an atrocity

but still human #hornyonmain SOMEONE PLEASE RAIL ME

[lousolversons]

Sydney Adamu + Richie Jerimovich in THE BEAR

[2cupids]

warnings. sex worker!reader, fingering, slight breath play, squirting. mdni (17+).

boyfriend!choso has always been supportive of everything you’ve done and that includes you and your onlyfans account. he’s even subscribed to you.

that’s exactly why choso is helping you film a video today. you’re sat in between his thick thighs with a red lingerie set on facing the mirror in front of you with the phone set up, recording you and choso’s reflection in the mirror which you’ll edit out later.

choso’s hands caress the sides of your body, coming up to massage your boobs and giving them a nice squeeze. he tugs the lacy material down to reveal your tits, groping them gently as you sigh and relax further into his chest.

one hand stays on your breast as the other travels down south. he rubs your inner thigh, slowly inching closer to your awaiting core, building up the anticipation. his fingers lightly tease your clit over your panties and a whimper falls from your pretty lips.

per your idea, choso’s hand parts from your breast and reaches over next to him to grab the pair of scissors, cutting both sides of your panties and letting the material fall down between your legs, putting your pussy on full display.

he makes you cum the first time by playing with your clit and you’re a withering mess against his hard chest. a firm slap lands on your sensitive nub and you squeal, your body flinching slightly before a small grin pulls at the sides of your mouth.

choso takes his hand away from your pussy, giving you a minute to breathe before he continues playing with you. when you give him the subtle signal from you that you’re ready to continue, he moves down to tease your clit again before letting his fingers trail down more. two fingers circle around your entrance, dipping them inside to collect your sticky essence. he brings his hand up and spreads his fingers apart, showing off your wetness for the camera.

both his long, meaty fingers slip inside you at the same time and you suck in a shaky breath. his fingers scissor inside you, stretching you out while simultaneously curling them inside you at the same time. the raunchy noises of your wet pussy bounce off the walls and fill the room, mixing with your sweet sounds of pleasure. his fingers rub against that sweet spot inside you with each thrust and it’s got you rocking your hips against his fingers, chasing after that second orgasm that’s about to make its appearance.

choso’s palm rubs against your clit as he pleasures you, adding onto the delicious feeling and your moans increase in volume and intensity. he pinches your nipple between his thumb and index finger before his hand moves up to your neck, wrapping around it and applying pressure to the sides.

each breath starts to come in more shallow than the last as you get closer. your eyes squeeze together and your mouth falls open in the shape of the letter ‘o’. your head rolls back onto choso’s chest right before you cum.

a high pitched moan leaves your mouth and you place a hand on top of choso’s, he quickly pulls his soaked fingers out of you and a second later a clear fluid shoots up from between your legs as you squirt.

choso holds your shaking form against him as you calm down from your high. once your breathing steadies, he spreads your lips wide open to give the camera one last good look at your messy cunt. he brings his fingers up to your mouth and you wrap your glossy lips around them obediently to taste yourself.

after posting the video, you check the interactions a couple hours later and you’re pleasantly surprised by the comments. you can’t help but crack a smile at how a handful of comments are talking about your boyfriend’s arms or complimenting his tats.

maybe this is your sign to have choso help you out with more content.

taglist <3 @cheezemanz @tojicvmslut

[ch3rryybabyy]

[sofuton]

[contourkit-deactivated20160224]

What if everything gets better in 2016

[melonisopod]

[junabug]

this is a genuinely haunting post in 2026

[florial]

[acvoice]

A new installment in torturing human Cas by giving him a nicotine addiction :D

A companion piece to replace my holy light with smoke.

substitute for comfort

Castiel/Dean Winchester

Words: 17,091

Mature

Main tags: Smoker Castiel, Human Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Quitting Cigarettes, Nicotine Withdrawal, Canon Divergence, Castiel Whump, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Shotgunning, Dry Humping, Hopeful Ending

Summary:

Cas smoked a lot. Any time they stopped, Cas was the first out of the car, hands fumbling for a cigarette. He smoked one, two, three in a row. He smoked while eating, drinking, before and after a hunt — any chance he got. Dean suspected he even smoked inside his room at the bunker. It seemed like, whenever Dean glanced at Cas, he had a cigarette in his mouth.

Even now, Cas barely waited a minute for the monsters to drop dead before lighting up.

Dean was not one to judge. He really wasn’t. But this was getting ridiculous.

-------

Gadreel left, and Castiel was finally able to return the bunker. Still human, he joined Sam and Dean as a hunter.

One thing troubled Dean though. Sometime during his time away, Cas had picked up smoking.

It would take more than one talk to get Cas to quit. And it would take more than silence to get Cas to admit why he needed to smoke in the first place.

[acvoice]

Non-smoker Dean is arguably funnier than smoker Dean. But it’s also good because it gives me an excuse to imagine Dean trying to seem tough and cool when faced with the prospect of smoking a cigarette, only to fumble it so hard it’s instantly obvious he’s not a smoker.

On the other hand, smoker Cas is amazing. Picking it up as a human, or starting while away from the Winchesters to try blending in with humanity, being a fucking weirdo and just doing it for the love of the game even though he’s an angel who gets no effects out of it. He would just like how the smoke curled in the air, aesthetically.

He would also notice how it makes Dean’s heart beat faster when he sees him do it. So he smokes just to see that flustered expression on Dean’s face again.

[psikuu]

dirrty - sparring with satoru leads to you realising just how much you like him dominating you...

cw: dom!satoru, spanking, mild degradation, slight dacryphilia, choking, creampie, not proof-read

wc: 2k

“kick his ass sensei!”

“yeah, i believe in you!” 

the cheering from your students made you bite back a chuckle as you stood before your husband in the middle of the training field. the two of you had been pushed into an unexpected position — your second years and his first years betting on who would win in a fight.

whilst you were an experienced sorcerer as well — strong and capable with a powerful technique — you couldn’t act like beating your husband was something realistic. not when your husband was satoru gojo. even though he was very clearly going easy on you (neither of you wanted to hurt each other after all) it was impossible to touch him thanks to his infinity, and as much as you were having fun, you wanted to show off a little more in front of your students. he couldn’t have the spotlight all the time after all. 

“c’mon,” you groaned through pants, a small grin still glued to your face because the whole thing really was amusing. “ditch the infinity already you coward.” 

the word hit him like a slap to the face coming from you, and like the masochist he was, his expression exploded into something dangerously amused, six eyes gleaming at you like a predator would lock onto prey, blindfold long discarded. you were putting up a good fight so far, and god was he enjoying himself. 

“coward, huh?” he snorted, releasing his infinity in the same breath and making the other students hold their breath. “fine. let’s do this fist to fist.”

“that means no cursed energy from you either~” 

it was hard to tell who struck first with how fast fists were flying and bodies were moving, your students struggling to keep up with who was doing what. what was clear, however, was how right the two of you were together. where he excelled in brute force and speed, you dominated in stealth and precision, both of you struggling to land punches on each other. 

that was when it happened. 

you didn’t have time to blink as he faked that sweep and instead grabbed you by your collar before you could gloat about dodging such an obvious attack, your body hitting the ground with a thud after being thrown to the ground face first. everyone fell silent at that, watching eagerly as you tried to get up just to be shoved back to the ground again by a large hand on your shoulder blade and his knee beside your hip, trapping you. 

“got you,” he sneered, watching as you squirmed and struggled uselessly beneath him before accepting your fate and falling limp to the ground. “i win.” 

as much as you wanted to say something smart in retaliation, the words died on your tongue the second he pressed you down with just a little more pressure, and suddenly you felt a strange heat fill your stomach. it was weirdly thrilling — both of you panting and sweaty while he practically manhandled you to the ground beneath him. your heart was racing both from the adrenaline of the fight and the thoughts swirling into your mind. he was always such a gentle man with you, so this? this was new. exciting. 

it was something you couldn’t stop thinking about even hours later when you returned home, darting straight to the bedroom to change out of your uniform. you’d been sweating in it after all. it desperately needed to be washed and so did you. 

you weren’t surprised when satoru had entered shortly after you, just as you had peeled off your shirt, revealing your bra to his already hungry eyes. he didn’t say anything at first, just placed his hands on your hips to pull you in for a kiss, huffing like a child when you pulled away. “i’m all sweaty and gross from you pushing me into the ground earlier,” you teased, making him pout.

“you make it sound so cruel,” satoru murmured. “i didn’t push you — i gracefully pinned my gorgeous wife after an epic battle.” he pulled you flush against him again and you scoffed at his words. 

“it was far from graceful. you were crushing me. you’re not exactly light you know.” satoru laughed against your lips at that, a low rumbling sound, before he leaned in to nip at your bottom lip playfully.

“crushing you?” he repeated, feigning horror. “i was gentle! delicate even — like i was handling a flower!” to emphasise his point, he fluttered his lashes at you like he was the picture of innocence itself, his heart fluttering seeing you laugh at his poor attempt at a defence. 

you leaned in to press a quick pick to his lips. “i wasn’t complaining,” you hummed with a smirk that undid him entirely — mischief masking itself behind such a sweet smile like you know exactly what you were doing to him. “is that so?” 

satoru kept his hands on your hips, walking you back until your legs hit the edge of the bed and you had no choice but to sit, leaning back on your hands as he towered over you, a thick air of tension suddenly filling the room while his eyes bore into yours. 

“if i’m being honest, i actually liked it,” you confessed, watching the way his lips twitched into a wider smirk. just thinking about it all made your stomach pool with heat. the way his big hands held you down…how easily he had overpowered you..that slightly crazed smile when you’d managed to land a punch on him earlier…

he didn’t miss the way your thighs shifted together in an attempt to relieve that familiar ache between them, his cock twitching in his pants at the knowledge that you’d enjoyed (and were most definitely turned on by) him pinning you down. that you liked his strength. naturally it went to his head. both of them 

seeing you like this — cheeks slightly flushed from just the memory alone, both of you still a little hot from earlier, and your lips parted slightly as you looked up at him — he couldn’t hold back anymore, pushing you onto the bed properly while he began lifting his shirt off, throwing it somewhere across the room. “liked it, huh?” his voice was half growl, half teasing lilt, but his eyes were intense, a sign he wasn’t just joking around anymore. the boner he was sporting further affirmed that, brushing against your thigh when he leaned in to press hungry kisses to your jaw, grazing you with his teeth just to hear you make those pretty noises for him. 

his breath was warm against you, fingers reaching behind your back to unclasp your bra so he could feel every inch of you. he lived for the way you whimpered when his lips wrapped around one of your already pebbled nipples, groaning at the salty taste of your skin. if anything it turned him on more. “toru…” your body arched up into his without thinking, breathy and needy. 

“what is it baby? what do you need, hm?” he released your nipple just to meet those eyes of yours staring down at him with raw want. “want it rough…please?” 

and god, how could he say no to a request like that? especially after finding out how much you’d like it earlier when he got a little rough with you. without giving you any form of a warning, he flipped your over onto your stomach, manhandling you so that you were in a prone position with just your ass lifted up a little for him. a gasp left your lips when he tugged your skirt off, throwing it somewhere behind him so he could see your panties, along with the clear wet patch you’d left on them. 

“you sure you can take it?” satoru jeered, a final sort of warning so you couldn’t say you didn’t know what you were getting into asking for this. at your desperate nod he reached for the waistband of those black panties, tugging on them until they ripped off of you, making your breath hitch.

“it’s your funeral~” 

and he really wasn’t joking. 

you hardly knew where you were or even who you were at this point. all you knew was that his hips were ramming into you without mercy, ignoring your whines and the way you were clawing at the sheets beside you. satoru had a hand gripping your hips tightly, nails digging into the plush skin there as he held you down, making you take it while he grunted above you. his other hand was tangled in your hair, keeping your face flat against the mattress where you were already drooling. 

“ah-ah, no running,” he tisked, an almost cruel lilt to his voice when he felt you squirming beneath him. he was pounding into you with a pace so relentless you could hardly form any thoughts, let alone beg him to slow down. “you wanted this didn’t you?” still, you tried to say something. a plea for…well..you didn’t really know what it was you wanted. either way it didn’t matter because the moment you tried lifting your head to talk he had shoved your face right back into the sheets, making you moan. 

“fuck, you’re so filthy,” he groaned, feeling how your walls squeezed him tighter after that. your body alone told him everything. how much you were enjoying this. “you love being treated like this, don’t you? being held down and manhandled..” the broken whine you let out made his hips stutter for a moment, head tipping back with another groan because this was so fucking hot. 

a loud crack filled the room as he let go of your hair to deliver a slap to your ass, an action that made you jerk slightly in surprise, even as another moan was dragged out of you at a second slap. “god, i’m gonna ruin you,” he growled, clearly getting as carried away as you were, a large hand splaying across your lower back, pulling you back against each of his thrusts. 

tears began to fill your eyes from just how good, yet how overwhelming everything felt — his cock stretching you out and hitting the deepest parts of you that only he could reach. each dirty grumble of his as he made you take everything. the desperate need to cum already. “don’t cry baby,” he cooed, but you knew better than to think he was serious. “you can take it. you will.” 

and something about him saying it like that, like he would make sure if it, had you mewling like a stray cat against the sheets, fingers digging into the fabric with such force he almost wished you were marking up his back with those nails instead. “gonna fill this pussy up…fuck, you want that right?” 

both hands slid up your back until they reached the back of your neck, wrapping around it with just enough force to keep you pinned down and restrict some of your air flow, but nowhere near enough to really hurt. as much as he was getting off on this power play he didn’t feel like harming his wife. “you’ll take it all for me, won’t you?” 

the noises you were making were sinful as you neared your orgasm, legs shaking slightly as he began to speed up his pace, groans being pulled from his throat more frequently now, and you could tell his orgasm was approaching soon too. a few more strokes was all you needed before you were crying out in pleasure, clamping down around him as you saw white. it was intense and dizzying, hitting you so suddenly and causing your whole body to jerk while satoru continued to grind into you until he found himself cumming too. 

you were too tight, too warm, and with a final, deep thrust he was spilling himself inside of you. filling you up just like he said he would and leaving you lying limply against the bed as you tried to come too. you hadn’t even felt him collapse on top of you until he was peppering kisses down from the back of your neck to your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings. 

you were utterly spent and probably close to passing out, but god did you love it.

i love gojo so much idc

masterlist

[rogdona]

[ttakdoll]

꩜ – FRAT PRESIDENT SATORU GOJO (and the shy girl he's obsessed with!)

(18+) HEADCANONS :: – frat!gojo x innocent!reader, college au, smut, dom!gojo, handjobs, praise, corruption kink, manipulative behavior, slight dub-con

frat president!satoru, who’s used to every type of girl at his party except you, all big eyes, wandering around his house like you didn’t know what to do. he’s asked suguru to offer you everything under the sun in the last thirty or so minutes — a drink, a smoke, a joint. you just politely decline, shaking your head so prettily.

frat president!satoru, who swears he’s just got an ego when he decides he’ll be the one to show you all of that and more. he could do it if suguru couldn’t, if no one else could.

he starts off all nice, walking you to all your classes, offering his sweaters in the lectures you had together (which he only started attending for you), buying you lunch and listening to your cute little rants about your worst profs.

frat president!satoru learns that you like being held when he’s the first one to find you after an exam you swear you’d failed. he doesn’t get it ‘til he’d realized your eyes are all glassy, so shiny as you peered up at him with wobbling lips, trying not to cry in front of him.

frat president!satoru loves the way you’d just melted into his arms after that. he calls you easy to his friends for it, but something inside him never wants to let go whenever you’re willing to press yourself into his chest, wherever you’re willing to do it.

frat president!satoru, who asks you what you’re wearing all the time and sends even prettier things to wear to your dorm when he thinks you can do better.

frat president!satoru, who’s spiraling at night, jerking off to your contact photo, wrapping his large hand around his dick and pretending like it’s that sweet mouth of yours engulfing his length. he imagines how shy you’d be, lips parted wide, smearing pre-cum and replacing your candy lip balm. he wants you tasting like him, those soft cheeks drenched in his cum, eyes screwed shut until he’s all you can think about.

frat president!satoru likes making you need him, doting on you and driving you around like a princess, spoiling you until you frown whenever his hand isn’t on your hip, or whenever he dodges your calls for fraternity meetings. he likes the idea that you might become obsessed with him (like he is with you). 

frat president!satoru, who’s grinning cruelly the minute you finally tell him, “you know, you do so much for me, I feel like I’m not doing enough for you.” in that small little voice of yours one day, while you’re tucked into his side at your apartment.

frat president!satoru, who’s never missed a meeting or a call until that day, when he’s finally got you whimpering shyly in his lap while he gently mouths at your neck, tasting that perfume he’s been searching online for for weeks, whispering about how he’s so grateful you wanna help him out, how sweet you are for making it up to him too even when you didn't have to.

but he’s been waiting for weeks, you’re all soft and impressionable on him, and he’s not letting a moment of your kindness go to waste.

frat president!satoru guides you with a husky voice when he teaches you to spit in your own palm and  wrap your smaller hand around his cock, nearly shivering at the contact  — “make me feel good, pretty girl, it’s the least you can do.”

frat president!satoru, who just chuckles at the fact that you’re all nervous, looking up at him as if asking what to do next, just for him to wrap his palm around yours, engulfing it entirely. he groans lowly as he moves your palm up and down on his already-hard length, bottom lip catching between his teeth at how warm your hand feels against his dick.

“shit, just keep it like that, baby, up and down…”

frat president!satoru, who kisses you slow when you gasp at how he bucks up into your hand, keeping his own wrapped around it while desperately attempting not to just use you, jerk himself off with your tiny little fingers, maneuver you down and slam himself deep into your tight cunt. “hah — fuck, gorgeous, y— you’re good at this, huh? so good for me, so fucking cute…”

“i’ve never done this before,” you admit into frat president!satoru’s mouth, hushed and breathy like it’s a secret. he wants to fucking laugh, but he’s cut short by a low hiss as you thumb at his slit without him having to teach you, making him lose his mind piece by piece. shit, you’re just perfect, aren’t you? 

“am — am I doing okay, satoru?” 

frat president!satoru has nearly had enough of patience when you say that. shit, he bites down into your lip without even realizing, hand tightening around yours when you whimper. and it’s barely enough to notice at first, but he pumps your hand around him faster, growling into your mouth at the way your fingertips flex around his length, making a slick! sound that echoes across the room.

“you’re — shit, just like that — doing perfect, baby. so perfect.” frat president!satoru groans into your throat, even though he’s using your hand like a fuck toy now, smearing his own pre-cum mixed with your saliva all over his huge dick, bucking his hips up into your plush skin like a glorified fleshlight.

the only one he’s dreamed of in the past few weeks, at least.

frat president!satoru gets off on how eager you are to match his pace, his other hand cupping your cheeks to purse your pretty mouth open for him as he spits down your throat and relishes in your confused little whine. he doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s gripping your hand now, forcing you to jerk his cock faster.

“that’s it,” he pants into your lips, “just let me have you, okay? hah— so good, shit, you’ve been wanting this too, haven’t you?”

“satoru—” your voice is a wet dream, how it feathers off around the edges and breaks like you’re not sure.

frat president!satoru groans at the sound of your confusion. “been, fuck, thinking about this, baby. want you creaming on my cock next, yeah? or maybe it’s — haah! — too big for your first time. gotta — shit — prep you first.”

frat president!satoru spills into your hand with one last rough stroke of both your hands around his length, gasping low with his tongue down your throat as he finally lets your hand go. he watches the way your palm shakes, eyes dark, lifting your cum-covered fingertips to your mouth without thinking. and he thinks you won’t do it, until—

your sweet fucking tongue darts out to lick experimentally at your own fingers, and satoru thinks he’s gone to heaven.

frat president!satoru, who can’t help himself when he’s grabbing you by the waist now, laying you flat on your back and coming up to slot his knee between your thighs, committing the way your face scrunches up in both confusion and pleasure to memory. he thinks you’re the cutest fucking thing in the world, and he wants you broken in every way possible until you can’t fuck any other guy without imagining his dick. 

“thank you, baby,” he grins against your neck. “can i make you feel good now?”

frat president!satoru, who decided he’d never let you fuck anyone else anyways the moment you'd nodded.

@ ttakdoll, 2026

inspired by an anon request for a shy reader!!

[atelphobist]

──── 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗕𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗗.

[内容] » 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗌𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗄𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖽n𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 . . . 𑣲 » 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺!𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮 𝘅 𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗱!𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿.

[𝜗ৎ] 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 : 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆!𝗌𝗎𝗄𝗎𝗇𝖺 :: 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 :: 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖾!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 :: 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍!𝗄𝗎𝗇𝖺 :: 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 :: 𝗌𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 :: 𝖼𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗎𝗌 :: 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 :: 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 :: 𝘃𝗶𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 :: 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗌 :: 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗀𝖾 :: 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 :: 𝖼𝗎𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 :: 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 :: 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗌𝖾𝗑 :: 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 :: 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 :: 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗮𝗯𝗹𝘆 𝗼𝗼𝗰!𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝖽𝗀𝖺𝖿. » 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪 ! 𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜 !

⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲 ! | okay first off, WHY is this SO FUCKIN EMOTIONAL for no absolute reason. damn. consider this a 1000 follower special! likes & reblogs are appreciated! 𖹭

[𝜗ৎ] 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 : 2.9𝗄

𝓜𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏!

my husband hates me.

the thought settles deep in your chest like a stone, familiar and heavy, as you lie on the silk sheets of the massive bed.

your fingers trace the embroidered patterns on your robe—some floral design you can't see but can feel beneath your fingertips. the fabric is soft, expensive. everything here is expensive. everything here screams luxury and power and wealth.

but none of it screams love.

you hear nothing from his side of the bed.

the man is so impossibly quiet, it makes your skin prickle with unease. you've been here for three months now. three months as the wife of ryomen sukuna, the king of curses, the most feared ruler in all the lands. and in those three months, he has barely spoken a word to you.

at first, you thought it was a game.

some twisted test of patience. you were clever enough to know that political marriages were rarely about love. you'd been prepared for indifference, for coldness, for a husband who saw you as nothing more than a strategic alliance.

but this? this silent treatment that stretches night after night, this deliberate distance he keeps?

it cuts deeper than you expected.

your hand moves from your robe to your stomach, pressing against the plane of your belly. you're small. you know this. delicate in a way that makes people underestimate you. and blind. gods, the blindness. the one thing that has sent every single suitor running in the opposite direction.

princes would see your face first—the one they called ethereal, otherworldly, beautiful in a way that seemed impossible—and they'd fall to their knees.

they'd whisper sweet words, promises of devotion, declarations of love at first sight. and then you'd speak, and they'd realize your eyes didn't track their movements, didn't meet their gaze. and slowly, painfully, you'd listen to them pull away. hear the hesitation creep into their voices. feel the distance grow until they were gone.

you were used to it.

but sukuna? sukuna had looked at you once, for a single moment, and said yes. the entire empire had been shocked. the king of curses, the ruthless murderer, the emperor who had never shown interest in any woman, accepting a blind bride from a neighboring kingdom? it was scandalous. impossible.

and you'd felt hope.

you hate yourself for that hope now.

because three months of silence have taught you the truth. he doesn't want you. he tolerates you. and honestly? you'd almost prefer cruelty. at least cruelty would be a reaction. at least cruelty would mean he saw you as something worth acknowledging.

but this nothingness? this endless, suffocating nothingness?

it makes you feel like you've already disappeared.

the servants guide you through your days with practiced efficiency. they dress you, feed you, lead you through the palace halls. you've memorized the layout of your chambers, the path to the gardens, the number of steps from your room to the dining hall. you've learned to navigate this world without sight, just as you've always done.

but you can't navigate him.

you don't know where he sits at meals. you don't know if he watches you. you don't know if he even notices when you're in the same room. his presence is a void—a massive, oppressive absence of warmth that you can feel but never touch.

tonight was bad.

you'd been led to the gardens by a new servant, someone who didn't know your habits. she'd taken you left instead of right, and you'd walked straight into a hedge, thorns scratching your calves before she'd yanked you back with a flurry of apologies.

then you'd almost fallen down a staircase—the grand staircase with its uneven steps—your foot catching on the edge, your heart lurching into your throat as you'd pitched forward. a guard caught you just in time.

and the whispers.

you can't see their faces, but you can hear their voices. the concubines. the noblewomen. the servants who think you can't hear them.

"the blind empress."

"does he even notice her?"

"i heard he hasn't touched her once."

"what a waste of a pretty face."

"she must be so lonely."

"she must be so pathetic."

you'd smiled through all of it. kept your head high, your shoulders back, your voice steady. you learned long ago that showing weakness only invites more cruelty. so you'd walked through the halls with your practiced grace, your cane tapping against the marble floors, your face serene.

but inside, you were crumbling.

and now, lying in this massive bed, with your hair spread across a silk pillow and the scent of incense curling through the air, you can feel him beside you. he's so close. you know he's sitting up, his back probably against the headboard, his presence a heavy weight in the darkness.

does he ever sleep?

you've never heard him snore. never heard him shift in his sleep. he's so still, so silent, you sometimes wonder if he's even real.

a long, long time passes. the candles burn down. the incense fades. the night wraps around you like a shroud.

and you can't take it anymore.

"ryomen?"

your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper. you hate how small you sound. how vulnerable. you'd wanted to sound strong, confident, demanding. instead, you sound like a child calling out in the dark.

silence.

you wait. count your heartbeats. one. two. three. four. five.

just when you're certain he's ignoring you, just when the familiar ache of rejection settles into your chest, a voice cuts through the darkness.

"what."

it's gruff. low. a single word that rumbles through the air like distant thunder. and it's the most he's said to you in days.

you swallow. your throat is dry. your fingers twist in the sheets.

"i...i want to ask you something."

more silence. you can feel him staring at you. you can't see it, but you can feel it—the weight of his gaze, heavy and unreadable.

"ask."

you take a shaky breath. this is it. this is the moment you've been building toward for three months. the question that's been eating you alive, consuming you from the inside out.

"do you hate me?"

the words hang in the air between you. they sound so small. so pathetic. you wish you could take them back, but it's too late. they're out there now, exposed and raw.

"hate you?" his voice is strange. almost...confused?

"because of...because i'm...y'know, blind." the words taste like ash in your mouth. "i know it's...i know i'm not what you expected. i know i'm not the best option. i know i'm—"

"stop."

the word is sharp, and you flinch. your breath catches in your throat. you brace yourself for anger, for cruelty, for him to finally confirm what you've suspected all along.

but instead of harsh words, you feel movement. the bed shifts. his weight moves closer.

and then, without warning, a hand wraps around your waist and pulls.

you let out a frightened shriek as you're yanked from your position, your body colliding with something solid and warm. your hands fly out, grasping at fabric, at skin, at anything. you're on his lap, straddling his thighs, your chest pressed against his. he's so big—so impossibly large—that you feel like a doll in his arms.

"ryomen!" your voice is high, panicked. "what—"

"quiet."

his hand settles on your thigh. it's huge. calloused. rough in a way that sends shivers down your spine. but the touch is gentle. impossibly gentle. he strokes your thigh once, twice, a soothing motion that slowly calms your racing heart.

"you really think," he says slowly, his voice rumbling against your chest, "that i hate you?"

you can't speak. your throat is too tight. you settle for shaking your head against his chest, even though it's a lie.

a low sound escapes him—not quite a growl, not quite a laugh. his hand slides from your thigh to your chin, tilting your face up. his thumb brushes across your lower lip, feather-light.

"open your eyes."

the command catches you off guard. "what?"

"your eyes. open them."

you blink, confused. your eyes are already open. you can't see anything, but they're open. you tell him as much.

"no." his voice is strange. softer. "i mean...look at me."

"i can't see you."

"i know." his thumb traces your jawline. "but i can see you. and i want to see your eyes. please."

please.

the word catches you off guard. the king of curses, saying please? to you?

you don't move. don't breathe. just let him hold your face in his massive hand, his touch devastatingly tender.

"i don't hate you," he says, and his voice cracks on the words. "gods, woman. i could never hate you."

your heart stutters. "then why—"

"because i'm fuckin' terrified."

you blink. "what?"

"do you know what i am?" his hand slides from your face to your hair, fingers threading through the strands. "i'm a killer. i've been killing for centuries. my hands are stained with blood i'll never wash clean. i'm rough, and violent, and i don't know how to be gentle."

"but—"

"but when i saw you..." he trails off. his fingers tighten in your hair, just barely. "when i saw you, i couldn't breathe. you were so beautiful. so small. so... perfect. and i thought, 'she's too good f'me.' , 'i'll break her.' , 'i'll hurt her.'"

his voice drops to a whisper.

"so i stayed away. because every time i look at you, i want to touch you. and every time i touch you, i'm afraid i'll destroy you."

tears prick at your eyes. you don't understand. you can't understand. this entire time, you thought he hated you. you thought he found you repulsive, broken, worthless.

but he was...

...afraid?

"you don't hate me?" you whisper.

"no." his forehead presses against yours. "i love you. i've loved you since the moment i saw you."

a sob escapes your throat. it's ugly and raw and you can't stop it.

"but you never—you never talked to me—"

"because i didn't trust myself." his other hand comes up to cup your cheek. "because i knew if i started, i wouldn't be able to stop."

"then don't stop."

the words leave your mouth before you can think. they hang in the air, bold and desperate.

"don't stop," you repeat. "please. i don't want you to stop."

sukuna goes still. so still that you wonder if he's stopped breathing.

"you don't know what you're asking."

"i do." you reach up, your fingers finding his face. you trace the planes of his cheeks, the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips. "you're my husband. i want you. all of you."

"i'll hurt you."

"i don't care."

"i'll break you."

"i don't care."

his breath hitches. and then, finally, finally, his lips crash against yours.

the kiss is desperate. hungry. it tastes like three months of longing, of confusion, of aching loneliness. his hand fists in your hair, pulling you closer, and you gasp against his mouth. his tongue slides against your lower lip, asking for entry, and you give it willingly.

he tastes like sake and power and something darker. something that makes your toes curl and your heart race.

he pulls back, breathless.

"tell me to stop, and i will."

"don't," you say immediately. "don't stop."

he groans. his hands slide down your back, gripping your hips, and he lays you down on the bed. you fall against the silk sheets, your hair spreading around you like a halo. you can't see him, but you can feel him—his weight on the bed, his heat surrounding you, his breath ghosting across your skin.

"m'gonna show you," he says, his voice low and rough. "m'gonna kiss every inch of your body. gonna taste you until you scream my name. i want to make you feel so good that you forget every single doubt you've ever had about yourself."

your breath catches. "ryomen—"

"let me." his lips brush against your neck. "let me show you how much i love you."

you nod, unable to speak.

his hands find the tie of your robe. he undoes it slowly, reverently, like he's unwrapping a gift he's been waiting centuries to open. the fabric falls away, cool air hitting your skin, and you shiver.

"beautiful," he breathes. "so fucking beautiful."

you feel his lips on your collarbone. soft. worshipful. he kisses down your chest, his tongue tracing a path between your breasts. his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples, and you gasp.

"sensitive," he murmurs. "good. i'll remember that."

he takes one nipple into his mouth. his tongue circles the peak, slow and deliberate, and you arch into him with a desperate moan. he laves at you, sucking gently, nipping with his teeth until you're writhing beneath him.

"more," you gasp. "please—"

"patience." his voice is a dark promise. "i haven't even started with ya' yet."

he switches to the other breast, giving it the same attention. his hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin, until he reaches the apex of your thighs. you're already wet—embarrassingly wet—and he lets out a low growl when he feels it.

"fuck," he mutters against your skin. "you're soaked. f'me?"

"yes," you whimper. "only you."

he groans. his fingers slide through your folds, collecting your wetness, and you buck into his touch.

"tell me what you want."

"i want—" you gasp as his thumb circles your clit. "m'want your mouth."

his laugh is dark and breathless. "demanding little thing, aren't ya'?"

"please," you beg. "ryo, please—"

"shh." he kisses your stomach. "i'll give ya' what y'want."

he moves down your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire. he kisses your hips, your thighs, the inside of your knees. by the time he reaches your core, you're trembling, desperate, aching.

and then his tongue touches you.

you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. he laps at you like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, circling your clit, dipping inside you. he moans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

"taste s'good," he mutters against your skin. "could eat ya' forever."

he sucks your clit into his mouth, and you scream. your hips buck against his face, but he holds you down, his massive hands gripping your thighs. he alternates between sucking and licking, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher.

"that's it," he praises. "let go f'me...lemme taste ya'."

his fingers find your entrance, sliding inside you without warning. two fingers, thick and long, stretching you. he curls them, hitting a spot that makes you see stars, and you shatter.

you come with a scream of his name, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through you. he doesn't stop. he laps at you through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're sobbing from the intensity.

when you finally come down, he crawls up your body, his lips finding yours. you taste yourself on his tongue, and it's the most intimate thing you've ever experienced.

"m-more," you whisper. "m'want more."

his eyes—you can feel them—search your face.

"are you sure? we can stop. we can—"

"i'm sure." you reach for him, your fingers finding his chest. "i want you...please."

he hesitates. you feel the tension in his muscles, the restraint he's barely holding onto.

"m'bigger than ya'," he says, matter of factly. "a lot bigger. and i have...i have two dicks, woman. i don't know if—"

"i don't care." you pull him closer. "i trust you."

he groans, pressing his forehead against yours.

"if it hurts too much, tell me. and i'll stop."

"okay."

"promise me."

"i promise."

he shifts above you, and you feel something heavy and thick press against your thigh. and then another. two cocks. the thought should terrify you, but instead, it sends a thrill through your body.

he aligns himself with your entrance, and you feel the tip pressing against you. he's huge—so much bigger than his fingers—and you wonder if you can actually take him.

"relax f'me," he murmurs. "breathe."

you inhale deeply, and he pushes in.

just the tip, and you gasp. he's stretching you in a way that's almost unbearable. it hurts. there's a burning sensation, a pressure that's too much and not enough.

"shh," he soothes. "you're doing s'well. so good f'me."

he pushes deeper, inch by agonizing inch. you feel your body struggling to accommodate him, your walls clenching around his length. and then—

a sharp pain.

fuck...you forgot.

you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. he stops immediately.

"did i hurt ya'?"

you can't answer. the pain is fading, replaced by a strange fullness. you feel something wet trickle down your thigh. warm. sticky.

blood.

his eyes slowly flicker down, and you can hear his breath stop. he's tense. too tense.

"fuck," he hisses. "you're—you're a fuckin' virgin?"

you nod weakly, biting your lip. your heart is pounding fast. loud. "is that...bad?"

"no." his voice is strained. "no, it's not bad. i just—fuck—i didn't know. i would have been more careful, woman."

"you are being careful," you whisper, fingers pressing into his shoulders "keep going."

"you're fuckin' bleeding."

"i don't care. please. i want to feel you." you sniffle. god, the pleasure is making you bold. too fucking bold.

he lets out a shaky breath. "you're going to kill me."

but he pushes deeper, slower this time. gentler. his lips find yours, kissing you softly as he sinks into you. the pain fades, replaced by a deep, aching fullness that makes you moan.

when he's fully sheathed, he stops. lets you adjust. his forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged.

"y'feel incredible," he breathes. "so tight. so...fuck...perfect."

"move," you beg. "please."

he pulls out slowly, then pushes back in. the friction is delicious, the stretch exquisite. he sets a rhythm—slow, deep, deliberate—each thrust hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

"ryomen," you gasp. "r-ryo—"

"i know," he murmurs. "i know, doll. feels s'good, doesn't it?"

"yes—yes—"

his hand slides down your stomach, pressing against the slight bulge where he's buried inside you. the feeling makes you moan.

"look at that," he says, awe in his voice. "you can feel me, can't ya'? right here."

he presses down, and you feel it—the outline of him inside you. it's obscene. it's incredible.

"more," you gasp. "harder—"

"y'sure?"

"yes—please—"

he obliges. his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more urgent. the bed creaks beneath you, the sound mixing with your moans and his grunts.

"gonna come," he warns. "where do you want it?"

"inside," you gasp. "please—i want to feel you—"

he groans, his hips slamming into yours. and then he's coming, hot and thick, filling you so completely. you feel it—his release pouring into you, painting your walls, claiming you from the inside. his cum is already trickling down your thigh, oozing out of your cunt.

at the same time, he's stroking his other cock. you feel the wet spurts hit your stomach, warm and sticky.

he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you. his face buries in your neck, and you feel his breath, ragged and uneven.

"i love you," he whispers, gruff. it's funny. you've always thought the word love doesn't exist in his vocabulary. but here he is, saying it over and over again. "i love you so much it terrifies me."

you wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer.

"i love you too."

a long moment passes. then another. and then—

"we're going to do that again."

you laugh, breathless.

"right now?"

"after i clean you up." he kisses your neck. "and then again. and again. and again. until ya' can't walk."

"promise?"

he pulls back, and even though you can't see him, you know he's smirking.

"promise."

you're already half asleep when he pulls you against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear. his lips press against your hair, your forehead, your eyelids.

"my wife," he murmurs. "my perfect, beautiful wife."

you smile against his skin.

"my husband."

"forever."

"forever."

2026 ── 𝓦𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐎𝐅 @atelphobist 𝜗ৎ

ᥫ᭡ | © 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘳. 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥. 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘪.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹 & 𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 divider credits go to : @uzmacchiato !

[three-croissants]

Please help Mohammed - his wife has suffered a gunshot to the chest.

About a month ago, Farah, the wife of Mohammed Ayesh @mohdayesh, was shot in the chest.

This is no small incident. Not only did she have to experience intense pain and have to undergo emergency surgery, but she is currently past 5 months pregnant with their first child!

Mohammed and his family still need funds to support themselves as gunfire and bombing continue to ravage Gaza. Please don't forget this family, especially given all that Mohammed has done to support others as a vetter in @gaza-evacuation-funds.

As of 5th July 2026:

£1,972 / £ 30,000

Donate to Support Ayesh’s family for a better life, organized by Shelley Gordon

My name is Mohammed ayesh from Gaza Recently, I started a new chapter in my li… Shelley Gordon needs your support for Support Ayesh’s family

Go to paypal.me/MAyesh674 and type in the amount. Since it’s PayPal, it's easy and secure. Don’t have a PayPal account? No worries.

Please donate even if it's a single dollar, or at least share this around to those who might be able to chip in.

Truly, this is a situation in which every single bit counts. 🫂♥️

[pusheen]

[pusheen]

[buckyseternaldoll]

Filed Under: Inappropriate

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Scheduler!reader

Summary: You’ve worked hard to keep things professional—his schedule tight, your distance tighter. But when the scent of Congressman Barnes’ cologne lingers too long, it cracks your restraint wide open. You know better than to touch. But he hears everything.

Warnings: 18+ (mdni!), explicit sexual content, p in v, consensual workplace power dynamics, sensory kink, scent-based arousal, referencing hyper-sexuality, audio surveillance (non-malicious), oral (f receiving + m receiving), breast play, desk sex, possessive undertones

Word count: 4,720

You hated being in his office longer than five seconds. Not because Congressman Barnes was difficult—he was polite, measured, always thanking you after meetings. Not because he was cold—though his steel-blue eyes had a way of sliding over you like he was analyzing your pulse rate. No, you hated it because every time you stepped within range of him, something primal and traitorous stirred low in your belly.

It was the damn cologne.

Parfums de Marly Layton. You’d once caught a glimpse of the deep navy bottle on the edge of his hotel bathroom sink while reviewing his itinerary, and you cursed yourself for ever learning the name. Now, you knew exactly what it was each time it hit you: that heady swirl of green apple and vanilla spice, warm cardamom softened by the heat of his skin, all wrapped in something darker—amber, maybe. Something that clung to the cotton of his shirts and refused to leave even after he did.

You never asked about it. You wouldn’t dare. But every time you leaned over his desk to drop off his briefing binder or hover by the door to confirm his next flight to D.C., that scent latched onto you like it had hands.

And he didn’t know. Of course he didn’t.

You were just his scheduler. The woman in black slacks and button-downs who kept his life running in military-level precision. You booked his appearances, called in favors with lobbyists’ assistants, negotiated down overbooked town halls, and sometimes—God help you—had to step inside his hotel room to lay out the next day’s itinerary when he was too buried in calls to read his own calendar.

Those were the worst. When he’d answer the door in a fitted T-shirt, damp hair curling at his nape, Layton now mingling with sweat and steam, and you’d have to act like your knees weren’t about to buckle. You’d linger by the desk, pretending to triple-check the flight number. He’d pace behind you, reading notes off his phone, totally unaware you were trying not to moan like some harlequin heroine because of the way his scent swirled in the air-conditioned quiet.

You knew your place. And you played it well.

But God, if he ever caught on—if he ever looked at you the way you sometimes caught yourself looking at him—this whole operation would go to hell.

──

Your morning began, as it usually did, in his suite.

A quiet knock. A barely audible “Come in.” Then the ritual began.

You stood by the small conference table in his living area, tablet in hand, while Congressman James Buchanan Barnes moved with military-grade precision behind you. He never rushed. Never wasted a single second. His routine was something sacred—ironed shirt, gold cufflinks, navy suit freshly pressed and waiting on the valet hook by the door. You glanced at the clock. Right on time.

Then came the part that always undid you.

Three spritzes.

You didn’t have to look to know the bottle—Parfums de Marly Layton. He passed by you on his way to the mirror, the scent trailing him like a shadow: apple-spice and something almost resinous beneath. One spray around the base of his neck. Two on the insides of his wrists, which he then tapped against his collarbone in fluid, practiced motions.

Everything about Bucky was deliberate. Disciplined. Controlled.

You hated that it turned you on.

The ten minutes you spent inside that room felt like a test. You spoke as little as possible, eyes fixed on the screen while your body vibrated with restraint. The scent of his cologne—warmed by his skin and the faint trace of post-shower steam—curled through the suite, wrapping around you like velvet shackles. Your thighs pressed together more tightly the longer you stood still.

You reminded yourself—again—that this was your decision. You were maintaining abstinence. You’d been attending therapy. Learning to manage what had once consumed you. Learning how not to chase every high your body demanded. You hadn’t slipped in over six months.

But today…

Today something broke.

──

You shouldn’t be doing this.

You repeated that over and over again in your head, even as your thighs pressed together, even as you turned toward his chair—the one still warm from where he’d last sat—and let your body sink into it. The scent of him was stronger here. Thick in the upholstery, clinging to the wool of his blazer draped over the back. You exhaled shakily, nostrils flaring as Layton wrapped around you, pushed into every breath like it knew exactly what it was doing to you.

Your body throbbed with need, the ache long suppressed now boiling over. Your self-constraint screamed at you to leave. To remember your progress. To walk away.

But then your hand slid between your thighs.

And it was already over.

You felt the heat there—wet and pulsing—before you even touched yourself. Just the press of your palm over your panties made you gasp, the friction igniting a tremor that rolled through your whole body. The skirt you’d worn today—a rare choice—suddenly felt like a divine mistake. Or maybe it was fate. No slacks to fight with. No belt to undo. Just a soft fabric bunched around your hips as you slipped your fingers down the front of your underwear and found the desperate pulse of your clit.

“Fuck—” you hissed, biting down on your lip. One finger circled slowly, teasing and taunting, while the other hand gripped the armrest of his chair. Your head lolled back, the sharp scent of Layton clinging to your hair, your skin, sinking deeper with every ragged breath.

You didn’t realize how loud your breathing had gotten. The moans that had broken free weren’t whispers—they were real. Hungry. Shamefully sweet. And they drifted into the room like incense, thick and lingering.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t possibly know—was that your voice wasn’t just trapped in the still air of Bucky’s office.

It was in his ear.

──

Bucky stood behind the curtain of the press hall, one hand on the mic clipped to his tie, the other curled into a tight fist behind his back. He was half-listening to the event organizer briefing him when something flickered in his earpiece. Static. Then—

“F-Fuck—Bucky…”

His name.

Moaned.

Soft and strangled and real.

His spine straightened like he’d been struck.

The voice was unmistakable. Yours.

The sound came again, clearer this time, riding a breathy whimper. His brow furrowed, sharp gaze shifting toward the assistant speaking in front of him—but he wasn’t hearing a word she said anymore.

He tapped the mic, subtly. The connection flickered. He recognized the signal.

It was from his office. From the hidden mic—one of several—planted into the base of his desk lamp. A holdover from another life. Not politics, but fieldwork. Survival. The kind of instinct that gets carved into your bones when you’ve spent years as a ghost, a weapon, an Avenger—an assassin. Even now, walking corridors of Capitol Hill instead of war zones, Bucky Barnes never truly relaxed. The security team had given him the green light to keep those recordings in place, citing precautionary measures. But really, they were for him. A way to feel safe, to control the perimeter, to know what was coming before it came.

But what he was hearing now had nothing to do with politics.

Your moans filtered through the line again, closer this time. As if you were leaning over the desk. As if your mouth was right beside the mic.

And suddenly he was hard. Painfully so.

The assistant cleared her throat. “Congressman? They’re ready for you.”

He blinked, nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. But his mind was miles away.

Still in that room.

With you.

Bucky didn’t remember half of what was said onstage.

He answered questions. Shook hands. Smiled for the cameras. But his mind was nowhere near the press hall. It was still up in his office—haunted by the sound of you panting his name in gasping, breathless fragments.

He lasted exactly twenty-two minutes.

When the moderator thanked him for his presence, Bucky slipped away with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to disappear without making it a scene. He brushed off staff with a tight-lipped smile and a dismissive wave. “I’m taking a break. I need a few minutes,” he said. “Thinking about my mom. It’s her birthday today.”

A lie. One he hated using. But it worked.

No one followed.

No one asked questions.

And he made sure—damn sure—his guards knew to stay posted far from the east wing of the building. His office sat in the corner of a quiet conference suite, tucked behind a frosted glass door that bore his name and seal. No scheduled meetings for the rest of the afternoon. No assistants buzzing in. No unexpected interns to stumble through.

Just you.

Still in there.

Still moaning like you didn’t know your voice was crawling into his earpiece like the world’s most dangerous prayer.

He locked the door behind him the moment he stepped inside.

The click echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Bucky leaned back against the wood, hand still at the latch, jaw tight and eyes closed as your voice spilled through the earpiece—raw, needy, filthy in a way that peeled his self-control back layer by layer.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

You were still in his chair.

One leg slung over the armrest, the other foot planted on the floor for leverage. Skirt pushed up, blouse half-open, hair mussed and falling out of its usual neat tie. Your fingers were buried between your thighs, moving in tight, desperate circles. His name fell from your lips in gasps, more broken each time. Whimpering. Pleading. Ruined.

He exhaled harshly through his nose, blood roaring in his ears.

“Christ,” he muttered.

What the fuck were you thinking?

He should’ve been furious. Should’ve been offended. Professional boundaries, and all that. But instead, something primal settled in his gut. A slow, molten heat that spread into his chest and pulled tight behind his zipper. Not just lust. Not just arousal. Possession.

You had no idea how close you were to being caught.

To being taken.

You didn’t even check the door.

Didn’t think about cameras or recordings or someone else walking in before him. You just trusted you’d be alone. Trusted that you were safe in his space. And instead of hating you for it, instead of calling it foolish—

Bucky felt proud.

Protective.

Turned on beyond belief.

Bucky stepped forward quietly, his boots making no sound against the polished floor.

You were close.

He could tell.

Your moans had gone breathless—rushed, rising in pitch. Each gasp of his name now came through the earpiece like a desperate confession. Faster. Wetter. Louder. He could see the way your hand moved beneath the hem of your skirt, the way your hips rolled against your own touch. That tension in your thighs. That flutter in your lashes. Your head thrown back like the chair was your altar and you were about to come in his fucking name.

He exhaled—slowly. Quietly.

You were so absorbed in your pleasure, so lost in that hazy world you’d escaped to, that you didn’t even hear the subtle swish of the door behind his desk opening. You hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t just in your head anymore—he was in the room. Close enough now to smell everything.

And God, he did.

He could smell the sweat on your skin, the arousal soaking through your underwear, the lingering trails of your perfume—the one you always wore on days you wore your hair up like that. Professional days, you called them. If only you knew how that messy bun was driving him wild now, the loose strands stuck to your damp neck, the little whimpers you didn’t even know you were letting out.

You made it so easy.

Too easy.

His jaw clenched as he watched you, throat dry with something that wasn’t just lust—it was fear. Fear of what could’ve happened if someone else had come up here. If a reporter had slipped in to snoop. If a staffer came to clean. If it hadn’t been him.

He was protective by nature. Obsessive by consequence. He didn’t trust easily, didn’t let people in, but you—

You were different.

You were the soft place in his otherwise brutal life.

And now, like a loaded gun left on the wrong table, you were vulnerable in the worst way imaginable.

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to touch you. To pull your hand away and replace it with his mouth, his fingers, his everything. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Because even with all that hunger burning in his blood, the soldier in him still wanted to study. Still wanted to watch.

Your breathing picked up again. Your body began to tremble, pleasure peaking. He could see it—feel it—in every breath.

And then you whispered it. “Bucky—please—” like you needed him to save you from drowning in your own ecstasy.

That did it.

He couldn’t let you finish—not without knowing he was there.

So he cleared his throat. Just once.

A low, deliberate cough.

──

Your whole body jolted.

Eyes flew open.

You froze mid-motion, thighs snapping together as if you could undo the last ten minutes by sheer panic alone. Heart hammering. Lungs stuck in your chest. The shame—white-hot and paralyzing—poured down your spine like ice water.

Then you saw him.

Leaning against the wall, suit jacket still buttoned. Tie loosened just slightly at the collar. His expression unreadable—but his eyes? Burning. Steady. Watching you like a man who had seen everything.

Because he had.

He’d heard everything.

And he didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

“You didn’t lock the door.”

His voice was low. Calm. But it carried—like a blade sliding from a sheath. Controlled. Dangerous. Precise.

Your whole body jerked upright in the chair, eyes wide, legs snapping closed so fast it made the chair squeak beneath you. You could barely breathe. Heart pounding, cheeks burning, hand yanking your skirt down in frantic, fumbling motions.

“I—I didn’t know anyone—God, I didn’t think—” you stammered, horrified. “I swear, I thought you’d be down there for hours—I didn’t mean—”

“Stop,” Bucky said gently.

Your mouth clamped shut.

He didn’t move toward you, yet. He stood just inside the office door, back against the wall, arms loose at his sides. But there was no mistaking the heat behind his eyes. That slow, burning intensity you’d only ever caught glimpses of in passing. Behind podiums. In briefings. When he leaned just a little too close with that cologne on and your legs would go weak for reasons you never wanted to admit.

“I’m not pressing charges,” he said. “You’re not losing your job.”

You blinked, speechless, heart still galloping like a terrified animal.

“But…” he continued, pushing off from the wall, walking toward you now with the same deliberate, panther-smooth grace that reminded you exactly who he used to be. Not just the golden boy congressman. Not just the tailored suit. But him. The assassin. The Avenger. The man who moved like a weapon and looked at you like he already knew what you tasted like when you came.

“You are in trouble,” he said, voice lowering with each step. “Just… not the kind you’re thinking of.”

Your lips parted. Breath caught.

Bucky stopped a few feet in front of you.

And that’s when you saw it.

The outline pressing hard against his slacks, thick and demanding, straining against the zipper like it was fighting to be free. Your throat went dry.

“Do you know what it’s been like?” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. “Having to walk around with this—” he gestured to his head, his chest, his body “—with these senses. With you.”

Your brows knit in confusion, still trying to process the way he looked at you—like he’d already had this conversation with himself a hundred times and finally stopped trying to argue against it.

“I can hear your heartbeat spike when I walk by. Smell how wet you get when I lean too close.” His nostrils flared just slightly, steel blue eyes darkening. “You flinch like you hate me, but baby…” he chuckled, quiet and sharp, “your thighs say otherwise.”

Your apology died on your tongue.

Bucky took another step, now within arm’s reach.

“I know I shouldn’t have left that mic on,” he murmured. “Old habit. Leftover paranoia. I didn’t expect anything from it.”

His vibranium fingers flexed slowly at his side, gleaming under the low light of the office.

“But hearing you like that? Saying my name? Touching yourself in my chair? You’ve no idea what that did to me.”

He leaned down slightly, voice dropping to a rasp near your ear.

“Would’ve come up here sooner if I’d known you were hungry for me, sweetheart.”

Your whole body pulsed with heat.

And then, almost teasingly, he stepped back just enough for you to see his gaze drop to your lap—your thighs still trembling, your breathing still ragged.

“Now,” he said softly, eyes dragging back up to yours, “you’re going to help me.”

He glanced down at the ache visibly straining against the front of his pants.

“Fix the mess you started,” Bucky murmured again, voice low and rough.

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between his face and the bulge still straining beneath those expensive navy slacks. Your breath caught, your lips parted—but you didn’t move.

So Bucky did.

He reached out, warm hand cupping the back of your head, thumb brushing against your jaw—tender, but firm. Guiding. His vibranium fingers brushed your shoulder, trailing a cold path down your arm as he coaxed you out of the chair and down to your knees, right between his legs.

You looked up at him. The tie still loose at his collar. His jaw locked, blue eyes burning down at you like you were something sacred. Something he’d wanted for far too long.

“Atta girl,” he muttered, unfastening his belt slowly. “Show me what you’ve been dreaming about.”

You took him in hand, heard his sharp inhale. He was heavy, hot, twitching in your grip—already leaking from how long he’d been holding back. You kissed the head gently, teasing your tongue over the slit, and felt him shudder above you.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

But something changed.

As soon as you tasted him—salty and masculine, laced with the lingering warmth of that cologne—you snapped. Your restraint, your therapy, your rules—shattered. Your hyper-sensitive body surged with heat and hunger. You gripped him tighter, sucked him deeper, harder, hungry for it—starved for the man who haunted every dark corner of your fantasies.

Bucky hissed. His hand flew to your bun—not to guide you, but to steady himself.

You were taking control.

And he was losing it.

“Shit—slow down, baby—” he grunted, legs bracing, muscles twitching. “Fuck—gonna—”

He didn’t finish the warning.

With a stifled groan and a muttered curse, he came fast and hard, head tipped back, hand fisting in your hair as his body jolted. You swallowed, breathless, the taste of him still on your tongue as he staggered slightly—off balance, caught completely off-guard by just how fast you’d undone him.

He looked down at you with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. Then he gave a breathless laugh—soft, almost reverent.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re trying to kill me?”

You licked your lips and looked up through your lashes. “You told me to fix it.”

Bucky’s pupils dilated.

He was far from done.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice hoarse with need. “Lay down. Table.”

You rose—hands trembling, heart pounding—and climbed onto the edge of his desk, pushing aside the neat stack of folders and your own open planner. You laid back, thighs parting as his hands found your waist. He looked like a man possessed, hungry and undone, all that political polish burned away.

He pushed up your blouse, exposing your bra, then unclasped it with practiced ease—lucky for him (and unlucky for you) that you’d chosen the kind that fastened in the front. Your breasts spilled free into his waiting hands, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t just imagined this a hundred times over.

He didn’t hesitate.

He leaned down, biting softly at the swell of your chest, leaving wet kisses and deep bruising marks as his vibranium fingers slid down—cool and deliberate—between your legs. You gasped at the contrast of metal and heat, moaning as they slid through your slick folds with expert precision.

You writhed. He growled.

Then, when you were panting and shaking again, he pulled back—stroking himself once, slowly—then slid his length between your breasts, pressing them together with his hands as you lifted your chin to tease your tongue against the head of his cock.

“Hold still for me,” he groaned. “Just like that.”

The heat in the room swelled—his cologne thick in the air, your arousal coating his fingers, his taste still lingering on your lips. He rocked into your chest slowly, hips rolling, your mouth chasing every pass like it was your last breath.

And for Bucky?

It might as well have been.

“Just like that,” Bucky groaned again, thrusting slowly between your breasts, your tongue flicking over his tip with every pass. His hands pressed them tighter, his jaw clenched like he was fighting himself—like he was trying to savor this, even as every nerve in his body screamed for release.

You watched him from below—eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from sucking him dry just moments ago. There was pride in your gaze now. Power. Your legs shifted, thighs rubbing together with desperate friction as you moaned softly, loving how undone he looked. This man—former assassin, super soldier, now walking the floors of Congress like he didn’t have blood on his hands—was losing himself for you.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

He pulled back, eyes raking over your body like he wanted to mark every inch of it. “Turn over,” he said hoarsely. “Hands flat on the desk. Skirt up. Now.”

Your breath caught.

You obeyed.

The desk was cool under your palms as you turned, bent forward, and arched your back—cheeks exposed, thighs glistening. You heard the rustle of his slacks, the low hitch of his breath as he took you in. Then—metal and flesh—his hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against him.

“Fuck, doll,” he groaned, dragging his cock through your folds slowly, teasing. “You’re soaking. All this just from my scent, huh?”

You whimpered.

He leaned over you, the scent of his cologne wrapped in heat and sweat now, curling around your senses like a drug. His mouth found your neck—kissing, biting, panting against your skin.

“Do you know how many times I wanted to take you like this?” he whispered, teeth grazing your ear. “Every time you walked into my office, pretending you didn’t notice how hard I was. You think I didn’t know?”

Then—without warning—he slammed into you.

You gasped. Loud. Fingers splayed on the desk for support as he filled you in one hard, deliberate thrust.

Bucky groaned behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back—vibranium palm splayed flat between your shoulder blades to keep you down. Pinned. Controlled. Possessed.

“You like this,” he growled, voice thick with filth and hunger. “You like knowing I can’t fucking hold back with you.”

He rolled his hips again, deep and slow, and your whole body shuddered from the inside out.

And then he lost the last of his restraint.

The thrusts turned punishing—each one knocking the breath from your lungs as his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you in place. He was relentless. The desk creaked beneath you. Your moans echoed off the walls. His name fell from your lips like prayer.

“Say it again,” he gritted. “Say my fucking name.”

“Bucky—oh God—Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby. That’s mine.”

You felt him everywhere—his cologne clinging to your skin, his heat against your back, the cold snap of vibranium fingers sliding back between your thighs to stroke you just right as he kept slamming into you.

And just as you were about to fall apart, just as your vision blurred and your moans turned breathless and broken—

He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulled you back against his chest, and growled into your ear:

“You’re coming with me.”

You didn’t stand a chance.

Not when he had your back arched, your hips bucking, your moans punched out of you with every ruthless thrust.

And definitely not when his mouth returned to your neck—nipping, dragging, claiming.

“Gotta warn you, sweetheart,” he panted, voice gone gravel-deep, sweat slicking his chest against your spine. “Cleanup’s gonna be hell.”

You gasped, eyes fluttering as he slid his vibranium fingers back between your legs, stroking where he knew you needed it—circling, pressing, dragging you up toward the edge again. Your thighs trembled. His cock dragged deep inside you, heavy and thick, already swelling again despite how hard he’d come earlier.

He was insatiable.

“You’re dripping down my thighs,” he groaned, cock twitching inside you. “Gonna soak this desk. The carpet.”

“I—I can’t,” you whimpered, dizzy from overstimulation, from the scent of him still curling through the room like a trap.

“Yes, you can,” he hissed, fucking into you harder. “C’mon, doll. One more. I need it.”

He wanted to feel it. Hear it. Your body breaking apart for him like it was made to.

And when your orgasm tore through you again—loud, shaking, guttural—he cursed and pulled out just in time to see the way your release shuddered down your thighs, messy and obscene and perfect.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, grabbing his cock and stroking it hard, fast, as he stared at the wreckage of you—your thighs spread, your mouth open, your body twitching from the aftershocks.

He didn’t last long.

One sharp exhale—your name on his lips—and he came again, painting your lower back and ass with hot, thick ropes of it. The kind of mess that would take more than tissues to fix.

Bucky stumbled back a step, chest heaving, hands braced on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. A beat passed.

Then he chuckled, dark and low.

“I told you we’d need time for cleanup.”

You groaned, still face-down on the desk. “That’s… not my department, Congressman.”

Another breathless laugh. “Lucky for us, I’ve got some experience erasing evidence.”

He moved toward the far wall of his office, tapped a hidden panel under a shelf, and revealed a small screen linked to the CCTV system. A few taps, and he was deep into the security matrix—something no one but Bucky Barnes had access to.

His fingers hovered over the delete command… then paused.

A wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Or…” he murmured, glancing back at you, still sprawled across his desk, flushed and glistening. “I keep this one. File it under inappropriate.”

Your breath caught.

Then his voice softened—still low, still dark—but careful now. “Only if you’re okay with that.”

You looked at him, cheeks burning, chest still rising and falling in uneven gasps. And then you smiled—slow and shameless.

“Only if I get a copy too.”

He chuckled, full and rich, before locking the footage away behind a new encrypted file. His name. Today’s date.

And a folder labeled simply: INAPPROPRIATE

He turned back to you, still drinking in the sight—hickeys blooming across your chest like war paint, lips kiss-bitten and eyes half-lidded in the aftermath.

If anyone asked why the door had been locked for so long…

“I’ll tell ’em I needed a moment,” he muttered, tucking his shirt back in with a wry twist of his mouth. “Missing my mother. Or some bullshit like that.”

You snorted through the heat still burning on your skin. “You’re a menace.”

He stepped back toward you, buttoning his shirt halfway, not even bothering to fix the tie. “You have no idea.”

Then he leaned down, kissed the curve of your shoulder—warm, slow, almost reverent—and whispered:

“We’re not done, by the way.”

You blinked up at him, still trembling. “We’re not?”

“Nope.” He slid two vibranium fingers through your slick folds again, slow and deliberate, and smirked at your sharp gasp.

“I haven’t even had lunch.”

[larvamars]

computer make him butch