𐔌 ᥩྀི. ˔ ، ꒱ girlfailure

twenty ... mdni ... it/she ... writer ...

[grlpartdoll]

hi. im cyrein, you can call me cy

here's a little mini master list of all my works. …⁠ᘛ⁠⁐̤⁠ᕐ⁠ᐷ

for any requests & asks about my dumb little drabbles, please refer to this post. and even if you just want to chat, my ask box is always open. <3

also plz keep in mind the original owner of this account left mi dis so most of her old stories (such as Bucky Barnes FF or stuff for criminals minds) will be deleted and discontinued)

COD CHARACTERS.

• toxic!simon

> part1 (AND the alternative, "what-if" part 2 with the reader who ends up with Soap)

• bodyguard!simon & his famous little lamb & the documentary cameras.

> false alarm

> sickness

> backstage

> the start of it all

> not-so false alarm

• ceo!simon and his clumsy little bird

> rainy day

> sorry

• poly!141 & their little feral kittygirl.

> part one

> part two (prequel)

• streetracer!simon and his little mouse.

> one

• tiny town pillars of the community 141 x runaway reader

> introduction

> meeting the pub owner

> scorched

> sunshine

• simon & his bitchy little girlfriend.

> drabble 1

> drabble 2

ACOTAR CHARACTERS

• azriel flourishing for you.

> part 1

• poly!batboys and their silk girl

> part 1

> part 2

> part 3

> part 4

> part 5

> part 6

[pinkandblueblurbs]

who do you think reader would go to if she had a bad dream in her own room, i can’t tell if bro!frank would baby her or not lol

18+ mdni i absolutely think frank would baby you!!! probably more than robby tbh. So i think it would depend on what kind of comfort you needed. if you wake up needing to be coddled your best bet is to go to frank's room and gently shake him awake "Frankie."

"What, baby?" without even opening his eyes.

"I had a bad dream."

n he's opening his eyes and sitting up right away, immediately clocking that you're crying from how small and fragile you sound. "Aw, poor thing. C'mere, pretty girl." He coaxes you into his lap and holds you against his chest, swipes away your tears and pets your head and runs his fingertips against your scalp. "You're okay now, I've got you. Wanna tell me what was scary? No? That's okay, baby." n he'll cup your jaw and pepper kisses all over your face until you giggle. "That's much better."

robby's much more blasé about it, but that's comforting in it's own way. like it helps ground you in reality and makes you feel protected to have him be so unbothered and calm if that makes sense?? if you shake him awake through tears he'll raise an arm for you to snuggle in beside him. his voice is all low n gruff with sleep-- "Shhh." He rubs your back as you nuzzle into his chest. "Breathe, hon, you're fine. I've got you."

[juneewrites]

keegan sounds (my headcanons) keegan x fem reader

summary: just things you'll hear (and won't hear) while dating keegan warnings: sexual content a/n: i love me a quiet military man

dating keegan p. russ means knowing he's not a man of many words, lots of "mhmm"s and "oh, yeah?"s during conversations. he holds bold, silent eye contact as you talk out of your ass for hours, the light blue color in his eyes literally staring into your soul. he cocks his head to the side a bit when you start stammering under his gaze, and he smirks while leaning forward in his seat. your eyes distractedly widen at the way he crosses his large arms over the table, straining against the tight fabric of his shirt. "keep talking, baby, i'm listening..." he murmurs, but you don't ever doubt that.

dating keegan p. russ means getting sparse calls from him when he's away on deployment. "kee, is that you?" you whisper hopefully. "yeah, kid, it's me," comes his grainy reply. your shoulders tense at how tired he sounds. you don't realize you've fallen silent until he says, "c'mon, talk to me..." and you giggle a bit, causing him to smile on the other side of the phone. "i miss you," you tell him in that sweet tone he likes to hear. "mm, i know," he says gently. "tell me what you're wearing." you roll your eyes, teasing, "nothing" but he can hear the lie in your laughter. "yeah, yeah, stay out of trouble...just a little while longer," he tells you, and then he pauses. his voice sounds an octave lower when he whispers, "i love you, you know that?" you nod even though he can't see it. "i know, kee." he shakes his head. "gotta hear you say it back..." so you take a deep breath and smile as if he's right in front of you. "i love you, keegan."

dating keegan p. russ means having his noises all to yourself. he's not very vocal in group or social settings, but he's loud and shameless in your ear during sex, his sweaty body sliding against yours with dirty words you couldn't imagine him saying if you didn't know him any better. "ohh, fuck, just like that, yeah..." he groans, grabbing your hips to move them over his cock. you moan and clench around him, bouncing harder at the rough hand that slaps your ass before soothing over the reddened skin. "fuck," he grunts again, followed by a surge of heavy pants you feel in the crook of your neck. "oh, god, i'm gonna cum..." he rasps, his hands holding your waist with a bruising pressure as you squirm to the way his hips thrust up into you, rough and only sloppy when he's this close. "gonna cum in this tight, pretty pussy," he mutters, lifting his head to press your foreheads together, your lips parted and resting against each other, sharing the same breathy moans. "yeah..." he whispers to you, "that's it..." you gasp when his release spreads through your thighs like a bullet, and he kisses you to muffle his low, throaty groan, falling back on the bed with your writhing body covering his.

dating keegan p. russ means the only time he talks more than you is when you're going down on him. he fucks your smart mouth every time your attitude resurfaces, fisting your hair to push your head down on his cock, his vision dotting with stars as you clench and gag around him. his hips thrust into your mouth, and you feel him hit the back of the throat through a deep groan. "tired of you talkin' back to me," he scorns, "look at you, drooling around my cock—can't even take it, huh, kid?" he tilts his head down at you with mocking sympathy, his thrusts getting more relentless as you desperately try to keep up, licking your tongue along his length before swirling the bud. he throws his head back a bit at the sensitivity, baring the tight column of his throat to your hungry gaze. "fuck, there we go..." he breathes, his hand smoothing down your head, "thereeee we go...uh-huh...fuck..."

dating keegan p. russ means trying to act normal when you're out together, and his already low social battery has depleted, replaced by an impatience to get home and get you out of your skimpy little outfit. he's slick as he reaches under your skirt to squeeze your ass, playing with the thin string of your thong. you jolt, and he pulls you into his chest, leaning down to whisper, "better say your goodbyes early, yeah?" you whimper under your breath, feeling his fingers trace the curve of your ass forward, to the warm, wet heat between your thighs. "keegan..." you mutter cautiously, but he's silent, his stare loud and clear with what he wants.

dating keegan p. russ means craving to know what's going on inside that damn head of his. he keeps a lot of his thoughts to himself, and you see them weighing behind his gaze during your most intimate moments, lying together in bed with your hand caressing through his hair. he spaces out while you stare at him tenderly, whispering, "you okay?" his eyes flick toward you before they cast away again. he exhales deeply and wraps his arms around you, breathing you in as he presses his whole weight on you like a blanket. "yeah, baby, i'm okay." he kisses your temple and buries his face in your chest. "you know you can tell me anything, right?" you tell him quietly, lightly scratching the back of his head. he nods, because he does know that, but he often chooses not to. in the line of his work, he prefers to hide the ugliest truths, the horrors he doesn't want to stain your innocence with. he sees you trying to get through his walls, and you hear him breathe you in softly, inhaling the safest part of his life like you're his air.

masterlist

[gxtitobxby]

frank langdon saying ur name during sex with abby …….. and then having to tell u about it ….. :( please

THIS IS SICKKKKKKKK we are not seeing the pearly gates bestie

"tell me again," you gasp, throwin' your head back when his cock hits deep inside you. you're on top with your nails digging into his shoulders, lip bitten raw. "f-from the beginning."

frank's hair sticks to his face with sweat, his hands big and warm at your waist n your ass, squeezing hard enough that you know you'll feel the ghost of him tomorrow. "was fucking her from behind with her head—"

"—against the mattress," you parrot at the same time, the story already memorized. you whimper and grind against him. "so you can pretend it's me."

"yeah," he groans, leaning up to catch your nipple in his mouth, mumbling against it. "n it just came out, baby, I couldn't help it. couldn't help thinking of your sweet pussy around me t-the—fuck—the only pussy I want."

you push him down flat against the mattress and lower yourself so your forehead touches his, panting into each other's mouth. he growls when you smile against his lips. "tell me what she said next."

[melissax7777]

i am such a pervert obsessive freak but its okay because my heart is pure and i'm a girl

[letterstotheflre]

just saw a reel of a girl saying “what do you mean you’re pulling out… do you hate me?” and it made me think of reader and frank

waitt i'm thinking it's one of those days where you're extra sensitive and need a little extra love and care :c frank doesn't even think you might take it the wrong wat. you've done it multiple times-- him cumming on your stomach or back or painting your face. so, really, this is nothing out of the ordinary.

except that when he drags his cock away from the depths of your warm cunt, you whine sadly. pathetically even. "do you hate me?" you press your foot against his tailbone to keep him in place.

"huh?" he grunts, confused. he stops moving out of sheer bafflement, only the tip still inside you.

you raise your hips, pulling him in deeper. "do you hate me?" you whine again, although a little quieter this time-- a little embarrassed at your own reaction.

"baby," he chuckles, "i'm literally inside you."

and? he could be inside you and still hate you. men are mean like that. what isn't he getting?

you wrap your arms around his neck, dragging him down for a kiss. "y'were pulling out," you whisper against his mouth sadly. "why? don't you like me anymore?"

"baby," frank sighs, hips pressed to your as he bottoms out once more. he drags his cock out, then back in again, starting a slow but deep pace that has you keening. "i love you."

he nudges your face with his nose, pressing a series of wet kisses down your cheek and jaw. you shiver beneath him. "my pretty girl, y'just wanna be close, hm? wanna feel it?" he coos when you nod, moving his own head along. "yeah, i know. poor baby," he picks up the pace a little and his eyes roll from the way your pussy flutters around him. "i'll give it all to you, don't worry."

[annsfics]

─── ♡ dr. robby drabble ♡

"Dad, can you—" Suddenly, and with quiet alarm, you go entirely still.

With shoulders now drawn together, you blink suddenly dewy eyes in silent panic.

"What do you need, sweetheart?" Robby asks quietly while leaning back on his heel. Standing across the room the two of you are currently gathering supplies from, he tries to glimpse your face, but you're turned too far away.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just came out." Swiping away tears, you shake your head, then continue on.

Robby slowly rounds a gurney and takes calm, measured steps toward you. "It's alright," he reassures soothingly. "I didn't mind."

He's just trying to minimize your mortification. Somehow, it makes you want to call him as much again all the more. "Is that how you think of me sometimes?" Robby asks while sliding a hand down your back.

You shrug.

"Talk to me, sweetheart," he insists.

"Around here," you begin while swallowing down the lump in your throat. "Everybody does, I think. And... I can't imagine how much that must weigh on you. How heavy it is to carry all of us; this hospital. So I don't mean to make it worse—"

"You didn't," he interjects with a shake of his head. "It means something to me that you see me as that: a father figure. Someone to be trusted in that capacity."

You can't keep talking about this. "It won't happen again," you assure while gathering sterile gauze.

Robby's hand retreats into a pocket. "I'm not saying that you can't. At least when we're alone."

Your brows knit together. "What?"

Robby's head tilts to the side and he studies you with a fond smile. "I haven't always done the best job at hiding my favoritism of you." He runs the back of his index finger along your cheek. "Means you get preferential treatment."

He shrugs casually. "So, if calling me that puts you more at ease when you're here, you can."

You huff in irritation before settling on flat feet again. Glancing around for something to knock it down with, you come up empty-handed. Just when you're eyeing a chair, Robby swings inside the employee lounge. "Somethin' you need, sweetheart?"

"One of the plastic cups so I can have some water." You frown. "Someone stuck them on the top shelf."

With ease, he moves them down, and hands you one.

"Thank you, daddy," you supply quietly before wandering over to the sink.

He grants you a swift kiss on the top of your head. "Welcome."

Kneeling down beside you, Robby rests a forearm atop the counter you're seated at charting. "You got much left to do?"

You shake your head and pluck the dictation device from your lap again. "Just the rest of this chart."

He slides a palm over your knee. "I'll wait 'til you're done, then."

You look at him. "You don't have to. If you'd rather just head home—"

Robby stands with a grimace, then settles into a computer chair next to yours. "Prefer to walk you out. I don't like you being in the parking garage alone when it's dark."

Watching as he leans back before fishing his phone out of his pocket, you nod with a grateful smile. "Ok, daddy."

Slipping his glasses onto his nose, Robby slides his legs under yours.

"There's something I've been thinking about," Robby states while holding the passenger side door of your car open so you can drop your things inside. "Which I thought worth talking about to see if you'd be interested."

Once you've slid your tumbler into a cupholder, you turn around and grant him your undivided attention. "Yes?"

His hand flops loosely from where his wrist is settled atop the open door. "I worry about you and burnout. Some days I can tell are better than others, but..." He scrubs a hand down his beard. "This is the one place where I feel like I have use; purpose. I go home to a silent, empty house where the only person I have to look after is myself."

Your eyes flit curiously between his.

"I wouldn't mind having someone to take care of there. I mean, do you like living alone? Having everything resting squarely on your shoulders?" Robby questions while stroking your arm.

"Are you...asking me to—"

"Move in, at least temporarily to see how it works out." Robby grins and shrugs while watching a sedan pull out. "I always assumed I'd have a wife one day. Kids. Maybe one of which would be a daughter." He looks at you again. "Seems those things found me." He chuckles. "Two for one, apparently."

"I thought it would bother you eventually. Me...calling you what I have been."

He shakes his head. "It was my idea. I wanted you to."

Robby slips a hand around the back of your head and tilts it back until you're gazing up at him. "Call me it," he mutters while leaning down.

"Daddy," you whisper with a heart fluttering as quickly as a hummingbird's rapid wings.

He clicks his tongue while brushing the pad of his thumb over the soft apple of your cheek. "Other one."

You fist the plush fleece of his zip-up jacket in your hand. "Dad."

He presses his lips to yours and moans against the spreading of your lips while easing his tongue inside to taste you. "When we're at home," he whispers. "That's the only name I wanna hear."

You nod sluggishly. "Okay... Dad."

[grlpartdoll]

U know how criminal minds and teen wolf have the same writer (jeff davis), and stiles ends up in the fbi...? Stiles is going STRAIGHT to the bau... the new spencer... i have worms in my brain yall. Lets say that reader x fbi!stiles meeting and theres a crime thats supernatural in nature and freaking stiles goes to tell reader only for reader to be like oh, yeah. Im a banshee. I know how this stuff works. They wld Love each other BAAAAD

[applefishing]

mean gege fucks different. he comes out when you push and push and push, depriving him of affection all day, disobeying, stomping your feet and spitting cruel words at him when he tries to fix it, like you are asking for punishment. he drops his hips down into you, warm skin slapping against your ass with a mind-numbing feral intensity as he drives through your spasming walls.

he grinds in equally desperate measure, rolling his hips until he reaches your deepest part. he's not gentle. the force of it pushes you down into the mattress in a way that almost forces the air from your lungs. and when he holds it, buried to the hilt, he's so heavy and so deep inside that you convulse beneath him, croaking out something incomprehensible.

"where's my good girl?" he grunts into your neck as he humps your ass—thick muscular thighs tensing either side of you. "so naughty all day.... where'd gege's good little girl go?"

his fingers invade your mouth again, already slick with drool from the way he intermittently plays with your tongue. it stops you attempting to answer. he doesn't need an answer. he knows you get him riled up like this on purpose; he knows sometimes you just want to cry buried under his heavy body and forget everything else. brainless and wordless; empty entirely besides your big bother's throbbing cock.

"you like it when gege is mean, hm? such a bad girl..." he licks at your wet cheek, lapping up your tears as you suckle at his finger between sobs. "it's okay... let go. just cry for me. take gege's fat cock and cry on my fingers, mm? that's it..."

i posted a video to go along with this on my twitter

[superbassbuck]

keep the lambs away.

pairing: lumberjack!bucky barnes x fisher!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: “sweets, sugar, little doll”

a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!

word count: 11.4k main masterlist || 🎨 art's moodboard event

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

Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.

Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.

You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.

From there, the trip spiraled.

You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.

Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.

There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.

Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.

The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.

Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.

That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.

As you got closer, you took in the land.

Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.

Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.

“Hey! Who the hell are you?”

You spun around.

A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.

His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.

“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”

“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.

He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.

Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?

Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.

You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.

“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”

“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”

With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.

He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.

“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”

“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”

You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”

Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.

To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.

“…What’s yours?” you then asked.

He ignored you.

Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.

Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.

“Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”

Bucky’s dull expression didn’t change. “No phone.”

He didn’t bother to elaborate, either.

He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.

“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”

“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.

What?

No ride?

You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.

That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”

You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.

“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”

Your heart started to race as panic settled in.

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”

Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.

“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”

The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.

Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.

“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.

He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.

“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”

You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.

“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.

As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.

“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”

You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.

For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.

The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.

Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.

A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.

The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.

You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.

Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.

Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.

Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.

“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.

Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.

And that’s exactly what you did.

The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.

Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.

Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.

A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.

In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.

You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.

A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.

You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.

“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”

Bucky.

Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.

He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”

It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.

With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.

The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.

The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.

He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.

“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”

All of it happened in a blur.

One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.

When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.

“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”

“I’m helpin’ you,” Bucky grunted, sounding offended.

“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.

Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.

He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.

“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”

You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.

Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”

Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”

Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.

The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.

As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.

Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.

“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.

“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.

After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.

You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.

“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”

Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.

In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.

“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”

He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.

Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.

With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.

Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.

“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.

Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.

“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”

Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.

“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.

It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.

You frowned. “Are you sure—”

“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”

Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.

You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.

“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

There was no answer.

You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.

“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.

So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.

Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.

His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.

Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.

Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.

“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”

Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.

“You’re overheating!”

Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.

“...Tired,” he croaked.

Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.

Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.

Just my luck, huh?

He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.

Damn. He was a fucking idiot.

You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.

You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”

As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.

Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.

He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.

That was the whole point of being out here.

But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.

It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.

“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.

You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.

Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”

Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.

“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?

“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”

Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.

With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.

By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.

He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.

To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.

There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.

He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.

When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.

His jaw tightened.

A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.

All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.

He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.

He froze.

Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.

As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.

By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.

“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.

You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.

“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”

“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”

You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”

“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”

You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”

He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.

He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.

From his seat, he watched you move.

“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”

The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.

You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.

He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.

“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.

For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.

He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.

He liked the idea of having someone to protect.

Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.

“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”

“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”

“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.

You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.

“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”

You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.

The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.

“Crap—!”

Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.

In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.

“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.

You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.

“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”

You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.

“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”

Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.

By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.

“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.

He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.

“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.

You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.

You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.

You swore he didn’t look away from you once.

Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.

All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.

You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.

Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.

“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”

“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”

Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.

Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.

Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.

“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”

“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”

He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”

You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.

But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.

The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.

You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.

“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”

Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.

“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”

“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”

Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.

“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”

“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”

Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.

“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”

A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.

He liked this.

No—he loved this.

“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”

He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.

“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”

The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.

For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.

Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.

Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.

When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.

“Careful, sweets.”

“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”

“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”

You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.

You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.

As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.

There was no storm.

And it was too late to start the trek to town now.

You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.

He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.

“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”

Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”

A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.

“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”

Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.

“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”

“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”

“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”

“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”

You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.

The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”

“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”

He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”

With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.

“Here.”

“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.

“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”

You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.

“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.

Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.

“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”

His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.

After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.

The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.

He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.

You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.

You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.

To him, this was exactly where you belonged.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”

You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.

He could get used to waking up to this every morning.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Exactly right, sugar.”

From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.

Unreadable and unwavering.

You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”

“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”

So much for breaking the tension.

His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.

You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.

Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.

“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.

Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.

“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.

You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.

You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.

“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.

His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.

When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.

“So goddamn pretty.”

“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”

There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.

“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”

“Like what?” you breathed.

“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”

You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.

“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”

Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.

“Feels like I already have, little doll.”

Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.

He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.

It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.

His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.

You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.

Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.

“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”

Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.

“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.

“Bucky, please—”

You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.

Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.

A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”

Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.

“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”

He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.

“… No panties?”

Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”

You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.

You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.

Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.

“Bucky, wait—!”

But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.

He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.

You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.

“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.

Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.

He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.

He was devouring you.

He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.

Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.

“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”

He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.

He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.

Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.

Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.

“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”

“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”

“No?” he cut you off.

He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.

“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”

Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.

Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.

He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.

“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”

As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.

A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.

You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.

You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.

When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”

With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.

Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.

“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”

Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.

He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.

He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.

“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”

When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.

He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.

“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.

“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”

Bucky was hypnotized.

He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.

And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.

“Fuck. Fuckin’ hell—you… fuckin’… goddammit—fuck!”

His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.

Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.

He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.

“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.

That didn’t help him at all.

“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”

The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.

Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.

“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.

Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.

To breed.

Breed. Breed…

“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”

His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.

“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”

Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.

He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.

Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.

“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.

His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”

Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.

“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”

One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.

“Oh my god—!”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”

He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.

“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”

The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.

“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”

When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.

“Understand, sweets?”

“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”

You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.

“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”

His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.

Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.

A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.

His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.

“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.

He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.

He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.

“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.

All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.

Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.

“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.

“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”

sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!

if you liked this fic, please be sure to leave a like, comment, hit that sub button while you're at it and make sure to turn bell notifications on and filler text filler text (but seriously, thank you for taking the time to read my work!)

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

[dirtygir1]

Jack keeps a ponytail tie on his wrists. it’s lowkey performative like you’re Jack abbot whos so nice and look out for women in all aspects—ofc you do, but when he’s around so many women in his ER, and one snaps or gets misplaced he’s right there, “keep going, i’ll tie it for you.” he’d say to someone who’s busy with a patient. it’s nothing to him.

it’s such a known thing, that sometimes doctors or nurses will just come up to him and take it off his wrist with nothing but a “thank you!” he doesn’t mind, doesn’t even blink at it. it’s what it’s there for.

…somewhat.

he also…keeps it for you. for when he’s at the edge of your shared bed, watching you swallow his dick like a python. his hand holding your chin and he’s steadily watching you pull it back, tuck it behind your ear and such. it’s something so small, yet makes you feel like the most special girl in the world.

“lift up, sweetpea..” he says low, already guiding you off as he fingers the stray hairs sticking against your cheek away. you look at him with big, glassy eyes, love and lust circling them as he gently pulls your her back for you, concentration on his brows to make sure he’s not pulling too hard.

“there we go, all neat.” he grabs your pony at the base, adoring your little smile as you whisper out a thank you before guiding you back along his tip. “i’ll take over, kay? just breath.” he coos, biting his lip and leaning back on his hand as he starts to shove you down further and further. such a sweet n thoughtful guy! ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

inspired by this post!

[grlpartdoll]

Derek morgan and his baby angel !!!!

Met u at sum dingy bar in his hometown, on a rare break from work, during a time he usually uses to visit his sisters. You were the quietest little thing, shy and blushy, so quick to fluster when finally his eyes found you amongst your group of rowdy friends.

When you first spoke, you stumbled over your words, but with a little coaxing and a little gentleness from him, and you were rambling, giggling, a trusting little naive doe.

He took you home that night. But even as he came upstairs to your little flat, you never slept together. He helped you take your shoes off. Helped you remove your makeup, and then tucked you in as you sleepily babbled about needing your octopus plushie and the shark teddy sitting on the bedside table.

And he thinks, ever since he stepped a foot in that sweet, weirdly decorated flat, he never really left.

Everything he does is more cautious now. More careful. He knows he has got to get home to his angel. He cant risk it.

& god, oh god, does derek treat his baby good, when he is around. Full princess treatment. Massages your feet. Feeds you fruit cubes. Brings you a shark plush from the local aquarium in the city he was last in.

And when you two fuck... gawddamn. Turn away your plushies, everybody.

Its gentle at first, because y'have to get used to him again after a few days. Hes murmuring in your ear,

"Ssh, y'got it, kid, c'mon, i know you can do it, take a deep breath f'r me.." his voice is gravely, maybe a little shaky, if its been too long. Almost on the verge of tears because "There she is — fuuuuck — yeah, theres that sweet little cunt.."

When he has kissed you, pried you open, dried your tears and coaxed a few orgasms out of you through rubbing on your puffy little bundle of nerves, thats when the real fun starts.

He flips you 'round on your tummy, and if hes had a rough week, he'll be a little harsh — going faster, deeper, his leaking tip pounding against your cervix until you swear you can feel him in your throat.

Groaning, grabbing onto your skin until his fingertips are leaving little indents that turn into bruises, "My little baby— yeah? This little hole's mine, yeah?"

He pants between his thrusts, pushing his head in the crook of your neck to nibble there, forcing you to make those sweet little sounds that has him praising you.

"Tha'atta girl, baby, yeaaah, thats it, jus let go for daddy, yeah?"

And when he finally cums :(( he's making those pityful little moans, broken and heavy, and he pants against your shoulder, refusing to pull out as he fills u up all nice and deep ;((

And hes not even done !!!!!

[grlpartdoll]

I miss him yr honor

[azsazz]

You Know I Always Liked Playing with Fire

Eris x Reader

Summary: Anon Request: Hiii could you write a fic Eris x mate. Eris’s brother is hooking up with/dating his mate and has been seeing her for a while. Eris has never bothered to meet her. One day he runs into her and realizes she is his mate. They end up hooking up and Eris is super competitive in bed.

Warnings: Smut, slight masochism, Eris’ brother is kind of a sadist.

Word Count: 3,080

Notes: I ran with most of this idea but changed it up a little bit. I hope you enjoy it either way because I sure know I do 🥵💙

_________________________________________

Dinner with the Vanserra’s was always…a treat.

Everything felt so stiff and forced beneath the harsh gaze of the High Lord of Autumn, but you forced yourself to go to all of the ones you were invited to because you loved the second eldest of the Autumn sons, Pyrolas.

But you knew deep down that the molten feeling in your core was not Pyrolas’ doing, but Eris’. 

The way that he stares at you from across the table, amber eyes blazing as Pyro leans over in his chair to kiss your shoulder, not a care in the world if Beron or the other guests see.

Keep reading

[highpitttitsgabagool]

what the fuck

[grlpartdoll]

oh cyyy… i’m soo sorry you’ve been dealing with depression right now, that’s terrible. are you doing okay? it’s hard i know—I relapsed twice last year, and one already this year—but it’ll get better, yeah? maybe just for an hour, maybe just for one song on the radio, but it’ll be okay. just try your best to take care of yourself, don’t worry about writing…

Hi love, thank you very much for this kind message. I hope you are not burdened by the news.

Im doing slightly better than i was four days ago, during my relapse. That said, I dont think I am out of the woods. I have been living on constant flight or fight, and instead of doing either, I've been frozen. Stuck in my own skin.

But there are things that help. Laughing. Friends. Family. My mom has been my biggest crutch. Called her crying and hyperventilating 2 days ago, and she dropped everything to get to me in less than 15 minutes, when her work is more than forty minutes away.

I dont know where life will take me. I have an inkling that things will be okay. But its only hope. I dont know where I am going from here. I hope that I will not live like this much longer, and that I will be safe, untroubled, and cared for.

[grlpartdoll]

no pressure or anything, but are you considering continuing or discontinuing with poly!bat boys and their silk girl?

hello. yes. i hope op doesnt feel too bad about asking this, because im gonna use this post to unload ; i have been in and out of a very bad fit of depression. i cant write. cant take care of myself. i relapsed 3 days ago. but im trying. thank you for the love.

[beebymoonlight]

you always knew this day would come—when someone would finally come looking for you. (ghost x f!reader, 18+, cw graphic violence)

he's always reminding you about consequences. there are deliberate choices that you make that set off chain reactions, whether or not you intended to.

one of your choices was choosing simon riley. terrible, horrifying, brute simon riley, who on paper was supposed to be dead, but in reality was still on the SAS payroll.

there were a lot of reasons not to let simon into your life. there were a lot of reasons to let him go.

he never answers his phone—the relic that it is. he comes and goes as the job demands; sometimes he's home for supper when he says, and sometimes you don't see him until three weeks too late. his entire family is dead because of the same job he leaves for, and he's never let you see his face.

yeah. definitely reasons to walk away; but there were too many other reasons to stay.

"oi—eyes 'ere, love."

your lashes flutter when his gloved fingers hit under your chin, angling your face up. he kisses you, masked lips pressing against your mouth, and you sigh as he runs his other hand down the back of your head, clutching the nape of your neck.

"come back soon," you whisper. "i-i...i know you can't promise—"

"'s olright," he murmurs. "heart's beatin' out of y'r chest, baby." he runs his nose along yours, shaking his head. "won't be long. this one's recon, nothin' else."

you close your eyes, reaching for his jacket. you clutch the front of it, standing on your toes, and he chuckles lowly. your mouth falls open when his hands cup you under your thighs, squeezing your ass as he drags you even closer and breathes out slowly.

"can you say it?" you ask.

"even though you know it?"

"just say it, simon."

"mmm." he grips your jaw tight with one hand, and it forces your eyes open. you look at him, trying not to smile, and you feel warmth spread in your belly when you see his eyes crinkle, indicating his own smile. "i love you."

you can't stop the giggle that leaves you. it feels so stupid sometimes, to feel this way. you never understood the metaphor of butterflies in your stomach, but fuck, what else could it be? how else do you describe it?

it's quiet when he's away. it's nothing but monotonous chores and waiting for him to come home. you go to work, you come home, and then you try to distract yourself from doing anything except think about simon.

simon in the field. simon in hostile territory. simon having to fire that gun. it follows you into your nightmares, and you think about it when you close your eyes.

it's why you can't sleep. it's why you hear footsteps on the ground floor of your house, and it's why you're awake when you know someone is here.

your hand reaches for the knife simon keeps under his side of the mattress. you slide out of bed, slipping your socks on, and you use them to keep your steps quiet as you go to hide by the doorway to your bedroom.

you peek around the edge, looking over the railing towards downstairs. you can't see much from this angle, but you do see a shadow pass by, and you know just from the shadow of it that it isn't simon.

you hug the wall again, closing your eyes. you squeeze the hilt of the blade in your hand tight, taking a deep breath.

keep your head on. you know what to do.

"negative. nothing downstairs. heading up-top."

you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. you hear a step creak, and you know that he's halfway up the stairs now. american accent. you grit your teeth, trying to commit all the little details to memory.

the clock reads 3 in the morning. there's a full moon tonight. it's cool outside. there's someone in your house—

you see the toe of his boot just before he comes into the bedroom. you wait until his gun has made it past the doorway before you make your move.

incapacitate. incapacitate. incapacitate.

you go for the thigh first. you swipe with all of your weight, catching him off-guard. you go for the warm spots that his gear doesn't protect, and you cut deep on his inner thigh. he stumbles forward, screaming, and you use his moment of weakness and shove the blade right up into his armpit. the gun skids across the floor as he screams again in agony, and you shove him hard into the dresser behind him before you run.

"you fucking bitch! i'm gonna kill you!"

not before i kill you.

you make your way downstairs, skipping the creaky step before making your way into the den. you pat a hand under the coffee table, mentally giving your assassin boyfriend a big, wet kiss when you find a gun secured to the underside. you slide it out of its holster, checking the chamber, where you see one loaded in already. you switch the safety off, the weight of it heavy, and you hurry to duck around a corner as you hear him limp downstairs.

"i'm gonna find you, you fucking cunt. i'm gonna find you and fucking bury you!"

you keep circling behind the walls as he makes his way further into the living room. he's stalking, swinging his gun around sloppily as he kicks the couch and flips chairs looking for you.

"i'm gonna make sure he sees what i do to you. he's gonna pay!"

when you see him sway on his feet, you know you have the upper hand.

you circle back into the kitchen, ducking to use the counters as cover. you tuck the gun under the sink before reaching for the skillet sitting there. stainless steel; the weight feels good as you hold it in front of you, and you creep to where he still is checking under the dining table.

he never hears you coming. he turns around for a split second, but you're already swinging.

"fucking bitch—"

something cracks under the pressure as he crumples to the floor. you kick the gun out of his way, and you lick over your teeth as you inspect the damage. the lip of the pan caught the edge of his mouth, and a couple of his teeth lay on the floor behind him. he coughs, blood splattering, and you drop the pan as you go for the duck tape in one of the kitchen drawers.

it takes a considerable amount of effort to hoist him up onto a dining chair. he's all bulk and gear, but you manage to sit him there, and you carefully tape each wrist and leg to the chair before securing him with zip-ties and spare rope. you use the remaining bit of rope to fasten it around his mouth, not even stopping when he howls from the broken teeth he's still spitting out.

you go for the bookshelf in the living room, keeping an eye on him the entire time. you feel for the right book, pulling it off the shelf before reaching for the satellite phone hidden inside.

you dial the only number on it.

it only rings a few times before you hear someone pick up on the other line.

"this is price."

you swallow hard, toes curling as your hands tremble just a little.

"uhm—" you close your eyes for a second as you rack your brain. "we're geronimo."

the other line is quiet for a few moments before you hear a deep sigh.

"i read you, love. how many?"

you squeeze the phone to your ear, sniffling.

"just one. i think."

"you think?"

"just...just one."

you hear some interference, and then he grunts.

"stay low. stay quiet."

"wait—" your voice shakes. "he...he knew. he knew who was supposed to be here."

"mmm," price curses under his breath. "roger tha'. you stay put. don't answer the door for anyone, and don't leave. do not open the bloody door unless i call this phone, do you read me?"

"y-yes."

you flinch as the phone call gets cut. you wobble on shaky legs as you take a seat on the couch. your eyes are wet and watery as you keep staring at the back of the man's head, not willing to look away in fear that he'll get loose.

you wait hours. you're still in your pajamas; just a big shirt to sleep in and fuzzy socks, your hair in all directions and on the cusp of totally freaking out as you guard the intruder to your house. he can't talk; he tried for awhile, screaming and spitting over the rope, but he gave up after awhile, and now he sits with his head slumped over and his chin to his chest.

when the satellite phone rings, you count to three before answering it. the sun is high now; it must be close to noon.

"hello?"

"open the door, baby."

as soon as he crosses the threshold, you're in his arms. forearm hooked around the small of your back, masked face buried in your neck as he hoists you up onto your toes and hugs you to his chest. you bite back a sob as you wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him back tight as you let all of the tension melt off your body.

all the fear. all the worry. all the guilt—he takes it all.

"i...i-i did what you said, simon, i—"

"did so well, baby," simon mutters. "y'r perfect. you 'ear tha'? perfect."

he pulls away, cupping both of your cheeks and making you look at him. you sniffle, letting some tears fall finally, and he catches them on his gloved thumbs and brushes them away.

"oi," simon shakes his head. "i'm proud o' you. y'r mine, yeah? oll mine."

you nod, stepping forward, and he wraps and arm around your shoulders as you bury your face in his chest. you cling to him, digging your nails in, and he stands up straight before opening the door wider.

three men file into your home. you've never met any of them, but you recognize the mohawked one from a picture simon showed you once. when the three of them make it into the kitchen, you hear a low whistle and a few curses.

"bleedin' christ," one laughs. "ye look like right shite!"

you're holding simon's hand when you follow him into the kitchen. simon sighs, narrowing his eyes as he gets a good look at your trophy. he's bleeding in your kitchen, eyes watery as he looks around the room. he's terrified; he doesn't try to fight, and he averts his gaze as quickly as he looked up.

"bloody hell," simon mutters.

the one in the beanie is definitely in charge. he looks much older, a few greys sprinkled throughout his hair, and when he speaks, you recognize his voice.

"this your work, simon?" he asks, nodding towards where you stand. you squeeze simon's hand, and he squeezes back.

"it's mine," you say.

"is that right?" he raises a brow. "simon didn't teach you how to subdue a bloody target this way, is that it?"

"well, not exactly," you hide a little behind simon's arm. "i took some...creative liberties."

"i can see that."

simon ushers you upstairs, kissing the back of your head through the mask as he watches you climb them. he gave you the go-ahead to start packing your things, and you just nodded and made your way up. simon lingers at the bottom of the steps as gaz sticks a bag over the guy's head.

"price," simon says lowly, and his captain turns his head to look at him.

"got somethin' to say?"

simon looks back to where you just disappeared into the bedroom.

"do wot you will with the bloke." simon's grip on the railing nearly splits the wood. "but you leave the last of 'im to me."

"copy that."