted into cheers and scandalized oohs. You stumbled over air, your elbow slipping off the armrest and your mouth falling open in shock. Heat rushed up your neck, blooming across your cheeks all the way to the tip of your ears as Finn dropped his gaze, smiling bashfully at the ground. You didn’t miss the quiet laugh he let out when he looked back at you. Mortified, you shot a glance at Sadie, who was wearing the biggest, most unapologetic grin you’d ever seen.

Had she told him about your plan? He would’ve told you… right?

Or did he just want to make this a competition?

Whatever it was, you decided not to let it destabilize you. You swallowed down the blush, placed a hand on his arm as you laughed it off, and pretended you didn’t notice the way Finn’s eyes stayed trained on your fingers.

And it just kept on going. The little touches and comments, the condescending pet names when one of you messed up, or when you’d jokingly fight on set, during events and interviews. What had once been occasional became frequent, so frequent it began bleeding into your private life.

Finn started draping himself over you during movie nights, his arms winding around your waist, his head resting comfortably on your chest while your fingers carded through his hair. You found yourself rummaging through his shirts to wear at home, which he noticed and always complimented your choice. You’d cling to his arm while crossing the street even when you knew there were no paparazzis around. He fixed your hair without asking. You sat next to each other in every interview. The pet names slipped out during breaks on set.

There wasn't anyone to document those domestic instances. And for reasons unknown, you realized you liked it this way. Enjoyed the new pace your relationship with Finn had taken.

Until the wrap-up party.

Ten years of your life. Ten years of care poured into a character sealed shut with the click of a camera. The final day had tasted bittersweet to everyone. Many tears were shed, and your mascara had definitely stained Finn’s sleeve as he held you close. But that could only mean the party, two days after, would be all the more fun—which it was! That was how you all ended up lounging across the floor of Gaten’s apartment, a half-empty bottle of white wine sweating between you. You drank straight from the bottleneck, passing it around in a circle. When the bottle reached Finn, he waved it away, mindful that he was driving you home.

You smiled at him when he handed it to you, holding his gaze as the wine burned sweetly down your throat.

“Man, I’m gonna miss this,” Caleb sighed, staring at the ceiling.

Millie snorted. “It’s not like we’re never going to do this again. We’re not dying.”

“Yeahhhh, but it’s not the same, you know? We were up to so much shit on that set.”

Laughter rippled through the room as memories bubbled up, old and new. You were practically draped against Finn by then, your head near his shoulder as he leaned back against Gaten’s coffee table.

“You’re telling me,” you said fondly.“Remember when Sadie tripped over cables on her first day and fucked up the entire lighting system?”

Sadie gasped in mock outrage, glaring at you while everyone else howled. It took less than two seconds for the group to spiral into recounting every Sadie mishap from the last nine years she’d shared with you. Eventually, she raised her hands, silencing all conversations under amused eyes and pointed directly at you.

“I cannot believe you’re talking all high and mighty,” she started, her eyes gleaming, “when you’ve been doing fan service for the past few months.”

You froze. Behind you, you felt Finn straighten. You shot Sadie a frantic look, slicing a hand through the air in a silent stop, but she only met your gaze with an expression that told you, very clearly, that she knew what she was doing. Or at least, you hoped she did.

“What do you mean?” Finn asked, chuckling nervously.

“Oh, she’s been playing up your friendship because the fanbase has been shipping you two like crazy,” Sadie explained breezily, waving a hand as if she’d been asked about the weather. “It was mostly because we thought it was funny. Also, I gotta say, the fanfictions have really improved since you two started. Huge step up in quality.”

Your stomach was in your feet.

“The fanbase ships us? Together?” Finn asked, incredulous. then turned to you. You had to force yourself to lift your eyes to meet his, but the confusion in them only made you more embarrassed.

“Yeah. Yeah, they do.” You tried to sound as bright as you could as you quickly looked away.

“You didn’t know? Dude, you’re the opposite of chronically online. It’s like you live in a cave,” Gaten laughed, shaking his head. “Reminds me of that whole Sillie thing back in 2019.”

Millie barked out a laugh, brandishing the bottle of white wine. “Oh, that was a fun era.”

The night carried on with the rhythm of stories, but there was now a subtle tension threaded between you and Finn, pulled taut but still refusing to snap. It followed you all the way outside. You’d sobered up by then, the cold night air biting as you tugged your coat tighter around yourself. Finn’s car waited at the curb. You reached for the passenger door handle.

“Hey.”

You turned to see Finn had stopped, his eyes fixed on you.

“Something wrong?” you asked.

He shifted his weight, eyes flicking down and back up again in a shadow of hesitation. “So, all that… you know. The hoodies and the holding hands, that. That was a joke?”

“No,” you said immediately. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t a joke. I just thought it’d be fun to… to kind of pretend that something more was going on for the fans. Give them something, since we won’t really be seen together like this anymore.”

Quieter, you added. “And we won’t be on set together, not like before. If you know what I mean.”

“So you didn’t mean it.”

Confusion twisted your guts as you stared at him. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, blurring his expression far too much for you to make out what it was.

“I don’t know.” You took a deep breath. “Did you want it to mean something?”

A little voice in your chest you didn’t know existed was pleading. Please say yes, please say yes. Finn stepped closer, closing the distance until there was but the smallest space left between your bodies.

“To be honest, I didn’t really know people saw us like that,” he started, burying his hands deeper in the pockets of his jacket. “What I do know, though, was that I had this really stupid crush on you ever since I was, like… twelve. And when you started doing all that, I thought maybe you finally liked me back. Now, I don’t know if you meant any of it, but I—” His lips curved in a nervous smile. “I kinda hope you did.”

Your heart leaped in your chest, as if you’d just jumped off an airplane and your parachute had been delayed. Finn opened his mouth again, probably to backpedal and to reassure you it was fine, that nothing had to change if you didn’t reciprocate, but you didn’t let him. You did reciprocate.

You shut him up before he could speak—grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and kissing him.

His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you closer as he kissed you back, hard and soft all at once. Your arms slid around his neck, fingers tangling in his curls, and you laughed into the kiss when he smiled, which only made him kiss you again, and again, and again.

You finally stopped when your back hit the passenger door, Finn standing in front of you, both a little breathless as you stared at each other with starry eyes.

“And that only took us…. what? Ten years?” you teased.

Finn laughed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder, not forgetting to press a kiss to your neck as he did so. “I’m forever grateful to whoever decided to write fanfictions about us. You have to show them to me now. You’re obligated.”

“And under what obligations?”

“Uh, the fact that I’m literally your boyfriend?”

You chuckled. “Wow. You’re upgrading fast. I can’t believe you—”

He kissed you again, cutting you off, and you forgot whatever you’d been about to say. You liked it better this way.

Your phone buzzed in your jacket pocket, long forgotten, with a text from Sadie you wouldn’t see until the next morning. so are yall together yet me and caleb have a bet going. it’s been nine years.

And a week later, Finn posted on Instagram—not his social media manager, himself, guys! That’s big! It was a grainy film photo of you in his shirt, hair a mess, standing in his kitchen with two coffee mugs and the brightest smile flashed at the camera.

The caption was nothing but a heart.

[luveline]

Imagine mermaid reader was abit of a klepto like she likes stealing from shops when they’re outside. She just doesn’t see anything wrong with it, she sees something small she likes the look of and it doesn’t look like anyone owns it, it’s going in her pocket. I think her and Eddie could bond over that. Maybe Steve tries teaching her it’s wrong so she pretends to stop doing it but she’s got a little treasure stash she likes to show Eddie when he comes over

beyond the sea au | fem, 1.2k

“What’s this?” Eddie asks, his voice silky and funny in his strange way. “What use do you have for one of these, my slippery friend?”

You giggle as Eddie unearths your latest treasure, a heavy circular glass thing that shines a thousand lights when the sun hits it from the window, sending lines of white across the bedroom floor. “What is?” you ask. 

“This is an ashtray, sweetheart.” Eddie lays it down beside the rest of your collected treasures. “Ashtray. Us humans, we do this weird gross amazing thing called smoking. You smoke a cigarette. Shit, I’ll show you. Always wanted to take a drag out of Harrington’s huge window.”

Eddie turns from Steve’s bed and leans up on his knees to unlatch the window. He pushes it wide, giving you an unmarred view of the pool in the Harrington backyard, and the trees bordering the fence, closing it in. He takes a box out of his jacket pocket and flips open the lid, exposing a couple of long, skinny things. 

“This is a cigarette.” Eddie pulls one out of the box, patting his ass with his other hand before unearthing a neon green plastic rectangle. When he flicks it, a small flame like the oven burner jolts from the very top. “This is a lighter. I light the cigarette,” —his tongue pokes out of his mouth as the flame eats the end of one of his cigarettes— “and then you smoke it.”

He brings it to his mouth. You startle and try to grab it, but Eddie holds his hand in front of your face and laughs when you reel back. “Sorry,” he says, coughing, “should’ve warned you. It’s okay. Doesn’t hurt, okay? It’s not hurting.”

Eddie smiles around the cigarette, even as the end burns red hot and starts to shiver. You watch in perplexity as it begins to burn away. 

“Okay,” he says, shooting a stream of smoke from his mouth and out of the window, “can I have?”

You pass him the ashtray. Eddie hits the cigarette against its glass rim until the burned end falls into the bowl. 

“See?” he asks.

“Eugh,” you grumble, disliking the smell and the sight of all that soot on your nice shiny bowl. “Wash.”

“That’s what it’s for!”

“Wash, Eddie!”

“Okay, okay! Alright. I’ll go wash it, jeez.”

“What are you guys doing?” Steve asks, breezing past the doorway with a wrinkled nose. Eddie almost winds himself pelting his cigarette out of the window, but Steve’s already sniffing the air. “No way, dude, you’re smoking in my room?” 

“I’ve seen you smoke, Harrington!”

“I quit! Don’t you know how rude it is to smoke in somebody’s house when they’re quitting? It’s like you were born in a barn.” Steve throws himself unceremoniously onto his bed and covers his eyes with his hand. “I’m salivating.” He peeks between his fingers. “Wait, what is all that stuff?”

You try to shove your things back into the fabric bag Steve gave you a few days ago, grimacing. “No stuff!”

“I see stuff! What is that, where did you get that?” Steve hangs his head off the edge of the bed. “Baby, I told you you can’t keep doing this! You– I saw you put that one back!”

You look away from him, mumbling pathetically. He did tell you to put back the watch, and he explained why you can’t just take things, but humans have so much in these places and, in the ocean (besides the occasional kelp farm) stuff that shines is first come first served. You only need to be fast and dexterous, and you’re both of those things. 

“Steve, let the girl steal!” Eddie protests, swinging his arm around your shoulder easily. “It’s not like she’s hurting anyone.”

“Dude!”

“Who’s gonna miss a glass ashtray and an egg cup painted like Mickey Mouse?”

“That’s not the point! She doesn’t have to steal, she knows I’ll just buy her whatever she wants me to get, she only has to put it in the goddamn basket.” Steve glares at you. “We had a deal, bub.”

“What deal?” you ask, though you remember. 

“You stop stealing and I make croquettes in the morning!”

He made croquettes again today, as promised, but you’ve let down your end of the bargain. Steve’s right. A strange weary guilt starts to work its way through your chest.

“Sweetheart, do not listen to him,” Eddie says, giving you a shake when he spots your growing distress, “I will literally take you places for you to do this. There’s this one Reaganite bastard security guard who got too good at recognising me in my jock wig but he won’t know you, and they have the sickest keychains—”

“Munson, do you shoplift?” Steve asks, eyes squinted like he has a headache. You reach up to rub at his forehead gently. 

“No, but my dear old dad did, Steve, you know this. I had the coat with the most pockets, duh.” 

“Eddie, wash please,” you say pointedly.

Steve grins. “He stinks, right?”

Eddie grabs the ashtray and leans into you to give you a one-armed squeeze. A quick hug. He’s the only person on land who’s ever held you that wasn’t Steve, and he does it so differently, but it’s nice. “Sorry, babe. Washing it as we speak.”

Steve flowers down at you when he’s gone. “You promised,” he says. 

“Steve, for you?” you ask, unveiling one of your treasures, a red, shiny toy car, with miniature wheels that move. It’s heavy in your hand. “Want give, Steve mad, no give.”

“I’m not mad at you,” he says. 

“Mad.”

“Not mad, baby, but you can’t keep stealing. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Other people will be mad at you, people I can’t protect you from. Not without serious trouble. You steal, take things without telling me, people mad at us, people hurt us,” he says. He has a talent for presenting scary things with a sweet tone.

“Hurt us?”

“Well. Not hurt hurt. Little hurt. No salmon!” he gasps, teasing and smiling down at you as you glare back. 

“Not all salmon. Want more.”

“No sardines either.”

“Steve.”

Steve tips your head back and kisses your cheek, lips parting a centimetre over your skin and then coming together with a light smack that immediately ripples to the tips of your fingers and the depth of your stomach. His laugh warms your cheek as he murmurs, “I’m not lying, klepto.” 

“Who klepto?” you demand. 

He noses at your cheek. From the bathroom, the sound of running water ceases, and Steve flops backward into his pillows with his arm held out invitingly. “Come hold me, klepto. Let’s make Eddie jealous.”

You climb under his arm. Eddie returns to the scene. When he takes off his jacket and tries to get into bed with you both, Steve kicks him so hard they start shouting at each other, and the only apology Eddie will accept is that he gets to pick the movie, and he gets to lay down in bed with you guys while you watch it. Steve grumbles, but you know he doesn’t really mind Eddie’s proximity. He relaxes into the sheets, and nods off before the vaguely less-evil bedroom TV can piss you off. 

“What that?” you demand, pointing at the TV furiously. 

Steve curls closer to you in his sleep as Eddie begins the arduous process of explaining TV. 

[luveline]

𝗯𝗲𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗮

Steve finds a girl in his pool. A very wet, very bloody, and very scaly girl. fem, 4k. 

mermaid!au. cw for non-sexual nudity and moderate injury. reader is same age as steve / in early twenties. requested here

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

Steve doesn’t like looking at the pool for obvious reasons, but there’s a… sound, emanating. The back yard is fenced in but empty, so sounds down there tend to echo, and Steve’s bedroom looks down on it all, so he hears the weeping from bed and isn’t sure if he can bring himself to look. 

That feeling lasts for longer than he’d ever admit to, but he worries that there’s somebody down there hurting and that he’s letting that happen. He gets out of bed in nothing but sweats and a pair of socks to peer through the slit gap in his curtains. Fog rolls over the pool, concrete wet and dark, rain still spatting lightly against the window as Storm Melly says goodbye. Steve cracks his window wider, scanning the pool like they taught him in lifeguard training. Up and down, side to side. 

He can’t see anything out of the ordinary, but he can hear the crying. It’s— it’s so sad, so suddenly humanising that he races out of his room and down the stairs, through the foyer and the kitchen to the back door. He struggles with the lock, nearly takes the thing off its hinges as he gets it open, but catches it before it can slam into the exterior wall. 

Shit, the crying. It’s a woman sobbing, all guttural and long and painful, before it cuts out like a gasp, shuttered, shattered, like it’s too painful to go on. 

“I’m here!” he says. “Hello? I’m here, where are you? I’ll– I can help you! I can– Hello?”

A weak murmur of sound. 

Steve sets out into the yard. His socks are soaked through in five steps, shoulders kissed by tropical rain, oddly cold, the surface of the pool wavering as the rain gives a startling lash, a last goodbye as it suddenly stops. It dribbles down the gutters and off the roof and the patio umbrella, the soggy rustle of leaves from the nearby woods almost smothering another pained whimper. 

“Hello?” he asks again, lowering his voice. “I’m here. Just tell me where you are and I can help.” Steve softens his tone. “I know first aid!”

A sluicing of water. A shape emerging from the surface of the pool. 

Steve flinches so hard that the girl recedes. The woman. Your halfway across the pool before he can stop you. 

“Oh my god!” he says. “Holy shit, are you okay?” Steve scrambles to the edge of the pool. There, in the water, red blood shimmers and blooms a paler orange. The source of it is dark, like black against your belly. “I’ll get you out!” he says, grabbing the rungs of the ladder and half jumping, half climbing into the water before he can think better of things. 

You don’t respond beyond another sob of pain. 

“It’s okay!” Pool water splashes up to his mouth, soaking him to the bone. “Come here, I got you–” You scramble backward, eyes blown as Steve offers his hands. He has to swim toward the deep end. You seem steady, somehow, despite the depth, but you’re sinking and the blood is coming in blooms, now. 

Steve grabs you harder than he means to, feeling something sharp glance off of his arm. There must be debris in the pool. “Hey, I got you, I got you,” he says, hands under your armpits. 

Steve gazes frantically into the water for the wound and realises you aren’t wearing a thread of clothing. No top or bra, just naked skin. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, drawing you closer, not sure how you ever could’ve ended up like this and drawing horrible conclusions, “you’re gonna be okay, I got you. Let’s get you out of the water.”

You grab him back, and for a second Steve thinks you aren’t going to let him help, but he concentrates on looking like someone you could trust. “I got you,” he promises. 

The effort of treading water doesn’t hurt. It can’t take ten seconds to get you to the shallow end, but suddenly you’re pulling out of his arms and he’s glancing back at you, and you’re shoving him, not hard but enough to get him away from you, leaving him in a tangle on the shallow steps leading out of the water. “Wha–”

You let out a shaky sob and point down at yourself. 

Steve’s eyes trip over your bare chest and the red lancing of blood dripping down your navel to a sudden line demarcated into your skin. It looks like tiles. Like coruscated foil. 

It’s like scales. 

Steve gasps loud. It burns his throat. 

“Oh,” he says. 

You cry again. 

“Oh.” Steve shakes his head. You’re a girl, and you’re bleeding and you need help and you won’t get out of the water and you don’t have legs. “Okay. Okay, what the fuck.” 

Steve scrambles out of the pool. His feet slip on wet socks and puddles of water on the way to the sunroom. He yanks open the door, hears the shitty little padlock clink and the wood splinter as he forces it open and lets the wind slam it into the side of the house. The sunroom is too dark to see, but the towels are where they’ve always been in a hutch to the left. He grabs as many as he can and jogs back out. You’ve squandered back into the middle of the pool, a sorry, sad little frown on your lips. Your face is wet, but Steve can see you crying. Tears bumbling down your cheeks to gather at your chin. 

“Come here, then,” he says, kneeling at the shallow-end steps. 

You glare, untrusting. 

He resists the urge to glare back. “Come here,” he says again, gesturing with his arm for you to come. “You’re gonna bleed to death in my pool and– and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you after that.”

You come at his gesturing but you struggle. He can see now the– the tail of you, the body of it, not overly wide, about the width of you but longer than a normal woman’s legs would be, your dark pearlescent scales thick with blood at your navel and darker the further down they go. You scrunch yourself up some, but Steve can see that your tail (what the actual fuck) isn’t overly flexible, and you cant get up the steps without crawling on your elbows. 

“Can I get you?” he asks, holding out his arms, one of the towels toppling into the water in his hurry. “I don’t know how to help you.”

You go deeper into the water and push toward the inside of the pool’s kidney-bean shape, into deeper water. Steve’s knees cry out as he follows. 

You brace your hands on the side and lift yourself up. Not enough to get out of the pool, but– Steve doesn’t know what you want, but he grabs you and he yanks you out because he sure as hell isn’t about to fix your problem like this. 

You cry out, a pained, angry squeal as Steve drags you onto the stone floor. 

“I am so sorry!” he says, aware that he sounds angry and too flustered to correct himself. “I’m sorry, I need to look, and I can’t fix it in the water, can you just–”

He is beyond relieved that he can sit you up. You get with the program despite a complete lack of communication, throwing your hands behind you to lean back without falling. Steve catches a flick of softer material at the end of your tail —your fins, two thin, shining lengths of skin with tendrils still submerged. 

His ears ring. 

He isn’t sure how long he spends in a fuzzy haze, a few seconds at most, but he blinks out of it when you make another wretched sound of pain. 

“What is this?” he asks, murmurs, hand cupping your soft tummy where a mess of blood stains below a dip that must be your belly button. “What did you do?” 

Your crying is weird, out of water. Without the wet to dull its echo, it comes out like there’s something missing. It’s like you’re trying to talk to him when he asks, a sad murmuring as you gesture weakly to the blood running down your skin. 

Steve presses one of the towels to just under the wound. He can’t really tell what’s going on, but it definitely looks like a cut that needs pressure, down to the fat and gaping. You’re gonna hate him. 

“I’m really sorry,” he says, edging the towel closer, waiting until you meet his eye to nod encouragingly, “but I have to, okay? I have to.”

To his surprise, you lean into his side. He shifts to take your weight, holding you against him as you take the towel out of his hand and shove it over your cut. 

It probably needs stitches, but Steve can’t stitch. He can’t even sew. He doesn’t know anybody who can, except for…

Stop the bleeding first. 

Steve cringes as you let out another shaky cry. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, rubbing the length of your arm but careful not to jostle your hand. “You’re doing really well, you’re really brave. You’re doing a great job.” His eyes close against the sting of chlorine. God, your cut must be hurting like a bitch. 

“I got you,” he says, thinking wildly that he doesn’t have a thing, not a grip nor a clue, and that you are in the worst of hands. 

A demogorgon isn’t easily explained, but it is explained. Ever since they killed that loser in the Creel House and El closed the gate, the other dimension’s history and geography has been pretty well documented by the few who saw it in action. Steve himself has been asked for his first person accounts, and rewarded for his efforts with a pink-paper non-disclosure agreement. Nowhere in any of those interviews did the scientists mention mermaids. 

You don’t seem like a monster. Sure, you’ve got scales and little sharp fingernails and a weird belly button, but you’re lacking the five-petal death maw. You look like a girl, a pretty one when you aren’t ragged, probably, with the thickest eyelashes he’s ever seen and shiny mother-of-pearl at the corners of your eyes and the tip of your chin. Through your wet hair, he can see the shine of it on your earlobes, too. Would a demogorgon have earlobes? No! You’re one of the earth’s creatures, Steve decides, because he gets to be the authority. And you must be so cold. 

Steve grabs a towel and wraps it around your shoulders, covering the valley of your chest but not the wound. “Fuck, what are we gonna do?” he asks you. 

You meet his eyes. There’s something there. Not an understanding, he’s pretty firmly assumed you have no idea what the fuck he’s saying, but recognition at least. You offer a weak, what he thinks is appeasing murmur of a language he’s not sure exists on land and let your weight lay heavier against his side. 

After a soggy minute, you pull the towel away from your wound tentatively. The bleeding is far less aggressive than before. You turn your face to his and chirp, like you’re saying, Hey, look! 

Steve stares around at the water and the bloodied towels and doesn’t know who to call first. Not Dustin, lest they have another D’Artangan event. Not Robin, who told him very seriously after their shift that she would be sleeping and not to wake her up, no, not even if he saw something on the TV he wanted to rant about. Not Nancy. He honestly can’t be sure she won’t bring her shotgun. 

“What do I do?” he whines pathetically. 

You look sympathetic. Your next chirp is kind of adorable. 

“I’m gonna get you some waterproof plasters,” he says, because it’s all the options he’s got. “Okay? Even though I’m sure you… um, mer-girls heal up somehow. Do you?” 

You tilt your head. Steve tries to move and your curiosity rockets into fear, hands grasping his bicep as you give a sad, “Ah!”

“I gotta get it for you! And I can’t stay wet, I’ll get pneumonia again.”

“Ah!” you say, more like a warning this time. 

Steve furrows his brows at you. “Do you know what I’m saying? I have to go.” He points at the house. 

You shake your head up and down like a frantic nod, but when Steve goes to stand, you let out another sad little cry and grasp at his arms. 

“Okay!” He says, slamming back down, his sweatpants slapping the floor with a wet plop. “Fine, Jesus. Don’t sound so sad.” 

You trill under your breath. 

Steve grabs the ends of the towel around your shoulders and brings them together again firmly, covering the peaks of your breasts. “I thought you were supposed to have shells.”

You take one of his hands and put it on your hip. He doesn’t get it, how could he? But he lets you rub his hand against your scales and remarks at how gentle they are under his hand. They don’t look like they would be. 

Then you fill your mouth with spit and let it dribble into your hand. 

Steve steals his hand back, scared you’re gonna make him take the big glob of saliva you’ve gathered into his palm, but you raise the towel from your wound and transfer your saliva in a move that is oddly methodical. Then you press the towel back and offer Steve a smile, as if to say, See! 

Steve does not see. 

“Where did you come from?” he asks. 

You mumble back at him. 

“Do you know?” he asks. “How did you get here? How did you end up in my pool, of all places?”

Your mouth opens wider, and the sounds you make are closer to words. You’re speaking in your own language, high-pitched but not overly loud. Then you nod again, but you’re frowning, and Steve figures there’s nothing he can do here without Robin and her translation skills. Does knowing three languages help when it comes to deep sea creatures? 

Maybe he needs a whale song dictionary. Do scientists even know what whales are saying? Not that you’re very whale-like. No, you seem far more agile. 

Your hands are so human. Your arms. You have the soft fat on your upper arms and the same bones in your wrist, the only difference is your fingernails and their light pearlescence like the shine on your cheeks and chin. 

Where you’ve brought your hand up to spit into your fingers, you’ve transferred blood onto the delicate skin under your bottom lip. He grabs another towel, drier than the rest, and brings it to your face to rub it away. 

You close your eyes. 

Steve’s own widen in surprise. How totally still you go. How sincere your trust is, even though you don’t know him, as he wipes the towel over the planes of your face, drying the pool water and washing away the blood. 

He dries your neck, too, then the lengths of your arm. You let out the funniest sound yet, a laugh without laughter, just huffing breath through a little smile as the fabric runs down to your hand. 

“Guess you’re not still hurting,” he says. 

Your eyes open. 

They’re unlike anything he’s ever seen. You have white sclera like his own, but your pupils are bigger. Even dilated, Steve doesn’t think that a human’s pupil would ever be so big. It’s subtle but uncanny. And you have a phosphorescent glow running around it; there isn’t colour to your iris —the pupil and the iris are both black, but separated by a faintly glowing line that’s broken up like dabs from a tiny paint brush. There are tinier tines coming out radially from the line, uneven and seemingly without pattern, though they aren’t noticeable at first glance. You could get away with being stunningly human, really. Your eyes are beautiful, and only foreign to his species upon further inspection. 

You press your tongue deliberately to the back of your teeth and force air from between them in waves, repetitive and nearly melodical, like a whistle that hasn’t formed. You do it a few times, then wait for his response. 

Steve doesn’t know what the fuck to do, so he whistles. 

Your shock is immediate. You say a single word he decides to mean, What?

Steve whistles again, three low notes. 

You answer with the weird breathing thing. Steve does not understand.

“How’s that cut?” he asks, pointing deliberately at your stomach. 

You pull the towel away to show him a bloody, neat line. The skin has pulled back together. It doesn’t look healed in any capacity, skin inflamed furiously and crusted maroon with your blood, but there’s no longer a gap between the two edges of the wound. It’s like you’ve glued yourself closed. 

Steve grimaces, biting the bullet as he begins to fake-sniffle for you, pointing at the wound. “Hurts?”

You point at the wound and sniffle back. 

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, drawing a line down his cheek with his finger to demonstrate the path of a falling tear. “Ow?”

“Ow,” you say, slurring. 

“Yeah, ow.” He takes stock of the situation. “Okay, well, how about we stop sitting on the floor and work out what I’m gonna do?” 

Steve ignores your protesting and grabbing as he stands. He is uncomfortably wet in his boxers, and his toes are frozen now despite the previous warm rain. He takes them off and lets them fall in lumps on the floor, then holds out his arms for you, offering an awkwardly gentle smile. “Let me hold you?” he asks.

“Me?” you echo. 

“Yeah, let me pick you up?”

You hesitate. He doesn’t actually think you’ve understood ‘me’, more that you’d echoed the easiest word of the four he said, but Steve figures there’s time, now you aren’t bleeding to try to communicate. 

“You,” he says, pointing at you emphatically but only once. Then slowly to himself. “Me. Let me,” —points again at his chest— “hold,” —gestures to grab under your arms and lift— “you.” He points at you again. 

You hold up your arms. “Hold,” you say, which he thinks is extremely good progress. Robin couldn’t deny how smoothly the exchange went if she were here to hear it. 

Steve picks you up under the arms and carries you toward the pool chair. He’s glad he didn’t give up on exercise completely when he realised the tail makes your weight distribution harder to handle, but he manages, going slow so as not to hurt you as your fins feather along the floor. His back is screaming as he lays you out in the chair, but you lay down and give him your best smile yet. Inarguably a smile, meant to share joy, or delight, or pleasure. It’s the most human expression you could’ve made. It’s why Steve realises he’s suddenly in the deepest of deep shit.

Steve wraps you in towels and scurries back into the house, up the stairs to his room, where he very unceremoniously kicks out of his wet boxers and sweatpants, hurling them toward the en-suite floor. He pulls a different pair of sweatpants on from the dirty laundry because they’re the first thing he sees, then a shirt, before shoving a pair of socks into his pocket. His closet proves fruitful with a miscellaneous t-shirt that looks bigger than your size, but then he’s standing there paralysed wondering if you need pants, as if any of his pants would fit over your tail, so he spins back to the bedside table for the booster bottle of Ibuprofen and runs back downstairs. He grabs a bottle of water from the pallet and then he’s back outside, in the mostly dark, stepping over bloody towels and puddles alike to get to you. 

You don’t seem half as urgent. 

“Hold?” you ask, offering your arms to him. It’s not quite right, like, if Steve were dreaming, that’s the kind of tone he’d expect the people in his dreams to use. That could be an excellent explanation for all this, actually. Maybe he hit his head or took too many of the booster Ibuprofen before bed. Maybe he had a brain aneurysm and his dying brain has summoned a strange story for him where he gets to be the hero one last time. But this seems needlessly bloody, and your eyes aren’t something Steve’s subconscious could have summoned. He’s not that imaginative. 

“You can stay there,” he says, gently lowering your arms with one of his stretched out to get both at the same time. “I brought you some painkillers, for the ow,” he adds, pointing at your tummy. 

“Ow.”

“Yeah, ow.”

He shakes out two ibuprofen and gives them to you. You glance at them for all of two seconds before you put them in your mouth. And you wince, but they’re gone fast. Steve hadn’t even cracked the lid on your water. 

“Oh, good. Good job,” he says. “Okay. Drink?”

You don’t need instruction for the water, either, he thinks, as you bring it to your mouth. That is, until you lean back and tip the rest of the bottle down your stomach and over your arm. 

“Wait!” Steve says. 

You do not. Your spine relaxes as you wrap your newly wetted arm over yourself, a shiver of pleasure rocking you so viscerally that Steve wonders if it’s polite to be watching. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit. You're probably not used to chlorine, huh? I… shit. I gotta have a bucket around here somewhere.”

You watch from afar as he wanders off to the dark sunroom. There’s a bucket tucked in the rarest corner full of pool noodles Steve and his friends used to play with when they were kids. He dumps them out, patting the bottom of the bucket to loosen any old dust, then jogs back to the kitchen to fill it at an angle in the kitchen sink. He gets water all over the floor as he yanks the bucket from under the faucet. 

“Here,” he says, lugging the bucket to your chair. “Water. Fresh water, no chemicals or dead frogs.”

You chirp again, hands dunked and then cupped to bring messy handfuls of water over your skin. You pat it all over. Steve maybe shouldn’t have dried you off? You don’t seem angry with him, in any case. You beckon him forward and bring his hands into the water with yours, wetting his arms, sending curious looks at his sleeves. 

“I’m alright,” he says. “I’m supposed to be dry. I’m sorry, I– I thought I was helping.”

You hold out your hand. Steve doesn’t know what you want. 

“Huh?”

You open your mouth and bring your hand to your lips. 

“I–“ He goes a little hot all over. “I gave ibuprofen to a mermaid. Shit. Shit, what if you get super sick? Shit.” 

You frown. He frowns worse. 

“Ow?” you ask. 

Steve brings both hands to his face, rubbing until his eyes go itchy. He might’ve killed the mermaid. 

“Ow?” You grab at his hips, which has him flustered and attentive in seconds. After a moment, you pull Steve toward you and rest your face on his tummy, your hand at the small of his back, and you pat him gently, murmuring softly in the language he still doesn’t understand. 

You’re trying to make him feel better.

Steve cups your shoulder, struck dumb. 

Fuck, he thinks, for a whole new catalogue of reasons. 

“Hold,” you mumble.

At least you didn’t try your gluey-spit thing on him.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

yay new au thank you very much for reading! hope you enjoyed!! and thank you anon for requesting♥️

[thatdesigirl17]

right where we belong

finn wolfhard x fem!reader smau series

background: finn and reader have been childhood friends, finn goes on to shoot one of the biggest shows on netflix while the reader becomes an entrepreneur by opening her own skincare line, as they grow together in life they try to remain best friends but life leads them to a different part

a/n: as requested by this ask, the smau series is finally here! the face claim for the reader is nina dobrev and the setting is during the shoot of season 5 of stranger things, also finn and reader post about each other a lot, reader is also close with noah schnapp, i really hope you guys like this series! comment to get added to the taglist

instagram profiles

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

part seven

part eight

part nine

part ten

[avaniervee]

stopppppppp tagging for characters u aren’t writing about !!! AND STOP TAGGING SMUT WHEN THERE ISNT ANY SMUT !!!

[flixpii]

‧₊˚ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥

obsessive!reader x possessive!remmick

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎remmick masterlist | main masterlist

word count : 4k

synopsis : you think you love him more like this—bloodied, breathless, and jealous enough to kill. he thinks he loves you most when you’re face-down and begging. you’re both right. (check out hcs here !)

a/n : loved writing the small banter in this one 😼 is it crazy to say that i may write a longer one with more of a plot…

warnings mdni 18+ : possessive remmick, obsessive!fem!reader, toxic relationship dynamics, jealousy-fueled sex, implied murder, backshots, unprotected rough sex, creampie, overstimulation, hair grabbing, pinning, crying during sex, dirty talk, oral fixation (finger sucking), heavy possessive talk, spit / drool, very mild aftercare

you’re standing at the stove when the door opens—no keys, no knock, just the sound of wood shifting on rusted hinges and the low drag of boots across the threshold.

you don’t flinch. the kettle’s warm under your hand and the smell of jasmine curls in the air between you like fog.

he doesn’t speak right away. just breathes heavy, like he’s been running on foot or chasing something that finally stopped. like his chest is still half-echoing with the sound of struggle. you hear him collapse into the couch the way only he can—like his bones are made of brick, like the whole night broke across his shoulders. the same way he always falls apart when you’re not around to stop him.

you keep stirring the tea, lazy and slow.

you tilt your head back toward the living room, just enough for your voice to carry. “which one was it?”

silence—thick, bristling. you wait for it.

he exhales through his nose, sharp. “the one in the white button-up. name started with a ‘j’.”

your lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile—too knowing, too pleased. 

you knew exactly which one it was. he saw the way that man leaned too close to you last night, touched your back when he passed by the table. you did it on purpose. and you knew remmick would never say anything in the moment—not with all those eyes around—but you also knew he wouldn’t let it go.

“mm. he was annoying,” you hum softly.

you turn the stove off and leave the mug where it is. you’re not thirsty anymore.

you walk into the living room like the floor belongs to you. bare feet, loose shirt, eyes already locked on him—blood on his mouth, jaw tight, breathing uneven. 

he doesn’t look up at first, head tilted back against the couch cushion, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to come back into himself. the veins in his forearm are swollen. you love when he looks like this. like he barely made it back in one piece.

you pick up your pace a little.

then—without warning, without ceremony—you jump.

you plop down onto his lap like you’re made of air and wickedness and sugar all at once, thighs spread wide around his hips as you land with a bounce that jostles his whole body back against the couch. 

the thud in his chest tells you it startled him a little, but not enough to shove you off. 

“hi,” you say sweetly, already grabbing fistfuls of his shirt like you’re settling into a favorite seat. “you look tired.”

he exhales hard, head still tilted back against the cushion, eyes shut like he’s trying to find god behind his eyelids. 

your knees dig into the couch cushions on either side of his hips, your weight heavy in his lap, and you can feel the mess of blood and sweat soaked into his clothes already starting to cling to your bare skin.

he still doesn’t look at you. you reach for his face anyway.

your fingertip starts just below his eye, dragging softly along the edge of his cheekbone, down the hollow of his cheek, tracing the smudge of blood near his lip. you don’t know if it’s his or not. you don’t care.

“looks like he got a good hit in,” you murmur, thumb brushing just under his jaw. “did it hurt?”

his hand shoots up fast—grabs your wrist tight enough to make your breath hitch. he finally looks at you, eyes red and raw and rimmed in something that isn’t quite anger but isn’t far from it either.

“stop makin’ shit worse,” he mutters, voice low and dangerous. “you hear me?”

you stare back at him, eyes wide, pulse skipping under your skin.

you know he doesn’t mean just now. he means all of it.

the way you dress when you go out. the way you smile at people when he’s two feet away. the way you pull your hair to the side and leave your neck bare. the way you whisper his name too softly when someone else is around just to watch how he reacts.

you know exactly what he means.

you wrench your wrist out of his grip and slap both hands down against his chest, hard enough to jolt him back against the couch. your voice comes out sharp.

“i only do it because i love when you protect me.”

you lean back and he doesn’t stop you. 

your back hits the rug with a low thud that knocks the air out of your lungs—half from the fall, half from the way he follows you down like gravity gave him no other choice. 

he doesn’t give you time to reposition or speak or ask what the hell he’s doing—he just pulls at your thighs until they spread wider, until he’s kneeling between them and tugging your shorts halfway down in one rough, wet movement.

his breath is all over your face, warm and uneven, his mouth close enough to bite. “you don’t love it when i protect you,” he mutters, teeth clenched like it hurts to say it out loud. “you love it when i lose my fuckin’ mind.”

you gasp—half a moan, half a soundless laugh—your arms reaching up to push at his chest, only to grab onto his shirt and yank him lower.

“yeah,” you whisper, mouth grazing his, “i do.”

his mouth crashes into yours. not sweet. not soft. it’s teeth and spit and the taste of someone else’s blood still on his tongue, and you kiss him like you’d die if you didn’t, like you’ve been starving for him all night. his hand slides up your thigh and grips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the muscle as if he’s staking his claim right then and there. 

you cry out against his lips, breath catching in the back of your throat as his palm pushes up until it’s pressed between your legs.

he doesn’t ease in. he doesn’t ask. he presses two fingers against the heat of your cunt over your underwear, feels the way it’s already soaked through, and he lets out a low groan—somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

“you’re already dripping,” he growls, nosing along your jaw now, licking a stripe up your throat. “is this what gets you off, huh? me comin’ back with blood on my hands, thinkin’ about you the whole time? thinkin’ about what i was gonna do to you?”

you whimper as his fingers push the fabric to the side and slide through the slick mess underneath. 

he doesn’t go slow. he rubs you open like he owns you—messy and loud and cruel in the way only he can be, because he knows exactly where to press, how to circle your clit until your hips buck and your eyes roll back.

“say it,” he snaps. “say it—what gets you off?”

you choke on a moan, legs kicking out slightly under him as he bullies your cunt with his fingers.

“you,” you gasp, panting against his cheek. “you, like this—rough—mean—jealous—”

he cuts you off with another kiss, messier than the first, dragging his tongue across your teeth as he slips two fingers inside you and curls them deep. 

your thighs tremble instantly, hands flying up to grab at his arms, nails digging into his sleeves.

“yeah,” he breathes, fucking his fingers into you hard, knuckles deep, the wet sound obscene in the quiet of the room. “you like it when i lose control. when i fuck you like you’re mine.”

“i am yours,” you sob against his jaw, already fucked out and he hasn’t even taken his pants off. “all yours—just yours—”

he groans low, pulling his fingers out slow just to watch you twitch and clench around nothing, then brings them up to your mouth.

“open.”

you do—wide, eager, eyes glassy as your tongue lolls out for him. he presses his slick fingers to your lips and you suck them in without hesitation, moaning at the taste of yourself, the thickness of his fingers, the way he keeps his eyes on your face like he’s trying to brand the image into his skull.

his voice is low now—raspy, wrecked. “that’s it—look at you—filthy thing. don’t know what you’d do without me, do you?”

you hum around his fingers and shake your head. you wouldn’t. you never would.

he pulls them from your mouth with a wet pop and kneels up, reaching for his belt.

“turn over.”

your heart stutters. your thighs press together. you nod like a woman under spell and roll onto your stomach, pushing up onto your elbows, ass arching into the air as your ruined underwear slides halfway down your thighs.

you hear the sound of him unbuckling his belt behind you—slow metal, slow leather, slow enough to make your whole body tense like you’re bracing for a storm. you keep your cheek pressed to the rug, your arms trembling under you, hips tilted as high as you can manage because you know what he wants to see when he looks down.

you’re breathing hard into the rug, fingers curled in the fibers as he pushes your thighs open with one rough hand, dragging them farther apart until your knees slide outward. 

your underwear is still bunched halfway down, clinging uselessly to your thighs as he leans over you and tugs the fabric lower with a sharp yank.

you feel cool air hit your cunt, the mix of your slick and the heat from his fingers still lingering there, and you whimper into the floor, arching your back even more, presenting yourself like instinct.

behind you, there’s the sound of him undoing the button of his jeans, then the slow rasp of the zipper coming down. you can hear how strained his breathing is now. how deep. how uneven.

you turn your head just enough for your voice to carry.

“remmick,” you whisper, needy and raw, “please…”

he lets out a low grunt at the sound of your voice—the kind that vibrates all the way through your spine.

“don’t rush me,” he mutters, but the words sound like they’re said through clenched teeth, thick with want. “you know what you do to me when you talk like that, huh?”

you feel him push his pants down just far enough to free himself, hear the creak of the floorboard under his knee, then the weight of his cock settling heavy against the curve of your ass.

you forget how to breathe for a second.

he adjusts his grip on your hips, sliding one thumb along the top of your spine, applying pressure that pushes your chest down and your ass higher. his other hand wraps around the base of his cock—you can hear the slick sound of him stroking himself once, spreading the precum along the tip.

and then you feel him.

the thick, warm blunt head nudging against your folds, dragging up your slit, gathering the mess he made of you with just his fingers. 

you moan, hips jerking back instinctively, trying to catch him, trying to take more than he’s giving

he doesn’t let you.

he pulls back and taps your clit with the head of his cock, just hard enough to make you cry out.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and ruined. “already so fuckin’ wet—just from me walkin’ through the door. you’re sick for me”

you gasp into the rug, fingers clawing without finding anything to hold.

“i am,” you choke, the words spilling out of you like a confession ripped open. 

he groans and slides the head of his cock down through your folds again, slower this time, coating himself in your slick. he rubs against your entrance, just barely pushing in before pulling back, teasing you with the promise of the stretch, the burn, the fullness.

you can hear him smiling in that dark, breathless way he gets when he’s losing control.

“say it again,” he mutters, grinding against your hole so lightly it feels like torture. “tell me how fucked up you are for me.”

you push back against him, desperate, your voice breaking.

“i love you,” you sob, panting hard now. “i want you all the time—i want your hands on me—your teeth—all of it—give me all of it—”

he lets out a shaky breath like you’ve knocked something loose in his chest.

“goddamn,” he mutters, voice trembling as he drags the head of his cock up through your mess again, pressing it right against your entrance without giving in. “you’re gonna make me lose it.”

your hips tremble, your breath coming in frantic bursts, your thighs soaked and shaking as he keeps rubbing against you without sinking in.

“remmick,” you cry, voice high and thin, “please— please don’t tease—i need you—”

he laughs softly, mean in that way that makes your stomach flip.

“you need me, huh,” he murmurs, pressing the head in just a tiny bit, then pulling out again so wetness strings between you. “good. because you’re not going anywhere tonight.”

he grips your hips harder—bruising hard—and pulls you back so your ass is tilted even higher, your cunt open for him, pulsing, clenching around nothing.

his hand drags up your spine, fingers splayed across your back like he’s reading your bones, steadying himself with a deep breath that shudders out of him slow. you can feel his cock twitch right at your entrance, still slick with your wetness, still swollen, still not inside.

he leans in close again, lips brushing your ear.

“you ready for it?”

you nod, frantic. you don’t speak because your throat’s too tight, mouth open and breath hitching as you try not to beg again—because if he hears the way your voice would shake, he’ll tease you longer just to see you cry.

so you just stay there—arched, trembling, soaked and stretched and open—and wait for the first thrust like it’s god coming down to punish you.

and then he gives it to you.

he presses his cock inside inch by inch, not fast, not rough—deliberate. like he wants you to feel everything. your slick parts around him with no resistance, so wet it makes a sound that punches a filthy little whine out of you, your fingers clawing at the rug like it might save you.

“f-fuck,” you gasp, voice caught in your chest. “remmick—oh my god—”

he keeps pushing—grinding in until his hips are flush against your ass and his cock is buried deep, stretching you wide, pulsing hot inside you like it hurts to hold back.

you can barely breathe. you want to cry.

you whisper his name again, voice warbled. “i feel so full…”

he groans into your shoulder, hips twitching.

“you’re tight as hell,” he mutters, breathing rough. “like you were waitin’ for me this whole time—missin’ me. tell me you were missin’ me, baby.”

you nod, whimpering. “i always miss you.”

he pulls back slow—his cock dragging out with a thick, obscene sound—and then slams back in hard enough to slap your ass loud, loud enough to echo in the room, loud enough to make you gasp so sharply you choke on it.

“good,” he grits out. “you better.”

he does it again.

and again.

until the rhythm forms—fast, brutal, punishing. each thrust punches a moan out of you like you’re a toy made to be ruined, like your body was designed for the weight of him hammering into you with no restraint.

skin slapping skin. your ass bouncing with each thrust. the sound of your wet cunt squelching around his cock, soaking him down to the base.

“so fuckin’ loud,” he growls, fingers digging into your hips. “listen to that—jesus, you’re fuckin’ soaked. all this mess just for me?”

you sob through your moans, nodding hard, hips trying to meet his thrusts even though your legs are shaking.

“yes—yes—just you—no one else gets this—only you, remmick—”

he groans loud at that, and slaps your ass hard enough to sting.

“say it again.”

“you’re the only one,” you cry, voice cracking. “only one who gets to fuck me—only one who gets to ruin me like this—please don’t stop—”

he leans over your back, breathing like an animal, mouth right at your ear.

“i’m not stoppin’ til i’ve fucked it so deep inside you that you’ll still feel it tomorrow. you want that? want to be sore? want to leak all night?”

you moan—loud, broken, soaked with need.

“yes—want all of it—”

his hand grabs your jaw and tilts your face just enough for him to shove two fingers past your lips again. you suck them down immediately, moaning around them like it’s the only thing keeping you sane, like sucking his fingers is your way of saying thank you for breaking me.

your body jerks forward from the next thrust—harder than the others—and you feel yourself getting closer, your whole core tight and fluttering, walls squeezing around him as your legs give out under the pressure.

“you feel that?” he pants. “your pussy’s tryin’ to keep me—like she fuckin’ knows i belong here.”

his pace is already brutal—slapping into you with wet, aching rhythm—but something shifts in him when your moans go high-pitched, when your body shakes underneath his weight like it’s trying to give out completely.

his hand flies up, quick and rough, and grips the back of your neck—fingers curling over the nape, thumb pressing into your spine—then he shoves your face down.

not cruel, not violent. just final—like a claim. 

your cheek presses flat to the rug, mouth falling open, hands scrambling for something to grab as he leans over your back and sinks his full weight into the next thrust.

it knocks the air out of your lungs.

he groans right into your ear.

“stay down,” he grits out, voice ragged, broken up by the sound of his own panting. “don’t move. i’ve got you—let me have you—”

you try to nod but he’s pressing too hard, fucking into you too fast, each snap of his hips hitting that sweet, sore place inside you that makes you cry out every single time. your thighs are shaking. your eyes are watering. your cunt’s so wet and swollen it makes a slick, obscene clap each time he slams in.

his moans are right at your ear now—sharp, guttural, strained.

your mouth is open as you sob out sounds that barely count as words.

“feels so good—please—don’t stop—don’t fuckin’ stop—”

his hand slides from your neck to your jaw, yanking your face up just enough so he can breathe you in, forehead pressed to yours, his chest sliding across your back slick with sweat. you feel his thighs shaking against the backs of yours, feel his cock twitch deep inside you as he loses rhythm for just a second.

you whine, high and needy. “you’re close—i can feel it—don’t hold back—please—”

his hips stutter, his breathing goes ragged, and then—he growls into your mouth.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants. “gonna stay inside.”

you moan so loud you think your throat’s going raw. your back arches, cunt clenching down around him, and his grip on your jaw tightens just as his thrusts speed up, frantic now, no rhythm left—just need.

his moans are shameless now—loud, wet, deep. he sounds wrecked, like you’re draining the life from him with every drag of your cunt around him, every sob you give him, every wet slap echoing in the room.

you cry his name like it’s salvation.

“remmick—”

he groans in response—right in your mouth, right against your teeth—before his body locks up behind you, every muscle tensing.

you feel it before he says anything.

his cock buries deep.

he thrusts once. twice. holds.

then he comes—hot and heavy and messy—right against your cervix, thick and possessive, moaning your name through clenched teeth as your cunt milks him for all of it.

you both shake. you both stop breathing.

your fingers curl into the rug like claws, his arms tremble as they cage you in. the only sound left is the slick drip of his cum starting to slide out around where you’re still stretched wide around him.

you don’t say anything at first, and neither does he.

the only sound is your heartbeat in your ears and his rough breathing above you—chest rising and falling against your back, skin sticking to skin. his cock still pulses inside you, twitching once, twice, like he doesn’t want to give up even a drop.

he shifts slowly, like his limbs are too heavy to move, one hand trailing from your jaw to your throat to your shoulder, thumb dragging sweat and spit across your skin. he’s still inside. still deep.

you groan softly, cheek still pressed to the rug.

“fuck… still in me…”

his hand squeezes your hip. “yeah. you keepin’ it warm for me.”

you hum. “leaking already…”

“good.”

you feel his mouth brush your spine—lazy, absent, like he isn’t even thinking about it. then his weight shifts again, and he props himself up just enough to look down at where your bodies are still connected.

his voice is quieter now, but lower somehow. wrecked.

“look at that mess,” he mutters, dragging his fingers along your inner thigh where his cum is starting to spill out around his cock. 

you shudder.

you want to stay like this forever—too sore to move, too full to think, his chest against your back and his hands heavy on your hips like he’s trying to keep you from slipping through the floor.

you swallow. then whisper, “you’re not gonna leave, right?”

he stiffens just slightly—then presses his face against your shoulder blade.

“hell no,” he mutters. “not after this.”

you reach back blindly and grab at his arm until he takes your hand in his. his fingers lace through yours—clumsy and sticky and still trembling—and he squeezes once. hard.

“you drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he mumbles, still catching his breath. “make me kill for you. make me wanna break shit.”

you smile against the rug. “but i’m yours.”

“yeah,” he says. “you fuckin’ are.”

you stay like that for a while—him still inside, both of you raw and shaking and quiet. his hand stays at your waist. yours doesn’t let go of his. the rug’s a mess, the tea’s cold, your thighs are sticky and you’re both too far gone to care.

and when he finally pulls out, slow and messy, you both groan from the loss.

he watches it drip out of you.

he doesn’t wipe it up.

he just presses a kiss to your lower back and says, “leave it.”

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