Pride 01. "You should be grateful I chose you. No one else is worthy of my touch"
♡⸝⸝ pairing | mafia boss father!bucky barnes x daughter!reader
♡⸝⸝ summary | whatever bucky barnes wants, he takes. and what he wants is you.
♡⸝⸝ warnings | MDNI 18+ | DDDNE | incest, absent mother, smut, edging, no use of y/n, age gap (bucky is in his 40s; reader is mid 20s), everyone is of age JUST LIKE YOU SHOULD BE IF YOU CONTINUE READING
♡⸝⸝ word count | 505 (૮꒰⸝⸝> ̫ <⸝⸝꒱ა)
♡⸝⸝ bunny purrs | day one of the beautiful @theoracleofsin's summer of sin event !! thank you ruby for organizing such a fun event, i can't wait to sin all summer long. going back to my roots with this one...i've been in hibernation for way too long.
please note that just because i write about it doesn't mean i condone it. you are responsible for your own media consumption and i've stated the warnings. turn around now if anything here makes you uncomfortable. this is a work of fiction and should be treated as such. hate comments will be met with sarcasm + wit + a strong hammer ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
it was one thing to be the girl on the arm of the most feared arms dealer in the northern hemisphere. it was another thing completely to be his daughter.
perhaps fortunately for you, you had taken up the mantle of being both. your mother vanishing into thin air had left bucky lonely, and his job left little time for him to find companionship.
so why should he force something when he had basically created the perfect companion in you?
and when bucky barnes wanted something, he did take. he had expected pushback, or even you to flee, yet his obedient darling girl just said 'yes daddy.'
during meetings where he needed to look nonchalant you were perched on his lap like a dare. he would routinely bring you to deals, letting you see what he goes through to provide the lavish life you led.
so it wouldn't bee strange when he requested you show appreciation, not that you'd ever been anything but accommodating. but it was easier to justify the action of slipping his hand adorned with rings worth more than most people's cars up your skirt.
easier to justify his thumb running along the edge of the sinful satin of your panties, easier still to stroke the damp fabric and feel you shudder under his touch.
when the body guards shut the large oak double doors for privacy after yet another meeting, you moved to leave the warmth of bucky's lap, despite the way your entire body tingled at being teased for more than an hour.
"do you know why i chose you, prinţesă?" he asked, holding you down firmly enough, you could feel the strain of his cock against your thigh. a twisting thrill running through your chest at the nickname said with far too much heat.
you shook your head, words dropping from your brain as bucky's knuckle provided a pressure to the aching bundle of nerves between your thighs. your vision went momentarily hazy as he rocked it slowly.
his grin was lethal, drinking in your dazed expression from being subtly edged to now receiving what your body craved. "no one else but my own is worthy of my touch."
his nose grazed your jaw, then a tentative press of lips to the soft shell of your ear. his hand withdrew from under your skirt, a whine of protest slipped from your throat, and next you knew your back hit the solid wood of his desk.
bucky moved you to his content, bunching the fabric of your skirt around your waist, and holding your legs wide to accommodate his wide frame. he braced a hand beside your head, freeing his cock with his other, letting it rest heavily on your lower stomach.
"how does that make you feel baby? knowing you're the only one," he asked, moving the ruined satin the side, letting the swollen red tip tease through your folds.
"so…" your whisper gave way to a moan as he slowly pushed into your aching pussy. "so fucking special."
𓂃 𓈒𓏸 envy ii
pairing: professor!bucky x reader
prompt: “must be nice to never have to beg for a single scrap of affection.”
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut mentioned, allusions to smut, bucky is a PRICK but its kinda hot, public humiliation, reconciliation (wink), horny!bucky, he does love reader, student/teacher relationship (20s/40s), bucky speaks latin once bc i <3 being self indulgent, petnames (sweet girl, sweetheart) . . .
word count: 907
a/n: guess who found out the prompts can be interpreted and not just used :D i loooove taking things too seriously :")
to be honest, i really just let the wind take me wherever it blew with this prompt and it got me here, im so sorry if this makes no sense with most of these lmfao :""")
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Two hours passed by like pushing a train with your bare hands, slow and fucking torturous. You sat at your regular seat, two rows from the front, just close enough to seem attentive, yet far enough to not seem as eager as you really are.
A chirpiness exuded from you as you entered the building, through the halls with your fists tight on the strap of your bag, carrying an excitement just to see Professor Barnes.
Or James as more close students and faculty would call him, or even Bucky as you would whisper against his skin whenever you both had a chance to be alone together, wether at his place or even in his office after hours.
You sat with a smile on your face, the vivacity of your happiness seemingly from the night before, all tangled in his bed sheets, pried open with an acclamation you only ever saw him provide to his work. Whispering a litany of praise akin to idolatry upon already slick skin, only made wetter with kisses trailed with his tongue, like passages he would assign as class reading, which would turn into your head tucked against his chest, his fingers trailing up and down your spine as he read for you, asking questions with a soft nudge to wake you from your hazy, cotton mind.
You could still feel it as your thighs pressed together under your desk, as you readied yourself for the lecture.
But Bucky, smart, yet cruel, and far too handsome for his own good, had other plans.
Sitting in the leather chair in his office, you slump forward with an elbow on the arm, fist to your cheek, and your eyes stay solemnly down. A fury laved behind your ribs like magma ready to spill from the edges of a volcano, what's worse is that it accumulated and burgeoned low in your stomach, and ached it's way into a different form of hot liquid.
It's a real shame for you that your professor loves how easy it is to pester you, to rile you up. Biting your cheek, you stare sourly through your eyebrows, at his wide smile.
"It's not funny," You murmur, only to make his chest thrum with another bout of laughter. Bucky's teeth latch to his bottom lip to suppress the wheezing, hand coming up to shield his eyes, elbow up on his desk chair to hide behind his palm.
You could cry. With how embarrassed you are, confidently reaching your hand up at every question he asked, only for him to skim right past and call up another person. Two hours of ignorance, only for him to twist the knife further when calling for students who were barely paying attention and never bothered to raise their hand.
Once he calmed with a husky sigh, swivelling in his chair with the last flurries of humour, he speaks.
"Sweetheart—"
"It's really not funny," You huff, crossing your arms over your chest, muttering immaturely under your breath. “At least, I don't know, say something, you were basically ignoring me! I felt like a kid or something, you know? Must be nice to those other people, getting all your attention…” You sigh again, scrunching your face in aggravation. "I mean, one question would've been nice!"
"Oh, mea dulcis puella," he pouts condescendingly, lengthening the words in a degrading pitch. Standing now, he wastes no time in walking towards you, and holding his arms out to pull you up and into a tight embrace. "Was it too mean? I'm so sorry, sweetheart, but, God, your face is so beautiful when you're irritated… you wanted to answer those questions so bad."
Despite your disinclination to move, he wraps his arms around you anyway. His chin resting on the top of your head with a prolonged sigh, leaving your cheek to press up on his chest.
"Bucky—"
"I really didn't mean to piss you off so bad," he starts, voice low easing upon your body, mixed with the heat and strong hold he has you in, he has you cornered in a comfort only he could bring. "Thought it would be funny. Y'know how when you get so frustrated you get turned on?"
"Oh, Bucky!" You whine.
The wobble in his chest comes back with a hum to your scalp, pressing his lips there. "What, you told me that a while ago one night. When you were studying, couldn't focus… pissed you off so bad you had to call me to see if I was free..."
You hide deeper into his chest, arms still encircled around your own, and he pulls you in with ease.
"Didn't need to make it a humiliation ritual." You sigh against his shirt.
"Hm, I'll do better next time."
"You better."
"I promise," silence encapsulates the room for a moment, letting the two of you sink into each other, before Bucky's hands find themselves comfortable on the globes of your ass, and he pipes up. "Wanna get up on my desk and let me make it up to you?"
The lift of your cheek, a smile he can feel, presses through his shirt. Humming humorously, matching the condescension he delivered. "Christ, for an old man you sure know how to keep up."
"That is why I humiliate you. That smart ass mouth of yours," he pats your ass twice with a dopey tilt of his lips. "Up you get princess, just lemme redeem myself."
Prompt: “Begging doesn't suit me.” - Pride 03 for @theoracleofsin event Summer of Sin
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x vampire!female reader
Word count: 610 words (oops!)
Tags: slight dubcon (reader tries to compel Bucky, it doesn't really work because he has super soldier serum); vampire feeding on human; i guess kinda blood kink?; power play; age difference (this time Buckaroo is the youngling, reader is mentioned to be hundreds of years old); mutual attraction; neck biting; sexual tension
Notes: so.......... if it's not obvious already, i love vampires. i love vampire lore. and this week i just so happened to rewatch the first blade movie, which was the perfect inspiration for a club based vampire fic!
Red bright lights pulse through the noisy underground club, heavy bass vibrating deep into your bones. You don’t remember when this place became your favorite hunting ground at night, maybe months ago, maybe years ago. Turns out that time works weirdly when it stops moving forward and instead becomes still.
The smell of cigarette smoke curls around writhing bodies, and you move carefully across the crowd, eyes adjusting and trying to spot the next source of fuel for your system. In the middle of a bass drop, with people sweating through alcohol and drugs, is when you finally spot him, tall, brooding, dark hair slightly ruffled, all dressed in black, moving like a man on a mission.
Actually, not like. He is on a mission. Centuries of immortality have made certain impossible to forget, and Bucky Barnes carries one of those, so you recognize him immediately, just as fast as you recognize the way he moves through the club, tactical awareness written in every step. It’s not entirely surprising to find someone like him here. Vampires have long stepped into public view, and their preferred hunting grounds became hot spots for all sorts of law enforcers or armed forces, always looking for something taking a wrong turn.
Drawn to the quiet strength that radiates from him, you approach through the throng, silk dress clinging to every curve in the humid heat. Your fingers brush his flesh wrist when you stop next to him and he all but jumps, body locking in, before you lean over and your voice weaves supernatural compulsion.
“Come,” you whisper, pulling him by the jacket and dragging him to a shadowed alcove away from prying eyes. There is barely any resistance, at first; your cool lips graze the strong column of his neck, fangs teasing the rapid pulse while the influence of your single word urges him to bare his vein to you and surrender. You inhale once, eyes closing as you ready yourself to sink your teeth into the source of sustenance, but the moment breaks when his metal hand pushes against your chest and pulls you just enough away that you are forced to meet his eyes.
Brows furrowing in confusion, you tilt your head as your eyes darken slightly. “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you,” you say, voice silvery, trying once more to bend his mind just enough to make him pliant. He doesn’t move.
“That doesn’t work on me,” he murmurs. While resisting compulsion isn’t entirely unheard of, it’s rare enough to stagger you in the spot. However, what surprises you most is how he isn’t trying to run from you. How he isn’t trying to hurt you. His metal fingers move from your chest and instead drop to your waist, tugging you closer until you can see the vein of his neck throbbing under the skin once more. “But if you want to bite me, you can just ask.”
Hunger sharpens inside you at the resistance, only making the soldier more intoxicating. You lean over, lips brushing his jaw as your bodies press flush in the narrow dark corner. “Do you want me to say please?” You reply, words slipping out laced with amusement. “You might be in bad luck. Begging doesn’t suit me.” Fingers soon tangled in his dark hair, you guide his head to the side and let your fangs finally sink deep into his warm skin. Rich blood floods your mouth in a rush, carrying a sweet tang, the exact taste you had expected the moment you smelled him for the first time. You drink until you feel dizzy with pleasure, your hunger sated for the time being.
⭑Prompt.ᐟ "Even on my knees, I am still looking down at you."
For @theoracleofsin's Summer of Sin event ꨄ︎
⭑Summary.ᐟ Your nervousness provides Father Barnes with a whole new way to provide your absolution.
⭑Warnings.ᐟ Slight religious corruption maybe?, desecration of a confessional booth, allusions to smut
⭑Word Count.ᐟ 506
⭑Phoenix Chirps.ᐟ What better way to celebrate a summer of sin than with a priest? I will say time and time again that if priests would just look hot maybe the Catholic church wouldn't have dwindling congregation issues. This could TECHNICALLY be seen as part of my Confessionals series, but I didn't have them in mind when I wrote it. You could view it as a prequel if you like.
"Bless me Father for I have sinned…" you trailed off, fidgeting with the laced edge of your dress. "It's been quite some time since my last confession."
Shifting uneasily in the small booth, you weren't even sure why you had decided to come into the church. After not stepping foot in one for close to a decade, you had expected to burst into flames considering the transgressions that brought you here in the first place.
"That's alright." A deep velvet baritone sounded behind the lattice to your left, obscuring whoever was meant to absolve the sins you had committed. "Just tell me what you'd like to confess."
Clearing your throat, you opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. Nerves clashing with the onslaught of things you needed to confess, yet not knowing if there was such a thing as oversharing with a priest.
"Are you nervous?"
"A little," was your meek response, not sure why when the booth made it feel like you were indeed talking to a higher entity.
"Would it help if we could see each other?"
The offer was surprising. Every rendition of this you'd seen in movies or experienced while growing up, there was always a veil of privacy. Those were the rules. Yet you were certain that a man of God would know the limitations.
Your curiosity piqued. "I think so."
There was no fanfare, just a swish of robes, the creak of old door hinges, and your side of the booth opening. Father James Barnes was by no means a small man. His wide frame took up nearly the entirety of the free space, until he folded himself onto his knees directly in front of you. Large hands braced on either side of your hips, his belly a soft plush covering muscle pressing into your knees.
"Is…is this allowed? Why are you on your knees?" you asked, eyes darting around his handsome face, willing yourself to focus on the rise and fall of his chest instead of the sacrilegious scandal currently taking shape at the forefront of your mind.
Warm thumbs brushed the hem of your dress , rough pads catching on the lace and dragging it up imperceptibly. Possibly a mistake, or by intention you didn't have an answer.
"On my knees I realize I'm much closer to the holy spirit than I am when I stand." A simple response, punctuated with another pass of his thumbs too deliberate to be accidental. "Especially when the thing I look down on now, seems to be the closest I'll get to heaven on this mortal plane."
Pupils wide in the dim light were trained at the apex of your thighs, hands drifting up and up in a teasing test of a resolve you didn't have.
"Is that so?" you asked, all thoughts of atonement billowing from your mind as your legs parted in invitation instead.
Father Barnes nodded, leaning closer, fingers now finding damp fabric as he grew bolder. "If you grant my ascension, I'll deliver your absolution."
Humidity is rising, the shadows are lengthening, and the altar has been prepared. Welcome to the Summer of Sin, a month-long fanfiction challenge brought to you by @theoracleofsin.
From the FIRST SUNRISE OF THE MONTH OF JULY to the FINAL MIDNIGHT, we are exploring the darkest corners of human desire through the lens of the Seven Deadly Sins. The Oracle will speak the prophecies; and then, it will be your turn to write the stories.
The Commitment (timeline): the month of July is broken down into 4-to-5-day blocks, each dedicated to a sin. The Oracle has provided a prophecy for each one and a few sentences as suggestions to spark your imagination. Your only obligation is to draw inspiration from the prophecy. There is no pressure to complete the full month; whether you offer a single sin or indulge in every one of them, the Oracle welcomes your words.
The Sacrifice (word count): every entry must be a maximum of 500 words. However, worry not; the Oracle sees all but does not punish all. If you write more than 500 words, your work will still be part of the event's History.
The Legends (fandoms): the Oracle opens its house to any fandom that wishes to participate. Write for any universe, any ship, or any characters your dark heart desires.
The Congregation (tag): the Oracle can only be truly omnipresent with your helping hand. Make sure to tag @theoracleofsin or #SummerofSin2026 so it can find, read and reblog your dark offerings.
The Oracle’s Eye (safety): while you are free to write whatever story comes to mind, this event explicitly focuses on dark and taboo themes. Please do not participate if you are not comfortable with the following topics.
Allowed: horror, morally grey dynamics, hybrids & monster fucking, dubcon/noncon, incest, dark or tabboo dynamics.
Strictly Prohibited: underage content and bestiality are forbidden.
Mandatory: because of the heavy nature of this event, all entries must include clear Content Warnings (TW/CW). The Oracle wishes to pass the word of Sin without upsetting innocent onlookers.
And now... find your sins under the Read More. Indulge.
I. Pride (1st to the 5th)
The Oracle decrees: On the first day, you shall build a monument to your own reflection, forgetting that the summer lightning strikes the highest tower first.
“You should be grateful I chose you. No one else is worthy of my touch.”
“Even on my knees, I am still looking down at you.”
“Begging doesn't suit me.”
II. Envy (6th to the 10th)
The Oracle decrees: On the sixth day, you shall covet the breath in another's lungs until your own chest burns with starvation, watching their happiness from the shadows.
“Why does he/she get your smile when I’m the one who deserves it more?”
“Must be nice to never have to beg for a single scrap of affection.”
“I would burn down this entire world just to feel, for a single second, what it’s like to be preferred.”
III. Wrath (11th to the 15th)
The Oracle decrees: On the eleventh day, you shall strike a match in the heat of the midnight hour, only to realize too late that you are standing in the ruins of what you destroyed.
“You wanted a monster, so stop screaming now that I finally became one.”
“Look around you! Is this what you wanted? Because there's nothing left to save!”
“Hit me again. I’m just waiting for an excuse.”
IV. Sloth (16th to the 19th)
The Oracle decrees: On the sixteenth day, the sweltering heat shall paralyze your limbs, and you will watch the tragedy unfold before you without ever making a sound to help.
“Why bother? Everything turns to dust eventually anyway.”
“It’s too late to fix it now, so why don't you just lie down here in the dark with me?”
“It was so easy to just close my eyes and pretend you were never there.”
V. Greed (20th to the 23th)
The Oracle decrees: On the twentieth day, you shall find that which is not yours, and you shall bury it deep in the earth where it will rot alongside your soul.
“I want every inch of you, every secret, until there's nothing left for anyone else.”
“There is no such thing as 'enough' when it comes to what I want.”
“I don’t care who it belonged to first, it’s mine now.”
VI. Gluttony (24th to the 27th)
The Oracle decrees: On the twenty-fourth day, a feast of ash awaits the tongue that speaks only of its own endless hunger, consuming until there is nothing left to bleed.
“Even if it ruins me, I just want to taste you one more time.”
“There is a void inside me that nothing in this world can ever fill, except maybe you.”
“You call it an addiction, but I call it the only thing that makes me feel alive.”
VII. Lust (28th to the 31st)
The Oracle decrees: On the twenty-eighth day, you shall carve a name into your skin under a stifling summer sun, a monument to an obsession that was never meant to survive.
“You’re my greatest sin, so I’m going to keep fucking you since I’m already damned.”
“This might burns us alive but don't you dare let go of me.”
𓂃 𓈒𓏸 pride i
pairing: nick fowler x reader
prompt: "you should be grateful I chose you. no one else is worthy of my touch.”
warnings: tension, alcohol mention, google translated romanian (im so sorry) . . .
word count: 438
a/n: eeep, i'm hoping that in doing this event, i can find some love for writing again and understand some new characters :") let just see ! i hope you enjoy <3
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Polished shoes, trimmed suit, and a whisky that sloshed ever so subtly in his hand as you entered his office. Void of any other person, just the two of you with the minuscule squeak of his leather chair and the subtle scent of tobacco.
You didn't sit, not because you weren't asked to, but because you knew the rhythm, how Nick Fowler moved, the dance of an office meeting that starts with him sat down with his eyes on the cold drink in his palm.
"Do you know why," he started, voice low, a hum you could feel in your chest. "I asked you in here? Right now?"
Your hands clasped together in front of you, shuffling your feet, inhaling, waiting for an impact you don't know will come.
"I do." You answer.
"Tell me."
His eyes find you then, blue, unwavering. Expression simple, cryptic almost in its vacancy. Swallowing, you comply with a faint quiver of anxiety.
"The mission—"
Nick cuts you off, swirling the amber in his glass. "What mission?"
"Venice, Italy. Touristy place. The guy we need, Max, is on the run and found himself in Europe," you swallow around your nerves. "We slide in, make friends, be sweet, and get what we came there for."
"Which is?"
Swallowing again, your eyes slide from the veins on the back of his hand, to the edges of his suit, the collar of his shirt, his pink lips and finally to his stare.
"Fifty grand."
You flinch subtly as he stands, placing his glass aside on the polished oak, sighing. His fingers graze the wood while he walks around his desk, dragging, until he finally stops mere inches in front of you. Polished shoes bracketing your feet.
Before you could look up yourself, his hands hold your cheeks, thumbs grazing the underside of your chin until you share a breath.
"You should be grateful I chose you. You understand?"
You nod and repeat the affirmation under your breath, a mere sigh as you try your best to hold his stare. He keeps pressing, his gaze boring into your own, licking his lips, so close you could almost taste him. He held it down hard, tipping his head, clenching his jaw, willing you to snap at any moment.
When he spoke next, it came softer. An insurmountable gentleness that made your lips part. "No one else is worthy of my touch. I chose you for a reason, a reason I barely even understand myself. But do not make me regret that."
"I won't." You say stiffly. "I won't make you regret it."
𓂃 𓈒𓏸 pride iii
pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x reader
prompt: "begging doesn't suit me."
warnings: 18+ MDNI, not outright smut but its suggestive, bondage, shibari . . .
word count: 372
a/n: i remember seeing the batman when it came out and i fell in love with paul dano !! actually !! lmfao and i even cosplayed as the riddler :") but i recently watched the drama and robert pattinson and his slutty glasses,, damn,,,, i even rewatched mickey 17 too and his VOICE anywho lfmao
it's my first time writing for him, so im sorry if it sounds weird <3 :)))
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The warehouse wasn't the most suitable place. Hell it wasn't your first choise, but you can make do. The far-away drip of some mysterious liquid in the background, ominous creeks, the cold nip of night biting at your fingertips. You adjust your gloves leisurely — quietly reprimanding yourself for the fingerless ones — opening and closing your hands, checking over your coat and pockets, tapping the toe of your shoes on the floor like you have all the time in the world. Like you don't have Batman genuflect against concrete, wrapped in ladders and motifs of rope. Sitting on his heels, calves to thigh, wrists together and behind his back.
The cords creak as he fumbles, tensing his muscles, shaking his torso as if to help him free. A sigh releases from his lips.
"Is this… Is this really necessary?"
Turning your attention back to him, head hung low, hair curtaining his face and fluttering in the cool breeze, back curved inward. You tilt your head to the side with the tiniest of smiles, teeth on show, watching his breath deepen, how it moves his spine.
"You don't like it? But i worked so hard," you pout, inching closer to him. "Knotted them up pretty, too. Searched up how to do those pretty patterns."
He looks up again, this time with a face of pure impassivity.
With a tut, you roll your eyes, kicking a stray pebble under the sole of your boot.
"You're no fun, you know that?" Clicking your tongue in a rhythm, you shrug. "Could make it fun and at least beg to be let out or something…"
His eyes hardened as his thick brows furrow. "Begging doesn't suit me."
"Oh, well I think you're wrong," you giggle softly, letting the toe of your boot slide against the side of his thigh, slow and precise. "That rough voice, that mop of hair… those puppy dog eyes…"
Squatting down with your elbows to your knees, your gloved fingers hold his head up. You smile as you swipe a couple strands of damp hair from his eyes, resisting the urge to ruffle it up further, to sink your fingers in and tug, leaning ever so closer. "I think you're perfect for it, Bruce."
𓂃 𓈒𓏸 envy i
pairing: tj hammond x reader
prompt: “why does he/she get your smile when I’m the one who deserves it more?”
warnings: angst, drug use/mention, relapse, bestfriend!tj, cuddling, hair stroking, unrequited-ish feelings, i defo missed a bit lol . . .
word count: 958
a/n: so like... i didn't wanna write angst per se.......... but *runs*
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The night swept away from you like water between fingers. A vague memory of going out with some guy, your friend having set you up with her partner's coworker. You settled at some bar in the city that was far too expensive for you, yet you indulged anyway seeing as he was respectable enough to pay, and especially as conversation settled into silence that would've felt fuller and easier if said man in front of you was someone else.
You didn't want to think about it, about your best friend as you smiled and laughed at all the right times with the correct amount of charm. And you especially willed your mouth not to chew in the same number of syllables of his name.
But the night faded into strained niceties, polite kisses to the cheek, and a hand hovering over your waist as if to seal the 'not interested' deal. And now — barefaced and barefoot, your sleep shirt unfortunately smelling a bit too like skin with how many uses — you believe the counting the beats of his name manifested him to your apartment, with a long rap of his fist to your door.
TJ looked tired himself, it lands on his cheeks and the bags under his eyes, but the lids themselves look pried open. You already know, before you've fully woken up and wiped the scratch of sleep from the corners of your eyes, that he's relapsed. Hard.
And through the incessant murmuring of rants, his boots heavily thudding back and forth the second your latch unlocked with a metallic click, you almost, almost, worry about the noise complaint that will surely come in the morning, he finds himself finally facing you, a sneer on his lips, pointing accusingly.
“I-I mean, really, come on! Why does he get your smile when I’m the one who deserves it more?” With colour darkening his cheeks, he calms after the question leaves him, as if his body forced it out like an exorcism, and he softens into himself.
"Jesus, Teej," you sigh under your breath, a pebble lodges in your throat. "Please, you're fucked up—"
"I know!" He exclaims. "Fuck! I know, I know, I just… Fuck!"
His fingers trembled as they covered his puffy eyes and raked through his hair.
"Listen, you can stay here, okay?" A sigh caves your chest in. "Just… I need to call someone, your mom—"
"You are not calling my mom."
"Doug then," swiping your hand down your face, you will yourself to suppress the tears that sting your waterline, but the waver and slight whine to your voice makes it all too noticeable. "TJ, I need to call someone just to let them know you're okay and in good hands. Your family trusts me, right?"
You hate to think it but he looks too pretty when he cries. The pool of blue that halos his abnormally large pupils in contrast to the red and pinks surrounding his eyes and nose, the pout of his rosy lips, spit lick and bitten.
He gives you a small nod, keeping his eyes down.
"Yeah… Yeah, they do… they love you," he sniffles, exhaling a wobbly laugh that uncovers his snaggletooth, and his face almost lights up with the lightest tilt of a smile. "I love you."
It's meant to settle deep and stay within you like a cat curled atop a blanket, kneading its paws and purring a sweet, melodic vibration. And it does. It always has with TJ. But its on these nights where he's pumped up full of god knows what, pupils swallowing the colour you grew to adore, restlessly fidgeting, pacing, heart sputtering a mile a minute as he stresses and cries in your arms looking for solace and safety — It all melts away like salt on ice.
With your hands finding purchase on his shoulders, you squeeze for his attention, pulling him back into the room and not the thoughts flickering upon the screen that was his head.
"I love you too," and you mean it, and you smile sweetly because it's earnest. Your eyes find the ceiling mildly interesting as you sigh and the tears unhelpfully fall. Fat streaks that you realise have been shoved back for years, they're almost a mix of relief and pain. "But you can't keep doing this to yourself. It's not fair on you, or your family, or me."
And the night repeats itself, as it does usually. A tight embrace, TJ's stubble scratching at your neck, breath hot and shaky, and he smells like leather and sweat, it's so sickeningly familiar you have to fight off the need to nose at his temple. His hands ball into tight fists on the back of your shirt, before one holds you to by the back of the head, keeping you close, and he promises to stop. He asks for five more minutes.
"Just… I never let myself have this anymore. I miss it."
It breaks your heart, just how the routine goes on and on, how you can't ever say no to him. Especially how your fingers feel so right dug into the forest of his damp hair, and how correct his arms feel wrapped around your middle.
You can't trust yourself at two in the morning. So you let the heavy weight of your best friend settle as his breathing eases, and you let your phone light up with notifications from the coffee table because you dare move TJ from the reprieve that was unconsciousness, until your own eyelids start to drop, and your cheek lulls on his head, nosing closer into him as your brain conjures up the worst; that you'll likely only get this close when the warmth still courses through his veins.
