BUNNY GONE WILD
the winter soldier x ditzy!reader [8.5k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: the winter soldier infiltrates a college halloween party to follow the pretty girl with bunny ears who collided into him on the sidewalk.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; ditzy & clueless!reader; reader is mentioned to have hair & wears a skimpy bunny costume; size difference (he's beefy and taller than reader); original characters; mention of punishment and violence (suck dick, hydra); mention of alcohol & weed (they're not the ones intoxicated); mention of murder; bucky mainly speaks russian (it's english in cursive because I don't speak russian + I don't trust google translate when I don't have a basic knowledge of a language) and a little broken english; he asks reader to call him soldat; touch starved bucky; slightly dark & possessive!bucky; light fluff & angst; smut (no explicit consent but both of them want it); feral behavior; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); oral (f receiving); spanking & pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; nipple play; a little bit of degradation; sex in the woods; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); primal and rough sex; multiple orgasms; creampie; panty sniffing & stealing.
A/N: I posted this last october if I'm not wrong, and honestly this is still one of my favorite one-shots lol. the reader's behavior and personality was heavily inspired by karen from mean girls and rose from the golden girls (a line in particular comes from one of the episodes 🥸). hope you'll enjoy it!
“I can already smell the weed from here. It’s only eleven, for fuck’s sake.” Sarah grimaces as she gets out of the driver’s seat of her Nissan Versa.
“It’s a college party, were you expecting tea and cookies?” Nicole sighs, bent over as she reties the straps of her shoes for the umpteenth time.
The huge mansion sits among the bare trees like a sore thumb. Strings of fake cobwebs dangle from the balconies in tangled clumps, lazily swaying in the cold October breeze. The projectors wash the building in a ghostly glow and pumpkins with bizarre carved faces line the porch, their flickering candles warping the jagged smiles into something unsettling.
The front steps are already crowded with masked people smoking, drinking and laughing too loudly. Sarah snorts out loud as one of the few latecomers nearly trips over a fake gravestone planted in the lawn beside a massive steaming cauldron that reeks faintly of dry ice.
“At least this year Ethan and his minions put some effort into decorating. Do you remember last Halloween?” Nicole turns towards the house with Sarah beside her, but then glances back to find you still standing by the car window, adjusting the corset of your costume.
“Jesus,” Sarah huffs exasperated, planting a hand on her hip. “Stop fussing, you look good!”
“Just a sec…” You mumble absently, turning sideways to check your back.
This year, the three of you agreed to not pick a group costume. Last Halloween had been a disaster from start to finish, mainly because Nicole wanted to go as Cher, Tai and Dionne from Clueless, while you suggested Sam, Clover and Alex from Totally Spies. Sarah was too busy with her now ex-boyfriend to care either way, and a few days before the party she ditched both of you to dress up as Princess Peach and Super Mario with him.
Naturally, you and Nicole still managed to clash over something as simple as matching outfits: she pushed for Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, but you barely knew who they were, so you argued for Daphne and Velma instead. Long story short, neither of you had time to buy decent costumes and ended up throwing together the easiest thing possible: a devil and an angel.
Just like at least thirty other girls at the party.
That same night, Sarah caught her dear Super Mario kissing Princess Daisy—her cousin—in one of the upstairs bathrooms of this exact mansion, and from that moment on, she swore off group costumes forever.
One year later, in front of the Nissan, a Kim Possible looks pretty much done with life, while a Cher from Clueless sits on the curb smoking her first cigarette of the night. And you, a bunny in a very revealing outfit, tap your lips to even out the glittery gloss.
You thought the ears were a little too big when you bought them, but now, paired with the sheer corset and the short skirt, they look perfect.
“Okay,” you tug the skirt down out of instinct, though the snug fabric barely moves against your thighs. “I’m ready!”
“Fucking finally.” Nicole mumbles, lifting herself from the sidewalk with a groan.
“Hey—”
Sarah’s warning comes too late. Your body is already colliding with something solid, hard as steel. A startled yelp escapes you as a large hand instantly clamps around your bare arm to keep you from stumbling backward. You realize your eyes have squeezed shut reflexively only when they flutter open at once, landing directly on a broad chest covered by what looks like a black tactical vest. Your gaze slowly drifts up, along a strong neck, until it catches on a pair of blue eyes staring down at you. The lower half of the stranger’s face is hidden behind a black mask, yet you are instantly fascinated.
“Oh, hi!” You beam, tilting your head slightly, fully aware of how much guys usually love it when you do that.
The bulky stranger simply looks at you, expression barely changing. There’s a faint furrow between his brows that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s assessing you or debating scolding you for nearly knocking yourself flat against him.
A beat of silence passes between you, in which you let your curious eyes roam shamelessly on his face, before dropping to his impossibly large shoulders. Heat tingles low in your stomach, before a hint of embarrassment curls through you at how obvious you must look beneath his unwavering stare.
Someone clears their throat behind you, but you can’t look away. You don’t want to.
“Honey, let the gentleman go, c’mon.” Sarah grabs your wrist while wrapping her other arm around your waist to gently steer you away.
The long fingers around your forearm jump back as if your skin burned him.
“Nice costume, man. Looks expensive.” Nicole nods at the strange guy, still standing rigidly in the same spot. Only his eyes move, tracking you carefully as your friends lead you toward the entrance at an unhurried pace.
Something about him feels off and Sarah has no interest in provoking some potentially dangerous individual. After all, nights like these are full of creeps looking to take advantage of crowded parties and drunk girls.
Still, you glance back twice.
Each time, you catch him still looking at you.
Before fully crossing the threshold and navigating the sea of intoxicated students, your head turns one last time. The stranger is now facing the house with his shoulders squared beneath his dark clothes, and a stupid little thrill runs through your veins at the thought that maybe he might be here for the party as well.
Years without being touched by anything except harsh hands and cold medical equipment, and what unravels the Winter Soldier is a sweet-looking girl wearing bunny ears and clothes so tight he could almost trace the shape of her nipples.
He can’t remember the last time he felt such a delicate thing brush against him.
Because you are soft. Too soft. Too pretty. He could snap your bones with one twist of his wrist, yet you looked at him like you wanted to be swallowed whole.
His heartbeat has not slowed down since the moment his hand closed around your arm. And as much as he wanted to glare at your friend the moment she took you away from him, he had taken the chance to study your body properly: from the luscious curve of your hips straining against that pathetic excuse for a skirt, to the way your tits threatened to spill from the indecent corset that looked almost painted onto your torso. The fishnet stockings bit into your flesh with every step you took, the tiny bows stitched along the hems probably meant to make the costume cute, but to the Soldier, they only made it filthier.
But the thing that truly made him swallow thickly was the puffy, white cotton tail sewn to the back of your skirt, right at the top of your ass.
Fake.
Such a shame.
He could picture it so clearly: grabbing it between his fingers and tugging until you made that sweet little sound again for him.
It makes his jaw clench beneath the mask.
With a sharp shake of his head, the Soldier forces the intrusive thoughts away.
You weren’t supposed to be here. Nobody was.
The orders had been clear: break in, eliminate everyone inside, then wait at the nearest safe house for extraction.
No witnesses.
The target is a former HYDRA scientist who’d escaped over a decade ago. He’d covered his tracks well, moving states almost yearly, changing names often enough to become little more than smoke in old files. The Soldier vaguely wonders if the man had worked on the Winter Soldier project at some point, even if there would be no way to know. The face in the mission folder had looked painfully ordinary. Like all the others.
The wife and son were to be eliminated too, if present.
HYDRA had enforced the no witness rule brutally during his earlier missions. Back when he still hesitated. Back when stray civilians had managed to survive because he’d been too uncertain.
He can almost feel the scars across his back throb faintly at the memory—a lesson carved into flesh.
However, this situation is entirely new for the Asset.
For starters, the black SUV belonging to the scientist is missing from its usual spot in the driveway. And considering the mansion now resembles a nightclub overflowing with sweaty college students in cheap costumes, the target is clearly elsewhere.
He can’t proceed with the mission.
HYDRA hasn’t contacted him with further instructions either, which means he’s expected to wait at the designated safe house until retrieval. That could mean tomorrow. Or next week.
The Soldier looks back at the house spilling laughter and obnoxious music into the cold night air, then glances down at his gloved hand, slowly flexing his fingers.
Your warmth still seems trapped against his palm.
With a quiet exhale, barely audible beneath the pounding bass, he starts walking toward the door.
Inside, it’s pure chaos.
The bass from the speakers had already been rattling the lawn outside, but in here it practically punches through your rib cage. You roll your eyes at the umpteenth awful EDM remix of some new pop song you don’t even know the lyrics to. Personally, you’d rather dance to early 2000s hits—preferably ones not butchered by a DJ with a SoundCloud account and too much confidence.
People spill through every hallway of the mansion. The improvised dance floor is packed shoulder to shoulder with students clumsily grinding against each other beneath flashing purple lights, while smaller groups cling to the walls, shouting over the music with red cups clenched in their hands.
The smell hits the second you step inside: a mix of cheap perfume, spilled beer soaked into hardwood floors, and sweat that makes your nose wrinkle—all layered beneath the sickeningly sweet scent of vape smoke. Laughter ricochets off the high ceilings, blending with shrill screams every time the DJ blasts the fog machine over the crowd.
A staggering vampire bumps hard into your shoulder, nearly sending you wobbling off your pumps, but Sarah promptly catches your elbow before you can stumble. She immediately sends his back a glare, before shooting a look of utter disgust toward a group of visibly wasted frat boys gathered around the kitchen island.
“I hate college.” She gags dramatically, scowling as they loudly dare each other to shotgun whatever neon-colored concoction the host is pouring into their plastic cups.
You grin at her because, honestly, Sarah would rather be home wrapped in a blanket watching some obscure slasher movie marathon. But after the stunt she pulled last Halloween, you and Nicole practically dragged her here by force. Ever since her cheating ex, she’d shut men out entirely, and a small part of you hopes tonight might finally loosen her up enough to flirt with some attractive masked stranger for a few hours.
Your attention drifts toward the windows lining the far wall. Beyond the glass, the quiet street stretches through the chilly night, washed in pale streetlights.
The strange man is nowhere to be seen.
Almost immediately, your eyes flick toward the front door, scanning person after person as they wander in and out. Vampires. Cheerleaders. Devils. Witches. Cowboys.
No sign of the hot, tall man in black tactical gear.
Disappointment settles strangely heavy in your chest. With a small, dejected sigh, you turn back toward your friends, who are currently debating whether it’s worth risking the kitchen—where there’s at least a seventy percent chance of walking in on some couple making out—for drinks, or staying in the living room to dance instead.
Adjusting your bunny ears with a small smile, you vote for alcohol.
“Hey, Nic!”
All three of you turn at the sound of a familiar voice.
Jacob, captain of the basketball team, jogs toward your group, stopping directly in front of Nicole with an easy grin plastered across his face.
“Hey, girls. Nice costumes.” He grins, wiggling his fingers at you and Sarah in greeting. She gives him a flat nod in return.
“Hi, Jacob! You too!” You smile politely, before leaning closer to your friend. “Is that a... basketball uniform?” You mumble into her ear.
“Of course.” She raises both eyebrows, pressing her lips together as she fights a chuckle at the sight of your college team’s uniform.
Jacob isn’t a bad guy. Just a little painfully self-absorbed. And maybe slightly too obsessed with basketball—to the point where being team captain has somehow become his entire personality. Nicole went on one date with him last semester and came back with a migraine after listening to him talk about playoff rankings for nearly two hours straight.
She’d tried letting him down gently afterward, but he insisted on staying friends. Now he trails after her like an overgrown golden retriever.
“Which player did he dress up as?” You ask quietly.
Sarah’s face goes completely blank. She stares at you for a full second, mouth opening and closing once before she gives up entirely and decides eavesdropping on their conversation is more worthwhile.
“I need a teammate for beer pong,” he mentions offhandedly, pointing toward the long folding table at the far end of the living room, where rows of red cups are already set up beneath flashing lights.
Nicole grimaces slightly. “I don’t know. Maybe later? I’m with my friends right now.”
“Don’t worry about us, Nic.” You interrupt immediately, grabbing Sarah’s arm before she can object. “We’re getting drinks, then we’ll come find you, right?”
Sarah smirks at Jacob’s instantly hopeful expression and nods once.
“See?” He spreads his arms dramatically. “C’mon, we’re gonna crush them. Don’t you remember? You’ve got a winning streak to defend.”
Nicole laughs—a sharp, bright sound that somehow cuts through the pounding music.
“Okay, fine.” She sighs, sending you a half-smile.
As she steps beside him, someone near the table suddenly shouts her name. Then another voice joins in. Within seconds, half the group is chanting Nicole! loud enough to rival a halftime show.
Throwing her arms into the air, she pumps her fists along with the cheers like she’s entering a stadium instead of a living room.
Sarah shakes her head before nudging you toward the kitchen. “C’mon, Lola Bunny. Let’s get a drink.”
If his handlers found out about this, he isn’t sure he would get away with something as mild as hair pulling and a few lashes on his back.
“Cool outfit, dude!”
A guy dressed up as a banana—only his face visible through the costume—shouts after him. The Soldier glances at him briefly, expression unreadable, before continuing to run a silent scan of the room, re-evaluating the night’s target. His enhanced senses catch everything at once, unfortunately: from the humid press of bodies, to the sour-sweet spill of rum beside the DJ booth. Sweat and perfume and alcohol mingle into something thick and suffocating.
“Shit, man. That’s a nice costume you got there.” Someone slurs behind him. “Looks like real metal—” Before the hand can even reach his wrist, instincts detonate and his fingers clutch the guy’s forearm.
Hard.
“Ow ow ow—sorry sorry! Y—You’re crushing my bones, dude!”
The man wearing a cheap Jack Sparrow costume goes pale beneath the eyeliner, features twisting in pain as the Asset looms over him, a silent threat carved into posture alone.
At some point, he registers a small cluster of students turning towards them, whispering with curiosity blooming into something sharper.
Exhaling, the Soldier ultimately decides to release his grip. The pirate stumbles back into his friend, who immediately starts scolding him about consent and personal space.
Satisfied with the clear warning, the Soldier turns around, moving again through the crowd.
He raises an eyebrow, scanning the sea of people with his keen eyes. Finally, he catches a familiar pair of bunny ears excitedly turning left and right.
He walks to a dark corner of the living room with deliberate ease, folding his arms across his chest and leisurely resting back against the wall.
And he waits.
Nicole’s yellow and navy-blue plaid jacket is neatly draped across Sarah’s arm as she rolls up the sleeves of her shirt, a cocky grin spreading across her face.
“Watch and learn, losers.” She snaps, reaching for a ping-pong ball.
From the sidelines, Sarah offers a shout of encouragement, her voice already a little hoarse from all the previous screaming as Nicole sank those balls one right after the other in the rival team’s cups with brutal consistency. You lean into her slightly, eyes tracking the table from one end to the other as a red cup still full of peach vodka sits loosely in your hand, mostly forgotten as you watch the game unfold.
Nicole lines up her shot with practiced ease, wrist flicking at just the right angle. The ball arcs, drops, and sinks cleanly into the last cup with a satisfying splash.
The crowd erupts, chants of her name break out from multiple directions as you and Sarah cheer, briefly pulling Nicole into a tight, celebratory hug. Jacob throws himself at her, and she shrieks as his muscled arms lift her body from the ground, parading your friend around like he would do with the player scoring at the last minute of an important game. Nicole blows a kiss at the losing team, and once her feet touch the floor again, she bows before the intoxicated crowd surrounding the table.
You dart forward to hug her again, while Sarah claps behind you, still laughing.
“God, you were amazing. That was a really Tour de France!” You beam excitedly, but Nicole just stares at you deadpan for a second, before bursting out laughing, too tipsy to deal with your clueless ass.
“Thank you, bunny.”
“Also, Jacob is still very much smitten with you.” Your eyebrows wriggle up and down and Nicole is already sighing half-amused, lips parting to say something, but Sarah’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Her expression tightens, focus snapping in place as she leans closer to you and Nicole, lowering her voice.
“Tactical guy is here.”
“Who?”
“The weird guy you bumped into outside. Black gear and blue eyes. Tactical guy.” She explains as if her choice of the nickname should be obvious.
He’s easy to spot because he doesn’t belong here—not in movement, not in stillness, not in anything about the way he stands. He towers above the crowd in matte black, posture too controlled and a judging frown permanently etched on his features.
The people around him are too inebriated to notice him, yet he doesn’t even spare a mere glance to anyone who isn’t you, not even the girl in a lingerie-level costume strutting up and down the room, hoping to catch the attention of his icy eyes.
She doesn’t know he’s busy admiring a much better view that is making his pants tighter and tighter the more he studies it.
“Holy shit,” Nicole gasps. “He’s staring at you.”
Your stomach does a weird flip at her confirmation. At least you aren’t imagining it.
“Yeah, and it’s creepy as hell. He hasn’t blinked once in the past five minutes.” Sarah frowns, goosebumps running up and down her arms. Nicole just smirks, eyes flicking between him and your parted lips.
“Go talk to him!”
“What? No way!” Sarah retorts, her head snapping towards the other. “He looks like he eats people like her for breakfast.”
“Duh, that’s exactly her type!” Nicole chuckles, nudging you forward as she gently takes the cup of vodka from your hand. “C’mon, put on that pretty smile of yours and he’ll be asking you to go upstairs before the next song starts.”
Across the room, his steady gaze still hasn’t moved.
Sarah grabs your right arm again. “Seriously, something’s off about him.”
“Boring!” Nicole says in a singsong voice, rolling her eyes to the sky. “We’re literally right here if anything happens.” She touches your left elbow, subtly pushing you forward.
If this were a cartoon, they’d be the angel and devil arguing over your shoulders.
You grin as usual, even if your heart is pounding so fast you are sure it’s going to come out of your chest any moment now.
With a small nod, you leave your two bickering friends behind and slowly make your way through the bodies swaying to the beat of Candy Shop. Your heels click against the sticky floor, until they stop short in front of the brooding man.
“Hey.” You smile, shouting over the music. “You look kinda lonely. It’s okay if you don’t know anyone, first parties are totally the worst. At my first college party, I ended up throwing up on my crush’s shoes after kissing him.” He doesn’t answer, but a deep line forms between his eyebrows.
“You’re very quiet, but that’s fine. My friend Sarah says I talk enough for two people. Or a whole group, depends on how much caffeine I’ve had.” You shrug.
Still nothing.
“So, um… what’s your name?” You tilt your head, this time expecting at least a reluctant answer, but the guy just keeps staring down at you with an unreadable expression.
“You’re the silent type, hm?” You muse, your amused chuckle soft. “That’s okay. You’re like those spy movie protagonists who never smile until the very end, and then make everyone swoon the second they do.”
He blinks once. Slowly. Maybe a little confused?
“Anyway,” your manicured fingers adjust your bunny headband as you introduce yourself. “I don’t know if you remember but I actually ran into you earlier outside. Sorry again about that. I’m a little clumsy.” You clear your throat, taking a step forward.
“You really are a good listener, by the way!” You sigh dreamily. “Most guys just check their phones halfway through our conversation.”
“So,” You lean closer, slightly standing on the tip of your toes. “Do you want to dance? You look like you need to loosen up a little.” Your eyes immediately fall down to his torso, following the sculpted muscles hidden under those heavy clothes. It’s honestly a miracle slick doesn’t start running down your thighs the moment you realize he could literally pin you to the ground and have his wicked way with you right here in the middle of the party.
Well, you spoke too fast.
The flimsy pair of panties you chose tonight to avoid the outline to be seen through the fit skirt, is getting damper. The thought of this beefy man fucking you until you pass out tickles the back of your brain for a second too long, and suddenly your thighs are clenching against each other in a way you are certain went unnoticed.
It didn’t. But you couldn’t know that the man in front of you is an enhanced individual who could probably track you from a single sniff of your pussy.
The pungent scent of something inherently you teases his nostrils even through the thick black mask. Yet he hesitates, as though he’s trying to determine whether ignoring you would make this conversation end faster. The problem is, he isn’t entirely sure he wants it to end. On one hand, he doubts he can keep himself together much longer if you continue speaking to him in that sweet voice, especially while standing this close to his starved body.
On the other… he doesn’t want to leave you.
But then you slip your hand into his left one, and his body stiffens.
“Wow, your hands are freezing!” You mention casually, squeezing his palm once. It’s indeed cold and weirdly smooth. Before his brain can fully process the alarming ease with which you’ve intertwined your fingers with the most dangerous weapon he possesses, you are unknowingly leading the fucking Winter Soldier straight onto a dance floor packed with sweaty college students—him silent and tense behind you, you practically glowing with excitement.
Yet, he doesn’t dare to stop you.
Why would he do that? A gorgeous girl with soft hands and even softer eyes has been watching him like he embodies all her prohibited wet fantasies. He would be a cruel bastard to deny this pretty thing anything.
The dance floor is a chaos of flashing lights and flailing arms that makes the Soldier’s breath hitch, but you don’t give up, and lead him right into the middle of it.
“Okay!” You yell over the music—far too close—and raise a finger. “Rule number one: just move! Don’t think too much about it or you’ll get self-conscious. I’m talking from experience.” Then raise a second one. “Rule number two: have fun!”
He just stands there—stiff as a marble statue—blue eyes darting back and forth, as if he can’t decide whether to scan the crowd like he’s on guard duty or watch the angel swaying her sinful hips right in front of him.
“See? It’s easy! Just let the music guide you.”
You smile anyway at his lack of response, peering up at him through your eyelashes. “You know, you look so cool. You’ve got this very brooding bodyguard vibe going on, like I’m some rich, dangerous man’s daughter and you’re protecting me from his enemies trying to harm me.”
Another confused blink.
“Maybe I read too many fanfics.” You ponder under your breath, before you reprise your little tantalizing moves, giggling as your fingers barely wrap around both of his wrists to coax him to move with you.
Somewhere at the edge of the improvised dance floor, Nicole is whooping, bouncing on her feet like an overexcited puppy as she takes a sip of your drink. Beside her, Sarah observes the scene appalled.
“Shit.” She mutters, tiredly dragging a hand down her face.
“I like your company. You don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Also, you’re kind of scary—but like, in a cute way.” You chuckle, twirling once and nearly bumping into him again.
That’s when it happens.
A slow, careful shift of his shoulders, but it still is something. His movements are stiff, precise, like his body is negotiating with itself about whether it’s allowed to respond at all. But it’s enough to make you smile satisfied.
The heavy bass pulses hard through your bones, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget he isn’t even really dancing, yet his presence feels like gravity: solid, unshakable, dragging attention toward him without trying.
You turn once again, this time giving him your back. His hand accidentally brushes your hip, causing you to shiver at the faintest twitch of his fingers. They jump back at his side, flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to touch you.
You tilt your head up at him, eyelashes lowered just enough to make it feel deliberate. “Are you having fun, big guy?”
You don’t expect an answer, obviously, but the way his gaze sharpens, intensely following the movement of your lips, is enough for you. It’s not unsettling. On the contrary, it feels… focused. And you already love being the centre of his undivided attention.
The music slows into a deeper beat, couples around you melting closer together, so you get bolder. Initially it’s your back simply brushing against his chest. And then, you unexpectedly find yourself gasping as his right arm circles your waist, keeping you firmly to his front. His jaw locks as you rub yourself against his solid body, your ass inevitably grinding against his bulge. For a second, you really think he might actually say something. Instead, his chest moves behind you with a slow exhale.
“You are so beautiful.” He murmurs against your neck, almost too quiet to hear. As a matter of fact, you don’t catch that, the words being swallowed by the loud song and the thick mask.
“Not so bad, right?” You bite your bottom lip, turning your face back enough to glance at him.
But your lips accidentally brush his mask and the last thread keeping his brain anchored to sanity rips in half.
“Oh!” A loud squeal erupts from your lips as the man spins you around and takes you into his arms. Suddenly, the world is hanging upside down.
Well, no. You are.
He throws your squirming body on his shoulder with an ease that should scare you, yet your stomach twists in excitement as you are kept completely still into his strong arms. You can feel several eyes burn through you as he struts towards the front door, an abrupt gust of cold wind sending a shiver down your spine as you realize he’s taking you somewhere outside.
“Oh my Gosh!” You giggle, feeling the urge to kick your legs like a teenage girl gushing about her crush.
He’s taking you to the woods. This is really happening!
Inside, Nicole freezes mid-sip. “What the—is he taking her away?”
“I told you! Fuck, Nicole! I told you!” Sarah shrieks, running to the door with her friend in tow. They both stop on the porch, eyes frantically searching into the darkness, until they see you waving at them from his shoulder, grinning ear to ear.
“Don’t wait up!” Nicole bursts out laughing, astonished.
“Holy shit, look at her, she’s loving it!”
Sarah groans in response, pressing a hand to her forehead, her chest heaving with quick, short breaths. “She’s giggling. She’s actually giggling. Why is she giggling?”
Nicole simply shrugs. “If a quiet, huge masked man with those gorgeous eyes picked me up like that to fuck me in the woods, I’d giggle too.”
They observe in silence as you get smaller and smaller, until you completely disappear amongst the dense trees. Nicole sighs, placing her hands on her hips.
“Well, you heard her, don’t need to wait up.” She claps once, skipping down the front steps.
“Where the fuck are you going? Of course we’re gonna wait for her to come back.” Nicole stops at the bottom of the stoop, throwing Sarah a deadpan look.
“You really think she’s coming back here? They will probably go at it like bunnies—pun not intended—all night, and then he’s going to take her home tomorrow morning.” She climbs two steps, grasping her friend’s wrist. “Like any adult having fun on Halloween.” She tugs at it, until Sarah reluctantly complies, hesitatingly following her to the Nissan.
“I don’t know, Nic. There’s something wrong about him—”
“So what if the guy is quiet? Maybe he just wants to stay in character.” She huffs, raising both her eyebrows expectantly.
“Mmh... that makes sense.” Sarah mutters, frowning at the trees. “Where are we going, by the way?”
“Home. And we are watching the new The Conjuring. You look miserable here.”
“Well thanks, you asshole.”
“You still haven’t told me your name.” You breathe out, yet to be released. After a few seconds of silence, you huff out a laugh. “You really don’t talk much, do you? By the way, that exit was so dramatic. I loved it!” He grunts in reply, shaking his head. It’s a deep sound that makes your legs shake a little, and you hope you’ll hear it again when he pounds you against a tree.
The walk feels endless as you dangle upside down, forced to watch the ground without anyone to talk to. Finally, he stops in a rather secluded place, and from the looks of it, you must be quite far from Ethan’s house.
Good. You don’t need some wandering drunk couple ruining your night.
As soon as your heels touch the crouching leaves scattered on the damp land, you shriek in surprise, finding yourself pinned to a tree as the man’s hands eagerly explore the sides of your body.
“O—oh! That—that feels nice.” You gasp when his palms squeeze your tits, his thumbs roughly stroking your nipples. The Asset’s eyes don’t know where to focus, torn between your hazy eyes staring up at him pleadingly and the outline of your turgid nubs pressing insistently against the fabric of your top.
“I need to kiss you.” He mumbles, the tip of your nose brushing against his mask. The hoarseness in his voice makes you flinch. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in a while... A long while.
“I don’t understand you.” You complain, clinging onto his vest to keep him close. He sighs, abruptly leaving your chest to cradle your face with a certain rudeness that twists your insides with arousal.
“Kiss. But you close… eyes…” He utters tentatively, staring right into your sparkling eyes. “Don’t look.”
The implications of seeing his face are several and dire. First and foremost, he doesn’t even remember the last time he saw his reflection, and his heart wouldn’t bear a potential rejection. What HYDRA forces him to do is repulsive, but of course you don’t know who he is—and you don’t need to. His face could reflect that repulsiveness though, and be in the worst conditions known to mankind. At that point, why would someone as lovely as you allow him to taint your body with his touch?
Plus, recognizing him would mean putting a target as large as a skyscraper on your back. If anyone were to ever find out about this, you would be in serious danger with both legal and illegal organizations.
The less you know, the better.
Your eager nod momentarily sets his worries, your hands immediately shooting up to cover your face. The Soldier’s mouth twists into what should be a small smile, but probably looks more like a grimace after years of his features knowing only pain and anger. His trembling fingers reach for the side of the mask, stopping there briefly to take you in. He waits, just enough to make sure you are actually following his order. Then, the device is tossed to the side with an uncaring flick of his hand, falling on the ground with a dull thud.
His fingers shake as they wrap around each of your wrists, waiting.
“Kiss, but… don’t look.” He repeats, his voice coming out in a rough, agitated whisper.
“My eyes are closed.” You swear, giving him a resolute nod. The Soldier lowers your hands with great care, until he can see your pinched expression as you keep your eyes squeezed shut.
And then, your lips finally meet. From the way he was treating you a second ago, you would think he was going to kiss you just as softly, like a doll made of glass.
Wrong.
The kiss is feral. His teeth clash against yours, biting and tasting you as if he has been waiting for you his whole life, his tongue frantically searching yours as his hands keep your jaw firmly open, allowing him to do whatever he wants with you.
And you can’t help a needy whimper from clawing out of your throat.
The Soldier pulls you closer to his chest, his metal arm now wrapping around your waist as the other hand traces a slow path down your body, from the side of your breast to your exposed thigh, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps.
He knows he just crossed an inviolable line he won’t easily come back from. He was ruined the moment he decided to look for you inside that chaotic mansion instead of following HYDRA’s orders. Yet, that stinging guilt rapidly crumbles the more he kisses this sweet creature.
He has yearned for something warm for so long. Something soft, and pretty, and nice. Something that is completely and utterly his. And now, it is time to finally collect what he is owed.
The sloppy kiss is met with eagerness from your part, your hands urgently tugging at his vest to keep him pressed against your squirming form. You need more. You need to feel him too.
He reaches for the corset first, pulling both cups down until your breasts spill free from their confines. Once his lips leave yours to focus on your neck, you let out a gasp at how dizzy you feel—your head has been spinning all along because of the intensity radiating off him.
Your moans are still pretty restrained, and the Asset doesn’t like that at all. He wants to hear you whimper for him, beg him to paint your insides white, scream his name over and over again in that sweet voice of yours.
His name.
He doesn’t own a name.
Maybe you could give him one. You sound like a creative girl, with all your silly little anecdotes.
When his mouth finally reaches the swell of your chest, the sight of your soft, bare tits makes him grunt appreciatively. His lips immediately latch onto one of your nipples, while his capable fingers flick and tug at the other. Your whimpers echo through the small clearing as he uses his teeth to lightly pull at your sensitive nub, moaning as he feels it hardening in his mouth. The way he kneads and sucks at your soft skin reminds you of a starving man being offered food after a week without eating.
The Soldier has never seen a more beautiful pair of breasts in his entire life. Well, he doesn’t remember ever looking at a woman’s chest before, but if he did, he is sure it wouldn’t even get close to yours.
The hickeys that now mark the tender skin of your tits are burning, causing you to flinch each time the Soldier’s tongue worships them softly.
“What—oh shit—what’s your name?” You utter between your own wanton noises, eyes still closed as your head falls back against the bark of the tree. Your bare back keeps brushing against it as your body jerks in time with his tongue stroking your nipples. They are so sore, tingling whenever he leaves one exposed to the chilly October air to give the other some love. Still, the scratches on your back are already burning as the coarse surface cruelly scrapes your skin, and you’re certain they are going to hurt so bad in the following days.
The Asset momentarily leaves your nub with a wet pop, frowning up at your parted lips. He grips your jaw with one hand, keeping your mouth open while rising to his full height. He gathers a bit of saliva, before letting it fall gently onto your tongue. Your breath hitches at the unexpected, lewd act.
“Swallow.” His cock twitches at the way you obey at once.
“Soldat.” His voice is authoritative, leaving no space for questions and doubts, before going back to lavish your nipples. Your eyebrows momentarily knit in confusion, not understanding what it means.
Is it a video game character? Is that why he’s all geared up like some sort of spy?
Your brain doesn’t have the time to elaborate a sensible question, as a twist of your poor, abused peaks draws a loud cry out of your throat.
The scent coming from between your legs is now too much for his straining cock. He needs to taste all of you: your mouth is sweet, your breasts are sweet... but the Soldier is certain your pussy is even sweeter.
With an annoyed huff at the realization he has to leave your tits, he makes quick work of removing his tactical vest, tossing it on the ground. You squeal as you are once again lifted in the air; still, you keep your eyes firmly shut and that makes his expression soften a little.
“You’re such a good girl for me, sweetheart.” With a small peck, he takes you away from the poor tree that has already witnessed enough for one night, manhandling you down on your knees and guiding your hands on the ground to make you understand he wants you on all four.
“Stay.” The order growled right into your ear, along with his hands squeezing your hips, makes you whimper and nod quickly as a reflex.
Now that he’s behind you, you deem the situation safe enough for you to slowly open your eyes. Black spots soon materialize out of nowhere, yet you notice immediately the rough fabric underneath you.
“Oh,” you blink at it. “Thank you, Soldat.”
There might be a feral beast clawing at his chest, challenging him to take you right there right now, over and over again, but he doesn’t want the rough ground to scratch your knees and palms. The softness in your voice makes him tense up, enough to feel an unfamiliar sting behind his eyes. His name—his title—said with so much gentleness stokes the flames in his lower belly until he feels a damn blaze licking at his insides.
You barely catch the black glove being discarded to the side as his calloused hands grope your hips, pushing you back against his crotch. You gasp at the ferocity he puts into his thrusts as he starts rutting your ass, grunting and panting with the effort of not coming in his pants like a fucking virgin seeing a pretty girl half-naked for the first time.
“This is what you’ve done to me.” He groans under his breath.
“Soldat…” You hum, one arm reaching behind to caress a strong thigh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to come like this, humping me like an animal.” The little airy giggle you let out makes him swallow, a shiver running down his back at those mocking words that should make him recoil. Instead, the fire grows, and before he can regain control of his body, his hips stop abruptly.
His nimble fingers don’t waste any more time, lifting the hem of your skirt until your ass is completely at his mercy.
“Yes, yes!” You encourage him, gently rocking back. The heady scent is stronger now, but it’s still not enough. The flimsy panties leave you with a sad ripping noise and a feral growl rumbling in his chest. A gasp falls from your lips at the sudden bareness of your core, giggling when you hear him inhale deeply. Is he smelling your underwear? Fuck, you want to turn around so bad and enjoy the show.
The Soldier almost drools when your scent clings to his nose, along with your slick soiling the delicate fabric. He clumsily stuffs your panties into his pocket, shifting around until he’s lying right beneath the lower half of your body.
“C’mere, bunny.” His digits sink into the skin of your thighs, forcing you down until you are fully sitting on his face. “It’s time to eat.”
“Wait! Oh, fuck!” Your lips part pathetically around a breathy moan as his tongue looks for your clit, pulling your knees apart until you’re completely spread open for him. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your hips uncontrollably buckle down, clawing at the vest when the tip of his tongue leisurely flicks your throbbing nub.
A loud moan escapes your lips when he finally breaches your hole, eating and sucking as if he’s savoring the most exquisite delicacy he’s ever had the chance to taste. Your body squirms at the unforgiving stimulation, still, you’re covering his face like a fucking oxygen mask and you’re far too worried he’s not breathing at all.
“S—Soldat, wait! You can’t brea—AH!” A smacking sound echoes through the air as his palm leaves his mark on your asscheek. “Fuck, please! Do it again.” You beg, hips grinding down without restraint as slick shamelessly falls into his waiting mouth.
Finally.
The Asset internally preens at your enthusiastic reaction to something he did so spontaneously. Unprompted. Human.
Because you are not treating him like a ruthless weapon. A lethal killer that acts in the shadow. An ugly experiment with no dignity left.
But like a man.
So he does it again. And again.
“Taste so good, my pretty bunny.” He rasps out, returning to your clit, two of his fingers curling inside you in the meantime. You yelp, the knot in your belly getting closer and closer to snapping. Your asscheeks are burning, yet you don’t stop his punishing palm, instead arching up into his hand every time it comes down on your tender skin.
“I’m gonna come.” You mumble deliriously, sobbing when in response his metal palm smacks your ass before meanly grabbing the tender flesh, and a third finger joins the other two, pounding against that sweet spot of yours before your orgasm hits you out of nowhere.
“Fuck fuck—Soldat!”
He wonders what he’s going to do from now on when he hears that word. It would be impossible to not get hard as your delightful whines resound through his mind.
Your hole clenches desperately as he nurses on your throbbing clit one last time, panting heavily once he lifts your shaky thighs up.
“Holy shit.” He whispers surprised, licking his lips clean. His lower face is completely damp with your arousal, and in that moment he decides he’s not going to wash his face until the scent disappears on its own.
The Soldier takes a good, long look at your trembling body, now back on his knees behind you. His palms gently caress your raw skin, pulling a shiver out of you as one of his two palms is colder than the other, yet the sensation is soothing against your burning cheeks.
He would really love to kiss the sensitive spots until you fall asleep, but he can’t stop now, not when his cock is painfully craving to be inside you, his imposing bulge pushing forcefully against his pants.
The rustling sounds behind you are loud but you can’t find it in yourself to focus, still dizzy after the violent orgasm Soldat drew out of you mercilessly. You are not inexperienced by any means, yet you’ve never come this hard and fast in your life. You wonder if it’s the whole situation influencing you—being half-naked in the woods while a feral, beefy stranger eats your pussy as if it’s his last day on Earth—or if he’s just that good.
Maybe it’s a mix of both, maybe it’s something else. You don’t care. You just want him to rearrange your insides. Now.
You seem to share the same sentiment as your eyes widen at his cock obstinate at your wet folds. Your gasp soon morphs into a startled moan when the tip slides inside. The way he feeds you his length is far from careful, and without warning, your hole is tightening around all of him.
The Soldier needs to take a deep breath, the muscles in his abdomen clenching to prevent himself from disappointing you by spilling his cum at once.
When was the last time he was intimate with someone? When was the last time he felt something other than fear?
He doesn’t hold back, gradually pulling back, before lust takes over him and your trembling arms give up under you. You fall forward with a whimper, resting your cheek on his vest as his grip on your hips becomes brutal, and barely catching the foreign words being muttered under his breath.
You are delirious with pleasure, the stretch of his thick girth burning so good you can’t breath—for a second you truly fear your hole is going to tear apart.
It’s almost humiliating how it takes only a big cock and a pair of broad shoulders to reduce you to a shaky mess of moans and whimpers.
“Beautiful, sweet creature... you’re so lovely.” The obscene, sloppy noises of your pussy swallowing every inch of him drives him insane. You’re like heaven incarnate wrapped around him, and he refuses to leave, his hips barely pulling back as he clumsily humps you from behind.
“Mine, mine, mine.” You whisper the name he gave you, lying helpless with your eyes rolled into oblivion and drool soaking the dark fabric under you. It’s a miracle how the bunny headband still survives on your head as his harsh thrusts push your body back and forth, your fingers weakly holding onto the same ruined vest that your nipples brush against, now rubbed raw and sensitive.
“That’s a good girl. She’s squeezing me so tight, baby. I can’t let you go now that I found you, need to keep you forever here around my cock.” He grits out, head falling back as he feels his orgasm dangerously close, yet he’s ready to deny himself over and over again until he can feel you come around him again.
“Bet you’d like that... be my little cumdump until you are too full it starts spilling down your thighs. But I’ll just fuck more into you and then everyone will know you are fucking mine.” That’s when, with his mind clouded by pure pleasure, he reaches between your wet thighs, experimentally spanking your clit.
“Fuck!” Your squeal pulls a smirk on his lips, prompting him to do that again, his thrusts still frantic and erratic.
“Take it, my sweet little bunny. That’s it.”
Your nub throbs as the man fucking you like an animal smacks it repeatedly, and you’re certain he’s enjoying himself so much watching you jolt each time, panting like a dog the louder you whimper. His tip relentlessly taps your sweet spot, and it’s just a matter of time before you let out a delirious moan, walls tightening as your second climax washes over you—this time leaving you stiff and crying as wave after wave of bliss settle deep in your bones.
“Got… you.” The Asset grits out breathless as he buries his cock deep into you with a hard, final thrust, succumbing to the overwhelming sensation of your hole squeezing him. He falls over the edge with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your insides at once—there’s so much of it you almost choke at the unfamiliar yet pleasant sensation of being stuffed full.
You shiver under him, exhausted but sated, yet the Soldier doesn’t seem to want to budge, still hugging you tight as his thighs shakes at every little twitch of his cock.
It feels too much.
His dick snug inside your tight heat, your body held with care by the same hands soiled with innocents’ blood, the sudden emptiness in his chest after such a heavenly experience... Should he cry? He feels like crying. He’s almost certain of it, though he doesn’t understand why. He just had the best night of his entire life with the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
Still, the weird sensation sits somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar, pressing against ribs that only know obedience and survival.
He knows he’ll have to move eventually, reality catching up to him the moment he steps too far from this strange warmth you keep offering so freely.
But he doesn’t want to let you go yet.
Honestly, he isn’t sure he can.
“Soldat, my back hurts.” Your voice is feeble yet tinted with amusement. Still, he scrambles on his knees, pulling out carefully in fear of hurting you. You wheeze softly at the sudden loss, your weak arms barely moving at your sides as you try to get yourself into an upright position, but the man behind you has other plans. You find yourself facing him at once, gently led down until your back is touching the vest.
With your mind too foggy with exhaustion, it is hard to remember the only rule he gave you. And shock flashes across your face the moment you can finally see Soldat’s handsome features clearly.
Your lips part, a compliment already rising to the surface, but it never makes it out. His hands come up instead, cradling your face with surprising tenderness before guiding you into a slow, lingering kiss. There’s no urgency in his actions this time, no hunger sharpened by desperation. Just some deep and achingly careful adoration that makes your heart clench painfully all the same. The kind of kiss that feels dangerously close to a goodbye. Like he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.
He kisses you until your lungs are begging for oxygen, and when he finally pulls away, neither of you can move. His blue eyes simply observe you, urgently tracing your features with a spark of veneration glinting in his gaze.
You look like the personification of debauchery with your smudged mascara and lips swollen from kissing and biting, the poor bunny ears hanging crookedly from your hair after being fucked so crudely.
Yet, the Winter Soldier thinks he has never seen anything prettier.
“I looked at you.” You whisper softly, your dazed eyes dancing over his face with sleepy fascination, utterly devoid of remorse.
His right thumb lovingly strokes your cheek, and somewhere beneath the Soldier, beneath HYDRA’s cruelty, something human finally smiles back at you.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
Since you have officially become my like, number one slasher writer for my manzs Michael and Bo:
Could you pretty pls do Michael, Bo, and whoever you would like to write for with a fem!s/o that looks and acts like a ‘sweetheart’ in a (non republican lol) 50’s housewife type of way but cusses constantlyyy if that makes sense? Like, think Bree from Desperate Housewives with Gordon Ramsay’s profanity, so really sweet but just aggressive about it (I’m sorry if it doesn’t really make sense and feel free to not do it :))
Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who's a Sweetheart but Swears a Lot
Summary: Imagine Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who’s very cute and a sweetheart, but has an explosive temper and swears a lot.
A/N: As always your ideas are great, sorry for the delay in responding to requests, this week has been crazy, thank you for always sending requests, I'm always happy to write them.
Michael Myers
“Oh sugar, could you hand me that fuckin’ chainsaw?”
You were a contradiction wrapped in satin gloves.
The first time Michael saw you, you were standing outside your little retro house at the end of a quiet suburban street. The morning sun hit your lemon-yellow dress like a halo, and your lipstick was cherry red — perfect, untouched. You were watering your garden, hips swaying to some old doo-wop song playing faintly from a vintage radio inside.
You looked like you belonged on the front of a Betty Crocker box.
Until you dropped the hose, stepped in the mud, and muttered loud enough for God and the birds to hear:
“Goddamn motherfucker, not these heels again, Christ on a fuckin’ cracker—”
And then, sweet as pie, you looked up and waved at your neighbor with a sunny:
“Good morning, Mr. Owens! Hope your prostate’s treatin’ ya better today!”
Michael stood there in the bushes, frozen. Not stalking you — yet — just... watching. Bewildered. You were both doll-like and chaotic. Sugar-laced thunder.
He kept watching. Days turned into weeks. You vacuumed in heels. You baked cupcakes with little fondant pumpkins on top and left them on porches. You told the paperboy to “be careful on that shitty-ass bike or I’ll be scraping your spleen off the sidewalk,” with the voice of a lullaby. He was obsessed.
You didn’t even flinch the first time you saw him up close.
You came home from grocery shopping to find a six-foot-tall man in a boiler suit and mask standing in your hallway. Most people would scream. You? You just exhaled like you were annoyed and dropped your bag of produce.
“Jesus tapdancin’ Christ, you scared the goddamn soul outta me. You one of them freaks from next door? If you’re gonna kill me, do it fast, I’ve got a roast in the oven and it’ll burn to hell if I don’t baste it in the next twenty minutes.”
He didn’t kill you.
You made him dinner instead.
From that point on, you just… accepted him.
You’d hum old love songs in the kitchen, apron tied tight around your waist, pearl necklace shining against your throat, muttering about the broken mixer like:
“Piece of shit sounds like it’s possessed by a meth head raccoon…”
And Michael? He just loomed in the doorway, silent as a shadow, following the scent of cinnamon and soap and that one perfume you always wore — something old-fashioned and soft. You never demanded anything from him. You didn’t cry, you didn’t run, you didn’t try to “fix” him.
But you did talk to him constantly.
“I made your favorite today, sugar. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The potatoes are fluffier than Satan’s ass cheeks, swear to God.”
“I put some more knives in the drawer for you. Good ones. Japanese steel, sharp as hell. Don’t say I don’t treat you right, you giant homicidal marshmallow.”
“If that little bitch Laurie peeks over my hedge one more time, I’m gonna march my ass over there and shove my spatula up her perky little nose.”
Michael never responded. But he stayed. That was his answer.
You weren’t scared of the mask. You even joked about it.
One day you got up in his face while adjusting his collar and whispered,
“You ever wanna try a pastel pink one, baby? I could match it to my oven mitts.”
And then you cackled like it was the funniest thing in the world while he just… stared.
And yet, somehow, your softness reached him. The way you’d gently rub circles on his hand when he sat at the kitchen table. The way you left him little notes like
“Gone to the market. Don’t kill anyone in the living room. ”
You swore like a sailor, but loved like the 1950s housewife you dressed as. Tender, thoughtful, present.
You patched up his wounds without hesitation, gently dabbing antiseptic and muttering,
“Jesus Christ, who put a fuckin’ meat hook through your shoulder? I’m gonna find that bastard and slap ‘em so hard they piss alphabet soup.”
Your touch was gentle even when your words were vicious.
The day he killed someone for you, it was the neighbor who kicked your cat.
You weren’t mad. You just sighed and kissed his jaw, eyes bright with a kind of knowing warmth as you said,
“Aw, baby… you didn’t have to. But hell, that guy was a dick. You want lemon bars?”
And he nodded.
In the end, you became the calm in his storm — even if you swore like the thunder itself.
Michael never needed words, and you didn’t need answers. You just needed someone who let you be exactly who you were:
A loving, doting, cupcake-baking, vintage-dressed, profanity-flinging badass with a heart of absolute gold.
And he needed someone who didn’t flinch when he got blood on the floor — someone who just sighed and muttered,
“That better not fuckin’ stain. I just mopped.”
.
Bo Sinclair
When Bo Sinclair first laid eyes on you, he thought he was hallucinating.
You were standing outside your charming little home just outside Ambrose — watering the flowerbeds, your pastel yellow sundress cinched at the waist, matching heels digging into the gravel as you shifted your weight. A vintage kerchief held back your curls, and a string of pearls hugged your neck. A picture-perfect 1950s vision — you even had a cherry pie cooling in the window.
He was halfway through imagining how to flirt with you when you turned, looked him dead in the eye, and called:
“You just gonna stand there like a goddamn creeper or you got somethin' to say, sugar?”
His jaw damn near hit the dirt.
You smiled so sweetly it gave him cavities. The kind of smile that made men forget what day it was. But the voice? You had a tone like a shotgun — all honey and gravel.
Bo didn’t know whether he wanted to date you or put you on a leash.
Bo, being a man of his own… colorful vocabulary, finds your style hilarious and magnetic.
You’ll bake him biscuits, hummin’ along to old vinyls in the kitchen, your frilly apron hugging your curves — and then you burn the second batch and shout:
“MotherFUCKER, I knew I set that damn oven too high, son of a BITCH!”
Bo leans in the doorway and just watches you — beer in hand, shit-eating grin on his face.
“You kiss me with that mouth, darlin’?”
“Damn right I do, sugarplum. You love this fuckin’ mouth.”
He does.
He likes to walk into rooms just to hear what’ll come out of your mouth next. It’s like a sport to him — poke the bear and see what kind of filthy poetry you’ll spit.
You’ll talk about needing to clean the curtains and insult Lester’s entire lineage in the same breath. You’ll lovingly rub Bo’s shoulders while telling him he’s your “big, sexy bastard,” then flip off a tourist from the porch with a fresh batch of lemonade in hand.
You don’t let Bo get away with being a temperamental shit. And that’s what really draws him to you — you challenge him, but in that sexy, playful, Southern-goth way.
“Bo, if you slam that fuckin’ door again, I swear on my mama’s ashes I’ll superglue your dick to a car battery.”
“You gonna wear that sleeveless shit in front of company, darlin’? Or are you tryin’ to start rumors?”
“Boy, I love you more than pie, but if you touch my ironing again, I will throw hands.”
Bo isn’t used to that. He’s used to people being scared of him, tiptoeing around his moods. You? You threaten to shove a wrench up his ass and then kiss his cheek and ask if he wants sweet tea or whiskey.
And what’s worse? It works. He actually listens to you. (Sometimes.)
You're fiercely loyal, despite your loud-ass mouth. If anyone — anyone — says anything sideways about Bo, they’re gonna have a whole lot more than tooth decay to worry about.
You’ve absolutely cornered some poor soul before like:
“Say one more fuckin’ word about my man’s scars and I swear to God I’ll take that spork and carve my name into your eyeball.”
Bo just stands there, arms crossed, biting back a proud smirk while you defend him like a rabid chihuahua in heels.
You're not just sass — you're his protector in your own unhinged, mother-hen way. You patch him up after fights, rub his shoulders when he’s tense, and kiss his jaw like it’s sacred. You tell him he’s handsome even when he’s covered in motor oil or blood.
“You look good, baby. All sweaty like that. Like a filthy mechanic Calvin Klein ad.”
“You need Jesus, sweetheart.”
“What I need is you to bend me over the fuckin’ sink after dinner.”
He chokes on his beer often thanks to you.
Living in Ambrose with you is chaos in pearls.
You clean up the Sinclair house — which Bo doesn’t even realize is possible — in floral gloves and heels, all while calling the dead bodies “inconvenient little fuckers” and the flies “Satan’s tiny bastards.”
You paint the walls pastel and cuss out the wiring.
You host a tea party for yourself, Bo, and Vincent once — complete with scones and the most aggressive table manners known to man:
“Vincent, sweetheart, pass the cream — and Bo, if you scratch your balls at the fuckin’ table again I will knife you in your sleep.”
Bo’s never laughed harder. Vincent hasn’t stopped blinking.
Bo never knew he needed a woman like you — sweet enough to charm anyone, but savage enough to start a war. You keep him grounded, even when you're threatening to “gut-punch God himself if the washing machine breaks again.” He thinks you’re the hottest thing in heels, and no one — no one — gets to talk shit about you without losing a tooth or two.
Bo loves you because you’re wild, loyal, gorgeous, and completely yours.
And when he sees you fixing your lipstick in the mirror, muttering about “those damn tourists ruining your front lawn with their crusty-ass footprints,” he leans in, smirks, and says:
“You’re somethin’ else, sugar.”
“Damn right I am, baby.”
.
Charles Lee Ray
From the second Charles laid eyes on you, he was in love — or as close to love as a scumbag soul trapped in a plastic body could get. There you were, standing in your sunlit kitchen with checkered curtains, a powder-pink apron cinched over your dress, red lipstick perfectly applied, and a frilly headband keeping your victory rolls in place.
It would’ve been a Leave-It-To-Beaver wet dream if it weren’t for the fact you were scrubbing blood off your floor with a mop and muttering:
“Fuckin’ hell, I just waxed this floor yesterday. Asshole couldn’t have died somewhere useful, huh? Like the goddamn backyard?”
And then, as if the universe wanted to seduce Charles specifically, you turned around, smiled at him sweet as peach pie and said:
“Well hey there, sweetheart! You want lemonade, or are you just here to stare at me like a constipated jackrabbit?”
He burst out laughing. Loud, genuine, amused-as-all-hell laughter.
You didn’t flinch. You even giggled, because you knew what you were — a contradiction wrapped in satin gloves and peppermint-scented rage. Charles was used to blood and chaos. What he wasn’t used to was someone matching his energy while wearing kitten heels and pearls.
You were affectionate, sweet, doting — calling him things like “darlin’,” “my little firecracker,” and “handsome devil” while simultaneously using language that would get you banned from network TV. You’d make him a sandwich and say:
“Here ya go, baby. Don’t eat it too fast or you’ll choke like a goddamn dumbass. Love you.”
He adored you. Couldn’t get enough. He never knew whether you were going to kiss him or insult his life choices, and honestly? That was his favorite part.
You had this voice — soft, airy, almost sing-song — and everything that came out of it was horrendously explicit. You’d read cookbooks aloud while replacing every measurement with swear words:
“Two goddamn cups of that floury bullshit… half a fuckin’ teaspoon of baking soda — NOT powder, unless you want it to explode like my ex’s tiny-ass ego…”
Charles would just be there on the counter in doll form, cackling, kicking his little feet while watching you flounce around like a pissed-off Stepford Wife.
You and Charles were murder soulmates. You looked like the type who’d faint at the sight of blood, but no — you were the one snapping the guy’s wrist while Charles stabbed him in the neck.
And every time, without fail, you'd pause mid-murder to scold someone:
“You absolute dickweed — who the hell tries to run in heels? You're making me chase you in my good apron, and I swear to Christ if you get blood on my fuckin' blouse I’m gonna give your corpse a goddamn makeover and parade it around like a prize hog at the county fair.”
It was poetry. It was obscene. Charles would be doubled over laughing while also violently stabbing someone. It was romantic, really.
You kept your home pristine. Pink appliances, floral curtains, vintage everything. But the second something went wrong — toaster didn’t pop, radio signal cut — the cussing started.
“This stupid, limp-dick, crusty-ass bread ruiner of a toaster is testing my goddamn patience!”
Chucky: “I love you so fucking much.”
You once threatened to strangle a Jehovah’s Witness with your phone cord because he insulted your dress length. Another time, you told a nosy neighbor:
“Oh honey, if you spent half as much time worrying about your own pussy as you do about mine, you wouldn’t be getting cheated on every weekend. Want some brownies?”
Chucky was so proud he cried. Actual tears (okay, blood, but still).
What stunned Charles most was that underneath all the murder and swearing, you were incredibly level-headed. You kept him grounded. You could disembowel a guy and still remind Charles to take his medicine or brush blood out of his hair before bed.
You kissed his scars. You never judged the way he looked — even as a doll, you’d sit him on your lap, stroke his fiery red hair, and say:
“You’re my cute little bastard. Don’t care if you’re plastic or not. You still get me wetter than a hurricane, baby.”
He blushed. Chucky actually blushed.
You helped stitch him back together after a fight with Tiffany (who lowkey respected you but also wanted to fight you for being too hot and fun). You two would get drunk together and throw knives at moving targets, taking turns insulting each other:
You: “You throw like your dick’s on backwards.”
Chucky: “You flirt like a grandma with dementia.”You: “Still sucked you off better than she did.”
Chucky: “...Okay, fair.”
Charles never expected to be happy — truly happy — until you. He was chaos incarnate, a murderer, a soul in a broken doll. But you? You were delightfully unhinged, dressed like a Disney character but cussing out reality like it owed you rent.
And the weirdest thing?
You made him feel safe.
You didn't just tolerate his psychotic tendencies — you embraced them, matched them, outpaced them, all while baking cherry pies and yelling about flaky crust like it was a war crime.
ɞ an | i've been thinking of ushiten x reader... i might start a small series for them if i feel like it :3c everything here is timeskip and reader is living with ushijima in poland (for now), so they're video calling tendou so that everyone can get freaky 2gether. sorry if the ending is weird, its 3.30am and i cant think anymore. enjoy!
ɞ cw / wc | dom/sub dynamics, creampie, slight degradation, esex, vaguely implied dubcon, fluffy ending, 800+
“guh- ah!”
your broken moans fill the room as ushijima relentlessly slams into your sticky pussy. his breaths are heavy and laboured, punctuated with groans of pleasure. his balls are heavy with cum and it takes everything in him to not fill you with his seed right then and there. he has you in doggy position where your ass bounces off his hips with each thrust, your back arched beautifully beneath him.
“c’mon, pretty thing. let me see your face.”
tendou’s voice comes through the phone speaker. with bleary eyes, you muster what little strength you have left to lift your head off the drool-stained pillow. he strokes his length languidly. even through the screen of your phone, you can still make out the wet shine of precum on the head of his cock. you spy a lazy grin on his face.
“aw, look at her, wakatoshi. so drunk on your dick,” tendou coos.
he likes the view he has of you, eyes half-lidded and spit running down the side of your open mouth. ushijima grunts in reply. he never stops thrusting into you even as you try to wriggle free of the tight grip he has on your hips, fingernails digging half-moons into your skin.
you don’t know how many times you’ve cum tonight. maybe twice on ushijima’s mouth, once on his fingers and another time on his cock. you know tendou wants more, though. he likes pushing you to your limits till you’re crying and wailing for him, “satori, please- ah! no more, mmph! no! too much!”, and trembling so hard he has to hold you down.
“make her cum one more time, wakatoshi, then you can finish,” tendou hums. “the both of you look so good together. i wish i was right there, i’d fuck your throat while wakatoshi filled your pussy.”
you whine. tendou laughs mockingly.
“yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you? both of us fucking you from either end? whore.”
ushijima’s eyebrows are furrowed together. he’s held back his orgasm for long enough to the point where he’s certain if you clench just right around him, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from cumming (but tendou wouldn’t like that. the last time he came without permission, the red-head edged ushijima until his voice cracked, and was denied from orgasming for another week).
ushijima leans over your shoulder, his breath hot against the shell of your ear.
“one more, baby. you can do one more, right?” he pants.
each ram of his hips bumps the head of his leaky cock against your favourite spot. your womb practically feels like it’s melting, and your mind is so foggy you barely manage to make a weak noise of affirmation.
ushijima speeds up his pace. you lean your weight on one elbow as your other hand ventures to toy with your swollen clit. you gasp. each circle of your fingers makes electricity shoot down your spine, your nub already overly sensitive from your previous orgasms.
“f-fuck,” you wheeze. “toshi, toshi!”
he kisses your bare shoulder in response. you tilt your head back so that your lips meet his, teeth clacking against each other and tongue a heated mess as you moan into his mouth. you hear tendou let out a groan. his hand quickens, the slick of skin and lotion echoing from your phone.
it hits you before you even realise it. your pussy flutters around ushijima’s cock as you cum for the fifth time, muscles stiffened to the point that your toes curl and your thighs shake. for a moment, your ears pop and you hear everything in a blanketed haze. you make a high-pitched cry that cuts off when ushijima finally, finally gets to fill you up. he muffles his pathetic moans by burying his face in the crook of your neck, effectively pinning you flat to the bed as he empties the last hour’s worth of pent up cum into your warm cunt. he gives you a few shallow thrusts and heaves for air.
tendou’s so close. fuck, he curses. he really wishes he was right there, fucking your face and making you gag and sputter all over him. he squeezes the base of his dick and strokes himself even faster. you look up at the screen dizzily. tendou huffs, a pink tint staining his cheeks as he chases his high.
“satori,” you slur. “ahh-”
you open your mouth and loll out your tongue at the camera. tendou’s eyes go wide. a string of saliva stretches between your upper and lower lip, snapping at the same time tendou cums all over his fist.
“shit- fuck!” his hips buck into the air. “wish this was your mouth. fuck, you’d clean it all up for me, wouldn’t you?”
“uhuh.” you make a show of licking your lips.
tendou lets out a sigh of satisfaction, riding out his high as you sit there, pretty and flushed in that after-sex glow. he thinks about the plane tickets he bought to surprise you and ushijima for your anniversary next month.
"god, i can't wait to see you both again," he groans.
the next time the three of you are in the same room, you cum more than five times. tendou and ushijima make sure of it.
Summary: You finally get home, not wasting any time as you immediately began doing your winding down routine after your long day at work. But wait, there’s more….
Warnings: Fluff, gossiping, Michael being messy, reader being messy, reader and Michael getting along, reader using 2000s slang, read to find out the rest🙂↕️
AN: Blue texts are thoughts, also, if you feel like it, listen to "Let go" by Ark Patrol for the first half, then"My way" by Fetty Wap for the second half. Hope yall enjoy😊
Chapter 4
Third Person POV:
Even though you were grateful that you hadn’t gone home early, the consequences of your late night festivities were very clear as you staggered through the door, tiredness evident on your face as you threw your work bag towards your couch, not even looking to see if it landed.
You’re pretty sure if you even looked towards the couch you’d try throwing yourself next, “Lucky purse” you said to yourself as you walked into your room.
“I need to shower, but I’m so tireddddd” you whined out loud, contemplating just going to sleep without showering, but you knew how that would go, sweaty body plus cotton sheets plus summer time, yeahhhhh that was DEFINITELY not a good equation to work with.
Rolling your eyes, you groggily grabbed some PJ’s out of your drawers, not even caring to close it as you trudged into the bathroom, your mind only thinking of the good nights rest you were going to get.
As you began taking off your clothes, and tying up your hair, you couldn’t help but reminisce the events that took place less than two hours ago.
“Haaa, so worth it tho” you told yourself as you stepped into the shower, standing still as you let the water run over your body for a few seconds, then getting your soap and getting down to business, not wanting to spend too much time in there, the sleepiness getting to you,
A few minutes later, after taking your shower and doing anything that needed to get done, you jumped into your bed, the soft sheets instantly pulled you into a trance of relaxation, “Now I can finally go to sleep” you said out loud, your voice barely audible, “heh, Playboy Carti reference” you humored yourself, a small chuckle leaving you as you turned over on your back,
Not even bothering to get underneath the sheets, you lay there for a few minutes, slowly feeling sleep starting to take you into its arms, “Today is a great day” you whispered out loud, and not even 10 seconds later, you were immediately knocked out.
A few hours later:
You had woken up at 3:56PM, you slept for a good 12 or so hours, having came home at 2 or so last night, it still didn’t feel like enough,
but alas, your slumber was disrupted by the grumble in your stomach, and the feeling that you needed to be awake right now.
Your intuition was right, because now even 5 minutes after you sat down on your bed with your newly cooked meal in front of you, your phone rang,
“who the hell is calling me on my day off” you grumbled to yourself, wiping your fingers off before you grabbed your landline at the side of your bed,
“Hello?” You said, wondering who in their right mind would call you right now,
“Hi,” Instantly recognizing the voice, you felt your heart skip a beat as he continued talking, your irritation quickly fading away “It’s Michael”
Andddd that’s how you ended up like this right now, not even 20 minutes later.
“I know it might sound crazy, but she really did that” I said over the phone, laughter evident in my voice as I carried on on the phone,
“I feel like that one lady from TikTok, the Chilli Mac one” just the thought alone caused me to burst out into laughter, and the sound of my laughter caused him to laugh even louder,
“So you mean to tell me,” Michael could barely get his sentence out, laughter taking over his body almost completely “Wajt, lemme be serio-“ he could barely continue himself as he suddenly bursted out laughing, not caring if his family heard him,
“Yessss bro, she really decided that she was going to whoop this man for lying to her” I said to him, not realizing that I was using modern term language with him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
I was telling him the story of one of my neighbors that I had growing up, Ms Bertha had found out that her husband was cheating, so she waited until he was in the shower and poured baby oil on the floor, then when she asked him about it and he was acting dumb she told him to come out of the shower to talk to her face to face.
“Maannnn, that lady got him good” I gossiped, taking a bite out of my food as I listened to him laugh over the phone,
“And would you believe me if I told you they’re still together to this day” I said to him, shaking my head when I heard his gasp from over the phone, but that shock didn’t last long before I said something else,
“Shiiii, you never know, maybe they discovered something new about themselves that day”
As soon as I said those words, we both bursted out into a loud stream of laughing, my hand dropping the phone as I fell over on my bed, Michael was no better, his laughter still being heard, even though my phone wasn’t by my ears.
“This feels like watching reels at 2 in the morning” Now I felt genuinely tickled, my sides beginning to hurt from the laughter, “And and, that’s not even the worst pa-“ I bursted out laughing again as I thought of something else, the phone shaking in my hand as I tried to calm down”
“Ok ok, lemme be cal-“ I couldn’t help it as the thought now came to my mind, my laughter getting louder, “Gu-guess how old they were” I said to him, wheezing between words as I tried my best to calm down,
“May- maybe 20 somethi-“ I didn’t let him finish his laugh stricken words before I interrupted him, “THEY WERE 58 YEARS OLD” I shouted, the phone falling from my hand as we both once again fell over in laughter, the sound making it sound like two witches were conjuring up a spell,
Never in my life would I ever think I would be sitting on the phone gossiping with a Michael Jackson, if you were to tell me this while I was still in the 2000s, I’d probably think you were joking, or going crazy, but here I was, damn near laughing out a hole in my throat
“Ouuu ouuu, I didn’t even say this part” he heard me say, his laughter calming down a bit as he waited for my next words,
“The person he was cheating on her with…was a guy” I could feel his eyes widening through the phone, he probably felt how I felt when I first found out too, “Wait wha-“ and once again, before he could finish, I said something else, “but it just wasn’t any guy….” He held his breath as he eagerly waited for the reveal, his attention fully focused on his phone
“It was her brother,” I could tell his jaw had already dropped to the floor, silence taking over the landline “I feel like Wendy Williams right now” I thought to myself, it wasn’t long before I heard his voice again,
“HER BROTHER???” At the sound of his voice I suddenly froze for a second, his voice sounded a bit….deep, sure, you knew his singing voice wasn’t his only voice, but to hear it in over the phone, it felt….electrifying.
Quickly snapping out of it, I began to engage back into my conversation with him, “yeah her brother, then he acted lik-“
Our conversation went on for awhile, I was about to tell him the story about my school principal and how he had to leave for “Bringing suspicious materials into the school” but we were interrupted by the sound of a knock on his door.
Third person POV:
Michael looked up at his door, giving a small “come in” to whoever was knocking, it was his older brother, Jackie.
“Dinners ready” he said, holding a piece of candy in his hand as he took a bite, pausing for a second before looking at Michael, then the telephone that was seated on his lap, then at the back at Michael, then back at back at the telephone, then slowly back up at Michael, a smirk appearing on his face,
“Tell your lady friend I said hi” he said before he walked out of the door, a smirk on his face at what he just said, leaving a flustered looking Michael, now realizing that you probably heard that.
“Um, sorry about him” he apologized, his face feeling hot from embarrassment
“Oh no it’s ok, I have 4 brothers, they can be like that sometimes” you joked, “but hey,” you said, already knowing you were gonna say some bullshit,
“at least our brothers are better than Ms Bertha’s one” at the mention of the woman you two were gossiping about earlier, you both let out a scream like laugh, both falling the beds as you guys lost control of yourselves,
“I better tell Janet to keep an eye out for Jackie in the future, you never kn-“ he couldn’t finish his words as he let out another scream like laugh, his body shaking on the floor as he could barely contain himself,
“Like how the hell do you get your man took by a guy named Bartholomew” you said out loud, laughter in your voice as you stood with one hand on your hip, genuinely baffled at the thought, your other hand shakily holding the phone, the result of all your wheezing and laughing,
You guys went on for a couple more minutes, telling jokes back and forth, completely forgetting that Michael was called down some time ago, “so-so whe-“ right as you were in the middle of saying something, there was once again a knock on the door, it was then that you both remembered that he had to go
“oh shoot, I forgot you had to go” You said out loud, shaking your head in disappointment, you were really enjoying yourself, and it seemed like Michael was too,
Now wanting the time to come to an end, he then thought of a plan, he was a bit nervous, to ask, but he decided to take the shot,
“You know what, since shooting is finished, I’ll be free tomorrow, what about you?” As soon as he asked those words, I felt myself freeze up “No way… is he asking me out” you thought to yourself, but without wasting a moment, you immediately replied.
OKAY!! hii, you can call me Berry!!! I'm a digital artist who sometimes does traditional art!! I normally post my art either here or my tiktok!! I write fanfiction as well on wattpad and AO3!!
My favorite phrases are:
Thats to much work
Lwk/lowkey
I guess
I'm also a yumeshipper!! Specifically a sharing one!!While I have a lot there are main ones I focus one which are:
Romantic:
Vance hopper(tbp)
Alejandro (total drama)
Luna Lovegood (harry Potter)
Platonic:
Severus snape(Harry Potter)
The freeling family(haunted hotel)
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Fandoms I'm in!!
Harry Potter
The black phone
haunted hotel
Camp camp
Yugioh
Total drama
Criminal minds
Naruto
ohshc
Twisted wonderland
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I like to draw for people, it's one of my favorite things ever and you can ask!! I'll draw for you guys!!
Things I can/will draw
OCs →over complicated ones may be hard
Yumeships!!
Your fav character
The basics
Little g0re(aka wounds, blood, cuts etc)
Platonic
Headshots
Full bodies
Perspective is kind hard but I can try
Things I can't/won't
Nsfw
Animals
Proships
Inc3st/illegal ships
-----------------------------------------
Now drawing takes time!! So if you do ask, don't expect it to be done right away! Now I'm also thinking of writing small oneshots for people but idk you guys get back to me on that... Which reminds me!!
My wattpad: luvpinkjazz
My AO3: luvpink_jaz
My tiktok: luvpink_jaz
-----------------------------------------
Anddd that's it for now!!! Thank you for reading!!!
pairing. Obito Uchiha x Top!Missing-nin!male reader
synopsis. in where obito is saved but by the wrong hands. — 3.5k
warnings. mdni, nsfw, rough sex, amab reader, aged up obito (the kannabi bridge incident happens when he is 18), dead dove, gore, physical and emotional abuse, manipulation, toxic dependency, dubcon undertones, exploitation of trauma, dark themes.
The acrid scent of blood and burnt wood hung heavy in the air as M/n knelt by the crumpled body. The boy was a mess—his dark hair matted with dirt and blood, his skin bruised and pale.
One leg was crushed beneath the rubble, the jagged bone peaking out of the skin of whatever remained. The fleshy tethers barely holding together as the wound sluggishly oozed blood.
It was clear to M/n that he wouldn’t be able to save the leg.
The boy on the other hand barely clinging to life yet—he was still conscious. He was mouthing words that M/n couldn’t make out but they sounded like names–Rin, Kakashi, Sensei.
M/n wondered who these people were to the boy as he stabilized him and whisked him away.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
His body was betraying him—his ears rang, breathing felt like knives, and his body oddly enough, felt numb. Is this what it felt like to die?
No—not yet.
He promised them that he would catch up, that he would surpass Kakashi, so he can’t give up. But his body is betraying him—giving up.
His vision is becoming cloudy, when suddenly he feels relief. He sees the figure of a person and he can’t help but think that Rin and Kakashi had come back for him— they even brought sensei!
With that thought he completely falls into unconsciousness.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
When he awoke, it wasn’t the cold of death or the warmth of his team by his bedside that greeted him. Instead, it was the subtle chill, that flowed from a nearby open window.
A flickering fire cast shadows on the walls of the small cabin, its light catching on the smooth walls. He tried to sit up, but pain shot up through his chest and down to his leg, forcing him back down with a sharp gasp.
“Don’t move,” a voice said, calm but firm.
Obito’s gaze snapped to the source. A man knelt by his side, his face partially hidden by the shadows. His presence was commanding, the kind that demanded attention without needing to ask for it.
The man’s hands moved with practiced ease as he adjusted the bandages around Obito’s chest, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“You’re lucky I found you when I did,” the man continued, his tone almost conversational. “A few more minutes, and you’d have bled out in the mud. Hell of a way to go.”
“Who… who are you?” Obito rasped, his throat dry and voice barely audible.
The man paused, tilting a cup of cool water to Obito’s lips— he opened his mouth before he could even think of checking for poison, the water soothed his achingly dry throat.
His dark eyes met Obito’s as he put down the cup on a nearby dresser. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that made Obito’s stomach twist.
“Just someone passing through,” he said after a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Call me M/n.”
“M/n…” Obito repeated, his voice cracking.
“Rest now,” M/n said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder when Obito tried to push himself up again. “You’re in no shape to do anything reckless. I’ve already stitched up that leg of yours, but if you move wrong, you’ll tear it open again.”
Obito’s gaze flicked to his leg, and his breath hitched at the sight of the crude splint and thick bandages wrapped around the stump where his lower leg used to be, it was gone from the mid-thigh. Panic clawed at his chest, his mind spinning as he remembered the boulder, the pain, the crushing weight that had pinned him—
“Hey.” M/n’s voice cut through the spiral, his hand gripping Obito’s shoulder more firmly. “Breathe. You’re alive. That’s all that matters right now.”
The words, though simple, anchored him. He inhaled shakily, forcing his mind to quiet, and nodded.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
Over the next few weeks, M/n tended to Obito’s injuries with a patience that bordered on tenderness.
He hunted, cooked, and even shared what little he had without complaint, though his sharp, calculating eyes always seemed to watch Obito too closely.
“You’re strong,” M/n said one evening, his voice breaking the quiet. He was crouched by a fire outside of the cabin, sharpening a blade as the light danced across his features. “Most people wouldn’t have survived what happened to you. But you did.”
Obito glanced at him, his expression guarded. He was still wary of this stranger, but he couldn’t deny that M/n had saved him. He owed him his life.
“I had to,” Obito muttered, his gaze falling to the fire. “Rin and Kakashi… they need me.”
M/n’s hand stilled, his blade catching the light as he looked at Obito. “Do they?”
Obito frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “Of course they do. They’re my teammates.”
M/n hummed thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the blade in his hands. “And where are they now?”
The question hit harder than Obito wanted to admit. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he looked away. “They probably think I’m dead.”
“Maybe,” M/n said softly, his voice almost pitying. “Or maybe they left you behind.”
Obito’s head snapped toward him, anger flashing in his dark eyes. “They wouldn’t—”
M/n raised a hand, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m not saying it’s true. I’m just saying you shouldn’t expect too much from people.”
His words lingered, settling over Obito like a shadow.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
The day Obito could walk again, he ran. His leg ached with every step, the crude prosthetic M/n had fashioned was digging into his skin—which to M/n’s credit said he would make a better one, one that would connect to his chakra and fit better. But he didn’t care for that right now—he had to see Rin, had to let Kakashi know he was alive.
But when he found them, the sight that greeted him shattered what little was left of him.
Rin’s body crumpled beneath Kakashi’s Chidori, blood staining the ground as her lifeless eyes stared into nothingness. Kakashi fell to his knees beside her, his expression twisted with grief, but all Obito could see was the blood on his hands.
Something inside him snapped. He wanted to scream, to cry, to kill, but his body refused to move. The world blurred around him, and by the time he stumbled back to the cabin, his breath was ragged and his vision was swimming.
M/n was waiting for him.
“Obito,” he said, rising to his feet as the younger shinobi collapsed into his arms. “What happened?”
“They… she…” Obito’s voice broke as he buried his face in M/n’s chest, his fists clinging to the man’s shirt like a lifeline.
M/n’s arms wrapped around him, his grip firm but not unkind. “Shh,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over Obito’s hair. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”
Obito’s shoulders shook as he wept, the grief and anger pouring out of him in waves. And through it all, M/n held him, his gaze dark and unreadable.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
The days after Obito returned to M/n were a blur. He didn’t speak of what he saw—didn’t have the words to describe how Kakashi’s Chidori had ripped through Rin’s chest, how her blood had painted the earth. When M/n asked, his response was always the same: silence.
But M/n didn’t press him. He gave Obito space, kept his voice soft, his touch gentle, and waited.
It was on the seventh night, after another fitful sleep, that Obito finally broke.
The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows across the cabin walls. Obito sat hunched over, his face buried in his hands, his entire frame trembling with barely contained emotion.
“She’s dead,” he whispered finally, the words clawing their way out of his throat. “Rin’s dead. He… Kakashi… he killed her.”
M/n’s gaze sharpened, but his expression remained calm. He set down the blade he’d been sharpening and crossed the room to kneel in front of Obito.
“I see,” M/n said quietly, placing a firm hand on Obito’s shoulder. “So now you know.”
Obito’s bloodshot eyes lifted to meet M/n’s, confusion flickering across his face. “Know what?”
“That people betray you,” M/n said simply, his tone laced with pity. “The ones you love the most—they always do. Rin, Kakashi, your sensei—they all abandoned you when you needed them most. And now look at you.”
“That’s not true,” Obito muttered weakly, though the weight of M/n’s words pressed against him like a vice. “Rin didn’t… she didn’t abandon me.”
“Didn’t she?” M/n’s hand slid to the back of Obito’s neck, squeezing just enough to draw his attention fully. “You saw what she did, Obito. She chose to die. And Kakashi let her.”
“She didn’t want—”
“Then why didn’t she fight? Why didn’t she try to stay alive for you?” M/n’s voice hardened, though he kept his expression calm. “Because she didn’t believe in you, Obito. They didn’t believe in you. But I do.”
The words hung heavy in the air, sinking into the cracks of Obito’s broken resolve.
“I pulled you out of that wreckage. I saved you when no one else cared. Not Rin, not Kakashi, not anyone.” M/n leaned closer, his grip tightening slightly. “You only have me now. And I will never leave you. But you have to let go of them. Let go of the people who hurt you.”
Obito’s shoulders shook, his breath hitching as the first tears fell. And when M/n pulled him into his arms, cradling him like a fragile thing, he didn’t resist.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
It started as training.
At first, M/n’s methods seemed harsh but reasonable—he drilled Obito relentlessly, making him push past exhaustion, teaching him how to move with his new prosthetic.
The pain in his missing leg was unbearable some days, but M/n was always there, his voice unwavering: "Your pain is a gift. Learn from it."
Obito tried. He really did. But the grief still gnawed at him, slowing his movements, making him hesitate. He could still see Rin’s face, still hear Kakashi’s voice calling her name.
M/n saw it. He always saw it.
One evening, after Obito collapsed mid-exercise, chest heaving and body trembling, M/n’s patience snapped.
"You’re weak," M/n’s voice was cold as steel. "That’s why you couldn’t save her. That’s why they left you."
Obito flinched, his fingers clenching in the dirt beneath him. “I’m trying,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
"Not hard enough."
The kick came fast—M/n’s boot slammed into Obito’s ribs, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The air fled from his lungs in a choked gasp, pain searing through his body like fire. He curled in on himself instinctively, clutching his side.
His mind screamed at him to fight back, to retaliate—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.
M/n crouched down beside him, fingers gripping Obito’s chin, forcing his face upward. His dark eyes were unreadable, but there was something expectant in them. Waiting.
“Look at me,” M/n ordered.
Obito’s vision was blurred, pain radiating through his skull, but he obeyed.
The moment their gazes locked, a sharp snap rang through his head—a shift, a pull, like something deep inside him had finally woken up.
M/n’s expression changed slightly, his fingers tightening just a little. "Oh?"
Confused, Obito blinked, the world suddenly too sharp, too vivid, too clear. The flickering fire behind M/n cast shifting shadows across his face, the individual strands of his hair distinct in a way that shouldn’t be possible.
His breath hitched.
"The Sharingan," M/n murmured, a slow smirk curling his lips. "Three tomoe."
Obito didn’t understand at first. He blinked again, the clarity still there, still unnatural—and then realization hit him like a blade to the chest.
His Sharingan had fully matured.
The pain, the anger, the agony of loss—it had pushed him to this moment.
M/n had pushed him to this moment.
Obito shuddered, his lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came out. He felt sick, like something inside him had shifted permanently.
M/n’s thumb brushed over his split lip, smearing the blood there as if admiring it. "Now, do you see?"
Obito swallowed hard, his new vision locking onto M/n’s eyes.
"Pain makes you stronger," M/n murmured, almost reverently. He released Obito’s chin but didn’t move away. "You should be thanking me."
And Obito did.
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M/n hadn’t spoken in a while.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The only sound was the dull drip, drip of blood hitting the wooden floor. Obito’s blood.
He knelt, panting, sweat and crimson streaking his face. His body ached, the dull throb in his ribs reminding him of the blows he had taken. His Sharingan still spun wildly, his breath sharp and uneven.
He had failed. Again.
M/n leaned back against the wooden table, arms crossed. He was watching—always watching—but his expression gave away nothing.
Obito’s stomach twisted. He had learned to recognize that look.
"Disappointing," M/n finally murmured, shaking his head.
Shame burned through Obito’s chest like acid. His fingers twitched where they rested against the floor, curling into fists.
Not enough.
He was never enough.
“I…” Obito swallowed thickly. “I’ll do better.”
M/n exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Will you?”
“Yes.” His voice was desperate now, raw with something frantic. He lifted his head, looking up at M/n with pleading, bloodshot eyes. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
M/n tilted his head slightly, as if considering it. Then, after a long moment, he moved.
He crouched in front of Obito, reaching out. His fingers caught Obito’s chin, tilting his face up fully. The touch was softer than it should have been, considering the pain he had just inflicted.
"You still hesitate," M/n said quietly, his thumb grazing the sharp edge of Obito’s jaw.
Obito shivered beneath the touch, not out of fear—but something else.
M/n’s voice dropped lower, his words slow, deliberate. “You hold back because you’re still clinging to them.”
Obito's breath hitched.
Them.
Kakashi. Rin. Sensei. The ghosts of his past still clawed at him, whispering in the back of his mind.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to drown them out.
“I don’t—” he started, but M/n’s grip on his jaw tightened just enough to stop him.
“Lying doesn’t suit you, Obito.”
Obito opened his mouth—to argue, to deny—but the words died before they could form.
Because M/n was right.
There was still a part of him that ached when he thought of Rin’s smile. A part of him that still saw Kakashi standing over her body in his nightmares.
And M/n had no patience for hesitation.
A sharp sting lashed across his cheek—fast, precise, controlled. Obito’s head snapped to the side from the impact, a choked gasp escaping him.
M/n hadn’t hit him hard. Just enough to prove a point.
“You need to let them go,” M/n murmured, his hand cupping the cheek he had just struck. His touch was warm, careful, fingers brushing soothingly over the red mark.
Obito’s breath stuttered.
The contrast—the sharp bite of pain followed by this—it left him reeling. His mind struggled to reconcile the two, to make sense of it.
But M/n made it easy.
M/n was always there, guiding him, grounding him.
"Do you trust me?" M/n asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Obito nodded, without hesitation. "Yes."
M/n’s fingers trailed down, pressing against the frantic pulse at Obito’s throat. He smiled, satisfied.
"Then prove it."
Obito blinked. "How?"
M/n leaned in, his lips almost brushing against Obito’s ear. "You know how."
And he did.
Burn it all.
Konoha. The village that took everything from him. The village that let Rin die. The village that would never accept him now.
Obito trembled. The hesitation was there—a flicker, a ghost of something old and useless.
Then M/n’s fingers curled around the back of his neck, holding him steady. The touch was possessive, grounding.
"You belong to me, Obito. And I take care of what’s mine."
Something in him snapped.
Rin was dead. Kakashi had left him. Konoha had abandoned him.
M/n was the only one who had stayed.
He exhaled shakily, feeling the last pieces of his past fall away.
"You’re right." His voice was different now—colder. Certain.
M/n grinned. "Good boy."
Obito let out a shuddering breath. And for the first time in his life—he felt free.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
Obito was on his hands and knees, his face pressed against the sheets, breath ragged, body trembling. His arms ached from holding himself up, but he didn’t dare collapse—not when M/n’s grip was so tight on his hips, bruising, possessive.
M/n was taking him apart.
Splitting him open. Stretching him too wide.
Each thrust was deep, unforgiving, his thick cock slamming into Obito’s abused hole, making his vision blur. The wet sounds of skin against skin filled the dimly lit cabin, mixed with Obito’s shaky moans and M/n’s amused chuckles and groans.
"Fuck, Obito," M/n groaned, dragging his nails down Obito’s back, leaving red lines behind. "You’re taking me so well."
Obito whimpered, his fingers clutching desperately at the sheets. His entire body was burning, a mix of lingering pain from training, exhaustion, and the unbearable pleasure coiling tight in his gut.
He shouldn’t love this.
He shouldn’t crave it.
But M/n had made him need it.
"M-M/n—" Obito gasped, his voice cracking as M/n suddenly thrust deeper, grinding against his sweet spot. His back arched sharply, his body betraying him, his walls squeezing around M/n’s thick length.
"What?" M/n taunted, fisting a hand in Obito’s sweat-damp hair, yanking his head back. He tilted Obito’s face just enough to see the tears clinging to his lashes. His smirk widened. "You crying for me?"
Obito bit his lip, choking down a whimper. He was so full, so overstimulated, so wrecked. His thighs shook from strain, but he didn’t want M/n to stop.
He needed it.
"Please—"
M/n’s grip tightened in his hair, forcing his head back further. His breath was hot against Obito’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.
"Please, what?"
Obito’s pride had long since shattered.
He didn’t care if he sounded desperate.
He didn’t care if he had to beg.
"Please fuck me harder—"
M/n groaned, slamming his hips forward in a bruising thrust. Obito let out a broken cry, his back arching beautifully beneath him.
"That’s more like it," M/n growled, setting a ruthless pace. Each thrust knocked the air out of Obito’s lungs, reducing him to whimpers and choked moans.
M/n was ruining him.
Breaking him in every way possible.
Obito’s dick dripped precum onto the sheets, untouched, twitching with every deep, brutal stroke into his puffy hole. He was so close, his entire body trembling, but M/n hadn’t given him permission yet.
"You wanna cum, don’t you?" M/n murmured, dragging his tongue along the shell of Obito’s ear.
Obito nodded frantically, his sore walls fluttering around M/n’s cock, sucking him in deeper.
"Then beg."
Obito didn’t hesitate.
"Please—fuck, please let me cum—"
M/n chuckled, his thrusts slowing, teasing. "So obedient now. What happened to all that defiance?"
Obito’s face flushed darker.
He was too far gone to fight back.
He was too addicted to M/n’s touch, to his praise, to the sharp edge of his cruelty.
"M/n—" he whimpered. "Please—need it, please—"
M/n hummed, pleased. His grip on Obito’s hips tightened as he slammed forward, hitting his prostate in brutal strokes.
"Cum for me."
Obito’s entire body seized up, his eyes rolling back as he came without a single touch. His cock throbbed, spilling hot streaks of cum onto the sheets, his walls clenching around M/n in desperate spasms.
M/n groaned, slamming into him a few more times before burying himself deep, spilling inside.
Obito shuddered violently, his body spent, legs weak and trembling.
But M/n didn’t let him collapse.
Instead, he pulled Obito up against his chest, his lips brushing against Obito’s sweat-damp temple.
"See how good you are for me?" he murmured, his fingers stroking Obito’s throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin.
Obito whined softly, leaning into the touch, into the praise.
M/n smirked.
"Good boy."
And Obito let himself sink deeper into M/n’s arms—deeper into the devotion he could no longer escape.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
Later that night, Obito knelt before M/n once more. His head resting against M/n’s lap.
The fire flickered between them, casting long shadows. M/n watched him with something unreadable in his gaze.
"What would you do for me, Obito?"
Obito didn’t even pause.
"Anything."
M/n smiled, reaching out to tilt his chin up. Their eyes met—Obito’s unwavering, the three tomoe in his Sharingan burning like embers.
"Then say it."
Obito closed his eyes and whispered:
"I’d let the world burn."
M/n’s smirk deepened. He leaned in, his lips barely brushing against Obito’s ear.
Prompt: 20. Itachi's First Time. Request (Prompts)
Summary: You have been Itachi's teammate in the Akatsuki for years now, and over that time, your relationship has developed into something unspoken. Reciprocated feelings, stolen touches, and brief kisses are shared between you. With each one, the tension tightens, the stoic Uchiha unapologetic but unacting on his desire- so you decide to take him for yourself. Sorry for another Sleep Token inpired fic lol
Huge shoutout to @emoiover for helping me with ideas for this and giving this a beta read ❤️❤️
Masterlist. AO3.
🔞 Mature Content. Minors DNI. 🔞
Tags: (4k words) All characters are 18+ Sub!Itachi (kinda), the reader really kinda controls the whole thing lol, established relationship, Itachi losing his virginity, reader is not a virigin, Oral (M+F receiving), slighty dom!reader, Praise kink (Itachi is a good boy after all), Sharingan use during sex, desk sex, he also might be a lil awkward at times lol, unprotected sex.
You sit perched on the edge of Itachi’s desk while he reads a scroll, his face relaxed as he goes over each word. You kick your legs aimlessly as you study him, your head slightly tilted, bottom lip tucked beneath your front teeth. He paid you no mind, your presence a constant at his side, almost as if you were attached at the hip.
Leaning back on your palms, your knee brushes his elbow on the armrest, and his gaze flickers to your form at the brief contact.
Once his eyes meet yours, he pauses before setting the scroll down and leaning back, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “You look lost in thought,” he remarked plainly, but playfully hinted underneath.
“Perhaps I am,” you lean over and whisper seductively with a coy smile. You relish the way his cheeks immediately flush and the way his throat bobs as he swallows. “Surely I’m more entertaining than a scroll.”
“Perhaps you are,” he echoes as the pink moves down his cheeks and neck, moving below the collar of his black shirt.
His expression is controlled, but you can tell in the way his hand flexes that he is holding something back. So you press him, scooting over to directly in front of him and knocking the scroll to the side, you hook your legs on either side of his hips, bringing your hands to his chest as you lean over him.
“Then perhaps,” your lips ghost over his as he appears stunned by your assertion, “you should start acting like it.”
His breath hitches when you plant yourself in his lap, and your arms travel up and around his neck, your weight pressing firmly against him. Left with nowhere to escape, his spine pressed against the back of the chair.
You could practically taste the air that he choked.
Easing on him gently, you place your lips on his. He initially tenses, but a heartbeat later, he relaxes, letting you slowly begin to consume him. As your hands tightened in his hair and pulled him closer, his apprehensive hands rested on the tops of your thighs, gripping the flesh tightly.
You open your mouth against his and push your tongue between his lips lightly as he opens up. His tongue is tentative at first, but soft, eager, and incredibly warm. You hum and drag your hips along his lap, the friction sending a shiver down your own spine. You part from him for a moment, breathless, leaving a thin, wet string between your mouths as you roll your hips again, slower this time, the pressure building between your legs.
Itachi’s grip migrates from your thighs to your waist, hands splayed, fingers digging in as if to ground himself. He’s breathing harder now, the blush on his face more pronounced, bleeding into the tips of his ears. He’s trying to keep his composure, but the subtle tremor in his hands gives him away.
You smirk, savoring his unraveling. “Do you like that?” You murmur, letting your lips trail down his jaw, pressing a flutter of soft, nipping kisses at his pulse.
He chokes on a breath, nods. “Y-yes,” he manages, and you reward him by grinding down, feeling him hard and hot through the thin cotton of his pants.
You let your hands wander, sliding up his shirt and down his sides, nails scraping just enough to make him squirm. He’s so responsive, so sensitive, you can’t help but wonder how much more he can take. Your hand slips between your bodies, palm cupping the bulge beneath his waistband. He jolts, a strangled gasp escaping him, the noise desperate and involuntary in a way that makes your core throb.
You rub your palm against his cock, slow and deliberate; he bites his lip, eyes fluttering closed. You lean in, lips grazing the shell of his ear. “Tell me, Itachi, have you thought about this before?” You whisper in question, stroking him through the fabric as he shudders.
“Yes,” he breathes. “T-too much— too often.”
Your heart hammers at that, that he’s as honest as he is helpless. You slide your hand inside his pants—he’s so hard, you wonder if it’s painful. You pull him out: flushed, dark, and wet at the tip. You watch how his jaw clenches at the exposure, how his Adam’s apple bobs as you wrap your fingers around him. You stroke his length, slow and tight, thumb teasing the sensitive underside. He juts his hips up into your fist, unable to help himself.
You press your mouth to his again, deep and hungry, swallowing the sounds he makes as your wrist works him. His hands find your hips, gripping hard, pulling you closer until there isn’t a breath between you. You break the kiss, breath mingling, and meet his eyes— black and blown wide, pleading with you.
His hand suddenly grips your wrist, halting your movement. You glance up, surprised by the abruptness, but Itachi’s gaze is fixed somewhere over your shoulder— his breathing harsh, his composure fraying. You can see in the tremble of his jaw that he’s wrestling something dark and vulnerable.
“Wait,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I—” His eyes search the wall, then dart down to where your hand still wraps around him, then back to your face. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You blink, not expecting a confession. For once, there’s no mask, no shield of stoic nonchalance— just wary honesty. You feel your heart tighten with a fierce delight as you smile up at your shy lover.
“Who cares?” You murmur, squeezing his length gently, thumb circling the head of his cock, drawing a low, involuntary noise from his throat. “I bet you’ll figure it out fast.”
His mouth quirks slightly, a nervous, helpless smirk. You lean in and kiss him again, slow and soft, letting him set the pace. This time, his tongue is bolder, tracing your lower lip, the contact more explorative as your hand continues to jerk his dick between your bodies.
“You’re—hn— you’re not making this easy,” he manages, hips when you give his dick a light squeeze.
You nip at the soft skin under his jaw, greedy for more of those ragged, involuntary noises. You jerk him slow, then quick, changing rhythm until his breath hitches and his spine arches tight beneath you. He’s close, so close, you can hear it in the way his voice wavers.
“Please—” he whispers, not sure if it’s a plea for mercy or more.
You reward him with another kiss at his pulse. “You’re doing so good, Itachi.” The words drag a shudder from his chest, his hands shaking as he clutches the arms of the chair.
“Feel good?” You murmur, lips barely touching his ear. “So pretty when you blush for me.” You feel him tense, a sharp tremor running the length of his body. There’s pride in you, wicked and bright, at how easily you unravel him.
You bite his earlobe, gentle but firm, and he gasps— a sound so desperate you think he might break apart if you let up.
So you don’t.
His head tips back, his throat long and bared, eyes squeezed shut. You stroke him harder, thumb catching on the sensitive spot just under the head. He whimpers— a sound both mortified and hungry— and you realize you want to wreck him a little, want to see how much he can take before his composure fractures entirely.
“I—don’t—” he stutters, voice thin. “I won’t— c-can’t—”
You slow your grip, teasing him further. “Can’t what?” His cheeks burn deeper, crimson to the tips of his ears.
“Please, hn— I’ll—” He doesn’t finish; instead, you watch him tense up further.
You grin against his skin before letting go. “Then wait,” you murmur, and with a swift, deft motion, you push the chair back from the desk, dropping to your knees between his parted legs. The movement is so sudden he gasps, but you don’t give him a chance to recover— you shove his pants lower with one hand, exposing more of him, flushed and leaking.
You lick up the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate, and he wheels his head back up, lips parted, eyes wild and glassy with shock. He breathes your name like a confession when you take him in your mouth. You hollow your cheeks, working him with your tongue, twirling it along the sensitive vein; when you flick the tip, he almost yelps, hands flying up to knot in your hair, desperate for purchase.
He fucks up into your mouth, tentative at first, then with a shuddering abandon. You hum and squeeze the base with your hand, and that’s all it takes— he breaks, cuming with a long, trembling gasp, fingers gripping your hair almost painfully.
Honestly, you’re surprised he lasted this long, but it’s just another testament to the Uchiha might.
You let him ride out his orgasm as you swallow every pulse, not stopping until he’s twitching and oversensitive, panting like he’s just run a marathon. When you finally pull away, you look up at him through your lashes, smirking, and let a thin strand of spit and cum break from your lip.
Itachi’s face is ruined— dark hair glued to his temple, eyes half-lidded, lips parted and slick. He catches his breath with a huff, and you watch as the tips of his ears pulse pink, mortified by the wreckage you’ve made of him.
You wipe your mouth, still on your knees, and level him with a look. “Think you’ve got another one in you?” You ask playfully.
His tongue wets his lip, still dazed. “I—” He blinks, gathers himself with his stubborn dignity. “Yes.”
“Good,” you hum, rising to your feet and tugging your own pants down with a slow, teasing roll of your hips. You’re already soaked, your pussy clinging to the cotton of your panties— leaving an obscene, dark patch over your center. His eyes drop, and you feel the tremor of want that runs through him, even as he tries to compose himself.
You straddle his lap as his hands go instinctively to your hips, palms hot on your skin. You tug your shirt over your head and toss it to the floor, baring your chest to him. Even in the dim light of his room, he can see your nipples are taut, pebbled in the chill and anticipation.
He stares, stunned, and his hands hesitate before skimming up your sides. You guide his palms to your breasts, and he cups them gently. “Don’t be afraid,” you murmur, nuzzling his nose with yours. “You can touch me however you want.”
He kisses you then, slow at first, then with a rising hunger. His thumbs brush your nipples, a feather-light touch that makes you gasp into his mouth. When he does it again, you arch into his hands, grinding your cunt onto his pelvis and feeling his length twitch beneath you.
You break the kiss and dip your head to his ear. “You learn quick,” you say, nipping the soft skin just below the lobe. His cock jumps at the praise, and you press down, grinding harder, chasing the friction as you roll your hips against him.
Itachi, emboldened, leans in and kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, his hands never leaving your breasts. When you tangle your fingers in his hair and gently tug, he groans, the sound vibrating through your whole body.
You guide his head with both hands, lowering his mouth to your chest. He hesitates, then licks over your nipple, his hot breath fanning over the wetness. You shudder, and he does it again— then takes it in his mouth, sucking gently. The sensation sends a jolt straight through you, and you keen, clutching his shoulders for support.
“Yes,” you moan, “just like that—” and the praise drives him wild. His hand rolls your other nipple between his fingers, and you whimper, rutting against the thick heat of him, and you feel his dick stir beneath you again.
He moves his mouth to your other breast, giving it the same reverence, the same aching attention, and you realize he’s memorizing you—cataloging every shiver, every gasp, every little sound you make. He pulls off you with a soft pop, the noise obscene, and when he looks up, his eyes are lidded and hungry and focused.
“I want to taste you,” he says abruptly. His voice cracks, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t retreat from the vulnerability. “May I?”
For all his soft-spoken deference, there’s a possessive edge in the way he asks—like he’s desperate to prove himself worthy. You smirk, drag your fingers through his hair, and lean in, brushing your lips over the arch of his cheekbone.
“Only if you beg,” you whisper, letting your breath tickle the shell of his ear.
He inhales sharply. “Please, I—I—” But you don’t savor the moment; instead, you cut him off with a hard kiss on his lips, running your tongue over his.
Then you push off his lap and stand, facing him. Slowly, you hook your thumbs under your panties, sliding them down your thighs, letting the dark, dampened patch stretch and peel away from your dripping pussy. You don’t break eye contact as you step free, tossing the sodden scrap onto the floor. You settle your ass on the edge of his desk, legs spreading in a slow, deliberate show. The cool air licks at the heat between your thighs, and you watch his throat work as he takes in the full lascivious view of you.
“Come here,” you command.
He moves the chair forward, knees bumping the desk, and you rest your feet on the arms of the chair, bracing him with your calves on either side of his body. He’s caged, trapped by your legs, helpless to do anything but stare at the place where you’re slick and swollen, desperate for him.
He runs a hand up your thigh, fingertips soft as satin. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble; instead, he traces the outline of your lips, then dips two fingers between them, sliding through your slick and spreading you open. The touch is careful, and you see him exhale in awe as your folds part under his touch.
You bit your bottom lip, spreading yourself wider, baring every secret inch to his reverent gaze. “You’re not scared, are you?” You tease, letting your tone drip with challenge.
His mouth crooks in answer, dark eyes flashing. “Should I be?” The lazy cadence of his voice dares you to break him, but you feel the tremor in his fingers as he drags them back through your folds, gathering the slick on his fingertips. He leans forward, letting his lips brush your inner thigh, soft and almost chaste, before his tongue darts out and licks a single, searing stripe through the center of you.
You clench, toes curling on the chair arms, and whine, breathless, at the sheer, electric heat of it. Itachi pauses, watching for your reaction, noting every twitch of your hips. When you lock your fingers in his hair, he closes his eyes and buries his mouth in your cunt.
He eats your pussy with pious focus, tongue rolling over every slick contour, learning you in real-time. When he finds your clit, swollen and throbbing, he circles it softly, then harder, then draws it between his lips until you gasp, the sound shattering the hush of his room. He chuckles against you, and the vibration nearly ruins your control.
You fist his hair, grinding your hips against his mouth, and he lets you, eager for the way you tremble, how you lose yourself. You look down, desperate for the sight, and meet his gaze—Sharingan active, swirling at the edges of his irises—a violent red flash, hungry and beautiful. He smirks, the movement subtle, and moves to plunge a single finger inside you, thick and stretching.
You lurch and nearly shriek, savoring the wet noise as he drags the pads of his fingers along your walls before adding another. He’s methodical, and when he hooks his fingers just right, a shiver detonates in your spine, raw and electric.
“There?” He asks, voice muffled, and it’s not really a question, more a taunt, because he already knows.
“Yes, fuck—there—” you cry, and you see the crimson of his fade to black, tongue flicking your clit in time with the curl of his fingers. Your brain whites out, every nerve drawn tight, and he doubles down, his mouth greedy.
You cum so hard you nearly black out, your nails digging into his scalp as you ride the wave, every muscle gone taut. The sound you make is wild and unhinged, ripped straight from your core. Even as you tremble, legs locking around his head, Itachi doesn’t stop until you collapse, boneless and buzzing, back against the desk.
Your vision is slow to return, but as you drag your gaze up, you find him watching you, his lips raw and glistening, his hair in wild disarray. Heat licks at your flesh, but you’re greedy for more— as you curl your hand into his shirt and pull him between your thighs, tugging it over his head. The kiss you steal is lazy, but his mouth moves with a hunger that says he’s already forgotten the boundaries he clung to moments ago. Your hand roams over his newly uncovered skin, muscles hard and hot beneath your fingers. You moan into him, feeling the rigid press of his cock—now fully resurrected—nestled between the slick mess of your thighs.
Your fingers skate over the ridge of him, tracing the curve, the feverish pulse beneath your palm. His hips jerk at your touch, a gasp shuddering in his throat, and you swallow the sound. You move against him, slick heat meeting the desperate strain of his erection, and the friction draws a low, unguarded groan from him. You lap at his bottom lip and then pull back just enough to watch the desperation war with discipline on his beautiful, ruined face.
“Do you want to fuck me?” You murmur coyly, grinning as you grind your hips into him. He tries to answer, but the words catch. His pupils are blown wide, burning with a hunger that’s almost animal.
Finally, he nods.
“Say it,” you order, voice sultry and sweet. “Just once.”
He licks his lips, breath trembling as he obeys. “I want to be inside you.” The words burn, and your pulse stutters with feral delight. “Please.” It’s a whisper, but you feel it everywhere.
You guide the head of his cock between your legs, letting the tip drag through the wet, swollen folds until you feel him twitch and throb, desperate to take more. You tease him, circling your hips until he gasps, and then, with a wicked smile, you tilt just so, pressing him inside, inch by inch.
He can’t keep from jerking, hips stammering forward as you draw him deeper, the stretch delicious. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, shuddering, the heat of his breath matching the wild rhythm of his pulse under your fingers.
You don’t let him move— not yet. You grip his hair tight at the roots, holding him there, savoring the way his cock twitches inside you as you clench around him. You wait, just long enough for him to nearly lose himself, before you let go, giving him permission with a single, hungry roll of your hips.
He fucks you deep and deliberate at first, each thrust measured with that same ruthless control he brings to everything. But you can feel the restraint fraying at the edges, can taste the unraveling on his tongue as he kisses you between broken breaths. You moan, raking your nails down his back, and he hisses, rutting into you a tad harder. The desk rattles beneath you, and you can feel it in the way his thighs tremble, the way his hands fist in your hair and on your skin.
He’s holding on by a thread, and you want to see it snap.
You lock your ankles behind his back, slam your heels down, and pull him flush—daring him closer, deeper, harder. “Don’t hold back,” you whisper, biting the edge of his jaw. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
The words break him. He growls— a sound you’ve never coaxed from him before, low and guttural, laced in pure want. He slams into you, urgency eclipsing technique, the rhythm frantic and desperate. You arch, spine bowed, nails scraping new lines down his back as you meet each thrust, the collision of bodies thunderous.
He’s never let go like this, not for anyone; you see it in the wild flash of his eyes, the way his features break apart, sweat slicking his hair to his brow. He’s beautiful, wild, red-cheeked, and desperate, and every time he slams inside you, it blots out any thought.
You have to cling to him, or you’ll break apart. You tangle your hands in his hair, pull him down for a bruising kiss, and he devours your mouth with a matched hunger. Each thrust drives you higher, pleasure spiking at a dangerous, dizzying pitch.
He hits a place inside you that makes you see stars, and you break away from the kiss, gasping. “There—right there, fuck, Itachi—” and him just hearing his name like this, ruined and needy, makes him shiver violently in your arms.
You press your lips to his ear, panting. “You feel so fucking good, don’t you dare stop—” and the praise undoes him, makes his hips stutter once again. He mutters something hoarse and filthy in return, words lost in the haze as he holds you tighter, pulsing inside you.
You snake a hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. You rub in time with his thrusts, grinding down, chasing the heat rising through your gut. He sees what you’re doing, and instead of faltering, he moans—open, and so goddamn eager for you. “Please—let me—” he stammers, hand sliding down to cover yours, guiding your touch with his own.
“I want you to cum with me,” you breathe, hot and urgent against his jaw. “Can you do that for me, Itachi?”
He trembles, whole body gone taut. “I—” He gasps with a nod, barely able to speak. He’s shaky, sweat sliding down his temple to drip onto your skin. “Trying—” but the words trail off, replaced by a helpless, keening sound as the tension winds tighter and tighter.
You circle your clit harder, panting, fully on the verge yourself. “Cum with me, please—now—I need to feel you—” and that’s all it takes. He breaks, slamming into you with a feral snap, groaning as he spills inside you, thick and hot.
The sensation burns wild through your whole body, your orgasm detonating around him. You clench down, rigid and convulsing, every pulse wrung out by the force of his cock as he pumps you full. You’re gasping, both of you, your legs trembling so hard you lose your grip on the desk and almost fall backward—he catches you, arms bracketing your body.
For a few seconds, there’s just the sound of your ragged breaths, the obscene scene of your bodies pressed together, and the overload of Itachi buried deep inside you, shaking from the aftermath. He collapses forward, face in your neck, ruining your skin with sweat and the hot, slow drag of his breath. You feel him soften inside you as he shudders, his arms going slack and heavy. Your thighs spasm, gripping his hips as though you want to keep him there forever.
You stroke his hair, wild and tangled against your chest, and he doesn’t move, just pants into the hollow below your ear. His body sprawls over you, heavy and inert, and you savor the weight— how solid and real he feels, how his usual detachment has gone to ruin. You press a breathless kiss to his temple, feeling the fever of his skin, and rest your forehead against his.
His eyes are closed, lashes glued together with sweat, but you can tell he’s still there, present and alive in a way you’ve never seen. A slow, lazy smile carves your lips. “You alive?” You tease, fingers brushing the nape of his neck. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth tugs up at one corner.
“I should be the one asking you that,” he murmurs, voice so hoarse and spent that it hardly sounds like him.
Your laugh is warm and fuzzy, muffled in his hair. You’re about to say something clever, something biting and affectionate, when the moment is shattered by a violent, repetitive pounding at the door.
“For fucks sake, we can hear you in the hallway!” Comes Hidan’s voice, muffled by the thick wood but still braying as ever. “Some of us don’t want to listen to you two blowing your loads all over god damn the place!”
Itachi sighs, peeling himself upwards, as if jarred back to the real world.
“At least he waited until we finished,” you chirped up at him with a satisfied hum.
❥ ︎ Warnings: Mention and use of a feminine reader and feminine body parts; although anyone and everyone can read if you ignore those. all characters portrayed in my fanfics are always 18 years old and up .ᐟ .ᐟ Unprotected PnV, dead dove, do not eat (Kind of?), extreme overstimulation, forced multiple orgasms, creampie for days .ᐟ .ᐟ ( with thick, messy loads repeatedly forced deep and pushed back in .ᐟ .ᐟ ), bloodplay / blood kink ? ( Toby bites you .ᐟ .ᐟ ) choking / breathplay ?, cervix-bruising / womb-fucking ( he just wants to make sure it stays in there .ᐟ .ᐟ ), unhinged feral but also pathetic Toby ( he’s whining and growling with every thrust .ᐟ .ᐟ ), dubcon / some cnc? ( he’s sorry, but he just can’t, and won’t stop, fucking you, even if you beg him to .ᐟ .ᐟ ), some Cum play ( ? ), pain play ( you’re so overstimulated .ᐟ .ᐟ Poor you .ᐟ .ᐟ ), loss of bodily control ( you’re so tired, he promises one more — hes a fucking liar ), mind numbing fucking, doggy-style, no mercy at all .ᐟ poor you ᰔ .ᐟ .ᐟ
❥ Synopsis: Poor Toby can’t feel anything anymore… except when your pretty pussy is milking him dry ❤︎ .ᐟ .ᐟ
❥ ︎ Whispers from the author: The dividers belong to @/uzmacchiato , and I have reblogged the other accounts .ᐟ .ᐟ I got the pictures from Pinterest .ᐟ .ᐟ My first ever Creepypasta / Ticci Toby fanfic .ᐟ it has been so so so fun writing this .ᐟ .ᐟ i hope he isn’t too OOC or OOC at all, and I hope you enjoy .ᐟ to my lovelies who are waiting for Chapter four of my “A Heaven Built from Ruin”: it IS still coming, I just want to get the smut PERFECT for you all .ᐟ .ᐟ please pardon any missed mistakes, I edit and write everything on my phone.
❥ ︎ Word count: 1.5k
The bedframe is screaming like it’s being murdered, wood splintering, headboard slamming against the plaster with every savage snap of his hips: BANG—BANG—BANG. Your whole bedroom wall is going to cave in soon. The bed’s already half-broken, and you — fuck, you’re absolutely ruined.
Toby’s scarred, calloused hands are locked around your hips like steel vices, fingers digging so deep into the soft, yielding flesh that a delicious ache blooms instantly under every twitch and jerk of his grip. He yanks you back onto his cock at the exact same time he drives forward, forcing every thick, brutal inch straight through your overstuffed, messy cunt until the head batters your cervix raw and your entire pelvis throbs with a deep, aching fire.
Your face is mashed into your pillowcase that’s soaked with your tears and spit; you can barely breathe, or speak, every desperate gasp tasting of wet fabric and your tears. Your voice has shredded itself raw: high, broken wails fracturing into helpless sobs every single time he bottoms out, splitting you open all over again. And his cum… fuck, it’s everywhere: thick, creamy ropes from load after load that has been forced back out around his pistoning cock, splattering your inner thighs in sticky white streaks. An obscene, frothy mess of his thick cum and your slick coats the base of his shaft, clinging in gooey strands to your swollen, abused pussy lips every time he drags back.
The moment he slams home again it all squelches loudly with a filthy, wet shlk-shlk-shlk-shlk — mixing into a sloppy, pearlescent slime that drips in heavy, swinging strings onto the ruined sheets and smears between your bodies with every loud, meaty thwack of his pelvis against your arse.
Toby is lost to it now, chasing the only thing his dead nerves can still feel: the way your perfect little cunt clamps and ripples and strangles his cock when you come. That bright, violent spark. Better than blood, better than the axe, better than anything. And he’s fucking ravenous.
“T-t-t-take it—f-f-f-fuckin’ TAKE IT—” His voice is a shattered rasp exploding with tics, head snapping sideways so hard his neck cracks like a whip, shoulders jerking violently, “C-c’mon—squeeze—squeezeme—f-f-f-fuck—AGAIN—” He drops his full weight onto your hips, completely hovering over your bowed spine as his mouth latches onto the nape of your neck with teeth first. He bites down viciously, breaking skin, copper flooding hot across his tongue. The pain detonates white-hot through your nerves, but it only makes your cunt clamp harder around him, pleasure spiking so sharp it rips a raw, animal shriek from your throat and sends fresh tears flooding the pillowcase.
“Y-y-yes—there—there—there—” thé sound rips out of him, half growl, half sob, high and wrecked. He doesn’t pull away. He just keeps his teeth sunken deep into your skin while his hips piston faster — short, mean, grinding strokes that stay buried to the hilt, bullying that gooey, tender, ridged spot inside you until your whole body twitches uncontrollably.
The wet sound of your soaked, engorged walls dragging along his cock is deafening. Your legs are shaking so badly they keep collapsing; he just snarls, wrenches them back up with bruising force and fucks you straight back down into the mattress. You’re begging now, voice completely cracked and whiny and pathetic. “T-Toby… baby… c-can’t—s’too much—!”
He whines against your bleeding neck, almost pitiful, hips never slowing for a second. “I—I c-c-can’t—m’s-s-s-sorry—need you t-to—f-f-f-fuck—cum again—pleasepleaseplease—just one more—s-swear on m-my fuckin’ life—”
He’s a fucking liar. A desperate, filthy, twitching liar.
Because the second your body starts seizing again your thighs lock without warning, gummy walls fluttering in helpless, stuttering waves that knock the breath clean out of you. One of his hands flies up, wrapping itself around your throat, thumb and fingers slotting perfectly under your jaw as he closes them around your throat and he yanks you back, forcing your spine to bow painfully towards him. The other snakes underneath, rough fingertips finding your aching, raw clit and rubbing vicious, merciless circles.
His tics are nuclear, head whipping side to side, shoulders seizing, hips stuttering erratically as he feels every single pulse milk him. “F-f-f-fuck—yesYES—squeeze—squeeze—f-f-f-fuckin’ SQUEEZE—”
He slams in, flush to your arse, grinding so hard the bones bruise, and stays there, his cock throbbing, twitching, pumping out whatever’s left while his teeth find your shoulder again. The sting blooms hot, but your toes curl so hard the muscles cramp and a fresh broken cry tears from you. Yet instead of stopping, he starts moving again, slow at first — agonising, deliberate drags out until just the fat head of his pulsing cock stretches your entrance, then punishingly thrusts back in, each one of his thrusts punches another helpless twitch from your body; he’s making sure you feel every ridge, every vein, every fresh gush of cum forced deeper into your ruined cunt.
“S-s-s-sorry,” he gasps against the fresh bite, voice splintering into static and sobs, “can’t fuckin’ stop—need one more—please—give it to me—break for me—f-f-f-fuckin’ BREAK—”
Your scream is smothered into the pillowcase as he loses the last of his mind, his pounding hips turn faster, meaner, and completely unhinged, his teeth sink deeper into your skin, painting his teeth and mouth red with your blood, one hand is crushing your hip, while the sloppy squelches of your overstuffed cunt fills the room like the filthiest soundtrack.
Your next orgasm doesn’t explode, it drags through you in slow, stuttering waves, legs giving out completely, a choked half-sob the only sound you can manage as your back seizes in one long, helpless shudder.
Toby’s teeth rip free from your shoulder, he licks his lips breathlessly for a quick second, letting the metallic taste of your blood coat his tastebuds, and then drops back to the torn skin of your neck like a vicious animal, reopening another bite wound, that was healing, he gave you previously, in one savage clamp. The pain whites out your vision, but your body betrays you instantly, throat cutting off mid-sob as every muscle locks in exhausted, twitching overload.
He then starts rutting like a rabid dog in heat, his hips slamming into the sore skin of your arse like he’s taking his frustration out on you — he probably is —grunting and growling against your bleeding flesh with every single thrust: “Hnn—hnngh—fuck—fuck—!” Low, guttural, feral sounds ripped straight from his chest as he forces every last twitching, sweat-slick pound of his weight onto you. One of his scarred hands, that is still clamped brutally around your hip, yanks your bottom half higher again, keeping your arse tilted up and presented so he can grind deeper, and force every thick inch of his cock into that leaking, needy, greedy cunt and feel it flutter helplessly around him. He’s using you, owning the angle, making sure nothing stops him from chasing that addictive squeeze even as his chest collapses onto your back.
He groans, “C-c-can’t—can’t s-s-stop—m’s-s-s-sorry—need you t-to—f-f-f-fuckin’ milk me—milkme—” The words tumble out in a shattered chant between snarls, spit and blood dripping hot down your shoulder as he ruts harder, shorter and meaner, his pelvis grinding against your arse like he’s trying to fuse himself inside you.
Shlk-shlk-shlk-shlk-shlk. The filthy, sloppy sounds of your wrecked cunt being fucked through another weak, twitching load are downright sinful as thick white ropes bubble out around his cock and smear everywhere, but he doesn’t slow down.
Toby just keeps rutting through it, hips stuttering wildly, teeth locked deep in your neck, breath hitching with every desperate grind: “feels so good—break—f-f-f-fuckin’ break—”
Only when your whole body is limp and trembling beneath him, when your cunt is giving one last exhausted twitch around his cock and you’re sobbing into the pillowcase like you might actually pass out, does something in Toby finally fracture. His hips give one last savage, stuttering grind, his legs buckling, chest collapsing unevenly so one forearm slams down harder beside your head, the other clawing at the sheets for balance — a broken howl tearing out of his throat as another weak spurt of cum pulses deep inside you.
Then: he’s dead weight on you, teeth still sunk into your neck, chest heaving, his cock still buried to the hilt and twitching like it never wants to leave. Even then his thighs keep making tiny, involuntary little rocks forward, breath stuttering hot and ragged against your ruined skin. The tip of his tongue slithers out of his mouth and he gives a slow lick of the pulsing bite mark om your neck, “j-just… o-one… m-m-more..” he exhales heavily, and the hot breath wafts over the sensitive wound, causing you to whimper pathetically, “mm.. s-so.. perfect… so f-f-fuckin’ per-perfect f’me…”
His weight keeps you pinned completely, his chest heavy on your back, your mattress creaks under the combined weight of you both when he moves. His heartbeat slams against your spine like a second, frantic pulse. And in the hazy, shattered silence you realise you aren’t pushing him off. You’re not even tryjng to — well, it’s not like you can anyway, but you’d let him stay buried inside you like this forever if that's what he wanted.
But Toby isn't stopping, not really: he’s just run out of energy, and he’ll be back at it — at you — sooner than you can catch your breath.
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