#FUCK i need to latch onto his flesh and bones

[cowboythewizard726]

all the faces laios made in that scene because im not gay i just love sharing things with the world and yeeha totally smile face

#jesus chrst #you have to get me out of here #im so serious he really is genuinely such a beautiful man #FUCK i need to latch onto his flesh and bones #chew chew #MODDSSSS hes CHEWING again #hes probably firm yet gummy #what #excuse me #i need your help #you need to ki #snffi.... #i thinbk hes just #hes si beautifl gys #huys #guyssss #oh and he loves and cares about his sister so much #hes so wonderful #im gay #im gay im totally gay and he isnt helping #he looks BEAUTIFUL on PURPOSE to UPSET ME #l aios #laios dungeon meshi #laios delicious in dungeon #laios dunmeshi #dungeon meshi #dunmeshi #delicious in dungeon #delicious in dungeon spoilers #dungeon meshi spoilers

[1800jjbarnes]

𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬

【Synopsis】: Instead of getting ready to go see the team, Steve would rather spend his time with you and your boobs of course.

[W.C] : 654

-> Genre: Suggestive, Smut, Fluffly

Pairing: Steve x Female!Reader

[Warnings] : Heavy Breast Play, Praise Kink, Steve is a simp for you and your chest.

Masterlist | Navigation

It was like another ordinary day and what that means Steve is laying on top of you with his face between your breasts. His hands softly grip all your curves, fingers grazing over the goosebumps that form on your silky skin. You knew when Steve said ‘little nap’ it was going to be anything but little or a nap. The team was expecting you two to show up for dinner within a couple of hours, but you still haven’t moved. Choosing to stay in this comfortable position with your big baby of a Boyfriend having his way with you.

His lips caught your neck, lightly groaning as his tongue lapped over the bites he left behind. He held you down with his weight, giving him all the time to make you melt. His left-hand snakes under your —well his— shirt, gripping your cover breast. He squeezed slightly, listening to your little whimpers. His actions were slowly getting rougher and rougher. He kissed up your jaw, shifting up so he can hover over you, leaning on his elbows and knees. His left hand still needs your breast switching in between each of them. While the other one holds the back of your neck making sure you cannot move.

Your back arches into his chest, hinting for his hand to whip around your body to unclasp your bra. But he sits up watching you follow his lips in desperation. His hands grip the hem of your shirt while staring deep into your eyes. You understand his non-verbal command, sitting up to throw your shirt off. You lean on your palms perking your breasts up so he and ogle at them. His mouth fills with drool, watching as your chest breathes in and out. He wanted to be slow and take his time with you but at the same time, all he wanted was to literally rip your bra off and fuck you silly just you to watch them bounce everywhere.

But he leans down kissing your collar bone down to the top of your boobs instead. The soft flesh becomes wet as his tongue licks every part he can find. He nips you lightly making you whine. His bite grazing over you, he begins to suck hard, leaving harsh purple marks over your skin. He groans looking at his work, seeing you laying down covered in his marks.

“Fuck you’re gorgeous.” He whispers before locking his lips with yours in a feverish kiss. His patient is running thin, unclasping your bra within seconds, letting your breasts free. He swear he could come just by looking at your body. You are perfect in every way. From head to toe, you are his everything and he was yours. He continues to praise you with sweet nothings while his right-hand palms your exposed breast. His mouth latches onto your perked nipple, sucking hard making you let out a broken whine.

“S-Ste-ah!” You couldn’t even finish his name as your brain turns fuzzy. Your hands land on his head raking them through his thick blonde hair. You tug lightly making him groan out at the painful pleasure. He removes his lips from your chest with a loud pop, moving his free hand to grab your chin.

“You pull my hair like that again and I won’t be able to control what comes next.” He growls out with a smirk. Your just smile back at him, tugging at his hair again.

“That’s it.” His arms wrap around you, pulling you up onto his lap. You giggle out with his actions, taking place on his thigh. You bit your bottom lip watching him take his shirt off.

“I want you to fuck yourself on my thigh while I tend to these beautiful babies here.” He grips both of your breast squeezing lightly. “Now go on, don’t stop until I tell you.”

#marvel #jjbarnes #1800JJBarnes #mcu steve rogers #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers headcanon #steve rogers smut #steve rogers #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x plus size reader #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x plus size reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x you #chris evans x reader #chris evans #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america #captain america x female reader

[rudspankow]

was bored and decided to write this, plus i was being a bit of a slut for sub jayj.. MDNI!!

Sub!!jj loves kisses. Turning into an absolute whimpering mess at the feel of your plump flesh against his.

He couldn’t tell you how much he loved when you took control.

Legs thrown over his waist, and head dipped into the crook of his neck. The sweet sound of your lips kissing his delicate skin drowned his ears as he bit his lip till they bled, his length throbbing at each nibble you granted listening to the way he whimpered. Your mouth latching onto that one spot that made him loose absolute control, abusing the reddened skin and feeling him squirm from beneath you.

He’d whine, feeling the way you sloppily licked around his jaw teasing him of a deep, soft kiss. Bucking his hips into your clothed heat impatiently. Awaiting the moment you lowered your lips to where he needed you most.

“Need you. .” He’d whimper breathlessly, loving the way you’d drag open mouthed kisses up his neck till you’re meeting his swollen lips, placing a wet toe curling kiss over them before slipping your dainty hands beneath his shorts. His breathing unsteady and brows furrowed, eyes clamped shut and fingers digging into your hip bone. You stroked him beneath his clothes, circling his weeping tip slowly in the midst. Smirking at the sound of his moans.

“Faster baby, faster. .” JJ would beg, bucking into your hand in hopes to drive himself closer. Feeling choked up with the slow pace you gave him, teasing the fuck out of his patience as he wormed around from the pressure you applied to his cock. Needing the release more than ever.

“Gonna cum J?”

Your lips kissing his ear gently before trailing down to his neck again, JJ threw his head back at the overstimulation of your lips and hand. Feeling his ball’s empty inside his shorts as you fastened your palm, leaking all over your smooth hand. Silent applause and quiet whimpers strung out of his throat, mindset foggy as you continued to kiss and praise your boy.

“Such a pretty voice baby, love to hear it.” You’d whisper, feeling the way your dominance turned him on more, jolting his cock to life as you continued to stroke him gently. Small whimper’s leaving his lips as you tightened your grip.

“Fuck princess, you’re gonna kill me.”

#jj maybank smut #obx #jj maybank #outer banks #pogues #the pogues

[elaci]

The Lethal Light

Daily fixes to the whole 'sun allergy' thing once life has settled, and the intimate love that shines through the boarded windows regardless.

cw; morning sex, unprotected sex, domestic astarion, chores :( i dont know why shakespeare invaded my bones and wrte the most wannabe poet erotica ever but i gift it to you nonetheless because god may smite me down if i do not.

Astarion x reader | 18+ mdni | req rules ⁞ request here | crossposted on ao3

The recipe of friction and carnal lust that creates such a heat between you and your cold-poisoned lover is a narcotic type of addiction for the both of you.

Astarion, blood running cold through his body, heated only by the fire-hot lust that radiates from your skin. The blessing of fever against his lips with each kiss he trails down your body. His lips tingle with the sweet ecstasy of your yearning: he touches you like a man in love and falls deeper with every jerked movement your body responds with in turn.

You, in the sensory heavens as Astarion's fangs tease at the base of your neck: cold ivory skin gliding over your pulse point, feeling the liveliness of your very being. His lean figure over you, caging you against the wiry mattress in such a way you feel both safe and insatiable. Every nerve that coils every bone in your body is rigid. You feel your most alive in the arms of the undead.

Sex before dawn breaks, to avoid the sun flitting in through your netted windows. Your nails, your teeth, your tears: only they mark your lover. No new scars will come, not from the sun or anything else twice as harsh. You no longer need him to wake you early: your body wakes itself to beat the sun and bathe instead in love.

The slow rolling of hips, Astarion stretching you out and unravelling every inch of your being. The freedom you feel in his possession: euphoric and unearthly. The way his cock fits inside of you, the way you squeeze around him in recognition of his size. His gentle, sweet and all-addictive size.

"Oh, sweet darling," the honey that leaves his lips in worship of you. "You are so perfect."

Call this rogue a cleric, and you his eternal god to which he would pray on broken knees.

Yet you have no such demand of him, beside the fingers that pull at his hair when his lips trail down the canvas of skin of your neck and latch on to one your hardened nipples. His hips still snapping against yours, his pace quickening: the chase of a shared climax begins.

A race against the dawning sun.

His balls slapping against your ass, your heart thrumming from your chest to his. The threat of dawn, and the song of his moans, and everything warm and sweet in this world. Your orgasm washes over you in waves, much like those that crash against the shore not far from your home. You see stars despite the looming morning sky, your entire body clenching as roll after roll of ecstasy cleanse you. Birdsong starts outside.

Astarion fucks you through your orgasm, and promises (with a gentle kiss to the flesh of your throat) that he's not far behind you, and that he loves you so, and how you can last just a little longer for him, right?

A hand of his reaches between your legs to toy with you further, because deep down Astarion has a streak of sadism in his soul, and he loves watching you fucked so senseless you forget your own words. The sight, in fact, is enough to lull his orgasm over him: so he flexes his hips as far forward into yours he can, and allows himself to release an ungodly load deep inside of you.

“Take me,” Astarion exhales. “You take me so well, darling.”

A minute is spent in recovery, Astarion encased between your thighs, seated so deep inside of you that you grieve the loss of his length when he begins to slowly pull out. He feels it before you do, the gentle morning sun coming through the window. Onto his back the light shines, and as quickly as it comes, you’re rolling the two of you over and shielding his body with your own.

A knowing smile crosses your lips, Astarions hair dishevelled beneath you. If the sun weren’t so insistent on gifting the earth with a new morning and a sick blue sky, you’d ride him into the evening and right through the night. Though of course, the world has always tended to be unkind to the two of you, and you’re forced to skulk out of bed and to the windows, pulling closed the heavy textured curtains and once more caging the room in silence.

A candle is lit on the bedside, and you see Astarions face only by the dull flame. Orange highlights of his cheekbones and kiss-swollen lips. You can feel him dripping out of you as you stand watching him.

Astarion looks sullen, despite the previous shared euphoria. You always make a point of aftercare with him, and he reciprocates in kind: though you don’t think his sudden frown is weighed down by memories or tight skin.

“Love?” You try, Astarions eyes meet yours: a deep and beautiful red.

“It’s not that,” your beloved offers, leaning back on his elbows to watch you. “It’s this, you do too much for me. I deny you even the sun.”

A step towards him, your legs weak in every perfect way.

“You deny me nothing, Astarion. I never fancied the sun, all it does is burn and bite.”

“Much like me,” a smirk.

“I much prefer you, my love” you stalk over to his side of the bed, and use the candlelight to find our hand cupping the side of his face. “Though if you do feel ever-so useless, you can remedy your woes by getting started on breakfast.”

A kiss pressed to his lips, one not laced with lust but rather a doting love only he could pull from you. You hope to die with the taste of his lips on yours. 

“Very well,” Astarion feigns a sigh. “Put me to work then.”

You’re quick to clean yourself up and find some clothes to slip into, and sneak a peek at Astarion as he readies himself for the day. Your lover, perfect in any, every and all ways. 

You’re first into the kitchen, drawing the curtains tight just as Astarion walks in. His hair curled neatly around his ears, clothes unmarked and day-ready, despite your eyes being the only ones to lay gaze on him. You’ll be undressing and retreating back to bed within a few hours anyway— ready for a night out with friends. With family. 

Still, Astarion readies you some tea, and you pull on some boots and head to the door. 

“Door,” you hum.

“Mhm,” a distracted reply. You turn to see Astarion fussing over your collection of teas, though far from the danger zone. You open the door, letting just a little natural light flood the room, and close it swiftly behind you after stepping out.

The morning is cold, and the sky littered with clouds you don’t doubt will bring rain in the days to come. You don’t mind so much, not when your rainy days are spent in his arms, but you hope the crops can handle the extra shower just fine. Mud laces the bottom of your boots as you traipse through your garden. The rising sun is a warmth against your skin, incomparable to the warmth love Astarion feeds you with.

You reach your fruit plants, and scour them for a ripe breakfast. Long gone are the days of scavenging for each meal, so you take your time evaluating each fruit for one that is perfect. You silently thank the sun for at least aiding in the growth of such sweet fruits, pick one that looks good, and take a bite out of it as you turn to retreat back inside.

“Door,” you call out as you push the handle in, peeking your head inside to make sure your love is out of the way, and then duck inside without a moment to waste. “Gods, it’s getting colder out there. Do you think you could fix me something warm to wear, love? We can shop for some fabrics tonigh—”

You stop in your tracks, the sweet nectar of your homegrown fruit stuck to your bottom lip as you listen out for your lover. “Astarion?”

Silence, darkness, every candle that was once lit is now snuffed out. Your heart races, you can’t place his presence. At least, not until his hands are snaking around you from behind, and his lean frame is turning you to face him. 

A kiss, hungry. Astarion licks the nectar from your bottom lip and savours it with a gentle groan that falls from his mouth to yours like a song unsung. Within only a moment, your back is pressed against the door you had just come through, and Astarion is nipping at your pulsepoint like he’s testing the waters. The shallow, always-wanted water that is getting a taste of you.

“Quit sneaking up on me,” you reprimand as his tongue glides over old bite marks, sensitive even now. “You're gonna age me with all this stress."

He laughs, a low rumble in his chest that sets fire to your blood.

“As if I'd let that happen," his voice deepens. "You, my love, are going to live forever."

A nice thought. One you let him indulge for a moment.

Astarion pulls away with a kiss to your lips, leaving you mourning his touch.

"Come back to bed," he urges, his breath fanning over your face. "Let me taste you again."

"We just got up."

Astarion tsks, unbothered by your half-assed argument. His gentle hand slips into yours, and without a second thought, he's pulling you back to your shared bedroom.

A glance over his shoulder at your shadowed frame, "we have all day. I've got to clean up the mess I made of you."

The first time you had shared soul and body, you had awoken under the sun. Bathing in the light, unaware of the fleeting joy the sun could bring. You had watched Astarion stand, arms extended, to take in as much of the scorching morning heat as possible.

And even then he was conflicted.

It may not be the sun, or the lethal light, but at least now you can wake besides Astarion just to return to bed with him—

—and still feel just as warm.

#astarion smut #astarion x reader #astaron ancnin x reader #astarion ancunin smut #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate smut #bg3 smut #bg3 x reader #astarion x you

[nvrsaidiwasinurcloset]

Part 2 to that fantasies fic please 😭🙏

I've been trying to finish this FOREVER.

What's Your Fantasy? - Part 2

This contains SMUT- Minors DNI

Part 1

Summary: After getting Ethan to tell you the things he thinks about when he's alone, you were dying to hear more.

Contains: Smut - switch!ethan, switch!reader, p in v, oral(fem recieving), creampie, rough-ish sex, unprotected sex, and it has a fluffy moment or two:) If i missed anything, please let me know so I can include it.

A/N: Not too sure how I feel about this 🫠But I've had so many requests for it and I've been dying to write a dom!ethan moment.

When you made it back to Ethan’s room after your shower, he was desperate to fuck you. The interaction in the shower had you craving more, wanting nothing more than to please him. You weren’t giving in that easy, pushing him back on the bed and straddling him. You leaned down to kiss him, your pussy resting against his hardening cock. You wanted to tease him to see what else you could get out of him.

As you grinded against him, your lips started to trail down his neck.

“Fuck,” he groaned out, the wetness between your legs making it easy to glide across his erection.

You didn’t say anything as your lips moved, sucking on the spots that were making him whimper. His hands went to your hips to help you move against him when you pulled away.

“No, baby, I need you to use your words and tell me what you want,” you said, your tone loaded with lust as his hooded eyes met yours.

His hands went to your sides as you started to kiss his neck again, “You better start talking, or your entire neck is going to be purple by the time I’m done with you.” Your mouth latched onto the flesh above his collar bone as he started to whine.

“I want you to ride me,” he finally got out, as you shook your head and laughed.

“That’s not good enough baby.”

He started to think back to the teasing in the shower, and how you were trying to get him to say the things he wanted to try, the things he thought about when he was trying to get off. It was hard for him to process his thoughts as your hips started to grind harder against him.

You sat up straight, looking down at his erection as your pussy rubbed against him, your arousal glistening under the sunlight that was pouring through the window. It was getting hard for you to hold back, the throbbing feeling in your clit making you desperate for some relief.

“Aww, the head of your cock is so red,” you cooed, “It’d be a shame if I just stopped and didn’t fuck you.”

“No!” he tried to yell but it came out as a whimper. “Fuck, I think about coming home and you’re waiting by the front door in the skimpiest lingerie.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” you muttered, “What happens next?”

“I get you out of your bra and suck all over your tits,” he babbled, as your hands rubbed across his chest, “Then I kiss down your stomach, sliding your panties down. Then you push me back on the bed and ride my face. You just fucking use me to get off.”

“You want me to use you, baby?” you questioned as he nodded.

“I think about you pulling my hair when you’re about to cum. I think about how amazing you taste,” he said, his breathing heavy as your pussy kept rubbing against him, the friction against your clit giving you some of the relief you needed. “Then…” he trailed off, getting a little shy.

“Then what?” you asked, desperate to hear what he had to say as your wetness was dripping down the rest of his cock that wasn’t getting attention.

“Then you let me take control. I have your arms pinned above your head, as my cock slowly slides in and out of you, until I’m pounding into you pussy so hard that my neighbors are going to know how good I fuck you,” He rushed out, as you noticed all the precum leaking out of his cherry-red tip. You swiped your finger through it, the action making his hips jolt. You sucked it off your finger as he watched you, feeling like he could cum from the sight alone. “Fuck…then you let me cum in your perfect pussy that squeezes me so tight when you cum.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” you asked, as he started to whine again.

“I love it when you talk to me like that.”

“Do you want me to be mean to you?” you asked, a small laugh slipping out as you looked at him.

“Yeah, but then I want you to let me put you in your place, too. Respectfully, of course.”

You started to giggle at his words before your lusty eyes connected with his.

“Put me in my place, then.”

Within seconds, he flipped you over so your naked body was laying against the soft comforter. He kissed you with so much intensity, as he brushed over your pussy with his fingertips. He kept repeating his actions, teasing you as badly as you did to him.

“Please, baby,” you whined, “I need you.”

“I don’t think you deserve it. You’ve been so bad,” he said, his lips moving to his neck and sucking love bites onto you.

“But don’t you want to cum in me?” you asked, your tone desperate as you tried to convince him.

“I’m in control, remember?”

The cockiness in his voice had your pussy aching, craving attention as his fingers wouldn’t stop teasing you. He intentionally avoided your clit. You whimpered every time he got close to it, but then his fingers just ghosted around it.

After a few minutes, he decided he tortured you enough as his fingers rubbed slow circles against your bundle of nerves. You couldn’t suppress your moans as he started to move his mouth down your body. He sucked one of your nipples into your mouth, before sucking on the skin surrounding it.

“Fuck, baby,” you whimpered, before he moved to the other side and repeated the action. He couldn’t get enough of the sounds coming out of your mouth, but he wanted them to be louder.

His lips moved lower, his teeth grazing against your sides as your chest heaved. You got more wet by the second, feeling it reach your upper thighs.

When he finally made it in between your legs, his hands gripped your thighs as he pushed them apart. The new dominating side of Ethan was something you could get used to, his eyes looking into yours as he started to lap at your clit. A low moan slipped out, a new sound he’d never heard before. The anticipation that was built up between the two of you had you both desperate for your release. The throbbing in his cock was painful, but he had to show you that he should be in control sometimes.

“That feels so good,” you whined out, as he slid two fingers inside of you.

“You’re so wet, baby,” he said, pulling his mouth away and moving his fingers against that spot inside of you that made your toes curl. Your hand went to his hair, trying to pull his mouth back towards you. “I don’t think so,” he said, his words making you pout. “I told you, you’ve been bad. You threatened to not let me cum, why should I let you?”

“Please, I need it so fucking bad,” you begged, as his fingers started to slow. “Ethan, please!”

“The only way you’re going to cum is if my cock is inside you,” he said, his voice dark as he grabbed your hands and pinned them above your head.

His mouth was inches from yours, his eyes softening a little as he looked at you.

“If this is too much, I need you to tell me, okay? Just because it’s a fantasy of mine doesn’t mean I’m okay with hurting you,” he said, leaning down to kiss you.

When he pulled away, he looked at you to give him the okay to keep going.

“Please fuck me,” you whined, the darkness returning to his eyes as he repositioned your arms so he could hold both of your wrists down with one hand, as his other lined his cock up with your entrance.

He slid in slowly, watching your face as his length stretched you out.

“Mmm,” you mewled, the full feeling being exactly what you needed.

His hips started to move as he leaned down to kiss you again. His tongue brushed against your bottom lip, your mouth opening so he could deepen the kiss. He took it slow at first, just enjoying the feeling of you around him.

He soon started to thrust faster, making you moan against his tongue as he kept kissing you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, making it easier for him to go deeper and hit that spongy spot inside you that made your vision get fuzzy.

He pulled away from the kiss, looking at your face again. The intensity of the kiss had your lips swollen, and your eyes were glazed over in desire as he started to pound into you.

“Fuck, Ethan,” you moaned, his free hand going to your clit as he supported his weight with the hand that had your wrists pinned above your head.

You started to get louder, the grip that your legs had around his waist getting tighter. “Your pussy feels so amazing,” he groaned, “and you’re taking my cock so fucking well. You always do.”

“Mhm,” you whimpered, “I’m getting close.”

He kept his pace with his hips and his finger movements against your clit, not wanting to change anything he was doing. He needed you to cum so he could, and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin your orgasm.

“Fuck, baby,” you moaned, the loudness of it echoing off the walls, “I’m gonna cum, please don’t stop.”

He didn’t, the feeling of your pussy tightening around him was something he was craving. As soon as your orgasm started to wash over you, he leaned down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, giving you the extra stimulation as your body started to tremble underneath him. He started to cum the second your walls started to clench his cock, the fluttering milking every last drop from him.

His removed his hand from your clit so he could support his weight with it. He started to worry about bruising on your wrists as his grip on them relaxed. He stayed inside you for a few minutes as he placed gentle kisses along your wrists, noticing that they were red.

Your blissful expression from the intense orgasm made him smile. He was happy you wanted to try things that he wanted, even if it was a little different from the usual bedroom dynamic.

“Are you okay, babe?” he asked sweetly, as he started to pull out. Your legs that were loosely wrapped around him moved to rest on the bed. “Oh fuck.”

He saw his cum start to drip out of your pussy, the sight making him groan. He looked up to your face, noticing that you started to doze off.

“Baby,” he said, running his hands along your thighs. You opened your eyes a little to look at him. “Let’s go take another quick shower and we can cuddle and do whatever you want the rest of the day.”

You nodded as you tried to get up, your legs wobbling the second your feet hit the floor. Ethan’s arm wrapped around you, supporting your weight as he led you to the bathroom.

Once you made it there, he glanced at the mirror and did a double take as he noticed all the faint purple marks along his neck.

“Jeez, you did a number on my neck,” he laughed as you smiled, still tired.

“How about later tonight I teach you the wonders of concealer?” you joked as he rolled his eyes.

“You might have to.”

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #scream smut #ethan landry smut #scream

[credince--writes]

Hands (1)

God, you dream of those hands.

Original Prompt:

Size Kink & Breeding Kink with Konig.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - AO3

Konig x Fem! Reader

(A/N): I accidentally fuckin deleted the original post while trying to add links to the other 2 chapters, so reposting LMAO. I'M SO SAD BC IT WAS ONE OF MY BEST PREFORMING POSTS.

Honestly? It started in a very innocent way.

"I'm taking off your gloves."

He sat in front of you, tapping his foot on the cold tile. Currently under the attention of you from the intended use of his hands in combat.

Which is why you were inspecting for broken knuckles.

Most of his gear had been taken off, set aside along with the hood that donned his head on missions. Now, you were pulling the gloved that clung to the asking of his hands off. Inspecting the pale skin beneath them.

"You know, I'm starting to think you do dumb shit like this on purpose." You glance up at him.

"I'd never." He replied.

"Because I'm lookin' at these hands, and I'm seeing a whole lot of unnecessary bruising."

"It was necessary."

You quirked a brow.

"You just, happen to lose your gun there soldier?" You pulled back, leaning back against your seat and shooting him an amused glance.

"Sometimes, things are better done by hand."

"mmhm." You mumbled.

Eyes trailed up his hands, finding stray scars and following the veins leading up to his forearms.

Man,

those were some big hands.

"Is everything alright, doctor?" He asks, amusement twirling around in his eyes, sparking out in his voice.

Maybe he was catching on to your oogling.

"Just making sure nothing broken. Can't imagine it would be fun to work with broken fingers."

"Nein."

"This hurt?" You ask.

"Nein."

"Then you're fine. I'll give you some meds and send you off on your way."

"Danke!" He shot up, clamping a hand down on your shoulder, man near enveloping your entire left side.

You started to imagine what it would be like if that big hand wrapped around your neck.

"Be careful, please."

"Of course." He shot a sideways, toothy grin. The side that his nose crooked over to and the side with the one crooked canine that made him look like a dog ready to chase a bone.

He turned, starting to walk away.

"You know, König." You stated. He stopped a turned around. "If you want to visit me, you don't need to have an injury."

His eyebrows raised, and you could swear there was a blush that tinted his cheeks. "I'll consider that for next time."

Before turning and leaving.

And he did visit you.

One visit turned into two.

Then four.

Then he just popped in so often while he was not on a mission he became part of your routine.

Have a cup of coffee with König in the morning, maybe even join him for dinner and enjoy it in the sanctity of your quiet and private office.

Just so happened that the longer you spent with him the more your thoughts were clouded.

His hands,

his thighs,

fuck, you can't even imagine how big his cock would be.

You'd like to think you were better than this.

Pressed up in your shower thinking about the huge man, wondering what his bare chest would feel like curling up over your back.

You closed your eyes, trying to picture just how good it would feel.

It would be right after he comes back from a mission, the dark look in his eyes still clouding his consciousness as he's still in the mindset of a soldier, a killer.

His steps would be heavier- you'd hear him walk into the bathroom, the rustling of clothing as he strips the cloth covering his flesh discarded down to the ground without a second thought.

He'd slip into the shower, with your head placed under the stream of hot water. Almost comically so, his head would be unable to reach the stream of water without immensely bending at the knees.

You'd hum, leaning back into him as he'd reach his arm around your waist, pulling your wet body closer to his. Head dropping down for his mouth to latch onto the nape of your neck, biting and sucking on the sensitive skin.

Gasping throwing your head back farther and allowing it to bump against his shoulder, letting out a light whine that he'd love to harvest from your throat.

One hand would drift down, widening his palm as it flattened and slid down your tummy, nearly covering the expanse of your abdomen before it dipped down, lower.

His other hand would grab your chin, pulling your head back to meet into a feverish kiss. Pressing your back up against the cold wall of the shower, holding it up against it.

On a normal occasion, you'd be terrified to slip, but you just know with his arm slinked around over you waist toying dangerously close to your cunt that there was no chance of slipping.

No chance of him letting you go.

A digit would brush up through your folds collecting the slippery production of your arousal, dragging his finger ever so carefully up until it traced around your clit. Circling it, dangerously so.

Applying pressure as the rough pad of his finger pushed against your clit, mouth devouring any noises you let out.

It hurt, in a way.

One that was so delicious you only wanted more.

His large finger pressing down on your clit felt heavenly, the feeling of his tongue pushing against yours as you swapped spit in the most degenerating fashion.

Your hips unconsciously pushed forward against his hand, bucking as he pressed you firmly against the wall.

He'd tsk, giving you a light scolding before removing his mouth from yours completely, allowing a thin strand of spit to cast its way from him lips to yours.

God.

You could just die.

He'd snicker, that snicker that made his lip quirk upward revealing his crooked tooth. All before he'd lean in and ask,

"What do you want me to do, Schatz?"

"Fuckkkk." You'd whine, letting your head bump against the shower wall. "Please." You'd whisper out.

"Hm?" He'd ask, still toying his finger around your clit.

"Finger me- fuck, please. Please finger me."

His finger would leave your clit, diving back down and just barely poking into your entrance.

The digit was long and thick- it felt like nearly two of your own being stuffed inside you. Even more so as the single digit could curl up in such a delectable manner pressing up against the spongey roof of your core.

You'd breathe harshly, ducking your head up against his neck and arm gripping at the expanse of his back and nails digging into the pale and freckled flesh.

He'd add a second digit, and you felt like you were on cloud nine.

No,

You felt like you were on cloud nine as he removed his free hand from you, bringing it down and rubbing on your clit as his other hand pumped mechanically in and out of you, curling his fingers forward and circling the pad of his finger against your clit.

It would feel like your legs would give out first, but he'd keep you upright as you came, his mouth would latch onto yours. Shoving his tongue into your mouth claiming you in the best way possible.

Body draped over yours, his large hands pleasing you to the point of competition-

Blinking, you realized there was no man draped behind you.

The water in the shower had run cold a long time ago, but the pleasant buzz in your head from your shameful masturbation numbed any embarrassment for a few moments.

You sighed, turning off the water and glancing down at your fingers.

For now? Thinking of his large hands would have to do.

#könig x reader #könig x you #mwii #call of duty mw2 #Konig x reader #konig x reader smut #konig imagine #Konig x Reader- Hands

[b00kdiary]

Can we please please please get a part 3 for stay with me where they actually fuck? Love your stuff btw absolutely amazing ❤️

Stay With Me | Rhysand (III)

Rhysand x Plus size reader

It's been a week. Rhysand's patience has worn thin. So has Y/N's.

Warnings: Mature themes (18+), swearing, and smut.

MASTERLIST - 1 and 2

PART ONE PART TWO

Are you awake, darling?

I stared at the note that appeared on my nightstand fifteen seconds ago, the luxurious, broad sprawl telling of who had sent it. The word darling made my stomach coil – like I could hear Rhys purring it in my ear.

I fought my smile as I turned, dropping my bare legs off the side of the bed, and grabbing the quill that had appeared with the note. It was slightly warm, and I envisioned Rhys holding it, smirking like the fiend he was.

I am awake.

Missing me already?

I could feel my anticipation thrumming in me as I sprawled the words before neatly dropping the pen beside it. It vanished the moment I released it, wisped away to wherever Rhys lounged and for some reason, I could practically hear the rumbling laugh that would escape him the moment he read my teasing response.

My smile grew when the note reappeared not even thirty seconds later. I grabbed it with shaking hands, and I could feel the heat blazing through my blood and bones and veins at his words.

I always miss you; you know that.

And while I usually am the most patient male, that patience is starting to wear very thin.

I want you, darling.

He had been patient. So had I. One week since the Hybern attack, one week since I had sustained that injury and Rhysand had taken care of me – in more ways than just my leg. One week of stolen touches and yearning glances and pleasuring myself to quell the urge to seek him out.

I didn't want to be patient anymore. The ache between my legs wouldn't let me be.

Then why aren't you here?

I'm waiting, High Lord.

The note vanished and not even a second later, I heard the distant sound of wings thundering. I felt Rhysand's dark, obsidian power misting over Velaris stretching from the Town house to the House of Wind.

Call it impatience, call it confidence, call it whatever you want but my body was alight at the power of him, the need of him. And as Rhys thundered closer and closer, I took off piece after piece of clothing. My socks, my nightshirt, my underwear, my bra, everything, until I was bare sat upon my bed desperately needing to be touched.

My thighs clenched when Rhys landed on my balcony, the ground and walls shaking with the impact of his arrival. I could see his silhouette outlined by the moonlight and sheet of stars above as he stalked on silent feet toward my door, looking like a God that shouldn't exist.

The curtain parted with a phantom wind, and I felt my nipples pebble and my core soak as it danced into my room, brushing my skin like a lover's touch. Rhys ducked under my door, powerful wings tucked close to his back and violet eyes gleaming like midnight constellations.

"You beautiful, wicked thing," Rhys groaned as he slid into my room, eyes latching onto my naked figure sitting patiently atop my sheets. I felt his magic thrum at the sight of me, eyes razing across my bare flesh. "You couldn't wait two minutes?"

"I waited one week, Rhys," I lifted my chin defiantly, feigning arrogance. Even as every long step he took toward me made me tremble. "I'm a patient female but not that patient."

"Tsk tsk tsk," He clucked his tongue tauntingly at me, his thick brow raised in a challenge. I traced his long, lean angles, the broad muscles of his shoulders, and that infuriating smirk as he came to a stop before me. "As much as I love your eagerness, darling, I didn't say you could undress."

I moaned when his ringed hand came forward, cupping my aching breasts and squeezing it in his palm. His chest rumbled appreciatively as it spilt from his hand, another moan slipping from me when his thumb brushed over my taut, sensitive nipple.

"Perhaps I should punish you?" Rhys mused softly, eyes transfixed on my breasts, his forefinger and thumb clamped around my bud, abusing it, and watching me gasp. I craned my neck up to meet his towering form, cruel amusement in his eyes. "Unlace my breeches."

A firm, powerful command – his High Lord's voice. Gods, it made me wet. Rhys smirked at the spike in my pulse, the pleasure that coiled through me at his authority.

I was more than eager to follow his command, my hands moving to his slacks, tugging furiously at the laces. I could feel his hard length under my fingers, twitching and straining against the material, begging to be let free.

Rhysand released my breast, and I would have whined in protest had he not begun tugging the ties at the back of his shirt, striping the material from his wings and chest, revealing acres and acres of beautiful tan, tattooed skin as he discarded it.

I whimpered as I tugged the last lace, my pussy clenching around nothing as Rhys's thick, hard length slipped free from his pants, slapping back against his stomach, nearly hitting my face in the process. My mouth watered, actually watered at the sight of him.

"This is meant to be a punishment, darling," Rhys chuckled darkly, fingers gently folding into my hair and tilting my head to meet his eyes. He grinned at the heady intent on my face. "You shouldn't look so happy about it."

"You’re about to let me suck your cock, Rhys," I breathed, my voice rasping and hoarse. His hand tightened in my hair, fisting the root as I purred the word cock. I eyed his length, the red angry tip, the small pearly beads of pre-cum, the strong veins that danced on the sides. "How is that a punishment?"

"You're not sucking my cock, my love," Rhys smiled – it was not a comforting sight. No, it was dark and terrifying. I gasped when the tip of his cock traced my lip, his eyes glinting as he pushed it slowly into my warm mouth. "I'm going to fuck your throat."

He slammed the rest of his length into my mouth until he hit the back of my throat, and I was gagging and moaning and choking for air.

"Good girl," Rhys moaned, his cock stretching my mouth until my jaw ached and he seated so far down my throat I could feel every twitch. He pulled out after several seconds, beads of spit and cum lacing my lips and down my chest as I gasped for air. "Such a good girl."

I hummed at the praise, even as I felt my lungs burning from the lack of oxygen. But Rhys tasted so good, and he was moaning so loud as I slipped him back into my mouth, my throat going lax as he shoved his length in until he maxed out.

I gagged, desperately breathing through my nose as his hips rolled, every stroke dragging his pulsing cock in and out, hitting the back of my throat again and again. Rhys growled, a pure sound of pleasure, one of no control as he truly fucked my mouth raw.

Tears streaked down my face, drool dripped down my chin and onto my breasts and Rhys's hand fisted my hair brutally, keeping me in place while he drove his hips into my mouth. I moaned at the feel of him, every ragged breath he took making me that much more eager.

"That feels incredible, darling," Rhys hissed, his voice shaking as his climax neared. His cock twitched in my mouth, and I let my tongue graze along his shaft in a way that had him cursing. "This mouth is better than I had imagined."

I could feel my arousal leaking down my thighs at his words, and my eyes rolled when Rhys bucked his hips forward, burying himself so far, that my nose brushed the trail of hair at his navel. I could smell his sweet scent, addictive enough that it distracted me from the burning in my lungs, the full feeling of him shoved down my throat.

"Fuck," Rhys swore, and I whined as he tore my head back, his wet, angry cock slipping out. Air rushed into my lungs, spit dribbled down my chin and then Rhys was upon me, his head ducking down and crashing his lips to mine.

I could taste the wine in his mouth, could taste the possession on his tongue as he shoved it past my swollen lips and into me, battling and furious and needy. My fingers clawed and scratched along his marble skin, tracing the hard muscles and rippling abs, memorising the perfect feel of him.

"Rhys," I whined against his lips, breathless as his large, ringed hands kneaded along my body, grumbling in approval as he palmed the flesh at my hips and back and thighs, his eyes stark with lust as he pushed me to lie on my back.

"I know, I know," He crooned, a tint of arrogance and appreciation in his voice as he settled onto the bed, his arms bracing his towering figure over me, his hands guiding my thighs around his lean hips. "I'm impatient too, darling. I know you need it; I've got you."

My back arched as he grazed his nose along the side of my neck, his magnificent wings erecting high behind him as he inhaled the sweet, sweaty scent of me. I was breathless as he touched my skin, touched my flesh like I was a dream come to fruition.

"Cauldron, I wish I had time to get my head between these soft thighs," His teeth scraped my nipple, his hands parting my thighs as he rubbed his tip through my soaking wet folds. "I'd have my tongue fucking your sweet hole until you came all over my face. Until you were begging me to stop."

For a second, I nearly begged him to do exactly that, nearly begged for the feel of his tongue and teeth, for the burn of his skilled fingers slipping inside me. But then he rubbed his hard length against me again, smearing my wetness and I couldn't wait another moment.

"Stop talking Rhys,” I snarled, my fingers curling around his short raven hair, dragging his face up to mine. He chuckled at the ire and frustration behind my words, behind my touch as I pressed desperate kisses to his lips, "I want you to fuck me. Now." 

“Such dirty words for such a pretty mouth,” Rhysand laughed against my lips, a hint of violence tinging his tone, his touch, as he toyed his tip against my swollen clit. “I’ll have to think of a better punishment to remedy that. But right now – “

I screamed as he drove his hips forward, shoving his hard, pulsing length into me in one forceful thrust.

“Rhys!”

An explosion of pain and pleasure, like stars erupting through my core as Rhysand forced his way into me, stretching my sore walls, languishing in the wetness of my arousal until he maxed out. Pain and pleasure –  it was all I knew.

“Cauldron, you’re fucking incredible,” Rhys growled into my ear, his hands bruising against my waist as he forced my flailing body against the bed. He pulled out to the tip, the sound filthy as he pushed back in, moaning as he did so. “So fucking incredible.”

“Rhys, oh Gods –“

I was crying out for him as his pace picked up, my walls moulding around him perfectly as he fucked me, that pain fading into pure, unfiltered pleasure. He grunted with every roll of his hips, his lips suckling my pulse point and reverberating his noises against me, through me.

Rhys scraped his canines against the junction of my throat possessively, marking me as he fucked his hips against me again and again, tits and body jolting with every stroke. I keened when he threw my leg over his shoulder, kissing my knee before he sunk so deep, I thought he’d tear me in two.

“Right there,” He panted,  sweat coating his forehead as he grinned down at me. I gasped, breathless as he pressed a hand down on the stomach – pressed down on the imprint of his cock shaped there. “You feel how deep I am, darling? Feel how far my cock is inside you?”

“S-so deep,” I blubbered, my words half caught between a sob and a moan as my walls fisted tighter and tighter, that familiar pool filling within me, filling more and more as Rhys whispered those dirty words and fucked me raw. “It’s so deep, Rhys.”

‘Look at you’ Rhys’s rumbling, arrogant voice filled my mind, mixed in with his stark arousal and overwhelming praise, ‘Crying for me, all fucked out and ready to come around my cock.’

His lips slammed against mine, all biting teeth and furious, exploring tongue and I could feel my orgasm ripping down my spine, feel it building at the apex of my thighs as he hit a spot within me, again and again and again. Something that felt so fucking good.

‘Come for me, darling,’ Rhys commanded through my mind, a bolt of obsidian power sparking along my nerves and through my whole body. I yelped, crying out at that feeling.

He sent another bolt, in tandem with the sweet, brutal roll of his hips and suddenly I was coming.

“Rhys, Rhys –“

White hot power splitting my core in two, strong enough that all I could do was arch my back and curl my toes, letting my body turn stiff and hard as Rhysand rocked into me, longing out the pleasure for what felt like hours.

I was coming and coming and coming. I couldn’t fucking breathe as Rhys ruined me.

“That’s my girl,” He gritted out, kissing my cheek, my jaw, my neck, teeth and spit and tongue as he fucked erratically into me. His climax was close, I was fluttering around him so furiously, that I knew he was close.

“Fill me up, Rhys,” I begged him, my orgasm dwindling and all my nerves endings on fire as he stroked and stroked and stroked. Rhys whimpered – actually whimpered, as I dragged my hand through the inner part of his wing, trembling behind him from the contact. “Want you to fill me up so bad.”

I touched his wing with a whisper of a caress again and again, until Rhys was cursing, until his beautiful body was trembling against me, and he was making noises I would kill, actually kill, to hear again.

“You beautiful – “ Thrust. “Cruel – “ Thrust. “Wicked –“ Thrust. “Thing –“ Thrust.

His hand brushed my clit as he rocked his twitching cock into me, harder and faster now. I felt the dwindling tendrils of my first orgasm before they began erupting like flames as a second barrelled into me.

“Rhys – “ I sobbed his name, scratching my nails along the talon atop his right wing. And as my core exploded with another all-consuming climax, Rhys reached his peak too.

He reached that peak roaring.

“Fuck –“ He curses as his climax hit him, obsidian mist erupting from him and blanketing the room as he halted inside me. I moaned, my walls clenching and unclenching as I felt him spill endlessly inside me, his wings and body tensed and shaking under my hands.

Our moans and releases were furious and strong enough that I felt the posters of my bed shaking, Rhysand’s face buried in the crook of my neck, moaning, and panting for breath as his hips came to a total stop. My walls pulsed, and his cock twitched in response as if our orgasms had become one.

Rhys laughs roughly against my throat, his canines grazing my sensitive skin as he collapses against me, both our chests rising and falling in shattered waves. It reminded me of that first day in the cabin, how he had been so euphoric as I ground against him until he came.

“That was a good day for me,” Rhys sighed, head lifting so his violet eyes met mine. So bright, so happy. “Almost as good as last week when you came all over my hand.”

I blushed, his grin broadening at the sheepish smile I gave him. He dipped his head, kissing my lips sweetly, a satisfied groan rumbling through him as his tongue gently explored mine.

“I hope you’re aware that this means you’re stuck with me, darling,” Rhys smirked, forehead resting against mine. He was still inside me, and it felt more than right. His eyes glinted, daring me to challenge him. “No male will ever touch you again.”

“Is that a decree, High Lord?” I gnawed on my lip, giggling at the way his eyes narrowed. My giggle erupted into a laugh as Rhys began peppering kisses against my cheek and jaw.

“Yes,” He growled, nipping my skin with his teeth, “That’s an order. With the penalty of death for any male who does otherwise.”

“Good,” I grinned, my heart skipping at his dark, tempting words. I cupped his jaw, bringing his eyes back to mine. “Because if another female so much as looks at you, Rhys – I will pluck her eyes out.”

“Fuck, I love it when you get violent,” He groaned, fingers digging into my waist possessively. “It makes me want to do very filthy things to you.”

“I’m all yours, Rhys,” I smiled, a hint of sincerity mixed with lewd intent in my eyes. “Do with me what you will. Unless you plan to be somewhere else tonight?”

His eyes flashed, stars exploding, shadows coiling, and I felt him harden in me again, my walls stretching inch by inch until I was soaked around him.

“I’ll be here, with you,” He whispered, his nose brushing mine and I whimpered when he rolled his hips, stroking his cock inside me slowly. “I’ll always stay with you.”

----------------------------

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[kastlequill]

ii. for you my love i kill

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader word count: 6.5k synopsis: miguel visits the hospital to tie up some loose ends then makes sure you got home safe tags: whump/angst, protective/dark miguel o’hara, black cat!reader warnings: reference of past canonical sexual assault, some torture, broken bones, miguel kills a guy ao3: read here ← prev | next [soon] →

After Miguel left you crying in that alley, he had expected his night to end there.

The plan had originally been for him to head back to his apartment and get as much sleep as possible; no detours, no distractions. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d rested for more than three consecutive hours, but if the Spider-Man wanted to continue starting his days at the crack of dawn, then Miguel O’Hara needed some good ol’ shut-eye. This should’ve been an easy-to-follow, hard-to-fuck-up plan.

Except, he hadn’t gone home and was instead currently perched outside the window of a hospital room four stories high.

Because the thing was, Miguel had lied to you—the man you had tried to kill tonight wasn’t dead. A few feet away, the target in question was bedridden but very alive, receiving medical attention for the damage you’d inflicted onto him.

When Miguel stumbled upon you relentlessly clawing at a noncombative man who laid prone in the street, his instincts had compelled him to act first and ask questions later. Every second wasted brought the man closer to death as you’d shown no sign of stopping your flurry of attacks anytime soon. So, Spider-Man had snuck up from behind and put you in a chokehold, compressing your carotid artery just enough to render you unconscious.

While you were passed out, the apparent victim had departed from the scene in a flying ambulance, which left Spider-Man alone to handle the apparent perpetrator: you.

You weren’t what he had expected.

As witness to your capacity for violence, there were certain adjectives Miguel would have thought applied to you, like unfeeling and inhuman. But you’d surprised him by being the opposite: fervent and compassionate.

Which made it irritatingly difficult to figure you out.

Not that he wanted to—he didn’t.

It was just that you had seemed so lost at the chance that this man, who you’d attempted to rid from society, might have survived. Miguel intimately understood the single-minded pursuit of a goal that had become the axis upon which your whole world now hinged. He knew what it meant to latch onto the mere hope that achieving a certain goal might suffice as enough of a sacrifice to stain the door to your heart with lamb’s blood and convince the Angel of Death sent by your best-forgotten past to leave you be, to pass over you.

And because he (unfortunately) had ample experience in this regard, all it had taken was hearing the desperation in your voice and seeing the begrudgingly-pleading look in your eyes to pull the following words right out of his mouth:

You got him, he’d assured you. Already dead when I arrived.

Miguel was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them; among his plethora of epithets, prevaricator was notably absent. He spoke the truth as he understood it, even if it pained him to do so. Even if he wanted to tell himself a lie.

Even if he’d rather use his bare hands to carve a shelter out of Utopian falsehoods and reside in purposefully-ignorant bliss

Moreover, Miguel was unlike the vast majority of Spider-People in that he did not adhere to a strict no-kill rule, either. So the moment those two short sentences left his lips, the fate of the man on the other side of this window pane had been sealed.

“John Doe” was as good as dead.

John Doe; the name presiding medical staff had assigned to the patient of unknown origin. He’d been admitted without an ID card, and his disfigured face didn’t do identification efforts any favors either. You had carved out chunks of flesh from his cheeks, and no patch of skin had been spared the deep, inflamed gashes imparted by your claws.

In the wake of your vengeance, he had become more thing than person.

Luckily, Miguel had Lyla. The AI had pinpointed the man in question by extracting his DNA from remnant blood on the Spider-Man suit and running a cross-comparison with the hundreds of thousands of DNA profiles stored in the city’s database. If he had any prior involvements with the law, there would be a match.

And there was.

John Doe was actually Trent Michaels.

A recent college graduate, son of his school’s dean. Star athlete, doted on by his professors and peers. Squeaky-clean record.

It’d been all too easy to learn your identity thereafter, to then find unsealed court records for a case marked dead on arrival, old images of you smiling, carefree and trusting. Reconciling the life-hardened woman who he’d confronted in the alley and that bright-eyed girl as being one and the same was a challenge, but not impossible. There was still much of her in you, even if she only appeared during the brief moments your guard was down.

As a mechanism for survival, you had been forced to construct walls around yourself of such height and of such thickness that they were too insurmountable for most to scale and too impenetrable for the rest to infiltrate. A man’s wretchedness had been the catalyst for these defensive measures which, while successful in keeping others out, also kept you locked in, trapping you with the demons that weren’t so easily deterred.

Feelings of self-loathing and helplessness; thoughts of self-blame and fruitless what-if scenarios. You were resigned to dealing with it all alone. Though he similarly shared that sentiment, Miguel’s concern was that you’d gladly destroy yourself just to catch all that haunted you within the blast range of your implosion.

Mutually assured destruction.

He refused to stand idly by while you became collateral damage in your own quest for vengeance. The longer Miguel ruminated on the matter, the more his anger toward Michaels grew. His ire tempted him to detonate this ticking time bomb of a human so that there’d be no chance of it exploding around you. But his logic commanded him to suppress the urge to unsheathe his talons and refrain from tearing the man limb from limb.

Sé paciente, sé paciente, sé paciente. Miguel recited the words like a mantra meant to tether himself to the present then pinched the bridge of his nose to assuage an impending migraine. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.

To set the record straight, showing up to the hospital had not been a premeditated decision. One minute Miguel was swinging through Nueva York, taking the usual route that led to his apartment, and the next he was here, preparing to break into a facility for the sick and injured.

Since he had arrived, however, his mind had begun concocting a plan, officially converting this would-be crime of passion into an act of murder. Except—

—killing that maggot piece of shit isn’t murder. It’s what I’m owed.

Not murder. Retribution.

From the shadows, Miguel observed the medical staff’s next three rounds and soundly concluded that they were spaced fifteen minutes apart. That gave him fifteen minutes to do what he needed to do.

With sufficient information on both the premises and the target, operation take-out-the-trash was a go. He dug his fingers under the bottom edge of the double-hung window and slowly pushed upward, sliding it open just enough to allow him to step through and into the room.

Inside, it was quiet save for the steady beeping of a heart monitor and the faint whistling of air entering and exiting through the nostrils of a recently-broken nose. Everything tied back to the bastard who was laying on the hospital bed as if it were an altar and he was its sacrificial offering to the gods.

But there were no gods here; only Spider-Man.

This ritual wasn’t to bring plentiful rain or a bountiful harvest; it was to cage a monster’s soul in the confines of Hell and set free yours from the clutches of all that which sought to do you harm. It was to cleanse the revolting sight that was a supine Michaels sleeping peacefully, oblivious to or uncaring of the pain he’d caused you.

That those scum can walk among us freely, can go about the rest of their lives without consequence—

Try as he might, Miguel couldn’t unhear the break in your voice as you choked on all the things you could not say. The years-long wounds you carried within were clearly still raw; healing them had thus far been a feat unconquered since the root of the injury was still alive and well, preventing definitive closure.

Until now.

The room was larger than average, and a tray of gourmet food on the overbed table indicated the patient’s VIP status. This fancy, non-hospital cafeteria dinner had undoubtedly been provided at the behest of the Public Eye, who wanted Michaels pliable and cooperative during their inevitable one-on-one interrogation. He was, after all, their key witness to not just his mysterious assailant, but also his elusive savior. They’d been clamoring to get whatever information they could on The Spider-Man so that they could then charge him with vigilantism, and Trent Michaels had the potential to be a big lead.

Despite the only light source being a meager nearby computer screen, the combination of white tiled flooring and white stucco walls made the room appear well lit in contrast to the night’s pitch black. The moisture in the air reeked of sterility, which told him that this area was cleaned frequently and thoroughly.

No spilling blood, then. There was no hiding that unmistakable crimson red, nor was there time to properly erase the traces of evidence that would surely stain the pristine-white fitted bedsheets and seep into the slender crevices between each slab of tile.

When Miguel dragged his attention back to the bed, he discovered that Michaels had awoken at some point and was now sitting upright, eyes wary and muscles twitchy. The bruised and scratched-up man looked nervous in the presence of the masked hero.

Soon, he’d be more than just nervous. And by the time Miguel was done with him, he would be nothing at all.

Soon.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Spider-Man stated the obvious, stalking closer, both hands on his hips, before coming to a stop in front of the several machines that were hooked up to the target’s frail body. The movement held a striking resemblance to that of a predator circling its prey. It was an assessment of strength differential, an evaluation of the energy investment required to subdue. “That makes my job easier.”

As Miguel casually pulled up a chair and sat at his bedside, Michaels donned a look of bewilderment, confused why he had a visitor but showing no sign of fear. Not yet. At present, Spider-Man was still the masked hero who saved his life in that alleyway and not a harbinger of Death who had come here to cast him into the pits of Tartarus.

The man rubbed at his sockets once, twice, affirming and reaffirming that the mythified vigilante was indeed standing inside his hospital room at the dead of night. “Spider-Man? The hell’re you doin’ here?”

Miguel elected to ignore that question, not trusting his ability to maintain an unaffected vocal inflection if he were to discuss anything other than the strict script in his head. He got straight to the point, projecting into the space between him and Michaels a holographic image of you. The you of a few years ago, the you with a cheesy grin spread wide across your lips, ear to ear.

The you who hadn’t yet been made to walk this road of unsatiated vengeance.

“This girl,” Miguel started to say then stopped to assess the man’s face. Though most of it was swollen and scabbing, Michaels could still reconfigure his features into discernible expressions, and Miguel would be damned if he didn’t take note of every single change. “You know her?”

A beat of silence. Michaels flicked his gaze toward the hologram, and the sickly hue of his current complexion paled even further than Miguel had thought was possible. The heart monitor blared to warn that an abnormal spike had been detected in the patient’s heart rate, betraying the truth before an answer could even be given.

He knew you alright.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” was his response, tone a bit defensive as he shifted in unease. “What’s it to you?”

What’s it to him?

To him, it was rectifying a wrong. If he’d known this man’s sin, he would have gladly stayed put on the roof to watch from above as you killed him yourself. Not everyone deserved the helping hand of Spider-Man, or, at least, not that of this dimension’s Spider-Man. Perhaps simultaneously filling the roles of judge, jury, and executioner was a sin in its own right, but Miguel wasn’t stupid; he knew the courts were conditional in how and when they chose to enforce law, sparing the rich and powerful from the consequences of their actions. Death, however, was not so inclined to do the same.

To him, it was honoring his word. He had reassured you that you’d successfully scourged the streets of this vermin, and he wasn’t about to let that become a lie. No, Miguel was going to strip the brute who’d dared to hurt you of the privilege to feel the warmth of tomorrow’s sunrise. Trent Michaels didn’t have permission to look upon the breaking of dawn, to see how the sun warred against darkness and emerged victorious, setting the sky ablaze with its golden rays.

Ultimately, it was very simple: paramount to everything else, you had wanted the man dead, and Miguel wanted to actualize that wish. For you, yes, but also for the sake of every soul who might someday cross paths with Michaels if he were to leave here alive.

This was what came to mind when he reflected on why he’d rerouted to the hospital rather than his own damn apartment. His thoughts demanded to be acknowledged by their maker, and their obnoxious loudness lulled Miguel into a state of reticence.

At the eerie, prolonged silence, Michaels cleared his throat and began to speak.

“She’s nobody. A girl I hung out with freshman year. Things got a little heated one night,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “It was just some fun. Harmless, really. Then she had to go and make a big deal out of nothing. I’m sure you know what I mean, man.”

During this spiel of utter bullshit, Miguel had slowly begun to fiddle with the pulse oximeter attached to the tip of Michaels’ index finger. The minute fidgeting could be interpreted as absentminded and unmotivated, but that didn’t account for his purposeful and intentional way of doing things.

Miguel clipped it onto his own left finger when Michaels was preoccupied with picking at the peeling edge of a bandage on his brow bone. The heart monitor synced with the well-regulated and steady heart rate of Spider-Man.

That had been Step 1. The second step was a bit more. . . hands-on.

Rolling his shoulders back, Miguel stood up from his chair and gave a short, noncommittal hum. “Can’t say that I do.”

His free hand curled into a tight fist and launched itself at the man’s already-battered face, catching him on the nose, and a satisfying crack pierced the air. The sheer power behind the punch was such that it sent Michaels reeling backward, and his concussed head (your handiwork) ricocheted off the bed frame, temporarily dazing him.

When he came to his senses, shock morphed into contempt. “Y’broke my goddamn nose. That’s the second fuckin’ time tonight!”

Unfazed by the assault, the heart monitor continued to beep, raising no alarms since it hadn’t detected any abnormalities in heart rate. It was a metronome that kept time, but the maestro after whom it modeled its cadence had switched from Michaels to Miguel. Its consistent pattern thus left the medical personnel on duty none the wiser about what had just transpired, nor about what was yet to come.

Beep. Beep.

Beep.

“What the fuck, dude? I thought you were s’posed to be the good guy!” the man cried out, indignant and genuinely baffled as to what he could've possibly done to warrant this assault. He tipped his head back, desperately trying to stop his compromised nose from dripping blood all over.

The small blotches of red that now stained his patient gown weren’t ideal, but no one would think to question a spontaneous nosebleed when said nose was confirmed to have been broken earlier in the night. Punching him had been worth the risk; even Spider-Man wasn’t exempt from the universal human desire to absolutely deck an asshole who deserved considerably worse. Still, the plan had been to keep all blood inside all bodies, so that was what he was going to do moving forward.

Miguel allowed himself the momentary indulgence of basking in the melodic, steady stream of agonized groans. It was music to his ears, an unconventional symphony of which he was the conductor.

A prelude to his magnum opus, a crescendo to its climax.

Leaning forward to block every possible escape route with his broad frame, Miguel grabbed the sniveling coward by the neck and squeezed.

“I am.”

Driven by his instinct to fight or flight, Michaels clawed at the hand around his throat, but his efforts at either of the two courses of action were in vain. The hold was ironclad, immovable, whereas the force he tried to exert on it was nowhere near unstoppable; thus, it did not budge.

In no rush to relent, Miguel relished the way his prey squirmed and writhed, and only when the man’s eyes began to flutter shut did Spider-Man relax his grip with an exasperated sigh.

To die by strangulation was an end too merciful for the likes of this scum. It was over too quick, a brief burst of pain liberated by the peaceful promise of eternal nothingness. No, Miguel wouldn’t bestow the gift of a swift, clean death; rather, he sought to make the final moments of the man’s miserable existence torturous, to send him off to Hell kicking and screaming.

As he struggled to catch his breath, Michaels splayed his hands atop the overbed table to support his heaving body. The shift drew Miguel’s attention, and he glared at the offending appendages because those weren’t gentle hands that delivered care, nor were they hands that offered protection. They were hands that had hurt innocents.

Hands that had hurt you.

Hands that needed to reflect their sins, that needed to be as equally marred in flesh as the man who wielded them was in conscience. Each and every digit would pay penance for his transgressions since all ten had partaken in the atrocity.

The right middle finger was first. Breaking a bone was neither difficult nor complicated, regardless of whether it was his own or that of someone else. Miguel settled on his fists to be his weapon of choice, classic and old-fashioned, close and personal, then he restrained his target with shackles made of webs, then—

Snap.

Before a howl of pain could echo through the halls for all to hear, Miguel shot a wad of his organic webbing at Michaels’ mouth to muffle any potentially-incriminating screams.

“Quiet now, don’t worry,” he cooed in mock sympathy. “You won’t be needing these where you’re going.”

In a state of pain-induced delirium, Michaels extended his trembling left hand for the bedside remote to signal for aid, a Hail Mary that would go unanswered, deemed unworthy of her saintly supervision. Before he could press down on the call button, the device was snatched from his grasp altogether by another string of web.

“Too slow,” chided Spider-Man, a cruel smirk hidden underneath his mask as he moved the remote far from reach. “What are you making such a big deal for, we’re just having some fun. Isn’t that right?”

No reply. Just two beady blue eyes glistening with poorly-concealed terror, hoping to appeal to the hero’s better nature. Unfortunately for Michaels, Miguel reserved his compassion for the billions of innocent people who comprised the Arachnoid Humanoid Poly-Multiverse, not a sorry excuse for a man who couldn’t understand that no meant no.

“What was it you said, hm? Harmless?” Knowing the context in which the word had been used five minutes before, it tasted foul on Miguel’s tongue and sounded vile to his ears. “I think this is pretty harmless, no?”

That question, though rhetorical, elicited a vigorous shaking of the head, the man’s intended message fully-transparent and frantic: no, no, no.

Miguel released an exaggerated, disappointed sigh. “That’s fine—we can agree to disagree.”

It continued like this for the remaining four fingers on his right hand. One after the other, Miguel fractured bone with nothing but his enhanced strength and unbridled rage. Each additional crushed digit was accompanied by the further splintering of Michaels’ spirit, dismantling him piece by piece.

By the time Miguel had finished rendering the hand free of functioning fingers, it appeared as though Michaels had given up on trying to weasel out of this nightmare scenario, the pain so severe and unyielding that he had seemingly become numb to it. His joints were rapidly swelling, and angry patches of dark purples and reds bloomed on his skin as blood rushed to the site of the blunt force trauma. It was his body’s attempt at salvaging a sinking ship and relieving its captain of his burden.

But there would be no such reprieve, for Miguel was wholly unsatisfied so long as this man, who had touched and taken without permission, still had operational extensions of his body.

Michaels mumbled something unintelligible through the webbing that was still plastered over his mouth, and, wanting to hear what he had to say for himself, Miguel tore it off. When no words followed, he prepared to resume his onslaught, readying his arm for the swing.

A single syllable stopped him just short of making contact with the left pinky finger.

“Stop,” croaked Michaels, his voice scratchy from the strain of repressed screams. “Please.”

Spider-Man’s fist halted mid-slam and hovered over his chosen target. The plea transported him back to the events that had transpired earlier in the night. All throughout his interrogation, you had maintained a commendable degree of composure despite the clear imbalance in power between the two of you. You had been hung by your feet from the neck of a streetlight and then immediately re-tied to that same pole after being freed of your webbed restraints.

And yet, you’d never begged. Not until your vengeance outweighed your pride did you plead with the vigilante to—

—tell me I got him. Please, tell me I killed him

Your begging had been on behalf of the girl who’d been betrayed by someone she had trusted, on behalf of the many survivors who spent the rest of their lives carrying the knowledge that justice hadn’t been served and that it never would. Even while physically and emotionally under duress, you had thought of them. Because at your core, you represented all that was good and right about the world.

Conversely, no such redeemable qualities could be detected within Trent Michaels. His pleas served only himself, a sick piece of shit who, at his core, embodied all that bastardized the world from its ideal vision.

The man of the hour gulped several breaths of air, eyes closing in gratitude at the perceived fact that this torture session had run its course, mistaking the brief hesitation as a sign of reconsideration.

It wasn’t.

“Stop? I’m just getting started.” Spider-Man flexed his hand then clenched it once again. “We’ve still got five more to go.”

He unfroze and brought his fist-turned-hammer down hard, crushing another distal phalanx beneath the weight of his own fury as well as that which he channeled from you, grinding his knuckles into the new injury for good measure.

“Did I say five? I meant four.”

His assault on the left hand was a blur. He laid waste to the digits faster than he did the right hand, brain on autopilot. The clock on the wall ticked incessantly; fifteen minutes were almost up.

An agonized groan from Michaels eventually snapped Miguel out of his anger-induced stupor, and he blinked down to find that the last four fingers were severely mangled compared to the others, having been subjected to repetitive pummeling in excess. Though he resented losing control, the important thing was that he had neutralized these hands of vice and malevolence.

Now that there were no more fingers left for Spider-Man to break, a nearly-unconscious Michaels slackened his muscles, curling into himself. He probably thought the worst of the night was over.

Not a chance.

“Oh, I wouldn’t look too relieved if I were you, Trent. The show’s not over yet,” Miguel spat, saying the name like it was dirty. Which it was. “We still have the finale.”

The finale entailed grabbing a syringe from a nearby cabinet and pulling its plunger all the way back so that the entire apparatus filled with air. He had briefly entertained the idea of sinking his teeth into Michaels’ jugular and pumping him full of venom but had ultimately decided against it since that would surely get flagged on the autopsy report. Bit hard to explain that one.

Once the syringe was full, Miguel fastened a needle to the tip, and it reflected blue light from the computer when he raised it higher to get a better look.

As he did so, fear at last settled on Michaels’ face. During the obliteration of his ten fingers, he had writhed in pain, his eyes pinched shut and his veins protruding in exertion. Before that, there had been confusion and shock. But until this very instant, fear had remained notably absent, too consumed with surviving the encounter to imagine that Death might still await him in spite of his best efforts.

The appearance of Death came in an infinite many forms. Death was both destroyer and creator, both decomposition and nourishment. Death was the car that did not stop at a red light, the cancerous cells born of mutated proto-oncogenes, the peaceful embrace after eighty years of life.

And when he raised the syringe to the IV line, Spider-Man too became Death.

No one could accurately speculate their reaction to the moments preceding their death. Many liked to believe that they would use their strength to persevere, but in the end, they were the ones who bargained and begged the most. Some were more honest in their assessment, admitting that their souls would be fetched and relocated elsewhere, but they too believed that they would depart this world with their head held high. Fewer still recognized that death was not to be feared or overpowered, but was to be met with open arms and a smile.

Michaels, being the cowardly and spineless man he was, belonged to that first category.

Typical.

“I’m sorry, okay, I fucked up, but I can be better, I swear. If you want money, name a price and it’s yours. I’ll donate to charity, I’ll apologize to h-her, I’ll—” His groveling was abruptly cut off by a sob, pathetic and ugly. “I’ll do anything. Just please don’t kill me. I’m begging you.”

Nothing. The pitiful speech inspired absolutely nothing in Miguel. No sympathy, no reflection, no anything. He was devoid of all but stone-cold hatred.

“Me vale madre.”

Spider-Man injected the pocketed air into the IV line and watched its resulting bubble travel down the tube, disappearing into the stuck vein. The estimated time it took for an air embolism to kill an adult male of this stature was approximately five minutes, maybe ten. But considering the sheer volume of air that had been put into circulation, Miguel presumed complications would arise much sooner.

His prediction proved true, the tell-tale symptoms presenting not even a full minute after the air bubble had entered the man’s bloodstream. The man tried to clutch at his chest but yelped when the motion jostled his fractured bones. Unable to assuage the tightening in his heart, he began to hyperventilate, panting, eyes bulging.

Then came death.

When Michaels’ squirming body went unnaturally stiff, Miguel removed the pulse oximeter from his own index finger and reattached it to that of the dead man. The heart monitor began to blare, both an alert to the night-shift nurses that a patient had flatlined and a cue to the Spider-Man that he should vacate the premises.

He exited the way he’d entered, slinking through the window before sliding it shut behind him. Nothing was out of place. The walls and tiled floor were still squeaky clean and white; the chair he had moved was back in its original place in the far corner; the gourmet dinner was still untouched and positioned on one side of the overbed table, where it would stay uneaten for all eternity.

The lone evidence of his presence was a fresh corpse with ten fingers smashed and bent out of shape.

They would soon declare their John Doe deceased after multiple failed attempts at restarting his heart, and then they would open an investigation to determine the cause of death. Frustrations would mount when the toxicology reports housed no answers, and stress levels would peak when the patient turned out to be the son of a very wealthy man who was threatening to sue the hospital for negligence.

Quite frankly, none of that mattered to Miguel—the job was done. Whatever bureaucratic shit came next was an addendum, an afterthought scribbled into the margins of tonight’s catalogue of events.

The mission had been accomplished: Trent Michaels was dead.

By all accounts, this kill was yours. You had been the one to drag him to the gates of Hell, whereas Miguel had only ensured that the scum would successfully reach his destination. You had been the one to gather the trash and make all the arrangements to discard him, tracking his location and beating him within an inch of his life, whereas Miguel had only dropped him off at the dumpster yard.

It struck him then that this was likely the first time you’d taken a life. And instead of offering you advice on how to navigate the toll that killing took on your conscience, he had left you in the alley to come to terms with it all by yourself.

He winced. Fuck.

Miguel needed to see you.

“Lyla,” he called. “Give me her address.”

The miniature AI materialized beside him, her tone light and teasing. “Lyla, give me her address what?”

Usually, there was no harm in entertaining the AI’s shenanigans. But tonight was different.

“Not in the mood,” he gritted out, irritation spiking abnormally quick, even for him, as the adrenaline from handling Michaels continued to set ablaze his systems. “Her address.”

Lyla handed the information over without further fuss, and Miguel leaped off the ledge just as a cluster of medical personnel filtered into the hospital room-turned-morgue.

Clearing the tops of buildings in a single bound, he traveled through the city in record time, aided by the strong winds that blew in the direction of your residence. When Miguel finally arrived, he took up position on the roof of the building directly across from yours. From this vantage point, it was almost concerningly easy to see through one of your windows.

You should really buy some blinds, was his immediate thought, grumbling to himself about how unsafe this setup was.

He squinted his eyes and conducted a quick sweep of your apartment, searching every gap, checking every corner once, twice, three times. The place was empty.

A knot formed in his gut at the realization that you hadn’t come home.

Where are you?

The longer the question went unanswered, the louder its echo reverberated, perpetuating itself as if in a chamber. He’d scanned you for injuries and hadn’t found a scratch. You had been coherent, conscious, and as composed as could be expected, but what if he had missed something?

What if you were still in the alleyway, incapacitated by an unattended injury?

The mental image of you agonizing over your wounds, both the visible and the invisible, was enough to will him to a decision. Just as he was about to turn around and swing his way to the opposite side of the city—

A light flickered on, illuminating your living room. It was fairly small, like most other studio apartments in the expensive rungs of Nueva York. His sharp vision instantly honed in on the two black cats that roused from their slumber to greet you at the front door, which had swung open with such force that it’d hit the wall and slammed back into your shoulder.

When Miguel finally laid his eyes on you, tension seeped out of his muscles, the frown line between his brows momentarily disappeared, and his shoulders slumped forward as he exhaled a nearly-inaudible sigh of relief.

You were okay.

Well, okay might not be the right word because you were evidently not okay. You were slightly hunched and limping, shifting your weight from foot to foot, dragging a hand against the wall for extra support should you careen over, which was becoming a more likely reality by the second. As you lugged your spent body to the clawed-up sofa at the center of the room, the legs that had thus far been supportive of your weight buckled with fatigue. All Miguel could do from here was watch you collapse onto the sofa, face-first.

Your shoulders began to convulse, and he stiffened, worried you were belatedly going into shock or having a seizure based on the way you jerked and jolted. Upon further inspection, however, Miguel determined that the culprit of the shaking was neither the former nor the latter.

Sobs wracked your frame. You lifted your head from the seat cushion to rip off the black domino mask with which you’d disguised yourself, revealing a steady stream of tears, black trails of mascara staining your cheeks. Next to go was your white-haired wig, yanked with equal force and chucked across the room.

Gone was the outwardly-confident woman who had managed to rile him up and get the upper hand whilst dangling from a lamppost. Left in her wake was the woman behind the persona. Here was the woman you were when the spotlight faded to darkness, when the curtains closed and the audience departed, when the performance came to an end. Uncensored, unrefined, undone—you.

An unbecoming.

The rational part of his brain told him that this was an invasion of your privacy, that he should leave you to your much-needed crying session and stop peeping through your windows when you were at your most vulnerable. You thought you were alone and had subsequently allowed yourself to shatter, but here he was, heightened senses privy to the whimpers that broke your voice, to the utter despair that furrowed your brows.

And yet he couldn’t avert his gaze.

Such a raw display of catharsis; it was sublime. How long had it been since he last cried more than a few silent tears?

He already knew the answer: Gabriella.

The multiverse couldn’t afford for the leader of the Spider Society to fall apart, not when he was the one keeping this whole operation together. Thousands of Spider-People played their part, sure, but he alone dedicated every waking second to preventing anomalies from destroying entire dimensions. And though he would never admit it, Miguel was at the end of his rope, akin to a powder keg about to explode at any given moment.

Maybe he was more like you than he’d thought. Maybe he should take a page from your book, let himself cry and cry until he had poured everything out from the cavity of his chest. Even Atlas had briefly passed the weight of the heavens off to Heracles, so perhaps the multiverse wouldn’t unravel if he were to open the floodgates, just this once.

The thought left as quickly as it had arrived. Logistically, it wasn’t viable. How could he ever jeopardize the fate of billions for one man? Regardless of whether that man was himself or a stranger, his decision was the same.

He would thus have to make do with a more vicarious manner of release. Your tears were both yours and his. The tears he could not bring himself to shed joined yours as you became a vessel of the emotions that had long since been repressed, both by you and by him.

Where Michaels’ sobs had grated on his nerves, yours made Miguel physically recoil not in revulsion, but in visceral need to comfort. The sight made him want to do something stupid, like jump down from the roof, knock on your door, and ask you if he could come inside

Go inside to do what, exactly? Hugs are a no-go, so that leaves. . . awkward shoulder patting? He slapped a hand to his forehead and ran it over his face with a groan.

This—going to the hospital to terminate your target, showing up to your apartment—was a dangerous chain of events that would further snowball into an unacceptable culmination of feelings. Unless, of course, he impeded it, uprooting this budding thing before it could blossom, terminating these strange thoughts in gestation before they could be spoken into existence.

In which case, the crisis would be averted.

He had fulfilled his heroic obligations as Spider-Man, had ensured your safe arrival, and had kept his word. All he needed to do now was put as much distance between you and him as was humanly possible.

Yes, that sounded like a plan. Excellent. Good.

Great.

As Miguel vaulted off the roof and shot a web at the nearest billboard, he decided that he would not be returning to your apartment ever again; this was the only time he’d let himself check up on you. When he stepped foot into his own apartment a good hour and a half later than he had initially intended, he recited the declaration to himself as he took a hot shower and again as he changed out of his suit. When he awoke the next morning, he fully believed that such would be the case because you’d been absent from his dreams, all memories of you already archived.

It wasn’t until he took the long way home three nights in a row that Miguel finally conceded otherwise. The first night was brushed off as an innocent coincidence, and the second night was justified as having simply found a better path home. But by the third night, he couldn’t deny it anymore:

The true reason this objectively-worse, inconvenient route seemed better was purely because it passed by your building complex and gave him the chance to see you.

tbc.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara #across the spiderverse #spiderman x reader #spiderman 2099 #marvel #spiderman #my fic #fic: for you my love i kill #series: cursed from the start

[shittybundaskenyer]

✹ ▬   𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

rating: Explicit

pairing: Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

summary: You want some love and Arthur gives it to you selflessly.

warnings: high honor Arthur, reader thinks she doesn’t deserve love, touch-starved, smut, porn with feelings, fingering, gentle sex, love confessions, angst and hurt/comfort, daily overdose of metaphors, can Arthur please hug me?? I really need it

word count: 2355  

a/n: i wrote this in a few hours bc i couldn’t sleep and wanted to feel loved. pretty much all of this is self indulgent rambling about love, spiced with some lovemaking, but i hope you like it guys! <3

MASTERLIST   |   ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

The sunlight lays down on the gently rolling waves, water and thousands of tiny, glittering stars, sun-mirrors, father and mother of all life, silent lovers meeting halfway. Their union paint streaks of white light onto the bottom, over round stones scraped smooth, over rainbowlike fish scales and hidden imprints of a forest long since dead, mummified in slate and rock. 

That's how he meets you. 

With the force and gentleness of the sun.

It feels too close. The heart of a star's birth, flames swirling into ribbons of heat, his heart the epicenter, rumbling, crumbling, and you get scorched, slowly, like how rot burns a fallen tree into rich earth. Bugs and fungi and critters latch onto the bones of your ribs, prying them away, open, until there's a hole wide enough for the sunlight to get in. Love, love, love. A word both too weak and too strong to capture what you mean. It catches on the tip of your tongue like a fallen droplet of sweat. Salty-sweet. 

Arthur kisses you, and fuck…

The light gets in.

His lips, your lips, a song, a ballad, a poem, a killing, a fight, an embrace. 

Get in. Let the light get in. Inside. Put it inside me, your light, put in everything, I want to feel whole, just a little, just what you can spare.

"Shh," he whispers, and you don't realize, not until the soothing gentleness of his voice, that you said it all out loud. Quiet, barely audible babbles. A confession. A lie. The barest truth that is so raw it still bleeds fresh crimson. "I gotchu sweetheart."

Dread fills you for a second, the realization of what you've done. No, no, no, no! Not like this, you didn't want to say it like this, how could you? You ruined it all, the naked vulnerability of the moment, the thin veil of peace that descended upon the pair of you when Arthur pulled you into his arms and then pressed you into a patch of soft, yellowed grass. 

I ruined it, goddamn ruined it.

But Arthur doesn't back away. Instead, he presses a finger to your chin and smooths out the crease that is forming there, a foreword of tears. He kisses you instead, again, softly, choking your tears off and making you hiccup into his eager mouth. He swallows it eagerly, your sounds of desperation and disbelief, and after a few tortured seconds, your shaky sigh of relief. 

"What do you want?" he whisper-kisses, barely parting from you, hands coming around your head, caging you in. A cage made from arches of bone and flesh and sun-worn skin, overarching the frozen heap that is your body. Between cracks of striped blue cotton fabric and horse-smelling leather, the light glints in. 

Christ, you don't know. 

You never know how to answer a question like this. It's simple. It's the most difficult of all. 

You want just this, just like how he wants it, it doesn't really matter, because you're finally not alone and he's warm and after days of cold rain the sun peeked through the clouds and the snow-capped mountains. You want everything. You want to tell him to leave and never come back. You want him to go and be happy. You want… you hope maybe he can be here, with you.

Arthur waits, and the tears prickle your eyelids, bubbling, bitter globs of liquid sorrow, getting weaved into your eyelashes like autumn dew over blades of yellowed grass. 

He coaxes the answer out of you. 

A thumb on your cheek and kisses. Many, gentle presses that draw a path down the side of your nose, the corner of your mouth, your brows. He traces them again and again, like how wild animals walk the same path to a river day after day. He waits, because he wants to, because he chose to, because maybe you're worth the time he sacrifices for being with you. 

You ain't—

Shit, this is harder than anything you've ever done. 

Admitting a want is like admitting a sin. The altar is the meadow around, below, the beating flesh of the earth, and the priest is the sun, listening, always listening. 

You confess. 

Broken, half-sobbed syllables. 

Somewhere, between words of pain and fear and the curse of being alone, always alone, his name. 

Soft. 

Kind. 

Some angel disguised between a horde of devils. 

"Whatchu really want, honey?" he tries again, because you're avoiding the question. 'Course you do. That's the only thing you've learnt like an instinct, like breathing or eating, because you had to. Because it was always convenient. 

I want—

I want—

You. Us. Something more than me. 

"Whatever you can give me," you press out between trembling lips and too-close teeth. 

That's enough. That's fucking everything he wanted to hear. 

Arthur gazes down at you, blue-green eyes swirling wild, a summer storm that somehow swam over to the cold days of October, lightning and thunder and showering rain. The sun has seen enough. Sins and confessions and love. She dips behind a puff of white clouds, and that's the exact moment Arthur leans to you and takes your lips like how he always wanted.

Because he did. 

And he does. 

So much it burns.

There's a bare second you think you'll cry, but the warmth blooming somewhere in a deep hidden part of you makes the tears evaporate. Your own personal sun, a star being born, the force of its explosion making the bones in your chest rattle and ache. You shudder against him and he grabs you, kneads your flesh, makes it warm—no, hot, in their wake, makes it tingle and buzz like a swarm of bees under tired skin. 

His tongue swipes your lip, his lashes tickle your cheek, and then another wall crumbles and falls, weaved in by flowering vines—choked by them. You let him in. The door of your heart, the poorly patched-in hole in your defenses, the seam of your mouth. He invades, like a force, like a storm, like a thousand horsemen tasked with a siege. 

He invades, and he's welcome here.

You let him lick into your mouth, let him map out the shape of you, let him kiss you until there's no breath left in your lungs and no space between your chest and his. You feel his heart against your breast, beating wild, bucking like a mustang caught on a rope, and your own flickers alive, a fire stroked back to a flow of summer-colored flames. 

"How much ya want?" he mumbles between two kisses, a softer and a passionate one, the kind that ignites the torch of unholy needs of the flesh. 

How much of what?

"I don't know," you pull away, shy, shy of this cursed want inside you, but the fire is already roaring, and there's no river that can stop its towering flames. A spark can jump over. 

"Will ya take everythin' if I offer?" he noses along the side of your face, presses a kiss where your ear meets your jaw. 

Your bodies aligned, like constellations, have power in them. 

Power that can be released, that can be reigned. Like horses. Born wild and free, only tamed proper by those who are worthy. 

Arthur offers you that. 

And you feel the urge to cry again.

"What if I want to? Does that make me greedy?"

Arthur almost chuckles. You feel his smile pressed to the crook of your neck.

"I have many sins, darlin'... This ain't one of them."

And he's back, because he can, because he really wants to, and you kiss and kiss until he wedges himself between your legs, just to feel even closer, just to show you . 

There's a simmering fire there, embers he blows whiskey on as he settles, and Christ , he's hard, and he knows, because he grinds it to you, he makes it catch aflame proper, makes the crushed seed of love bloom into a flower. 

You grow wet between the thighs, and he knows that too, because you feel his smile against you, the insistent firmness of his hands grabbing parts of your flesh, the fat on your hips, even through your riding coat and thick jeans. 

"Can I touch ya?" he asks, peppers gentle presses of his lips above the collar of your shirt. 

You're already doin' that. 

Why ask anyway when I'm yours?

"You can do anythin'," you whisper back, finally brave enough to slide your hand up to his nape, brave enough to slip your fingers into his hair. "I'd let you do anythin'."

"Don't say that or I'll—," he bites back the rest, but you feel his meaning when one of his hands goes down to your belly, to the seam of your pants to dip in. 

Wait, this is—

You never thought you could—

"Or you what?" you prompt him to finish, distracting you from the way he carefully makes space for his fingers in your jeans, almost carving it out for them, until he can slip trigger-calloused fingers into coarse hair on your mound. 

There's a noise. 

A squeak. A whisper-shout. 

A sigh of surprised relief. 

"Or I can't hold myself back," he murmurs and he fingers the spot where your folds part, just above your clit. 

"Then don't."

You know what you want, and this is already so much more. 

Arthur's eyes jump back to you, but there's no mirth of a joke in your gaze. You're dead serious.

He kisses you for it, hard and needy and passionate and you finally learn to reciprocate, to take what he offers. 

Arthur tears at your pants, pulls on the buttons, makes you wiggle them down enough so his hand can fit. It's so broad, so warm, but your thighs are warmer, and softer, and he touches them with the greed of a young thief that wants to steal the moon off the night sky. 

"Please, please, please…" you babble, and he obeys, parts the seam of your cunt that glistens surprisingly wet after such a short time. "Touch me, stuff me, I don't care," but you don't have to plead for more. 

I don't want to feel this empty.

"I gotchu, darlin'."

He pushes two fingers in, and you cry and sigh and keep whispering his name like a chant. He slides them deep enough to stretch good, to make his palm grind against your clit, and he moves them, slow, hard, and then faster when you start to sing like an early songbird, cunt squeezing and squelching and sucking him back greedily every time.

"You're so pretty," he says to you, leaning in again to steal a kiss, to make you believe he's sincere with his words. "So goddamn clever," another kiss, a lot softer. "So goddamn perfect for me."

You feel like the red string of fate is wrapped around your throat like a cord, choking you, barely reborn from the womb of the earth after sinking too deep. But Arthur… Dear, gentle Arthur pries it away. Makes the bruises fade, the red string still tight on his own neck.

He moves his fingers and you don't have time to think. His palm grinds over your mound, clever circles, and your want tickles over the crease in it, clear and white, and his fingers are thick with it too, sliding back and forth, apart and together, making way for something more. 

"Want you inside me," you tell him, leaning close to his ear, and he nods, makes it a mission to have you, even though he first wanted to draw this whole thing out. There's no time. Not enough before your walls try to build themselves back together. 

"How?" 

"Don't care," you pull on him, on the soft hairs on his nape and he kisses you in return, a reassurance. You reach for him, tug on the buckle of his belt, the front of his pants. He muffles a groan into the side of your neck, marks the place of it with a gentle peck. 

You both move.

There's no grace in the movements you two make—you turn to your side, legs still trapped from mid-thigh down by your jeans, but it's enough for Arthur to tease the head of his cock between your folds, the angle making it hard to push in at first, his clothed chest heaving against your spine, his breath puffed into your shoulder.

But when he finally fits—

When he finally embraces you from behind… 

There's no chance of this being a one time thing. It's love. Love, love, love, love. Thick, slow, glorious, just like the way he takes you, just like how he picks away the pieces of you until there's nothing left but the naked buzzing rainbow-edges of a soul. 

Your naked soul. 

And his, slowly wrapping itself around.

You make love out under the sun and the clouds and the azure sky. They're witnesses at the trial of your heart, feather light now, the truth spoken by hands and lips and the cradle of hips. 

You love him, so goddamn much. 

You try to say it with the embrace—with your hand grasping his over your belly, with your leg weaved between his own, with your cunt swallowing him deep and making him stay: a church, a mansion, a home. You can be that. For him, you can.

You let the light in. 

He shines, and you gather all of it, hoard it, deep down in your chest where blood and flesh beats wildly. 

And when he shudders against you, his cock pulled out and pressed between your thighs, thick and spurting warm over the small patch of naked skin—he comes back, with his hand and his mouth, praising you and fingering you until your climax makes your leg cramp up and your tears to spill.

The sun judges you and finds you innocent. The sky, the clouds too. Your soul dances above somewhere, over the autumn meadow of browned wildflowers and yellowing grass, intertwining with his, as one soft phrase rolls off his lips, "you're my own missing light, sweetheart."

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfiction #high honor arthur morgan x reader #ao3 #fanfiction

[ja3hwa]

A Little Obsession | Seonghwa

「Synopsis」 :   Instead of getting ready to go see his members, Seonghwa would rather spend his time with you and your boobs of course.

「Word count」 :  654

-> Genre: Suggestive, Smut, Fluffly

Paring : Seonghwa x Female!Reader  

[Warnings] : Heavy Breast Play, Praise Kink, Seonghwa is a simp for you and your chest. If I missed something let me know

{Note} : Another request for our darling Seonghwa! I'm a simp for this man I swear. To my darling @anoooon13 I hope this is to your liking ♡

It was like another ordinary day and what that means is Seonghwa laying on top of you with his face between your breasts. His hands softly grip all your curves, fingers grazing over the goosebumps that form on your silky skin. You knew when Seonghwa said ‘little nap’ it was going to be anything but little or a nap. The boys were expecting you two to show up for dinner within a couple of hours, but you still haven’t moved. Choosing to stay in this comfortable position with your big baby of a Boyfriend having his way with you.

His lips caught your neck, lightly groaning as his tongue lapped over the bites he left behind. He held you down with his weight, giving him all the time to make you melt. His left-hand snakes under your —well his— shirt, gripping your cover breast. He squeezed slightly, listening to your little whimpers. His actions were slowly getting rougher and rougher. He kissed up your jaw, shifting up so he can hover over you, leaning on his elbows and knees. His left hand still needs your breast switching in between each of them. While the other one holds the back of your neck making sure you cannot move.

Your back arches into his chest, hinting for his hand to whip around your body to unclasp your bra. But he sits up watching you follow his lips in desperation. His hands grip the hem of your shirt while staring deep into your eyes. You understand his non-verbal command, sitting up to throw your shirt off. You lean on your palms perking your breasts up so he and ogle at them. His mouth fills with drool, watching as your chest breathes in and out. He wanted to be slow and take his time with you but at the same time, all he wanted was to literally rip your bra off and fuck you silly just you to watch them bounce everywhere.

But he leans down kissing your collar bone down to the top of your boobs instead. The soft flesh becomes wet as his tongue licks every part he can find. He nips you lightly making you whine. His bite grazing over you, he begins to suck hard, leaving harsh purple marks over your skin. He groans looking at his work, seeing you laying down covered in his marks.

“Fuck you’re gorgeous.” He whispers before locking his lips with yours in a feverish kiss. His patient is running thin, unclasping your bra within seconds, letting your breasts free. He swear he could come just by looking at your body. You are perfect in every way. From head to toe, you are his everything and he was yours. He continues to praise you with sweet nothings while his right-hand palms your exposed breast. His mouth latches onto your perked nipple, sucking hard making you let out a broken whine.

“S-Seong!” You couldn't even finish his name as your brain turns fuzzy. Your hands land on his head raking them through his thick black hair. You tug lightly making him groan out at the painful pleasure. He removes his lips from your chest with a loud pop, moving his free hand to grab your chin.

“You pull my hair like that again and I won't be able to control what comes next.” He growls out with a smirk. Your just smile back at him, tugging at his hair again.

“That’s it.” His arms wrap around you, pulling you up onto his lap. You giggle out with his actions, taking place on his thigh. You bit your bottom lip watching him take his shirt off.

“I want you to fuck yourself on my thigh while I tend to these beautiful babies here.” He grips both of your breast squeezing lightly. “Now go on, don’t stop until I tell you.”

-

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[koukaaa-descent]

ALSO TELL ME ABOUT LAMP PLEASE

YIPPEE!!!!!!!!!!! HI HOLLIE HI ROSE

lamp isn’t technically an oc I was just thinking Damn… wouldnt it be funny if a jester had a mask and it glowed when it was popped and it was like a fucked up desk lamp… and then things Happened in my brain.

Lamp is roughly 26 years old and will probably reach the age of 45, contrary to normal jester lifetimes (up to 150). this is definitely because of the mask latched onto its right eyesocket, slowly devouring it!

It has not ever met Indigo or Monsoon, and it’s sort of debatable whether or not it exists in the same universe.

Together, the jester and mask create a gestalt :] (in simpler meanings. think of the relationship parasitic fungi have with ants, minus the immediate death of the host!)

The jester half of the relationship is mostly conscious and deeply murderous. The mask half is significantly more docile in behaviors, relating to a regular masked’s habitual stalking and whatnot. It’s not exactly used to possessing a body that’s not explicitly human shaped, so there’s been some complications.

As time progresses, Lamp (as a singular entity) will decay as any usual host will. At one point, the jester half will be subsumed by the mask and entirely absorbed and overtaken.

The reason there’s a mask latched onto its skull is because some random employee majorly panicked and threw a comedy mask at it, which actually helped them escape.

Lamp is constantly bleeding. Normally, a jester doesn’t explicitly bleed; it’s just a mushy mass of preserved flesh that’s nowhere near as fragile as it seems. Because of the mask’s slow consumption and the depth that the mask’s roots have dug into as well as its small amount of experience regarding non-humanoid hosts, Lamp is basically dealing with over a dozen open wounds at all times! Existing is agonizing!

Since the jester wasn’t fully possessed during the first initial attempt, the mask is only able to influence its behaviors and subtly direct it to do other things. For example, if lamp were to chase down a crew mate and the mask didn’t want said crew mate to die yet, it would be able to slow its movements and redirect it briefly in order to give that individual a little more time. It’s not able to stop Lamp from killing them, however.

Lamp does not need to eat. It’s actually unable to because of the mask’s roots. It’s… not a pretty sight, inside of the box. It’s really not.

Collectively they combined create ‘lamp’. Otherwise, they’re both just regular individuals of both species.

Lamp cannot wind very quickly, and the song is very broken up. Leave it to a mask to mangle all of the careful things going on in the box (the jester is very pissed about this but cannot do anything about it)

The jester is effectively blind. The mask is not. The jester has an amazing sense of hearing and senses vibrations very well. Combined, you’ve got every crew’s worst nightmare—if Lamp can actually wind itself. It takes longer than two minutes, that I can assure you.

There was one single occasion when Lamp fell down a flight of stairs. It was embarrassing, because there was another masked at the bottom. Lamp mauled it out of embarrassment and generally murderous instinct. (The mask itself was not happy about this.)

The relationship it has with other Masked is very very complicated. Over time, as the jester half is consumed, affectionate interactions come easier. Currently, about two months into being stuck together, Lamp has a greater tendency to avoid masked or otherwise murder them. The instinct to grab them and shake like a rabid dog is so prevalent that the Mask cannot even begin to attempt to suppress it.

It Can vomit blood as a regular masked would. It’s kind of like a firehose, though. Like, yknow how a pressure washer can remove flesh from bone? Short range with a very long ‘recharge’. Mainly because there’s not as much blood in its body as you’d expect.

They are two individual beings shoved into one body, one of which is significantly ’fainter’ than the other. There has been more than one occasion where the jester half has attempted to claw the mask off with its singular hand. It has not worked.

Yes, the blood boils. It’s steadily eroding Lamp’s ‘skull’ away, and eating through the box. The skull will eventually have enough grooves and wedges that it just falls apart. The box will experience this as well.

It’s not outright hate; the jester dislikes the mask as one would dislike a spider trapped in their closet. Annoying. Not really bothered by death, just sort of begrudgingly wandering around with it. It doesn’t have the real capability to remove it nor does it retain enough of itself to hate it.

i barely think about lamp im ngl … I made all of this up on the spot thankyou 2 for askign..

#oc lamp #lethal company #lethal company jester #lethal company oc #asks

[kerblerken]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

18+ Trigger warnings: horror, language, violence.

Submission for "#FFF207 Can we kiss?" 728 words.

Possessed

Thumping fists and wretched screams tear me from my sleep and thrust me into the nebulous dark. I exit my dream with dizzying haste, rolling off the sofa and crashing to the floor. 

I look up and see my old friend, Paul, pale-faced, half-drunk and now paralysed in fear. He cowers in the corner, his eyes fixed fearfully upon the front door. It's the only thing between us and the vengeful creature outside that demands it be let in.

That creature, of course, is Simon. But this time it's not just Simon. The curse has taken him and brought him here. I've eluded the curse for months in isolation, and now he's brought it to my fucking door.

I am too afraid to move, until I hear the muffled jangling of keys. Paul looks at me, stricken. I grip the rug and lurch my body forward clear of the coffee table, leaping to my feet. The key turns and the door begins to open. As a swirling darkness outside threatens to drift inside, I throw my full weight against the door and feel then the rush of all-consuming hatred; I knew he never threw away his key, the goddamned liar. 

I scream at Simon to go away with what little ferocity I can muster. But Simon doesn't listen. Simon never listened, least of all to me. My hatred for my ex-lover seething, I scream again for him to just go the fuck home. I know I need to stay calm. I know I can't give the curse anything to latch on to. But before I can think to control my anger, the door bursts open, throwing me back onto the floor.

I barely get a glimpse of Simon's gaunt face through the shadow of the wretched curse that envelops him. It slides off him, dancing through the air like smoke as I claw my way up the armchair to my feet. It rushes me, hitting me like a brick in the chest. For a moment I feel that suffocating sickness, but then... 

I slip away. Not all the way, but far enough. My vision becomes narrow, cylindrical, like looking up from the bottom of a well. I am helpless now and can only watch as the image shifts, darting back and forth, the shadow trying to orient itself inside its new host. The world through these eyes is red and black and chrome, and smells of rust and decaying flesh. I can't even be sure they're my eyes anymore.

But they are definitely my hands that twist and curl around Simon's throat. They are my fingers that grow long, like the wiry roots of a tree, encircling his neck. 

I start to squeeze. There is resistance at first. And a sound like choking, far away, as Simon struggles to pry my long, spindle-shanked fingers free of his neck. 

And I begin to wonder... how could I ever forget this, the way all the others did? How could I ever forget something this wonderful? 

I relish in his suffering, for within it there is a warmness, like the embrace of one's most beloved, now twisted and deformed. This is what he felt for me all these years; love, and the need to punish me for it.

This time, I get to have the last word. I bring my face close to his and whisper, "Can we kiss?"

The resistance gives way. The bones crumple, and the sharp snaps like breaking twigs echo down the darkness of the well and into my brain. Suddenly, I feel sick and I want to scream, but I can't. I am not in control.

We rise into the air, my back pressing against the ceiling. My vision tilts forward and I stare at Simon's corpse, dangling lifeless below me. 

I am anointed. I am reverent. I've wanted him to die for the longest time, and now he's gone. He has been destroyed by my own hand. It's over. There's no more light in his eyes.

My fingers uncoil from Simon's neck and he falls like a doll, limply to the floor. I catch a brief glimpse of Paul, crouched in the corner, hands over his face. I want to call out to him. I want to tell him he isn't in danger. But I am not in control.

And I’m not sure it's even true.

#flash fiction friday #flash fiction #horror #horror writing #writrblr #writerblr

[dakotajadeteller]

Steppin' Up [Trigger Warnings: Drug use, Violence] – 2014

"Lasted longer than I fuckin' thought she would..."

I stated through the open window of my car as I pushed open the door and climbed out onto the dusty driveway that lead from the main road several hundred meters behind me to Nero Padilla's uncle's ranch. It had taken me nearly three hours and probably a few speeding tickets to get from Santo Padre to Norco, but when it came down to my family. I'd always be there in a heartbeat.

As I pushed closed the door with a slight slam, I could hear through the soft wind faint shouts of my nephews playing from the back yard along with another voice which sounded a lot like Lucius, Nero's son. Standing there trying to catch Nero's eye, his never made contact. They stared right through me as if I wasn’t standing there. I frowned as my eyes worked him over a little more. His dark brown eyes were bloodshot and sunken around the edges as they were using every ounce of energy to stay open. The smile pasted across his face didn't reach his eyes. Gone was the strong force of a man i used to know and in its place was his shell. The once vibrant grey sweater that used to hug his muscles now hung loosely on his thin frame. the faint outline of his collar bone protruding from under his skin. Looking at him for too long made my stomach twist into knots so I let my eyes slip off him and toward the gate around the side of the house where the yelling of tiny male voices had increased.

"They out back?" I asked. Not waiting on Nero's reply, I lightly pushed past him and made my way one biker boot at a time towards the gate that would lead me past the faded paint that had started to peel on the side of the house's wooden panels.

My boots crushed against gravel kicking up the dust and sand that littered the driveway. When I was close enough, I reached over the gate, my fingers searching for the latch that would unlock it. My fingers were met with the grit of rust as i felt my way to it until I found and unbolted it. I walked through it lkke a woman on a mission without glancing back. I wasn't waiting around for Nero to catch up.

Seeing Abel and then Thomas made me freeze in my tracks. I could hear Nero's dejected steps closing in but my gray eyes remained on the boys. Their skin was so pale it was translucent and so thin I could see every bone and vein on their body. Abel's pale blue t-shirt was stained with some liquid that from where I stood, looked red, like Ribena.

I swallowed back a lump in my throat at the state of them, my heart ached at what my brother would say or even do at the state of his kids, he trusted her. I turned sharply to Nero he shook his head and starts to explain even before I ask.

"I can only do so much, mana. She won't feed em. Half the time I check in they ain't wearing the clothes I gave her to put them in. The money I give her goes straight to the pipe." I nodded squeezing my eyes shut for a second because i knew he was doing the best he could. He just sounded like he was at the end of his tether now and I knew with Lucius and his many health and physical obstacles, that he couldn't cope with my nephews alone and now I could clearly see that too. My brother would kill her if he was alive. At the rate of my anger right now I'd do it for him."She's real bad D, real bad." Nero explained "...The boys they gone need their familia now" he went on and I could feel myself rebuking it already.

Stressed.

"Me? Ya' fuckin' kiddin' right? I'm..." I cut myself off at that moment. Why the fuck was I making excuses for? They were my blood. My own flesh and blood. I swore when I'd stood at Jax's casket that I would always make sure his boys were looked after. Great fuckin' job I had done so far from afar. But that was going to change. Right now.

"Where the fuck is she, Nero? Where?!" I raised my voice, more than I had wanted to, and I quickly turned my head to look across the yard, thankful the boys were making too much noise to have heard my outburst. I looked back at Nero, a dark look in my gray eyes forming. Nero hesitated and I narrowed my eyes before he finally said, "Upstairs. Second door on the right." He nods towards the door. I reached out and ripped it open so hard it slams. I stomp inside. The kitchen was littered with dirty dishes that seemed like they’d been tossed onto the side by the overflowing sink.

Open packets of cereal sat upon the breakfast bar. I scrunched up my nose, as a wave of what smelt like stale milk and cigarette smoke slowly filled my nose. That had me following it like a bloodhound in the middle of a forest, clothes both clean and dirty littered the hallway and staircase that led me to the upper floor, and I took to them, two at a time before I walked down to the second door on the right, slightly adjar and a low hum of a television coming from within.

I reached, pushing the door slowly open with one hand, and took one step. I hear a crunch which had me looking down as I moved my boot to see a now broken syringe vial lying shattered in pieces on the stained carpet of Wendy's room. I lifted my head slowly, my eyes scanning the dimly lit room searching past the curtains that closed only half way let the hot sun rays in of the day, ignoring the stench of the air that smelt of stale beer and heroin until I finally saw her. Wendy Half strung out in a chair. Her left arm was stretched out and covered in fresh track marks and bruises. Older ones spidered in the crick of her arm.

I had tried so many times to like Wendy from the moment I had met her, but there was always something that I could never fully trust about her. After all, she was a former crow eater turned wannabe wife and mother. I sure as hell didn't trust her with my nephews, and I had made that clear to Jax before he died so many times before. If she could take drugs while she was pregnant, she would always be tempted to. She didn't give a fuckin' shit about her kid. I bit my inner cheek to hold back that Irish rage that was steadily growing by the second, I had once been the same. Not by the help of heroin. No. I had never touched the stuff, I had seen the effects of it so many times from friends, from some of the hanger-ons of the club growing up. Cocaine had had a similar effect on me, strung out, lost in a world that wasn't reality, my own slice of heaven, the sweet taste of paradise. Not caring about what or even who was around me as long as I had that stuff running through my body, that's all we cared about at the end of it. Our fix. Our high.

Sure I wasn't perfect, I had my issues too, so many times I had come close to doing another line. Parties I had been to, I was surrounded by the white addictive powder being lined up with a 10 dollar bill and the egging on by friends and even strangers wanting me to take that little bit of heaven one more time. But I had fought so hard to get where I was, fought every day to pass rehab, to pass probation. To get where I was today. To make my life worth living for more than just a strung out, waste of nothing junkie. Just then Wendy's head move. Her eyes moving hazily within her head under the dim light, as if trying to focus on her surroundings.

"Dakota..." Came a weak, groggy excuse of a voice."What are you doin' here?"

"You selfish, weak bitch..." I found myself spitting out, almost tasting the venom in the words, as I kept my eyes, now narrowed slits fixed on Wendy. Pure hatred was beginning to show in my eyes.

"Says the former junkie..." Wendy's reply came coldly. "Your no angel DJ, you were a coke whore for how long before you were dumb enough to get caught..."

That sentence had me closing that space between us. The rage I had been fighting to keep inside, finally boiled over, and I found myself reaching out, myfingers finding what I was after, as they wrapped themselves around Wendy's throat, I squeezed. "You're a fuckin' mom! You got a fuckin' second change after you almost killed your son!" I spat, digging my nails into the skin of Wendy's neck, her own filthy and bitten down fingernails trying to grab ahold of my wrist, as she tried to peel my own hands away from her neck. The choking of her voice made it harder for her to speak, but she still managed it.

"Samcro's little junkie..." She croaked out with a pathetic weak laugh. I was so blinded by the rage, that I hadn't even realized that we now weren't alone anymore.

"DJ! Jesus Christ mami!" Nero's voice filled the room, as I felt arms grab at me, pulling me away from Wendy, making me let her throat go, as she coughed, holding her neck, before a few minutes of getting her breath back. She was on her feet, unsteady and weak, but still managing to stand.

I shrugged free from Nero's grip long enough to catch Wendy off guard and land a right hook on Wendy's nose. A sickening crack heard in the quietness of the room as I went in again for another shot.

Before Nero gained a grip on me once again and dragged me away, I caught myself looking down at my bloodied hand, my eyes finding the 1993 tattoo that I had etched upon my knuckles, the year of my dad's death, I had it permanently there to remind me of what I had lost.

That had me snapping back to reality, what I was there for. My eyes now finding Wendy's, the state of her face now a reminder of my handiwork and temper. It was then I turned, and walked out the way I had come, running down the stairs as fast as I could, I could hear two sets of footsteps coming down behind me. Wendy yelling pathetic insult after insult at me in her drugged out haze.

"That's it, your done Wendy. They're coming with me, and there is fuck all you can do about it." I snarled, getting that familiar feeling of being watched, my eyes scanned the the yellowed grass until I found both Thomas and Abel now standing in the yard, watching everything that was unfolding in front of them.

"Shit..." I muttered, making my way over to them, I crouched down, my back to both Wendy and Nero, as I lightly took the small hands of my nephews in each of my own. "It's okay boys. Your gonna come live with me for a little while okay?"

Abel voice came innocently "Why? What's wrong Auntie DJ?"

Nero was by my side before I knew it. "Wendy's not very well Abel. You remember when I said she was sick, well, she doesn't want you or your brother to get sick too, so your auntie DJ is going to take you for a little while." I turned my head, part of my dyed grey violet hair covering my face so the boys wouldn't fully see as Ishared a knowing look with him, as Wendy launched herself towards us, screaming at us both not to. But I scooped Thomas up in a heartbeat, using my body as a shield almost as I covered his face from seeing any more of the state of his guardian.

"Try and fuckin' stop me Wendy and I'll do more than bust your fuckin' nose" I warned, using my body to push past her as I began to walk back down the side of the ranch, and out of the gate, I didn't care at the moment that I hadn't gotten the boys their car seats, I just wanted them away from Wendy. If that meant driving illegally, then so be it.

Though after leaving Abel with me by my car, Nero unlocked his truck, and hauled out the car seats, effortlessly fixing them in both in the back of my car, as we both strapped one of the boys inside. I had barely closed the door, when Wendy reappeared, shouting and throwing more insults.

"Watch your back DJ, I'll tell the cops..."

I doubled back, edging closer to Wendy, but thankfully, Nero had gotten in between us before I had gotten the chance to get ahold of her. "Fuckin' call them then...I dare you...be a fuckin' rat just like you are a junkie. I'll gladly do time for assault, but you'll be more fucked than me. Child endangerment. Child abuse...Want me to continue? No. That's what I fuckin' thought..." I spat back, not scared in the slightest of a junkie's empty threats.

"I'll get one of the guys to bring the boys things by..." I kept my stare on Wendy for a few seconds, before looking at Nero and nodding.

“Aight...Thanks" I didn't say anymore than that, as I made my way back, my fingers reaching for the door handle of my Chevrolet Cruze, and pulling it open as I climbed in. I jammed the key into the ignition, reached out towards the buttons on my door, and locked the doors to prevent Wendy from trying to snatch either one of the boys.

I took a breath, looking in the rear view at the boys, confused and scared etched on their faces broke my heart. "I'm sorry you both had to see that. But it's gonna' be okay now. Your safe." I promised, my left hand reaching up to my chest, as I picked up the bullet necklace that had once been my brother's and placed a soft kiss on it.

"Promise big brother" Without a backwards look, I turned the wheel and began backing up, before turning the wheel, and taking off, leaving both Nero and Wendy in a small cloud of dust. Taking the boys back to my new hometown.

#sons of anarchy #original character

[nateezfics]

♔ PAIRING — yeosang x reader

♔ GENRE — smut, vampire au, fem!reader, vampire!yeosang, dom!yeosang, sub!reader, established relationship if you squint

♔ WARNINGS — mentions of blood, blood drinking/blood play, smut, unprotected sex, biting, fingering, some overstimulation, cockwarming, breast/nipple play, foul language/dirty talk

♔ WORD COUNT — 1.1k

♔ SUMMARY — being undead means always being cold, and yeosang uses you to keep warm in more ways than one.

♔ FIC PLAYLIST — lights out by nbdy, talk to my skin by stalgia

(cover made by the ever wonderful and talented @aveateez )

The fire hummed inside the fireplace, filling the bedroom with much welcomed warmth. It was so dreadfully cold outside the manor walls, the frigid air seeping inside and chilling to the bone. But the fire wasn’t enough, Yeosang needed more, constantly stuck in a perpetual state of cold due to his nature.

But there was you and your perfect, warm body. Your flesh, your blood, your sex — it was all for him to use, all for him and the chill he felt. He had you on his lap as he sat in front of the fireplace, the heat that radiated from you and the flames permeating onto him and already rising his temperature. At the first plunge of his cool digits inside your slickness, he could’ve unraveled at how good your heat felt.

“Ah, so wet. So warm. So perfect.” The words filled the small space between you, Yeosang’s deep voice causing need to rage in the pit of your abdomen. His cold fingers delved into your wet heat, soaking themselves with your warmth and arousal.

You buried your face into his neck. You willed yourself not to rock your hips into his hand, but the temptation was overwhelming. His fingers curled inside you just the right way that had you shivering in his lap. “Oh…”

“This hot little cunt of yours, it’s going to feel so good around me,” Yeosang groaned, words accompanied by the sounds of your wetness. “Would you like that? Would you like to feel my cold cock inside you? “

“Please, fill me up. Please.” Your pleas were muffled by his shoulder. You caved and began to glide your hips back and forth, whimpering at the delectable friction. You were impossibly hot, even with his frigid body beneath you. He was like ice, but he always melted you down into a puddle of need and left you burning in the flames of your desire.

“I love it when you warm me,” he cooed. His unused hand worked to free his cock from his trousers, and the moan you let out when you felt it brush against you was unhinged. “I think I could just unravel from that alone.”

Time was still for a moment as you sunk onto his length. Your mouth formed into a silent cry of bliss as he stretched you, cock cold inside your toasty walls.

It took everything in him not to spill into you right then. His eyes glowed bright red and fangs pierced his bottom lip as he restrained himself, hands gripping your hips so tight that there would surely be bruises left behind. You accommodated him nicely, cunt stretching to take all of his entirety. You were hot, absolutely and wonderfully searing. “My pet, you’re so fucking perfect around me.”

“Please, I need you to move,” you begged him, hips trying to grind but kept in place by his iron hold. It was torture to have him rooted inside you so still and unmoving. You craved that friction.

“Patience,” he whispered. Yeosang tugged at your hair to make you look at him. He adored the pathetic pout on your pursed lips as you struggled to be content with the stillness. You were so greedy for the pleasure he could give you, just like he was greedy for your warmth. “Let me relish in this feeling.”

His hands rose to caress your breasts, offering you some stimulation as he stayed unmoving within you. Your back arched, pressing your chest further into his touch. He smirked just before his mouth latched onto the skin between your breasts, fangs piercing your skin enough to draw blood. He lapped up the trickling crimson, enjoying the way you squirmed. He did this repeatedly across your chest, littering your breasts with teeth marks and smeared blood.

His girth within you and his teeth in your skin was enough to have your heat fluttering with the need to come undone. “I want to cum so bad.”

Yeosang gazed up at you just as he sucked the blood off your breast. “Oh? But I’ve hardly done a single thing to you.” You didn’t appreciate his teasing, whining to show your displeasure of it. He laughed lowly. “Haven’t even moved my cock and you already want to unravel around me.”

“Please.”

His hand dropped to where you were joined, thumb rubbing circles into your mound of nerves. You didn’t last much longer, body falling limp against him as you succumbed to the pleasure, cries loud within his ear. He cursed at the tightness of you, walls clamping around him like a vice, and he so desperately wanted to let you milk him of his own release. “So incredibly tight. Fuck, you feel amazing.”

You shook in his arms when he suddenly rammed his hips upward. Your arms snaked around his neck to keep you balanced while he started to fuck you from underneath. “F-feels so good!”

Driven delirious by your warmth, Yeosang fucked you with reckless abandon. Your slickness began to drip onto his lap every time his cock sheathed inside you, creating a sticky mess on his lap. He paid it no mind as he mindlessly thrusted into your tight cunt. “The most perfect little hole, wrapping me so well. You’re going to make me come undone, my pet.”

You were numb to everything except for him and pleasure he was giving you. You were sensitive, second high already so alarmingly close. “Wanna…cum…”

Yeosang groaned, hips stuttering. He leaned forward and tasted of your blood again, relishing in both your taste and your heat. You were the most perfect heater for him, his little source of pleasure and warmth. “Cum with me.”

In just a few short beats the two of you were releasing together, voices mingling in the air like a sinful harmony as you sang out in bliss. Yeosang’s seed flooded your walls and filled you to the brim until it began to overflow, leaking around his length as he grew still.

Your chest rose and fell as you gulped for air, body spent from the pleasure. You sighed when your hot forehead fell against his cold neck. “Are you warm enough now?”

Yeosang’s fingers ran up and down your spine. “Never enough, my pet.”

A/N: please I redid this so many times because I could never be satisfied and well I’m still not satisfied, it’s so short and unlike how I originally wanted it, but I gotta post something 🥲 Please give this piece a little extra love because I’m coming off the high from Honey and Blood and how proud I am of that fic, so this one just seems…blah in comparison 😣

Tag list: @couchpotatoaniki @kisaraginami @shingisimp @ainaatiny @hongshines @ruwaidahmulla​ @dani41 @pinkbbygirl @yunsangoveryonder (lmk if you’d like to be added to the list)

#yeosang smut drabbles #yeosang smut #ateez smut drabbles #ateez smut #ateez x reader #yeosang x reader #yeosang fanfiction #ateez fanfiction #ateez au #ateez vampire au #ateez kinktober #ateez halloween #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez reactions

[miyaagis]

˖ 🕷️ ˖˙ 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 ｜ 𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝘀𝗶𝘅𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻

lactation kink / baji keisuke

he fully believes pregnancy looks good on you

+ word c. 644

+ warnings. cockwarming, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth, nipple play, breastfeeding, mommy kink

it isn't unusual to have one, or both, of his hands on your breasts whenever you are together.

baji keisuke finds intimacy and comfort by having you physically close to him, he has to feel your skin somehow—it's the only way to keep him at ease.

even with your cunt stretched out around his length, his large hand held your boob and occasionally rubbed your nipple just to mess with you.

“stop that.”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

he was lucky your back faced him, otherwise, he would’ve been forced to hide his grin from you. once he felt you relax again, apparently not in the mood to bicker with him, he started massaging the soft flesh. it had been almost six months since you became parents and he thought he only had to adjust to his new life as a dad, however, no one told him he would act like a horny teenager all over again; feeling his dick twitch each time he saw your full breasts or your round belly.

his hold on your nipple unconsciously tightened, getting a weak whine out of you while he came back from his daydream.

“felt good?” his voice had dropped an octave.

“yeah.”

he noticed the breathlessness in your reply, but even if you had decided to lie to him, the wetness dripping from your core gave you away.

moving his hands under your shirt, he cupped both breasts and began to massage them again; rolling your nipples between his fingers and making you rest your head on his shoulder. the position allowed him to kiss the skin of your neck, starting with small pecks before switching to gentle bites.  

your hips began to grind against him, needing to find some sort of relief.

“turn around,” he had been staring at the side of your face the entire time, watching your brows scrunch up as soon as he spoke, “c’mon, i wanna see you.”

slowly, you pushed yourself up and stood up, frowning when his cock left your pussy. you took this opportunity to remove your shirt, leaving you topless and with your panties hastily pushed aside.

his eyes followed each and every single one of your movements, watching you lower yourself on his length and use the grip on his shoulders as your anchor. as soon as your breasts were on his eye level, he wrapped his lips around one nipple, sucking and grunting when your walls clamped around his girth in response.

“kei–” your hand moved to the back of his head, pulling him closer.

“tastes so good,” he murmured against your skin as he licked a drop of milk, his sharp canines grazing your nipples.

“fuck, that hurt!”

“sorry,” his tongue glided across his teeth as he fought a smirk.

he clearly wasn’t sorry.

“thank fuck for the food,” he latched onto your other tit, sucking while rolling your hips, “shit, i’m so hard.”

wanting to help, you moved back and forth, rubbing your clit against his pubic bone.

his mouth let go of your breasts to stare at them, glistening with his spit and oozing droplets of milk.

“gorgeous, wanna fuck you and make you a mommy again,” he said while cupping both tits, feeling your cunt clench around him for the nth time, “you would love that, yeah?”

“mhm!”

his cock throbbed and he knew he would cum soon, so he closed his lips on your nipple again before moving his hands down to your ass. he began to lift your hips, making you bounce on his cock while he sucked the milk out of your breasts.

your frail whines turned into loud moans as your pussy tried to squeeze the cum out of him, drooling and coating his cock with your juices.

“cum, baby. gonna fill you so good till you’re round and full of milk again.”

#skyetober.21 #tw.lactation #tw.mommy kink #tw.pregnancy #baji.xo #tokyorev.xo

[mostly-marvel-musings]

DIY

A/N: This wasn’t planned. Or was it? @babyboibucky and @lil-stark Hope y’all like it!

Not my gif! Credits to the owner.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: 18+, a little breast kink, soft pregnancy smut, tons of domestic fluff.

Word count: 1400

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Bucky Barnes Taglist: @marvelgirl7 @mycosmicparadise @feetoffthetablee

Everything Taglist: @godofplumsandthunder @ladyacrasia @agustdowney @swaggysposts @littlegasps @suchababie @another-stark-sub @supraveng @kahlanmars @disappointmentofthefam @pandaxnienke @tom-hlover @just-the-hiddles @asmigurub @avantgardium-leviosa @imerdwarf @gladiosamicitias @fanofalltheficsx @ladyburberry

Taglists are open folks! Send me an ask or DM if you wish to be tagged :))

.

Afternoon naps during the weekends had become a new favourite activity of yours. Waddling around the house with a heavily pregnant belly tired you out beyond belief, forcing you to take cat naps every chance you got. Bucky had developed a habit of joining you almost always because he never wished to miss a chance of holding you while you slept, also because he knew you were having trouble sleeping in the night.

There had been so many occasions when you would wake up only to find your husband gazing at your belly, hands lightly caressing while he whispered about anything and everything to the baby. The sight would fill your heart with love every single time, it had even brought you to tears the first time he did it.

However today, as sleep made it’s exit, you couldn’t find Bucky lying next to you where he usually was, instead there was some muffled cursing and muted thuds coming in from the nursery.

Pulling on Bucky’s old sweater, you padded towards the room to find him focused on his task at hand which was trying to read the instructions given on the manual of the crib you had purchased the day before.

He eyed the pieces of furniture he was supposed to put together warily before giving a confident nod to himself, as if mentally assuring himself that he could do it. And that was just too adorable to watch.

Leaning against the doorway, you stared at the love of your life for a while before announcing your arrival by clearing your throat.

“I thought we were going to do this together.”

Bucky glanced up in surprise before his face softened and he gave you a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck.

“I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You looked so peaceful.”

You shook your head and made your way towards him, stopping when your swollen belly met his flat one and giving him a small peck on the cheek.

“So, you figure this thing out?”

“I think so. You wanna help?” He asked softly,

hands automatically placing themselves on your bump. Bucky couldn’t help but get a little excited seeing his clothes on your pregnant body, even though you had been doing that for years. According to him, you’d never looked more radiant.

“Alright let’s build this crib.”

.

Fifteen minutes into it and you found yourself getting irritated and snippy because Bucky wasn’t following the directions you’d been giving him.

“Are you sure that’s the right way?”

“Yes doll, I’m sure.”

“Because that’s not what’s given here—”

“I know what I’m doing (Y/N)!”

He snapped, clenching his jaw as he stared at you as you held up the instructions manual for him to see.

“Fine. Seems like you don’t need my help after all! Have fun.”

You threw the piece of paper on the floor and stormed back to the bedroom, nostrils flared and fists balled up tight. It was probably an unnecessarily extreme reaction but you couldn’t help it, your hormones were on overdrive.

Pacing about the room, you took a few cleansing breaths, ready to apologise for your outburst when Bucky walked in silently.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you sweetheart.” He spoke first.

“I’m sorry too Buck, I just I don’t know why I get this hyper so easily, it’s my—”

“Pregnancy brain, I know.” He nodded, giving you a small smile, the kind that asked permission to call a truce and move past the whole thing.

“How is my little girl?”

“She’s sleeping. But Mommie’s wide awake…”

He chuckled and approached you once he saw you grinning wide, pulling you close to capture your lips in a soft kiss. He broke the kiss but you grabbed him by the back of the neck to resume, murmuring a ‘not done yet’ against his mouth.

Bucky grazed his hands along your bare legs upwards, taking his sweater with them, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Your tongues danced in harmony until you broke apart only to throw the piece of clothing out of the way.

He took his time to let his darkened eyes rake over your naked form, the kind of look that made your pussy quiver in anticipation. There were times when you’d get aware of the fact that your body looked awkward and bloated because that’s how it felt for months, but not to Bucky. He was mesmerised by the way your beautiful body adapted to this new phase, the way your body shape changed to accomodate a baby, his baby.

He loved how sensitive it had gotten over these last few months, the way your breasts had swelled up in size along with your belly.

“So beautiful…” he whispered before guiding you over to the bed, helping you to climb on top of him after he’d removed his own clothing.

You had been a little extra sensitive and uninhibited in all departments during pregnancy, including all those times wanting to ride Bucky hard at any chance you got. It was almost a second craving along with those weird food demands you were making, all of which was considered normal in the ten thousand books he had got for you to read.

You licked your lips at the sight of Bucky’s erection waiting so eagerly for your warm touch before wrapping a hand around the length, a few pumps and a flick of your thumb to collect the precum later, you maneuvered yourself so your entrance lined up. Pulling your damp panties aside, you sunk down on his cock slowly, eliciting a sinful groan from his mouth.

The feeling of being so stretched out made you throw your head back and sigh as you stayed in that position, giving yourself some time to adjust.

Your hips rolled against his own at a languid pace as you anchored your hands on his chest, your hair cascading around your face before Bucky gently pulled them aside to watch your face.

His pubic bone grazed against your clit with every move as you rode him, your shallow breaths and pants filling the room. Your eyes fluttered shut when you felt his metal hand come up to fondle your breasts.

Sitting up as best as he could, he latched his mouth around your nipple and sucked, making you cry out loud while his hand attended to the other one with gentleness. They felt heavier in Bucky’s hand, full of milk meant to feed and nourish your child after she would arrive. They were for him now, today to caress, to love and cherish.

“I can feel you’re getting close, doll.” He breathed, laying back down and bringing his flesh hand over to your stimulated nub, rubbing it in tight circles.

“Fuck that’s it. Keep doing that.”

He obliged, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, you felt your insides tighten and walls flutter around his cock before you let go. A loud cry escaped your mouth as the coil in your belly snapped and you shuddered, the intensity of your orgasm triggered Bucky’s as he dug his fingers in your hips, grabbing them roughly.

A few sloppy thrusts into your quivering pussy was all it took for him to paint your walls with thick ropes of cum, his head thrown back and a look of bliss on his features.

He laid you down on your back carefully after pulling out, watching his cum dribble out onto your thighs before he cleaned you up with a washcloth and returned to bed.

Your skin was flushed and a lazy grin decorated your face as he nuzzled his face into your neck, pressing feather light kisses there while running a hand all over your heated body.

He felt his little girl kick against his hand as he splayed it across your bump, making you look at each other and back down where she kept nudging, letting you know it was time to eat.

“Alright alright! I’m getting up. You want Daddy to make his delicious grilled cheese?”

Your eyes held a glint mischief as you looked at Bucky, giving him your best puppy dog look which you knew always worked.

“Come on Momma bear. I’ll make you all the grilled cheeses you want.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #dad bucky #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction