hey!! thanks for being on my blog!!! you can call me either s1mp or rain!!! (they/them) [genderfluid] full-time college student studying physics!! NSFW blog!! minors dni!!!
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Steve's dad being an asshole and at some point in his life saying to Steve, "I hope one day you have a kid just like you so you can finally know the disappointment you are to me."
Years later, as Eddie and Steve watch their newborn daughter sleep in her crib the first night they bring her home, Eddie holds him lovingly and says, "I hope she grows up to be just like you, baby. She's gonna be the sweetest kid."
Eddie has no idea why Steve started to cry, but he holds his husband anyway and doesn't let go.
Steddie where Steve's dad hears about his son's weird codependent friendship with Al Munson's boy and thinks the two of them have been fooling around in secret. The man gets pissed.
He drives back home and demands Steve break things off with the Munson kid.
Steve gets pissed.
"I'm not gonna break things off, I love him!!" Steve yells before he stomps out through the door and drives away without looking back.
A few minutes later he's at the Munson's. Steve doesn't even bother with knocking, Wayne's more than used to his presence by now, so he just opens the door and go straight to Eddie's room.
"My dad thinks we are dating and demanded that I break things off with you, but I refused and told him I loved you. Do you wanna date me just to piss him off?"
Eddie, who had been stuffing his face with chips as he read some comics in his bed, shrugs. "Do I get to touch your tits?"
"They are not tits!"
"Do I get to touch them anyway?"
"I guess that's reasonable dating behavior, so yes."
"Okay." Eddie puts down the comic book and wipes his hands on his pants. "Now take off your shirt and come here."
crazy thought, what if reader came back as something like tomie in ‘nightly swim’ 😝 it would be crazy tbh, tomie died in a similar way i think.
That's such a good idea though!!! I never actually read/watched 'Tomie' but I did a little research on it. I also added my own twist to it! It honestly sounds perfect for a second part of 'Nightly Swim'! Thanks for the request!
[Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con (referenced), Torture, Mind Control, Psychological Horror, Body Horror, Darkfic, Revenge, Vengeful Spirit, Ghosts, Possession, Body Switching, Loss of Identity, Moral Corruption, Descent Into Madness, Dark Magic, Forbidden Spells, Curses, Necromancy, Supernatural Transformation, Inhuman POV, Ghost POV, Possession POV, Graphic Violence, Torture, Murder, Fire, Burning, Emotional Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Revenge Is Not Healing, Hurt No Comfort, No Redemption, Everyone Suffers, Graphic Violence, Torture, Murder, Fire, Burning, Emotional Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Revenge Is Not Healing, Hurt No Comfort, No Redemption, Everyone Suffers, gore, arson, suicide, blood, burnt, ghost, possession, knife, love, major character deaths]
«Revenge is all your soul can do now.»
Hey……. how long has it been since ive wrote? i think last time i wrote was septemeber or july….. 2024 maybe lowkey forgot? WRITERS BLOCK WENT CRAZY!!! (plus i kept throwing up blood for a week and was at the hospital for a week and eveyrthing still hurts sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh) SORRYYYYY!!!!!! Im happy i wrote this. Im happy people keep giving me requests. Writting is one of my favorite things in the whole world, though i had writters block on this one for a while, i think im back. :)
Thank you for reading!
Your eyes open wide to see empty, black… plastic?
Water surrounds you — terrified of drowning, you hold your breath. Your nails break through the black plastic. Then you try to swim up to the surface. You couldn’t feel your legs; it felt like they morphed, morphed into one to help you swim.
It had been too long. Too long since you held your breath. Your nails seemed too sharp. Your feet… You couldn’t even feel them. Everything was dark; you couldn't see.
You swam up to the surface to see the night. The full moon lights the way, the stars glistening. You swam to the edge of the lake and got out, feet still in the lake.
You looked down at your feet to see a tail, with black and green scales lining it, ending with a fin. Terrified, you looked at your hands to see long, sharp talons instead of nails. You looked back at the water to see your reflection. Your ears were fin-like shapes, and a big fin was on your back.
You had to be dreaming, this wasn't real! But then you remembered — remembered the men who assaulted your body, the men who killed you. Maybe that’s why you were like this. Maybe that’s why you couldn't feel the sharp, stinging pain you felt in your thigh when you were alive.
Anger bubbled in you — pure hatred. The taste of bitterness and resentment lingered on your tongue.
As you got out of the water fully, you were wet and bloody, your legs came back, and the fin disappeared into your back. A few scales still on your body. All you were wearing was the plastic trash bag.
You stood there, staring at your reflection in the water, still in shock at the transformation you had just experienced. The moonlight seemed to dance on your scales, adding a mystical glow to your appearance.
…
It felt like you were walking through the dark, leafy green forest for hours. Finally, you felt a paved road under your feet. You had finally reached the highway.
You walk onto the road and suddenly — a car zooms through your body! You can feel your heart beating a million times faster in your chest; oh wait, you can't — you're dead. Then you spot a car, more so a truck, a white jeep parked next to the dense forest. And leaning on it were two guys.
You walked up to them. Right in front of them. You felt disgusted that they were here, nonchalantly smoking after they just killed you. You wanted to rip out their guts, peel their skin off, torture them just as they tortured you.
“You feel that? It's kinda cold,” one snickers, his gaze distant.
“Oh! What if it's a ghost!” Gojo said, obviously high.
“How much did you smoke?” Getou laughed out, moving towards Gojo. Then he pinned Gojo against the side of the car. Slowly moving closer, then kissing him. Biting on the lighter-haired’s lips so he could get his tongue into Gojo’s mouth. Tongues swirling together in sync. Then finally pulled away to catch their breath.
Standing behind them, you seethed. Angered by the way they forgot about you like you were nothing, you punched the back of Getou's head. Hand going through his head — and Gojo — his face, hitting the glass window of the jeep.
The window shattered.
Gojo visibly jumped. “What the fuck!” Getou said, grabbing Gojo in a tender hold — a hand behind his head and the other at the back of the base of his neck, pulling him into his chest.
“Did any glass get on you?” Getou said, concerned.
“No, but what the fuck just happened?” the white-haired boy responded.
You were there, mouth gaped. ‘How did a fucking car go through me, and when I tried punching them, my hand went through them, but not the glass? It fucking shattered! This doesn’t make sense! What the fuck!?’ you think, angered.
Again, again, again — you tried and tried and tried to physically hurt them, but nothing.
“Let’s go, maybe it's that chick's ghost,” Gojo said, trying to lighten the mood.
The desperation to hurt them got to you. So you followed. You followed them back to the place where your murder took place.
Deep in the other side of town, there was a building covered in foliage and trash. The walls, which were covered in graffiti, looked like they would break at any moment. It used to be a cult building. After all the members of the cult died or were shoved into a confinement center, the building was abandoned. You trailed behind the two living monsters into the building. In one room, there was a bed, posters on the walls that covered the graffiti— or attempted to cover the graffiti — a chair with a pile of clothes, and a small, broken nightstand. You followed them down to the basement. This was where they did everything. The mattress was no longer on the bed frame, and the guy was still in the corner, no longer living.
“I forgot about him. What do u wanna do with him?” Gojo asked.
“We just got back. I don’t wanna give a shit about him until tomorrow,” Getou replied, leaving for another room.
Gojo let a soft hum out, acknowledging what Getou had said.
You wandered around in the basement, eyes drawn to the graffiti that twisted along the cracked cement walls. Your eyes were drawn to one unlike the others — it was carved in deep, looping scratches, almost burned into the surface. It wasn’t just a symbol or a message. It pulsed.
You couldn’t make out what it said, doubting if it even said anything. It was more like your eyes interpreted it, like the markings weren’t meant to be read, but felt. The longer you stared, the more your head hurt. Your heart raced. Something whispered at the edge of your mind.
‘What the fuck… how do you even pronounce that?’ you thought, as your mouth began to move on its own.
You tried to say it once. Failed.
Tried again. Your voice cracked, static in your ears.
The third time, your throat finally formed the sound. Something unholy. Not human. Something that echoed in the basement, that was never meant to be said.
And then,
Agony.
You felt this agonizing pain pulsing through you. It felt as if your bones were cracking inside you, your skin and muscle stretching and pulling, ripping itself apart and putting itself together again. You weren't a ghost.
You were in a bathroom. Your new body felt muscular and tall, and you looked into the mirror to see Getou’s face. Frantically, you started reciting that stupid black magic spell or whatever the fuck it was.
Once. Then, twice. Then, thrice. Then the fourth, you cut yourself off, feeling like you were no longer in a being.
Your head was frantic, screaming, ‘What the fuck; What the fuck; What the fuck,’ over and over again.
You needed to figure this out.
…
A few weeks later, you figured out how to switch bodies at will.
The spell wasn’t perfect. It tore at your soul every time, like dragging barbed wire through your ribs or yanking each and every one of your bones out of your body one by one. But it worked. You just had to be near them, smell their cologne, hear their voice, see their face, and whisper the incantation, like a curse soaked in mold, a rotting stench they will never escape.
And then boom, you’d wake up in their skin.
You practiced. Started small. Switching into stray dogs that wandered too close to the abandoned building, crows, and even rats. Your control was shaky, but every time it got easier. Every time you felt less like yourself, more like something else, something inhuman, detached, cold.
You liked it.
And then, the opportunity came.
Gojo had wandered off alone again. ‘Idiot.’ You spat in your thoughts. He was half-drunk too, stumbling through the dark forest near the building. You were waiting.
Invisible.
Watching.
You whispered the spell through the trees, and in a blink, you were inside his skin. This time, you weren’t frantic. It was intentional. Controlled. You could feel his heart. You could feel his memories, little flickers of sick laughter, of your screams, of blood and plastic bags.
You didn’t scream this time.
You smiled.
Because now, you could end them… from the inside out.
You walked back to their little hideout, Gojo’s voice slithering off your tongue like venom. Getou grinned when he saw “him.” Walked right up to you as if nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn’t thrown your body in a fucking lake and lit a blunt after.
“Where’d you run off to?” he asked, dragging his thumb across your — no, his — jawline. “Left me bored, babe.”
You could have kissed him.
Instead, you smirked.
“Sorry. Got distracted.”
The two of you went inside. He flopped on the mattress like a dog, lit another cigarette, and talked shit about some gang near the west side. You sat beside him. You didn’t move. You just watched him talk.
You wondered if he’d scream when you killed him.
Later that night, when he passed out, you slipped the knife from under the bed. The one they used to hurt you. It still had a smear of dried blood on it. You pressed it to your — Gojo's — stomach. Let it sink just enough to feel pain. You needed to remind yourself this wasn’t your body. If you did this, you would feel the pain. This shouldn’t be your pain.
Then you turned it toward Getou.
You wanted to carve your initials into his bones.
But you hesitated. Because revenge? It had to be slow. Poetic.
You leaned down, breathing against his neck. Whispered just loud enough for him to stir.
“She’s still watching.” Then whispered the incantations.
He jolted awake. “The fuck?!” He looked at Gojo, who seemed to be horrified. “I don’t know what happened — I — what the fuck — that wasn’t me!” he yelled.
This was new. You couldn't talk to animals, so you didn’t know that they could see what was happening. The time in the bathroom was different; you didn’t do anything, just stared at the mirror. This was even better. You could make one destroy their own love by their own hands and then kill themselves.
You tried to say it once. Failed.
Tried again. Your voice cracked, static in your ears.
The third time, your throat finally formed the sound. Something unholy. Not human. Something that echoed in the basement, that was never meant to be said.
And then, now this was poetic.
You were across the room. Smiling. The look on his face made you feel alive again.
You were going to destroy him.
Soon, they’d beg to join you in the grave.
“What is that?” The words spilled from Gojo’s lips. Getou had been staring at you this whole time, terrified to move or say something.
“You don’t remember me?” you spoke, smiling as your voice came out distorted.
“I will destroy you.” As you said this, you spoke the incantation, and now you were Getou.
“Come here, Gojo! It’s me, Getou, your love!” you giggled out. The look on his face is priceless.
“N-No, you're not! Get out of him! Look, I—We are sorry! We—” He got cut off by you throwing the knife at him—not perfectly aimed, so it hit the wall behind him.
“You're sorry? Sorry? You can ask for all the forgiveness you want, but you will feel my pain, and yet I would never forgive you!” you screamed.
You grabbed an empty glass bottle and hit him in the head. A thud, and he fell to the floor. ‘Huh, this body is stronger than I realized. It’s gonna make it easier to kill him.’ The thought made you giggle. You bent down to grab hold of his leg, then started dragging him to a different room.
You stopped in front of one of the rooms in the basement—a bed frame in the middle, blood smeared on one of the corner walls… This was the room they- they did those things to you… The thought still makes you gag, angering you more.
You drag him into the room, let go of his foot, and move towards the bed. It was just rusted metal. You grabbed the bed and flipped it so it was standing tall on the footboard. You looked around. ‘Ropes, handcuffs, anything?’ You needed to tie him up.
In one of the corners of the room, you found a rope. ‘Bloody… it will work,’ you thought. Grabbing it, you dragged him to the bed, pulled his hands up to the headboard, and tied them there, then tied his feet to the footboard.
“Done!” you giggled, then left the room.
He was now dangling off the headboard with his legs tied, oh so helpless, just like you were.
“Tied up, tied up now what…? Killing them is the end goal, but how…. oh…….” you giggled “perfect.”
You look around the room, ‘nothing… He better not get out, I'm sure I tied it tight enough’ I thought, then I left the room. ‘He's tied up; this should give me plenty of time to look around.’
First room, another ugly bedroom with graffiti on the walls, dirt, rocks, and grim on the floor. Second room… dining maybe, ‘they really turned this dump into somewhat of a house… If I'm being generous,’ busted table and two chairs with a knife lying on the table, a vase of flowers, and a small candle— and of course, the walls peeling.
“Get. the fuck. out of me!” I hear a screaming, agitated voice in my head as I stepped foot into their living room. “Shut the fuck up!” I shrieked, covering my- his ears.
This is new, not once did an animal overpower you while you were in it, were it. But for some reason, he can?!
The screaming didn’t stop.
“Get out. Get out. Get out.”
It echoed inside your skull like nails dragged across bone. You staggered back, slamming your—Getou’s—shoulder into the peeling wall. The candle on the table flickered wildly, flame stretching sideways as if pulled by an unseen breath.
“Shut up,” you hissed, teeth clenched. “You don’t get to talk anymore.”
But he didn’t stop.
Memories forced themselves forward—his memories. Not the ones you wanted. Not the cruelty or the laughter or the blood. Softer things. The way Gojo laughed when he snored himself awake. The first time Getou hesitated, hand hovering over your body like maybe—maybe—he could still walk away.
You screamed, clutching your head.
“No. Don’t you dare show me that.”
Your reflection in the cracked mirror across the room twitched a second too late when you moved. Its smile lingered after yours fell.
Your chest burned. The spell wasn’t just tearing at your soul now—it was unraveling it.
“You think this hurts?” Getou’s voice snarled inside you. “You think this is punishment? You’re wearing me like a costume. You don’t even know what I am.”
You laughed, breath shaky. “I know enough. You're filthy, foul, disgusting. You did so much to me, and now I'm back. My soul can’t rest until you both are gone, until- until you have suffered as I did,” you screamed back at him.
But doubt crept in anyway.
You felt your fingers twitch without your command. The knife on the table rattled. The ropes in the other room creaked.
Rope creaked, the bed creaked. You walked back to the room, grabbing the knife with you, to where Gojo was hanging.
“Hi there, my love, finally awake?” You say pressing the knife to his throat.
“Don’t call him that! Let him go!” You hear from the back of your head, you wish you could silence his stupid little voice.
“Getou? W-what are you doing?” His voice trembling.
“Oh? Don’t worry, I'm just having some fun.”
“You're not my Getou… what the fuck are you!? Get away from me!” He says in a rather stable voice.
“You’re smarter than you look. You’re right im not your Getou. I’m not Getou at all. I hope you remember me...” As you say this, you get out of Getou, and he falls back. Showing yourself to the both of them. Your wet hair framing your face, your eye completely black, the red bloody hole in your thigh, your sharp teeth, and more blood.
“I-it’s you!” Gojo says, shocked and terrified.
“Fuck… just leave us alone!” Getou screamed from the floor where he fell.
“Leave you alone…? You. Took. Everything from me! My life even!” You say your voice trembling as you scream.
You get back into Getou, knife in hand, close to Gojo's neck.
“Don’t!” You hear the panicked voice in the back of your head. Ignoring him, you take your knife and drag it down Gojo’s neck down to his stomach, then press hard, not enough to break skin.
“Please stop!” Gojo says.
“Shut the fuck up before I gag you.” All you can see is red; the revenge you get will be everything.
“I’m going to kill you, your precious Getou is going to kill you.”
“Stop, we’ll do anything!” they both said at the same time, as if they were the same person because of their love. Too bad they won’t be alive for much longer.
“There's nothing you can do….” With that, you pierced through his shirt and through his skin, not deep enough, just enough to hurt.
“Stop! Don’t make me do this!” Getou cried as he watched his hands hurt his lover; there was nothing he could do.
“You’re hurting him, Getou. Why don’t you stop? Don’t you love him?” you say back to him mockingly.
You drag the knife deeper spliting his skin, still not deep enough. A few more, his shoulder, arms, legs, and collar. Now he's all bloody, blood slowly dripping down his torso and legs, slowly to the floor.
“It hurts… why don’t you just kill me?” Gojo whimpers.
Silence, Gojos breathing, your–Getous breathing, and tinnitus ringing in your ear.
“Stop making him kill me,” Gojo pleaded.
“Did you just kill me? No. So why shall I grant the both of that mercy?” You say calmly, placing the knife down and leaving the room. You walk back into the other rooms, looking for a different tool, anything. You're back in the other bedroom and spot something in the corner, gasoline. That’ how they will end. You check Getou’s pockets, you know, they smoke or get high or whatever they were doing when you first saw them. A dark blue lighter in his right pocket.
You walk back into the room, where Gojo is. You kick the knife out of the room and close the door; the door locks from the outside, you lock it, making sure they are trapped in here.
“W-what are you doing…? Getou…” Gojo says in a breathy voice.
“No… No! Please its not me!” Getou screamed from the back of your head.
You douse Gojo in gasoline and liquid seeping into his wounds, and he cries in pain. You make a line of gasoline on the floor reaching him.
Finally, this is your revenge.
You light the line of fire as Gojo squirms and Getou screams from inside you.
And you make him watch.
“You did this, Getou. You did this to the one person you love,” you say to getou as gojo screams, squirms, and burns.
“You’re a monster, Getou.”
“How could you, Getou?”
The flames engulf Gojo; the agony he feels is delicious. After a while, his screaming dies down, and he stops moving.
“He’s dead, and you killed him, Getou.”
As you saw this, you leave his body and move to the corner of the room, he falls to the ground as you do, and stares. Stares at his lover, burned skin blotchy, melted, and red. No movements, no breath, just a butned body.
“I killed you.” He says in shock.
He grabs the bottle of gasoline, pouring it all over himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I… I deserve the same fate, I love you…” As Getou says this, he grabs the lighter and sets it alight; he doesn’t hesitate and sets himself alight.
Bright orange, red, and yellow engulf him, and he screams, pleads his apologies to his lover, and slowly they die down. The fire extinguishes itself in the concrete room.
“I would drag your bodies to the lake, but you both don't deserve to lie with my body…”
How do you think Henry would handle freaky!reader? Like he’s trying to keep up the calm composed nice guy act and she’s just absolutely feral (especially the cave scene when he’s covered in blood).
I feel like it could go a few different ways but I definitely wanna know your thoughts <3
Title: Cave
₊˚୧ PAIRING: Henry 'Mr Whatsit' Creel x f!reader || Stranger Things
₊˚୧ CATEGORIES: smut | reader 18+
₊˚୧ WARNING: fingering, cunnilingus, p in v, cave s*x, dubcon at start (but it is con)
₊˚୧ WORD COUNT: 1.5k
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry does his best to stay subdued and composed when he hears you begging for it. He knows how you get when you see him, but he tries to talk you into calming down, especially if he has important things to deal with and cannot spare the time to give in and satisfy you.
"I know, sweetheart, I understand, but you have to wait a bit."
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry knows these instincts can become overwhelming for most ordinary people, and in some extreme cases, like yourself, they are nearly impossible to tame. But he tries. He knows it's best to focus on his plans first, but your incessant begging can sometimes disrupt him. When that happens, he tries to keep his manner as composed, but you can feel the lurking frustration in his tone as he insists you have to wait. If you do, you know Henry will reward you, but if you insist, Henry will raise his voice slightly.
୨♡୧ ｡ Sometimes that's what you want. Sometimes you want to see Henry's anger, because the neediness in you begs for a change. The sweet Henry satisfies you, but not enough. The idea of Henry disciplining you turned from a small idea to a desperate desire when you saw how attractive he could be when his dominant side took over.
୨♡୧ ｡ So you began to annoy him on purpose, driven by your lust.
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry was not stupid, and he figured it out quite quickly; if anything, it amused him. If only you'd know how dangerous this game you were playing really was, you'd probably be ashamed of yourself, but regardless, he pretended to play along for the first few times. Luckily for you, you had caught Henry in a good mood, doing it, so he was willing to entertain your fantasies, even if purely out of amusement. Which he didn't let you in on, because you thought yourself so clever that he almost felt bad ruining it.
୨♡୧ ｡ If things had stayed this way, Henry wouldn't have minded. You behaved like his plaything, and he could overlook your misbehaving at times, as well as handle your freakiness accordingly.
୨♡୧ ｡ If you got yourself a sample of 'nice' Henry, he would tend to use his hands because he prided himself on how easily it was for him to teach you a lesson with his fingers. Your incessant pleas for him to give you more while he hushed you and eased his fingers in the perfect spot, keeping you on his lap, with his other hand feeling under your shirt while guiding you to lean your head back against his shoulder, had you arching and squirming against him. If you tried to reach down, mindlessly overwhelmed by how well he was working on you, he would coo against your ear.
"No hands, sweetheart. If you want me to help you out, you need to play by my rules."
୨♡୧ ｡ And you would have to obey, otherwise Henry would stop. You tried once to see what would happen if you disobeyed, and he stopped, leaving you on the edge and ushering you off his lap for being a bad girl. But if you are good, and let him do his work, he would have you climaxing around his fingers, sometimes more than once if he felt you deserved it.
୨♡୧ ｡ His fingers were not the only reward you would get if you got on Henry's good side. His mouth was the one he liked to use on you, too, because he enjoyed how flustered you would become when he suggested it. He first warmed you up with his fingers, as he usually would, but then he would whisper.
"Come on, sweetheart, you are in for a treat today."
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry would have you sitting on the couch in his place, and he dropped down between your legs, keeping them spread wide enough to take in the sight of your desire leaking from you after he used his fingers. While eating you out, he made use of his fingers too, thrusting them inside you to aid his tongue's work. He allowed you to grab his hair, to squeeze your thighs around his head and squirm; however, if you ever dared to say it's too much, Henry would grab your hip roughly and hold you down, eating you out mercilessly until you came against his tongue, pretending not to hear you begging him to slow down.
୨♡୧ ｡ But sometimes, you got on Henry's angry side. The one time you saw him dishevelled and bloody in the cave, you had an epiphany. You couldn't believe your eyes. Henry was attractive as it was, but like this, you felt something feral in you. It was the worst timing for your desperation to kick in, facing a distraught and furious Henry, who could easily lose even the remaining drop of control and make you regret your boldness.
୨♡୧ ｡ You tried to cling to his tweed waistcoat, but he roughly grabbed your wrist and stared down at you, nearly livid. How could you be so inconsiderate in a moment like this? Your needy gasp as he eyed you down like prey made him shove you back, causing you to fall on the ground. He tilted his head, approaching you with confident, slow steps, then suddenly trapping you down and hooking his hands in your shirt.
"Sweetheart, are you out of your mind?"
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry's face betrayed the lack of control he was showing. Seeing you stare up at him with that meek gaze of combined fear and arousal made him lick his lips and put his hand on your throat, squeezing lightly. The slight fear in your eyes growing with an innocent flicker made Henry smile.
"What is it, sweetheart? I thought you wanted this."
୨♡୧ ｡ You could taste the bitter irony in his tone, your chest rising with frightened, quick breaths. Henry didn't care about how unfortunate the location was, how dirty either of you would get. If you wanted to play with fire, you had to get used to the idea you'd get burnt. Far too many times, he had let you off the hook easily. You had to suffer consequences.
"Don't tell me you're already regretting it."
୨♡୧ ｡ He mocked, his hand reaching down to his belt. Henry had made sure you would have an experience that lived up to your expectations. This time, you wouldn't have any warm-up, no kind words aided by his mouth or fingers. This time, you would be coming undone on his cock, fucked ruthlessly on the cave's sandy ground.
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry's mind was utterly shattered with flashbacks and instructions given to him by The Mind Flayer, claiming you were more of an instinctual drive which kicked in as he tried to regain control over his own mind. With you impaled on his cock, one of your legs hooked up around his hip and his face mere inches away from yours, hair falling on his forehead mixed with drops of blood and sweat as he shoved himself deep inside you, he could feel the grip of the monster slipping away, the flashbacks shut down somewhere at the back of his mind. Henry leaned down and licked a strip from across your cheek, his hips shoving against yours until he had you crying out his name and imploring him not to stop.
"You are never satiated, sweetheart. You never have enough."
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry scolded you. He licked his lips, catching his own dripping sweat and blood on his tongue, then forced a kiss on you, making you taste the mixture. His tongue worked in your mouth, only breaking away when he felt you needed the air, when your body would become weak from desire to breathe. Only then did Henry give in and let you breathe before capturing your lips.
୨♡୧ ｡ He claimed you repeatedly, until, for once, your desperation ceased, your mind empty of anything but his name. Until his body became too worn out to continue. Inside the cave, dark and engulfed with fragments of his fears, you were sprawled on the ground, dripping with his cum, panting and trying to catch a glimpse of him. Henry remained on his knees between your legs for a while, observing you as he grunted and wiped his face with his sleeve. Then, with his hand on your thigh, he pushed himself up slowly and staggered to the cave wall, leaning onto it as he fixed his trousers, glancing down at you.
୨♡୧ ｡ Henry closed his eyes, allowing his head to fall back for a moment. His mind had been empty for longer than he could remember, and slowly thoughts began to crawl back in their place. His eyes opened again, and he sighed, doing his best to help you stand and lean against him as he tried to help you out of the cave.
"For your own good, never do that again."
"...I definitely will do that again."
୨♡୧ ｡ You teased, although you were chuckling, barely forming coherent thoughts. Henry sighed, giving you a half-compassionate, half-pitiful look.
Just finished ST vol 2 and the concept of being Henrys first.
slightly nsfw i want this freaky dude so bad
(should i turn this into a fic)
Before he took the children of Hawkins. Before he chose Holly or Derrick or any of the other children, he had his eye on you..
A pediatrics nurse at Hawkins General Hospital. When he was trying to find Max, he searched the hospital desperately, but his mind got stuck at you.
He didn’t know you were Max’s nurse. He couldn’t seem to get past you, and it infuriated him.
This was when Mr. Whatsit was invented. He claimed to be visiting his niece, but never specified room numbers. He introduced himself as Henry then.
When you spoke about the handsome man in the brown suit at the nurses station, the other nurses looked at you like you’d grown a second head.
He kept visiting for many days and you quickly learned to stop talking about him, considering your coworkers wanted to 51-50 you. And a few days after that you told him to leave you alone, that you couldn’t focus on work and was risking your job just talking to him.
He took you that night.
After you had gone to bed, he sent the demogorgan after you, leaving nothing to your existence except the small loft you called your own, with a burnt tear through your bedroom ceiling.
You were initially confused, and angry, attempting to escape but finding the woods unfamiliar to those of Hawkins. After multiple attempts, you surrendered to the prison he’d built, giving in and attempting to at least enjoy his house.
After so much time being trapped, you gave in fully, letting him fuck you over the dining table after experiencing months of pent up anger and attraction
He was somehow distant, yet attentive, always trying to let you see how good you have it with him.
You didnt have to work, you had all the time in the world to do whatever you wanted.
He only had one rule: do not enter the woods.
Henry promised it was for your safety, it was why he had gotten so angry each time he’d found you in the woods, because he was terrified your own stupidity would kill you.
So naturally you started to believe him, the woods really were that dangerous, and he could only keep you safe here.
He loved getting you under his control, seeing you go from a spirited woman to a docile pet.
And of course he loved his pet, who wouldn’t. He fed you and bathed you and provided you with everything you could ever want.
A warm soft bed, food prepared before you even wake up, a lovely house, plenty of sun and whatever entertainment you so fancied.
It was like a dream, some long and fucked up dream, and rather than fighting it, you wanted to at least enjoy the ride until you woke up.
When Henry came home from wherever it was he went, the first place he would go to was you. He’d sink into the couch or bed on top of you, or pin you against the counter or wall, and he would greet you with a long slow kiss.
His fingers would slide over your jaw as he gave you a cheeky look before locking his lips with yours.
His knee would slide between your legs and provided much needed pressure as he coaxed the tongue from your mouth.
When his fingers would play with the buttons of the lovely dress he provided for you, yours would be sliding up his shirt. After all he’s given you, how could you refuse?
crazy thought, what if reader came back as something like tomie in ‘nightly swim’ 😝 it would be crazy tbh, tomie died in a similar way i think.
That's such a good idea though!!! I never actually read/watched 'Tomie' but I did a little research on it. I also added my own twist to it! It honestly sounds perfect for a second part of 'Nightly Swim'! Thanks for the request!
[Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con (referenced), Torture, Mind Control, Psychological Horror, Body Horror, Darkfic, Revenge, Vengeful Spirit, Ghosts, Possession, Body Switching, Loss of Identity, Moral Corruption, Descent Into Madness, Dark Magic, Forbidden Spells, Curses, Necromancy, Supernatural Transformation, Inhuman POV, Ghost POV, Possession POV, Graphic Violence, Torture, Murder, Fire, Burning, Emotional Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Revenge Is Not Healing, Hurt No Comfort, No Redemption, Everyone Suffers, Graphic Violence, Torture, Murder, Fire, Burning, Emotional Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Revenge Is Not Healing, Hurt No Comfort, No Redemption, Everyone Suffers, gore, arson, suicide, blood, burnt, ghost, possession, knife, love, major character deaths]
«Revenge is all your soul can do now.»
Hey……. how long has it been since ive wrote? i think last time i wrote was septemeber or july….. 2024 maybe lowkey forgot? WRITERS BLOCK WENT CRAZY!!! (plus i kept throwing up blood for a week and was at the hospital for a week and eveyrthing still hurts sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh) SORRYYYYY!!!!!! Im happy i wrote this. Im happy people keep giving me requests. Writting is one of my favorite things in the whole world, though i had writters block on this one for a while, i think im back. :)
Thank you for reading!
Your eyes open wide to see empty, black… plastic?
Water surrounds you — terrified of drowning, you hold your breath. Your nails break through the black plastic. Then you try to swim up to the surface. You couldn’t feel your legs; it felt like they morphed, morphed into one to help you swim.
It had been too long. Too long since you held your breath. Your nails seemed too sharp. Your feet… You couldn’t even feel them. Everything was dark; you couldn't see.
You swam up to the surface to see the night. The full moon lights the way, the stars glistening. You swam to the edge of the lake and got out, feet still in the lake.
You looked down at your feet to see a tail, with black and green scales lining it, ending with a fin. Terrified, you looked at your hands to see long, sharp talons instead of nails. You looked back at the water to see your reflection. Your ears were fin-like shapes, and a big fin was on your back.
You had to be dreaming, this wasn't real! But then you remembered — remembered the men who assaulted your body, the men who killed you. Maybe that’s why you were like this. Maybe that’s why you couldn't feel the sharp, stinging pain you felt in your thigh when you were alive.
Anger bubbled in you — pure hatred. The taste of bitterness and resentment lingered on your tongue.
As you got out of the water fully, you were wet and bloody, your legs came back, and the fin disappeared into your back. A few scales still on your body. All you were wearing was the plastic trash bag.
You stood there, staring at your reflection in the water, still in shock at the transformation you had just experienced. The moonlight seemed to dance on your scales, adding a mystical glow to your appearance.
…
It felt like you were walking through the dark, leafy green forest for hours. Finally, you felt a paved road under your feet. You had finally reached the highway.
You walk onto the road and suddenly — a car zooms through your body! You can feel your heart beating a million times faster in your chest; oh wait, you can't — you're dead. Then you spot a car, more so a truck, a white jeep parked next to the dense forest. And leaning on it were two guys.
You walked up to them. Right in front of them. You felt disgusted that they were here, nonchalantly smoking after they just killed you. You wanted to rip out their guts, peel their skin off, torture them just as they tortured you.
“You feel that? It's kinda cold,” one snickers, his gaze distant.
“Oh! What if it's a ghost!” Gojo said, obviously high.
“How much did you smoke?” Getou laughed out, moving towards Gojo. Then he pinned Gojo against the side of the car. Slowly moving closer, then kissing him. Biting on the lighter-haired’s lips so he could get his tongue into Gojo’s mouth. Tongues swirling together in sync. Then finally pulled away to catch their breath.
Standing behind them, you seethed. Angered by the way they forgot about you like you were nothing, you punched the back of Getou's head. Hand going through his head — and Gojo — his face, hitting the glass window of the jeep.
The window shattered.
Gojo visibly jumped. “What the fuck!” Getou said, grabbing Gojo in a tender hold — a hand behind his head and the other at the back of the base of his neck, pulling him into his chest.
“Did any glass get on you?” Getou said, concerned.
“No, but what the fuck just happened?” the white-haired boy responded.
You were there, mouth gaped. ‘How did a fucking car go through me, and when I tried punching them, my hand went through them, but not the glass? It fucking shattered! This doesn’t make sense! What the fuck!?’ you think, angered.
Again, again, again — you tried and tried and tried to physically hurt them, but nothing.
“Let’s go, maybe it's that chick's ghost,” Gojo said, trying to lighten the mood.
The desperation to hurt them got to you. So you followed. You followed them back to the place where your murder took place.
Deep in the other side of town, there was a building covered in foliage and trash. The walls, which were covered in graffiti, looked like they would break at any moment. It used to be a cult building. After all the members of the cult died or were shoved into a confinement center, the building was abandoned. You trailed behind the two living monsters into the building. In one room, there was a bed, posters on the walls that covered the graffiti— or attempted to cover the graffiti — a chair with a pile of clothes, and a small, broken nightstand. You followed them down to the basement. This was where they did everything. The mattress was no longer on the bed frame, and the guy was still in the corner, no longer living.
“I forgot about him. What do u wanna do with him?” Gojo asked.
“We just got back. I don’t wanna give a shit about him until tomorrow,” Getou replied, leaving for another room.
Gojo let a soft hum out, acknowledging what Getou had said.
You wandered around in the basement, eyes drawn to the graffiti that twisted along the cracked cement walls. Your eyes were drawn to one unlike the others — it was carved in deep, looping scratches, almost burned into the surface. It wasn’t just a symbol or a message. It pulsed.
You couldn’t make out what it said, doubting if it even said anything. It was more like your eyes interpreted it, like the markings weren’t meant to be read, but felt. The longer you stared, the more your head hurt. Your heart raced. Something whispered at the edge of your mind.
‘What the fuck… how do you even pronounce that?’ you thought, as your mouth began to move on its own.
You tried to say it once. Failed.
Tried again. Your voice cracked, static in your ears.
The third time, your throat finally formed the sound. Something unholy. Not human. Something that echoed in the basement, that was never meant to be said.
And then,
Agony.
You felt this agonizing pain pulsing through you. It felt as if your bones were cracking inside you, your skin and muscle stretching and pulling, ripping itself apart and putting itself together again. You weren't a ghost.
You were in a bathroom. Your new body felt muscular and tall, and you looked into the mirror to see Getou’s face. Frantically, you started reciting that stupid black magic spell or whatever the fuck it was.
Once. Then, twice. Then, thrice. Then the fourth, you cut yourself off, feeling like you were no longer in a being.
Your head was frantic, screaming, ‘What the fuck; What the fuck; What the fuck,’ over and over again.
You needed to figure this out.
…
A few weeks later, you figured out how to switch bodies at will.
The spell wasn’t perfect. It tore at your soul every time, like dragging barbed wire through your ribs or yanking each and every one of your bones out of your body one by one. But it worked. You just had to be near them, smell their cologne, hear their voice, see their face, and whisper the incantation, like a curse soaked in mold, a rotting stench they will never escape.
And then boom, you’d wake up in their skin.
You practiced. Started small. Switching into stray dogs that wandered too close to the abandoned building, crows, and even rats. Your control was shaky, but every time it got easier. Every time you felt less like yourself, more like something else, something inhuman, detached, cold.
You liked it.
And then, the opportunity came.
Gojo had wandered off alone again. ‘Idiot.’ You spat in your thoughts. He was half-drunk too, stumbling through the dark forest near the building. You were waiting.
Invisible.
Watching.
You whispered the spell through the trees, and in a blink, you were inside his skin. This time, you weren’t frantic. It was intentional. Controlled. You could feel his heart. You could feel his memories, little flickers of sick laughter, of your screams, of blood and plastic bags.
You didn’t scream this time.
You smiled.
Because now, you could end them… from the inside out.
You walked back to their little hideout, Gojo’s voice slithering off your tongue like venom. Getou grinned when he saw “him.” Walked right up to you as if nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn’t thrown your body in a fucking lake and lit a blunt after.
“Where’d you run off to?” he asked, dragging his thumb across your — no, his — jawline. “Left me bored, babe.”
You could have kissed him.
Instead, you smirked.
“Sorry. Got distracted.”
The two of you went inside. He flopped on the mattress like a dog, lit another cigarette, and talked shit about some gang near the west side. You sat beside him. You didn’t move. You just watched him talk.
You wondered if he’d scream when you killed him.
Later that night, when he passed out, you slipped the knife from under the bed. The one they used to hurt you. It still had a smear of dried blood on it. You pressed it to your — Gojo's — stomach. Let it sink just enough to feel pain. You needed to remind yourself this wasn’t your body. If you did this, you would feel the pain. This shouldn’t be your pain.
Then you turned it toward Getou.
You wanted to carve your initials into his bones.
But you hesitated. Because revenge? It had to be slow. Poetic.
You leaned down, breathing against his neck. Whispered just loud enough for him to stir.
“She’s still watching.” Then whispered the incantations.
He jolted awake. “The fuck?!” He looked at Gojo, who seemed to be horrified. “I don’t know what happened — I — what the fuck — that wasn’t me!” he yelled.
This was new. You couldn't talk to animals, so you didn’t know that they could see what was happening. The time in the bathroom was different; you didn’t do anything, just stared at the mirror. This was even better. You could make one destroy their own love by their own hands and then kill themselves.
You tried to say it once. Failed.
Tried again. Your voice cracked, static in your ears.
The third time, your throat finally formed the sound. Something unholy. Not human. Something that echoed in the basement, that was never meant to be said.
And then, now this was poetic.
You were across the room. Smiling. The look on his face made you feel alive again.
You were going to destroy him.
Soon, they’d beg to join you in the grave.
“What is that?” The words spilled from Gojo’s lips. Getou had been staring at you this whole time, terrified to move or say something.
“You don’t remember me?” you spoke, smiling as your voice came out distorted.
“I will destroy you.” As you said this, you spoke the incantation, and now you were Getou.
“Come here, Gojo! It’s me, Getou, your love!” you giggled out. The look on his face is priceless.
“N-No, you're not! Get out of him! Look, I—We are sorry! We—” He got cut off by you throwing the knife at him—not perfectly aimed, so it hit the wall behind him.
“You're sorry? Sorry? You can ask for all the forgiveness you want, but you will feel my pain, and yet I would never forgive you!” you screamed.
You grabbed an empty glass bottle and hit him in the head. A thud, and he fell to the floor. ‘Huh, this body is stronger than I realized. It’s gonna make it easier to kill him.’ The thought made you giggle. You bent down to grab hold of his leg, then started dragging him to a different room.
You stopped in front of one of the rooms in the basement—a bed frame in the middle, blood smeared on one of the corner walls… This was the room they- they did those things to you… The thought still makes you gag, angering you more.
You drag him into the room, let go of his foot, and move towards the bed. It was just rusted metal. You grabbed the bed and flipped it so it was standing tall on the footboard. You looked around. ‘Ropes, handcuffs, anything?’ You needed to tie him up.
In one of the corners of the room, you found a rope. ‘Bloody… it will work,’ you thought. Grabbing it, you dragged him to the bed, pulled his hands up to the headboard, and tied them there, then tied his feet to the footboard.
“Done!” you giggled, then left the room.
He was now dangling off the headboard with his legs tied, oh so helpless, just like you were.
“Tied up, tied up now what…? Killing them is the end goal, but how…. oh…….” you giggled “perfect.”
You look around the room, ‘nothing… He better not get out, I'm sure I tied it tight enough’ I thought, then I left the room. ‘He's tied up; this should give me plenty of time to look around.’
First room, another ugly bedroom with graffiti on the walls, dirt, rocks, and grim on the floor. Second room… dining maybe, ‘they really turned this dump into somewhat of a house… If I'm being generous,’ busted table and two chairs with a knife lying on the table, a vase of flowers, and a small candle— and of course, the walls peeling.
“Get. the fuck. out of me!” I hear a screaming, agitated voice in my head as I stepped foot into their living room. “Shut the fuck up!” I shrieked, covering my- his ears.
This is new, not once did an animal overpower you while you were in it, were it. But for some reason, he can?!
The screaming didn’t stop.
“Get out. Get out. Get out.”
It echoed inside your skull like nails dragged across bone. You staggered back, slamming your—Getou’s—shoulder into the peeling wall. The candle on the table flickered wildly, flame stretching sideways as if pulled by an unseen breath.
“Shut up,” you hissed, teeth clenched. “You don’t get to talk anymore.”
But he didn’t stop.
Memories forced themselves forward—his memories. Not the ones you wanted. Not the cruelty or the laughter or the blood. Softer things. The way Gojo laughed when he snored himself awake. The first time Getou hesitated, hand hovering over your body like maybe—maybe—he could still walk away.
You screamed, clutching your head.
“No. Don’t you dare show me that.”
Your reflection in the cracked mirror across the room twitched a second too late when you moved. Its smile lingered after yours fell.
Your chest burned. The spell wasn’t just tearing at your soul now—it was unraveling it.
“You think this hurts?” Getou’s voice snarled inside you. “You think this is punishment? You’re wearing me like a costume. You don’t even know what I am.”
You laughed, breath shaky. “I know enough. You're filthy, foul, disgusting. You did so much to me, and now I'm back. My soul can’t rest until you both are gone, until- until you have suffered as I did,” you screamed back at him.
But doubt crept in anyway.
You felt your fingers twitch without your command. The knife on the table rattled. The ropes in the other room creaked.
Rope creaked, the bed creaked. You walked back to the room, grabbing the knife with you, to where Gojo was hanging.
“Hi there, my love, finally awake?” You say pressing the knife to his throat.
“Don’t call him that! Let him go!” You hear from the back of your head, you wish you could silence his stupid little voice.
“Getou? W-what are you doing?” His voice trembling.
“Oh? Don’t worry, I'm just having some fun.”
“You're not my Getou… what the fuck are you!? Get away from me!” He says in a rather stable voice.
“You’re smarter than you look. You’re right im not your Getou. I’m not Getou at all. I hope you remember me...” As you say this, you get out of Getou, and he falls back. Showing yourself to the both of them. Your wet hair framing your face, your eye completely black, the red bloody hole in your thigh, your sharp teeth, and more blood.
“I-it’s you!” Gojo says, shocked and terrified.
“Fuck… just leave us alone!” Getou screamed from the floor where he fell.
“Leave you alone…? You. Took. Everything from me! My life even!” You say your voice trembling as you scream.
You get back into Getou, knife in hand, close to Gojo's neck.
“Don’t!” You hear the panicked voice in the back of your head. Ignoring him, you take your knife and drag it down Gojo’s neck down to his stomach, then press hard, not enough to break skin.
“Please stop!” Gojo says.
“Shut the fuck up before I gag you.” All you can see is red; the revenge you get will be everything.
“I’m going to kill you, your precious Getou is going to kill you.”
“Stop, we’ll do anything!” they both said at the same time, as if they were the same person because of their love. Too bad they won’t be alive for much longer.
“There's nothing you can do….” With that, you pierced through his shirt and through his skin, not deep enough, just enough to hurt.
“Stop! Don’t make me do this!” Getou cried as he watched his hands hurt his lover; there was nothing he could do.
“You’re hurting him, Getou. Why don’t you stop? Don’t you love him?” you say back to him mockingly.
You drag the knife deeper spliting his skin, still not deep enough. A few more, his shoulder, arms, legs, and collar. Now he's all bloody, blood slowly dripping down his torso and legs, slowly to the floor.
“It hurts… why don’t you just kill me?” Gojo whimpers.
Silence, Gojos breathing, your–Getous breathing, and tinnitus ringing in your ear.
“Stop making him kill me,” Gojo pleaded.
“Did you just kill me? No. So why shall I grant the both of that mercy?” You say calmly, placing the knife down and leaving the room. You walk back into the other rooms, looking for a different tool, anything. You're back in the other bedroom and spot something in the corner, gasoline. That’ how they will end. You check Getou’s pockets, you know, they smoke or get high or whatever they were doing when you first saw them. A dark blue lighter in his right pocket.
You walk back into the room, where Gojo is. You kick the knife out of the room and close the door; the door locks from the outside, you lock it, making sure they are trapped in here.
“W-what are you doing…? Getou…” Gojo says in a breathy voice.
“No… No! Please its not me!” Getou screamed from the back of your head.
You douse Gojo in gasoline and liquid seeping into his wounds, and he cries in pain. You make a line of gasoline on the floor reaching him.
Finally, this is your revenge.
You light the line of fire as Gojo squirms and Getou screams from inside you.
And you make him watch.
“You did this, Getou. You did this to the one person you love,” you say to getou as gojo screams, squirms, and burns.
“You’re a monster, Getou.”
“How could you, Getou?”
The flames engulf Gojo; the agony he feels is delicious. After a while, his screaming dies down, and he stops moving.
“He’s dead, and you killed him, Getou.”
As you saw this, you leave his body and move to the corner of the room, he falls to the ground as you do, and stares. Stares at his lover, burned skin blotchy, melted, and red. No movements, no breath, just a butned body.
“I killed you.” He says in shock.
He grabs the bottle of gasoline, pouring it all over himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I… I deserve the same fate, I love you…” As Getou says this, he grabs the lighter and sets it alight; he doesn’t hesitate and sets himself alight.
Bright orange, red, and yellow engulf him, and he screams, pleads his apologies to his lover, and slowly they die down. The fire extinguishes itself in the concrete room.
“I would drag your bodies to the lake, but you both don't deserve to lie with my body…”
i've had this in my drafts for so long and finally finished it. i think its really cute.
summary: hogwarts university! AU, you're a booked and busy tutor for a few boys who are obviously crushing on you.
CW: nothing really this is fluff, could be suggestive, school and grades
word count: 4k
“Sorry I’m late,” you said, rushing into the study room in the cramped university library, “my last session ran a bit over.” You set your heavy bag full of textbooks and homework down on one of the desks.
Sirius looked up from his doodles and smiled. “Oh that’s fine, love, I haven’t been waiting long.” You knew that probably wasn’t a lie. Sirius had a tendency to show up late to your tutoring sessions anyway, so he probably was only waiting a few minutes even though your session with Regulus went over by 15 minutes.
He kept insisting he didn’t understand the equations for your chemistry class, but his test scores said different. He was just being paranoid, he knew the material and he was obviously going to ace his upcoming midterm.
“Sirius,” you said, a scolding tone that was often reserved just for him, “how many times do I have to tell you, don’t call me that.”
Sirius gave you a fake look of confusion, leaning back in his chair and placing his pen behind his ear. “Call you what? Love?” he said with a knowing smirk.
You rolled your eyes, used to these kinds of antics with him. “Yes,” you said with finality, “it's unprofessional. I’m your tutor and you’re my… pupil.”
“Pupil.” Sirius repeated back to you, nodding. “And what if I wanted to be more than your pupil?” His saccharine smile grew wider. You answered him by rolling your eyes yet again, pulling out a study sheet from your bag and slapping it on the table.
“Oh come on, can I at least have your number?” He batted his pretty silver eyes at you.
You never gave your personal number to the people you tutored, it was the school’s policy that you use their website to communicate, and you just didn’t feel like being bombarded with stupid homework questions while you were relaxing at home. So, struggling students were supposed to schedule an appointment with you through the tutoring portal. This allowed you to receive a form of credit, each session was $45 for an hour of tutoring. Tutors could either receive the money directly, or it could go towards things like tuition or room and board. You decided to accept the latter, needing to pay off your tuition. But being the star student you were, all the courses you tutored added up and took a large chunk of the sum off for you.
In order to become a tutor for this program, you needed to pass the class with an A- or higher. You were tutoring 9 classes; history, psychology, sociology, chemistry, biology, writing, gender studies, philosophy, and statistics. Cha-ching.
You had a ton of students you tutored. Ranging from athletes who were desperate to get a passing grade, to delinquents whose parents were paying you and forcing their children to get better grades, to overachievers who signed up for too many classes and were having trouble keeping up. You tutored them all, some were one and done sessions, others were scheduled weekly appointments. You had a decent amount of weekly appointments, one of these being Sirius.
But you knew what Sirius was after, and he wasn’t the only one. There were a small few who were really just trying to get close to you, a few who were bold enough to make a move on their tutor.
“Sirius,” you sighed, “I’ll give you my number when you get a 100 on a test.”
“So there’s a chance?” Sirius smiled. No, there was no chance, you had seen his grades and his highest was sitting at 75%. You rolled your eyes and pointed at the worksheet for him to start on. He got to it, but was only at it for about 5 minutes before sitting back and groaning.
“Who cares about these old dead people and what they thought?” He huffed. Well that was one way to describe philosophy…
“Well you may not, but your professor does.” you chuckled. “And if you wanna pass, you should at least pretend to as well. Besides, you were the one who signed up for Ethical Theory.”
Ethical Theory was an upper 3000 level class known for its impossible tests and hard-ass teacher. This class had fell the toughest of academics and almost claimed you as well, you barely managed to pass high enough to become a tutor, well you probably could have tutored the class no matter what, you were the only person to pass with an A at all, your entire class sat at an average of a C. That and the professor seemed to love you, he often gave you feedback on your papers in person and would call on you constantly in class. Either way, you were the only viable option to help others succeed in this class.
“I thought it was going to be easy..” he shot back quietly.
The door to the small study room swung open and a tall mass waltzed in. you looked over your shoulder and smiled to see that James had joined you. James fell into two of the categories of students you tutored; an athlete barely scraping by, and one that wanted to ask you out. But you never really minded tutoring James, he was always so kind and never pushed the idea too hard, unlike Sirius who mentions taking you out or getting your number every session, even coming up with stupid philosophical questions which always alluded to you two dating.
“Oh, hi!” James beamed. “I went to our normal study spot, sorry I’m late.”
“No need to apologize.” You smiled back at him.
Sirius was, however, not smiling. He looked between the two of you, confused.
“Uh, who are you?” He asked, a slight bite in his tone you’ve never heard.
“Sirius, this is James, he’s another student that I tutor.” you explained to him. James crossed the room and sat at the table right next to Sirius. Sirius was staring daggers at James, baffled at the intrusion.
“I thought this was a private session.” Sirius said.
“Right, well, I’ve kind of been a little booked up, so I had to combine some sessions together to fit them all in.” you clarified. And although that wasn’t an entire lie, it wasn’t the whole truth either.
You were busy, that wasn’t a lie, but you decided to hold a group study session with all students that fell into the ‘want to ask you out’ category. You thought that it would be easier to get them all done and out of the way that way you could spend more time focusing on the students who really needed the help or were serious about doing better. That and it would be easier to shoot them down all in one session rather than over the course of the entire week, or it would deter them to ask in front of the others entirely.
So, group sessions it was.
Sirius was still upset, but he couldn’t be mad at you nor your explanation, especially when you feigned innocence and used that sweet tone.
He rolled his eyes and continued on his worksheet.
“Thanks for bumping our session up, I have a test tomorrow and could use the extra study time.” James smiled. You smiled in return. James was struggling in his statistics class, one that you took only last semester, so it was fresh in your mind and easy to explain to him.
“Of course, I actually came up with a new study guide on probability.” You said, digging around in your bag for the notes and worksheet for him.
“Oh perfect,” James sighed. “That’ll be on the test tomorrow.”
Your head snapped up, were you really that good at predicting what was going on in that class?
“Really?” you asked.
“Probably.” James shrugged.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smirk at his lame joke. You rifled through your math folder and found the probability worksheet for him and slid it on his desk.
The door clicked open once again and in walked Remus.
Remus was a student that shocked you when he first signed up for your tutoring. You had seen him in multiple of your classes and knew that he wasn’t in need of a tutor, he often received some of the highest grades in your classes. His test scores never dipped, his papers were always well written, so you threw him into the ‘want to date’ category, and you were right. You caught his eye in lecture halls before he would smile and look away, he kept ‘forgetting’ a pen for class and asking you to borrow one, and he would always approach you and ask you what you thought the answers were when you were doing group work, valuing your opinion more than the others in his own group.
Remus quietly strolled in and set his bag down at one of the desks, skeptical.
“Hey Remus, I’ll be with you in one minute.” you said, finished getting James started before walking over to where Remus sat.
You heard Siris mumble under his breath, unamused, hating that another person was now intruding on his one on one time with him.
“So, what’ll it be today?” You asked expectedly.
Remus smirked and pulled a small stack of papers from his bag. You always got the feeling that Remus knew you knew he was into you, he had this quiet smoothness about him. It was both comforting and mysterious.
“I was hoping you could read over the first draft of my thesis.” He smiled.
You took the neatly clipped stack from his outstretched hands and looked over the cover page: The Impact of Parental Emotional Intelligence on Pro-Social Behaviour in Children and Adolescents. Jesus Christ, this was gonna be a long and hard read.
“You dont have to read it,” Remus chuckled, “I just need another set of eyes to look it over. I feel like I’ve read it so much that it doesn’t even make sense anymore.”
“I get what you mean,” you affirmed, “and of course I’ll read it, you might just need to give me a day or two, I'll make notes and hand it back, that alright?”
Remus nodded and pulled out a book, making it obvious that he didn’t need any further help, but he didn’t leave either…
Sirius eyed Remus who paid him no mind at all.
“Um, Y/N,” James broke the silence. “What is a bell curve again?”
Remus snickered and covered his face with a book. You had half a mind to smack him, but that would be inappropriate and unprofessional. James was trying really hard, he was just… more athletically inclined than academically.
“Its the curve of a graph that’s shaped like a bell.” you explained simply. James nodded and went back to scribbling down answers to the worksheet.
The door flew open once more and the two of your most difficult students to tutor stumbled in. Barty flashed you a smile and Evan waved, finding a desk and propping his feet up, leaning back in his chair. Barty marched right up to you and stopped only an inch away, arms extended and standing expectantly, waiting for a hug. You just looked up at him.
“Oh come on, treasure,” Barty whined, “you haven’t seen me all week! I know you missed me. Also, who are they?” He asked looking over your head at the three strangers in the room.
“In your dreams Junior,” you grunted, shoving him back toward the desk Evan was sitting at, knowing that the best friends would obviously be sharing the desk, they were attached at the hip. Your shove did nothing to move him, but Barty moved on his own accord anyway. “And these are other students that I tutor.
“This is Sirius,” you motioned to the raven haired boy who was trying his best not to lose his mind. How the hell did this happen? Where did his precious one on one time go?! He only glared at the two new entries.
“James,” You motioned to James who looked up from his work and gave them a genuine smile and a sweet “Hello!”
“And this is Remus,” you motioned to Remus who looked up from his book for a moment, giving them a nod before returning to his reading.
“This is Barty and Evan,” You said to the three boys, the room seemed to be getting tenser by the moment. You set Remus’s paper by your things to read later. “Now that we’re all introduced…” you walked up to the desk Barty and Evan resided and planted yourself in front of it crossing your arms over your chest. “I need to see your last test scores.”
Barty and Even exchanged a guilty look.
“About that-” Evan started, but you cut him off.
“Test scores. Now.”
The boys sighed in unison and started digging around their bags. Evan got his out first, a red F at the top right corner. Barty got his out, crumpled and dirty as if it sat at the bottom of that trash can he called a backpack, and handed it to you without looking you in the eye. Another F.
You took a deep breath. You couldn't hit them, again, inappropriate and unprofessional, but they were tap dancing on your morals.
“Guys,” you sighed disappointed, “What happened?”
“Hey don’t look at me, I copied off him,” Barty said pointing to his friend and leaning back in his chair.
“Oi!” Evan exclaimed, shoving Barty off balance and onto the floor.
“Barty, your score is worse!” you announced, exasperated. Barty only giggled like a naughty schoolboy from his spot on the floor.
Barty and Evan were… how do you put this… chaotically intelligent. They pulled through when they needed to, usually barely passing and flying just over the line of getting kicked out of the university.
Barty had changed his major three times and Evan once forgot to show up to his final exam for the easiest class that was offered at your school: Disney’s Media, which was quite literally just showing up to watch a Disney movie and talk about it after. But these two somehow always ended up coming out on top. Frustratingly… If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t be able to do what they did, staying up all night the nights before important tests, writing 7 page papers the morning before the class its due, managing to weasel their way into group projects where all they really have to do is slap their name on it.
“Relax, treasure,” Barty purred, sitting himself back in his chair. “It wasn’t even an important test so, it’ll be fine.” Evan nodded beside him in agreement.
“That just means you’ll have to get an even higher score on the final.” you reasoned.
“Which can be done.” Evan chimed in. Not likely, Barty and Evan both signed up for this gender studies class for an easy A, but it turned out to not be as easy of an A. But knowing them and their dumb luck, they would manage to pull through in the end.
You just don’t know why they insisted on stressing you out with their scores, you were invested in them and wanted to see them succeed. And this success is now on your shoulders, you would have to ultimately turn their grades around by adding in extra lessons and study sessions. Maybe this was their plan to spend time with you; sink their grade so they get more of you.
Your work load just seemed to continue to pile up. Not only with these five, but also keeping in mind that you had other students to tutor as well…
“Hey, Y/N, I think I’m done.” Sirius said from across the room.
You turned to make your way over to Sirius’s desk, but before you got far, Barty’s hand wrapped around your wrist, halting your movement.
“Sorry we weren’t done with her quite yet,” Barty shot over to Sirius in an icy tone.
Sirius’s eyes narrowed and the room became ten times more tense.
“Well if we’re going down that route, I had her first.” Sirius’s tone was just as sharp.
You rolled your eyes, about to tell them both to chill out, before Remus spoke up.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be grabbing and fighting over her like she’s a toy.” He said not once looking up from his book. The attention of the room turned to him.
Sirius’s glare could have burned holes through the book in Remus’s hands, but Remus just raised a brow in return.
Before the tension of the room could boil over into a fight, which, knowing Barty and Evan as well as Sirius, that wasn’t out of the question, you spoke up.
“Ok, ok, enough.” your tone chastising. You thought for a moment that maybe having a group session was a bad idea, but then another thought popped into your head.
“What if I made you all a deal?” you asked the room.
All the boys perked up, interested in what you had to say. Remus set his book down and James paused his scribbling.
“How about this, if you can manage to get an A by the end of the semester,” you paused, each boy waiting for you to continue. You were going to regret this but, oh well. What are the chances anyway? Pretty slim you’d say. “You can have my number.”
The room went dead silent for a beat. Then it broke into them speaking all at once.
“Wait really,” came from James.
“You’re telling me I have to compete with them now?.” Sirius said pointedly at the rest of the boys.
“Easy,” Evan said, high fiving Barty next to him.
“Does an A- count?” James asked
“But treasure,” Barty whined. “That means I’ll have to share you with Evan.”
“I am not sharing.” Sirius said with a growl in his voice.
Remus remained silent but you could see the smirk cut across his face, he was, afterall, the one most likely to actually accomplish the goal. He was quite pleased and confident that he would easily have your number by Christmas.
⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹
To your surprise, they were taking this deal very seriously.
Evan and Barty were not only doing somewhat well in class, but they were also attending class every week. Their scores improved and it took a weight off your shoulders knowing that their grades wouldn’t rely solely on what they scored on their final exams. Thank God.
Nothing changed with Remus, nothing really needed changing. His scores stayed the same, his class performance didn’t change, he came second in the class only to you. The one thing that did change was that he took to sitting next to you in class. Instead of only catching your eye from across the lecture hall, he was now chatting with you every free moment of the class, and you really didn’t mind.
James was excelling not only in class but on the field as well. He was doing really well on all his homework assignments and tests, and his team was so far undefeated. You were really rooting for him on both stages, even watching a few of his games in support.
The only one struggling with this task was Sirius. He was doing fine, but not great, constantly just missing the mark to pass over into A territory. You could tell he was stressing, not only did he really want your number, but watching the other four boys surpass him was really grating. Everything was riding on his final exam score, a situation he was less than pleased with.
At least he wasn’t staring daggers into them anymore, well, not into Remus and James at least. Those three actually became pretty good friends over the weeks. Barty and Evan however, let's just say those two were assigned seats on the opposite side of the room to cut back on the bickering and near fist fights.
Remus was the first to win your number, naturally. He went into the final with a 99, meaning he could quite literally ditch and still end up with a high grade. But if he did that, he wouldn’t have your number now would he? You typed your name and number into his phone while he did the same in yours. You swapped phones back and noticed he added a little moon emoji by his name. Cute and mysterious.
James was next riding the high after a championship win, that enthusiasm rolled over into his final which he scored a 95 on his final. He was beaming when he walked into the study room, and you couldn’t blame him, you shared the same look, so proud of him. James noticed Remus’s name in your phone.
“Aw man,” he sighed, “He beat me to it.”
You laughed with him, noticing he took a note from Remus’s book and added a little sun. If Remus was cute and mysterious, James was warm and sunny. A perfect way to describe James actually.
Barty and Evan walked in simultaneously to collect their prize. Evan earned a 94 and Barty a 93. You looked suspiciously at them and made them swear they didn’t cheat off each other on the final. Barty and Evan both looked guilty for a moment before laying on their sweet talk and distraction. You didn’t care, they passed and that's all that mattered. You typed your name and number into their phones. They both crowded around yours, typing in their information.
“Ahh, so we’re doing emojis, huh?” Barty said, noticing both Remus and James’s number ahead of theirs.
Evan added a rose emoji to his name. Smart. Evan Rosier.
Barty added a little bat behind his name, one nickname that Evan often called him. You caught him erasing your name and replacing it with ‘treasure’ with a ring emoji behind him. You smile and roll your eyes, ushering them out before they have the chance to do or say anything stupid that would result in you either revoking their number privilege or blocking them entirely.
You waited and waited for Sirius to show up, but when the clock hit 6:00, he still hadn’t shown. All exams, finals, and projects were to be turned in at 6 on the dot. Classes were done, the semester was over.
You packed up and locked the door to the study room behind you. You started your journey to your parked car all the way across campus, not looking forward to the long cold trek.
Your bag less heavy without all the extra study materials for tutoring, swung loosely at your side the whole way.
You felt a little bad, Sirius was the only one not to pass with an A. You were proud of him regardless, a B+ was nothing to laugh at, especially in his class, but you really wanted to see all five of them succeed.
You arrived at your car, unlocking it and getting in when you felt your phone buzz in the bottom of your empty bag. You started your car, trying to warm up as you fished around for your phone.
You pulled it out to see a message from an unknown number.
You opened the message. It was a picture, shaky and obviously taken in a rush, but its content was unmistakable. The front page of a test with a big red A right next to Sirius’s name. 100%. He actually did it.
I must have missed you- unknown
Then how did you get my number?-you
I stole it off James- unknown.
I knew I’d eventually get your number- unknown
You smiled down at your screen, biting your lip as you thought what to text back.
You worked hard for it.-you
Yeah I did- unknown
Maybe next time I get an A I can get a kiss- unknown
Anyway, see you next semester ;)- unknown
You closed out the app and put your phone in your cup holder. Next semester… your phone number idea really did work, it motivated them to work hard and get good grades. Maybe the promise of a kiss is just what they need to keep them motivated.
You could help the smile that made a home on your face as you put your car in drive and headed home.
idk how to tag this but i love a hogwarts university! AU
my cramps are astronomically bad and when I’m on my period I genuinely have to reevaluate my whole life bc wtf why does it hurt so bad every time but ANYWAYS to get to the point I was wondering if you could do Sirius x reader who is on her period and wakes up in the middle of the night feeling extremely nauseous from cramps and is all loving and comforting
🫶🏻
Thank you for requesting <3
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
cw: reader who menstruates, period cramps, nausea
Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 757 words
You wake slowly, strange dreams giving way to a worse reality. Your midsection radiates hurt. You feel feverish with it, sick. You breathe out through clenched teeth.
Sirius’ hand rests over the epicenter of the pain. Maybe you’d been moving around in your sleep, curling in on yourself, and he’d roped around you to keep you still. He does that, sometimes. Sirius is an endearing mix of fussy and loving when he’s awake, but it’s all amplified in sleep.
You move his hand. Not cruelly, though you do mean to wake him. You squeeze his fingers, saying, “Sirius.”
“Mm.” He squeezes your fingers back, then tries to wriggle his hand back into place over your stomach.
You hold tight. “I need your help.”
A warm breath and a kiss to the back of your neck. “Shh,” he mumbles, “in a little bit.”
You think about letting it go—he’s too well asleep, and you don’t feel like working hard enough to rouse him—but a swell of pain brings the sharp worry that you really might be about to make a mess of your bed. “Sirius,” you say again, voice tightening.
“Hm?” Your urgency seems to wake him a bit more effectively. The mattress dips as Sirius sits up on his elbow. “What is it?”
It’s almost too hard to speak past the ache. “I need a bucket.”
“Oh. Oh, okay.” Sirius extracts his hand gently from yours. Then he’s slipping out from behind you, stumbling a bit on his way from the room. “Okay, one second.” You hear the hall closest open, and then a curse as a light comes on.
You have your eyes screwed shut when he comes back, feeling the small depression the bucket makes in the comforter near your legs. The thought of moving half a centimeter seems like it could kill you.
“Need help sitting up?” Sirius asks in a murmur.
You make a hum of denial.
“Okay.” The bucket leaves, and there’s a soft clunk on the floor. “I’m just gonna leave it right here by the bed, then, yeah?”
You do your best to nod. You think it mostly works.
Sirius’ hand lands on your head, his thumb sweeping gently across your forehead. “What’s the matter?” he asks lightly. “Just couldn’t be arsed to get up and get it yourself?”
“I know you’re joking,” you manage, “but I’m actually going to get upset with you.”
“Tough crowd.” He drops the teasing. “Uterus troubles?”
“Yeah.”
“Sadistic fucker,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, pretty girl. Don’t suppose you’d feel like sitting up to drink some of your tea if I made a cup?”
Your answering hum sounds a bit like a whimper.
“What about just enough water to swallow a couple painkillers? You can even use your spit if you’re feeling brave.”
“Yes, please.”
Sirius’ lips press briefly above your eyebrow before he leaves. He’s gone longer than it would take to grab your painkillers from the bathroom. You crack your eyelids when he comes back, and his smile borders on sheepish, a hot water bottle tucked beneath his arm and a cup of tea in his hand.
“You don’t have to drink it,” he says, setting the cup on your nightstand. “It’s only for if you change your mind. You do have to sit up to swallow the pills, though.”
You look up at him pitifully.
Sirius pouts without an ounce of mocking. “Okay,” he murmurs, arms working underneath you to help ease you upright. He slips in behind you as he does. “I’ve got you.”
“Thank you,” you sigh, taking the painkillers from his hand. “Sorry for the…”
“Don’t be. Do you want this?” He holds up the water bottle.
“Yeah. Please.”
Sirius wriggles down your pajama bottoms, situating the water bottle low over your abdomen. You sigh again.
“You’re so warm,” he says, cheek resting on your shoulder, “I don’t know how you can stand it.”
It’s true. You’re damp with sweat, hot and uncomfortable, but you think the only thing you’d bear more of it for is the relief of the heat on your middle. “It helps,” you say simply.
Sirius hums. “Still feel like you’re going to be sick?”
“I don’t know. Sorry I made you get up. I thought I was going to.”
“Don’t be sorry for that, baby.” He kisses your shoulder. “You can’t help it. It’s not even your fault, it’s the evil fucker.” A pause. “You know, it’s very weird for me to resent something that’s inside of you. It’s confusing.”
First the hardware store, then the record shop, then the grocery run. By the time you finally ended up at the diner, you were already sulking, arms crossed and sighing like a martyr.
You begged for a strawberry milkshake and fries, pouted until Eddie finally sighed and gave in. “Fine. Get her what she wants,” he told the waitress.
“Thank you, Eds,” you chirped, sweet as poison, leaning back smug.
When the food came, you sipped the shake twice, picked at the fries, then shoved the basket away with a groan. “Not even that good.”
Steve paused with his burger halfway to his mouth, brows lifting slow. “So let me get this straight. You skip breakfast, whine until Eddie caves, and now you’re too much of a brat to eat any of it? That’s not cute, sweetheart.”
Eddie’s fingers drummed once against the table before curling into a fist. “You’re going to finish it, or you’ll regret it later.”
Your stomach flipped, but you only slouched deeper in the booth, biting back a grin. The thrill of pushing was too sweet, like pressing on a bruise just to feel it ache.
Steve leaned back, smirk syrupy. “Write that one down, Eds. Begging for food she doesn’t want? Daddy thinks that’s a strike.”
Your heart lurched, heat prickling across your cheeks as the word seemed to ring louder than it should have, cutting through the clatter of dishes and hum of conversation around the diner. Steve never called himself that in public. Not once. The urge to sink under the table tangled sharp with the shameful spark that wanted to hear him say it again.
Eddie didn’t even argue. He just reached into his jacket, pulled out the small notebook he carried, and flipped it open. The scratch of his pen made your cheeks burn hotter than Steve’s smirk.
“You can keep playing, princess,” Steve said, taking a bite of his burger, “but the page fills up fast when you’re this reckless.”
Under Eddie’s stare, you dragged the basket back toward you. Picked up a fry. Took a slow bite, rolling your eyes the whole time. Two more, chased with a sip of the shake, just enough to prove you weren’t outright refusing.
Steve’s smile thinned. “Pathetic. Eddie said eat, not toy with it.”
You crammed another fry in with a sigh. “Happy now?”
Eddie’s glare cut across the table, fist tight on the laminate. “Keep going.”
Steve clicked his tongue, grin slow and cutting. “Oh, precious. Write that down, Eds. Mocking at the table’s another strike.”
Eddie’s pen scratched, each mark a promise. Your stomach twisted, heat crawling low.
By the time the check came, you’d picked at just enough to keep him from making a scene.
The car ride home wasn’t any better. You groaned when the radio didn’t play your song, muttered when Eddie told you to knock it off, ignored Steve completely when he tried to joke with you.
But your mind wouldn’t let go of that single word. Daddy. He’d let it slip at the diner like it was nothing, like he wasn’t breaking your unspoken rule. It had been too loud, too deliberate, hanging in the air until it felt like the whole place must have heard. The humiliation clung jagged and raw, every replay of the word cutting like glass. Yet beneath it something darker pulled at you, a restless hunger that only made the sting sharper.
Steve’s low chuckle snapped you out of your thoughts. “Careful, princess. You’re halfway to filling a page already. Maybe Daddy will have Eds read it out loud tonight, just so you can hear how spoiled you sound.”
Eddie’s grip on the wheel tightened, leather squeaking beneath his hands. “She’s going to regret it,” he muttered.
And gods, it wound you up so tight you could hardly breathe.
Inside, you kicked your shoes off with a huff and made a beeline for the couch, sprawling into the cushions like you meant to sink there forever. Eddie shrugged his jacket off, keys clattering onto the counter. Steve drifted into the kitchen, the hiss of a soda can cracking open before his eyes flicked back to you stretched out and sulking.
Eddie caught your chin before you could flop sideways. “We’ve got to step out again. Dishes done when we get back. Clear?”
Your head snapped up. “Wait, leaving? We just got home.”
“Quick errand,” Eddie said, already snagging his keys again.
You threw your arms wide. “You’ve been dragging me around all day, and now you’re ditching me the second we walk in the door?”
Steve’s grin was lazy and sweet as poison. “Poor thing. Acting like we abandoned you, when really we just don’t trust you not to pitch another fit if we take you along.”
You scoffed. “Whatever.”
Eddie turned in the doorway, pinning you with a look sharp enough to cut. “One more word and you’ll regret it when we get back.”
Your jaw snapped shut, but the roll of your eyes gave you away.
Steve caught it instantly, sing-song as he tipped his head. “There it is. Out there you can roll your eyes and whine all you want. In here, that earns you a strike. And trust me, sweetheart, you don’t want to see that number climb.”
Eddie’s reply was flat, final. “Noted.”
Something in your chest gave a hard flutter. Punishment was coming. It always did. You wanted it. You hated that you wanted it. And the darker thought whispered the same promise it always did. Once they’d wrung the fight out of you, they’d give in. They always did.
The door shut behind them, leaving the trailer heavy with silence. You stood in the kitchen staring at the piled dishes, their warnings still buzzing in your head like static.
With a sharp exhale, you turned on your heel and stomped down the hall, each step heavier than the last.
In the bedroom, the stereo blared loud enough to rattle the thin walls. You threw yourself onto the bed, the ache between your thighs sharpened by every warning, every ignored command, every eye roll you knew had been added to the list.
Your hand hovered at your waistband for a heartbeat. You shouldn’t. You knew the rule. That was why your pulse kicked harder when your fingers slipped inside anyway.
A sigh broke past your lips as you pressed against the heat of your own skin. Touching without permission was forbidden, but that was the point. You wanted to be caught. Wanted them furious. The risk only made your breath come faster.
The thought of waiting another minute had your teeth grinding. Hips rolled against your hand, chasing friction, chasing punishment. Gods, if they walked in now… Eddie’s furious eyes flashing, Steve’s mocking laugh curling around you… the image alone made your hips jerk harder, pleasure tightening fast and sharp.
The front door creaked open, but the stereo drowned it out. Heavy boots crossed the floor, followed by the crinkle of a bag being set carefully on the counter.
Steve glanced at Eddie as he slid the bag onto the counter, a smug little grin tugging at his mouth. “Got her the one she wanted.”
Eddie’s reply was short, sharp. “Later. Do you hear that?”
The sound bleeding down the hall wiped the smile from Steve’s face. “Oh, she’s gonna hang for this.”
Their footsteps thundered closer.
The door slammed open just as the wave crested through you, back arching, mouth falling open as you came with your hand still buried between your thighs.
And there they were, frozen in the doorway. Eddie’s face was dark with fury. Steve’s grin spread slow and cruel.
“Un-fucking-believable,” Eddie growled, voice dark and low.
Your eyes flew open. The orgasm still rippled sharp through your body, leaving your thighs trembling and your chest heaving. Heat clung sticky to your skin as your hand slipped free, but the smirk stayed on your lips. “What? You weren’t here. Somebody had to take care of me.”
Eddie’s silence hit harder than any shout. His jaw ticked once, eyes burning through you, and then he moved.
Steve leaned heavier against the frame, arms folding slow as his grin spread syrupy and smug. His gaze dragged over you like he had all the time in the world. “Look at her. Caught red-handed, the stereo rattling the walls, and the sink still full.”
Eddie closed the distance in three strides. His hand clamped around your wrist, dragging it up like proof, your skin still damp. “You couldn’t wait?”
Your laugh came sharp, reckless, as you shoved at his chest with your free hand. “I was bored.” The smirk deepened, your pulse thundering. “What were you gonna do, spank me?”
Come on. Do it. Make me pay for it.
Steve finally pushed off the frame, his chuckle warm but patronizing. He strolled closer, fingers tapping lightly against his arm, eyes full of syrupy amusement. “Aw, listen to her. Talking so big with her hand still wet. Poor baby must’ve forgotten whose rules she lives by. In this room, there’s no hiding, no bargaining. Just Daddy’s word and Sir’s hand.”
Eddie’s glare burned through you, the kind of look that usually shut you up cold. Tonight it only made your chin tip higher, daring him.
The movement was sudden, his hand snapping up to clamp around your jaw. Your face tilted hard, forced to meet the fury burning in his eyes. His voice was low, deadly. “What do you call me?”
Your pulse jumped, but the grin you gave him was sharp enough to cut. “Eddie, duh. Did you forget your own name?”
The silence that followed was worse than yelling. His stare went flat, dark as ink.
“Try again.”
Every nerve screamed at you to stop, but the brat in you wouldn’t stay quiet. You rolled your eyes, sweet venom coating your voice. “What, you need me to spell it out for you now?”
The crack of his hand against your thigh made you jolt, a sharp cry breaking free. His grip on your jaw tightened, tilting your head back until his face filled your vision.
“I will not repeat myself,” he snarled. “Say it.”
Shame burned hot in your chest. Your lips trembled as the word fell out, small and broken. “Sir.”
“That’s better.” His hand shifted, dragging your gaze sideways toward Steve.
Steve had moved closer, leaning one shoulder against the wall, watching with syrupy satisfaction. His smirk widened when your throat tightened.
“Go on,” Eddie pressed. “And him?”
The word lodged in your chest, heat climbing your neck. “Daddy,” you muttered.
Eddie’s fingers dug harder into your jaw. “Louder.”
Your voice cracked under the command. “Daddy.”
Steve’s laugh was low and fond, almost cooing. He stepped forward, bending until his mouth brushed close to your ear. “That’s it. Good girl. Daddy knew you’d remember.”
The name still burned on your tongue when Eddie finally released your jaw. Your breath came fast, shame prickling hot across your skin, sharper than the sting on your thigh.
“Better,” he muttered, his eyes dragging down your body, slow and cutting. His mouth curved into something mean. “Let’s see how long that attitude lasts once you have nothing to hide behind.”
The command came flat and final. “Strip.”
You huffed but obeyed, peeling your shirt off and tossing it hard to the floor.
Steve’s eyes followed it down, his smile all sugar while his tone sliced clean. “Pick it up.”
You froze, chin tilting stubborn. “What?”
Steve’s chuckle was maddeningly sweet, like he was humoring a child. He crouched just enough to meet your eyes, voice sing-song soft. “Aw, did Daddy’s girl forget how to listen? Pick it up, fold it neat, and then do the same with everything else. Unless you’d rather Daddy help you remember with his belt.”
Heat flared across your face as you bent to scoop up the shirt, smoothing the fabric with shaky hands. One by one, each piece joined the stack. Eddie loomed silent, eyes like ice, while Steve’s soft coos only made it worse. “Slower. Careful. That’s better. Daddy likes it tidy.”
By the time you finished, your skin buzzed under their stares, your body tight with humiliation.
Steve folded his arms, letting the silence hang until it seemed to press down on you. Then his voice came lilting and almost gentle. “Sweetheart, did you really think Daddy would not notice you throwing your clothes like a tantrum? Daddy notices everything. Every sigh, every pout, every glare. That little show just earned you five more spankings. And Daddy is going to enjoy every one.”
Your stomach dropped. “Ste—”
“Daddy,” he corrected softly, almost sing-song.
You swallowed hard, shame prickling hot across your skin. “Yes, Daddy.”
Eddie’s hand closed around your chin, forcing your eyes up to his. “On your knees. Now.”
The carpet scraped rough against your skin as you sank down. Eddie’s palm stayed heavy on your shoulder, pinning you when you shifted. “Stay.”
From the kitchen came the clatter of cabinets, the rip of a bag, the rattle of rice spilling into a pan. Each sound tightened the coil in your chest. You had been here before, kneeling until your body shook, tears spilling hot while Eddie held you down. Memory crawled over your skin, a phantom ache settling in your knees before the punishment even began. You hated how quickly your body remembered. Hated more how much some hidden part of you welcomed it.
When Steve returned, he carried the shallow pan like it was a gift. He set it down with deliberate care, lined with a towel and spread with raw rice. Eddie’s hand fisted in your hair, dragging you forward until your knees sank into the grains. The bite was instant, sharp and merciless.
You hissed, trying to twist free, but Eddie’s grip only shoved you lower. “Sit still.”
A notebook and pen hit the floor at your knees. Eddie’s voice was flat, carved from stone. “Write it. Over and over. I will respect Sir and Daddy. I will not act like a spoiled brat. You don’t stop until I tell you.”
The rice stabbed into tender skin like glass shards. You clenched your jaw, fighting the urge to wriggle. Don’t cry. Don’t move. You can take it. But the burn spread quick, fire crawling up your thighs, stealing your breath until your hand shook around the pen.
You managed three messy lines before Steve crouched beside you, his knee brushing yours. He plucked the notebook from your hands, humming low in mock approval. “‘I will respect Sir and Daddy. I will not act like a spoiled brat.’” His voice tilted into syrupy condescension. “Mm. She can write the words, but look at that face. That’s not a girl who’s sorry. That’s a brat waiting to get her way. Do you think Daddy is fooled, sweetheart? Because Daddy isn’t. And Sir isn’t either.”
Your glare cut up at him, sharp as broken glass. “Maybe Daddy just likes hearing himself talk.”
Eddie’s fist tangled in your hair, yanking until your scalp burned. His palm cracked across your cheek, hot and fast. Tears stung, but the smirk clung stubborn.
“Wrong answer,” he growled. “That’s more with the belt, on top of what you’ve earned.”
Steve’s chuckle was soft, almost cooing. His thumb brushed the sting, mock-tender. “Poor baby. Every time you open that mouth, you dig deeper. Daddy thinks you’re angling for play. But Daddy knows better.”
The words landed harder than the slap. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Punishment first, then the edge softening, their hands and mouths undoing the damage once they’d wrung you dry. It had always felt inevitable before.
Steve’s arm curled tighter, lips brushing your temple like you were a child. “You think we’re that easy? That a pout makes us cave? Not tonight. Rules aren’t a game. Daddy and Sir don’t bend for tantrums, especially not after that stunt.” His voice was soft, but the weight beneath pressed like iron.
The bottom dropped out of your stomach. The ache that had been simmering low only sharpened, cruel in its denial. You wanted to beg, to plead, but shame pressed your tongue flat.
“Easy, Eds,” Steve murmured when Eddie’s grip stayed iron-hard. He leaned in, lips brushing Eddie’s jaw in a fleeting kiss. For a heartbeat, their attention shifted from you to each other, Steve’s sweetness pressing against Eddie’s steel. The sight lit something reckless in your chest, a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, you’d get what you craved.
But Eddie’s hand slid up Steve’s arm, holding him there as his eyes cut back to you. “And you’re too soft. She doesn’t need sweet. She needs to break.”
Steve lingered for a breath longer before pulling back, his smile honeyed when it landed on you. “Then Daddy agrees with Sir. She’s not done yet.”
Your stomach plunged. The flicker of hope guttered fast. The notebook shook in your hands as Eddie shoved it back at you. Gods, I pushed too far. I wanted them angry, but not like this.
“Another page,” Eddie ordered. “Neat. Miss once and you start again.”
The rice bit deeper into your knees, thighs trembling. Tears finally spilled hot and heavy down your cheeks, blurring ink across the page. Steve’s soft chuckle brushed your ear, unbearably sweet. “Poor thing. Already shaking, and she hasn’t even counted the belt yet.”
Your pen scratched clumsy lines across the page, every letter blurrier than the last. The ache in your knees, the sting on your cheek, the fire in your thighs...it was all blurring into something dizzying.
Steve’s hand pressed your back, voice soft. “Eyes up, baby girl.” You froze. His gaze locked on yours, sweet but steady. “What’s your color?”
Your throat worked around the word, lips trembling. “Green.”
The tension in his shoulders eased, though his smile stayed sharp. “Good girl. Daddy just needed to hear it.” His hand patted your back, deceptively soothing. “Now finish the page. Then you’ll count every one of those spankings loud enough for the neighbors to hear.”
Eddie’s voice cut in from above, low and unforgiving. “And if she drops her count even once, we start over.”
Your stomach twisted, shame and heat tangling together. The pen shook harder in your hand as you scrawled the words again, blinking through the blur of tears.
The last line wobbled across the page, ink smeared with tears. Your hand fell limp at your side, the pen clattering to the floor.
Eddie snatched the notebook, scanned it, then tossed it aside. “Up.”
Your legs screamed as you pushed upright, knees raw from the rice. Eddie hauled you toward Steve, who had already sat down at the edge of the bed, belt dangling from one hand. He patted his thigh with the other, his smile syrupy and cruel. “Over Daddy’s knee, sweetheart. Now.”
Shame surged hot in your chest, but Eddie’s grip shoved you forward until you sprawled across Steve’s lap. The position was humiliating, ass bared, face burning.
Eddie crouched low in front of you, one hand clamping your chin so you couldn’t look anywhere but into his eyes. “You’ll count every one. Loud. Clear. Drop it once and you start over.”
Steve stroked a slow hand over your skin, deceptively gentle. “You’ve earned twenty. Ten for that smart little mouth, ten for forgetting who’s in charge. Daddy’s going to make sure you don’t forget again.”
The belt snapped down hard. Pain bloomed sharp and hot, forcing a cry from your throat.
“One!”
Eddie’s smile cut like a blade. “Good girl. Louder.”
The next strike landed harder.
“Two!”
Steve hummed, patting your ass where the welt rose angry and red. “That’s it. You’re doing so well for Daddy.”
By the sixth, tears blurred your vision. Eddie’s thumb brushed cruelly at one rolling down your cheek. “Look at you, falling apart already. Pathetic.”
“Six!”
Steve paused, rubbing circles into your skin as your body shook. His voice dipped softer, condescendingly sweet. “Breathe for me, baby girl. Color?”
“Green,” you gasped, the word breaking on a sob.
“Good girl,” he crooned, pressing a kiss to your lower back before raising the belt again. “Keep counting.”
The leather cracked, over and over, until the final lash made your whole body jolt against his lap.
“Twenty!”
Steve dropped the belt with a soft thud, his palm smoothing over the welts he’d made. His tone was honeyed, but merciless. “Look at her, Eds. Crying, shaking, and she still thought she’d pout her way into our hands tonight.”
Eddie’s hand tightened on your jaw, forcing your eyes on him as he spoke. “No play. No reward. Straight to bed.”
Steve tipped close, voice a cruel coo. “Tomorrow you’ll remember, Daddy and Sir don’t break just because you want.”
The words landed heavier than the belt, your stomach sinking even as your body ached for the very touch they denied.
Steve’s hand lingered warm on your back as Eddie finally released your chin. You sagged against Steve’s lap, sobs still shaking your chest.
“Easy now,” Steve murmured, rubbing slow circles over your spine. His tone was syrup-sweet again, lulling. “Daddy’s got you. Breathe for me.”
Eddie rose, moving to the dresser. The sound of a drawer sliding open made you flinch, but when he returned, it wasn’t with more punishment. A cool jar clicked against the nightstand. “Cream,” he said simply.
Steve shifted you gently, helping you onto the bed on your stomach. “Stay still, sweetheart. Let Daddy take care of you.” His voice was low, coaxing, but the sting in your skin made you jolt when his fingers brushed the first welt.
Eddie crouched beside him, holding your hip steady while Steve smoothed the cream across angry red stripes. The cool relief made you gasp. Eddie’s hand rubbed firm circles into your side, grounding you. “Breathe through it. Good girl.”
Each stripe was tended, each welt carefully touched until the fire dulled to a deep throb. Steve’s hands were steady, almost reverent, while Eddie kept you pinned in place. When they were finished, Eddie pressed a clean bandage against the worst of them, smoothing it down with surprising gentleness.
“Water,” Eddie muttered, and Steve left just long enough to return with a glass. He slid a hand under your head, helping you sip. “That’s it. Small sips. You’re okay.”
Once the glass was empty, Eddie pulled the blanket back and guided you beneath it. Steve tucked the corners snug, his palm smoothing over your hair.
“You’re loved,” Steve murmured. “Even when you’re impossible.”
Eddie’s voice followed, low and steady. “Especially then. But don’t mistake love for leniency.”
Your chest tightened. Exhaustion dragged at you, but the ache still simmered low, sharp enough to make you shift restlessly between them. The words clawed at your throat, a plea you were too raw to swallow. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, broken and small. “I was awful today.”
Steve’s arm curled tighter around you, his lips brushing your temple. “We know, sweetheart. But Daddy and Sir don’t play when you break rules. Not after what you pulled.” His voice stayed gentle, but the firmness beneath it left no room for argument.
Eddie reached across you, dragging the crinkled shopping bag into view. He set it on the nightstand where the lamplight caught just enough to tease the edge of what was inside. “We picked something up for you. A present for our sweet girl.”
Your pulse stumbled, guilt and want tangling sharp in your chest as your eyes fixed on the bag. Hope rose unbidden, too quick, too sharp, leaving your stomach twisting as soon as you realized it.
Eddie’s hand pressed your cheek back to the pillow. “Tomorrow. If you earn it.”
Steve’s coo followed like honey poured slow. “Sleep now, baby girl. Dream about it.”
The blanket was pulled up higher, the lamp clicked off, and their footsteps faded. Left aching, bandaged, and tucked in tight, the only thing sharper than the sting of punishment was the knowledge that the surprise sat waiting, just out of reach.
Morning came with sunlight spilling pale across the sheets. The first thing you felt was pain: your knees sore, your thighs tight, welts tender beneath the bandages. The second was warmth. Steve’s chest pressed solid against your back, his arm snug around your waist. Eddie’s weight curved into your other side, his face buried in your hair, his hand heavy and protective against your hip.
You blinked groggily, disoriented, but the rhythm of their breathing anchored you. Steve shifted, his morning hardness pressing into the curve of your ass before he murmured into your hair, lips brushing your shoulder. “Morning, trouble.”
Eddie stirred at the sound, voice still gravelled with sleep. His hand slid higher, smoothing over your stomach before giving the softest squeeze. “Morning, you two.” He pressed a kiss into your hair.
Steve’s gaze caught Eddie’s across you, his grin slow and crooked. He leaned forward just enough to steal a kiss over your head, soft and unhurried, Eddie meeting him with a low hum. The sight made your stomach flip, heat and something softer tangling sharp in your chest. For a heartbeat, you almost forgot the sting of last night, caught instead on the warmth curling tight between all three of you.
“Don’t get ideas, sweetheart,” Steve said, lips brushing your temple now. “Daddy and Sir don’t play the morning after punishment. You’ll get more than snuggles when you’ve earned it.”
The words made your cheeks burn, but their warmth closed in tight, grounding you between them. Eddie’s palm stroked slow up your side, not quite where you ached but close enough to remind you.
Then Eddie reached across you, tugging the crinkled bag from the nightstand. He set it on the bed in front of you, his mouth curving. “Go on. Open it.”
Your hands trembled as you peeled the tissue away. Nestled inside was the lava lamp you had wanted for weeks, the purple-and-pink one you had stared at every time they walked you past the shop.
Your breath caught. “You… you actually bought it?”
Steve’s smile was fond, almost smug. “Of course. We spoil our girl... when she earns it.”
Eddie’s eyes stayed sharp, but there was something softer under the weight of his stare. “Last night, you didn't earn it. This morning, maybe you can.”
Your throat ached as you clutched the lamp to your chest. Emotion burned hot behind your eyes, torn between shame and relief.
Steve kissed your temple, his voice low and warm. “You are loved, brat and all. Never forget it.”
Eddie’s hand pressed firmer at your hip, solid and certain. “And you are ours. Always.”
The ache hadn't faded, but it was held now inside the warmth of their arms and the glow of your new lamp waiting to be plugged in. For all the punishment, for all the rules, morning had come with love.
☆Quick GTKM info: You can call me Page. Always looking for new ☆writer friends and mutuals or just anyone nice <333. You get what
☆you give. WRITERS BLOCK HAS ME IN A CHOKEHOLD ☆WVDGEDWEYDEVEECBEBECC. My small brain can't contain all
☆my ideas. My fixations change faster than I change my pads lol.
Summary: snuggles with our resident soft doms :) can be read as a part of the series or a standalone!
✨Masterlist✨
For my Rennie who’s snoozing… 🫧✨🌌💫🩵 @lissiesykes come get ur softdom minchan, they’re cuddly and snoozy
~
Minho glanced up when you shuffled into the room quietly, barely making a noise except for the little squeak your slippers made. He had been lounging on the daybed he kept in the corner of his room after dinner, just enjoying his own company quietly. His book slipped out of his focus, quietly sliding the sleek bookmark into place upon the new visitor he apparently had.
You shuffled a little closer and noticed all his attention was on you now - your favorite slippers, one of his tshirts, and your coziest blanket around your shoulders. Maximum comfiness.
He made a little noise in the back of his throat, wanting to ask what you were doing or if anything was wrong, but before he could-
You got to his side, laid across his lap, and put your face in his tummy. His shirt was so soft. He was breathing slowly and steadily and you could feel that against your cheek.
If you could see his face, you’d have noticed he blinked a few times in surprise. To both of your surprise, you just nuzzled further into his tummy, only making a little noise once you got settled. So warm and comfy, so relaxing. He started confusedly petting your shoulders, and when you made a little noise of agreement, just continued and watched as you took a nap in his tummy.
-
It happened again the next day. Minho walked into Chan’s room to ask him something about a new track when he spotted you halfway in Chan’s lap on his work bench. You were curled up next to his side just like you were with Minho, face tucked into Chan’s tummy. You were in your work clothes this time, shoes at the doorway, like your only decision after being home all of 10 minutes was Chan’s tummy (a good choice, if you asked Minho). He wasn’t even aware you were home and neither was Chan until you had plopped down.
Chan made eye contact and shrugged a little, as if to say ‘your guess is as good as mine’. It was a new habit, and a cute one, so they weren’t going to question it. Minho quietly said he would come back later to ask his question, leaving you to sniffle and curl further into Chan, like you were almost awake but decided his tummy was better.
-
The third time it happened, it had been pouring down rain all day. Both of them were home when you got back from getting groceries, changed clothes, and came back to the living room within 5 minutes looking a little damp and a lot tired. They were both on the plush couch, a giant blanket draped across their laps.
They were about to ask what you wanted for dinner when you approached them both. They looked so snuggly. So inviting. So cozy. But your head could only choose one tummy at a time, unfortunately.
They saw you deliberating in front of them, a crease in your eyebrows drawing back and forth between them. You hadn’t said anything and they seemed a little amused at how hard you seemed to be thinking. Finally you decided on the best of both worlds!
You lifted up their shared blanket and burrowed under it like a little gopher until you rested your legs across Minho’s lap and head into Chan’s tummy.
“Hi sweetheart,” Chan said softly, the rain pattering along the window just softer than his voice.
“Mmm.” No time for eloquence, only time for snuggling.
“We’ve noticed you like snuggling into our tummies this week. Are you enjoying yourself?” Minho asked, pulling up one of your socks that slipped down in your mission to get under the blanket.
“Mhmm. Cozy. Soft. Warm.” Minho giggled a little and one of Chan’s hands started to pet you, urging you closer into his tummy. You poked Minho to get his attention and when he made a little noise of acknowledgement, said, “Don’t worry, Min. I’ll snuggle your tummy later too. It’s very snuggle-able.”
You heard Chan whisper to Minho a few minutes later, “Is this how you feel when your cats sit on you? I don’t wanna move forever, she’s too adorable!”
“That’s exactly how cat people feel, Channie. I’m glad you’re catching on! My two smart babies. One understands the minds of cat people and the other understands how to successfully trap her boyfriends like a cat now.”
things get heated when the two of yall decide to have a petty argument.
-contains mature themes (minho is mean but its all consensual...sir kink?!?!?)
minho's pissed.
you're pissed.
the atmosphere in the apartment is beyond unimaginable. you came back from university, in a bad mood. sometimes people merely existing made you angry.
you couldn't explain it but you weren't in a great mood at all, and you weren't in the mood to try and make yourself calm down.
minho comes home, half an hour later. quietly entering and slamming the front door behind him.
not even bothering to keep his keys on the glass table with more care. walking right past you to the bedroom.
he has that look on his face when he joins you in the kitchen. drinking the water you had poured for him absentmindedly.
"wash the glass, will you" you mutter, sighing in exasperation. you knew this would only make things worse.
"what?" and his tone gets laced with irritation.
"i had a bad day, okay and i'm not in a good mood" you say to him. leaning back on the fridge.
"yeah? you think i'm not having a fucked up day too?" he spits back, crossing his arms, ready for battle.
"i never said that. stop being so bitchy"
"fix your attitude." minho warns. looking down at his feet before rolling his eyes at your behaviour.
"stop rolling your eyes at me" pointing a finger at him in annoyance.
"don't point a finger at me"
raising an eyebrow at you with a challenging look in his eyes.
"why don't you just go pick a fight with chan or seungmin"
you seethe out, not wanting to argue. if the two of you got more time to calm your nerves this wouldn't have happened.
"pick a fight? what the fuck"
he mutters under his breath. and it makes your eyes burn with tears. now he's mad at you.
"what fucking attitude do i have. i'm sick of dealing with people"
you raise your voice, exhaling heavily.
"and you think i'm not? i just had dance practice for nearly six hours and they told me i needed to do better"
minho says through gritted teeth. running his fingers through his messy hair.
"maybe you do need to do better" you snark back. wanting to get on his nerves just for the hell of it.
"watch what you say."
he warns for the second time and you take it as a challenge.
"or what? you're going to give me a lecture on how to..."
bringing your hands up to gesture quotation marks
"...fix my attitude?"
.
🐱
.
"not gonna fight back huh." your mouth opens to curse at him. and he uses it as the opportunity to pull you back.
ramming himself deeper into you.
"fucking brat"
minho grits out, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your sides. grip strong enough to have him holding you up singlehandedly if he wanted to.
"took it too far. i'm a bitch?" his voice shakes when your arms give in. falling face down into the sheets. back arched and ass up. the position makes things more sensitive.
"answer me."
you can't. teething at the pillow while you fisted at the soft bedsheets beside you. trying to ground yourself.
the feeling of his length pushing in and out of you with slow hard thrusts. torturing himself just to torture you.
"answer." eyes widening at the way he lays a sharp slap over your cunt. all while pulling out all the way.
"me."
sliding past your swollen walls with a filthy squelch. his force strong enough to have your whole body jerk forward. gasping in ecstasy.
you shake your head. or atleast try to, eyes rolling back at the strength he uses to meanly shove your thighs even further apart.
till you're practically presenting to him.
"open that smart ass mouth and use your fucking words." his tone dropping. theres a heartbeat of silence as he gives you a few seconds to answer him.
"ah- m-minnie"
moaning embarassingly loud when he slides his hand down the curve of your back. tugging a fistful of your hair, forcing you up on your arms. till you're on your fours.
"minnie? its sir to you. you don't deserve to even call me minho."
scalp burning with a mix of pain and pleasure.
your mind buzzing when he also gets on his fours. body pressing into yours from above.
"who's a bitch now"
minho says in your ear. brushing his lips against your earlobe. it sends a wave of heat straight to your cunt. throbbing uncontrollably around his dick.
the position has you thinking of how pathetic you are. cursing him out, only to be fucked like a dog from behind.
"are you my needy little bitch" hooking his chin on your shoulder. his arms on either side of yours.
thick thighs framing your smaller ones. you feel small under him. small and weak.
"y-yes sir" whispering softly. chest burning with humiliation. he clicks his tongue. not satisfied.
"speak up, mutt."
"yes sir...m'your needy bitch"
fucking the sentence out of you, in a way that has you breathless. arms trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.
"taking it like you're in heat."
slowing his thrusts to roll his hips into yours. hitting that spongey spot that has you keening for him.
"next time you act like a fucking brat, don't expect me to be this kind"
he warns, subtly rubbing at the redness on your sides from how hard he was gripping your waist.
you nod vigorously. quietly mumbling apologies.
"is my needy puppy gonna take me all the way in her tight wet cunt hm"
.
.
.
"if i'm your bitch, you're my bitch" you whisper, lightly smacking him on the chest.
"i never said i wasn't a bitch" minho smirks, successfully teasing you.
"y'know i love you, right baby?" he mumbles, kissing your cheek lovingly.
"you're my cute little puppygirl or WAIT MY KITTY CAT!!!"
a/n: sorry for delays w these!! work has picked up a lot for me and i have not had the time to sit down to stay on top of these the way i have wanted to. this feels a mess i apologize. it's just porn, not plot
The bar throbbed with life, a pulse of bass that seemed to echo from the walls themselves, humming up through the worn wood floors into the soles of your boots. Neon spilled across everything in wild, electric color: reds that bled into violets, blues that caught in glass and skin alike. The air was warm and heavy, thick with the smell of whiskey and citrus and too many bodies pressed close. Laughter came in bursts, shattering through the rhythm of clinking glasses and low conversation, until the whole room felt like it might burst with sound.
You leaned against the high-top table, fingers curled loosely around the stem of a half-finished martini, its pale surface trembling with each bassline thud. The New Avengers were sprawled around you in varying degrees of chaos: an ensemble of contradictions that somehow, impossibly, worked.
Yelena Belova lounged like a cat with a secret, one elbow hooked lazily over the table’s edge. The light caught on her hair, gold turned molten under the neon, and her smirk said she already knew more than everyone else combined. “You’re about to make him miserable,” she murmured, voice sharp with amusement, before sipping her vodka soda.
Across from her, John Walker was mid-brag, something about a mission gone perfectly, something about how he “handled” it, his tone so smug you could almost hear Yelena’s eye roll from three feet away. Alexei was already half-drunk, roaring with laughter at his own story about a HYDRA agent, pantomiming a wrestling hold that earned an unamused glance from the bartender. Ava sat slightly apart, her posture composed, her expression unreadable, as though she existed just slightly out of sync with the room itself. Bob Reynolds nursed a beer quietly, the soft glow from the lights catching the edges of his brown hair, his gaze distant, as if he could hear stars burning.
And then there was Bucky Barnes.
He sat at the far end of the table, shadowed and solid, the picture of restraint wrapped around too much tension. The amber of his whiskey matched the hue of the lights streaking across his jaw, making his expression seem carved from dusk. He didn’t laugh. He barely looked up. But every now and then, his gaze would flicker, to Yelena’s grin, to John’s noise, and, inevitably, to you.
The newest New Avenger. The bright one. The one who refused to let the world go gray, no matter how many times it tried.
You took another sip of your drink, courage fizzing just beneath the surface, and nudged your elbow against his. The contact was brief but grounding, the heat of him bleeding through leather. His scent was steel and cedar and something human beneath all that metal and myth.
“So, Bucky,” you said, tone lilting and warm, a grin tugging at your lips. “How’s the whole ‘man out of time’ thing working for you? Still got any of that old-school charm hidden away, or are you fully modernized now?”
His head tilted slightly, the faintest spark of something, annoyance or amusement, you couldn’t tell as he wouldn’t quite turn to look at you, in his eyes. “Careful,” he said, voice rough like gravel dragged over silk. “You’re gonna regret that one, doll.”
The pet name slipped out before he could stop it. It hit low in your stomach, soft and devastating.
Yelena barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s not backing down. Let her dig the hole deeper, Barnes,” she teased, raising her glass like a challenge.
The rest of the table caught on instantly, John smirking, Alexei howling with delight, Ava’s lip twitching just enough to count as a smile. Even Bob looked faintly entertained.
You, flushed with a mix of alcohol and adrenaline, leaned closer, too curious to stop yourself. “Come on,” you murmured, your voice playful but edged with something real. “You’ve got that whole brooding bad-boy thing going. You’re telling me there’s no story behind it?”
Your fingers barely grazed the edge of his vibranium arm, cool and alive beneath your touch, humming like it was holding its breath. The reaction was immediate, his jaw tightened, his chest stilled, and for the first time all night, his eyes snapped directly to yours. That storm-blue glare could’ve frozen a lesser person, but you just smiled into it.
“You really don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said quietly, voice rough enough to scrape.
“Oh, I think I do,” you replied, leaning your elbow on the table, deliberately unbothered. “You just don’t like that I’m asking you.”
He exhaled through his nose, the sound equal parts disbelief and amusement. “You’re drunk, sunshine.” The nickname came out low, almost fond, though he tried to swallow it behind a grimace. “Keep running that mouth and you’ll regret it.”
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Regret it because you’ll walk away?” you asked, playful. “Or because you won’t?”
That earned you a slow blink, the kind where he had to look away first. You caught the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before he hid it behind his glass.
“You really don’t quit, do you?”
“Not when I’m winning.”
“Winning?” he echoed, one brow lifting.
You gestured lazily toward his drink. “You haven’t moved more than an inch since I started talking, Barnes. If I were really annoying you, you’d have stormed off by now.”
That got him, a short laugh, half-caught between surprise and surrender. He shook his head, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch.
You leaned in just enough for your knee to brush his, that single point of contact sparking something neither of you could quite ignore. “Admit it,” you murmured, eyes bright with mischief. “You like the attention.”
He didn’t answer, but the silence that followed was telling, too still, too careful. It said everything he wouldn’t.
But the cocktails had burned away your filter hours ago, and the team’s laughter was gasoline. Yelena’s gleeful “Oh, she’s not done yet!” was all the permission you needed to tip right over the edge. You tilted your head, hair spilling over one shoulder like a curtain of light, and lowered your voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“So tell me, Barnes,” you said, tone mock-innocent as your eyes flicked toward the gleam of metal at his side. “You ever use that vibranium arm for… extracurricular activities?”
For a heartbeat, the world froze. Then the table erupted.
Alexei nearly choked on his drink, laughing so hard he slammed his hand against the table. John let out a wolfish whistle. “She did not just say that.” Yelena dissolved into cackles, clutching her stomach, while Ava, of all people, actually smiled, shaking her head in disbelief. Even Bob gave a quiet huff of laughter, though he looked like he was trying very hard to be anywhere else.
But Bucky? Bucky didn’t laugh. His glass hit the table with a sharp clink. He rose slowly, the scrape of the chair loud enough to cut through the chaos. The air shifted, heavier, charged. You caught a glimpse of his expression, and your pulse stuttered.
“Aw, c’mon, I was just—”
“Don’t,” he said, voice low enough to hush the table. Then his vibranium hand closed around your arm, not hard, not painful, just firm enough to make your breath catch.
“That’s it,” he muttered, irritation threaded through the gravel in his tone. “You’re done makin’ a spectacle outta yourself.”
Before you could respond, the world tipped. Literally.
You yelped as he hoisted you up onto his shoulder with effortless strength, your view of the neon bar replaced by the back of his jacket and the sound of your own startled laugh. The room spun upside down, your dress shifting until his flesh hand tugged it back into place with exasperating care.
“Are you feeling me up, Barnes?” you teased, your voice muffled against his back, the scent of leather and cedar filling your senses as you dangled there, your hands brushing the taut muscles of his back.
“I’m covering your ass,” he shot back, his tone gruff but laced with a hint of amusement, his hand still firmly holding your dress in place as he strode toward the exit.
The team’s howls followed you out, Yelena’s voice sharp above the rest. “Taking her home, Barnes? Finally some initiative!”
The cool night air hit you as he pushed through the bar’s doors, the neon lights fading behind you. Your cheeks burned, but the laughter in your throat refused to die. “You know,” you said, trying to twist enough to look at him, “if you wanted to get me alone, you could’ve just asked.”
Bucky’s steps didn’t falter, his boots crunching against the gravel outside. “Didn’t need to ask. You always end up where I am anyway,” he spoke, his voice dripping with exasperation, though you caught the faintest smirk in his tone.
You pouted, kicking your legs weakly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I make everywhere better,” you mumbled, though the protest felt half-hearted, your body humming with the thrill of his closeness. You wiggled your hips again, trying to convince him to let you go.
He chuckled, a low, rough sound that vibrated through his chest and into you. “You keep squirming like that, and we’re gonna have a different kind of problem.” he said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge that made your stomach flip.
The walk to the New Avengers compound was a blur of cool night air, the distant hum of city traffic, and the steady rhythm of Bucky’s strides. The compound loomed ahead, a sleek fortress of glass and steel, its lights casting long shadows across the lawn. Your head lolled against Bucky’s shoulder, the alcohol making your limbs heavy, but your heart raced with a mix of excitement and vulnerability.
Even through the haze of alcohol, you felt the shift, the way his hold gentled, his vibranium hand firm but careful, steadying you with a quiet tenderness that didn’t match the scowl in his voice.
You tried for a teasing jab, something about his old-man attitude, but the words tangled together, slipping out softer than you meant. “You’re not so bad, Bucky,” you mumbled, your voice thick with warmth. “Even when you’re all… grumpy.”
He didn’t answer you, but you felt it, the subtle hitch in his step, the quiet catch in his breath that betrayed him more than words ever could.
The compound’s doors slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss, the sudden wash of cool, filtered air replacing the humid chaos of the bar. Fluorescent light spilled over gleaming floors, sterile and sharp, a world away from the neon pulse you’d just left behind. His footsteps echoed down the empty hallway, unhurried but purposeful, each one reverberating through you where his shoulder pressed into your stomach.
Bucky’s quarters weren’t far, and when he reached them, he shifted his grip just enough to free one hand. The door gave way to a low metallic click, swinging open as he nudged it with his boot.
The room beyond was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it at all: sparse, meticulous, every corner whispering discipline and solitude. The walls were a muted gray, broken only by a few scuffed patches where his metal hand had likely brushed too hard. A small table sat against one wall, lined with cleaning tools and weapon parts arranged with surgical precision. The bed was neatly made, the dark blanket folded at perfect angles, untouched but not unlived-in.
In the corner, a record player rested beside a small stack of vinyls, Coltrane, Dylan, something that looked older still, and the faintest hint of dust clung to them, as if he listened only when the nights stretched too long. On the nightstand, a single photo: Steve, mid-laugh, the edges worn from too many hands.
And the scent, leather, gun oil, faint detergent, and something distinctly him, something that felt like steadiness and steel and rain after fire.
When he set you down, it wasn’t abrupt or careless, he eased you onto the edge of his bed, his hands lingering at your waist a moment longer than they needed to, steadying you like he wasn’t entirely sure you’d stay upright on your own.
Your dress was rumpled, your hair a mess from being slung over his shoulder, but you still managed a crooked grin.
“Gonna tuck me in, Barnes?” you teased, your tone softening at the edges, the playfulness laced with something you hadn’t meant to show.
Bucky exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark hair as if trying to shake you out of his head. His eyes swept over you, frustrated, worried, unwilling to admit either.
“You’re staying here,” he said, his voice low but firm, leaving no space for protest. “You don’t have a room in the compound yet, and I’m not about to let you stumble out into the city like this. You’ll end up in Walker’s room, or worse.”
That earned him a burst of laughter, bright and unfiltered. You flopped back against his perfectly made bed, the mattress groaning beneath you.
“Protective, huh?” you murmured, your words slurred but sincere, your gaze finding him in the dim light. His silhouette was all sharp lines and shadowed patience. “Knew you cared.”
He shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he crossed to the small table in the corner. The faint clink of glass filled the quiet while he poured, the sound soft against the low hum of the compound’s air system. When he returned, his presence carried the scent of him. He set the glass in your hands, the gesture careful, deliberate. For a man made of precision and restraint, he was remarkably gentle.
You took a slow sip, the water cold and grounding, your fingers brushing his as you steadied the glass. The contact was brief, but it lit something sharp beneath the fog of alcohol, and for a moment, neither of you breathed. He turned away too quickly, but you caught it, the subtle pull at the corner of his mouth, a fleeting ghost of a smile before he smothered it.
The air between you shifted, heavy and fragile all at once. The hum of the ventilation faded to a whisper. Even in your haze, you could feel it, something unspoken stirring in the silence, something too dangerous to name.
Bucky lingered near the door, the dim lamp throwing his silhouette across the floor. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly, light catching along its plates like liquid silver, while his other hand raked through his hair, mussing it into a rare kind of disarray. The motion made him look less like the soldier everyone feared and more like a man trying to keep himself together.
His blue eyes found you, steady, unreadable, but softer than before. That look alone was enough to send your pulse stumbling. The buzz in your veins dulled into something warmer, more dangerous. For all the chaos and noise you’d left behind at the bar, here in his space, you felt safe. Safe enough to let your grin falter into something real.
“You’re a mess, sunshine,” Bucky muttered finally, the gravel in his voice softened by something close to fondness. He crossed to the same table, filling another glass out of habit, maybe just to keep his hands busy. The sound of water pouring felt impossibly loud in the stillness. “You’re gonna feel like hell tomorrow if you don’t drink more water.”
You propped yourself up on your elbows, hair falling over your shoulders like silk. Your grin came out a little lopsided, a little too sincere. “What’s this, Barnes? Playing nursemaid now?”
He huffed through his nose, the ghost of a chuckle dying in his throat. “If that’s what it takes to keep you from faceplanting on my floor, sure.”
You accepted the glass again, your fingers brushing his once more. It was impossible not to notice the difference, one hand warm and alive, the other cool, the faint hum of the vibranium arm filling the air like a heartbeat. You sipped, eyes still fixed on him.
“You always act like you don’t care, but you do,” you murmured, your voice a soft slur, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “You wouldn’t have brought me here if you didn’t.”
He didn’t look away this time. For a moment, his gaze held yours, steady, unreadable, but flickering with something quieter, something that made your breath catch. The light from the lamp softened the hard lines of his face, turned the sharp edges into something almost tender. You watched his throat work as he swallowed, the tension in his jaw easing, if only slightly.
“You act like you’re made of stone,” you whispered, your voice hazy but sincere. “But I see it. You still notice everything, still take care of everyone else.” You tilted your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You ever let anyone take care of you, Barnes?” you asked, the words slipping out softer now, stripped of all the teasing. “Feels like you forget you’re allowed to.”
His jaw tightened then. He turned away, pulling a folded blanket from a chair in the corner. The fabric looked worn, well-used, the edges frayed but clean. When he draped it over your legs, the scent of him hit you again.
“You’re not the one who’s supposed to worry about me, sunshine,” he said quietly, his voice caught somewhere between warning and confession.
He sank into the chair across the room, his long legs stretched out, the lamplight catching on the dark sheen of his arm as it rested against the chair’s edge. The quiet between you deepened, thick with the sound of your breathing and the faint mechanical whir every time he shifted. You could tell he was trying to build a wall between you, the soldier’s kind of distance, precise and practiced, but his eyes kept betraying him, flicking toward you when he thought you weren’t looking.
You sat up slowly, the blanket sliding down to your waist. The alcohol made you bold, but it was the way he looked at you, like he wanted to keep his distance and couldn’t, that made you reckless. You patted the empty space beside you, voice dipping into something soft and coaxing.
“Come on, Bucky,” you said, your lips curling into a small, tired smile. “I’ll sleep better if you’re close. Don’t make me beg.”
He froze, caught between instinct and impulse, his expression flickering through annoyance, disbelief, and something darker that lingered too long. “You’re pushin’ it, doll,” he warned, though the words came out rougher than he intended.
You only tilted your head, eyes half-lidded and hopeful. “Yeah,” you murmured. “But maybe you like it when I do.”
He sighed, a quiet, defeated sound, and scrubbed a hand over his face before standing. “Fine,” he muttered, resigned, his voice dipping low. “But don’t get used to this.”
He crossed the room in three strides, the floor creaking under his weight, and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, as far from you as he could manage. The mattress dipped, pulling you slightly toward him, and you bit back a smile at the way he held himself, stiff, like a soldier bracing for battle, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.
The lamplight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble that darkened his cheeks, and the storm in his eyes that never quite settled. You rolled onto your side, propping your head on one hand, and studied him, the alcohol softening the edges of your restraint.
“You’re not as hard to read as you want people to think,” you mumbled, voice soft, your words tumbling out before you could stop them. “You pretend you’re all edge and silence, but I’ve seen it. The way you linger after missions to make sure no one’s limping. How you always take the seat that faces the door. You don’t talk much, but you never miss anything.”
Your eyes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, but your voice stayed gentle, steady. “You act like you’re built from armor and ghosts,” you whispered, “but I see the way you soften when someone laughs. You think no one notices, but I do.”
Bucky didn’t respond, but something in his expression shifted,the tension in his shoulders easing, the storm in his eyes dimming to a restless calm. He looked away, his vibranium fingers flexing once, the faint whir of metal filling the quiet like a heartbeat he couldn’t silence. It wasn’t avoidance, not really. It was restraint. The kind that came from wanting more than he thought he deserved.
You blinked slow, sleep pulling at the edges of your vision, the world softening into amber and shadow. The warmth of the blanket seeped into your skin, but it wasn’t what made you relax: it was him. The sound of his breathing, steady and grounding. The faint scent of leather and soap and something unmistakably him curling through the air.
Without thinking, you shifted closer, your body moving on instinct. The blanket rustled softly as your shoulder brushed his, then your cheek found the edge of his chest. He went still, like a man caught between running and staying, but he didn’t move. You might’ve imagined the quiet sigh that followed, or the gentle way his flesh hand hovered near your hair, uncertain, almost reverent.
The compound around you blurred, its humming machinery fading into something distant and unreal. The world became smaller: just the two of you, the muted lamplight, the scent of cedar and warmth, the slow rhythm of his chest rising and falling.
Sleep found you like a tide rolling in, velvet and slow, wrapping around you until the edges of everything dissolved. The last thing you felt was the faint brush of his fingers against your cheek, cautious and fleeting, like a secret he wasn’t ready to keep but couldn’t stop himself from touching. And then the dark took you, soft, weightless, and full of him.
In this dream, you were tangled in a sea of dark sheets, the fabric clinging to your skin like a lover’s touch, warm and slightly rough. The air was thick with heat, electric with anticipation, and your body thrummed with a need that pulsed in time with your heartbeat.
Hands, strong, calloused, one warm and human, the other cool and metallic, roamed your skin, leaving trails of fire and ice in their wake. The contrast sent shivers racing down your spine, each touch igniting a spark that bloomed into a blaze deep in your core.
A voice, low and gravelly, whispered your name, the sound curling through you like smoke, intimate and possessive. It was Bucky’s voice, unmistakable, roughened by desire in a way you had never heard before, and it drew a soft moan from your lips as you arched into the phantom touch.
In the dream, his lips grazed the sensitive skin of your throat, a teasing brush that made your breath hitch. Metal fingers, sleek and unyielding, traced the curve of your thigh, their coolness a delicious shock against the heat pooling between your legs. Your hips rocked instinctively, seeking pressure, chasing the ache that built with every fleeting touch.
The dream was a haze of sensation, sweat-slick skin, the scent of cedar and steel, the weight of his large body pressing you into the mattress. You murmured something, a slurred, desperate plea that shaped itself into a name, Bucky’s name, or something so close it might as well have been. The sound spilled from your lips, a soft, needy noise that echoed in the dream and bled into the waking world.
In Bucky’s quarters, the silence was a fragile thing, shattered by the quiet rustle of sheets as your body moved. Your hips shifted, a subtle roll that made the mattress creak faintly, and a breathy whimper escaped you, slicing through the stillness like a blade.
Your lips parted, another moan, louder this time, unmistakably erotic, filling the air. “Bucky…” you murmured, the name slurred but heavy with longing, your voice a siren’s call that made the room feel smaller, the air thicker.
Your hands twitched, fingers curling into the sheets as your body chased the pleasure of the dream, oblivious to the man lying beside you, his presence a quiet storm in the dim light.
Bucky was awake still, his body rigid on the edge of the bed, his vibranium arm whirring faintly as he gripped the mattress, the metal plates shifting with the tension in his frame. His enhanced hearing, a curse and a gift, caught every sound: the soft hitch of your breath, the rustle of fabric against your skin, the way your voice shaped his name with an intimacy that sent heat surging through him.
Each moan was a dagger, twisting in his gut, stoking a fire he’d spent months trying to smother. He was no stranger to desire, but this was different, raw, visceral, tied to the way your sunshine smile had wormed its way into the cracks of his guarded heart.
Your sounds were a torment, each one a pull on the fraying threads of his control, and he could feel his resolve crumbling, his body taut with a need he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge.
He sat frozen, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it could anchor him. But his mind betrayed him, conjuring images of what you could be dreaming: your body arching beneath him, your skin flushed and warm, your lips parted as you moaned his name.
His vibranium hand twitched, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat coursing through him, and he fought the urge to reach out, to trail his fingers along the curve of your hip, to see if you’d wake with that same hunger in your eyes. The thought of touching you, of confirming the need he heard in your voice, was almost too much.
He thought about waking you, his hand hovering a breath away from your shoulder, but hesitation held him still. The soldier in him knew control; the man in him feared what honesty might ruin. So he waited, breath caught in his chest, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring while your movements softened, your breathing slipping into a steady rhythm that filled the silence between heartbeats.
Time blurred. The low hum of the ventilation, the faint tick of the lamp, everything faded until all he could hear was you. When your lashes finally fluttered open, the world had shifted.
You blinked, slow and unfocused, the haze of sleep clinging to you like silk. Your cheeks were flushed, your lips parted on a breath that wasn’t quite steady. The dream still lingered, the heat of phantom hands, a voice too familiar, the weight of something safe and dangerous all at once.
You could almost still feel it: his touch ghosting across your peaked nipples, his breath against your neck, the phantom weight of him, hot and heavy between your legs. The remnants of it throbbed in your chest like a secret.
The soft drag of sheets followed as you shifted, the fabric cool against your bare skin where the blanket had fallen away. It took a heartbeat too long for your mind to catch up to your body, to realize where you were. Bucky’s bed. His scent wrapped around you, pulling the dream closer to reality.
You turned your head, and there he was, still beside you, the line of his body curved protectively around yours. Sometime in the night, you must have drifted closer; your head rested against his chest, your hand curled near the seam of his shirt where fabric met skin. You could feel his heartbeat, steady and impossibly real beneath your cheek. The faint scent of leather and soap clung to him, threaded through with warmth, like something you could drown in.
The room was hushed, bathed in amber light from the lamp that still burned low. The glow caught in the plates of his vibranium arm where it rested behind you, scattering gold across the wall like the remnants of a dream. His flesh hand lay against your back, still, uncertain, like he hadn’t meant to leave it there but couldn’t bring himself to move it either.
His blue eyes were already fixed on you. They were softer than you’d ever seen them, sleep-heavy, raw, warring between instinct and restraint. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you thrummed, thick with warmth and the kind of quiet that hums louder than sound.
Your pulse stuttered, awareness creeping in slow and dizzy. Every inch of you was acutely aware of him, his heat, his scent, the steady rhythm of his heart under your ear.
Bucky shifted slightly, his breath brushing your hair as he leaned just enough to look down at you. The bed dipped beneath his weight, and when he spoke, his voice came out rough, threaded with sleep and something gentler that he was trying hard to hide.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” he murmured, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You always make a habit of usin’ a guy as a pillow, or am I just the lucky one?” The tease was soft, but you could hear the truth beneath it, the low, careful wonder of a man who hadn’t been held in a long, long time.
You gazed half lidded up at him, your voice still rough with sleep. “Only when the pillow’s this warm,” you mumbled, the corner of your mouth curving as you shifted just slightly closer.
He huffed a quiet laugh, low in his chest, and you felt it vibrate against your cheek. “That so?”
“Mhm,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, teasing but soft. “Don’t get too comfortable, though. I charge rent. Now stop talking so I can get back to sleep.”
“’Must have been dreaming something nice, if you’re in that much of a hurry to get back to it.”
Your eyes fluttered open a little wider, heat blooming across your cheeks. “Oh yeah?” you said, feigning innocence. “What makes you think that?”
His grin deepened, the teasing glint in his eyes softened by something warmer. “You were smiling in your sleep. Moaning too,” he said, voice dropping low. “Figured whoever you were dreaming about was doin’ something right.”
You tried to play it off, but your throat went dry. “Maybe I was,” you said, tilting your chin up just a bit, your tone light but your heart pounding. “Guess we’ll never know, huh?”
“Who were you fucking in your sleep, sweetheart?” he murmured more firmly, the words dripping with a playful edge that didn’t quite hide the hunger beneath them. His breath was warm, tinged with the faint scent of whiskey, and it sent a shiver racing down your spine.
Mortification washed over you like a cold wave, your cheeks burning as you sat up, the blanket slipping to your waist. You shook your head, your voice hoarse with sleep and embarrassment.
“I wasn’t having a wet dream or anything perv,” you protested, pulling the blanket higher as if it could shield you from the knowing glint in his eyes. Your heart pounded, the memory of the dream still vivid, the ache between your thighs a traitor that refused to fade.
Bucky’s lips twitched, a smirk breaking through his grumpy facade, and it was both infuriating and electrifying.
“You were moaning these little noises…” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous drawl, each word deliberate, designed to make you squirm. He leaned closer, his breath fanning across your face, warm and intimate, the scent of him filling your senses. “Sounded pretty real to me, doll.”
You huffed, crossing your arms, your heart hammering as you tried to deflect. “You’re hearing things, Barnes,” you said, your voice sharp but trembling at the edges, betraying your fluster. “Must be your old age.”
The lie felt thin, your body still humming with the aftershocks of the dream, and you knew he could see it, the way your thighs pressed together, the way your breath hitched when he looked at you like that.
He chuckled, a low, rough sound that vibrated through the room and settled deep in your core.
“Right,” he said, the word low and edged with amusement as his smirk deepened. He shifted, bracing one arm beside your head, the mattress dipping under his weight. The other, his vibranium arm, slid across the sheets until it rested near your hip, the cool metal brushing your thigh through the thin blanket.
Your breath hitched. He was close enough now that you could see the flecks of silver in his stubble, the faint scar along his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell in steady, deliberate rhythm. The scent of him filled your lungs.
The light caught in his eyes, turning blue into something darker, molten. His voice dropped, a whisper skimming the edge of your mouth, rough and teasing but threaded with challenge. “You gonna tell me who had you moaning like that in your sleep, or do I gotta guess?”
“N-no one,” you stutter. “I wasn’t–,”
“So, if I touched your pussy right now, would I find out that you’re lying to me?” Bucky cut you off, voice a hoarse whisper against your throat.
The words hit you like a spark to kindling, igniting a fire that raced through your veins. Your breath caught, your mouth opening and closing as you scrambled for a response, but the intensity in his eyes, half-teasing, half-hungry, stole your words.
Your thighs pressed together tighter, a desperate attempt to quell the ache that his words only deepened, and you saw the way his gaze flickered, tracking the movement with a predator’s focus. His knee shifted and suddenly it was pressed between your thighs, his reaching precariously close to where you ached most.
He was struggling, too, his control fraying with every second, his vibranium hand flexing as if he were fighting the urge to act on his threat. The air between you was a live wire, crackling with unspoken desire, and you felt the pull of it, the need to push him, to see how far you could take this before he snapped.
You leaned forward, your face inches from his, your voice a shaky whisper.
“You wouldn’t dare,” you said, but the words were more a dare than a denial, your body betraying you with a shiver that made his smirk falter, replaced by something darker, more primal. His breath hitched, and you felt the heat of it against your lips, the space between you shrinking to nothing.
The dream had left you raw, exposed, and his closeness, his scent, his voice, the cool brush of his vibranium hand, was unraveling you further. You wanted to push him away, to retreat behind your facade of friendship, but the truth was undeniable: you wanted him, and the dream had only made it clearer.
Bucky’s eyes searched yours, the storm in them swirling with arousal and restraint. His vibranium hand shifted, the metal grazing your thigh again, deliberate this time, and you gasped, the sound soft but unmistakable. His eyes, dark and stormy, held yours with an intensity that made your breath catch, his pupils dilated with a hunger he could no longer hide.
His lips parted, a low groan escaping him, and you knew he was as close to breaking as you were. Your gasp lingered in the space between you, a soft, trembling sound that seemed to echo in the dim glow of the lamp. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in, the air thick with the promise of what would come next, a promise that neither of you could ignore, a fire that was about to ignite.
“Knew you wouldn’t,” you pant, cheeks hot.
Bucky’s breath hitched, a low, almost imperceptible sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His vibranium hand twitched, the metal brushing your thigh again, deliberate this time, and the contact was electric, a spark that made your lips part on a soft gasp.
His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering there, and you felt the air shift, the tension coiling tighter, ready to snap.
“Careful, sunshine,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, each word dripping with a dangerous promise. “Keep pushin’ me, and you’re gonna find out just how much I dare.”
The challenge lingered between you, alive, electric, impossible to ignore. You felt it in the air, in the thrum beneath your skin, in the way his breath ghosted over your lips but never quite touched. Curiosity and want tangled in your chest until you couldn’t tell them apart.
Your hand moved before your mind caught up, fingers brushing along his jaw. The stubble there was coarse beneath your touch, grounding, real in a moment that felt like something from your fantasies. He inhaled sharply, his eyes flicking shut for half a second before finding yours again, darker now, the calm veneer giving way to something raw and unguarded. Hungry. The shift in him was subtle but seismic, and you knew, in that charged, breathless space between heartbeats, that the line you’d been toeing all night had finally disappeared.
The room seemed to shrink further around you, the low hum of the compound fading until all that remained was the rhythm of your breathing and the magnetic pull between you. The faint lamplight gilded the edges of his face, tracing the scar at his temple, the furrow of his brow, the tension written in every muscle of his body. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint, heavy weight of his stiffening cock against your thigh.
You didn’t think. Couldn’t let yourself. If you did, you’d lose the confidence you felt bubbling in your stomach.
You leaned up, closing the sliver of space that had been daring you both all along, and pressed your lips to his. The first touch was feather-light, almost clumsy with hesitation, but it burned all the same, a question asked and answered in the same breath.
For half a heartbeat, he froze. Then the dam broke.
Bucky’s hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you closer, his lips meeting yours with a hunger that made the world tilt. The kiss deepened fast, years of restraint unraveling in seconds. He tasted like whiskey and warmth and something heartbreakingly human, the kind of ache that had lived in both of you for far too long.
The sound of your breath mingled with his, the world outside forgotten. All that existed was this, his hand at your neck, the cold brush of his cock at your thigh, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin, and the dizzying realization that once this started, neither of you could ever go back.
The kiss wasn’t gentle anymore. It was all teeth and tongue and desperation, Bucky’s mouth slanting over yours like he was claiming every inch he’d been denying himself for months. You whimpered into it, the sound swallowed by the low growl rumbling in his chest as he shifted, caging you beneath him without ever breaking contact. His vibranium hand stayed fisted in your hair, tilting your head exactly where he wanted it, while his flesh hand, warm, calloused, alive, slid down your body with ruthless intent.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate.
His fingers shoved past the waistband of your panties, diving straight between your thighs. The first brush of his skin against your slick heat made you jolt, a broken moan tearing from your throat as he groaned against your lips.
“Fuck,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to stare down at you, eyes blown black with lust. Two thick fingers dragged through your folds, parting you, spreading the wet evidence of your dream all over your clit before sinking inside with one slow, deliberate push. “Knew it was me.”
Your back arched, hips bucking into his hand as he curled his fingers, stroking that spot that made your vision blur. “H-how,” you panted, voice cracking, “It could’ve been John or, fuck, anyone.”
His grip tightened in your hair, yanking your head back so your throat was bared to him. He bit down on the pulse point, hard enough to bruise, then soothed it with his tongue and gentle kisses. “Don’t,” he snarled, pumping his fingers deeper, faster, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room. “Don’t you fucking say his name when I’ve got my fingers buried in this greedy little pussy.”
He added a third finger, stretching you, his thumb grinding merciless circles over your clit. “I knew it was me,” he growled against your skin, voice dark and possessive, “because no one else gets you this wet. No one else makes you shake like this. You’ve been dripping for me all night, sunshine. Since the bar.”
He moaned softly as you clenched around his hands. “Yeah, knew it was my cock you were dreaming about. You weren’t asking Walker about his love life. No,” his voice turned a little condescending, “you wanted to know if I fuck and how I fuck so you could run back home rub this pretty little clit raw thinkin’ of me.”
You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as your thighs trembled around his hand. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just fucked you with his fingers like he was proving a point, like he was branding the truth into your body.
“Say it,” he demanded, curling his fingers again, hitting that spot that made you see stars. “Tell me who you were moanin’ for in your sleep.”
“You,” you sobbed, clenching around him, so close it hurt. “Only you, Bucky, please.”
“That’s right,” he moaned, teeth grazing your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine. “Gonna take my time with you, doll.”
“Oh… oh my gosh,” you whimper, chest heaving.
“Wanna feel every fuckin’ thing you give me.” His words were a promise, a vow to unravel you completely, and you felt the truth of it in the way his vibranium fingers curled inside you, the cool metal stretching you, finding that spot that made your vision blur.
Your hips bucked against his hand, chasing the pressure, and he groaned, the sound raw and primal, his own arousal evident in the hard line of him pressing up against your cunt.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your heart stutter. “Look at you,” he said, his voice thick with awe and possession, “so fuckin’ perfect, falling apart for me.”
His thumb circled your clit again, the pressure just shy of enough, and you whimpered.
From somewhere beyond the room, there was the sound of movement. It wasn’t close enough for you to be able to tell what it was.
Bucky’s eyes flashed at the distant creak, a reminder that the compound’s walls weren’t soundproof and super-soldier ears were always listening. Your whine turned into a desperate little gasp when his fingers slipped free, leaving you clenching around nothing.
“Shh,” he murmured, wicked amusement curling his mouth. “Gotta be careful, sunshine. Don’t want them hearin’ how good I’m makin’ you feel.”
Before you could protest, his flesh hand hooked into the lace at your hips. One sharp tug and the fabric gave with a satisfying riiiip, the ruined panties dangling from his fingers like a trophy. He didn’t break eye contact as he brought them to his mouth, dragging his tongue along the soaked crotch, tasting you with a low, filthy groan that vibrated straight to your core.
“Fuckin’ sweet,” he rasped, voice gravel-rough. Then he balled the damp lace and pressed it between your lips, stuffing your own taste into your mouth until you were gagged on the evidence of how badly you wanted him. “Keep those pretty noises down, doll. Or I stop.”
Your muffled moan vibrated against the fabric, hips jerking as he shoved your dress higher, baring you completely. Cool air kissed your soaked folds a second before his vibranium hand returned, three fingers plunging back in with a wet, obscene sound that made you sob around the gag.
“That’s it,” he growled, pumping slow and deep, curling metal against that spot until your thighs shook. “Taste how wet you got for me. Not Walker. Not anyone. Just me.”
His thumb found your clit again, merciless circles that had you arching, tears pricking your eyes. Every thrust of his fingers was punctuated by the slick drag of your arousal, the muffled whimpers you couldn’t hold back, the distant thud of a door somewhere down the hall that made his rhythm falter for half a heartbeat before he doubled down.
“Quiet,” he warned, voice a low rasp against your ear, teeth grazing the lobe with possessive heat. “Or I’ll flip you over and fuck you silent with my cock. Your choice, sunshine.”
You shook your head, the soaked lace muffling your words into a needy hum. “Not yet,” you managed, the plea soft but unmistakable. You weren’t ready to lose this: his fingers, the slow burn, the way he was unraveling you inch by inch. The danger of being overheard only sharpened the edge, but you wanted the climb, wanted to feel every second of it.
Bucky’s eyes softened, just a flicker, the storm in them gentling into something almost reverent. He exhaled, slow and shaky, like the fight to rush had just drained out of him.
“Okay,” he whispered, the single word a vow. “We’ve got time, doll. Gonna make you feel everything.”
He sank to his knees between your spread thighs, vibranium hand still buried deep, curling slow and deliberate, coaxing rather than demanding. His flesh hand slid up your leg, thumb tracing the crease where thigh met hip, grounding you. When he looked up, the hunger was still there, but it was tempered with awe, like he couldn’t believe he was the one touching you.
“Never come with anyone else, have you?” he murmured, voice velvet-rough. You nodded, cheeks burning, and he made a low, pleased sound in his throat. “Then I’m takin’ my time. Want you shakin’ when you fall apart for me.”
His mouth replaced his thumb on your clit, soft at first, a teasing flick of tongue that made you jerk against the gag. Then he settled in, licking slow, thorough stripes, lips sealing around the swollen bundle of nerves while his fingers kept that perfect, maddening rhythm inside you. Every stroke, every curl, every gentle suck was worshipful, like he was memorizing the way you tasted, the way you trembled.
The coil in your belly wound tighter, impossibly tight, your thighs quivering around his shoulders. You’d never been this close with someone else, never trusted anyone to see you this open, this desperate. Bucky sensed it, your breath hitching, your hips stuttering, and he hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.
“Let go, sunshine,” he breathed, lips brushing your clit. “I’ve got you. Just feel it.”
Your first orgasm hit like a lightning strike: sudden, blinding, ripping a strangled scream from your throat that the lace only half-swallowed. Your walls clamped down on his fingers, pulsing in frantic waves, and Bucky groaned against you, the vibration dragging the pleasure out until your thighs shook uncontrollably. He didn’t let up, tongue lapping slow, greedy strokes through your release, drinking every drop like it was his lifeline.
“I’m the first man that’s ever gotten you there,” he said, his voice rough with possession, a vow etched in every word, “and no matter who you take to bed after me, you’ll never forget your first.” His lips closed over your clit, his tongue flicking with devastating precision, and you cried out, the sound muffled by the gag but sharp enough to make him pause, listening again for any sign of footsteps outside.
The silence held, and he continued, his mouth working you with a skill that was both tender and ruthless, his vibranium fingers still moving inside you, the cool metal a delicious contrast to the heat of his tongue. The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pleasure that built and built, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer as your hips rocked against his mouth.
The second orgasm built faster, fiercer, a white-hot wave that crashed through you, leaving you trembling and undone. Your knees buckled, but Bucky’s vibranium arm held you steady, his strength an anchor as you shattered, your muffled cries filling the room despite the gag. Your body arched, your head tipping back against the wall, and you were vulnerable, exposed, completely at his mercy.
Bucky reveled in it, his eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every reaction: every shudder, every gasp, every flutter of your eyelids as you came apart under his touch. He didn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor until you were a trembling mess, your body hypersensitive and aching for more.
He rose, lips glistening with you, and kissed you, the gag still in place, letting you taste yourself as he pressed his body against yours. The kiss was fierce, possessive, his tongue claiming you even through the fabric, and you moaned, the sound muffled but desperate. He pulled the gag free, tossing it aside, and kissed you again, deeper, his hands working quickly to rid you of your underwear, leaving you bare before him.
“You’re mine, sunshine,” he growled, his voice thick with emotion, his hands roaming your body, mapping every curve. “Every sound you make is for me.” The words were a brand, a claim that sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you nodded, your hands reaching for him, needing to feel him, to ground yourself in the storm of him.
Bucky rose slowly, the heat of his body chasing yours as he climbed back up. His mouth left a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, each one deliberate, savoring. You were still trembling from the aftershocks when he reached your mouth again, kissing you deep and filthy, letting you taste the salt-sweet proof of your release on his tongue.
His hands never stopped moving. Flesh fingers hooked into the waistband of his tactical pants, shoving them down just enough to free himself. The heavy drag of fabric over skin, the soft thud of his belt hitting the floor, the low hiss of his zipper; every sound felt magnified in the hush of the room. He didn’t bother with the rest. Didn’t need to. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the tip already slick with precome, and the sight of it made your breath catch.
He pressed himself between your thighs, the blunt head nudging your soaked entrance, sliding through your folds in one slow, teasing glide. You both groaned at the contact, the sound raw and involuntary. Bucky’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged, eyes locked on where you were nearly joined.
“Gonna take you slow,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Want you feelin’ every inch, sunshine. Want you to remember who finally got you here.”
He shifted his hips, lining up, the thick crown pressing just inside, stretching you open with a burn that made your nails dig into his shoulders. He paused there, trembling with restraint, vibranium hand braced beside your head, flesh one gripping your thigh to keep you spread wide.
“Look at me,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his, dark, reverent, hungry. “That’s it. Keep those pretty eyes on me when I fill you up.”
He held your gaze, the storm in his eyes softening to something molten, reverent. The head of his cock pressed just inside you, stretching, promising, and he waited until you nodded, small, desperate, please, before he moved.
Bucky slid in slow, inch by inch, a low, broken groan rumbling from his chest as your heat swallowed him. The gag muffled your whimper into a soft, wet sound, but he heard it; his eyes fluttered, lashes dark against his cheekbones, and he exhaled your name like a prayer.
“God, sunshine… feel that?” His voice was velvet-rough, each word dragged over gravel. “That’s me, all of me, finally where I’ve wanted to be for months.”
He bottomed out with a shudder, hips flush to yours, and stilled. His vibranium hand cradled the back of your neck, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw like you were something fragile and priceless. His flesh hand slid down to lace with yours, pinning it gently beside your head.
“Never gonna forget this,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to watch your face as he pushed in again, slow, deliberate, every ridge of him dragging against you. “The way you open up for me… so fuckin’ perfect, takin’ me like you were made for it.”
Your muffled moan vibrated around the soaked lace, and he smiled, soft, filthy, awed. “That’s it, doll. Let me hear you through that pretty gag. Every sound’s mine.”
He set a rhythm, unhurried, deep rolls of his hips that lit you up from the inside. Each thrust was a confession, I’ve wanted this, I’ve needed you, you’re safe, you’re mine. His forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling, the world narrowing to the slick slide of him inside you, the wet sounds of your bodies, the creak of the bed under his careful weight.
“Feel how deep I am?” he rasped, voice cracking with restraint. “Right there, sunshine… that spot that makes your eyes roll back? Gonna live there. Gonna ruin you for anyone else, gentle and slow, till you’re moaning my name in your sleep for the rest of your life.”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, the gag, the tears gathering at your lashes. “Love the way you clench when I say that. Love you, period. Been lovin’ you since the first time you smiled at me like I wasn’t broken.”
Another slow, grinding thrust, and your back arched, toes curling. He swallowed your muffled cry with a kiss to the lace, then to your cheek, your temple, murmuring filth and devotion in the same breath.
“Come for me again, sweetheart. Wanna feel you milk me slow, wanna watch you fall apart knowin’ it’s me inside you. Only ever me.”
He kept the rhythm steady, deep, worshipful, every roll of his hips a slow drag that lit every nerve inside you. The gag turned your cries into soft, wet pleas, but Bucky drank them like wine, his mouth brushing the lace, your cheek, the corner of your eye where a tear slipped free.
“Close, doll?” he rasped, voice fraying at the edges. “I feel it, feel you flutterin’ around me like you can’t decide whether to hold on or let go. Let go, sunshine. I’ve got you.”
His flesh hand slipped between you, thumb finding your clit with devastating tenderness, circling in time with his thrusts. The pressure coiled tighter, impossibly tight, until your whole body trembled on the brink.
“That’s it,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked. “Right there with me. Wanna feel you come apart while I’m buried deep, wanna fill you up so full you’ll still taste me tomorrow.”
Your walls clamped down, the first pulse of your climax ripping through you like warm honey. A muffled sob tore from your throat, hips jerking against his as wave after wave crashed over you, slow, endless, perfect. Bucky groaned, low and wrecked, the sound vibrating through your joined bodies.
“Fuck, there you go, sunshine… squeezin’ me so good…” His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as your release dragged him under. “Gonna come with you, gonna, Christ.”
One last, deep thrust and he stilled, buried to the hilt, cock pulsing hot inside you. His vibranium arm locked around your waist, holding you flush to him as he spilled, thick, endless, marking you from the inside out. His breath hitched against your temple, a broken litany of your name and mine and love you spilling between clenched teeth.
You clung to each other, trembling through the aftershocks, the room filled with the soft hitch of breath and the wet warmth where you were still joined. Slowly, gently, he eased the gag from your mouth, thumb brushing your swollen lips.
“Stay,” he whispered, voice raw, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your mouth, soft and reverent. “Stay right here, sunshine. Let me hold you while we come down.”
He didn’t move to leave you. Not yet. Bucky stayed buried deep, hips flush to yours, as if pulling away might break the fragile spell still humming between you. His vibranium arm stayed locked around your waist, but the grip had gentled, no longer anchoring you to the bed, just cradling you against him like you were something breakable and priceless. His flesh hand, warm and trembling, slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair to cradle the back of your head. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed, breathing you in.
“Sunshine,” he whispered, the word cracked open and soft, like he was tasting it for the first time. “You okay? Talk to me.”
Your throat was raw from the gag, your body still fluttering with aftershocks. You managed a shaky nod, then a small, hoarse, “I’m good. So good.” The words came out thick with tears you hadn’t realized were there.
He kissed them away, one, two, three, slow, deliberate presses of his lips to the damp tracks on your cheeks. Then he eased out of you carefully, both of you hissing at the loss, and immediately pulled you into his chest. The sheets were a tangle around your legs, but he didn’t care. He tugged the blanket up over you both, cocooning you in warmth and the scent of sex and cedar and him.
“Hold on,” he murmured, shifting just enough to grab the water glass from the nightstand. He brought it to your lips, steadying it while you drank, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth when a drop escaped. “Slow. There you go.”
When you’d had enough, he set it aside and pulled you back down, arranging you half on top of him, your head on his chest, his heartbeat thudding steady under your ear, your leg hooked over his thigh so he could keep tracing idle patterns on your skin with his flesh hand. The vibranium one rested lightly on your lower back, cool metal a soothing contrast to the heat still simmering under your skin.
“You’re shakin’,” he said quietly, not teasing, just observing, voice laced with concern. “C’mere.”
He tucked your hair behind your ear, then cupped your face, tilting it up so he could study you in the low lamplight. His thumb swept over your bottom lip, swollen and red from the gag. “Did I hurt you?”
You shook your head, leaning into his touch. “No. Just… a lot. In the best way.”
A small, relieved smile tugged at his mouth. He kissed your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in like he was memorizing the scent of your skin post-climax. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not done takin’ care of you.”
He reached down, found the discarded panties, still damp, and used them to gently clean between your thighs, the touch clinical and tender all at once. You whimpered at the oversensitivity, and he shushed you softly, pressing a kiss to your knee. “I know, doll. Almost done.”
When he was satisfied, he tossed the ruined lace aside and pulled you back into his arms, rolling you both so you were tucked against his side, your head on his shoulder, his chin resting atop your hair. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the compound and the slowing rhythm of your breathing syncing with his.
“Hey,” he murmured after a long silence, voice barely above a whisper. “Look at me.”
You tilted your chin. His eyes were soft, unguarded, blue like a winter sky at dawn. He brushed a knuckle along your cheekbone.
“I meant it,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “Every word. You’re not just a warm body or a good time. You’re… home. Been waitin’ decades to feel this again. Didn’t think I’d ever get it.”
Your eyes stung. You pressed your face into his neck, breathing him in, gun oil and soap and something uniquely Bucky. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered against his skin.
He exhaled, shaky, and held you tighter. “Good. ‘Cause I’m keepin’ you.”
Minutes stretched. He traced lazy circles on your back, occasionally pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, the shell of your ear. When your shivering finally eased, he pulled the blanket higher, tucking it around your shoulders.
“Sleep, sunshine,” he murmured, voice a low rumble under your cheek. “I’ve got watch. Always will.”
And as the lamp flickered low, casting gold across the worn photo of Steve on the nightstand, Bucky held you like you were the only real thing left in his world, and for the first time in decades, he let himself believe it.
You were half-dozing on his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear, when his voice drifted in, so low it felt like a secret meant only for the dark.
“I used to think I’d never get this again,” he whispered, lips brushing your hair. “Quiet. Someone warm. Someone real.”
His vibranium fingers traced the curve of your spine, feather-light, like he was afraid the moment might bruise. “Back in the war, I’d lie awake in foxholes and dream about a girl I hadn’t met yet. Thought maybe she’d have soft hands and a laugh that didn’t flinch when I told her what I’d done.”
He swallowed, the sound thick. “Turns out she’s got a mouth that won’t quit and a heart big enough to forgive a monster.”
You started to protest you’re not, but he pressed a kiss to your temple, silencing you.
“Shh. Let me say it.” His voice cracked on the next words. “I love you. Not the idea of you. Not the way you light up a room. You. The way you tease me ‘til I forget how to scowl. The way you looked at me tonight like I was still worth wanting.”
His flesh hand found yours, threading your fingers together, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. “I’ve carried ghosts for seventy years. You make ‘em quiet. When you’re in my arms, I don’t hear the screams anymore. Just your breathing. Just you.”
A long silence, filled only by the soft whir of his arm as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’m terrified,” he admitted, so soft you almost missed it. “Terrified I’ll wake up and this’ll be another dream. That I’ll blink and you’ll be gone and I’ll be back in that chair with wires in my head.” His grip tightened, just enough to anchor himself. “But even if it’s just tonight… thank you. For seeing the man under the metal. For letting me be Bucky again.”
He pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering, breathing you in like oxygen after drowning. “Stay,” he whispered, the plea raw. “Stay ‘til morning. Stay ‘til I’m brave enough to believe I deserve you.”
You answered by curling closer, nose brushing the hollow of his throat, and felt the tremor that ran through him when you murmured, “I’m not going anywhere, James.”
His breath hitched. Then, softer than snowfall, “Then I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”
٠࣪⭑ joel doesn’t yell first—he bites. his voice drops, slow and cutting, and he’ll choose the words he knows will sting.
٠࣪⭑ he calls you kid when he’s angry, spitting it out like a reminder of the years between you. “grow the hell up, kid. this ain’t highschool. i gotta work, i can’t baby you all the damn time.” he knows it’ll gut you—and hates himself the second it leaves his mouth.
٠࣪⭑ says things like “you don’t know what the real world’s like yet” or “you’ll get tired of me sooner or later, best you figure that out now, save me a shit ton of headaches.”
٠࣪⭑ you get a little pouty when women closer to his age smile at him, or when his coworkers talk about their wives. joel secretly loves that you want him so bad, but when he’s exhausted, he doesn’t have the patience to reassure you.
٠࣪⭑ sometimes you just want his attention—his eyes on you after a long day. he normally gives it without thinking, but when he’s bone-tired he might snap: “jesus, can I sit for five minutes without you hangin’ off me?” and it cuts deep.
٠࣪⭑ arguments spark when your worlds don’t line up—your college friends vs. his coworkers, your idea of fun vs. his exhaustion.
٠࣪⭑ the fights don’t just sting—they ache. bc dating an older man felt thrilling until you realized when he pulls away, it feels like the end of the world.
٠࣪⭑ joel goes cold after being sharp—crosses his arms, rubs his temples, mutters under his breath, “should’ve known better…” and it makes your chest cave in.
٠࣪⭑ you try not to cry in front of him, but tears slip anyway, and that’s when his anger usually breaks. he sees you trembling and it shatters him. but he doesn’t know how to apologize cleanly. he’ll sigh, tug his hand through his hair, and mutter, “didn’t mean that, baby. you know i didn’t.”
٠࣪⭑ he shows up in the kitchen later, leaning against the counter, voice soft and rough: “i don’t want nobody else. just you. i just get tired. that’s on me.”
٠࣪⭑ his make-up love language is touch: pulling you into his lap, resting his forehead against yours, thumb stroking your cheek. if you’re still raw, he’ll try humor—teasing you gently, voice warm, “clingy little thing, ain’t ya? can’t say I don’t like it.”
٠࣪⭑ joel’s sharp words haunt him. he hates himself for snapping, so when you crawl into his lap later, his first instinct is contrition. his apologies are mumbled into your skin—against your neck, your chest, your thighs. “’m sorry, baby… should never talk to you that way… my sweet little girl, always so good to me.”
٠࣪⭑ he gets slow and indulgent—stroking your hair back, kissing your jaw, murmuring: “pretty little thing, look at you… can’t stay mad when you look so fuckin’ sexy sittin’ on me.”
٠࣪⭑ joel loves when you ride him after a fight—it makes him feel like you’re choosing him again. he’ll grip your hips tight and groan, “that’s it, baby girl. let it out. ride me like you hate me.” and he praises every whimper—soft chuckles between apologies: “so needy… so good for me. my baby girl.”
٠࣪⭑ if it was a bad fight—the kind where you cried, maybe even stormed out—the make-up sex is feral. joel doesn’t wait for slow touches. he pins you, growls into your ear, “you drive me goddamn insane, y’know that? gonna fuck that attitude right outta you.”
٠࣪⭑ he’s mean with his hands—slapping your ass harder than usual, leaving red handprints, fingers digging in where he knows it’ll sting. he loves when you slap him back across the face during sex—sharp little sting that makes him groan. it’s his favorite foreplay, a secret thrill. “yeah, there’s my girl. hit me harder. you’re so fuckin’ hot when you fight me.”
٠࣪⭑ & yes, he loves choking: his palm on your throat, squeezing harder than he normally would. he loves seeing your eyes roll when he does it. grows, “you like when i’m rough, huh? don’t lie.” the release is messy, sweaty, teeth and nails—both of you panting like you can’t decide if you’re still angry or crazy in love again
٠࣪⭑ but even if it was rough, joel never skips the aftermath. he pulls you tight against him, whispers into your hair: “i love you. don’t wanna fight no more, baby girl. just want you.”
٠࣪⭑ he presses kisses to every red mark he left, soothing with murmured “sorry, sorry, i’m stupid, i want all of you, every little goddamn annoying, sexy thing about you, don’t ever wanna lose you.”
masterlist | request box always open | drink water, i love you
