Pass The Weed

Call me Lina (she/her) I’m a nice stoner MINORS DNI

[cafeconmota]

✧ ㅤ♡ྀི I’m your dream girl’s, dream girlㅤㅤ ♡ྀི ✧

── ✧ ──── ୨୧ ──── ✧ ──

♡ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ Latina ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ 23 ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ Stoner ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ♡

︵‿ ♡ ‿︵ Queer as hell ︵‿ ♡ ‿︵

This is a side blog so I can’t follow back

Masterlist

Requests: slow

Rules/Disclaimers

☆☆⋆☆☆ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 + 𝐁𝐈𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈 ☆☆⋆☆☆

[maythe4th]

MAMMA MIA! (2008) — dir. Phyllida Lloyd

[cafeconmota]

I love this fucking musical

[nobodys-s0n]

A QUICK FIX. [18+] 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃

‎✧˚₊‧ peter cumming in his pants when you sit on his face!

it’s been far too long since peter has fucked.

yes, you fucked him that one when you had to figure out who in the hell you fucked because he disappeared before you woke up; you’d eventually remember when you saw parker’s tank-top on the floor.

you remember his pathetic whimpers as he piston into you, the way he fucked sloppy and the way he refused to even pull out once, like it was physically impossible for him to pull out— and in some ways? it was… and you also remember, oh yeah! you have his phone number now, so of course, when the night is late, when nobody is around and you’re far too horny for your own good? guess he’d do the trick.

and peter, for all of his flaws, has a really good green flag if you ask the right person; he loves when women sit on his face.

he lovesssss getting a face full of pussy, his tongue licking up and down their folds and tasting all of their juices all over his face. he loves feeling trapped under thighs and under someone in full control… and he loved it especially tonight, when he hasn’t gotten the feeling in forever, and you put all your weight on him.

“p-peter! peter!” your moans echo off the wall just like they did two weeks ago as this time, it wasn’t his cock drilling in and out of you, it was his tongue lapping you up and down.

his rough hands grab your waist and keeps you on him, moaning against your cunt as your fingers stroke his hair. “mhm… so good b-baby.” his moans are broken, blushing as he can’t stop his tongue. “s’so’so good.” he mutters, feeling his cock twitch as his mouth tastes more of of your pussy. “could eat you all fuckin’ night, sweet girl.”

you rock on his face, both of your hands in his hair as he continues to lick and suck on your wet pussy. his legs shake a little, eyes rolling back at the taste of you entering his mouth— you taste so good.

“peter! p’peter! ohhhhh fu-fuckkkk!” you moan out, fingers yanking at his brown hair as you look down at him, shuddering at seeing him.

he didn’t hold himself back— he couldn’t, that’s the thing with his powers; yes, he’s spider-man and one of the downsides? he can’t hold himself back when pleasure overloads his senses… and in no time at all… he feels his balls clench and his cock vibrates in his pants.

and suddenly, he feels ropes of heavy semen leave his cock and stain his pants, unloading in his boxers as he cums— just by you sitting on his face.

you feel him tremble under you and you furrow your brows, looking at him with a mouth agape and turn your head, seeing his grey sweatpants become stained in the crotch area. you turn your head back at him and seeing the blush of embarrassment on his face.

“peter!”

“mhm— what?”

you shake your head as you groan at the vibrations against your cunt. “you— you just cummed? what- what the fuck?”

he shakes his head in between his thighs, running his hands up and down your back. “…’m sorry… you just t-taste so good… fuck…”

oh this absolutely pathetic man.

click here for main masterlist! 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃

AUTHOR'S NOTE: god, i luv this pathetic ass man. also??? the amount of support on my first peter oneshot? didn’t expect that but if people want more penis parker, they gonna get penis parker!

thank you for all the support in every way possible! all support is very much appreciated! all content created on this blog is mine, do not copy or sent it through ai!

created by... nobodys-s0n! ™

[cafeconmota]

Pur

[uhhhj13iguess]

friends helping friends

sex pollen with peter parker x fem!reader

wc: 4.5k

cw: MDNI!! dubcon (bc there's an aphrodisiac involved), oral (f!receiving), fingering, lots of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, mating press, creampie, multiple orgasms, friends to lovers!!, HUNGRY peter

masterlist, taglist, and kinktober 2025 masterlist!

you weren't sure when it became a habit to sneak into the chemistry building after hours with peter to help him work on his web fluid; all you knew was it was your turn to pay for the pizza.

it was nearing midnight as your full belly laughs echoed through the empty lab, crusts long forgotten on the table behind you, as you lost yourself in a story. peter's smile was visible through prickling tears.

he knew it was a bad idea to invite you from the start — there was no shot in hell he'd get any work done as long as you were around him. peter had figured that out by the senior year of high school: he just couldn't seem to focus on anything other than you. he began to lie and say he was finished with his homework whenever you would hang out, covering his lack of progress in your presence.

peter had been distracted by you for the last few years, yet he could never seem to resist your company anyway. he beamed as you laughed at your own joke, relishing in the alone time he got to spend with the one person who made him feel like himself.

you let out a snort, and peter was done for, tears in his own eyes as he joined you in hearty laughter. he reached down and grabbed a vial through blurry vision, adding the final touch to his web fluid 3.0.

except that, instead of a sticky web-like substance, peter was met with a bright flash of hot pink from the liquid in the beaker before a cloud of magenta powder exploded from the glass, dusting the room, and in turn, you and peter.

he was on you instantly, shielding you from the flying shards of glass before the beaker even burst, though the aerosol impact was inevitable. the reaction was quick to hit your lungs, dragging out hoarse coughs, rough and heavy in your chest as you fought to regain a sense of your surroundings.

the headache was almost immediate as peter leaned down to say something, and you winced as you looked up at him.

"what?"

"are you okay? did you get cut at all?" peter frantically examined for any tears in your sweatshirt, checking your hands for any possible nicks.

"i'm okay, rea—woah," peter placed a hand on your jaw to inspect your face, and the touch activated something deep inside of you.

suddenly, you felt the hottest you'd ever been, and the headrush made you weak in the knees. your vision began to cloud, senses on overdrive as you felt an aching pain rising in your chest. meeting peter's gaze with panicked eyes, you began to really take in the state of the situation.

"peter, what did you just mix?"

"i-i don't know, i must've grabbed the wrong thing..." he trailed off as he turned to search through the drawers, but the movement stopped him dead in his tracks.

peter was instantly met with a rush of vertigo, the room spinning violently around him as he braced himself on the countertop. he felt like he did when he was first bitten: hypersensitive and overwhelmed. fuck, what did he mix?

amidst the rest of the world in his ears, peter picked up on the sound of your heartbeat and immediately knew something was wrong. really wrong. he took a moment to analyze you, everything moving in slow motion as he fought to figure out what the hell he mixed together, and where these symptoms were headed.

your current state didn't give him much comfort; peter quickly noticed how you were starting to sweat, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath, despite not having left your chair. your full-body flush made him wonder if he looked just as disheveled.

"are you feeling okay?" peter asked, heavy with concern and guilt.

you shook your head at him, words fighting to escape your trembling lips. "i-i don't know. i feel... warm. i don't know."

and then peter felt it. his cock twitched, and he realized for the first time how painfully hard he was. he looked down in horror, hoping you hadn't yet noticed in your own haze. peter quickly sat down again to cover the evidence, praying to any god who was listening that this wasn't happening.

while successful in his concealment, the slight friction in the movement of his pants was enough to elicit a groan from his throat; he hoped you didn't hear.

but you did. because each little noise he made, conscious or not, egged on every dirty fucking thought you were having right now. and about peter. in front of peter.

"maybe we should get some... some fresh air, or something," peter says weakly.

as you nodded in response and moved to get up, it became horribly apparent to peter that he had to stand up with you, and not only would you also know just how hard he was, but the friction alone might be enough to kill him.

and then he had a thought:

are you feeling this way too?

no, don't think like that. that's your best friend, and whatever's happening, clearly neither of you was in your right mind.

but peter had always felt this way about you. this time, it was just so physically painful for some reason. what the fuck was in that beaker?

he didn't have any more time for his mind to race, as you stood from your stool and he watched your knees buckle underneath you. peter rushed to stabilize you, grabbing your shoulders and keeping you steady. it was pointless, though. somehow, the feeling of peter's hand against you knocked your breath out, far worse than falling ever would've.

you had no idea what was going on, but it was getting harder and harder to think about anything other than peter (as if that wasn't the norm anyway, bffr). but this was heightened. this was all of your wildest desires pulled to the forefront of your mind in the middle of your ochem 403 lab at 11pm on a tuesday night.

what the fuck was going on with you?

you tried to shake off the way peter's touch relieved some of the haze clouding your brain, and tried to shake off the feeling that maybe he was also feeling this way. your thighs clenched at the thought — that peter was also thinking of every possible way to take you on this counter right now.

but this was your best friend, and you needed to get your shit together long enough to handle whatever this feeling was on your own.

"woah, are y'okay?" peter slurred, your body heat under his palms radiating down to the rest of his body and nearly sending him down as well.

"i... i don't know, i think..." you stuttered out, not trusting anything coming from your mouth right now. "i-i think i have to go, i'm, i'm not feeling well."

you turned to make a run for it, hoping to get out of peter's sight before you either passed out or pounced on him. he stopped you, though, grabbing your hand with a pleading "wait!" falling from his lips.

before you could stop it, a whimper escaped from your lips at his touch, and you went bright red in seconds, hand flying up to cover the unexpected noise.

peter didn't help as he stared at you with his mouth agape, pupils blown to shit. he looked fucked out beyond belief and you'd barely even touched.

you cleared your throat, hoping to get out as coherent and PG a sentence as you could. "peter i-i feel really weird. a-and, i think i'm freaking the fuck out."

knowing you were hurting as much as he was broke his heart, and peter struggled to put all his energy into focusing on you. "i know, it's okay, bug. just take some deep breaths, a-and let's try to make it outside, yeah?"

he tried to pull you, but your legs forgot how to work, and you were frozen where you were, breath quick as everything grew downright painful.

peter's breathing picked up as he heard you hyperventilating, panicking himself as he watched you crumble in front of you. he needed to find out what was in that vile, and fast.

but all he could fucking think about was being on his knees in between your thighs.

fuck.

"p-peter, please. please, i-i, i need your help. you have to make this stop."

"fuck— it'll be okay, i promise. i'll do whatever i need to get you better. i-i just..." he clamped his eyes shut, desperately trying to come up with a way to make an antidote of some kind without dying or ruining your friendship along the way.

"peter... i—"

"what?" he cut you off, concern heavy in his tone.

despite his ever-growing problem, peter reached out to cup your cheek, and though not an unnatural thing to do, it was one definitely influenced by a gravity drawing him towards the feeling of your skin on his.

you stared at his lust-blown eyes, wondering if yours looked the same. wondering if he felt the same.

peter spoke your name softly, his thumb grazing your cheek softly and lingering far too closely to your lips to not mean anything.

fuck it.

you grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, nearly headbutting him in the process as you locked onto his lips, surprised when you felt him immediately reciprocate and tangle his hands in your hair. everything about the kiss was desperate, and the feeling of peter all over you was fucking radiant.

peter was nothing but a moaning mess against you, sloppy and wet against your lips as he pleaded your name as though each time he said it, it took away the pain in his chest. truthfully, it did.

peter pulled away to take a breath, and the lack of contact brought the sharp pain immediately back, earning a whine to fall from his lips. he shook it off, grabbing the sides of your face and doing his best to refocus.

"f-fuck, should we talk about this?" peter asked relectantly.

"i-i don't know. i don't know what's happening right now, pete. all i know is that i need you to touch me. anything, please. i'm sorry. just, please make it go away."

yeah, you could talk about it later.

"nonono, hey. im so sorry, baby, this is all my fault. i'll do whatever you need, i mean it. i'll make it better, i promise."

peter pulled you back into a hungry kiss, rough hands roaming your body in a way he'd never touched you before. the feeling of your curves under his palms was only something he'd dreamed of, and peter was insufferably hard as he pulled you into him further.

there was a nag in the back of his mind, something telling him to stop before you did something you'd regret. because there was no possible way he had you, his best friend, tangled in his arms and lips heavy on his own. and yeah, peter had been smitten with you since the day you met, but he was never going to do anything about it. you didn't feel that way about him, of course. right?

cause right now, you kinda did.

no! fuck! just the chemicals! this was a one-time thing, friends helping friends.

yeah, friends helping friends.

but the pretty little moans that came out of your mouth as peter trailed his way down your neck? those sounded awfully more than just friendly. and the way you whined as he moved his hands up your waist, palming your tits through your shirt as he growled for permission in your ear? peter was never going to be able to look you in the eyes after tonight.

but right now, he was entranced as you bunched his shirt fabric in your hands and begged for it off, pulling the material over his head and immediately attacking his firm chest with a series of hickeys. you shifted your hands down towards his waistband, tugging him by his belt loops as you left a wet, hot trail of kisses down his abs. peter couldn't help but cant his hips forward into you, absolutely fucking losing his mind.

his own hands made their way around your frame, trailing down to your ass and grabbing hard. you gasped at the feeling, then lost your breath fully as peter nipped at your ear and told you to jump. he caught your thighs, shifting to set you on the lab counter and wedging his body between your legs.

everything was hot and heavy, and the effects were evolving and worsening. it was growing stronger with each touch, and though feeling each other was helping ease the pain, the need for more was growing too strong to ignore.

you pulled away from him, tears threatening to spill from your doe eyes as you stared up at peter, who didn't look much better.

"what? what is it, what do you need, baby?"

"i-i... i need you to touch me, pete."

peter went pale at your confession. it was asked so quietly, but it held so much weight. weight he'd think about after he got to find out what you tasted like.

with a deep rumble in his chest and another sloppy kiss to your neck, peter began to fumble his way around your waistband, asking you a thousand extra times if this was okay.

yeah, i fucking think so.

peter's index fingers hooked the hips of your pants; feeling his hands on your bare skin for the first time covered you in goosebumps. it was numbing the pain in your chest and igniting something in it all the same. you were so caught up in the moment, gobsmacked over peter parker, your best friend of six years, tugging your pants down, that you almost didn't notice that he'd pulled them back up.

your cheeks instantly bloomed in mortification. "fuck, i-im sorry, i-i don't know what's come over me—"

"no! stop apologizing, please. i just..." peter took a dramatic pause, and the only thing that could be heard was the two of you heavily panting, taking in the scene unfolding before you as the pain hammered in each of your chests.

"i need to tell you something before anything else happens."

you gave him a worried look, and peter returned it with a heavy sigh.

"i don't know what the fuck is happening right now, and why i feel like im fucking going to die if you don't touch me right now, and this is all my fault and i'm so fucking sorry—"

"peter. what's wrong?"

well, we're already in this deep.

"i don't know what fuck-ass aphrodiasic i just created, but i need you to know that the real me means this too. i can't let anything happen without you knowing that i love you, and this still means something to me. even if i'm not myself right now. a-and i'll do whatever you need me to do, and we can never talk about this again, but you don't deserve me keeping that from you."

you sat on the counter, stunned, as peter anxiously bit his lip, worried he'd just fucked up one of the best relationships that had ever happened to him. and he was still so fucking hard.

the only response you gave him was hopping off the counter and taking your bottoms off for him.

and peter was immediately on you again.

he had a hand rough in your hair as he kissed you, his other firm on your bare ass as he kneaded the soft flesh with a hunger. through his moans and downright whines, he almost missed it:

"i love you too, peter. so fucking much."

something inside of him snapped, and this time he didn't even ask you to jump, wrapping his hands around your waist and lifting you to the counter like you weighed nothing. you wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him close, the make-out nothing short of a frenzy.

the entire time, peter was in your ear, moaning things into your mouth you only ever dreamed you'd hear:

"this. this isn't how this was supposed to happen."

"you deserve better than this, fuck. deserve better than an empty fucking chem lab, christ's sake."

he was quick to get his hands back on you, traces of mischief left behind as he massaged your thighs and stared at your lace thong with a look you'd never seen from him before. peter had been so caught up in it all, he'd almost forgotten the effects of the reaction. his actions were genuine and intentional. but as he pulled back to get a proper look at you, the pain in his chest settled back in, and his senses reheightened to a million

"fuck, i need to touch you. please, can i touch you?" peter whined.

you were breathless in response, "please peter, do whatever the fuck you want to me. just please, do something. anything."

he groaned and ran his hands up your thighs till he reached the delicate lace, teasingly tracing the hemline. "don't fucking say that. i-i don't think i can control myself right now."

"pete, i don't want you to control yourself," a shudder ran down his spine.

"please. fuck me."

peter didn't have the energy left in him to delay this any longer.

he ripped the underwear clean from your body, pulling you to the edge of the counter and dropping to his knees in front of you. he wasted no time running his tongue through your glossy folds, latching his lips over your clit.

peter was so hungry, and the mixture of the fading pain in your chest and the pleasure blooming inside of you was an insane feeling. he added a finger? oh my god. you were fucking incoherent. he added another? you were pretty sure this rivaled the time you tried molly.

you pulled at his hair, begging him (to stop or to go harder, you didn't know). it was all so overwhelming, and every time you looked down to see the source of your pleasure and remembered it was your peter parker? you were close to the edge the quickest you'd ever been.

"pete, i-i..."

"what is it, baby?" he breathed, quickly returning to your dripping cunt.

baby. jesus fucking christ. that almost did you in right then and there.

"i wanna touch you too."

peter groaned deep inside you in response, and the vibration was enough to send you over the edge. you felt your body fly over the moon as you came, peter not letting down for a second as he fucked you with his tongue so you could ride out the high, lapping up every drop you gave him.

he stood up, breathless, glistening, and a little cocky if you knew peter the way you thought you did. "how are you feeling? did that help, d-does it still hurt?"

you were panting as you came down from your high, taking a second to be aware of your body and headspace again. you couldn't help but feel emotional as you noticed the effects starting to creep back in. you shed a tear and nodded as you felt the headache thundering in the distance.

peter pulled you into a hug, and it was almost enough to sober you up again, because something about this one felt different. more weighted.

"im sorry, baby, fuck. i-i'm sorry, what can i do? how can i help?" fuck, this was all his fault.

you sniffled in his ear, but the movement of your hips against his contradicted your melancholy demeanor. "it's better when you're touching me. please, just don't stop."

between your words and you snaking your hand down to palm him softly, peter parker was a wreck, and wrapped around your finger.

he was quick to envelop you in a kiss and drink you in, and you moved to claw his shirt off of him. you pulled back to look at him, and it wasn't like you hadn't seen peter shirtless over the years, but you'd never seen him this close, in this context. it made your chest hurt in a different way.

"fuck, you're so hot," you groaned, almost as though an inside thought had slipped out.

he snickered. "me? are you kidding me right now?"

peter roughly kissed you before tugging your shirt off, absolutely elated at the discovery you'd forgone a bra under your crewneck. he stared at you like a deer in headlights, starstruck as he saw you for the first time.

"jesus christ, you're a fucking dream."

his hands were on your tits before you could even register it, but the feeling only made you crave him more. you messed with his pants, and he took over amidst your frustration. boxers and all, he sprang free in front of you, and Holy Shit Peter Parker. that's fucking obscene.

"this is your last chance to change your mind. because once i start, i dont think i'll be able to stop," he warned.

"please fuck me, peter."

he attacked your chest with his lips, hands firm on your hips as he shifted you again to the edge of the counter. you wrapped your soft fingers around his leaking cock, and he was almost done for before you'd even started.

peter moaned loudly and moved to put his large hand over yours to line himself up. you were still soaked from peter's previous meal, making it easy for him to slide his head through your slit. you were a begging mess in his ear, nails scraping down his back in anticipation.

peter nudged your entrance and pushed in easily (whether from the pollen or his ample prep, no one knows). the two of you moaned in filthy harmony, the feeling a definition beyond indescribable.

his legs were shaking immediately, and despite his inhuman strength, it became apparent that he couldn't do this standing for much longer if you felt this good.

"fuck, sweetheart," peter grabbed you roughly and pulled you towards him, pushing to the hilt and pressing hip to hip with you. he picked you up, spun you around, and laid you on the cool tile

"this isn't what you deserve, fucking you on the ground like this. fuck, baby."

and then peter was relentless.

he pounded into you with such a force, his mouth still focused on your tits and how they bounced for him. both of you could breathe again, the pain lifting and now replaced with a newly discovered pleasure that made you emotional again. you looked completely fucked out, tears streaming down your cheeks as peter lifted your thighs higher to get as deep in you as possible.

"fuck, please don't cry," he begged, though he kept drilling into you, knees now meeting your own chest. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry."

you pulled him down, his chest pressing against the back of your thighs, and your foreheads connected as you breathed him in, exhaling a rough "i love you so much, peter".

he stuttered for a moment, eyes as wide as they were the first time he heard you say it. not for long, though, as he stayed pressed against you and picked up the pace like never before.

"oh my god, i fucking love you."

peter had you seeing stars, and you didn't know how long you'd even been in the lab. five minutes could have passed, maybe three hours. all you knew was that you didn't care, and you were close. peter knew it too.

"babe-baby, you're close. i-i can feel it, you're so fucking tight around my cock." you couldn't help but clench him in response.

"fuck, yeah-y-yes. god, squeezing me so good. god, i knew you were made for me."

it was the sentimentality of everything that sent you over this time. hearing the way he talked about you, you came around his cock, and it felt so fucking magical. but peter didn't slow down, determined to ride out your orgasm. he was quickly losing his composure, though, at the feeling of you fluttering around his cock.

"sweetheart, w-where—"

"inside, please."

peter didn't even have time to question the outcomes to his actions because the second he heard you, his best fucking friend, moaning for him to cum inside of her? oh fucking hell.

he let out such a guttural moan as he came, hot and thick, deep inside of you. you felt so warm and full, so much so that it triggered a third orgasm, sobbing peter's name as he just kept going. mixed arousal spilled down your thighs as he continued to fuck you, and through your fucked out haze, you could feel his cum drip down and pool around your ass.

you were barely conscious at this point, but peter kept going as he muttered "i'm sorry" over and over again.

luckily, he'd released the goddamn mating press and released your legs, allowing you to stretch out. peter was able to cover more of your body with his, lying chest to chest with you as his hips rutted into yours. the new position was so much more intimate as he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss again.

"please. please, just one more. one more and i'll stop."

peter said that three more times that evening before he was done, and he felt like himself again.

he looked down at you in awe, though concern slipped through his fucked out eyes. "you okay, bug?"

"i can't believe you really just gassed us with an aphrodisiac."

peter laughed, a blush creeping on his cheeks at the memory of his fatal mistake. "yeah, that was, uh... that was my bad."

a moment of silence.

"...any chance you wrote it down?"

tags!

guineveresghost nyutasgirl extremebookreader iamacheezburger love-hs28 dumercredi dam-dum bryanna-j moniffazictress11 liebaluba the-fangirl-from-hell imafangirlofeverything adalvsseb cherrybomber3000 dayastarkorwtvr corsiry isansstuff 1989worshipper claudiwithachanceof princearthur4 frenziedobserverluminary ravisinghs-wife btch2009 jastoo46 hanz991 dayastarkorwtvr brunettebombshell72 parker-murdock forgetticushim seagull-111

[slutdier]

𝑩𝑳𝑰𝒁𝒁𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑩𝑶𝑵𝑬𝑹 When a blizzard traps Bucky Barnes, your dad’s longtime Army friend at your home, nostalgia turns into a dangerous spark. As tension builds and secrets surface, one stormy night blurs the line between protector and temptation.

dad’s bestfriend!bucky barnes x fem!reader

word count : 7,3k

warnings 18+ : explicit age-gap (18–22/106) dad’s-best-friend trope, sneaking around the house, risk of getting caught, multiple creampies, rough-to-tender sex, filthy praise, cockwarming, voyeurism, uprotected sex, heavy dirty talk, guilt, semi-public teasing, oral sex (f recieving), handjob, face riding, teasing

author’s note : my brain’s been absolute mush lately over dbf!bucky barnes so… here you go lmao. hope it doesn’t suck <333

The sun is a goddamn animal today, pressing down on the backyard like it wants to lick every inch of exposed skin. Neon bikinis flash around the pool, shrieks and splashes everywhere, but you’re burning up for a completely different reason. Eighteen. Legal. And yet you feel like you’re sneaking contraband just by breathing.

You drift away from the chaos, Mom’s fussing over candles, Dad’s yelling about “medium-rare, not charcoal, people!” and tell yourself you’re just finding shade. Liar.

You hear him before you see him: the soft thud of sneakers on gravel, the low exhale of someone who’s been running hard. Bucky Barnes, late as always, strolling up the driveway like he owns summer itself.

Gray joggers soaked dark at the thighs, white tank plastered to his chest, metal arm catching sunlight like liquid sin. He nods at your parents, cracks open a beer with his teeth, who even does that? and you duck behind the fence before those blue eyes can find you.

Stupid heart, racing like you’re fifteen again.

Then he disappears around the corner, heading for the old jungle gym nobody’s touched in years. You follow like a moth, quiet, barefoot on the hot grass, until you’re crouched behind the wooden slats, peeking through a knothole like a perv.

And holy fuck.

He’s peeled the tank off and hooked it over the swing chain. Bare torso gleaming, dog tags swinging between his pecs, he grips the bar with both hands and starts pulling himself up. Slow. Dirty-slow. Every rep is a flex, a ripple, a quiet grunt that slides straight between your legs and parks there.

Up. Veins popping.

Down. Abs clenching.

Up again. Sweat rolling down the center of his chest, tracing the line that disappears beneath the waistband riding way too low.

You’re wet. You are actually, shamefully wet in your brand-new red bikini bottoms just from watching your dad’s best friend do pull-ups like porn was invented for him.

You shift, thighs pressing together, and the wood creaks.

He freezes mid-air, chin over the bar, muscles locked. Turns his head just enough to catch your reflection in the shed window. Busted.

For three whole heartbeats he just hangs there, staring at you staring at him, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his jaw. Then he drops, silent, lethal, lands in a crouch, and straightens up like a predator who just scented prey.

He doesn’t grab the shirt. He walks straight to the fence, slow, shirtless, dog tags clinking, until he’s right on the other side of the slats. Close enough you can smell heat and salt and whatever cologne he wore before the pull ups turned it filthy.

“Enjoyin’ the show, birthday girl?” Voice low, rough, amused. Brooklyn dragged over gravel and sex.

Your mouth is sand. “Just… checking you’re not breaking my old swing set, Uncle Buck.”

The nickname comes out shaky, half tease, half plea. His eyes darken, pupils blowing wide.

He braces his forearms on the top of the fence, leaning in until you can see the bead of sweat sliding down his temple. “That ‘uncle’ shit ain’t gonna work much longer, sweetheart.”

His gaze drags down, slow, deliberate, over your flushed face, the swell of your chest under the thin red triangles, the way you’re squeezing your thighs together like that’ll hide what he’s doing to you. “You’re eighteen now. All grown.” The last two words come out almost pained.

Your breath hitches. Audible. Embarrassing.

He smirks, soft and dangerous. “Better get back to your party before I do somethin’ your daddy’ll shoot me for.”

He pushes off the fence, grabs his tank, and slings it over one shoulder without putting it on. Walks away like he didn’t just leave you wrecked and dripping behind a childhood jungle gym.

You stay there a second longer, hand pressed between your legs just to stop the ache, cheeks on fire, pulse hammering in every filthy place.

It’s nothing, you lie to yourself as you finally stumble back to the pool. Just a stupid, fleeting spark.

If only I’d known how deep that pull went, you think now, years later, the memory still taunting you like his smirk in the sun.

The old house smells exactly the same: lemon polish, Dad’s aftershave, and the faint ghost of cinnamon from Mom’s candles. The hallway light flickers once when you drag your duffel over the threshold, wallpaper curling like it’s trying to whisper every filthy thing this place has seen.

Early winter. A few weeks before the blizzard that will finally rip the hinges off everything.

You’re twenty-two and your body is a live wire: hips fuller, thighs thick from squats that leave you trembling, embarrassingly wet in the gym mirror; tits high and heavy under the thinnest cropped hoodie you own, nipples already peaked because you knew he was coming.

Your hair is damp from the cold, loose waves brushing the bare strip of skin above your waistband every time you move. You smell like vanilla and the faint bite of your own arousal riding under it, because you’ve been thinking about this all damn day.

The doorbell is a gunshot.

You open it and Bucky is violence in a leather jacket. Snowflakes melt in his dark hair, stubble glittering with them like crushed diamonds. His jacket is unzipped just enough for you to see the black thermal clinging to his chest, damp at the collar from the wind. Cold air rolls off him, but his body heat slams into you anyway, gun oil, pine, sweat, something darker that makes your mouth water.

He looks at your dad first, polite, but his eyes snap to you like magnets. “Hey, kid.”

The hug is illegal.

Metal arm low on your spine, flesh hand sliding under the hem of your hoodie, palm flat against naked skin, thumb stroking once, slow, deliberate, right above the waistband of your leggings. You feel the calluses, the heat, the microscopic ridges dragging across your flesh. Your nipples tighten so hard it hurts. You press closer on instinct, tits crushed to his chest, inhaling him until your lungs burn. Your hips rock forward a fraction and you feel him: thick, half-hard already, trapped against your stomach. His fingers flex, digging in for one greedy second before he remembers where he is and lets go.

Dad claps him on the shoulder. The spell fractures, but the ache stays.

Dinner is foreplay disguised as spaghetti.

You sit across from him and the table is too small. Your knee finds the rough denim of his thigh instantly. You leave it there. He lets you. When you slide your foot up his calf, slow, teasing the seam of his jeans, his fork stops moving. You watch his throat work, watch the muscle in his jaw jump. He retaliates by spreading his legs wider, trapping your ankle between both of his, pressing the hard line of his shin against your inner thigh until the pressure kisses your clit through thin fabric. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from moaning into your pasta.

Every time he lifts his beer, the cords in his forearm flex. You imagine licking the sweat from the hollow of his throat. You imagine his stubble scraping the inside of your thigh. You imagine his metal fingers spreading you open.

You’re soaked. Actually soaked. You can feel it when you shift, slick coating the gusset of your panties, thighs sliding together under the table like a secret.

Dad starts snoring on the couch before the credits roll on his fishing show.

The living room shrinks to the two of you and the low crackle of the fireplace. You pull out the photo album like a loaded gun. Flip to the diaper picture and watch a soft smile creep across his face

“Handful even then,” he mutters, voice gravel scraped raw.

You move closer until your thigh burns against his, skin on skin where your leggings rode up. The heat rolling off him is obscene. You can smell yourself on the air now, sweet, sharp, desperate, and you wonder if he can too.

His vibranium hand rests on the cushion between you, close enough that the faint hum vibrates up your leg. You drag one finger across the back of his metal hand, just a whisper, and the plates shift under your touch like a shiver. His breath stutters.

“Gets lonely out there,” you say, barely above a whisper. “No one waiting when you come home bloody.”

His eyes flick to yours, haunted, hungry. “Gets real quiet.”

You lean in until your lips almost brush his ear. “College boys talk big, Buck. But they’ve never made me wet just sitting across a dinner table.”

The growl that rumbles out of him is animal. His flesh hand lifts, slow enough to stop, but you don’t move. Knuckles graze your forearm, trace the inside of your elbow, thumb stroking the thin skin there like he’s memorizing the pulse hammering under it. Goosebumps explode down your arms. Your nipples are so hard they ache against the hoodie, and you know he can see them. You want him to see them.

You tilt your face up. One inch. Half an inch. Your bottom lip brushes the stubble along his jaw and you feel the shudder all the way to your cunt.

“We can’t,” he rasps against your mouth, but his hand slides to the nape of your neck, thumb pressing just under your hairline, metal fingers curling around your thigh now, cold, perfect, possessive.

Dad snorts in his sleep like a fucking air-raid siren.

Bucky jerks back, chair legs screeching. He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, chest heaving, eyes black with want and fury at himself.

“I gotta go.”

You walk him to the door on legs that don’t feel like yours. At the threshold you can’t resist. “Night, Uncle Buck.”

He turns, crowds you against the doorframe without touching, leather creaking, voice so low it scrapes your bones.

“Drop the uncle, sweetheart. Doesn’t fit anymore. And you fuckin’ know it.”

Then he’s gone, cold air flooding in, snowflakes melting on the floor where his boots stood.

You lock the door, lean back against it, and drag in a breath that still tastes like him.

Upstairs you don’t bother with the light. Hoodie hits the floor, leggings shoved down, panties soaked through and clinging. You fall back on the bed and spread your thighs wide, two fingers sliding through the mess he made of you without even trying. You’re swollen, dripping, clit throbbing so hard it hurts. You fuck yourself slow at first, then frantic, imagining him.

You come so hard your back arches off the mattress, his name a broken sob against your pillow, thighs shaking, slick coating your fingers and running down to the sheets.

Downstairs, the house creaks like it’s holding its breath.

The cracks are spider-webbing.

And you both know exactly how loud it’s going to be when the whole thing finally shatters.

The snow doesn’t fall. It attacks.

It slams sideways against the windshield in wet, heavy sheets, each flake the size of a quarter, exploding against the glass like tiny fists. The wipers groan, fighting, losing.

Bucky’s world narrows to the faint red glow of his taillights reflecting back at him and the low growl of the engine. Cold seeps through the door seals, sneaks under his collar, but it does nothing to cool the heat already crawling under his skin. His truck rattled along the salted pavement, wipers beating a steady rhythm as he called your dad on speaker.

“Hey, man. How about one last beer before these roads turn to shit? Storm's moving in quick.”

Your dad's voice crackled through, warm but edged with that parental worry he never shook. “Yeah, come on by. But if it gets bad, pull in the driveway. No heroics tonight, Barnes. You're not invincible.”

Bucky snorted, glancing at the darkening sky. “Speak for yourself. Be there in ten.”

He shouldn’t be driving toward you. He knows it. But the words slip out of his mouth before his brain catches up.

The porch light is a blurred gold halo when he finally skids into the driveway. He kills the engine and sits there a second, breath fogging, watching snow pile on the hood like the storm’s trying to bury him alive for what he’s about to walk into.

He knocks hard. Metal knuckles on wood. Once. Twice.

You open the door and the heat rolls out like a living thing: woodsmoke, cinnamon, your skin.

You’re barefoot, legs bare, wearing the tiniest black sleep shorts he’s ever seen, cotton so worn it’s almost see-through, riding high enough that the lower curve of your ass peeks out every time you shift your weight.

The oversized tee is his old Army one, the hem brushing mid-thigh, neck stretched so it slips off one shoulder and shows the delicate line of your collarbone. No bra. Your nipples are tight, dark shadows under thin gray fabric, and the cold blast that follows him in makes them pull even tighter. You smell like warm vanilla, dryer sheets, and the faint, unmistakable musk of a woman who’s already aching.

He steps inside and the door shuts out the howl. Snow melts off his jacket in fat drops, hitting the mat with soft plops. His boots are soaked; water squelches between his toes. You toss him a towel and he catches it against his chest, the terry cloth rough against his chilled skin. He drags it over his face, through his hair, and water streams down his neck, under the collar of the henley that’s glued to every ridge of muscle like it was painted on.

Your dad saves him for exactly forty-seven minutes.

You watch him sway a little as he pushes up from the armchair, the empty glass still dangling from his fingers. The fire crackles low behind him, painting long shadows across the worn rug.

“Alright… I’m done,” he mutters, voice thick with whiskey and exhaustion. He sets the glass on the mantel with a soft clink, rubs a rough hand over his face, and turns toward the stairs.

Each step is heavier than the last. The old wood groans under his feet as he climbs, slow and deliberate, shoulders sagging like the long week is finally winning. You hear the hallway floorboards creak once… twice… then the bedroom door clicks shut.

Silence settles, thick and golden in the firelight.

You count to ten.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Nothing. No footsteps. No grumbling. Just the soft pop of burning pine and the low tick of the clock above the mantel.

He’s out cold upstairs, sprawled across the bed still in his flannel and jeans, mouth open, snoring before his head even hits the pillow.

The TV spits red warnings: BLIZZARD WARNING. 30-40 INCHES. WIDESPREAD POWER OUTAGES.

The room shrinks until it’s just firelight licking over your skin, the crackle of logs, the wind screaming like it wants in to watch.

You pull the blanket over both of you and it’s a lie you both pretend to believe. Your bare thigh slides against the wet denim of his jeans, skin on cold fabric, then skin on skin when he shifts and the denim rides higher. His body heat is insane: radiating through the henley, through the blanket, into your bones. You can feel the thump of his pulse in his thigh where it presses against yours.

He stretches his flesh arm along the back of the couch. His fingertips brush the slope of your bare shoulder, just a graze, but the tiny hairs on your neck stand up like they’ve been electrocuted. His metal hand rests on his own thigh, plates shifting with a faint, hungry whir every time you breathe.

“Stuck with me ’til morning,” he says, voice scraped raw, whiskey and snow and restraint. “Hope that ain’t a problem, kid.”

Your answer is barely air. “Only if you snore louder than Dad.”

But your nipples are diamonds against his old shirt and your thighs are pressed so tight together he can probably smell how wet you are.

You stand and the blanket falls away like a confession. The shorts ride higher when you walk; he gets a heartbeat-long flash of the soft crease where thigh meets ass before you disappear into the kitchen. He follows because his body is no longer taking orders from his brain.

The fridge light paints you gold and obscene. You bend for a beer and the fabric pulls tight, seam disappearing between your cheeks, cotton going dark where you’ve soaked through. He’s behind you before he can stop himself, metal arm caging left, flesh right, chest to your back. The henley is cold and wet against your bare shoulders; his belt buckle bites into the small of your back.

He doesn’t mean to grind forward. His hips do it anyway.

You feel him instantly: thick, brutally hard, trapped behind soaked denim, pressing right into the cleft of your ass like he’s already imagining splitting you open. A shudder rolls through him so violent the plates in his metal arm click. His breath is scalding against your ear, stubble scraping the shell.

“Grew up nice, didn’t ya?” The words tear out of him, wrecked. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, look at you.”

You push back, slow, filthy roll of your hips, dragging a broken sound from his throat that he swallows too late. The ridge of his cock slides between your cheeks through two pathetic layers of fabric and you both feel how soaked you are, cotton clinging, slick coating the inside of your thighs.

His flesh hand hovers over your hip, trembling. Metal fingers curl against the counter so hard the granite creaks. He can smell you, sweet, sharp, flooding his lungs like oxygen he doesn’t deserve.

You turn in the trap of his arms and it’s worse.

Your tits brush his chest, nipples dragging across wet fabric, and the friction makes you gasp, soft, open, right against his mouth. Your lips are swollen from biting them all night. Your eyes are black with want.

He cups your jaw with his flesh hand, thumb dragging over your bottom lip, spreading it, pressing just inside so he feels your tongue flick hot and wet against the pad of his thumb and his cock jerks so hard his vision tunnels.

He groans, low, animal, forehead dropping to yours. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You arch into him instead, tits crushing against his chest, hips rolling so the seam of your shorts rides your clit and you whimper, tiny, desperate sound that spears straight through him.

The guilt hits like a bullet between the eyes.

He jerks back, hands up, palms open like he’s surrendering to a firing squad. Chest heaving, lips wet from almost kissing you, eyes feral.

“No. Fuck. No.” His voice cracks clean in half. “He’s upstairs asleep. I was at your kindergarten graduation. I taught you how to ride a bike. I can’t-”

The words taste like rust and ash, but he forces them out anyway, backing up until his spine slams into the opposite counter, metal fingers digging into his back like punishment.

You’re trembling, thighs clenched, lips parted and glistening, the air thick with the scent of your arousal and the snow melting off his skin.

“Go to bed,” he says, voice shredded. “Please, baby. Before I do something I’ll never forgive myself for.”

You stand there a second longer, chest rising and falling, looking like every sin he’s never let himself have.

Then you nod once, grab a water instead of the beer, and walk away, hips swaying like a threat, bare feet silent on the cold tile.

He stays in the dark kitchen long after your door clicks shut upstairs, forehead pressed to the freezer door, breath fogging the stainless steel, cock throbbing so hard it hurts to breathe.

Outside, the storm screams like it knows exactly what almost happened.

Inside, he’s louder.

And the guilt is a living thing clawing at his ribs, but underneath it, hotter, hungrier, is the truth:

He’s not sure he’s strong enough to stop it next time.

The storm was a monster, wind howling like it wanted to tear the house apart, snow piling against the windows in thick, unforgiving drifts. Midnight had come and gone, the power flickering once or twice but holding steady, for now.

Downstairs, the fire had died to embers, and your dad was dead to the world, snoring upstairs through the chaos. You couldn't sleep, though. Not after that kitchen standoff, Bucky's body pinning you against the counter, his breath hot on your neck, guilt and want warring in his eyes. The pull was too strong, raw and insistent, like the storm itself had trapped more than just the roads.

You slip into the bathroom because your body is on fire and the only thing that might put it out is scalding water. You leave the door unlocked because you’re a liar who’s praying.

The shower is already a furnace when you step in. Steam billows, thick and white, swallowing the mirror, turning the air into soup. You strip bare and let the water hit like punishment, needle-hot, pounding your shoulders, your breasts, running in burning rivers down your stomach. It does nothing for the ache between your legs. If anything, it makes it worse.

You brace one hand on the tile, head falling forward, and let the other slide down your body. You trace the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the soft place low on your belly that still remembers the press of his belt buckle.

Your fingers dip lower, parting slick folds, and you bite your lip to keep quiet when you find yourself drenched, swollen, pulsing. You circle your clit once, twice, thighs trembling, and the image behind your eyes is always him: the way his jaw clenched in the kitchen, the tremor in his metal fingers when they hovered an inch from your skin, the raw guilt in his voice when he said we can’t.

You’re so lost in it you don’t hear the soft creak of the door.

Bucky steps in and the world tilts.

He thought the room was empty. He freezes with one hand still on the knob, steam curling around him like cigarette smoke. His eyes go wide, then black, pupils swallowing every trace of blue.

You, naked, water cascading over every inch of you, skin flushed pink from heat, nipples tight and beaded, one hand braced on the wall, the other buried between your thighs.

Guilt slams into him so hard his knees almost buckle.

He sees two versions of you at once: the chubby-legged toddler he used to bounce on his knee while your dad laughed about diaper explosions, and the woman in front of him now, grown, soft and strong and dripping and looking at him like she’s starving.

His cock jerks hard against his sweatpants, a wet spot spreading instantly. He should back out. He should apologise, slam the door, go sleep in the fucking snow.

Instead he whispers, voice gravel and ruin, “Door wasn’t locked, sweetheart.”

You spin, heart exploding, hands flying up to cover yourself, but too late. You see the obscene tent in his sweats, the way his breath catches, the way his metal hand curls into a fist like he’s trying to crush the want.

“Buck, shit, get out-”

He doesn’t move. His throat works. “I thought… you were upstairs.”

But his eyes betray him. They drag down your body, slow, helpless, drinking in water-slick skin, the curve of your waist, the tremble in your thighs. The diaper memory hits him like a bullet, tiny you giggling while he wiped ice-cream off your chin, and the shame is acid in his throat.

You see it. You see all of it.

And instead of screaming, you let your arms fall.

You let him look.

A reckless, wicked smirk curves your mouth. “Save water, old man?” you murmur, voice trembling with nerves and power. “Shower with a friend?”

The growl that tears out of him is broken.

He steps in, shuts the door, and the lock clicks like a starting gun.

“Old man, huh?” His voice cracks on the last word. “Keep pushin’, baby. See what happens.”

He peels his shirt off in one violent motion, muscles rippling under steam and old scars. Sweatpants follow, kicked aside, and he’s bare, thick, flushed, veins standing out like the ones you’ve dreamt about for years. The head of his cock is slick with precome, bobbing heavy between you.

He steps under the spray and the water turns his hair black, sends rivers down his chest, over the dog tags that clink softly. He stops an inch away, hands hovering, flesh and metal trembling.

“Fuck…” he breathes, the word tearing out like a confession, eyes locked on yours, stormy, shattered, raw with a torment that claws at his throat.

“You’ve… you’ve grown up, doll. You’re a woman now. Christ, not that little kid anymore, not my best friend’s baby girl. How the hell am I supposed to fight this when you look at me like that?”

The confession sounds like it’s being ripped out of his chest.

His hands finally land on your hips, reverent, shaking, thumbs tracing the dip of your waist like he’s reading braille. Metal fingers press cool against the small of your back and you arch into the contrast, gasping.

He pulls you flush against him.

His cock brands your belly, hot, velvet-hard, pulsing. You feel his heart hammering against your breasts.

“Then treat me like one,” you whisper, voice cracking with the weight of it.

He makes a wounded sound and drops his forehead to yours.

“Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he rasps, voice cracking like glass under pressure, his forehead pressed to yours as if the weight of it might crush him.

“Your dad’s right upstairs, trustin’ me to look out for you like always. He’d fuckin’ kill me for this, for touchin’ you, for wantin’ you like I do. And God help me baby, I’d let him. I’d go down swingin’ if it meant one more minute gettin’ to see you like this.”

But his hips roll forward anyway, seeking friction, sliding his length along your stomach. You wrap your fingers around him, slow, firm, and he jerks in your grip, a broken groan vibrating against your lips.

“Christ, the way you touch me…” His voice splinters. “Like you know exactly what you do to me.”

You stroke him root to tip, twisting gently at the head, watching his face contort with pleasure and agony.

“Your dad’s gonna bury me for this,” he chokes out, but he’s thrusting into your fist now, metal arm tightening around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

You pull his mouth to yours.

The kiss is messy, starving, years of almost collapsing into teeth and tongue and shared breath. His flesh hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, not quite claiming, just worshipping the fact that he’s allowed to touch.

You pump him faster, slick with water and precome, and he breaks the kiss to bury his face in your neck, biting down gently, muffling the sounds he can’t hold back.

“Fuck… gonna make me lose it-”

He spins you gently this time, back to his chest, metal arm banding under your breasts, holding you like something precious. His other hand slips between your thighs, fingers finding you soaked, circling your clit with devastating precision.

You moan, head falling back against his shoulder, hips rocking shamelessly into his touch.

“That’s it,” he whispers, voice cracking with awe and guilt and love. “Take what you need, baby. I’ve got you.”

The intimacy of it, his voice, the way he’s shaking with restraint and devotion, undoes you.

You come with a muffled cry against his neck, thighs clenching around his hand, waves crashing so strong your vision sparks white. He follows seconds later, groaning your name like it hurts, spilling hot over your lower back, hips jerking helplessly as the water washes it away.

You sag together, panting, water cooling around you.

He turns off the faucet with a trembling hand. Steam lingers like a confession.

He wraps you in a towel, hands gentle now, reverent, drying your shoulders, your arms, your breasts, like he’s terrified he’ll break you, like he can’t believe he gets to touch you at all.

You lean into him, towel loose around your hips, and whisper, soft, taunting, loving:

“Admit it. You’ve thought about this since the pull-ups. That day behind the fence.”

He stills, towel knotted at his waist, water dripping from his lashes. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, eyes dark with truth and shame and something that won’t quit.

“Every damn mission,” he whispers, voice raw. “Every night I couldn’t sleep. Thought about you grown, thought about you wantin’ me back. Kept me sane.”

He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking. “This… this is better than any fantasy. And it’s gonna destroy me. But fuck if I care right now.”

You kiss him, slow, soft, tasting the guilt he’s drowning in and the love he can’t hide.

“Take me to bed,” you breathe against his mouth.“Please, Bucky, we’re not done. I need you inside me, need you to wreck me until I can’t think straight.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, arms shaking not from effort but from the weight of what he’s just done, and carries you out of the steam like a man walking straight into the fire he’s always known was waiting.

He carries you naked down the dark hallway, water still dripping from his hair, from your skin, leaving cold little trails on the hardwood that make you shiver against his chest. His metal arm is locked under your thighs, vibranium plates humming faintly against the backs of your knees; his flesh hand cradles your spine like you’re spun glass. Every footstep is deliberate, trying not to let the floorboards scream and wake the house.

The guest-room door shuts with the softest click. He turns the lock so slowly the mechanism barely breathes.

Moonlight through frost-laced windows turns the whole room blue-white. Snow-light. It catches on the sweat still clinging to his collarbones, on the dog tags resting between his pecs, on the wet ends of his hair.

He lowers you to the bed like he’s laying down something sacred. The comforter is cool against your overheated back; the sheets smell like cedar and the faint gun-oil that always clings to him. You sink into it and he just stares, chest heaving, lips parted, eyes glassy with something between worship and terror.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, doll…” His voice is shredded velvet. “Look at you. Spread out on my bed like every filthy dream I never let myself finish.”

You try for a bratty little smirk, want to tease him about finally growing a pair, but the words die when he drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress and spreads your thighs with his shoulders.

The first touch of his mouth is soft, almost chaste, just his lips brushing the crease where thigh meets hip, stubble scraping tender skin, breath scalding. You feel it everywhere.

“You okay, baby?” he murmurs, looking up the length of your body, blue eyes dark and worried even while his cock jerks against the sheets. “Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me anything. Always.”

You nod, throat too tight for words, and he rewards you by dragging his tongue up your center in one slow, filthy stripe that ends with the flat of it pressed hard against your clit.

Your back bows off the bed.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls low against your slick heat, the rumble of his voice making your thighs tremble. “Spread those gorgeous legs wider for me, sweetheart… don’t get shy on me now.”

His tongue drags slow and deliberate up your center again, just to watch you jerk, then he pulls back barely an inch, hot breath ghosting over you as he smirks.

“Uh-uh. Wider. Show me how desperate my pretty little thing is to have her pussy devoured. Go on… beg me with those thighs, baby. Let me see just how soaked you are for my mouth.”

He eats you like it’s the only thing he was ever put on earth to do. Slow, thorough, obscene. Long licks, soft sucks, the gentle scrape of teeth. His tongue fucks deep inside you, curling, retreating, curling again, while his nose grinds your clit in perfect, maddening circles. Metal fingers slide in beside his tongue, two thick vibranium digits curling up to stroke that spot that makes your vision spark white.

He feels you tighten, hears that broken little gasp that means you’re right there, and he stops. Just lifts his mouth an inch, lets the cool air hit your dripping cunt while you whine and try to chase him.

“Mmm-no, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing the sensitive crease where thigh meets pussy, voice velvet-rough. “Not yet. I’m nowhere near done playing.”

He drags his tongue in one slow, lazy stripe that deliberately misses your clit, then chuckles when your hips buck in frustration.

“Aw, listen to that needy sound. You’re fucking soaked, aren’t you? Dripping down my chin and still begging for more.” He nips the soft skin of your inner thigh, soothing it with a kiss. “Greedy girl. I could live between these legs for days… lick you open nice and slow until you’re crying for mercy.”

Another feather-light flick, gone before you can grind against it.

“Hours, sweetheart,” he promises, voice dark and filthy as he spreads you wider with his thumbs, blowing a cool breath over your throbbing clit just to watch you shudder. “I’m gonna keep you shaking on the edge ‘til you forget your own name. Only thing you’ll remember is how to beg me to let you come.”

When you finally come it’s with his name torn out of your throat and muffled against the pillow, thighs clamped so tight around his head you’re scared you’ll hurt him. He just moans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, licking you through it until you’re sobbing from overstimulation.

He crawls up your body, kissing every inch, murmuring praise like a litany.

“Good girl. So fuckin’ good for me. Taste yourself on my tongue, baby, go on.”

He kisses you deep, filthy, letting you lick into his mouth and taste how wet you made him.

Then he sinks into you from behind in one long, slow glide that punches the air from your lungs. You feel every inch, every thick vein, every throb, the flared head dragging along your walls until he bottoms out and you both groan like dying men, raw and desperate.

He stills, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed hot and sweaty between your shoulder blades, metal hand sliding under you to lace tight with yours on the mattress, vibranium cool against your fingers.

“Fuck… baby,” he rasps, voice cracked wide open, forehead pressed to yours while his breath stutters against your lips. “You good? Please… tell me you’re good.”

His hands are shaking, thumbs stroking gentle little circles like he’s trying to soothe both of you. He pulls back just enough to search your eyes, wide and glassy with something that looks a lot like fear.

“I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice trembling harder than his body. “Just… breathe with me, sweetheart. Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop, I swear I’ll stop, I just-”

He cuts himself off with a shaky exhale when you clench around him involuntarily, a broken groan ripping out of his chest. His eyes squeeze shut for a second like he’s in pain.

“God, you feel so fucking perfect I’m scared I’m gonna lose it,” he confesses, raw and quiet, pressing his face into your neck. “Need to hear you say it, baby. Need to know you’re with me… that you can take me. Please.”

You shove your hips back hard, slamming yourself onto him with a filthy, wet sound that makes his breath hitch.

“Please,” you sob, voice shredded, forehead pressed to the sheets as you fuck yourself on his cock in frantic little jerks. “Please, bucky, I need it so bad-”

Every desperate push back forces him deeper, your ass slapping against his hips, greedy and shameless. You can’t stop; you’re shaking, dripping, clenching around him like you’re trying to pull him in and never let go.

“Fuck, fuck, I can take it,” you cry out, reaching one hand back to claw at his thigh, dragging him closer. “I’m so full and it’s still not enough, please move, please ruin me, I’m begging you-”

Your whole body jolts with every backward thrust you give yourself, thighs trembling, back arched so deep it hurts, tears soaking the pillow as you choke on another broken moan.

“I’m so close already,” you confess in a rush, voice cracking open. “I’m right there and you’re not even moving, I’ll die if you don’t move, please, I’ll be so good for you, I swear, just, fuck, please-”

He does.

Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first, dragging out until just the tip kisses your entrance, then slamming back in until his hips meet your ass with a wet, filthy slap that echoes in the quiet room. Every thrust nudges your clit against his heavy balls, the pressure perfect, relentless, building that burn low in your belly until you’re trembling.

His mouth never leaves your skin, lips and teeth and tongue worshiping every inch he can reach.

“Listen to you,” he growls against your spine, teeth grazing the sensitive spot between your shoulder blades. “Hear how fuckin’ wet you are for me? That’s all you, baby. All for me. My perfect girl takin’ every inch like you were born for it, like this pussy was made to be wrapped around my cock.”

You whimper, fingers squeezing his metal ones hard enough that the plates whir faintly.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice rough with awe and hunger. “Squeeze me just like that. Fuck, you’re so tight, so hot- gonna ruin me, baby. You’re ruinin’ me, and I’d let you do it every goddamn day.”

He flips you suddenly, needing your face, needing to see you take him. Missionary now, your legs thrown over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, cock hitting so deep you feel him in your throat with every brutal thrust, the angle making you sob.

“Look at me,” he pants, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing in the universe, like he’s memorizing every flicker across your face. “Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come around my cock again. Wanna watch my girl fall apart on me. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this, baby- so gorgeous takin’ me deep.”

“Bucky-” you sob, nails digging into his back, leaving red trails down scarred skin.

“Yeah, say my name,” he groans, hips snapping harder, faster, the headboard starting to thump against the wall. “Love hearin’ my name in that sweet voice while I’m buried inside you. You’re takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ good. Never felt anything like this pussy- never gonna want anything else. You’re it for me, baby. You’re everything.”

Against the wall next, your back scraping painted drywall, his metal arm hooked under your ass, holding all your weight like it’s nothing while his flesh hand braces beside your head. He thrusts up into you slow and filthy, grinding on every stroke, the head of his cock dragging over that spot that makes you see stars, makes your toes curl.

“Legs okay, baby?” he whispers, voice ragged and trembling with restraint, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me if they’re shaking too hard… I’ve got you, I’ll hold you up, always.”

You whimper, nodding frantically, and he groans at the way you clench around him in response.

“That’s it… fuck, just like that,” he praises, low and reverent, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder blade. “Wrap those pretty thighs tighter around me, yeah, perfect. God, look at you, taking me so fucking deep, so greedy and gorgeous.”

His hand slips down to lace with yours, squeezing gently as he rolls his hips in that slow, grinding rhythm that makes you sob.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice cracking with awe. “So perfect for me. My beautiful girl, glowing, trembling, letting me all the way in like you were made for this, made for me. I’ve never felt anything as safe as I do right now, buried inside you. You’re everything, baby. Every fucking thing.”

You barely manage to get the words out between broken gasps, voice shaky and wrecked as you push against him just to feel him throb inside you.

“Thought… thought you were gonna wreck me, old man-” you rasp, trying for bratty, but it comes out breathless, trembling, more plea than taunt.

He freezes for half a heartbeat, buried to the hilt, then lets out the lowest, darkest chuckle you’ve ever heard. It vibrates straight through your spine.

“Callin’ me old man again, huh?” he murmurs, voice velvet and dangerous, one hand sliding up your sweat-slick back to fist gently in your hair. He tugs your head back just enough for you to feel it, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Careful what you ask for, baby.”

Then he pulls out slow, agonizingly slow, until you’re empty and whining, and slams back in with one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“That wrecking enough for you, princess?” he growls, setting a punishing rhythm, hips snapping hard enough to jolt your whole body up the bed. “Or should this old man really ruin that pretty little pussy till you can’t walk tomorrow?”

Another deep, filthy stroke, grinding against that spot that makes you see stars.

“Go ahead,” he taunts, breathless but merciless, “keep talking shit. I’ve got all night to teach you manners, sweetheart.”

On the floor because the bed is too far and he can’t wait another second, him flat on his back, you’re straddling his face, knees burning against the hardwood, thighs trembling so hard they’re practically vibrating around his ears. His big hands are locked on your ass, fingers digging in possessively, spreading you open and dragging you down until his mouth seals over your cunt like he’s starving.

“Use me, sweetheart,” he groans into you, voice muffled, wrecked, tongue fucking deep and greedy. “Please, fuck my face. I need your taste in my throat for days.”

His nose grinds against your clit with every roll of your hips, perfect, relentless pressure, while his metal fingers slip lower, cool and slick, gathering the mess dripping out of you and teasing your empty, fluttering hole like he’s thinking about sliding them in later.

You hesitate, thighs shaking harder, a little scared of how fast it’s building, how loud you already are, and he feels it instantly. His grip softens, thumbs stroking soothing circles over the dimples of your ass.

“Hey, hey, baby, look at me,” he rasps, pulling back just enough that his breath fans hot over your swollen clit. His eyes are blown black, glassy with want and something achingly tender. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Nothing bad’s gonna happen, I swear.”

He presses the softest kiss to your clit, then another, coaxing.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Drippin’ all over my face, shaking for me… my perfect girl. Could stay right here forever.”

His hands slide up to guide your hips again, gentle but insistent, rocking you down onto his waiting tongue.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he begs, raw and desperate. “Ride me. Grind that pretty pussy on my mouth, use me however you need. I want it. Want you to fall apart and soak me. Please, baby… let me have it. I’m dying for it.”

Bent over the dresser, mirror fogged from your breath, his chest plastered to your back, eyes locked in the reflection, sweat-slick skin sliding together.

“Look how gorgeous you are takin’ me,” he rasps, voice hoarse from hours of praise, hips snapping hard and fast now, animal, relentless, the dresser rattling with every thrust. “Look at you. My girl. Mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you sob, nails scrabbling for purchase on the wood, tears pricking your eyes from how good it hurts, how deep he is.

“That’s right,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to wrap gently around your throat, thumb stroking your pulse like he’s counting your heartbeats. “All mine. Takin’ my cock like a fuckin’ dream. Never gonna get enough of you, doll. Never. You’re perfect, so fuckin’ perfect, squeezin’ me, cryin’ for me, lettin’ me ruin you. My beautiful girl.”

He finishes inside you the first time with your name broken on his lips, hips stuttering, metal fingers laced so tight with yours the plates leave faint crescents in your skin. He stays buried, forehead against your spine, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you,” like the words are being ripped out of his soul, voice shaking with the weight of it.

The second time is slow, face-to-face, moonlight painting silver stripes across your bodies. He’s crying a little, you realize, tears mixing with sweat when he kisses you, thrusts deep and deliberate, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re everything,” he chokes on every thrust, voice raw and reverent. “Everything I never thought I’d get to have. My perfect, beautiful girl. Love how you feel around me, love how you look at me, love every fuckin’ sound you make. You’re ruin’ me, baby, and I’d let you do it a thousand times. You’re mine, my heart, my girl, my everything.”

When he comes again he buries his face in your neck, whole body shaking, spilling deep with a sound like it hurts how good it feels, whispering your name over and over like a prayer.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes against your skin, voice raw, holding you close like he’ll never let go. “So fuckin’ perfect I don’t deserve you. But I’m keepin’ you anyway.”

Finally, 4:07 am, he collapses beside you, metal arm draped cool across your stomach, flesh hand tangled in your hair, both of you slick with sweat and each other.

“Tomorrow he’s gonna kill me,” he whispers, voice raw, wrecked, happy. A pause. “Worth it.”

You smile into his chest, fingers tracing the raised skin of an old scar, voice soft and sleepy and absolutely certain:

“Then make it worth it again before sunrise.”

He exhales like a man who’s been holding his breath for decades, pulls you tighter, and starts all over again.

He rearranges you like you’re made of silk and sin.

Big, careful hands slide under your thighs, lifting your top leg higher, draping it back over his hip so you’re completely open to him. He’s still buried deep, thick, half-hard, and slick with both of you, but now he can spoon you flush against his chest, metal arm curled under your neck and breasts like a cradle, flesh arm wrapped low across your hips, fingers splayed wide over the soft swell of your lower belly so he can feel himself inside you every time he breathes.

“Stay right here, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice cracked open with exhaustion and wonder. “Gonna keep my cock nice and warm inside this perfect little pussy while you fall asleep, yeah? Gonna keep you full of me all night.”

He rocks, slow, syrupy, barely a thrust, more like a heartbeat. Just enough to remind your body he’s there, stretching you, owning you, loving you.

You make a sleepy, needy sound and push back against him, trying to get closer even though there’s no space left. He groans, low and wrecked, hips stuttering for a second before he forces himself still.

“Shhh, shh, I’ve got you,” he soothes, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, your neck, the spot behind your ear that makes you melt. “Greedy girl. Already took three loads outta me tonight and you still want more, huh?”

His metal hand slides up, cupping your breast, thumb rolling your nipple slow and gentle, like he’s petting you to sleep. Flesh hand slips lower, two fingers spreading your folds so he can feel where he’s splitting you open, feel the slick mess leaking out around his cock every time he gives that tiny, sleepy thrust.

“Fuck, listen to that,” he breathes, voice filthy and adoring. “Hear how wet my baby is? That’s me inside you. That’s us. Never gonna pull out, sweetheart. Gonna stay right here, keep you plugged and dripping and mine.”

You whimper, half-asleep, hips rolling back on instinct, chasing the gentle pressure. He hushes you closer, metal arm tightening just enough that the cool plates press deliciously against your nipples.

“Easy, pretty girl,” he croons, lips against your pulse. “Let me take care of you. Let me love on this sweet pussy till you pass out on my cock. You’ve been so good for me, taken everything I gave you, still clenchin’ around me like you can’t get enough.”

Another slow, lazy glide in and out, just an inch, just enough to make you sigh and flutter around him. He moans softly, like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s perfect. Just like that. Fall asleep on me, baby. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you full. Dream about me stretchin’ you open, yeah?”

Your body goes liquid, melting back into him, head lolling against his metal bicep. The last thing you feel is his mouth pressing soft, endless kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your hair, and the gentle, steady throb of him inside you, like a second heartbeat.

“Aww, listen to you,” he whispers, voice thick with sleepy, possessive love when your breathing finally evens out. “My sweet girl, falling asleep with my cock buried to the hilt. Never lettin’ you go. Never.”

His own eyes flutter shut, arms locking tighter, metal fingers laced with yours over your belly, keeping you pinned exactly where he wants you.

Outside, the storm screams itself hoarse. Inside, the only sound is the soft, wet pulse of two bodies refusing to separate, and the quiet, reverent whisper he breathes into your hair just before he drifts off.

“Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts, baby. Sleep tight. I’ve got you.”

And you both slip under, still joined, still dripping, wrapped in steel and skin and the kind of filthy, desperate tenderness that only comes after everything has already burned down.

The kitchen smells like bacon, burnt coffee, and the kind of tension that could power a small city.

Dad’s at the stove, spatula in hand, humming “Fortunate Son” like he’s in a different decade entirely. You’re perched on a stool in Bucky’s stolen shirt, legs swinging, trying to look like a normal daughter who definitely did not spend the night tangled up with her dad’s best friend.

Bucky is shirtless, because of course, leaning against the counter with his “World’s Okayest Sergeant” mug, pretending to read the cereal box while his eyes keep darting to you like he’s checking you’re still real.

Dad flips a strip of bacon with flair. “So, Buck. That guest bed treat you alright? I peeked in around six to see if the power had come back on. You were dead to the world, man. Didn’t even twitch.”

You and Bucky both freeze solid.

Your coffee mug stops halfway to your mouth. Bucky’s metal hand tightens on his mug so hard you hear the ceramic creak.

Because at six am, you were definitely in that guest bed. Wrapped around Bucky like a koala, one of his thighs between yours, his metal arm locked around your waist, your face buried in his neck, both of you dead asleep and very, very naked under the tangled sheets.

You thank every god you don’t believe in that Dad only saw Bucky’s side of the bed. That the blanket was pulled high enough. That you were on the inside, hidden against the wall. That Bucky sleeps like a damn statue when he finally crashes.

Bucky recovers first, voice suspiciously calm. “Yeah… uh, slept like a rock. Deep. Real deep.”

You nearly choke on air. “Yeah, Dad. He was out cold. Didn’t move an inch all night.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow at you over the rim of his mug. “Funny. I seem to remember someone doing a whole lot of moving.”

Dad turns, eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

Bucky shrugs, smooth as gravel. “Nothin’. Just said the bed was surprisingly comfortable.”

You hide your grin behind your mug. Bucky’s foot finds your ankle under the counter and gives it a light kick. You kick back, harder. He pinches your calf with his toes. Game on.

Dad sets down plates with a clatter. “You two are weirdly chipper for people who almost turned into popsicles.”

You and Bucky answer at the exact same time. “Adrenaline.” “Good cardio.”

Dead silence.

Dad blinks slowly, like he’s buffering. You both sip coffee like it’s the last drink on death row.

Dad finally shrugs and sits. “Whatever. Eat before it gets cold.”

Bucky slides into the seat next to you, thigh pressing yours like it’s an accident. It’s not. You “accidentally” elbow him reaching for the salt. He steals two pieces of your bacon. You flick a tiny piece of eggshell onto his plate.

Bucky mutters under his breath, “Real mature, trouble.”

You whisper back, “Says the guy who begged ‘please, doll, don’t stop’ at three in the morning.”

He inhales bacon wrong and starts coughing. Dad reaches over and thumps his back. “Easy there, pal. Chew.”

You pat Bucky’s back with way too much enthusiasm. “There ya go, old man. Small bites.”

Bucky glares through watering eyes, mouth twitching like he’s two seconds from laughing or strangling you. “Keep it up. See what happens when your dad leaves for five seconds.”

You grin. “Promises, promises.”

Dad, chewing thoughtfully, waves his fork in a circle. “You know, you two are actin’ weird. Like… weird-weird. Like you’re speakin’ in code or somethin’. And Buck, where the hell is your shirt?”

Bucky freezes mid-chew. You freeze mid-sip. You both glance at your chest at the same time.

You recover first, sweet as pie. “Laundry mix-up?”

Bucky nods way too fast. “Yeah. Mine shrank. She borrowed it. Charity.”

Dad squints harder. “It’s three sizes too big on her.”

You chime in, “Fashion, Dad. Oversized is in.”

Bucky adds, “Very trendy.”

Dad stares for a long beat, then shrugs. “Kids these days. And old men pretending to be kids.”

Under the table, Bucky’s foot slides up your calf again, slow and deliberate. You retaliate by pressing your bare foot right against the inside of his thigh, inching dangerously close to territory that would get you both grounded for life.

His hand clamps down on your ankle like a vice. He mouths, “Behave.”

You mouth back, “Make me.”

Dad looks up. “You two are awfully quiet again. Everything okay?”

You and Bucky answer in perfect unison, “Yep!”

Dad eyes you both like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing, then shrugs and goes back to his eggs.

Bucky leans in, voice barely a breath. “You’re lucky your dad’s here, or I’d have you bent over this counter before the bacon grease cooled.”

You grin, all teeth. “Big talk for a guy who begged so pretty last night.”

His metal fingers tighten on your ankle, just enough pressure to promise payback. You wiggle your toes against his inner thigh in victory.

Dad stands up, plate in hand. “Alright, I’m gonna go fight the driveway before the next wave hits. You two want anything from the garage?”

You answer quickly, “We’re good!”

Bucky echoes, “Real good.”

Dad pauses at the door, gives you one last suspicious look. “You sure? You’re both actin’ like you drank Red Bull instead of coffee.”

Bucky shrugs. “Just the bacon high.”

Dad mutters something about “weirdos” and heads out.

The second the back door shuts, Bucky’s on his feet, crowding you against the counter, hands braced on either side of your hips.

“You,” he growls, nose brushing yours, “are a goddamn menace.”

You tilt your chin, smirking. “And you’re a terrible liar. ‘Best sleep in years’? Please.”

He huffs a laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Fine. Worst sleep of my life. Couldn’t stop thinking about how you sound when-”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “Dad’s literally thirty feet away!”

He licks your palm. You yank it back with a squeak.

“Animal,” you hiss.

He grins, all teeth. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

You shove his chest. He doesn’t budge. “Go put a shirt on before Dad thinks we’re running a nudist colony.”

He leans in, voice low and rough. “I’d put a shirt on, but someone’s wearing my favorite one. And looks way better in it than I ever did.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are on fire. “Flattery won’t save you when Dad notices the hickey on my-”

He kisses you quick and dirty to shut you up, then pulls back just as fast.

“Gotta go before I do something stupid,” he mutters, adjusting himself with zero subtlety. “Like bend you over this counter and give your old man a heart attack.”

You pat his cheek. “Poor baby. Blue balls again?”

He groans, backing toward the door. “You’re evil.”

“Text me when you get home safe, Grandpa.”

He points a metal finger at you. “Keep that shirt. And lock your window next time there’s a storm. I’m not asking twice.”

You grin, sweet as poison. “Who says there’ll be a next time?”

He pauses at the door, eyes dark. “Keep telling yourself that, trouble.”

Then he’s gone, boots crunching through snow.

Dad yells from the driveway, “Buck! You forgot your damn shirt again!”

You look down at the stolen tee, hug it to yourself, and yell back, “Finders keepers, dad!”

Dad’s muffled grumble floats in: “You kids are so weird…”

You sip your coffee, grinning like an idiot, already counting down to the next blizzard.

Because yeah. There’s definitely gonna be a next time.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

taglist : @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil @shackoflove @buckybunni @fancypeacepersona @noirecherie @babygirlxos @vickynguyennn @avgdestitute @silveredpenumbrashark @latenightmatilda @thegirlfatherr @nonotwithoutu @sebastians-love @doelikedollz @wintersgirllost @ryswritingrecord @biggestfangirl @swansonnetts @herejustforbuckybarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @lovelyygirl8 @gilwm @bb-laufeyson @gibbsgirl7 @hnnhbananananana @metal-armed-muse

[cafeconmota]

Pur

[snoopysupe]

imagining poor clark if you were ACTUALLY mad at him for something

HE WOULD HAAAAATE THIS

pairing: clark kent x f!reader. word count: 715. content: ur mad at clark. clark loiters around u. swearing and kisses!

clark kent masterlist

The cupboard door slammed enough to make Clark wince in the kitchen doorway. He opened one eye to see you furiously filling a glass up of cold water, only to tip it out three times before taking one singular sip, and then proceeding to slam the glass down with enough force to remind Clark he was in the doghouse.

With minimal eye contact to your husband loitering like a bad smell, you ripped open the bread bin and jammed two pieces of bagel into the toaster that was on its last legs.

Hand on your hip, foot tapping against the kitchen tiles, there was a build up of complete unfiltered rage in your chest. It made you feel kind of nauseous, heart beating a little louder, ears burning hot with rage. You shook your head a little in an attempt to try push the feeling down, only to feel more angered when your bagel popped up burnt.

“God, fucking dammit.” You juggled the hot food onto a plate and began to aggressively butter the two pieces.

Clark took a step forward, “Honey—”

“Don’t.” You pointed the butter knife to him, “Don’t say a word.”

Clark fell back in line. Hands clasped at his front.

It was a rare occasion that you were truly angry with your husband. A mythical instance that cropped up a handful of times through the year and put Clark Kent through the trenches of guilt to try make up for the actions that had you swarmed in rage.

Unfortunately, Clark had acted upon instinct when in a fight that was highly broadcasted throughout the Metropolis News Stations, and you had watched him put his life on the line through a couple of pixels from some shoddy camera work.

It was fear masked in anger. Anger being the pretty little bow on top of the gift of fear.

When you bit into the charcoaled carb, you made a face of disdain and, well, Clark sometimes didn’t know when to pick his battles.

“You’re mad.” You narrowed your eyes and turned your head eerily slow to look at him. Clark put his hands out as if to tame a beast. “Honey, I know. I know what I did was a little risky. But—Oh OK.”

His speech cut short as you stormed past him to find reprieve in the living room. Without hesitancy, Clark ducked under the doorway of the kitchen, hot on your heels as you made a beeline for the sofa with your sad excuse for breakfast.

You plopped down with a huff, plate balanced on your knee as you reached for the remote to turn the TV on.

Clark stood in front of you. You bent your body to look past him at the TV.

“Baby.” Clark almost pleaded. His eyes closed for a brief moment when you turned the volume up. He breathed through his nose, “Can you just listen to me, please?”

You sneered and shook your head.

Clark hated to bring this side out of you. The small pocket within your bones that had you silently seething at him. Clark loved you, and could never get tired of loving you; but, he’d admit that this version of you was a little hard to wrangle.

He cleared his throat, “Alright.” Fingertips tugged at the fabric of his trousers, Clark knelt in front of you. His large palms on your knees, his blue eyes locked in on your pretty facial features. “I’m sorry for scaring you like that. You have a right to be scared, and angry at me. But—I couldn’t let those people die. Even if it meant sacrificing myself.”

Your fingers picked at the skin around your nail.

“I’ll be more careful. More thoughtful, if that type of issue arises again.” Clark’s voice was low, even softer than usual. He dipped his head to meet your gaze, “Hey. I promise. Just—Just don’t give me anymore silent treatment. I miss your voice.”

“It’s been thirty minutes.”

Clark grinned, “Gotcha.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” You attempted to conceal the small quirk of your lips. “Don’t do it again.”

Clark let out a groan, his head tilted back momentarily before he lunged forward and pressed a hard couple of kisses to your lips, “Mm. I wouldn’t dream of it, honey.”

[cosmictheo]

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 | adrian chase

( gif credits to @castledevil )

—summary: you despise adrian, and adrian adores you. it's as simple as that. until he saves your life. —pairing: adrian chase x female!reader —word count: 4.3k —warnings: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), smitten!adrian, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, oral sex (female receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, adrian being THE consent king, some porn with some plot, body worship, pussy pronouns, praise kink, sub!adrian, adrian being a slut for the reader as he should be, blood, killing, shooting, mentions of injuries, yk usual peacemaker stuff

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

The first time you saw Adrian Chase, you thought it was a joke. No, not a joke in the sense that it wasn't real, but a joke that fate had pulled on you. The man in the Vigilante suit, who sang hair metal ballads in the car and dropped facts about owls mid-mission, was your new teammate.

Peacemaker trusted him, and you trusted Peacemaker, so naturally you really had no choice but to work with him.

His first reaction? Big, bright eyes flashing through his mask, and a fall to his knees at the sight of you snapping some criminal's neck.

Your first reaction? A sigh and a look that promised doom.

You, who were used to discipline and seriousness, couldn't understand how someone like him could be part of such an important operation. He had literally been one of the people who had saved the world from being dominated by a bunch of alien bugs.

He, for his part, looked at you as if you were the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life.

He smiled at you in that silly, genuine way that got on your nerves. He talked nonstop about things you didn't care about, his life as a vigilante, his intimate friendship with Peacemaker, his passion for birds.

“Did you know that owls can turn their heads all the way around?” he asked you one day while you were on patrol. “They can turn them like 270 degrees in a circle without moving their shoulders. Can you imagine if I could do that?”

You ignored him and kept looking through your binoculars. “I'm not in the mood to talk about birds, Adrian,” you said, your voice as cold as usual.

He didn't give up and tried to rotate his neck, very awkwardly due to his mask. “I could just rotate my neck like this and—”

“Adrian, please shut up,” you interrupted him, finally turning your head so you could look at him. “We have work to do. Stop being a fucking freak for a minute.”

He fell silent, and for a moment, you felt a little bad. But then you thought about all the times he had pissed you off, and you got over it. 

Still, it was strange. 

Despite your constant rejections, your constant unkind looks, he always came back. He always smiled at you. He always offered you one of his homemade cookies —which, much to your chagrin, were incredibly good.

He extended that extra special treatment to you and only you.

Adrian treated you as if you were the most important person in the world. And that, in a twisted way, made you feel like you were the freak in the situation. He adored you.

Although, deep down, you found him ridiculously cute. He was damn attractive when he shut his mouth and obeyed you in everything.

You would never accept it, of course.

Chris, on his part, tried way too hard to make you like him. Every time you guys hung out, he would mention how good of a friend Adrian was, how good he was at killing people, as if that would somehow impress you—which it did, of course—and how big his dick was.

He literally just mentioned it like that, without further explanation or any context, as if it were a piece of information you would be interested in knowing.

He took special care to pair you with Adrian for assignments, leave you alone together, send you to buy food for Eagly together. He was a kind of fucked-up Cupid.

“I don't need to know that,” you would say with disgust, trying very hard not to envision Adrian's dick.

And Chris would just nod his head, leaning in close to you as if he were revealing a top secret, “You need to know, dude. Honestly, I don't think Adrian likes sex that much. But his dick is big, I can assure you that.”

You didn't even want to know how he even knew that.

You didn't even like Adrian that way.

At least that's what you thought.

Until now.

You were on a regular night of surveillance; preventing a crime of some criminal gang that you had been tracking.

Everything was going well until the hallways filled with armed men, and a flurry of bullets struck near you. 

Before you could react, one of the masked men shot you in the shoulder.

You feel a sharp pain that shoots through your entire arm, and then blood began to flow.

“Shit!” you cry out, retreating.

Adrian, who had insisted —begged— to accompany you that night, turn around when he hears the scream. You can scarcely see how his eyes panic, desperately searching for you through all the chaos.

He moves faster than you had ever seen him move before.

Then, he throws himself on top of you, covering you with his body, and drags you to a safe corner behind a wall of boxes.

“You're bleeding!” he gasps, his voice tinged with panic.

The pain makes you grit your teeth and the way he looks at you knocks you off balance. “I'm fine, it's just a scratch.”

“It's not fucking a scratch!” he snaps, tearing off a piece of his suit to cover the wound. “You got fucking shot, Lynx!”

The use of your vigilante name makes you finally look at him, dragging your gaze away from your bleeding wound. You can see the concern in his eyes through his mask, and he doesn't have to take it off for you to know that his lips are pursed in a pout.

His touch is gentle and careful, which surprises you. The adrenaline prevents you from thinking clearly. You'd never imagine that Adrian would be so... gentle.

While he is bandaging your wound, another man peers down the hallway. Adrian pushes you further back. 

“Stay here!” he whispers, and without a second thought, he stands up to confront him.

The shooting intensifies and then you hear the sound of a chainsaw igniting, followed by a flood of screams of pain.

Just a couple of minutes later, Adrian appears in your field of vision, his suit covered in blood.

He looks so fucking hot that you couldn't even suppress the thought, in all the haze of hurt you are feeling.

“We have to get out of here,” Adrian claims, returning to your side. “you need a doctor.”

​You shook your head, the pain throbbing in your shoulder. “My car is a couple of blocks away. We can go there, but no doctors.”

He looks at you disapprovingly for a moment before sighing and help you up, supporting your weight against him. Together, you sneak out of the market, leaving the entire criminal gang slaughtered behind and the owner of the store with a horrified look on his face, calling the police.

When you reach your car, you struggle to open the door. Adrian gently pushes you aside and does it for you.

You sit in the passenger seat, feeling the sting in your shoulder with every movement.

“Where are we going?” Adrian asks, starting the engine right after you toss him the keys.

“My house,” you reply. It is the closest and safest option, although the idea of being alone with him makes you uneasy.

Adrian already knew your address, of course; he had been there several times, showing up with his homemade cookies, sometimes with new weapons to show you, and other times with clues about some criminal you were hunting.

The journey is silent, except for the sound of the engine, some Frank Sinatra album playing on the stereo and your ragged breathing. Adrian glances at you from time to time, his eyes displaying full concern once he takes off his mask and throws it on the back seat. You don't dare look at him directly, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and confusion.

“Frank Sinatra?” he inquires a in a teasing, incredulous tone, without looking at you. This time, it is you the one staring at him, at his side profile, the line of his strong jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his eyelashes barely brush his cheekbones with each blink. Looking at the undercut of his hairstyle makes your stomach turn. He certainly is so cute. “The most ruthless assassin I know listens to Frank Sinatra?”

He looked odd without his glasses, maybe even more gorgeous, which was ridiculously beyond belief that it was possible for him to be.

“I'm not a ruthless assassin,” you mumble, looking away from him and feeling your cheeks flush, suddenly hot all over. You assume it is because your body is starting to healing itself. Or at least that's what you want to believe. “And Sinatra is a classic.”

“He is, I guess.” Adrian snorts softly, looking at you for a couple of seconds before shifting his gaze back to the road ahead. “For old people.”

“What?” you ask, looking at him again, your eyes trailing over the bend of his nose from his side profile, feeling a heat spread up from the lower part of your belly as you picture all the things you could do with that nose. You clear your throat, trying to snap out of your trance and snap back to reality. “I’m not old.”

A smile curls on his lips as he turns his head to look at you again, his eyes gleaming under the subdued lights inside the car. His gaze is soft, and caring, and warm.

But even so, Adrian seems a little flustered and nervous, overwhelmed by your presence right next to him, your scent, your breath, your voice. You.

When you arrive at your house, he helps you walk up the stairs at the entrance, holding you firmly. Once inside, he guides you to the sofa, always holding you close to him and handling you with care, touching only the necessary parts. He does not allow his hand to wander.

“I'll go get the first aid kit,” he says, already moving toward the bathroom.

You lie back on the sofa, feeling tired and in pain. He returns with the first aid kit and kneels down in front of you, carefully opening the supplies.

He removes the makeshift bandage from his suit, his gaze fixed on the wound.

“I'm sorry,” he utters softly, with evident guilt in his voice. “If only I had been quicker...”

“Don't be silly,” you interrupt him, trying to keep yout voice quiet. “It wasn't your fault. And in fact, you prevented any more bullets from hitting me. So...” your voice trails off and you blush lightly, “you saved my life, Adrian.”

He looks you in the eyes, and for the first time, there is not a trace of his usual antics. Only concern and a tenderness that makes you feel vulnerable.

And he doesn't encounter the usual coldness and detachment in your gaze; no, this time he finds softness and closeness.

“And it's already healing. So don't be dramatic,” you add, trying to brush off the real gravity of everything you just said to him.

“Sometimes I forget you have those creepy powers,” he says softly, looking up at you from his spot right in front of your knees. “It’s so fucking cool... and scary as shit. And hot.”

Still, Adrian disinfects the wound with steady but gentle hands, bandaging it again with clean gauze. Every touch is delicate, every movement calculated. His closeness, his scent, his gaze, the soft expression on his face... everything blurs your mind and leaves you dizzy.

You feel vulnerable, but strangely safe by his side.

When he finish, his hands go down to your knees and linger there. The sheer heaviness of his touch and the way he looks at you as he kneels in front of you makes you gulp.

At that moment, you just know that his feelings for you are real. He really likes you. And he had put himself in danger to protect you.

A cold fear ran through you as you thought about what could have happened.

Suddenly, you realize you don't want to live in a world where you couldn't hear his off-key singing or his comments about birds.

“There you go,” he finishes treating your wound with a smile, his fingers caressing your collarbone before he pulls away from you.

Driven by a feeling you've never experienced before and profiting from his closeness, you take his chin in one hand, look him straight in the eyes, and kiss him.

Surprised, he just stands very still for a moment, then closes his eyes and kisses you back with a passion that makes you feel like you had never kissed anyone in your life.

Adrian kisses you as if he had been waiting and dreaming for this moment his whole lifetime.

When you separate from each other, Adrian's breathing is heavy, and yours isn't much better.

His thumbs caress your cheeks and his eyes drifts down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, with a silent question. He don't need to say it out loud really.

Adrian leans up again, close to you, this time deliberately slowly, his lips brush yours, his nose affectionately caressing yours, before deepening the kiss.

His kiss is hungrier now, more desperate. His hands moves from your cheeks to your waist, barely lifting himself up a little so he could be closer to you.

Both of you know it.

It isn't just a kiss; it is a declaration, a release of all the tension that had built up between you through all this time.

“This is only because you saved my life,” you whisper in between kisses, attempting to convince yourself more than him.

Adrian is ecstatic, kissing you as if there were no tomorrow, hungry and desperate, like a lion that had just been released from a cage.

A smile curved his lips, reddened from so many kisses, murmuring against your mouth, “I'll save you every fucking day then, if this is how you'll repay me.”

You try to suppress a smirk, your arms around his neck pulling him up, closer to you. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Shut me up,” he challenges you.

And you shut him up with a kiss, letting yourself be carried away by the thrill of the moment and your instincts, your body acting on its own, controlled by a carnal desire that you had tried so hard to suppress.

Until now.

“Let's go to my room.”

Adrian obeys instantly, picking you up as he stands up and carrying you to your room, without even taking his mouth off yours. It is the perfect excuse to press you against him, his hands running over your thighs and backside, grinding against you with every step he takes.

“Can I touch you everywhere?” he asks, desperate and pleading, detaching himself from you for just a moment, his hands holding you under your thighs, pressing you against him and making you feel the prominent bulge in his crotch.

“I thought you already are,” you reply, panting for air, your hands around his neck, your fingers lacing through his hair.

His voice lowers sheepishly, very uncharacteristically in him, “I'm a gentleman. Consent is very important.”

You offer him a little sincere smile, kissing him again, “Yes, Adrian. You can touch me everywhere.”

He gently lays you down on the bed, positioning himself directly above you, his lips moving down your jawline, pressing a wet trail of kisses across your neck.

“Fuck yeah,” he hisses against your skin, right after placing a love bite near the junction of your neck and shoulder—the one uninjured. “You don’t know how much I’ve dreamed of having you just like this.”

His mouth suck, his teeth nibble, his lips press kisses, claiming your skin as his own.

“You feel much better than any dream.”

“Adrian,” you moan out his name, arching your back as you feel his mouth reach your collarbone.

He pauses for a moment, lifting his head to look at you, allowing you to see his fully dilated pupils. “Can I take this off?”

You nod instantly, biting your lower lip.

His hands settle on the fabric of your suit on your chest, frantically opening it and tearing it apart, always careful not to cause further damage to your wound.

That makes you gasp.

“Adrian!” you disapprovingly shout his name.

But he is mesmerized by your tits, which bounce free once he ripped your suit open, your nipples perking up at the feel of the cool air in the room.

“Motherfucker,” he curses, leaning down further to kiss one of your breasts, making you sigh. “You're not wearing a bra under this suit?”

“No panties either,” you confess with a hiss, closing your eyes when you feel his wet tongue leisurely flick one of your nipples.

“You're such a freak,” he whispers against your skin, mesmerized. “You act like a good girl, but you're so bad, hm? You do bad things like this and still act like little Miss Perfect.”

You bite down on your lower lip, holding back a moan as he sucks on the nipple, his fingers playing with the other, giving both of your tits his undivided attention.

“Adrian...”

“If you keep saying my fucking name like that, I'm gonna cum,” he rasps against the warm skin between your breasts, moistening it with his saliva. 

He begins to descend further through your body, kissing your stomach, marking your skin with kisses, bites, and hickies. He is opening your suit as he roams your body, igniting your skin and sending shivers throughout your spine.

Adrian pulls your ruined suit down over your legs so he could remove it completely, taking advantage of the opportunity to kiss your knees and ankles before moving back up.

“Did you know this would happen?” he asks against the skin of your inner thigh, forcing your legs apart when you try to close them, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the way he looks down at you, adoringly. “Or you'd go for someone else?”

You try to smile through all the desire, offering him a crooked, lazy smile, “Don't be jealous.”

He gaze at you with eyes hazy with desire as he pulls himself up and begins to take off his suit with trembling, clumsy fingers.

“I'm not fucking jealous,” he mumbles, watching the way your eyes drift down his body, passing over the width of his shoulders, his pecs, his abs. 

“You're staring,” then he remarks the obvious, trying to conceal the way he puff out his chest to look even bigger. With the movement, a silver chain hanging around his neck shimmered under the dim light of the room.

“So are you,” you snap back in a broken whisper, feeling your cheeks flush. 

And of course you are cheking him out.

He is fucking ripped. 

And so big that even his bulge under the fabric of his white briefs looked massive once he strips off the lower part of his suit.

He is so hard that it looks painful.

So what you had been hearing was real, so fucking real.

“Can I eat you out?” Still, he asks, eager to make you feel good, as he shook his head, causing a couple of curls to fall messily across his forehead. “You're so fucking beautiful, holy shit. I need to taste you or I'll actually have a stroke.”

Adrian return to his position between your legs, his hands delicately caressing your thighs as he waits patiently for your response, your consent.

You look down at him with half-closed eyes, your head clouded by the desire to reach any kind of pleasure.

He is carefully placing your legs on his shoulders, staring in awe at your pussy, dripping wet and so ready for him, when you click your tongue, “Can you stop talking and just get to it, Chase?” 

“So mean even when I got you fucking-- dripping for me,” he quietly says, looking up at you once more just before nestling between your legs and leaning close to your cunt, his warm breath and the raspy tone of his voice makes you clench around nothing. And he just gawked, smiling as joyfully as if he were standing at the gates of heaven, wide open for him, “Pussy is so pretty too, look at her— fuck, you're soaking wet for me, baby"

The pet name makes you swoon and fucking fold. 

“Adrian—” 

Your voice chokes off as you feel his tongue trace your slit, scooping up all the arousal that is leaking out of your hole and savoring it as if it were the most delicious meal he had ever tasted in his entire life.

The sounds of his mouth slurping and licking your pussy flood the room, so filthy and messy that it makes you feel a heat wave from head to toe.

You can't control the way your body yields to him, as if your whole life had been longing just for this moment, as if tailor-made for him.

A righteous and sloppy suck on your clit has you promptly reduced to a trembling, whimpering mess.

One of your hands lands on his head, fingers sinking into his curly locks and pulling them, drawing a hoarse groan from deep within his throat.

The vibration against your cunt has you rolling your eyes back.

“You smell so good,” he hums into your splashing pussy, which is throbbing harder and faster, your heartbeat pulsing right against his lips. He can feel it. “Cum on my tongue, baby. I want to drink everything this pretty pussy has to give me—”

But your hand on his head tugs him back, detaching him from your clenching hole.

He looks up from between your legs with squinted eyes, his lips, drenched with your own arousal, curl into a pout.

He looks so pussy drunk and pathetic for you that you could cum just by watching him looking like that.

“Oh, baby, don’t be mean now—”

You interrupt him, your thumb lazily stroking curls away from his forehead, “I want to cum around your dick, Adrian.”

Your words leave him dumbstruck for a few seconds. And the next second, he's peeling off his briefs as fast as a flash, and the next he's climbing on top of you, nice and slow.

He leans down to kiss you, preventing you from staring in awe at his dick, now held in his own hand, so hard and angry red that it has you drooling, “Holy motherfuck, that has to be the hottest shit I’ve ever heard in my entire fucking life.”

“Put it in, Adrian,” you whine, begging for him, squeezing your eyes closed and arching your back for him, looking for any kind of friction that helps you gett off, “Please, baby—”

The pet name rolls off your tongue so naturally, lace with so much pleasure and warmth that it had an immediate effect on Adrian, who fucking whimpers, kissing your lips sloppily.

Even so, he has the strength to stop and look you in the eyes, all flustered, “I didn't bring any condoms— fuck”

“No? Why?” you ask in a choked, whiny voice.

He looks at you with a face that conveys puzzlement and hopelessness, “Because I’m on patrol. I’m supposed to be fighting, not fucking—”

You interrupt him again, kissing him once more and staring straight into his eyes, “Fuck me raw, Adrian. I don't care. But fuck me now.”

And he can actually feel himself melting against your body, you can sense how he's trembling right under your fingertips, squeezing his shoulders as he presses his forehead against yours.

He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your skin, pumping himself as he lines up the plump tip of his cock at your entrance, teasing it along the wet folds.

“I'll be gentle,” he promises, breathing shakily, though his hips tremble as if he might lose control at any second.

“Don't be,” you correct him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Fuck me. Hard.”

The growl he lets out when he hears you has something animalistic, primitive about it. Adrian finally pushes himself inside you with a slow but powerful movement,deeply carving a way into you.

“God, you're so tight...” he cries out, his eyes tightly shut, as if the pleasure is too much to process. He's only halfway inside your squeezing pussy. “So fucking warm— I'm gonna cum, damn it—”

“Don't even think about it,” you cut him off, digging your nails into his shoulders to force him to open his eyes and look at you. “Hold it for me, yeah?”

Your words set him on fire. Adrian begins to move, erratically at first, then with more force, each thrust slamming you against the bed. You you scratch his back, pull his hair, grasping any part of him you can hold on to, as the wet sound and rhythmic thrusts fill the room.

“So pretty...” he hiss in a broken voice, choking on his own whimpers and kissing you between each word, his hungry mouth tracing your neck and jaw, drooling on your skin. “So pretty for me— fuck, sweetheart.”

He's so dizzy with you, overwhelmed that everything is you, everything around him. Adrian is in love, thrusting into you with a force that makes you gasp, moving with raw desperation, as if his whole world depended on making you feel good. Your moans mingle with his panting, with the dull thuds of his skin against yours, with the creaking of the poor bed shaking under you.

Your legs squeeze him closer to you, trapping him inside, and when your nails dig into his back, Adrian almost splits the air in two with his broken moans.

“Can I— Can I cum n-now?” he asks like the good boy he is.

“Do it,” you whisper, already losing yourself on the edge of climax. “Cum for me, baby”

“W-where?”

“Inside,” you whine, frantically gasping for breath, feeling like the world is shrinking and slipping away from you with every thrust Adrian pushes into you, the tip of his cock hitting that spongy spot over and over. “Mhm! --Fill me up”

The rhythm becomes wild and brutal until your orgasm overwhelms you, making you cry out his name against his mouth. Your walls squeeze him tightly and Adrian can't hold back any longer, spilling inside you with an agonizing moan, torn apart by pleasure.

The sounds of your two fluids mixing inside you are so obscene that they make you tremble.

Adrian stays right there, trembling, and still cumming inside you, twitching occasionally, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing as if you had been running for your lives.

“Holy fuck, babe,” he groans, cracking his eyes open to look at you, a goofy, lazy smile curving his lips. “We made a fucking mess.”

Very carefully, he pulls out of you and your pussy squelches, gaping and oozing with your mixed cums.

“Look at that” he coos, lifting himself slightly off you so he can look down, gazing at your abused pussy in awe.

“Adrian—”

Too late, he already has one hand reaching down between your bodies, swiping his index finger through your folds, scooping up the fluids and plunging them back into your cunt, making you pant from the overstimulation.

When he makes sure that not a single drop of his cum is wasted outside of you, he brings his hand back up, holding it to his mouth to savor the remains left on his finger, making eye contact with you as he sucks his index finger.

“Delicious” he delights, leaning down to kiss you, making you savor the mixture of the two of you together through his lips.

“You're so weird,” you whisper against his mouth, kissing him again.

Adrian flops down next to you on the bed, letting out a sigh he had been holding in his lungs.

“And yet my cum is still inside you,” he replies, smiling contentedly. His smile suddenly fades, as if he's come back to reality. “Wait, can you get pregnant from this?”

You snort softly at his worried face, your hand gently brushing his still-flushed cheek.

“People usually get pregnant like this,” he nuzzles close to your caress, looking at you in awe as you talk. “That’s why you have to go to the pharmacy and buy me the Plan B pill.”

“Did you know that swans mate for life?” he asks afterwards, out of fucking nowhere, pressing a soft kiss on your fingers cradling his cheek as he snuggles closer to you. “And that they die of love if their partner dies?”

“What’s your point?” you inquire back, looking at him with curious, gentle eyes.

It's the first time you are showing genuine interest in his bird facts. And he is so happy he could burst with excitement.

“We're like swans, babe,” Adrian replies in an obvious tone, affectionately intertwining his feet with yours. “Well, at least I feel like a swan. If you left me after this, I'd kill myself.”

[fluoresensitives]

Women stick thin and malnourished on the red carpet, and people are saying you can't point out that these women are dying because that's body shaming. Girl.

[doctordaemon]

@whitenikes

[livelyspaghetti-blog]

When I tell people to delete anon hate, to not publish it, it’s not me saying “ignore it and it’ll stop; don’t fight back.” It is 100% petty and spiteful. Honestly, I can’t think of anything better than the person who sent the hate obsessively checking your blog and refreshing and refreshing, waiting for you to reply, and getting increasingly frustrated when the ask they so masterfully crafted never pops up & you just keep posting cute pictures of your pets and talking about how nice your day was.

[crucifem]

18+ mdni.

Thinks about...Gentlemen!James Bucky Barnes. . .

James who crosses his hands behind his back everytime he kisses you. Leaning down to press the softest little kiss against your mouth that leaves you aching for more.

James who always ties your shoes or straps your heels on. Always kissing your foot and up your shin to your knee—even if you have jeans on.

James who always opens the car door, any door really, ushering you with a soft hand on the dip of your back.

James who brushes your hair whenever he can—loving having your hair in his hands, scratching at your scalp with the brush and watching your shoulders relax.

James who takes it so painfully slow when he's sliding your clothes off. Making sure to kiss and touch every ounce of skin—nothing goes untouched.

James who is always soft with you in bed, you're too beautiful to cause wreckage and harm to. Though if you beg him enough he might indulge in a rougher scene so to say...

James who eats you out like it's all he needs to survive. He doesn't care if he can't breathe he doesn't care if you're self conscious or nervous—he just needs you, your scent, your energy he craves it all.

James who's fingers never leave your core, either on your clit or inside. He'll even commonly just have his hand down your pants while lounging to trace onto your pubic bone. even better if you have hair he'll sometimes just mess with it like he's petting a cat.

James who always makes your pleasure a priority.

[wannabeluvr]

adrian being so deeply whipped by you to the point where he can never stop talking! ✩‧₊ 𝜗𝜚

cw: fem!reader, light PiV smut! slightly pervy adrian (if you squint) minors and ageless blogs dni!!!

“does he have an off button?” an initial thought of yours that promptly became a consistent conviction. the guy just couldn’t shut up. with Adrian, the accustomed “hi,” or “morning!” fabricated into a string of unintelligible words, desperate for conversation. There’d be compliments, random ones like “has that shirt always been that form fitting?” or whatever other weird shit he could come up with before you parted ways, leaving him alone only with the appreciativeness that you fled the scene before he could inadvertently sputter something disgusting. perhaps like the frequent shameful idea etched in his brain of his dick fucking your cum covered tits and your mouth wrapped around his leaking tip.

silent car rides in his sebring would immediately be filled by irrelevant conversation. he’d pester you about something he saw on National Geographic last night and practically beg you to quiz him on his knowledge. this week it’s birds.

“i’m serious! i’m like a freak when it comes to this stuff, go ahead.”

even after a million variations of “thanks, but i’m good adrian” you could always tell when he was still just itching to say something as he continuously adjusted himself. little did you know it was admittedly because of how painfully hard you made him with the amount of times you spoke his name, surpassing the count of times he pictured you breathlessly bouncing on his cock in his car.

and to Adrian’s surprise, when you finally do give him the time of day, he found himself still uncontrollably prattling. pretty praises slurring from his lips as he pounded into you.

“you kinda—fuck—remind me of a Barred owl—they squeeze the shit outta their prey.”

unlike him you can only whine in return, face smushed against your drool covered pillow sheets, your brain only filled with thoughts of him balls deep inside you, dumb in comparison as he bottomed out.

“and their eyes —fuuuck—you’re making a mess all over me baby—they’re actually tubes it’s fucking insane.”

౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ 𝜗𝜚 ✩‧₊ ౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ 𝜗𝜚✩‧₊ ౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ 𝜗𝜚

[cafeconmota]

Hehehehehehot

[doechiisource]

DOECHII ready to perform at Asuncionico Festival in Paraguay (2026)

[maiamore]

know how some pet owners 'clicker-train' their pets? drawing a sound that they recognise and then rewarding them right after?

yeah clark kent is one-hundred-percent clicker-trained by his bossy, needy girlfriend.

starts off small, at the disgruntled sigh you give that often indicates something wasn't going right. he would be there in seconds, coming to your aid. need more references? he's elbow deep in archival boxes. printer empty? clark's already behind you with stack of fresh papers in his arms.

he lives to please you. so it's only fair that you reward him.

two taps of your manicured fingernails on his desk, and he shoots right up. if he had a tail, it would be wagging and hitting everyones knick-knacks off their cubicle.

fire-escape stairwell, supply closet, handicapped restroom — he didn't care wherever it was. clark kent simply waits patiently for you to say the words 'c'mere big guy', before he's hoisting you onto the nearest surface.

[cafeconmota]

Ugh I wishhhhh

[maiamore]

you greet clark with a handjob after he has a tiring day

tags: pwp, smut, showers, handjobs, m!receiving orgasm, tired!clark (900+ wc)

—

you don't realise clark had come home until you hear the water running.

it was odd for him not to greet you first. not to come over to the couch, peel ma's knitted blanket off your body, and smother you with kisses.

something must've been wrong.

curiously, you warily push past the half-opened door to the master bathroom. vaguely, you're able to make out a sillouhette, that could only be clark's. (or some other six-foot-four intruder.)

"babe?"

when there's no answer, you call out for him louder. only then do you hear the water stop.

you frown at the lack of response, slowly pushing past the heavily fogged glass partition. "…are you alright?" dark, rust coloured water has pooled beneath his feet, his shoulders tense from shallow breaths.

clark doesn't seem alarmed at your presence, not turning over to look over his shoulders, "yeah."

running water fills the tense silence, and before you relent to give him some space, he speaks up in a hoarse tone, "m'just tired. is all."

you're stepping past the threshold, a palm pressed against his bicep to quickly turn him. thankfully, he didnt have any visible wounds aside from the grime and mud that collected. "oh honey…you're all filthy…"

there's no bite to your tone when you squeeze out a decent amount of soap to your palms. deep blue eyes tracking how you've activated the suds in your smaller palms.

his shoulders relaxes at the lather of coconut and vanilla leaving his shoulders and arms all foamy. he drags a gaze over your figure, particularly at your sweats that have now gotten wet, along with your top. "you don't have to do this."

"turn around for me?" you interrupt.

clark knew better than to fight you, especially when you sounded this determined. he sluggishly turns, his fisted hands resting against the glass.

he remains quiet for the most part, tense exhales filling the already humid space. you carefully slide your palms up his ribs, gently scrubbing away any of the healed over wounds he might've gotten throughout the day. they glide past his chest, and down his soft belly.

“you know you can lean on me, right?”

"i know — i'm not injured, or anything."

"you don't have to visibly injured for you to need me. jesus."

clark fully senses the disgruntled tone you say that with, nodding to himself. he knew that, yet, he didn't want to subject you with another thing to have to deal with, given your line of work.

"i get that," he bites back, "i jus' — …!"

his breath stutters, when he feels your nails graze his navel.

"…sweetheart…you don't need t —"

"shhh."

you're met with the jolt of his back at the press of your lips to colder skin. It relaxes, as you venture lower. "let me take care of you?"

his throat bobs with effort, a gravelly 'mhm' rumbling from deep within his chest. you trace the rigid spine of his back, all while the tips of your fingers smearing the trail of hair leading down his chest to his happy trail.

it'd almost been reminiscent of a comforting massage, if not for the persistent nudge of his hard cock, threatening to stiffen if you'd even touched him.

after you'd gotten him sufficiently worked up to your liking, you give him the attention he needed. clark lets out a low grunt the second your palms curl at the base of his length. it pulses in your hold, and turns rigid to touch.

"mmhm. tell me what you need?" you whisper softly, to which he bucks into your hold.

"you're doing good." he manages in a tight breath, "little tighter…"

you comply as requested, squeezing him with more pressure, pumping him slowly. he's quickly nudging his hips, slightly at first, then begins to rock his hips to the pace you've set.

"ah — …" he's grunting louder and louder at each of your strokes, the sounds of his voice echoing embarrassingly loudly, though the sounds of still running water dulls the noise. it's seen in the manner the tips of his ears have turned pink, trying not to let it show just how badly he needed this.

a release, any release would've sufficed, and ever nerve ending of his was being lit on fire. clumsily, his hand snaps out to turn the water off, and you've only just realised how wanton and pitchy his voice was getting.

"there, harder baby — ah… shit."

his voice wraps around you, further stoking your own arousal, that was growing increasingly damp between you thighs. "okay…are you close?…"

"m-mhm."

his voice teeters on pitchy, short, quick pants, paired with the haphazard manner you've begun to milk his cock has him unravel much faster than normal, "sweetheart — ah, m'gonna —"

your fingers form a tight ring, just beneath the head of his cock, jerking in hard and quickly until his hips tense, jolting with strained, loud, whines. thick, creamy white spurts all over the adjacent wall, the rest of his spend, bubbling over your knuckles, as you pump him lazily.

clark's hand tugs you off when he feels he's far too sensitive to touch, turning you around swiftly with a dazed expression.

his eyes are completely glazed over, cheeks flushed with the dizzy orgasm you'd subjected him to. "i don't deserve you. gosh." they're mostly mutters, and you feel water run down your cum slick palms, that clark washes off, in the same coconut-scented soap you'd so generously cleaned him with.

you tip your head up, flashing him a wide smile when he meets your gaze properly.

"hi, baby."

clark exhales, then shakes his head with a reluctant, lop-sided smile before pulling you into his chest.

"i'm home." he humours, with the familiar, routine words you'd normally greet him with.

[cafeconmota]

🙂‍↕️

[theworstwolvie]

you love me, love me?

summary: clark gets a pretty big confession out of you only one month into your relationship. did it have to be while he had your face pressed in your pillows?

galentine's day 10 prompt: accidental "i love you"

CWs: 18+, mdni!!!!!! explicit sexual content, fem!reader x clark kent, clark's got a dirty mouth, doggy + missionary, no use of y/n, use of pet names, established relationship, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, folks!), pussy pronouns, sudden love confessions, some kissing, reader already knows he's superman, size kink if you squint? i think that's it!

word count: a little over 1.2k!

author's note: this one is short and sweet, straight to the POINT!!! i hope u all enjoy, my darling house guests <3 leave me a comment/reblog reply if you do!!!

galentine's series masterlist!

“That’s it, honey. There’s my good girl,” Clark coos as his fingers curl around your hips when he sinks into you from behind. The pads of his fingers threaten to tattoo themselves in your skin, his grip almost as scorching hot as the stretch of his thick cock splitting you in two right now.

“Greedy little thing. She’s sucking me right in.” 

Your mouth falls open as you try to come up with words to respond, but your brain betrays you. Instead, you push out a loud moan—one spawning from his filthy comments—that gets muffled by the pillow your face is pressed into. Clark chuckles and rubs soft, slow circles on your hips with his thumbs.

“Love it when you make those pretty noises for me, sweetheart.”

He leans down and presses a few hot, open-mouthed kisses onto your shoulder and back, allowing him to push deeper into you with the new angle. You couldn’t have held back the whimper flying out of your throat if you tried. 

“Clark,” you cry out, pushing your ass against his pelvis and somehow getting him to go even deeper. “Feels—Feels s’good!”

Clark hums. The vibration from his lips sends a shockwave down your spine. His proud, cocky smirk on your skin, though? That has you clenching around him already. He groans as soon as your plush walls tighten like a vice and pulls away, straightening up and tilting his head back a little. 

“Goodness. M’not even moving and she’s already squeezing the life outta me. You needed me that bad, baby?” 

You reach behind you and grab onto one of his hands, the other attaching to your bedsheets. Your nails dig into his skin and you blabber something you don’t even remember, an almost unintelligible plea for him to start moving those perfect hips. Clark happily obliges, pulling out of you almost completely before he sinks right back in. Clearly, you’re not the only impatient one here. 

Each thrust of his hips is borderline obscene. Deep, slow, a little rough. Skin slapping against skin. Your wetness echoing throughout the room as it drips down and spills all over your own thighs with each of Clark’s movements. The best of it all, though? The filth he’s committed to spewing into your ears while he pistons his cock in and out of you.

After a particularly tight, involuntary clenching of your walls around him, he hisses and stills his hips. His hold on you strengthens, his voice unfaltering when he mutters, “So tight. She’s taking me so well that I’m starting to think she was made just for me.”

The ache in your throat from all the noise you’ve been making tonight is unbearable; it gets even worse when you scream out a moan from his dirty words. He starts thrusting into you again, one hand pressing against the arch in your back so he can get deeper and slam the tip of his cock against that sweet spot only he can reach. Your thighs start to tremble, nails attempting to claw at the steel-like skin on the back of his hand. You don’t make a mark on it, though. You never can. That’s why being so rough with him feels so damn good. 

You struggle to convince yourself that you haven’t came already. It’s hard to believe when you feel so good and you’re making a mess all over yourself, the sheets, and Clark at the same time. Each intoxicating drag of his cock in and out of you produces a lewd, loud squelch that tells you—and your lovely, adoring boyfriend—that this might just be the best night of your life.  

“Gosh, honey…you hear that? She’s singing for me. Sounds so pretty,” he pants. Your face burns hot, humiliation and overexertion getting to you. If you had the ability to speak, you’d fuss at him.

He shifts again; this time, he’s bending forward, his massive body pressing against your back while he picks up the pace of his thrusts. 

His brute force is methodical in a way. He knows the exact amount of strength he needs to use in order to fuck your brains out but keep you from being immobile in the morning. He knows how much of his weight you can handle on top of you, and how fast you like him to move, and how you love when his hands caress your body. It’s the most beautiful softness to contrast his rough thrusts, and it’s just what you need. 

You’ve never felt more secure in your entire life.

So, despite the fact that you’ve only been together a month, you blurt out three little words:

“I love you!”

It’s more of a squeal, maybe a little bit of a moan; the one thing that’s true, though, is that it was completely out of your control. Came from deep within you, pushed straight out of your chest as if it came directly from the heart. It stood no chance at hiding in the shadows of your subconscious anymore. Not with Clark Kent’s weight, his heat, on you and inside of you. 

Clark stills. Your confession hangs in the air, an unaddressed elephant in the room that you don’t exactly want to address. He pushes his hands into the pillows on the sides of your head, breathing steady as ever right next to your ear. 

“You…what was that?” 

You wish you could say you were too fucked out to respond to him. Instead, you’re painfully aware of yourself. Of what you just said. Of how you might have just messed everything up right now. You bury your face in the pillow and shake your head. 

“Nothing, just—just keep going,” you whine, hips rolling back against his so you can get a taste of the friction he just ripped away from you when he put those thrusts on pause. 

“No, you…” he trails off. Wraps one arm around your waist to stop you from moving. Brushes off the frustrated groan that you give him when he prevents you from getting what you want. 

“You love me?” he asks, quietly, softly, hopefully. Then he pulls out of you. In the blink of an eye, he’s got you flipped over onto your back on the mattress. For the first time since you stumbled into your room with him, you’re looking into his eyes. You didn’t think it’d be possible for the burn in your face to get worse, but here you are, basically on fire. 

“Like, you love me, love me?” 

You wrap your arms around his neck and tangle your fingers in his hair. His thick, dark, curly hair that you fell in love with the first second you saw it. 

Much like the way you fell in love with him the first time you saw him. 

You sigh in defeat. Smile up at him with a sheepish little grin and lean up to kiss him. The featherlight kiss lingers, leaving a soft tingle on your lips when you pull back. 

“Of course I do, Clark.” 

“I love you, too,” he purrs. The smile on his face is contagious. You find yourself sharing it with him, then kissing him once more while he wraps your legs around his waist. 

“Let me show you just how much I love you, honey.” 

taglist: @clarkscolumn @luvekent @tooloudarts @anon-188 @middleofmiami @angelkisscherie @clarknsun @pinksplace @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @neeeed-y @wildflowersandvibranium

[cafeconmota]

Cuuuuuuuteeeeee

[crotalusruber]

i need everyone to look at this dog that came to the state park today

[sweetseaswallowme]

no one noticed

pairing: mcu!peter parker x reader (before dating)

summary: after you spend a lonely night of drinking, peter grows concerned and comes looking for you.

themes: emotional hurt/comfort

warnings: alcohol consumption, excessive drinking, sort of depressing thoughts on the reader’s behalf?

word count: 3.2k

song: no one noticed by the marías – not based on the song, but i found it fitting

my masterlist <3

You were growing increasingly desperate for a form of fun. You couldn’t remember the last time you had properly hung out with anyone. You saw your friends at school, but since you had very few classes together, you only got to hang out during break times. And given it was prime-assignment time, most of the breaks were spent with people going to the library. Tonight, Ned was at a family dinner, you had just about no idea what MJ was doing, Peter was patrolling, and all your other school friends were not replying to your messages. On top of that, each of your parents was away on some business trip, meaning you were really, truly alone.

You sat at your desk, the blue light of your laptop burning your eyes as you stared at the blank document in front of you. You leaned backwards in your chair, picking up your phone for the umpteenth time to see if you had missed a message from anyone.

Upon seeing you had none, you rolled your eyes and threw your phone at your bed positioned behind you. Turning back to your Word document, you began to type.

“The biopsychosocial model explores the biogvaeyufodsgiy89u[0-’;,.w.” you groaned, resting your head on the keyboard that was now typing absolute gibberish. Exasperated, you shut your laptop before jumping onto your bed.

Still no notifications.

Growing incredibly desperate for a form of socialisation, you sent a quick text to one of your school friends you considered yourself to be close with.

“r u free soon???” you typed out, internally despising yourself for coming off so desperate.

You knew her well enough to know you wouldn’t get a reply for at least a couple of hours, throwing your phone back onto the bed as you began to look around your room. Your fingers nimbly slid over the books across your bookshelf before the glint of glass caught your eye. Behind the books lay a glass bottle, the label worn and faded, but you were certain it was some form of alcohol. You had hidden it there after a night out with your friends and completely forgotten about it.

Before giving it much thought, you heedlessly grabbed the bottle, spinning the cap until it popped off. Feeling giddy at the mere thought of the alcohol, you touched your lips to the bottle, the stench of alcohol burning your nose. Leaving little time for consideration, you rashly took a gulp. Then another, and another and just one more until you felt the burning warmth in your stomach.

Slightly gagging at the rough taste that lingered on your tongue, you grasped the bottle of Raspberry Coke from your desk. As you swallowed the Coke, you checked your phone yet again, seeing absolutely no messages, which shouldn’t have surprised you at this point. It was then that you remembered the park just down the street. The time read 12:23am, but the alcohol was beginning to have an effect on you, leading to you deciding that now was the perfect time to go on the swings. Thrilled with yourself for thinking of the idea, you messily changed your clothes into something you deemed presentable as you gulped more alcohol from the bottle. The awful taste of the alcohol was barely registering anymore, making drinking from the bottle all the more fun.

As you pranced out of your room, clumsily twirling around as your jacket slipped off your shoulders. You hummed a song, slipping in and out of mumbling the words between hums. Taking a final swig, you shoved the bottle in your tote bag and roughly grabbed the keys off the kitchen counter before leaving the apartment.

The hallway was eerily quiet, all doors shut, and each apartment silent. You opted for the stairs, deciding the elevator would simply take far too long. You very nearly fell right down the stairs as you attempted to skip down the stairs. Finally reaching the ground floor, you pranced outside gracelessly without turning back.

The icy air harshly hit your skin, feeling as though your skin was being pinched and pulled. You grabbed the bottle from your bag and began to eagerly gulp the alcohol as though it would protect you from the cold.

The streetlights glowed down on you as if they were a spotlight, amber light illuminating the puddles of rainwater on the street. Deciding it was simply too beautiful to ignore, you fumbled around your pocket until you felt your phone.

You quickly pulled out your phone and began to squint with one of your eyes as if you were a professional photographer. Clumsily clutching at your phone, you took a photo of the puddle, attempting to capture the supposed beauty of the light’s illumination.

Unfortunately, you zoomed out to a point where the only focus was the grey footpath slick in the rain. Much to your oblivion, the photo was a blurry mess. This was unsurprising, considering you had not stopped incessantly swaying since taking your first gulps of the alcohol.

Admiring your masterpiece as you walked, you sent it to Peter with a smug grin, proud to show off that you could have fun whether he was with you or not. What’s so wrong with being alone?

You hastily pushed your phone back into the pocket of your skirt that you stupidly decided to wear despite it being the middle of winter. You took a swig from the bottle you had now deemed to be your best and only friend as you reached the playground.

Finding the gate to be significantly too much of a struggle, you heaved yourself over the relatively low fence, falling into the bark below. Much to your delight, you located the swings and paraded over to them.

You quickly found that swinging and drinking simultaneously was quite the struggle and resulted in the alcohol falling onto you more than into your mouth.

Distracted, you neglected to realise the number of texts coming through your phone from Peter, who had seen the mess of a photo and was growing concerned as to why you had sent it to him with absolutely no context.

Giving up on the swings, you climbed up the stairs leading to the top of the slide. It was then that you saw Peter’s name lighting up your screen. You laughed to yourself at the idea of him asking to come join you after ditching you for his patrol.

You sat atop the slide with the bottle held between your legs, as you attempted to pick up the call.

“Y/n?” Peter asked, his voice pinched with anxiety.

“Hi, Petey.” You slurred. “How’s your patrol?”

You rolled your eyes and fiddled with your hair as you awaited his response.

“Where are you, Y/n? Are you okay?” Peter asked, ignoring your question.

“I’m fine, I’m having some fun by myself, thank you very much!”

“Are you at home?” Peter’s voice was laced with concern, so much so that you could practically picture his furrowed eyebrows and sad brown eyes.

“I’ve gone for a walk. We should go on swings more often, Peter. They’re good fun.” You garbled, eyes beginning to grow weary.

Peter paused for a second, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

“Have you been drinking?” He asked, his voice quiet.

You pinched your pointer finger and thumb together as though to indicate a small bit. Realising he maybe couldn’t see that through the phone, you answered.

“Maybe a little bit. What’s it matter to you anyway? You’re too busy patrolling.” You over-enunciated.

“Y/-,” Peter started, growing concerned.

“I’ve gotta go, I’m incredibly busy.” You interrupted. “Byebye, Spidey!”

And with that, you ended the call. Feeling pleased with yourself for showing him how unbothered you were for over him being too busy for you, you clutched the bottle and slid down the slide.

You landed in a muddled heap on the floor, bark intertwining with your hair and clinging to your jacket. You hugged the bottle against your chest as though it were a delicate little baby you needed to care for. Feeling incredibly dizzy to the point you believed standing up may be impossible at this point, you decided to remain lying on the floor, looking up at the stars sprinkled across the navy sky.

Unbeknownst to you, Peter was swinging across the city like a maniac in an attempt to find you before you got hurt. He was already deeply concerned to know you were out late alone, but the fact that you were drunk just worsened it. At least if you were sober, he would have been able to talk to you properly. But being drunk while out alone in the middle of the night was a terrifying combination that had Peter trying to internally calm himself down so he could stop shaking so violently.

You had only moved into your apartment recently, so he knew neither of were entirely used to the area just yet. Thankfully, he remembered there was a park nearby that you had excitedly insisted on Peter coming with you to test out the swings.

He was hoping this was where you had gone to, and worried what he could do if that wasn’t the case. He considered whether he would be able to ask Tony to track your phone.

Swinging over the fence and arriving at the park in a hasty mess, he ripped his mask off. Anxiously combing his fingers through his curls, he called out your name hurriedly.

“Y/n, if you’re here, please, please, please say something,” He begged, wringing his mask in between his hands as he looked around the seemingly abandoned playground.

You groaned as you attempted to push yourself up from your position sprawled across the floor.

“Pete?” You murmured, your voice raspy and quiet.

The relief that flooded through him after finding you was immediately drained when he noticed the state you were in. Your hair was tangled, and your eyes were bloodshot as you looked over at him with a frown.

“Hey-,” Peter’s voice was low, quiet and cautious. “Hey, Y/n/n. What are you doing here?”

You sighed, the initial thrill of the alcohol was rapidly draining as a wave of depression washed over you — cold and unwelcoming. Feeling defeated and miserable, you nibbled at your lip in an attempt to hold back the tears that had come to your eyes.

“I don’t know.”

Peter felt a part of him break at hearing how small your voice was, laced with sadness. Peter hurried over to you, his hand reached out to help you sit up. Your head was downturned, and your bloodshot eyes were hazy and unfocused in a way that made Peter even more concerned.

“Has something happened?” He pried apprehensively.

This elicited a deep sigh from you, heavy and pointed.

“Of course you don’t know if anything’s happened, Petey,” you nearly spat his nickname out. “You’ve got no idea what’s going on in my life. You’re never around.”

Peter bit his cheek, starting to get an idea of why you were behaving this way.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around more,” Peter said.

His voice was soft, delicate, as if he feared how you’d react.

“It’s not just you, it’s everyone,” you garbled. “No one’s ever around.”

“I’ll be better, I’ll be around so much you get sick of me,” Peter insisted, eyes wildly scanning your face to see if you registered anything he was saying.

“You always say that,” you sighed, sinking back into the floor.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know,” he dipped his head in shame. “I promise you, I won’t ever do this to you again.”

His tone was begging, desperate and laced with worried.

While he tried his hardest to contain it, he could feel a tear slip from his eye and race down his cheek. With a quick wipe at his cheek, it was gone. He refused to let your sadness be overshadowed by his.

“I promise you, Y/n. Never again,” he clutched your hand, gently shaking it to try and get you to focus.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled weakly, leaning into him.

“Hey, you’ve done nothing wrong,” he assured you. “Well, maybe tonight wasn’t filled with your best decisions, but none of the emotions or feelings can be blamed on you.”

“Thank you for getting me,” you spoke.

“Always, always Y/n,” he insisted, his tone sickly sweet.

After a beat of silence, Peter gave your hand another squeeze.

“Let’s go back to your apartment,” Peter murmured, his eyebrows frowning with concern.

“Are you prep-pro-propositioning me, Petey?” You attempted to joke as you stumbled through the words. “Ya know… I reckon I must’ve heard that you aren’t meant to do that when someone’s drunk.”

Peter coughed back a laugh.

“No, not tonight at least,” Peter joked, although he was being partly honest. “I meant so you could go to sleep.”

“Are you staying?” You widened your eyes as you looked at the three Peters that appeared in front of you.

Forcing your eyes to focus, it was back to just the one.

The one, concerned and awkward but ever so lovely Peter.

“I’ll stay with you,” Peter spoke, his voice soft. “I’ll just sleep on the couch or the floor.”

You hummed absentmindedly in response.

You could faintly feel the smooth fabric of Peter’s suit on your arm as he tried to secure a hold of you. It appeared his apology hadn’t assisted in making you sober up.

As he pulled you off the floor, his brows furrowed with concern. You stood limply, as though you would fall if not for Peter clutching you tightly. He bit the inside of his cheek as he pulled your body closer to him, letting you lean your weight onto him. He held you up, guiding you as the two of you walked towards the park’s gate.

Your cheeks felt warm, yet your fingertips were painfully cold, and you were subconsciously aware of how your teeth were madly chattering.

“I’m sorry, Peter.” You murmured, your words still slurring together.

“It’s okay.” He responded as he fumbled with the gate’s entrance. “I understand.”

You allowed Peter to guide you through the exit as you struggled to keep your eyes open. You were struggling to keep your eyes open and had very little understanding of your surroundings. Thankfully, Peter was well aware and carefully guided you back home.

˚✶⋆. .⋆✶˚

Neither of you had spoken on your way home. Peter was too distracted to say anything; a million thoughts were rushing through his head as he desperately tried to figure out what was going on with you. Meanwhile, your focus had been drawn to clinging tightly to Peter’s arm and desperately trying not to fall or throw up.

After a long walk consisting of a significant amount of stumbling, you and Peter had finally made it to your apartment. Locking the door behind him, he guided you over to your bedroom. This proved to be more difficult than he had anticipated, as you were simultaneously trying to tug your shoes off.

Pick your shoes up off the floor as he followed you to your room, Peter attempted to guide you to your bedroom, where you immediately flopped onto the bed.

He looked at you for a moment, trying to decide what to do from here.

He was pretty sure you’d rather be in pyjamas, but he felt a bit odd changing your clothes.

He was very certain he should at least get you water, though, maybe put some Asprin on your bedside table for the next morning.

You groaned as you turned over in your mattress, lying on your back.

“Hey, uh– maybe let’s lie on our side,” Peter hurried, reaching for your body as he attempted to turn you to the side. “It’s unsafe on your back.”

You tossed out a hand lazily, waving him off, which caused Peter to frown.

Nervous to leave you alone, he looked around your room for a water bottle until he found a metal one with the Avengers’ label displayed across its middle. He shook it lightly, and the sound of ice clicking against the metal indicated the water was cold.

He brought it over to you as he gently pulled your body up to a sitting position. Your posture was slumped, and your head was hung forward, but it was better than nothing, Peter assured himself.

“Here, have some water before bed,” he insisted, holding the water bottle to your lips. “A couple of gulps, please.”

You obediently swallowed some water, some drops occasionally slipping out of your mouth.

“Thank you,” Peter said after you finished drinking the water. “Do you uh– wanna get changed?”

He wasn’t sure if this was an okay thing to offer a girl who was drunk, but he felt so uncertain of what to do that he was sure this was the only option.

You nodded slowly, eyes falling closed.

“Okay, right. Okay,” Peter mumbled to himself as he tried to think of what to do.

Knowing you kept your pyjamas behind your pillow, he reached behind your pillow to fetch the neatly folded clothes. He paid special attention to keeping his hand holding yours so he could keep you stable.

“Here, how about you change yourself?” he offered with a nervous smile. “I’ll just turn my back, okay?”

You silently nodded your head, drunkenly grabbing onto the clothes Peter held in front of you. Turning away, Peter gave you time to change your clothes. While he couldn’t see, based on the sounds made, he was pretty sure you weren’t doing a very good job of it.

“Done,” you slurred, slumping back onto the bed.

Turning back to face you, Peter scanned you to see that you had done a reasonably okay job at changing yourself. One pant leg was tucked into your sock, though, so he reached down and gently pulled it free, allowing the hem to loosely float around your ankle.

“Good job,” Peter murmured.

Pulling the quilt and sheets back, Peter readied the bed for your weary form. Eager for sleep, you moved yourself into the space Peter had made for you. Swiftly, Peter covered you back up with the quilt and tucked you in.

“There’s water and Aspirin on your bedside table,” he softly whispered.

You nodded and incoherantly mumbled a response that Peter assumed to mean ‘thank you’. Pleased you were safely in bed, Peter moved your desk bin beside your bed (just in case) and flicked off the light switch.

“Come to sleep, Pete,” you mumbled.

“I can’t,” he breathed. “Any other night, I will, but I can’t when you’re drunk. I’m sorry.”

You frowned but nodded, eyes still shut.

“Just please don’t leave, at least.”

“Of course not.” He reassured you.

And he didn’t leave.

After fetching his own change of clothes (borrowed from you, of course) and changing in the bathroom, he went to the small armchair in the corner of your room and sat down. He tucked himself into a ball so he could comfortably fit. It was tight, but the chair was soft and velvety, which made it at least bearable. Truth be told, he would’ve slept on the floor if he needed to.

Taking one final glance at your resting frame, he allowed his eyes to close and for his body to finally relax with one thought on repeat in his mind: Never leave her again.

And he didn’t.

[cafeconmota]

Cute