madelyn

mads • she/her • lana enthusiast • 21 • b.b.’s no.1

[flyingcat96]

- welcome to my blog!! -

started this account around october of 2025, started using it daily in the summertime

interests:

- JJK

- MHA

- Haikyuu

- the maze runner

- DCU

- MCU (mostly bucky)

- the pitt

fav genre is hurt/comfort

anyway, have a good day and embrace your freakiness

[bearlovestea]

Geto listens to his bestfriend fuck his crush (who has a crush on him)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut with no plot, fem!reader, Geto's definitely a jerk here, voyeurism, masturbating (m!), fourth year setting (all characters are aged up to +18), maybe angst?

a/n: the title is such a word puzzle haha. here's suguru's perspective of this fic! planning to write a short drabble about satoru and reader after the incident as well :))

art by @/thatsallchief

Sure, Suguru thought you were cute.

With pretty eyes and a prettier smile, no one could deny you were cute. In a heart warming way that seeped into his skin whenever the two of you brushed touches.

But nothing else.

Sure, his eyes thinned as he smiled in fondness at the bashful lower of your head as you handed him a small candy—strawberry milk flavoured that coils on his tongue sweetly to dissipate the pungent taste of curses he swallows.

Sure, he couldn’t help but laugh at the jokes you’d crack, heart warming at the sparkle in your eyes as you grinned up at him as though he lit up your entire world at the simplicity of his enjoyment.

Sure, said heart throbbed with pity at the way that said sparkle would dim when you overhear his conversations with Satoru about his nightly adventures in love hotels.

But nothing else.

He was attractive and young. He doesn’t want to tie himself down on one person.

Being in fourth year also meant he was given opportunities on a silver platter to visit other prefectures during his missions to have his night busy, and experience the other tastes than what Tokyo has to offer. Every mission ended with him leaving the black car, smiling at the assistant managers to head back to the hotel first while he scoured around the city for a quick and easy hook up.

The girl with the nice ass in Osaka.

The girl with the big tits in Kyoto.

The girl with the pretty face in Nagoya.

His contact list in his phone was endless, his thumb mindlessly scrolling down down down, never allowing him to reach the bottom until a good moment later.

That night was no different. A university student studying nursing—a cute face with a blonde bob. Except she called in sick, apologising with a phone call, desperation hinting at her sweet words.

“You’ll call me again, right?” she asked, voice coyly cute and full of hope, yet masked by the subtle edge of panic.

“Mm… maybe not if you keep on asking me like that.”

He cut the call even before she could give him a reply and he let out a sigh, cracking a muscle on his neck. His eyes lazily travelled across the bright neon lights of Kabukicho, full of chaos and trouble. He could feel the stares of girls while they walked the dirty streets, or from girls outside of maid cafes, hostesses, the sex clubs' workers, and the eyes from guys wondering if they could use him to lure in girls to their beds if they invited him over.

He ignored them and searched through his pocket, trying to find some strawberry milk candies to wash away the irritation… just to notice he didn’t have any. His brows furrowed, slowly realising that you haven’t given them these past few weeks.

Strange, but he didn’t think too much about it.

With another sigh, he headed to the closest convenience store, searching through the rows of snacks under the white lights. He paused at the surplus of options in the display, and his eyes caught onto the new gummy that you were talking about a week ago, excited at the upcoming release.

Without realising, he slid the package off of the metal hook, holding it together with his own pack of candy and went to the register to buy.

Suguru brushed past the eager eyes and headed back to his dorms for once. Maybe he would barge into Satoru’s room next door to play Momotetsu that they left off last time. Maybe he could give the packet of gummy to you on the way there as well.

He quietly imagined the look on your face when he hands you his small souvenir. The simple thing making your eyes widen for a fraction, looking up at him with a surprised smile and uncontrollable giggles as you thank him sweetly as you do.

It made him smile a bit to himself. A slow spread of satisfaction sitting comfortably on his chest. He might have asked Satoru a month ago how to let you down easy, but considering the disappointing trajectory of his night, he supposed he could entertain you for a little while and see how it goes.

But then his brows soon furrowed at the silence that welcomed him when he knocked on your dorm half an hour later.

Shoko opened her door from beside him, a brow raised as she looked up at him in distaste. When he asked where you were, she mentioned something about your room being vacant these past few nights.

“Late night missions?” he asked, frowning in concern.

Shoko smiled slightly, eyes glinting. “You could say she has, hmm… busy late night missions. I don’t think the higher ups would like to know what she’s up to.”

Strange, but he didn’t think too much about it either.

His footsteps echoed across the old, wooden hallways leading up to his dorm room, when—

“Ah, ngg…! Hahh— Satoru!!”

Suguru stopped in his tracks.

The crinkling plastic sound of the gummy dropping to the ground reverberating in his skull. His eyes slowly widened as he recognised the high-pitched moans, ears ringing at the slam of the bed’s headboard against the wall. 

Satoru’s voice joined your cries of pleasure.

“Come on baby, want to—fuck—want to make you cum ten times tonight, we’re almost half way there—”

Grunts, meowls, whines—

Suguru shakily crouched down to pick up the packet of gummy, and as he did, he tuned into your voice. At the sweet pants and chants of Satoru’s name from your lips—lips he could imagine in the back of his mind glossing prettily from spit and cum.

Suguru’s face flushed, heart racing as he pressed his palm on his cock over his pants, feeling the thudding throb of it, chest heaving as he listened to the noise…

“Ah, ah… Satoru,” you slurred sultrily, slightly muffled and wet.

Suguru imagines your mouth pressed against Satoru’s ear, heavy hot breaths tingling his best friend's ear as your tongue scraped the shell teasingly.

“What is it, sweetheart? Can’t take it?”

“No, no, no… I can, I can,” you whined breathlessly, hints of tears lodged at your throat. “I-I am, aren’t I— hahhh…!”

There was a particularly loud slap of skin against skin and the loud squelch of your pussy, promptly followed by Satoru’s groan that chanted your name like a prayer.

Slowly, Suguru stood up and stumbled to his door, fidgeting with his keys and as soon as it unlocked, he barged into his own bedroom and crumbled to his sheets. 

Satoru, Satoru, Satoru…!

He leaned his ear onto the wall facing Satoru’s room, stroking his already hard-on with heavy breaths, chest heaving erratically at the pleasure that shot at the touch. He groaned every time whenever a particularly loud, sweet cry from you buzzed the wallpaper and rang in his ear, urging him to press his hand harder against his bulge.

Even through the wall, he could hear the obscene squelches of your pussy taking Satoru’s cock, making it easy for him to conjure up the image of your wet cunt, and how heavenly it must feel for him to slide his cock along your puffy lips.

Suguru cursed to himself and quickly shoved his pants and boxers down. Collecting a glob of spit, he let it trickle down his flushed tip as his thumb roughly pressed his slit, pre cum oozing from beneath his skin. He started slow, stroking his cock alongside the steady rhythm of the slap… slap… slap of Satoru’s hips meeting your skin. The wet sound that followed his hand wasn’t as loud as the noise next door.

“Agh, babe… stop… clenching,” Satoru grunted weakly, a pathetic whimper leaving him when it seemed like you did the exact opposite. Whether that was intentional or not, Suguru couldn’t tell. All he could do was squeeze his hand around his base in response, closing his eyes to imagine it was your wet pussy clenching and drooling around his cock. Just as you were right now tightening around his best friend’s cock.

“Sa-toru… f-feels too good…!”

Suguru groaned loudly with Satoru at the sultry, breathless moan, and found himself fisting his cock harder, faster. His fingertips grazed the protruded veins, precum and spit mixing and glistening over his ridges that bumped against his palm as he desperately tried to find his release.

“Shit, baby… I’m close,” Satoru whined, voice more distant and muffled. The image of his best friend folding you in half, legs spread and wrapped around his torso in a mean mating press that had your throbbing, puffy clit rubbing against his pubes, and said best friend burrowing his face into the crook of your sweat-slicked neck flashing in Suguru’s mind. He cupped his balls, groaning as he imagined how Satoru’s was sure to be slapping harshly against your plush ass every time he thrusted into your sopping cunt, smooching your cervix that had you crying out pathetically.

“‘M close too, Satoru…”

“Let’s cum together, yeah? ‘t’ll feel good cumming—ngh!—together…”

Suguru panted heavily in his empty room, thumb pressing harshly against the slippery slit every time his fist reached his angry red tip. He worked his cock faster, teeth biting into his lower lip to urge his climax. You sounded so sweet, so pretty, so adorable next door that the next thing he knew, he cummed at the scream that tore out of your throat, painting his abdomen with pearly white cum and staining his dark uniform. The cum on his hand a sticky mess as he continued stroking himself with a deep hum, his head dizzy from pleasure and cheeks dusted in a heavy flush.

“Fuck…” Suguru groaned, leaning his head against the wall that still reverberated from the loud thuds of the headboard banging roughly from the other side, obvious that Satoru was still determined to reach your sixth climax in hopes of reaching ten.

For the rest of the night, Suguru had to listen to the two of you fuck like rabbits in heat, and every now and then he would press his ears against the wall once more to palm his cock lazily. It lasted for hours and hours and sleep only finally found him when the two of you were nearing your end. But before he could close his eyes, he heard Satoru’s words that gave him an alarming jolt to his heart.

“Got Suguru out of your pretty mind yet, gorgeous?”

༊·˚°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Um… fun night?”

The two of you didn’t seem to notice the bags under Suguru’s eyes as he asked the question. Or at the bloodshot veins creeping towards his pupils. Or the way they seemingly reflected the troubled night before.

“Yeah, too much fun.” Satoru had the most shit eating grin ever, and Suguru caught onto his best friend’s hand crawling down behind him to squeeze your ass over the shirt you wore. Satoru’s favourite Digimon shirt. Faintly, he also heard your whine of protest and the scrunch of the cloth under your nails. “How was your night, Suguru?”

Satoru, Satoru, Satoru…! Your voice still rang in his mind nonestop, haunting him even in his dreams.

“Uh…” Suguru trailed off, his gaze fixated on you and all the blossoming marks littering over your skin, “…yeah… I guess.”

Slowly, Satoru’s voice tuned out and Suguru could only hear the crinkling of the plastic package of the gummy as he fisted his hand. The bag was too warm under his touch, and inside the sugar was starting to melt into a sticky mess, ruining the excitement you had over them.

i'd say this is how geto's characterised in the jp fandom 90% of the time. i still love him though :)

tags/taglist (open)! @daflex, @liahcharms, @moonlightbunnies, @brightbriefs

dividers: @/dollywons & @/aquazero

[sukunaglazerrr]

Ex HusbandKuna x f!reader

One year after your divorce, you runs into your ex husband at a friend's birthday party. Neither of you expected to see each other again, and neither of you had prepared for the memories that come with it.

You and Sukuna had been married for three beautiful years, a time when your life felt completely over the moon. It was happy, peaceful, and everything you had ever wished for. In those early stages, you both thoroughly enjoyed your lives together. You went on endless dates and had sex in every location you could possibly think of.

Even on the kitchen counter and yeah even public bathroom, you never regret any of that.

That was your life with Sukuna laughing until your stomach physically hurt, sitting lazily on his lap, and watching cheesy romantic comedies. Even though he always complained that they were so boring and dramatic, you both had watched 'She’s the Man' at least six times, and he always watched it with full interest just because you were there.

He was a good man. Even though others constantly portrayed him as an arrogant asshole with an ego as high as the Burj Khalifa, or a ruthless bastard who would beat the shit out of anyone for looking at him wrong, he was never that way with you.

With you, he was something entirely different. He was the only person who made you feel completely safe in his arms. You loved spending every second with him. You and Sukuna genuinely couldn't live without each other, and he was always more than proud to admit it. He was a busy man and so were you. you worked long hours at the hospital, and he was a highly successful architect, but the dates and the effortless romance were always a priority. He would patiently paint your nails while you talked his ear off about the latest hospital gossip or a new show you were watching. And he always listened. He truly did.

If you ever felt sick, he was right there. He would immediately take a day off work just to look after you, because you were his. His sweet girl.

The age gap between you was just two years. You had initially met in high school as bitter enemies who absolutely couldn't stand the sight of each other, only to end up as husband and wife who couldn't bear to be apart.

When you turned twenty nine, you got pregnant, and Sukuna was absolutely over the world. He was so happy. He always found a way to hold your growing baby bump, gently squeezing it and kissing your skin, loving you even more with each passing day.

One afternoon, while you were standing in the kitchen making tea, Sukuna wrapped his arms around you from behind. He placed both of his large, rough hands over the small baby bump that was still growing. "I bet it's going to be a girl" he murmured gently, pressing soft, warm kisses against your neck.

Both of you simply wanted a healthy, fit child. the gender never truly mattered. Sukuna built and prepared the nursery entirely by himself. You both decorated it or rather, you sat comfortably in a chair and gave directions while Sukuna did all the hard labor, because he refused to let you lift a single finger.

Life was perfect. It was just like a fairy tale.

But fairy tales only exist in movies and books, not in real life.

You miscarried. You were driving home from the hospital after a long shift. Sukuna had called and told you to wait at the hospital until he could come pick you up, but you had refused. You told him that you had your own car, and that there was no point in him making the extra trip.

If only you had waited that day, maybe things would have turned out differently. The horrific car crash happened too fast, right in front of your eyes. A massive truck slammed directly into your vehicle with enough force to kill you, and a part of you deeply wished it had. At least then you wouldn't have had to live through the agony of losing your baby girl. It was a girl. You were seven months pregnant, and the doctors had to cut your stomach open in an emergency procedure just to take the lifeless infant out.

That loss completely broke both you and Sukuna. You fell into a deep, suffocating depression. Sukuna stopped working entirely for a solid month just to remain by your side, pulling you through every violent nightmare and every painful bout of crying.

He supported you constantly, even though he was losing himself, too. He had lost his daughter, and he had nearly lost his wife.

But your severe depression eventually led to you getting constantly annoyed over the smallest things. You started making wild, baseless accusations, claiming Sukuna was cheating on you. Deep down, you felt absolutely pathetic, but you couldn't stop. Sukuna never snapped back. he understood the immense trauma you were carrying. It went on like that for a year you constantly ignored him or showed him a terrible attitude over nothing. He was getting tired. Not tired of you he could never be tired of you. but completely exhausted by the toxic wall you had built between you.

And when he finally sighed one evening and told you to stop acting like a bitch, you completely lost it.

"Oh?! So I am the bitch?!" you had yelled at the top of your lungs, tears streaming down your face. "Really? Fuck you, Sukuna! I fucking wish I never married you! I fucking hate you!"

He never answered. He just stood there, glaring at you with a deeply broken expression before he turned and left the house.

After that night, he started drinking heavily and smoking even more. Everything came to a sudden, crashing end far too quickly. You moved out of the shared house, refusing to take a single dime of alimony because you didn't want anything from him. And just like that, after a quick and quiet divorce, it was completely over.

Now, a year later, you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down a beautiful, elegant baby blue silk dress. It was completely backless, making you look incredibly chic and sophisticated. Your hair was tied up into a perfectly styled messy bun, your makeup was done effortlessly, and you wore expensive, elegant heels.

You walked toward the large house where Shoko's twin babies were celebrating their first birthday. You felt genuinely happy for her. Maybe a tiny, subconscious part of you felt a slight sting of jealousy seeing your friends move forward with their families, but you were genuinely thrilled for them. Your own love life was alright. you dated on and off, having casual sex whenever you felt the need for physical affection. Mostly, you spent your days shopping and treating yourself, because you deserved it.

You had been consistently going to therapy ever since the tragedy, and it was helping.

Taking a deep, steady breath just like your therapist had taught you to do you prepared to knock on the front door. But you quickly realized it was useless, as the loud sounds of laughter and chatter were echoing from the backyard. Shoko and her husband, Suguru, had rented this beautiful, massive estate for a week to celebrate. They were such a wonderful couple.

Holding the beautifully wrapped gift bags tightly in your hands, you walked around the side of the house toward the backyard. The spacious lawn was packed with people, covered in colorful clusters of balloons, and centered around a massive table loaded with delicious food. At least you knew you could enjoy the catering.

You walked gently over to Shoko, who was currently holding one of the twins. You didn't look around the crowd too much, not caring to see who else was there, since you had cut off most of your old social circle after the divorce.

"Oh my god! Look who's here! Auntie is looking so pretty!" Shoko cooed in a sweet baby voice, rocking the infant in her arms.

You giggled softly, walking right up to them to press a loud, loving kiss against the baby girl's chubby cheek. "Muah! My beautiful baby girl is getting so big! Where is the other one?" you asked, hugging Shoko tightly and kissing her cheek.

"Thanks, bitch! The other one just completely shit herself, you know how it is," Shoko laughed, rolling her eyes. "Suguru is upstairs changing her diaper right now. By the way, you are absolutely glowing!"

You smiled gently. "Thank you, Sho, Motherhood definitely suits you, but for God Sake stop cursing in front of this cutie pie." You leaned down to kiss little Lily again, and she gave you a wide, gummy smile that completely melted your heart.

"Alright, alright, whatever the Boss says" Shoko winked playfully. "Anyway, Suguru invited a ton of hot men today, so if you're looking to find a good one, keep your eyes open."

You shook your head, laughing softly at her antics. "Sure, Sho. Here, take the gifts. And I think this little one needs a diaper change now, too." you added, pointing at the telltale smell suddenly drifting from Lily.

Shoko made a comical, disgusted face. She quickly grabbed the bags, blew you a kiss, and hurried off toward the house.

Left alone, you felt a sudden wave of boredom. You recognized a few familiar faces in the crowd, but every single one of them was wrapped up with their partners and their children. Deciding to skip the awkward small talk, you headed inside the main house to use the restroom.

As you stepped through the back doors, you could hear Suguru and Shoko playfully bickering over the diaper changes in the next room, making you chuckle softly.

"Hey, Y/N! How are you? It's been a while!" Suguru called out warmly, spotting you near the hallway.

"I'm doing really well, Suguru. What about you?" you called back, pausing by the stairs.

"Just trying to adjust to fatherhood," he said with a friendly, tired smile. "Go ahead and enjoy yourself today!"

You nodded appreciatively and began walking upstairs, adjusting the silk of your dress. The blue fabric flowed elegantly with every step, clinging beautifully to your curves. You stared at the various doors in the upper hallway, wondering what kind of massive estate Shoko had actually rented. There were so many rooms, and absolutely none of them had a bathroom sign on them.

Sighing, you opened a random door just to see if it was a restroom, closing it behind you when you realized it was just a simple bedroom. Turning around to leave, you felt someone turn the doorknob from the other side at the exact same time. The door swung open abruptly, catching you off guard. In the sudden movement, one of your expensive earrings slipped from your earlobe and clattered to the floor.

"Tsk! Stupid" you muttered under your breath, immediately bending down to retrieve it.

But before your fingers could touch the jewelry, another hand reached down and picked it up. Your entire life completely stopped. Your breath caught in your throat. You could forget almost anything in this world, but you could never, ever forget those large, rough, heavily tattooed hands.

"Here" Sukuna said lazily.

As he held the earring out, his sharp gaze finally met yours, and he froze completely. He had just been wandering the halls looking for a bathroom to take a quick piss, casually opening doors, and now he deeply regretted it.

You were standing right there in front of him, looking absolutely beautiful out of this world beautiful. How long had it been? A year? Maybe even longer since he had last seen your face. He had tried asking Suguru about how you were doing a few times, but their mutual friends had never given him much information.

You quickly snatched the earring from his rough palm, your fingers trembling slightly as you tried to clip it back onto your ear. He stood directly in the doorway, his massive frame making it incredibly hard for you to move or slide past him.

"Excuse me" you murmured sharply, keeping your eyes trained on your hands as you struggled with the jewelry.

"Y/n?" he finally spoke.

His voice was just as rough and deep as you remembered. He still smelled exactly the same a distinct blend of expensive cologne and heavy cigarette smoke, a scent you used to love so much. He was wearing a crisp white button down shirt and navy blue trousers, making him look exceptionally handsome and sharp.

"Yeah?" you replied, firmly avoiding eye contact.

"...How have you been?" he asked quietly.

His eyes had softened. They had actually softened in a way that showed he deeply, genuinely cared about the answer. Because he did.

You took a deep, grounding breath, exactly the way your therapist had instructed you to do during moments of high stress. Finally finding the courage, you lifted your chin and met his gaze. The moment your eyes locked, a crushing wave of old memories flashed through your mind, threatening to tear down your composure.

You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to remain steady. "I am good. really well, actually. What about you?"

You began to step forward, intending to finally walk past him now that he had moved slightly to the side. But as you stepped out into the hallway, his long strides fell right into alignment with yours, walking beside you.

"fine" he muttered, looking straight ahead. "I didn't know you were going to be here today."

"I didn't know you'd be here either" you replied, a slight edge to your tone.

"I'm surprised you even came, considering you've been completely ghosting all of our mutual friends." He said making you annoyed

"I haven't been ghosting Shoko," you defended yourself softly. "And why wouldn't I come?"

"Whatever" He muttered, a familiar spark of annoyance rising in your chest.

Sukuna let out a quiet sigh, his eyes lingering on your profile for a brief second. "You look..nice, Y/n. You're glowing. Life has been treating you right, I guess."

"Yeah, it has" you lied smoothly, keeping your chin held high.

"Alright then. See you around," he murmured. He stopped walking, turning back toward the stairs to head down to the party.

You paused for a split second, staring at his retreating back. The heavy, deliberate way he walked, the sharp clench of his jaw every single detail violently reminded you of the old times. Of the life you used to have.

When you finally made your way down to the backyard, your eyes immediately caught sight of Shoko’s mother. You had always deeply disliked that woman. You could never fully pin down why, but she had never liked you either perhaps out of some strange, deep-seated jealousy or bitterness you could never understand.

Your eyes instinctively began scanning the crowded yard, searching for Sukuna. You immediately hated yourself for doing it. But when you finally located him across the lawn, you realized he was already staring directly at you. The moment your eyes met, he sharply snapped his head away, pretending to look at something else.

Eventually, it was time for the highlight of the party. Shoko and Suguru stood behind a massive cake, holding little Lily and Liana as the babies bubbled, babbled, and screamed happily. Everyone gathered around the long banquet table to eat and celebrate. The atmosphere was filled with loud laughter and the clinking of glasses.

By total twist of fate, you found yourself seated right in the middle of Kenjaku and an older lady who was eating her food like a pig. Directly across the table, sitting right in front of you, was Sukuna. Beside him sat Shoko's mother and Suguru.

The conversations flowed effortlessly across the table, with various guests sharing funny stories from high school, talking about work, and discussing life.

Until Shoko's mother loudly cleared her throat, capturing the attention of the table. "I truly think that being a mother is a gift," she announced pompously. "Not every woman possesses the ability or the grace to have that."

Shoko rolled her eyes hard but chose not to say anything, wanting to keep the peace. You let out a quiet, sarcastic chuckle, catching the way Suguru practically gagged into his drink at his mother-in-law's words.

"And I am just so incredibly happy that my sweet Shoko is such a great mother" the older woman continued loudly, turning to face the other elderly ladies at the table with a huge, boastful smile. "She handles the entire house and two babies perfectly."

You set your fork down, a small, calm smile playing on your lips. "Motherhood is beautiful, certainly" you countered smoothly. "But I think not everyone deserves to have that blessing. I've seen some of the worst people have children, only for those poor kids to end up with severe mental health problems because of their parents."

"Of course, of course!" Shoko's mother let out a loud, forced laugh, clearly displeased at being challenged.

Across the table, Sukuna let out a rough scoff. He grabbed a fresh bottle of beer, taking a long sip before casually pouring more alcohol into the cups of the guests sitting near him. His sharp eyes shifted up, locking onto you as if silently asking if you needed a drink or if you were doing alright. You simply shook your head subtly, looking away from him.

Shoko's mother narrowed her eyes, her gaze landing squarely on you. The sweet, fake smile on her face turned incredibly malicious.

"Didn't you have a miscarriage, Y/n?" she asked loudly, her voice cutting through the chatter of the table.

Your entire body went completely still. The ambient noise of the party seemed to vanish instantly. Across the table, Sukuna’s hand froze dead in mid air, his beer glass halting just inches from his lips.

Shoko’s head snapped toward her mother, her face contorting into an absolute fury as she threw her a deadly glare. "Mom!, stop--"

You swallowed the sudden lump of ice in your throat, forcing yourself to take a slow breath. "Uhm, yeah. Unfortunately, I did" you replied softly, your voice trembling slightly. A few of the older women sitting nearby immediately began murmuring softly, trying to show genuine empathy and comfort toward you to smooth over the tension.

But Shoko’s mother wasn't finished. She let out a soft, dismissive hum, leaning forward onto the table. "Well, have you ever considered that perhaps God took your child away from you because He knew you wouldn't be a good mother? Whatever happens, happens for a good reason. Maybe that kid was just supposed to die now or later anyway—"

Before the horrific sentence could even fully leave her mouth, Sukuna was on his feet.

It didn't take him a single second. With an explosive, terrifying speed, his fist flew across the table, punching Shoko’s mother squarely in the face.

The heavy wood of the table rattled as the woman went flying backward out of her chair, crashing hard into the grass. The entire backyard erupted into absolute chaos and screaming.

"You fucking hag!" Shoko’s father roared in shock, rushing forward to violently push Sukuna away.

But Sukuna wasn't having a single piece of it. He was completely out of his mind with pure, unadulterated rage. He lunged forward again, his massive fists throwing punch after punch, completely blind to the world around him. You stood up from your chair, frozen in absolute shock, entirely overwhelmed as the screams of the guests echoed in your ears.

"And I think God thinks your fucking time has come, and that you don't deserve to live in this world anymore! How about that, huh?!" Sukuna roared, his deep voice vibrating with an terrifying, animalistic fury. "Talk about my girl like that again Idare you!-- Fucking let me go! I am going to kill this fucking hag!"

Suguru, Kenjaku, and three other men had to throw their entire weight against Sukuna, desperately pinning his arms and dragging him backward to keep him from completely destroying the older woman.

Sukuna was breathing heavily, his white shirt slightly torn as he was finally forced out of the backyard and away from the party. The celebration was entirely ruined. someone was already franticly calling an ambulance for the bleeding woman on the grass.

Your vision blurred completely as heavy tears finally spilled over your eyelashes. You couldn't believe someone could be so cruel, to say something so deeply monstrous to you about the daughter you had lost.

In a daze, you quickly wiped at your wet cheeks, walking as fast as your heels could carry you away from the chaotic house and out toward the front driveway.

As you reached the quiet street, you spotted him.

Sukuna was leaning heavily against his motorcycle, a lit cigarette pressed between his lips. His knuckles were bruised and stained with blood, his chest still heaving with residual adrenaline. As the sound of your heels clicked against the asphalt, his sharp eyes lifted, locking directly onto yours.

Seeing the sheer, protective fury still lingering in his gaze the same man who had just risked everything to defend your honor, had made completely broke down. You burst into violent, heavy tears right there on the pavement.

(this gonna flop but whatever)

[counterblows]

🔞.

“that’s it… use me,”

thinking about riding his thick thigh while leaving a snail trail of your wetness

his hands on your side as he guides you

[5thamendmentt]

render prac

[syllysmot]

Grandpa Yuji

[heldbybarnes]

red zone doctrine

pairing: bucky barnes x reader | 8k | jurassic park au

warnings: red zone horror, dinosaur attacks, blood/injury, death, weapon violence, panic, unethical experimentation, military-funded projects

summary: the park’s biggest nightmares live behind doors the guests will never see. when the red zone breaches, you and bucky barnes—internal security, lethal and unshakeable—fight your way out with a small group of survivors and the truth snapping at your heels.

author's note: chat, i was shaking in my boots writing this! i would rather die than be put in this situation; HOWEVER, if i had a broody, no nonsense bucky with my i think i could manage?!? pls don't sue me if you get nightmares from this🫣🦖🦕

----------

The tourist side of the island smells like sunscreen and money.

The air is salt-bright and warm, thick with the perfume of hibiscus hedges planted to look accidental. The visitor center runs on curated awe—polished concrete floors, gift shop plushies, the looping video that promises you “a once-in-a-lifetime experience” in seven languages. The dinosaurs here are safe enough to put on a brochure.

Even when something goes wrong, it’s the kind of wrong you can spin.

A goat goes missing and the kids squeal like it’s a show. A fence flickers and the tour guide cracks a joke about “ancient predators and modern technology.” A staff member breaks their wrist on a service ladder and you patch them up in the clinic while they tell you, laughing too loudly, that they’re fine, totally fine, couldn’t happen on a better island.

You nod. You smile. You keep your voice soothing.

Because the other side of the island doesn’t smell like money.

It smells like bleach and electricity. Like wet concrete. Like the metallic bite of blood that never fully leaves your hands no matter how much you scrub.

The other side of the island doesn’t get brochures.

It gets classification stamps.

You’re not supposed to call it the other side. You’re not supposed to say the words classified wing out loud. Officially, it’s a “restricted research corridor,” a cluster of facilities “supporting veterinary excellence and specimen health.”

Unofficially, it’s the Red Zone.

And you are the medic stationed there.

Not because you’re naïve enough to think you can save the island, but because you’ve always been foolish enough to think you can save people.

Your badge doesn’t have your name on it. It has a number. Your access key doesn’t open the visitor center. It opens doors that don’t exist on any map.

Doors like the one in front of you now: matte black, no window, a single camera lens sunk into the wall like an unblinking eye.

The lock gives a quiet click when you press your thumb to it. The door swings inward with a hydraulic hush.

Inside, the corridor lights are too bright. White, clinical. Designed to make everything visible, even the things you’d rather not see.

You push your cart forward—trauma kit, suture pack, field dressings, IV fluids, portable defib—because you’ve learned the Red Zone doesn’t wait for you to be ready. The air is colder here, regulated. The hum of generators is a constant under everything, like the island’s heartbeat, steady and oblivious.

At the end of the hall stands Bucky Barnes.

He doesn’t lean. He doesn’t slouch. He doesn’t waste energy pretending to be casual.

He’s in black tactical gear that makes him look like a shadow that learned how to hold a gun. No park logo, no cheerful patch. His hair is pulled back, just long enough to brush his collar. The security badge on his vest has been stripped down to a bar code. Even his presence feels classified.

He watches you approach like he’s tracking the threat level of the air around you.

The first time you met him, you’d thought, stupidly, Oh. That’s what a weapon looks like when you let it walk around as a man.

The second time, you’d realized the worse truth:

He’s not pretending to be anything.

“Morning,” you say, because you refuse to let the island turn you into a whisper.

His eyes flick to your hands. To your cart. To the stethoscope looped at your neck. Then back to your face.

“Doc,” he answers, voice like gravel pressed into velvet. It’s not a nickname, not really. It’s a role. A classification.

Bucky is the head of internal security for this section, but “security” on the Red Zone side is a polite word. You know what he actually is. You’ve seen the way other staff go quiet when he walks past. You’ve heard the clipped radio codes. You’ve watched him escort men in military fatigues through doors you’re not allowed to look at.

There are rumors. There are always rumors. Some say he’s former special forces. Some say he’s the reason this wing hasn’t collapsed under its own sins. Some say he was sent here because he knows how to keep mouths shut.

The only rumor you trust is the one you can feel when he looks at you:

He’s been ordered to keep you quiet too.

“Any injuries overnight?” you ask, because you’ll keep doing your job even if it kills you.

“None you need to know about,” he says automatically.

You give him a look.

His jaw flexes, like he’s swallowing down an answer that tastes wrong. “One tech got clawed. Superficial. Bandaged it. Told him to come see you.”

“You bandaged it.”

“I know where to put gauze.”

“That’s not the same as knowing what infection looks like.” You move past him, cart wheels clicking softly. “Where is he?”

“In quarantine bay three.”

“Of course he is.”

Bucky falls into step beside you, silent as a threat. You can feel the weight of him, the constant readiness. It does something to your nerves, makes your skin too aware of itself. He’s always like this here—tight, contained, lethal.

On the tourist side, security wears khaki and smiles. Here, security wears darkness and doesn’t.

You glance up at him. “Did you sleep?”

His eyes don’t leave the corridor ahead. “Sleep’s a luxury.”

“You’re going to get someone killed if you run yourself into the ground.”

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “This place already got people killed.”

He isn’t wrong.

You pass a frosted glass window that looks into a lab. Inside, scientists in white coats move around a table with the reverence of priests. On a screen behind them is a rotating model of a creature’s skull. It’s wrong in a way you can’t articulate—too many ridges, too many teeth, eye sockets angled predatory and too forward.

You don’t stop walking.

The Red Zone teaches you to keep moving.

At quarantine bay three, the air smells like antiseptic and fear. The tech sits on a cot with his shirt torn at the shoulder, a bandage wrapped tight around his upper arm. His face is pale.

When he sees you, relief loosens his shoulders. When he sees Bucky behind you, it tightens again.

“Let me see,” you say gently.

He holds his arm out with a tremor. You peel back the bandage carefully. Three parallel gashes run along his bicep, shallow but angry. The skin around them is red.

“Did you clean this?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “Barnes—he—he poured something on it.”

“Alcohol,” Bucky says flatly.

You look up. “The drinking kind or the sterilizing kind?”

Bucky’s gaze meets yours. Something unreadable flickers there. “Sterilizing.”

You hum, not convinced. You start flushing the wounds properly. “What happened?”

The tech swallows. “We were moving the specimen to containment—project—” His eyes dart to Bucky.

“Don’t,” Bucky says, low.

The tech clamps his mouth shut.

You pause, saline dripping from your gloved fingers. “Bucky.”

He doesn’t flinch at his name, but something in him goes still, like a blade held in place.

“It’s okay,” you say quietly. “If it’s a biohazard risk, I need to know.”

His stare is hard. “You don’t.”

You hold his gaze anyway. “You can’t order bacteria not to spread.”

For a long moment, the only sound is the hum of the vents.

Then Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp. “Talons.”

“That narrows it down to half the nightmares in this place.”

“Not the park ones.”

You don’t let your face change. “I figured.”

You finish cleaning, apply antibiotic ointment, dress the wounds properly. “You’re on prophylactic antibiotics,” you tell the tech. “And you’re off shift. No exceptions.”

He nods so hard it’s almost desperate.

When you step back, Bucky’s hand clamps on the tech’s uninjured shoulder with a finality. “You heard her.”

The tech scrambles up like he’s been granted a pardon. He practically runs out.

As soon as he’s gone, you turn on Bucky. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what.”

“Keeping everyone in the dark,” you say. “They’re terrified. They’re hurt. They deserve to know what they’re dealing with.”

Bucky’s expression doesn’t soften. “They deserve to live.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is here.”

You step closer without meaning to. The air between you feels… charged. Like standing too close to a fence that could spark.

“I know you think you’re protecting us,” you say, keeping your voice low. “But you’re also protecting them. Whoever funded this. Whoever signed off on it. Whoever decided ‘failed genetic projects’ were a reasonable expense.”

His eyes sharpen. “Watch it.”

You lift your chin. “Or what?”

The question hangs there for a beat too llong.

Bucky’s gaze drags down your face, slow, assessing. You know he’s cataloguing the vulnerability: you’re in scrubs, you don’t have a weapon, your job is literally to bleed for other people. You can’t win a fight with him.

And yet, you’re the one who makes him pause.

His voice drops. “Or you become a problem.”

You should be scared of that.

Instead, something tight in your chest pulls into a dangerous kind of curiosity. “Am I a problem?”

The corner of his mouth twitches again, a shadow of something human. “You ask too many questions.”

“Someone has to.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The fluorescent light catches in his eyes, makes them look cold. But you’ve seen him in the infirmary at two in the morning, when he brought in a guard with a shattered knee and waited outside the door like a penitent. You’ve watched him hand you a protein bar when you forgot to eat. You’ve heard him murmur “thank you” so quietly you almost thought you imagined it.

You know he’s not just a weapon.

You also know he could choose to be.

The alarms start as a low pulse.

At first, you think it’s one of the routine drills. The Red Zone runs drills like religion. Everything here is contingency. Everything here is if.

But then the lights flicker once—just a stutter—and the hum of the generators dips like the island’s heart skipped.

Bucky’s head snaps up, attention cutting toward the ceiling speakers.

The pulse becomes a wail.

A voice crackles through the intercom, strained, too fast. “Containment breach—repeat, containment breach—Red Zone perimeter compromised—”

The next words come out garbled, swallowed by static and the sudden rise of screaming voices in the corridor.

You freeze for half a second, the way your body tries to decide whether this is real.

Bucky doesn’t.

He moves like the alarm is a starter pistol. His hand yanks a radio from his vest. “Barnes, report.”

The reply is chaos. “—fence down—project Cerberus out—God, it’s in—”

A wet crunch. A scream cut off.

Static.

Your mouth goes dry.

Bucky’s eyes flick to you, sharp. “Get your bag.”

“I have—”

“Not that.” He grabs your cart and shoves it toward the wall hard enough the wheels squeal. “Field kit. Now.”

You don’t argue. You’ve learned Bucky’s commands are born from a math you don’t have time to do.

You snatch your go-bag from the hook, fingers shaking only once you’ve got it slung over your shoulder. “What is Cerberus?”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. “Not a dinosaur.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s worse,” he says, and there’s something ugly in his voice, something like disgust.

The lights flicker again. This time, they don’t come back at full strength. The corridor dims into a strobing, sickly half-light.

Somewhere down the hall, metal shrieks. A door slams open.

Footsteps pound closer—running, frantic, too many.

A scientist bursts around the corner, lab coat torn, face smeared with blood that isn’t all his. He sees Bucky and you and lunges like he’s drowning.

“They’re out,” he gasps. “The prototypes—they—”

Behind him, something moves.

It’s fast—too fast for something that size. A shadow under the flashing emergency lights, a blur of muscle and slick skin. It hits the scientist from behind with a force that folds him like paper.

His scream doesn’t finish.

You stumble back, hand flying to your mouth.

Bucky is already in motion. He pulls you behind him with one brutal tug, his body a shield. His other hand brings his rifle up—where it came from, you don’t know, it’s like it just exists when he needs it.

The creature lifts its head.

For a second, the strobing light catches it fully.

It looks like something a child would draw if you asked them to make a dinosaur scarier.

Long, raptor-like, but the proportions are wrong—forelimbs too thick, joints angled in ways that suggest something else was stitched into the DNA. Its skin is dark and wet-looking, almost amphibious, with patches of scale that glitter oily. Its jaw splits wider than it should, rows of teeth layered like needles. And its eyes—

Its eyes catch the light and reflect back, pale and wrong, like a cat’s.

It turns its head slightly, tasting the air.

Then its gaze locks on you.

Your blood goes ice.

Bucky’s finger tightens on the trigger.

The rifle cracks—three sharp shots that echo down the hall. The creature jerks as rounds hit its shoulder, its flank, its neck.

It doesn’t go down.

It shrieks—a sound that isn’t just animal, that vibrates with something engineered and furious—and launches.

Bucky shoves you hard to the side.

The creature slams into him instead, claws scraping armor, teeth snapping inches from his face. He braces, boots skidding on the slick floor, and then he does something you’ve never seen a park guard do in your life.

He uses his body like a weapon.

He pivots, using the creature’s momentum, and drives it into the wall. Metal buckles. The creature thrashes, tail whipping, knocking a wall-mounted monitor loose. Sparks rain.

Bucky grunts, muscles corded, and jams the barrel of his rifle under the creature’s jaw. He fires point blank.

Blood sprays—hot and dark. The creature convulses.

Still, it tries to bite.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. He drops the rifle, grabs a combat knife, and drives it up, under the jawline, into the soft tissue where bone meets nerve.

The creature shudders once, twice.

Then goes limp.

Silence crashes in after the struggle, broken only by the alarm’s relentless wail and the crackle of sparking wires.

You stand frozen, chest heaving.

Bucky wipes his blade on the creature’s hide like it disgusts him. He snatches his rifle back up and turns to you.

“Move,” he orders.

Your legs don’t cooperate immediately. Your brain is still stuck on the image of teeth. On the scientist’s scream cutting off. On the way that thing looked at you like you were prey.

Bucky’s hand clamps around your wrist—firm, not gentle, but grounding—and drags you forward.

“Bucky,” you manage, voice thin. “What the hell was that?”

He doesn’t slow. “A failure.”

“That doesn’t—”

He hauls you around a corner just as something slams into the wall behind you. The impact shudders through the floor.

Bucky shoves you into a recessed doorway. He leans out, rifle ready, scanning.

The corridor is chaos now—people screaming, running, some bleeding, some clutching radios that only spit static. A security guard stumbles past with a torn thigh, leaving a smear of blood.

You surge forward instinctively. “Hey—”

Bucky catches your shoulder, stops you. “You can’t help if you’re dead.”

“I’m a medic.”

“And I’m telling you he’s not leaving this corridor alive if you step out.” His voice is low, savage with certainty. “Stay.”

Something about the way he says it makes your skin prickle. Not just fear—something else. Something darkly magnetic.

Because he isn’t bluffing.

Bucky moves out into the hall like he owns it. Like chaos is just another environment he knows how to breathe in.

You hate that a part of you watches him and thinks, God.

He grabs the bleeding guard by the vest, drags him into the doorway with you. “Doc.”

You drop to your knees automatically. The guard’s thigh is shredded, muscle exposed. Bite marks. Not clean. Ragged.

You pull your kit open with shaking hands. “Tourniquet,” you snap.

Bucky’s hands are already there, pulling a strap from his gear. He cinches it high and tight with brutal efficiency.

The guard whimpers.

“Hold still,” Bucky says, not unkind, just absolute.

You pack the wound, press gauze hard until the bleeding slows. Your hands are slick with blood. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

“What bit you?” you ask the guard.

He sobs, eyes wide. “It—it was—like a raptor but—wrong.”

You glance up at Bucky.

His eyes are fixed down the corridor. “Told you.”

A new voice crackles over a radio nearby, clearer this time, panicked. “Barnes! We’ve got survivors at the substation—four, maybe five—can’t reach the helipad, perimeter fence is down—”

Bucky snatches his own radio. “Where’s the breach?”

“Red Zone enclosure six—then it spread—power grid’s unstable—God, Barnes, it’s a bloodbath—”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “How many out?”

A pause. A swallow you can hear through the speaker. “We—don’t know.”

Bucky’s eyes flick to you. “We’re going.”

Your stomach drops. “We?”

He doesn’t even blink. “You’re the only medic on this side.”

“There are others—”

“Not anymore,” he says, and the flatness of it is worse than if he’d screamed.

You swallow hard, forcing your hands to keep working. The guard grips your wrist weakly, desperate.

“I need to get him to the clinic,” you say.

Bucky looks down at the guard, then back at you. “Can he walk?”

The guard shakes his head, tears spilling.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. He crouches, grabs the guard under the arms, and hauls him up like he weighs nothing. “Then he rides.”

He throws the guard over his shoulder. The guard cries out.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, not sounding sorry at all. Then to you: “Stay on my six. Don’t lag. Don’t run ahead. If I say down, you go down.”

Your mouth feels full of cotton. “Bucky—”

He meets your gaze, and for a heartbeat the strobing red light makes him look like something out of a nightmare too—blood spattered across his jaw, eyes hard, posture coiled.

“You wanna live,” he says quietly, “you listen to me.”

It’s not a threat.

It’s a promise.

You nod once.

Bucky moves.

You follow.

The substation is a concrete blockhouse half-swallowed by jungle, fenced off from tourists by signage that says AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY in cheerful font, like that’s enough to keep curiosity away.

Today, the signs are pointless. The fence is bent. The gate hangs open.

Inside, the air smells like ozone and wet earth. The generator hum has a jagged edge to it, like it’s struggling. Somewhere deeper in the jungle, something roars—low, huge, too close.

Bucky dumps the injured guard onto a bench inside the substation and barks at a tech with a bleeding forehead, “Watch him.”

The tech nods frantically.

In the corner, four people huddle together: two scientists, a young intern with mascara streaked down her cheeks, and a security runner with his arm in a makeshift sling.

They look at Bucky like he’s either salvation or doom.

Then they see you.

Hope flares, fragile.

“Thank God,” one of the scientists whispers. “We thought—”

Bucky cuts him off. “We’re leaving.”

“Leaving where?” the intern chokes out. “The helipad’s—”

“Compromised,” Bucky says. “We go through service tunnel nine. It connects to the old water treatment route. That gets us to the east ridge. Extraction will meet there.”

The security runner’s face goes gray. “Tunnel nine goes through—”

Bucky’s eyes flash. “Yeah.”

The runner swallows. “The… other enclosures.”

The scientists exchange looks, terror sharpening. “We can’t go through the Red Zone,” one says. “That’s—those are—”

“Classified,” Bucky finishes for him, voice cold. “You should’ve thought about that before you took the funding.”

The scientist flinches like he’s been slapped.

You look between them, mind racing. “Bucky, tunnel nine—if it goes through the Red Zone—”

“It’s the only route not flooded with tourists and not on fire,” he says. “We take it or we die here.”

A distant crash shudders through the jungle—trees snapping. The sound is so big your bones vibrate with it.

The intern whimpers.

Bucky shoulders his rifle. “Move.”

No one argues after that.

You tighten your grip on your go-bag strap as you step out into the open.

The jungle is different when you’re not behind glass.

On the tourist tours, the forest is a backdrop. Controlled. Curated. But out here, it’s a wall of green that breathes. Humidity clings to your skin instantly. Bugs whine in your ears. The ground is slick mud and rotting leaves, eager to swallow your boots.

Bucky moves ahead, silent, scanning. His posture is predatory—head tilted slightly like he’s listening to frequencies you can’t hear. Every few steps, he lifts his hand to signal stop, go, crouch, like he’s choreographing survival.

You keep the group tight behind you. You check on the runner’s sling, on the intern’s breathing, on the scientist whose hands won’t stop shaking.

You tell yourself you can do this.

You tell yourself you’re trained.

Then you see the first body.

A guard lies half in the mud, throat torn out. His radio crackles weakly beside him, soaked. His eyes are open, staring at nothing.

The intern gasps, hand over her mouth.

One of the scientists makes a strangled sound.

You swallow bile.

Bucky doesn’t even slow. He steps over the body like he’s stepping over a log.

You want to hate him for that.

Instead, you understand.

If you stop, you die.

The service tunnel entrance is a concrete mouth in a hillside, framed by overgrown vines. The keypad beside it blinks, lights stuttering.

Bucky swears under his breath and yanks a tool from his belt. He pries the panel open with practiced speed, fingers moving like he’s done this a hundred times.

“Thought you said you didn’t know where to put gauze,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

His mouth twitches faintly. “I didn’t say I was just security.”

The keypad sparks once, then goes dark.

Bucky curses again, then slams his metal hand against the lock.

The metal door shudders.

Again.

The hinges groan.

With a final, brutal shove, the lock gives. The door swings inward.

The tunnel yawns dark and damp, a stale breath rolling out.

Bucky flicks on a flashlight attached to his rifle. The beam cuts through the darkness, catching on wet concrete and old signage that reads MAINTENANCE ACCESS — AUTHORIZED STAFF ONLY.

The intern whispers, “I don’t—like—”

Bucky turns his head slightly. “You wanna stay out here?”

Another roar rolls through the jungle—closer now. The sound is massive, like the island itself is angry.

The intern shakes her head violently.

“Then move,” Bucky says.

You go in.

The tunnel is colder, the air heavy with mildew. Water drips from the ceiling. Your flashlight beam trembles slightly, betraying your nerves.

Bucky takes point. You’re right behind him. The survivors trail in a line.

You walk for what feels like forever, the tunnel swallowing sound, making every footstep echo.

Then the wall signage changes.

The cheerful maintenance warnings vanish. In their place: black-and-white placards with red stamps.

RED ZONE—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.BIOHAZARD.PROJECT ACCESS—CLASSIFIED.

Your skin prickles.

One of the scientists whispers, “This is—this is wrong.”

“You think?” you whisper back, more bitter than you mean to.

Bucky slows at a junction. Two paths: one marked WATER TREATMENT, the other marked simply RZ-9.

He pauses, listening.

In the silence, you hear it: a faint clicking sound, rapid, almost insect-like.

Bucky’s hand lifts—stop.

Everyone freezes.

The clicking grows louder.

Then, from somewhere in the darkness ahead, something scuttles across the tunnel ceiling.

Your flashlight catches a glimpse—pale flesh, too many limbs, a tail like a whip.

The intern makes a tiny, terrified noise.

The clicking stops.

A breath.

Then a sound like claws scraping concrete.

Bucky’s rifle swings up. “Down,” he snaps.

You drop instinctively. The others scramble.

Something drops from the ceiling.

It lands with a wet slap and a hiss.

Your light catches it fully and your brain stutters.

It’s small—dog-sized—but it’s wrong in a way that makes your stomach lurch. It has the sleek body of a raptor, but its limbs are longer, almost spider-like, jointed in too many places. Its head is narrow, eyes huge and glossy, mouth packed with needle teeth.

And on its back—your light glints off something metallic.

Harness.

Armor plating.

The scientist beside you whispers, horrified, “They put… gear on them.”

The creature’s head snaps toward the sound.

Bucky fires.

The shot booms in the tunnel, deafening. The creature jerks, but the armor plate deflects enough that it doesn’t drop. It shrieks and launches—

Not at Bucky.

At you.

Your breath stops.

Bucky moves faster than thought. He slams into it mid-leap, driving it into the wall. The creature thrashes, claws scrabbling, teeth snapping.

Bucky grabs its neck with his metal hand and twists.

You hear bone crack.

The creature goes limp.

Bucky throws it to the floor like trash.

The survivors stare, stunned.

You stare too, pulse pounding, because for a split second that thing was going to tear you open and Bucky didn’t even hesitate.

He didn’t even think.

He just… saved you.

You push up onto your knees, breathing hard. “Thank you.”

Bucky doesn’t look at you. “Keep moving.”

But his shoulder brushes yours as he steps past, just barely, and the contact feels like a promise you’re not ready to name.

Tunnel nine spits you out into a corridor that doesn’t belong to the park.

The walls are reinforced steel, stained with old scratches. The lighting is dim, red emergency strips that make everything look like it’s bleeding.

There are doors on either side, heavy, numbered with stenciled codes: RZ-6, RZ-7, RZ-8.

A smell hangs in the air—chemical, sour, like something rotting under bleach.

The intern starts crying silently.

You want to comfort her, but you don’t have time.

Bucky stops at a viewing window set into one of the doors. The glass is thick, layered, scratched from the inside.

He angles his flashlight through it.

You shouldn’t look.

You do anyway.

Inside, the enclosure is huge, lit dimly by UV lamps. The ground is torn up. Blood smears the concrete.

And in the corner, curled like a nightmare trying to make itself small, is something that looks like a raptor… until it lifts its head.

Its mouth opens.

Rows of teeth—too many—unfurl like a flower of knives.

A second set of jaws slides forward from inside the first.

The intern chokes on a sob.

The scientist whispers, “That’s—impossible.”

Bucky’s voice is a quiet blade. “It’s funded.”

You step back from the window, heart pounding. “Bucky… what are these.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays on the enclosure, as if he’s watching for movement. “Military wanted assets,” he says finally. “Park wanted profit. Scientists wanted to play God.”

“And you?” you ask, too sharply. “What do you want?”

His eyes flick to you. In the red light, they look almost black.

“I want to keep people alive,” he says. “Even when they don’t deserve it.”

Something about that lands heavy in your chest.

You’re about to speak when a sound echoes down the corridor.

A deep, dragging thud.

Slow. Heavy.

Like something big moving with purpose.

Bucky’s body goes rigid. He lifts his hand—stop.

The survivors freeze behind you, trembling.

The thud grows louder.

Then you hear it: a wet, rasping breath, like something breathing through fluid.

Bucky’s flashlight beam steadies on the corridor ahead.

At the far end, where the hall widens into a junction, something steps into view.

At first, your brain tries to categorize it. T. rex. Big. Bipedal. Head heavy.

Then it tilts its skull and you see the details that don’t belong.

Its skin isn’t scaled like the park rex. It’s textured, almost armored, with patches of bony plating that catch the red light. Its forelimbs are longer than they should be, ending in claws that look built for gripping, not just tearing. Along its spine, ridges rise like blades.

And its eyes—

They aren’t animal.

They’re too aware.

It lowers its head, nostrils flaring.

Smelling.

Finding.

The security runner whispers, “Oh my God.”

The creature’s head snaps toward the sound.

It roars.

The sound slams into you like a physical force. The corridor vibrates. Dust sifts from the ceiling. The intern screams.

Bucky’s voice cuts through. “RUN.”

You run.

The corridor becomes a tunnel of panic, red light strobes, footsteps pounding. Your lungs burn instantly. The survivors stumble, sobbing, clinging to each other.

Behind you, the thuds accelerate.

Fast.

Too fast for something that big.

Bucky moves beside you, herding, shoving a scientist forward when he trips, grabbing the intern by the collar to keep her from falling.

“Left!” he barks at a junction.

You veer left without thinking, into a narrower hallway.

A door ahead reads RZ-9 — EMERGENCY EXIT.

Bucky slams his shoulder into it.

Locked.

He curses, then drives his metal hand into the control panel.

Sparks explode. The lock clicks.

He yanks the door open.

“IN!” he shouts.

You shove the survivors through into a stairwell. Concrete steps spiral down. The air is colder here, damp.

Bucky is last in. He slams the door shut, throws a heavy bar across it.

Then the impact hits.

The entire door buckles inward as the creature slams into it from the other side. The metal groans. The bar shudders.

The survivors scream.

Bucky braces his shoulder against the door, muscles straining.

“Down,” he snarls at you. “Get them down!”

You don’t argue. You herd the survivors down the stairs, heart hammering, hands gripping the rail slick with condensation.

Above, the door shrieks under assault.

Bucky’s boots thunder on the steps as he follows, still calm in a way that feels impossible.

“How long will that hold?” you gasp.

He doesn’t look back. “Not long.”

“Then what—”

He stops mid-stairwell, grabs a red metal box on the wall, rips it open.

Inside: emergency explosives.

Your blood turns to ice. “Bucky—”

“Keep moving,” he snaps.

He plants charges with swift efficiency, like this is familiar. Like he’s done this in places that weren’t supposed to exist on maps either.

The door above bends inward again with a horrific scream of metal.

Bucky slams the box shut, grabs your wrist, hauls you down the last stretch of stairs.

At the bottom, the stairwell opens into a service corridor that smells like old water and rust. Pipes run along the ceiling. A sign points toward WATER TREATMENT ROUTE.

You sprint.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice is sharp. “Go!”

Then he shoves you forward, turns, and runs back up a few steps.

You spin, panic slicing through you. “BUCKY!”

He doesn’t look at you. He just lifts a hand—move.

The door above finally gives with a scream. The creature’s roar floods the stairwell.

Bucky hits the trigger.

The explosion is deafening, a concussive blast that punches air into your lungs. The stairwell shakes violently. Dust and debris rain down.

The roar cuts off abruptly, smothered.

For a heartbeat, there’s silence.

Then Bucky comes flying down the stairs, coughing, soot streaking his face, eyes wild.

He grabs your arm and runs, dragging you with him.

You don’t realize you’re crying until your vision blurs.

The water treatment route is a labyrinth of pipes, open channels, and concrete walkways slick with algae. The sound of rushing water echoes off the walls, constant, masking smaller noises.

It should feel safer.

It doesn’t.

Because safety on this island is an illusion.

You push the survivors onto a catwalk, forcing them to keep moving. The intern is sobbing openly now, breaths hiccupping. One scientist has gone eerily quiet, eyes glassy.

The security runner staggers, pale.

You stop long enough to check him. His sling is soaked through.

“Let me see,” you say.

He flinches. “We can’t stop.”

“If you bleed out, you slow us down more.” You don’t soften the truth. The Red Zone doesn’t reward tenderness. “Sit.”

He sits, trembling. You unwrap the makeshift sling. The wound underneath is ugly—deep gouges, muscle torn.

Bucky crouches beside you, rifle still up, scanning the shadows.

“You have anything for pain?” the runner whispers.

You nod, digging in your kit. “This will sting.”

You clean the wound quickly, inject local anesthetic as best you can. Your hands are steady because you’ve trained them to be. Your heart is still racing, but your fingers don’t betray you.

Bucky watches you work, head tilted slightly. “You’re shaking,” he says softly.

You blink. “No, I’m not.”

He reaches out with his flesh hand—careful, controlled—and cups your elbow. His thumb presses lightly against your skin.

You realize then that the shaking isn’t in your hands.

It’s in your arm.

It’s in your body, adrenaline finally crashing into your muscles.

You swallow hard. “I’m fine.”

His eyes meet yours. The red emergency light from the corridor above is gone now, replaced by the dim industrial glow of the treatment plant. In this light, his face looks… human. Tired. Smeared with soot and blood.

“I’ve seen ‘fine,’” he murmurs. “This ain’t it.”

The intimacy of it—his touch, his attention—hits you like a shock. Your throat tightens.

You want to say something sharp to cover the softness. You want to say something stupid like don’t. Like you don’t get to look at me like that after what I just saw you do.

Instead, you whisper, “You’re hurt.”

His jaw flexes. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You told me I can’t help if I’m dead,” you say, voice trembling with something that isn’t just fear. “Same goes for you.”

For a moment, he looks like he might argue.

Then he glances down at his own arm.

There’s blood soaking through his sleeve.

Your stomach drops. “Bucky.”

“It’s not mine,” he says automatically.

You stare.

He sighs, exasperated, and peels back the sleeve.

A deep gash runs along his forearm—fresh, angry, bleeding slowly. You don’t know when it happened. You don’t know how you didn’t see it.

Because you were watching him like he was invincible.

You swallow hard and reach for gauze. “Sit.”

He hesitates.

You lift your eyes to him, steady. “That’s an order, Barnes.”

Something flickers in his expression—amusement, maybe, or respect.

He sits.

You clean the gash, your fingers gentle despite everything. The skin around it is warm. Real. You patch him with practiced care, wrap the bandage tight.

Bucky watches your hands the entire time, like he’s memorizing the way you touch him when you’re not afraid.

When you finish, you glance up—and realize how close his face is.

Close enough that you can see the faint line of scars near his jaw. Close enough that you can feel his breath.

Your pulse kicks.

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second.

Something hot and dangerous curls in your belly—an awful thought, born in terror and adrenaline:

I should be scared of you too.

You should be.

Because you just watched him kill like it was breathing.

And yet… he’s letting you bandage him like you’re something precious.

You pull back sharply, clearing your throat. “We need to move.”

His eyes hold yours for a beat longer. Then he nods once, as if locking something away. “Yeah.”

You stand, turn to the survivors. “We’re going to the east ridge. Stay close. Don’t wander. If you hear anything, you don’t scream—you get down and you cover your head. Understood?”

They nod, terrified.

Bucky rises behind you like a shadow.

You move.

The east ridge is where the island drops away into cliffs, jagged rock cutting into violent sea. The wind is sharp up here, smelling of salt and storm. Gray clouds churn overhead, heavy with rain.

You emerge from the service access into open air and for a second your lungs feel like they might actually work again.

Then you see the state of the ridge.

The fence line is shredded. Metal posts bent like straw. A security jeep lies overturned, its windshield spiderwebbed with cracks.

Bodies.

Not many, but enough.

The intern sobs again, collapsing to her knees.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep moving. You scan the ridge for the extraction point—an open pad marked with faded paint, a place where helicopters can land.

It’s empty.

Your heart drops.

Bucky raises his radio. “East ridge. We’re here.”

Static answers.

He tries again. “Extraction, respond.”

Nothing.

The wind howls.

The survivors look at him like he’s about to tell them they’re doomed.

Bucky’s jaw tightens. He lowers the radio slowly, eyes scanning the horizon.

Rain begins to fall, cold drops that slick your hair to your forehead.

You step closer. “Bucky—”

He turns to you, and something in his face is hard and grim and angry—not at you, but at the island, at the people who built this, at the fact that the math of survival is never fair.

“They’re not coming,” the scientist whispers, voice broken.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Not yet.”

A sound cuts through the wind.

Not a roar this time.

A clicking.

Rapid. Coordinated.

Your stomach twists.

Bucky’s head tilts slightly. He listens.

Then he swears, low. “Get down.”

You don’t hesitate. You shove the survivors behind the overturned jeep, dropping with them. Mud soaks your knees.

Bucky moves away from cover, stepping into the open like he’s offering himself up.

“Bucky!” you hiss, horrified.

He doesn’t look back. His rifle lifts, steady, aimed toward the treeline.

The clicking grows louder.

Then shapes move in the brush.

Not one.

Several.

You see them in flashes through rain and branches—sleek bodies, too-long limbs, reflective eyes. Smaller than the Cerberus thing, faster, coordinated.

Pack.

The intern makes a small, terrified sound.

One of the creatures snaps its head toward it.

Bucky fires.

A creature drops, twitching. Another darts forward, too fast. Bucky pivots, firing again, rounds cracking through the air.

The pack fans out, circling.

They’re smart.

Your breath comes in sharp gasps. Your hands dig into mud, useless, because you don’t have a gun. You have gauze and saline and stubbornness.

Bucky keeps firing, moving, never letting them flank him fully. His body is fluid, lethal. He looks like violence given purpose.

One creature lunges at his left.

He swings the rifle, strikes it mid-air. The stock cracks against its skull. It yelps and scrambles back.

Another lunges at his right, jaws snapping—

Bucky’s metal hand shoots out, catches it by the throat mid-leap.

He slams it into the ground hard enough mud splatters.

It thrashes, claws scraping his armor. He holds it down like it’s nothing, then drives his knife into its skull.

The pack hesitates.

In that hesitation, you see it: the way they look at him.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Like they know what he is.

Like he’s something engineered too.

A chill crawls up your spine.

The pack shifts again, clicking, searching for weakness.

One breaks from the group and darts toward the jeep—toward you.

Your body moves before your brain does. You snatch a metal tool from the mud near the jeep—some broken piece of fence—and swing as the creature lunges.

The metal bar connects with its snout. The impact jars your arms to the bone.

The creature shrieks, snapping at you again.

You stumble back, heart in your throat.

It lunges—

And Bucky is there.

He moves like a bullet, slamming into it, knocking it away from you. His hand grabs your collar, yanks you behind him, shielding you again.

His voice is a snarl. “I said down.”

“I was down,” you choke, shaking. “It came at us.”

His eyes flick over you quickly, assessing injuries. Rain streaks down his face. His gaze is fierce, almost furious, but not at you.

At the idea of you being hurt.

“Stay behind me,” he says, voice lower now, deadly calm.

You nod, breath hitching.

Bucky turns back to the pack.

“Come on,” he mutters, like he’s talking to monsters the way someone might talk to a storm. “Let’s do this.”

He advances.

The pack retreats a step, then surges together, a coordinated rush.

Bucky fires until the magazine clicks empty.

Then he throws the rifle aside and draws a second weapon—a pistol you didn’t see, because of course he has one. He fires again, precise.

Creatures drop, twitching.

But there are still too many.

One lunges. Bucky ducks. Another snaps at his shoulder; it catches fabric, tears. He grunts, twists, drives his elbow into its jaw.

The third lunges low—

You see it a heartbeat before it happens.

You shout, “Bucky!”

He pivots too late. The creature’s claws rake across his side, tearing.

Blood blooms dark against black gear.

Your stomach drops.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. He grabs the creature with his metal hand and rips it away from him like tearing weeds. He throws it into the cliffside rocks. It hits with a sick crunch.

The pack falters again, clicking frantic now, uncertain.

Then a new sound cuts through everything.

Rotor blades.

A helicopter crests the ridge, lights cutting through rain.

Relief hits so hard your knees go weak.

The pack hears it too. They scatter into the trees, vanishing like nightmares fleeing dawn.

The helicopter lowers, wind whipping rain and mud.

A voice blasts through a loudspeaker. “MOVE TO EXTRACTION!”

You grab the intern, hauling her up. You pull the scientists to their feet, shove them toward the landing zone.

Bucky staggers slightly.

You see it and your chest tightens. “Bucky!”

He tries to wave you off. “Go.”

“No,” you snap, grabbing his arm. “You’re bleeding.”

His jaw clenches. “I can walk.”

“Then walk with me.”

For a second, his gaze locks on yours, intense enough to feel like a touch.

Then he nods once.

You half-drag him toward the helicopter, the wind roaring, rain stinging your face. The survivors scramble aboard.

A soldier reaches for you. “Move, now!”

You push Bucky forward. He climbs in, grimacing.

You start to climb after him—

Then something moves at the edge of the treeline.

A shape, bigger than the pack.

Watching.

Waiting.

Your blood turns cold again.

Bucky’s head snaps up, following your gaze.

For a heartbeat, you see something in his eyes—recognition, dread.

“Cerberus,” he breathes.

The creature doesn’t charge.

It just stands there, half-hidden by rain and leaves, eyes reflecting pale.

Like it’s memorizing you.

Bucky’s hand clamps around your wrist, yanking you into the helicopter. “Now.”

You stumble inside. The soldier slams the door.

The helicopter lifts, rising fast, wind screaming.

Through the window, you see the Red Zone recede—the shredded fence, the bent metal, the jungle swallowing secrets whole.

And you see Cerberus still watching, unmoving, as if it knows the island will never really let you leave.

Inside the helicopter, everything is loud and shaking and wet.

The survivors huddle together, sobbing, staring at their hands like they can’t believe they’re still attached. The intern keeps whispering “oh my God” like a prayer.

You drop to your knees beside Bucky.

He’s slumped against the wall, one hand braced on the floor, the other pressed to his side. Blood seeps between his fingers.

“Let me see,” you say, voice trembling.

“It’s fine,” he grits out.

“You don’t get to say that.” You pry his hand away gently.

The gash on his side is deep—claw marks, torn skin. Not fatal, but bad.

You grab gauze, press hard.

Bucky hisses, body tightening.

“Sorry,” you whisper automatically.

His eyes flick to you—sharp, then softer. “Don’t apologize for doing your job.”

“You’re bleeding because you did yours,” you shoot back, and your throat tightens unexpectedly. “Because you—because you keep—”

Because you keep putting yourself between me and teeth.

You swallow it down, focus on the wound.

You clean it as best you can in a shaking helicopter, stitch when you can, bandage tight.

Bucky watches you the entire time.

Not like before, in the corridor—cold, assessing.

Now, his gaze is something else.

Something heavy.

When you finish, you sit back on your heels, hands trembling. Blood streaks your gloves. Your stomach churns with delayed horror.

Bucky’s hand reaches out—slow, deliberate.

He touches your wrist, thumb brushing the pulse there like he’s checking that you’re real.

“You’re hurt?” he asks, voice low.

You blink, surprised. “No.”

His eyes narrow, like he doesn’t believe you. His gaze drags over you—your face, your arms, your knees, cataloguing. “You sure.”

“Yes,” you breathe.

His hand stays on your wrist anyway, warm and steady.

You look at him, really look, and the adrenaline crash makes your emotions feel sharp-edged and raw.

“You’re terrifying,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

Bucky’s brow furrows slightly. “Yeah?”

You swallow. “The way you—out there—how you moved—how you—” Your voice breaks, not from fear, but from something too big to fit in your chest. “I watched you kill like it was nothing.”

His gaze doesn’t flinch. “It wasn’t nothing.”

“It looked like nothing.”

His jaw tightens. He looks past you, toward the helicopter door, toward the island fading behind storm clouds. “I was trained to make it look like nothing.”

A beat.

Then he looks back at you.

And in his eyes is the thing that undoes you—not violence, not coldness, but a kind of brutal honesty.

“I am scary,” he says quietly. “You should be careful around me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s giving you an out.

Because he’s warning you.

Because he’s letting you decide.

And all you can think is:

I should be scared of you too.

But you aren’t.

Not in the way you should be.

You shake your head slowly, rainwater dripping from your lashes. “You weren’t scary when you—” You swallow. “When you checked me. When you… looked at me like I mattered.”

Bucky’s hand tightens on your wrist, just slightly.

“You matter,” he says, like it’s a fact. Like it’s been a fact this whole time.

Your chest aches. “Why.”

His eyes flicker—something like pain, something like longing.

“Because you’re the only one in that place who still acts like people are people,” he says, voice rough. “Not assets. Not projects. Not… collateral.”

The helicopter shakes with turbulence. The intern sobs again. The world is loud.

But here, in this pocket of space, it’s just you and him and the steady press of his thumb against your pulse.

You whisper, “What happens now?”

His gaze holds yours. “Now we tell the truth.”

You almost laugh—soft, broken. “They’ll bury it.”

“Then we dig,” he says, and there’s something fierce and certain in him that isn’t just soldier. It’s survivor. It’s rebellion.

You stare at him, rain and blood and adrenaline mixing into something dizzying.

“Bucky,” you whisper, barely a sound.

His eyes drop to your mouth again. Slower this time. Not like a man scanning for threats.

Like a man who wants something and doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

He leans a fraction closer.

Not enough to kiss you.

Enough to make you feel the heat of him, the gravity.

“I’m not gentle,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

You swallow, heartbeat loud in your ears. “You were with me.”

His breath shudders out, almost a laugh, almost a curse. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “With you, I can be.”

The helicopter climbs into cloud cover, the island vanishing completely behind gray.

You don’t kiss him—not with survivors sobbing beside you, not with blood on your gloves, not with the taste of fear still sharp on your tongue.

But you let his hand stay on your wrist.

You let the promise sit there between you, unspoken and electric.

Because you can feel it, sure as the beat under his thumb:

Whatever was unleashed on that island didn’t just break containment.

It broke the world you thought you lived in.

And Bucky Barnes—terrifying, lethal, impossible—just chose you as the one thing he refuses to let it take.

Outside, thunder rolls.

Inside, his thumb keeps counting your pulse like it’s the only truth left.

And for the first time since the alarms started, you believe you might actually survive what comes next.

Not because the island let you go.

But because he did.

tags: @firingstars @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @houseofhyde @superbassbuck @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly @54nboo @winterdecember18 @unificsation @wildflowersandvibranium @juniebjonesin @blowingbarnes @grumpysunnybarnes @missvelvetsstuff @daisynotquake @colettebarnes @lokirogersgirl @sapphire882 @buckyfmd @justadaydreamingfangirl @venigrantrogers @overwintering-soldier @buckyboudoir @domitaylorsversion @multiversefanfics @avgdestitute @meowrz1a @globetrotter28 @mariamorales1998 @okaytrashpanda @icantfindanamenottakenn @pinksplace @infinitewithenvy @herejustforbuckybarnes @yexbarnes @sassandscribbles @ozwriterchick @spdrveil @r1ssa + add yourself here

[hunnismokah]

you got a bad grade in your criminal procedure class….. lawprofessor!higuruma is concerned to say the least

[sweethearticism]

𝓡.𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀ᅠ ͏͏ ͏͏ 🌷♡ ͏͏ᅠ ͏͏ ͏refuses to hold your baby

♡. 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓫. heian!sukuna :: slight angst :: fluff

"Do not bring that thing near me."

"This thing is your daughter."

The King of Curses sat upon his throne, and yet you had no issue glaring up at him. As if it were your stare that could cleave. Your hands that could ignite his shrine into blitz and ember.

Bundled in a silk blanket and babbling up at you with eyes as ruby as her father's, your daughter chewed on her thumb. Blissfully oblivious to the tyrant from which she came.

Sukuna refused to hold her.

It was subtle, at first. When she was born, he claimed that it was vital for a baby to stay close to its mother. For warmth, food and comfort.

It had been four weeks, and your husband hadn't so much as grazed her tiny pinkie.

"Why?" You asked, anger blooming in your throat like the flowers he had planted in the gardens for you. He would sully his knees in the soil and his hands in the mud for your benefit, but couldn't bear to hold the life that he had created?

Sukuna's face was hard in a scowl. Each maroon eye glaring into your soul.

A beat of silence.

"I do not want to."

You flared, clinging your baby closer. "Are you ashamed? Ashamed of the life we created?"

"No, damnit woman—"

"Then why!?"

"Because I will mar her!"

The shrine shook as he shoved himself out of his throne. Standing now. It was at his full height that you recognised the being thousands feared. Four arms, two faces, and a stature that rose from hell.

His glare burned, but it wasn't anger. Face twisted in an emotion you hadn't seen enough from him.

"I will— hurt her. Is that what you want?"

Vulnerability.

Your daughter startled. Sniffling at the booming voice that rattled the floors. You watched her face squish and her lip quiver, before a broken, hiccuped sob filled the air.

His shoulders sunk. The fight seeping out of him. You watched his eyes swell with many things you'd never seen before.

Guilt, sadness.

Fear.

Rocking your startled baby, you held her close with soft shushes, but her sniffles soon turned into wails. Sukuna's stood frozen, sullen.

You understood, now.

Cradling the small girl, you stepped forward. Up the stairs to the platform of his throne. Even as he took a step back, you persisted.

"Sukuna. . ." You called to him. Soft in the way that only you were capable of being with him.

He almost flinched.

"This child, she's ours. Our daughter, made with love."

You stood right in front of him now. Taking in his wound up muscles and squared shoulders. Looking more like a deer ready to sprint than a father.

A father who feared that his hands were too rough, too evil, to nurture his own child.

"You won't hurt her. Because she's ours." Reaching forward, you held out the sobbing bundle. Watching his face and the several shades of uncertainty it turned.

You had never seen him so. . . frightened.

You pushed past his hesitancy, carefully placing your daughter into a set of his hulking arms. She was tiny compared to him. Seemed he was processing that too.

Aiding his position, you slipped one of your hands to tenderly hold him by the bicep as he, for the first time ever, held his daughter.

His breath was hitched. All of his eyes gaping at the small bundle in his arms. Watching her as if she were the most delicate piece of porcelain.

Your daughter's sobs stirred into sniffles, then hiccups, until. . . silence.

As big, ruby eyes stared up at her father. Taking him in. His face, his warmth.

And then, she beamed a toothless smile.

Sukuna tensed. A shaky breath hitching.

"She's— she's smiling. Why is she smiling?"

He quickly looked to you. Brows pinched. Looking lost, looking scared.

You offered him a smile, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. "Because she knows that her father loves her." Tickling her neck, you hummed as she squirmed a bit and giggled, pressing more into him.

He instinctively held her closer. Eyes unblinking.

You watched as Ryomen Sukuna, The King of Curses, melted. His heart swelling as he stared at his daughter. Even bringing one of his fingers closer to her, so that she could grab at it. Hugging around it with that big, bring smile.

His mouth quirked at the corner. Faint, but tender.

"Yeah. . ." He whispered, voice thick with emotion. Centuries worth of affection for his child, his daughter.

"Your father loves you. More than anything. More than life."

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cheriisoda. art cred: @/lacquerheadd

꒰ 🌷 ⸰  ✦ enjoyed this piece?   ꒱ consider joining my patreon or commissioning me <3 I appreciate all the support!

[toastmist]

frat inumaki by @/powderedviolets on tiktok! WE FINALLY WONNNNNN

[chastiefoul]

"love, no... don't go," nanami rasped, voice low still laced with sleep. his breath tickled the back of your neck as he spoke. the hold of his hand around your waist was somehow tighter, even after when you thought you couldn't possibly get any closer than this; your back on his chest without any space in between.

"let me gooo, i want to make my coffee," you whined softly, the tone made it apparent that you couldn't hold a smile at the sight of your usual collected man being so clingy. provoking him further, you once more tried to release the grasp of his hand on your stomach. the man responded with a disapproving grunt, the vibration from his lips against your skin made you shiver.

"stay, please. i'll make it for you later," he pleaded, trailing lazy kisses along your shoulder blade in hope to get you stay in bed, going as far as bringing his leg over both of yours, practically keeping you in his embrace. you chuckled.

"but i want it now," you replied, yet despite those words you couldn't help but put your hand on his cheek, seeing how the blond nuzzled closer to it, chasing the contact like a cat basking under the attention.

"not yet," he murmured, doubling down by gently turning you over, bringing you closer as you rested your head on his chest. you caved under his relentless touch, both his arms folded snugly behind your back. nanami wore a satisfied smile, like he just achieved something great. "i need another hour of this. of you."

"didn't know i'll be held hostage in some mornings when i went into this marriage," you teased, the comfort of his warm hug made you abandon the scheme you never planned to follow through. your fingers made their way to draw random patterns on the navy shirt he was wearing.

he caught your digits, planting a soft kiss at the back of your hand, "and you promised to accept me as i am in your vow, so i'm afraid you'll have to put up with this for the rest of your life."

you laughed.

oh you will. and very happily.

[blinkbunni]

Megumi Fushiguro loved your heartbeat.

No, he wouldn’t ever say it out loud, but you knew without any words. And he knew you knew. But it was his comfort. His grounding when the world got too loud.

It had started after a difficult mission, leaving the two of you wounded. To be honest, your boyfriend was more concerned about your injuries than his own, despite the gash on his torso. You were both instructed to sleep in your own dorms, separately. But Megumi’s worry seeped in the more time he tossed and turned in his bed. He couldn’t rest, not like this.. so while wincing, he had hobbled towards your dorm which was inconveniently on the other side of the dorm hallway.

You weren’t sleeping either, restless from the pain and waiting for the painkillers that Shoko begrudgingly gave you. You heard Megumi’s signature knock. Four knocks. You counted them, out of instinct and he opened the door. You stirred in bed, while you watched your boyfriend with his hair all messy close the door behind you. When he laid eyes on you, his own widened as he rushed to the best he could towards your bed.

He cradled your face, patched in bandages and punctured with fight marks. “Are you okay?” He asked, voice disguised as low, but you could hear the teenage boy in him worry.

“Shoko said your injuries were pretty bad, does it hurt?”

“Gumi’..”

he looked around where your sleep shirt hung low on your collarbone and was scratched roughly. “I shouldn’t have split up with you, this is my fault.” He was spiralling, and Megumi Fushiguro never spiralled. “Baby-“ “fuck, I’m so sorry, I wish you didn’t get hurt..”

“hey it’s-“

“it isn’t okay. I should’ve taken left and you took right, so you wouldn’t get that hurt-“ “Megumi!” He stopped his slow yet frantic inspection before peering up to your eyes with those emeralds. You softly smiled. He was so worried about you, that it hurt. You brought your hands to his face, and he relaxed into your touch, slightly nuzzling it to find comfort before you lowered his face into your chest. He obliged, letting a hum out.

You guided him until his ear rested where your heart resided. “Hear that?” Megumi listened to your heartbeat. Slow, like the calm ocean after thrashing waves. He inhaled your scent, and exhaled with all his might, almost shaky. “See, I’m okay. My heart’s still beating.” You whispered to him like he was a little kid.

Even when your hands moved under his shirt to rub his back, and to stroke his soft hair, he stayed. “It wasn’t your fault, gumi. And you would’ve gotten hurt regardless. I just lost focus for a moment.

Megumi’s arms wrapped around your torso as you laid back down. His eyes were finally drooping as the lull of your slow breaths and heart pulsing soothed him. And so that was how he found comfort.

Even when  it was just a hard day, would he sneak into your room, and place the side of his head on its rightful place; your chest. He would match your breathing to be in sync, while his heart played the same melody of one another’s. Everything was going so fast, but these silent moments at midnight would just stop time. Just him curled into you, to hear your heart pulsing a story.

Especially on rainy days, when thunder echos while the water droplets tapped on the window. That was his safe haven, and his way of staying sane.

How he wished to hear that heartbeat one last time.

Please consider giving my posts some love!

Taglist: (open): @nonchalantfiend @megumisrighttoe @mayegasm @mxmimii @tojisupersoaker @fuckthepureme @sugerfilled

[plumkissed]

coming home drunk to the apartment you share with roomate!megumi ᝰ.ᐟ fem!reader, megumi is a grouch per usual, lowkey cares about you but won’t admit it, characters are in college

a hiccup rumbles from your chest as you stumble your way to the front door, drunkenly giggling at yourself when you realize just how long its taken you to make it down the hallway without tripping over your own two feet.

the fuzzy pink puffball you have on your keychain keeps getting in the way as you shuffle your keys to try and find the right one, and you quietly groan in annoyance because all you want to do is get inside and all of a sudden you really have to pee. your vision is slightly foggy, and though your acrylic nails aren’t that long they are definitely not helping, considering your motor skills have already dwindled due to the shots in your system.

“gym, no… pool, no… car, mom’s house, mailbox— oh for fuck’s sake-“ you sigh, grabbing onto everything but what you need. “oh, yes! finally,” your eyes flutter in relief when you finally get your hands on your house key, your purse slipping from your shoulder down to the crook of your forearm as you angle yourself to stick it in the doorknob.

and just as you’re about to turn the key, it turns for you, and with a tilt of your head you watch as the door swishes open to reveal none other than your roommate, megumi fushiguro, in the doorway.

now normally in the off campus student apartments partnered with your university, roommate matches were strictly curated on a same-sex basis. however, since ‘megumi’ is traditionally a female name there was a slight mix up with the leasing office and by the time they’d been made aware of their mistake it was too late to do anything about it as all available leases had been signed.

neither of you were necessarily thrilled about it at first, in fact, you found out from housing management that both of you had come on different days to complain and see if another arrangement could be made because just a few days afterwards an email addressing the both of you was sent out, essentially saying ‘no, good luck with that though!’.

but you’d since become accustomed to the little mishap. it came as a pleasant surprise to you that megumi wasn’t terrible company to keep around, and he was actually kind of funny when he wasn’t busy hating the world. he kept his music low enough to not bother you, he didn’t eat your groceries, he never left the toilet seat up, and he even took on the responsibility of taking out the trash because he knows you hate touching icky things.

his ink colored hair is messier than usual as he stands before you and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him with bedhead this intense. he looks like he’s been shocked.

“jesus, it’s almost 2am in the morning,” sharp eyes peer down at the slight sway of your smaller frame. “where have you been?” his voice is rough and it sounds like he’s reprimanding you, but you’ve come to find out that’s just how megumi talks. he’s actually worried about you and that’s clear in the way his eyes flood with genuine concern.

but you don’t notice, because he’s shirtless as he stands in front of you with a hand on his hip like a disgruntled father, and that only further directs you to the basketball shorts that hang low on his waist. your eyes float down his etched torso and flutter a little when they reach the gentle brush of his raven happy trail, finally stopping at his prominent v-line before he’s kissing his teeth and tugging you inside because all you can do is stand there and look dumb when you’re supposed to be answering his question. and although you look cute while doing it, he’d never actually tell you that.

with a quiet yelp you shuffle your way in and he locks the door behind you, turning around to face you with a less than pleased look.

“how did you get home?” he interrupts you before you can answer. “did someone drive you? you’re drunk.”

you bring your hand to and away from your head in a ‘duh’ motion.

“nooo shit sherlock, couldn’t tell,” you snicker, because right about now everything is absolutely hilarious, even down to the slight slur of your words. you bend over and nearly fall forwards with a ‘whoops!’ while you slip the heels off your feet and his hands are already out just in case he needs to catch you. like a reflex. he watches you bring your wobbly body back up and brush the hair from your face, the whole act taking a lot more effort due to your tipsy state. hell you’re nearly out of breath when you finally answer him.

“my friends wanted to stay, i didn’t, so I took an uber.” you shrug, suddenly sticking the tip of your tongue out and plucking one of those small white fibers that float in the air from it.

his eyes almost blow from his skull.

“you took an uber? alone? in that little ass thing?” he huffs out in exasperation and uses a hand to gesture down at the tiny, tight black fabric you have the nerve to call a dress that stops just above your upper thighs.

you look down like you don’t know what you’re wearing and he frustratedly ruffles through his hair because you’re even more clueless than usual.

“why didn’t you call me? I would’ve came to get you!”

“stop yelling at me!” you whine. your hand goes to cradle your pounding head and your bottom lip pokes out into a pout. “i didn’t wanna wake you up…”

“i’m not-“ his agitation falters at the look you give him and he exhales, quickly nodding his head because he knows better to upset a girl when she’s drunk. you seriously sound like you’re about to cry and the last thing he wants to deal with is a show of tear-filled dramatics.

“okay, okay. i’m sorry.” megumi reaches forward and takes your bag and keys from your hands to set them on the kitchen counter across from you. “just… call me next time. they’re a bunch of weirdos out here and I don’t want you getting into any trouble. i won’t be mad if you wake me up, i do it for my sister all the time.”

megumi is rarely helpful let alone worried about you, at least to your knowledge, so it makes your chest heat up with what you really hope is happiness and not bile from how invested he seems in your well being. little do you know, he was tracking your location and that’s how he knew you were at the door in the first place.

chin lifting slightly, your lips slowly pull into an undeniable smirk, eyes narrowing at him and your expression is one he knows all too well because yuji gives him the same one everytime he talks about you. sighing, he dips his head to the side, shaking it as your smile only grows wider.

“don’t—“

“you care about meee!” you drawl, arms extending outwards as you ungracefully make your way towards him.

“no, not really.” his response is immediate, a brow raising as you approach him. he wears a small snarl now, hand held out apprehensively. “uh uh, do not-“

your arms wrap around his torso despite his resistance and his body tenses when you give him a tight squeeze, attempting to swing the both of you side to side. It doesn’t work, obviously, because he’s much larger than you and basically unmovable.

“you’re sweet when you’re worried, ‘gumi.” you hum and ignore him when he tells you not to call him that, and he’s quick to deflect because his face is suddenly getting hot and it’s annoying him. and maybe, if you weren’t off your ass, you would’ve noticed the gentle warmth of his hand resting over the small of your back. to steady you, of course.

“let go. you reek of desperate party goers and tequila. i hate tequila.” he grumbles, dramatically covering his nose to support his deflection. “i also think a shower wouldn’t hurt.”

you abruptly shove him away with a scoff and he can’t help but laugh at the look on your face, at the way your jaw drops in astonishment and your eye twitches. you can’t even sputter out a response, so you spin on your toes to stalk off instead which was a very bad idea seeing as you’re already dizzy, but you quickly regain your balance and continue on.

“you sure you can find your way there?” he teases, crossing his arms.

“oh, wouldn’t you just love to help me. I can feel you looking at my ass you perv!” you shout from down the hall, middle finger raised behind you.

he inhales sharply, eyes snapping up from where he didn’t even realize they’d fallen. he pulls the inside of his cheek between his teeth and curtly nods to himself.

“yup, i’m going to bed.”

once megumi hears the shower shut off after about twenty minutes, the normal for you, he deems it safe to close his eyes and sleep— the fear of you passed out because you’d somehow slipped and hit your head on the tub long gone from his mind.

he’s laying on his side with an arm folded under his head and asleep when you carefully crack his door open, a big t-shirt you used to love (that now has a few unfortunate bleach stains on it) and a pair of cotton sleep shorts on your body as you slip through the opening. you move at a snail’s pace when you go to shut it, but then the door creaks, and with an eye pinched closed your face screws into a wince, shoulders tensing and you immediately freeze in your tracks.

dreadfully, you peak over at the lump in the dark that‘s megumi’s figure, but the sound didn’t wake him up and you let out a small breath at that. he’s still turned over with his bicep tucked under his head. tiptoeing your way over, you nearly trip over a stray sweatshirt on the floor but quickly catch yourself with a crabbed huff.

trying to cause as little commotion as possible, you delicately peel his blankets back with just your pointer finger and your thumb, the same way you’d done to that random pair of his boxers that had somehow ended up mixed in with your load of laundry last week. a silent prayer to somehow become weightless recites in your mind as you carefully sit down on the opposite side of his bed, head swishing over your shoulders to peer at his back every now and then in hopes of catching any sign of him stirring so you can bail before it’s too late.

and you’re sure you’re in the clear now, but just as you go to swing your legs over, your ear catches a faint grunt from beside you. your teeth catch your lip, eyes shutting as you steel yourself and mouth a muted curse.

megumi was up the moment he felt the bed dip, sleep immediately leaving him once he’d turned his head and saw you sitting on his mattress. certainly he’s hallucinating. certainly, you are not sitting on his bed right now. he rapidly blinks the mist from his vision and you can feel his searing gaze boring into the back of your head, even more so when you continue to lay down as if what you’re doing is completely normal.

“what the hell do you think you’re doing?” his voice is groggy and oozing with irritation, you can tell by the way his tone harshly nips at your ears. he’s even grumpier when his sleep is disrupted.

“um… going to bed.” you mumble, hesitantly pulling the linen fabric over your shoulder as you sink lower.

megumi can’t tell if he’s dreaming or having a nightmare. he’s propped on his elbow now, face screwed into one of incredulity at the gall of your answer.

“have you lost your mind? or are you that drunk where you’ve forgotten where your own room is?”

while your head is still spinning and that clearly explains why you’d even had the courage to walk your ass down the hall and to his door, that’s not the reason you’re here.

you wish the mattress would just open up and swallow you whole.

“i threw up on my bed.” your voice is small when you answer.

it’s silent for a few seconds but you swear it feels like a minute, and the only thing you think you can hear is the blood rushing to your face from sheer embarrassment. with bated breath you roll your lips between your teeth.

he mutters something unintelligible, quiet enough so you can’t hear, his body collapsing onto the bed and your lungs filling with much needed air when his bare back turns towards you once again. the sheets tugging in his direction when he pulls them over his body.

“if i feel so much as one cold toe touch my leg i swear to god you’re sleeping on the floor.”

and if only god knew megumi was bluffing, the heavens would strike him down right where he lay.

.

.

.

© plumkissed 2026

[kaisersbae]

bf megumi texts ୨ৎ

a/n: MY FIRST SMAU EVER IM SO FUCKING SCARED. tysm for reading and other than that theres nothing more to add !!

𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐞, 𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫, 2026. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐢.

[bat1nsignia]

drabble #6! -- bruce wayne x fem!reader (nsfw)

mentions: backshots, p in v, no protection, praising, dirty talk, talks you thru it, bruce has a mean dick i can confirm, i just need to let my inner demons out 🎧 -- the best ive ever had by limi

———————————————————————-

if there was one thing to rival bruce wayne’s wallet in terms of size, it would definitely be his cock

and you would know— especially since you were in a mean arch, ass pressed on his hips and cock snuggled in your pussy. your face was lying on its side, lips fully parted and letting soft sounds escape from them

“that’s it, sweetheart” he cooed in your ear, a hand gently holding your neck and the other on your waist before rolling his hips into another deep thrust that made a whine leave your lips. “doing such a good job takin’ me” his pace was slow but the depth was what driving you insane, feeling his chest pressed on your back

“bruce—“ you breathlessly gasped, hands gripping onto the sheets till your knuckles were white. “bruce you’re so—big—” a moan left your lips when you felt his tip press mean onto all the right spots in your pussy

“i know, baby” he kissed your cheek before giving you another deep thrust that caused both you and him to let out a sound. “i know.” trust me, he knew. and this time, his words were in a groan before picking his head up from your shoulder

bruce’s hand slipped from your neck to join his hand in order to firmly grab your waist before they slid down to lay on your hips, grunts leaving him as his pace started to pick up along the intensity of his thrusts

you couldn’t even moan his name or anything, you were just drooling on the pillow from the side, dumb founded with full blown eyes and small gasps heard from you

not stopping his pace, his hand goes to brush your hair from your face and wipe your forehead, the motion gentle compared to his thrusts. “just like that” he grunted, making sure your walls were perfectly molded for his size

not like they weren’t anyway. and if they weren’t, then tonight would make sure they were

———————————————————————- masterlist!

(a/n nobody say anything. thank you)

main taglist: @sweetpeasosweet @lcvgty-4929 @fratbrochrisgf @wrldbloom @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @champagnesbiggestproblem @edawgz @hottubnda @onlyfeng @lucky-clover13 @tragicfiend @nyx-of-night @missmontiopath @bloomfaery @booksrcool @jaydennicole @gglouise23 @sicklyhana @klauvy @pocket-fish0 @romancedawn333 @sashadonat @uxavity @batslilwhore @ohsheetcake @boo-123456 @ydivine @the-star-rover @slutfordpr @vradalinerv @arfemiz @freakkay09 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hernersworld @starrydustedwinter @inejskywalker @seeker2028 @ksiazkowaxx-blog @kh4dij7 @vanillakirstein @lillie1320 @t1mbits @branchesofmagic @devilslittlehelper (tags are open) bruce wayne taglist: @planetevermore @calzone-d @anthy-jay-ander @whispers-unspoken @nessasmultiverseoflove (tags are open)

©bat1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work.

[bat1nsignia]

lives in my head rent free holy backshots

[mayegasm]

ㅤ˚. boyfriend! 𝓶egumi at the gym. ৻ꪆ :: 𐔌 part one | part two

━━━ 𝓶𝗮𝘆𝗲'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 the people asked and they shall recieve

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who isn't motivated to work out because he wants to change his appearance. rather, he does it to stay active whenever he's not out on missions and has too much leisure time. sometimes, him and yuji go to the gym together roughly twice, thrice a week.

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who has veiny arms and hands. even from a distance, you can tell. it's not disgustingly veiny, like he's aging, but just soft veins that protrude his pale skin. faint to where you can feel the bulge under your fingers when you trace his forearms and hands gently.

they get more prominent when he lifts weights, though. you saw him doing hammer curls one time at home because you were snowed in with him, and goodness me, it was a delicious sight. the vision of his hands wrapped around you like that made your mouth water slightly.

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who doesn't really sweat. his forehead will get a little shiny, skin slightly slick, but no more than that. he doesn't sweat much at all. when he comes home, his cologne is still almost as strong as when he left.

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who has attempted boxing. yuji recommended it to him, as the gym they went to had a little boxing area anyway. it's not necessarily hard, but he can't really find the rhythm for it. plus, yuji's a natural-born fighter. he'll just stick to lifting weights.

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who goes to the gym at their least-busiest time. it's easier on the ears, really. not so many people talking, grunting, panting. plus, it's something about doing everything late at night.

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who listens to your pleas when you want him to curl you. he does it with ease every time, which never ceases to fuel your enjoyment. it's endearing in his eyes.

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who also trains in flexibility. for the majority purpose of putting you into positions you're not used to, or have never tried before. it always catches you by surprise, which makes him get creative more often.

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who lets you indulge in his biceps all you want. your fascination of his body made his heart flutter. he liked when you tied little bows around him and beg him to flex his arm, effectively snapping the ribbon.

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who questioned you calling him mid-set, but wouldn't turn down the oppurtunity to talk to you if he was going to be gone for a little while. he thought it was innocent; just chatting, keeping him company. he was slightly off.

in reality, you just liked to hear the grunts and moans that slipped under his breath whenever he lifted weights. dirty, dirty secret of yours. he most likely knew, and if you openly told him he'd get all flustered. but hey, he never declines your call when it pauses his music.

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who is prone to mess with you a round or two when he gets home. it's not like it's entirely out of the blue, since weightlifting contributes to bumping up libido anyway. as if his body temperature isn't already high, skin glistening with thin layers of sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, and mind racing with thoughts of you. both clean and filthy.

⋆ 𝓜𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 who sends you sauna selfies. if you're lucky enough and convince him, he'll send you a picture of him just in his towel around his waist.

© 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒔𝒎 𑣲⋆｡˚

taglist :: @nonchalantfiend @kissthesword @1cckedheart @alex-021222 @catboygumi @leviackermanswaifu @sstorule @starlightwater @vanillaapples @velvetjpg @amix28 @hollowedv @whatthehellybronjames @stqrgumi @lilfluffybunny @razzleeeee @incandescent-night @megumour @stillsearching1name @sugerfilled @megumisrighttoe @brookeleanne @josuni @kalihrts @catgvrl @qrxswan @megurei @fushigurlfriend @iluvfictionalmen4eva @ilovejollofrice @hanawoof @stqrgumi @skeepingsecrets @sneak2013 @ferliouscupcake @dreamydaredevil @satorugojo-is-hot @jennyistrendy @fushigummy @skeepingsecrets @meganthestallionswife @chaosiskeycauseiamchaos @megssleepygirl @anqii @paincakezzz + join taglist in pinned !

[mayegasm]

ᢉ𐭩

as everyone knows, 𝓶egumi isn't fond of using words to display his undeniable affection — it's what he chooses to do as far as actions.

he'll buy you little things — keychains, figurines, flowers, anything you asked him for. he'd (reluctant, and sheepishly) give into your advances as far as displaying public affection with holding your hand, kisses on the cheek, even melting into a kiss on the lips.

not to mention how he was in bed. god, he was the sweetest thing. that sultry, lusty, yet sweet, voice of his murmuring sweet praises under his breath in your ear. his breath whisping past your lashes, petting your head or your side as he'd drag his shaft out along your insides to the tip, only to push back in and kiss the spot that inched you closer to cumming — rinse, repeat.

though, something in the back of your head kept you unsatisfied. yes, it was intimate, it was lovely, but god, you craved something more... punishing. putting you below the pedestal he so graciously put you on. something in your head told you he wouldn't be opposed to that at all. perhaps it was sheer hope he wouldn't decline your idea, perhaps he was holding back just as much as you were.

" i'll do whatever you want, you know that. but fuck — if you aren't the greediest thing ever. " his voice was a low growl in your ear, the faux annoyance stinging you a bit. you felt him swallow his grunts and moans as best as he could with the occasional slip up, a consequence of how deep he was driving his dick into you.

his hand was on your head, pushing you into the sheets, hips hiked up into the air and held in place with a mean grip of his hand, thrusts so deep and pull of passion that each slap was accompanied with a shlick! — you asked for this. you don't think you've ever been so easy toward an orgasm in your life.

you whined loudly, his hand loosening up on your head. he felt your walls flutter and spasm — backing up onto him, using him for your own pleasure, making him cock a brow. " now you wanna cum? did everything you asked for and more, but it's still not enough for you, huh? "

his grip on your hip tightened, bringing you back into him faster, harder, deeper. he sighed in your ear, breath whisping past your cheek. " you're lucky, hah — that i love how you look when you cum... lucky as hell. "

he couldn't hold back praising you. he could praise you all day and night whenever he was ansty for your body. but, to satisfy you, he adjusted whatever need-be. his tone was condscending, and it didn't hurt you not one bit. in fact, add a couple harsh rubs and slaps to your clit and you came apart — body falling limp, that knot in your lower abdomen finally being released.

he panted in your ear — so close but so far from his edge. you felt his dick twitch and jerk from wall to wall, dripping precum over the ribbed surface. " you liked it? " you nodded eagerly, making him scoff. " that's good. i have another round left in me, and i'll make that your thanks. "

© 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒔𝒎 𑣲⋆｡˚

taglist :: @nonchalantfiend @kissthesword @1cckedheart @alex-021222 @catboygumi @leviackermanswaifu @sstorule @starlightwater @vanillaapples @velvetjpg @amix28 @hollowedv @whatthehellybronjames @stqrgumi @lilfluffybunny @razzleeeee @incandescent-night @megumour @stillsearching1name @sugerfilled @megumisrighttoe @brookeleanne @josuni @kalihrts @catgvrl @qrxswan @megurei @fushigurlfriend @iluvfictionalmen4eva @ilovejollofrice @hanawoof @stqrgumi @skeepingsecrets @sneak2013 @ferliouscupcake @dreamydaredevil @satorugojo-is-hot @jennyistrendy @fushigummy @skeepingsecrets @meganthestallionswife @chaosiskeycauseiamchaos @megssleepygirl @anqii @paincakezzz @tengensbigtiddies @cave-dweller4eva @luvrs-isle @galinathepanda + join taglist in pinned !