#Than giving a smouldering look. Literally. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moondirti · 1 year

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genesis

But the white light highlights the captain’s silhouette; grown-in mutton chops, broad shoulders that double your own. He’s wearing a beanie, pulled to his brow, melting into the shadow that conceals his eyes from you. It’s the first time you truly see him – this much of him, anyway. And he’s startlingly younger than you would’ve thought, hair still packed a uniform brown, the occasional wisp of grey speckled in the midst.

pairing: Captain John Price x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 8k summary: the progression of a spite-fuelled relationship warnings: enemies to lovers, literally 4k words of unfettered smut, virginity loss, reader is given a backstory, light corruption kink, tummy bulge, choking, mentions of death, mentions of torture, kidnapping, alcohol, alluded misogyny notes: this became something else entirely and i apologise. credit for the 'choking with an arm' thing goes to @sprout-fics and, by extension, @yeyinde 's anons lol

The first time you meet the captain, his edges blend in with the wet asphalt and gunmetal downpour. Midnight adrenaline, vision bleary with disrupted sleep; you’re only able to make out the flickering end of a fat cigar, tucked between his lips and smouldering orange, somehow still alight despite the weather.

You suppose it’s that ironclad conviction, the one you’ve heard of in passing on base. Smelted to every bullet, carved to fit the crows feet that frame his eyes. You see it now, tainted with a conscience rebellion – non discrete, as they’d called it, enough to bend nature itself to suit his tobacco fix.

You still, pausing for him to give you the rundown. He doesn’t approach you, not yet, caught in a hissed argument with one of his men. Their voices drift in the howling wind; his, like smoke, curling with a rough aggression.

Hair plastered to your forehead, water gathering on the tip of your nose; you quietly thank your hasty decision to throw on a lab coat before coming. It proves to be the only barrier between the rain and your dishevelled self – loose pyjama bottoms coming to your calf, knitted socks that start to soak through your army-grade boots. Not a state you commonly adapt for first impressions, though it’s not like you’d had much of a choice.

Paramedics swarm the helicopter Price had emerged from, pulling out a limp body, blood splattering on the landing pad to be washed away without a trace. It’s nothing you weren’t expecting as the medic on call tonight – the shrill beeps of your pager were enough of an indication that something had gone wrong. Yet your mind reels to pinpoint the face that lulls onto the stretcher. Wrinkled nose, quivering lips – they’re alive, but only just.

You don’t recognise them. The cooling relief is stupidly selfish.

A minute later; two soldiers hop off the craft, trooping off with their guns tucked near their chests, entirely dutiful. You note the direction they take, heading towards Laswell’s office – assigned report duty, no doubt.

Five minutes pass, and the pilot disengages as well. The chopper powers down from a loud roar to a disruptive quiet. The storm still boils overhead, thunder a cracking whip to what had been a peaceful night. You resist the urge to wipe the drops that weigh your eyelashes. You’re soaked to the bone, now.

Ten. The patient would have reached the hospital bay. An irking sort of impatience begins gnawing on your gut, dangerously fiery for the situation at hand. You cough, despite knowing the captain won’t hear you, and square your shoulders as you take him in again. He hasn’t so much as looked in your direction, locked into a series of gruff nods and whispered commands with the sergeant.

Is his comrade’s life really of that little urgency to him?

The thought leads you down a path you do not want to take. It’s decidedly destructive, a match to the rush of fuming petrol that courses through you. Breathe through it, a clipped voice echoes back to you, reverberating on starched walls and a cold leather couch. Rationalise. Your psychiatrist’s office, post reassignment. I’d wager you didn’t take that time to think before the incident in Bulgaria, hm?

Pompous bitch.

You draw in a long inhale, holding it until your chest aches with blurring hypoxia. Black dots your vision, spurring a pounding alarm at your temples. Your fists clench, unclench, then clench again, nails digging crescent moons into the pruned skin of your palms. You wait, and wait, and think you puncture yourself, a new warmth pooling into your cuticles.

Then, when Price’s conversation dwindles, the flame tempers, mental barricade forming in its stead. A necessary precaution; you steel yourself and prepare for the likely gruesome incident debrief as he breaks off and starts to approach.

Only, he marches right past you.

You’re stuck staring ahead, frozen in paralytic shock. Heart lurching, your body thumps with it, disorienting when you turn to his shrinking form.

“Captain!” Your yell whips with the gale. He tosses you a brief look over his shoulder, pulls an especially large drag from his cigar, and keeps walking.

You snap to your senses and jog to catch up.

“Bulle’ to the chest, punctured a lung. Concussion from tumblin’ rubble but not much else.” He keeps a quick pace ahead of you. It takes all you’ve got not to slip as you disentangle his words from an ashen irritation.

“Was he given any medication that might interfere with the anaesthesia?”

“Negative.”

“Was the wound sealed to keep air from being sucked in?”

“Affirmative.”

“Did he lose consciousness at any point in time?” You strain, legs screaming as you finally come side-to-side with him.

“Doctor–”

“I need to know these things for the procedure to run as smoothly as pos–”

“Doctor.” He snaps, stomping to a sudden halt before facing you fully. You’ve come to the right wing’s entry, secured with a strict-access passcode your rank is not privy to. The most you know of it is what you can see through the doorway window; a fluorescent hall, illuminated despite the late hour. An office at the end of it. Shepherd, perhaps, engraved on a nameplate.

You shuffle in place. Your pyjamas cling to your skin, dewy disposition a reminder of how ridiculous you must look. Lip quivering, you tuck it underneath a sucking tooth and glare up at him.

“Sir.”

“You’re wastin’ your bloody time with this. One of my men is choking on his own blood,” His finger prods to the general direction the patient was taken in. “And you’re here, mm. Why is that?”

“It’s procedure.” The statement escapes as more of a hiss than anything else, his hypocrisy clawing at the gummy lining of your lungs.

“Procedure can fuck off this once, that shit’s for the textbooks. Things differ on the field, Doc.”

It hits you, then, who he sounds like. The revelation bleeds into your tone. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused. Now go and make sure my sniper doesn’t die on me.”

The rain’s eased to a drizzle now. He leaves you molten, steaming with a sulphurous rage.

“Stop moving.”

“Can’t exactly do that now, eh?”

By the fifth time you cross paths with the captain, you’ve already decided you don’t like him.

To the outside eye, your position does nothing to suggest it. Lewd at best – you sit, crouched between his legs, your elbows propped up on muscled thighs to stabilise the tremor in your hands. The floor beneath you rumbles, the humvee rolling over rocky terrain in its attempt to exfil. Price, stabbed; once in the left lumbar, twice in the umbilical region.

Ichor soaks through your compress. Your fingers are tacky with dried gore.

The car is stiflingly hot, a vessel for the trapped Uzbekistanian sun and high tensions. Large gulps of air prove insufficient; oxygen runs scarce, recycled through the systems of the several soldiers present. You’d given your seat to Garrick – who, currently, has no use for it, stuck halfway out a window to shoot at your pursuers.

It’s loud. It’s chaotic. The sergeant driving has no goddamn idea how to do so without messing up your work and your clothes chafe over sweat in the most excruciating way possible. It took you fifteen tries to thread the suture through the needle. It’ll take ten times that to actually get his wound closed.

And it’s not his fault. None of this can be pinned on him.

Yet–

“Can’t understand why you don’t take the time to reload your ballistic plates. This whole thing–”

“Jus’ do your damn job, doctor.”

You swallow the snarl that tears up your throat, burying it alongside a grave of acrid emotion you reserve for men just like him. This situation is profoundly familiar. Bulgaria; the crunch of your general’s nose under your fist. Betrayal sour on your tongue, a sting like you’d never before felt it. It took a whole team to hold you back as he spit upon your bruising temple.

A cunt. That’s what you are, girl.

Pray tell, then, what does that make you?

Your next seam is done with fervent hostility.

It’s only when your penultimate knot is tied that you force yourself to reel in your wandering mind and focus on the task at hand. You’ve one more laceration to mend after this, the length of it throbbing underneath a wad of temporary gauze. It’s that, maybe – festering evidence of the raid you’d just survived – that flushes you in further warmth, a boiling panic still itching beneath the surface. Rip release grenades, the dust of unsettled gunpowder. Your calf twinges from where it was caught under a pile of debris.

C’mon, doc. Up. Yeah… yeah, there we go. You broken?

Fine.

Or. Perhaps–

Giving flesh. Not rock-hard with chiselled definition – his body doesn’t carve into pronounced sinew – but solid, all the same. Packed brawn underneath a stretch of ivory skin. His shirt, rucked up to his chest. A trail from beyond his waistband, curly hairs, stark against a crimson backdrop.

Your conviction warbles, so you say nothing when you move to pierce him again.

It’s unfortunate timing, really.

His hips jolt at the cold bite of the needle head. The car rocks over a pothole. Some greater destiny, a cackling trio of asshole fates, weave their inexplicable thread. You’re only able to pull your hand back in time – the threat of stabbing him yourself a looming prospect.

Your face isn’t so lucky.

It comes into full contact with the swell between his legs.

His grip shoots to your hair, winding at the roots to hold you firm. It’s enough to steady you as you pull back almost immediately, but the phantom feel of his crotch shoved to your nose is slower to leave.

For a painstaking moment, the two of you lock onto each other’s stares. Price’s brows buoy, hooding over florentine eyes that spark with an untapped choler. You pretend not to notice the way his lips twitch, how his hand – still on your head – clenches the slightest bit tighter.

Ticking bomb, wedged in the divet between two floorboards.

Click, click, click.

One. Two. Three.

Three beats until you clamp your jaw shut, gathering your surely obscene expression to one of mortified irritability. It’s all you allow yourself.

“I told you to sit still.”

Despite the way your words slip between clenched teeth, they sound with whopping pliability. Like he could grind them down, pestle on mortar, and watch as they unfurl, syllable by syllable, to shape some semblance of truth.

(Honesty; a notion tucked along with happier memories of staying up longer than you should, facing your bunkmate with a bottle of cheap tequila on your lap.

There’s gotta be something you can drink to.

You’re just wild, Tess.

Fair, fair. Hmm, alright. Never have I ever…

She cackles at the grimace you pull.

–given head. Yeah! That’s easy, right?

Hm.

Wait. Seriously?

Everyone’s intolerable.)

“You watch your tone.” The growl rips from him then, laden with the scratch of singed newspaper, tobacco clustering at the back of his throat. It’s not so much a command than it is a reminder, a recall to your second meeting where you’d found the captain pouring over your file. Swilling the last amount of amber liquid from a glencairn: you nee’ to learn to control yourself, doc. Not everyone is so forgiving.

You’d only meant to collect a batch of vaccination records for his new recruits. You’d left as you seem to always do with him, rage burrowing into claggy marrow.

Forgiving. Right.

“Sorry, sir.” It’s the farthest thing from genuine.

You don’t know what you hate more. The husky chuckle that erupts at your hushed admonishment, or the fact that you miss them when his fingers leave your hair.

Something shifts between the sixth and the seventh time.

It isn't forfeit, not by a long shot. The gods wrote you with a deathly stubbornness; acquiescent Sisyphus, bound to roll your boulder up an impossibly steep incline. Your back will ache, and your tendons could tear, and you’d continue pushing for the sheer fact alone. Palms sliced open on abrasive rock, you’ve long since stained your white flag with blood and the pink salt of lake atanasovsko.

(You used to compliment Tess on her hair – ice blonde, almost white. Her face had matched that deathly pallor when you pulled her up on the grassy bank.)

No. It’s a lot more subtle.

As subtle as kidnapping can be.

A cramped safehouse, post-evacuation. You’d commandeered the one bathroom for a moment alone, crouched over a pail of tepid water functioning as a sink.

Sand clings to you like second skin, grime piled in impossible crevices you can’t clean no matter how hard you try. It’s Price’s gore that washes off first, tainting the murky pool for any who wishes to use it next. Rippling red; it doesn’t disgust you to cup it up and wash your face.

Three raps strike on the rotted-wood door.

“Yeah?”

“There’s, uh… there’s a slight issue we need you for.” Gaz says.

Drawing a sharp inhale, you shrug on your coat and leave to find him standing by the hall. He quirks his head towards the main space, where various voices overlap one another in an effort to make themselves heard. You’re able to single out his amidst the mix, a clipped bark that’d hold more weight had he not been stabbed.

A kid, as it turns out, is the source of such contention. A local who’d seen the red cross on your armband and recognised the universal symbol.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re trying to figure that out. I speak a rough Uzbek. Think she mentioned something about her mother being sick,” A sergeant – the one driving earlier – briefs you.

“Right.” You lick your lips, locating Price in your peripheral before crouching to meet the girl’s height. “Is she nearby, sweetheart?” Her feet curve towards one another, clad in flower-adorned sandals that have seen brighter days. You smooth down the flyaways at her temple, noting the way she searches for meaning in your gentle expression. Hindsight tells you she looked terrified.

But before you can ask again, you’re met with a gruff command.

“You’re not goin’ to help, doctor.”

Incredulity spikes, a ruthless parallel to his own dismissal. You slowly turn to catch his eye, piercing from the end of a table. He’s still in his tactical gear, his shirt darkened and sticky across the front. You hadn’t had time to wrap his wounds.

“Come again?”

“It’s not our mission.”

You can’t miss the meaning camouflaged in his vague rejection. Current company dissipates into ash; tunnel-vision – all you see are pursed lips, bearers of an apathetic verdict. Not goin’ to help – like it isn’t your sole reason for being here.

Temper flaring into a whistling fusillade, you shoot to your feet. Your tone is the first victim, piquing with violent emotion. “She’s just a girl!”

“We don’ know that for sure–”

“Jesus fucking christ, captain. If you think the enemy’s got their talons this far out, then what are we even doing here?”

“All I’m saying–”

“I don’t want to bloody hear it! She’s come to me for help, so I’m the one who’ll make this decision. Should I be ambushed, or worse, you have my full bloody permission to leave me behind.”

Usually, the bitter aftertaste of citrus rage scalds you. But when you had walked out into the dust-clogged afternoon, you felt nothing but grim satisfaction.

It only lasted as long as it took for a bag to be placed over your head, a blunt force accompaniment, the butt of a gun to your cheek that sends you spiralling into a brutal goodnight.

The seventh (technically, eighth, as you come to learn) is at a bar in Belgium, two months later.

Littered in novel scars, the largest one spanning your cheekbone, you swish a dram of soju and drum your fingers on a tacky bartop. The patrons that had originally crowded the space have long since filtered out – your original distraction funnelled to just the drink in your hands.

So, you sit and think of nothing.

(Everything, actually, but memories fizz like static. Your period as a hostage stands out as the sharpest of the bunch.)

It’s been a week since you’d been dismissed from the hospital – though you can’t say the same for your stay there, days fused together to stretch over an undisclosed amount of time. You’re usually on top of things, but being the one in the clinical cot had thrown you off your element. For good now, you think. You prowl Belgian streets with little aim and direction, pardoned from duty until they figure out what to do with you.

Which makes you wonder how exactly he finds you.

It’s a hole-in-the-wall, seedy establishment. Swallowing light, artificial lanterns a mild buffer to vignette shadows, slithering up brick walls.

Still, the captain gravitates to you in your lowest moment – as he evidently has a habit of doing – and takes the stool next to you like he belongs.

“Nice to see a friendly face.” You chortle.

Nice gives him all the updates he needs. A debrief on what changed since Uzbekistan; the new woman whittled by torture and the painful consequence to her own derision.

“You look older.” He nods.

“Wishful thinking?”

“Maybe.”

He urges the bartender for scotch with a water back, neat, and toasts the foot of a cigar. You hide your simper behind your bottle. Not everyone is different.

“How’s the damage?” You point to his gut. He looks confused for a second before remembering the circumstances of your next-to-last interaction.

“How’s yours, mm?”

“Healed.”

“I can see that. Looks better than it did when you’d been extracted.”

You skim over the fact that he was there for your rescue and breathe in the smoke that twines. Wood, burnt ochre that’s become synonymous with him. You suppose you’d missed it; that rendezvous point for when you were beaten within an inch of your life. It’d been a far warmer scent than rusted metal and sour mattresses.

The conversation dwindles to silence, then. Part of it is the ache that stones you, the revelation that you don’t hate him as much as you’d convinced yourself on. A nebulous inkling that you’d dreamt about him, more than once, curled in on yourself and sore with rue.

You have my full bloody permission to leave me behind.

But it’s prickling, too. You don’t have it in you to revisit her; you – Doc – whoever emerged all those years ago with an ingenuous vengeance. You focus on the present for the first time in forever, content to relish in it.

So–

The two of you sit like that for a long while after, soaked in dim light, basking in an old dynamic that hasn’t quite found its footing yet. It isn’t until Price finishes his drink do you pinpoint the courage to interject again.

“You were right.”

He ponders your confession, turning it over while he takes you in anew.

“I was.” It’s gruff, short.

And it could end there. A brusque exchange doubling as your apology, more than you ever thought you’d give. But something gnaws on your chest, cramming up in the space between your pounding heart and a rib; the need to spill, to make yourself known, so – if they decide to decommission you – you leave an honest crest in his impression. This might be the last time.

Pyjamas and waterlogged socks. Naivety that bites. You haven’t exactly been the best version of yourself.

You can’t speak the full truth of it, so you start on a tangent you hope will paint it for you.

“I was a soldier before I was a medic, y’know. Fought in the Bulgarian spec-ops.”

“Mm. I read your file.” Still, he takes another drag and settles an elbow on the table. Whether he’s curious or genuinely wants to hear you out, it gives you the go-ahead to continue.

“We were cornered, once, out near the Black sea. Every single one of us was shot. By the end, two were killed, with four following in close footsteps.”

You knock back another swill of soju before continuing.

“The general ordered an immediate exfil, but the chopper only had space for four bodies. They made the decision to pull every man out of the water, KIA included, while leaving the only other girl and I for dead.”

Florentine eyes. They flicker with a concern you might have seen before, but were too busy spitting at to properly appreciate.

“Tess was my oldest friend. Couldn’t save her, so–”

“You try to save everyone else.”

Your lips pull in a thin line.

“But you can’t.”

“Yeah.” You chuckle. “I know that now.”

“So where are you headed, doc?”

“What–”

“I mean. What are you goin’ to do with yourself, now that this noble mission’s been fried, eh? They’re discussing your discharge. Should that happen, you’d be a civilian.”

“I get that. There’s nothing for me out there, though.”

“Start with what you haven’t allowed yourself this far, then.”

And he places something on the table in front of you. A hotel keycard, Navarra Brugge printed in a decadent font across its length. The building two blocks away. You bite your lip, mind reeling with every connotation to what the gesture might mean.

You settle on the most plausible.

“How’d you know?”

Looking up at him, your chest flutters when he grins. Handsome. How’ve you never noticed that?

“Saw it on that pretty face the first time we met. I figured, a girl so far up her own ass. Probably never had the petulance fucked out of you.”

You scoff with faux offence.

(Part shame).

So, something shifts between the sixth and seventh time you meet.

Maybe it’s the way you seriously consider the four digits after he leaves – scrawled in black ink, the number to his room.

Hands like the blistering end of a cigar, searing skin as they keep you in place. Your jaw seized in one, the other curled firmly around your waist. You think he’s trying to savour it, the sight of you keening for him, glossy eyes that hang on to the last bits of defiance. Stupid, drunk – not from the sip of soju you’d taken earlier, but off the scent of suede and ash alone.

You lean forward, searching for slightly chapped lips. He lets you get close enough that his moustache tickles your nose, imbued with tobacco, before pulling away. It’s hellsent, some tantalising choreography he’s undoubtedly danced before. But your consequential whine is short-lived, tempered under a severe look when his eyes meet yours. Fingers crushing together, squeezing, so your cheeks pucker up for him. A promise. A warning.

“How do y’want this to go, mm?” He says, low enough for the words to reverberate through you. Punctuated – his voice is hoarser at this hour.

In the dim lamplight, your brows knit together. He must read the confusion.

“You want me to take it easy on you, dove?” His palm smooths down your waist, eye contact locked while it does, looking for something you wouldn’t be able to pinpoint in yourself. Price’s touch curves along your hip, catching the hem of your jeans, before circling back to cup your behind. It’s gentle at first, a barely-there graze, feeling you out. You puff into the shared air.

But you can’t speak, not with the grip on your face. You resort to clenching your teeth, hoping he can feel the tick of it.

“Mm. I see,” His breath fans over you. It’s hot with malt, smoke cloyed to the tongue. The hand on your ass tightens, cleaving between flesh, forcing you upwards. Your pants press taut over your cunt. “How ‘bout this… tell me if it sounds good, eh?”

You nod. He pats your thigh in response.

“I’m goin’ to fuck you how you need to be fucked. Can’ promise it won’t be rough, but if you ever need to tap out, just say the word. Got it?”

Again, you nod, mouth parting once his clutch eases on you. The concession dangles for a moment, bobbing in the thick pause he takes. Two blinks later, still nothing. You take the opportunity to try and capture his lips, a little too eagerly.

He wrenches you back.

“I need t’hear you say it.”

Of course. A verbal affirmation. But for– what, exactly? Consent, all things considered, though he simmers with something else. Satisfaction teetering towards a precipice, a covered pot threatening to over boil. His fingers dig into you like they know your softest points, having stewed over them before. You shiver, fluttering with a familiar venom, and think to the humvee in Uzbekistan. Crouched between his legs, propelled onto his crotch. The swell that twitched under your cheek, throbbing, new blood.

Say yes to yield. To give in to the command of someone new, who’ll know deeper parts of you than what you’d ever allowed. The clutch of your cunt, the sound of your moans. Vulnerability he could exploit, should he want to.

Yet–

He’s asking, leading you along and stopping at every hitch. There’s a lifebelt tied to the end of some rope, a thrown-out line; an act worth more than you could credit to anyone before him.

I need to hear you say it.

It comes from some cavity within you – a rotten place, blackened with decades long neglect.

“I understand.”

Obedience. Just this once.

(Then, if the invite extends–)

“That’s a girl.”

Lightning shoots through you at the praise, flaying you open to his steady presence. Warmth; he’s alive in the way that trees are, thickset, unwavering, rooted to your core as you bleed and breathe and choke on your own delirium. You don’t want it to be known, how reactive you can be.

Though, you suppose, that’s printed in red ink, stapled to the front page of your file.

You nee’ to learn to control yourself, doc.

Not here, not now.

Flooded with the woes of golden pleasure, you don’t notice his subtle nudge upwards, tilting your chin. It’s only when he finally, finally, gives you what you want – the press of his mouth to yours, full force, rough like he said he’d be – that you touch back to reality.

Maduro flavoured spit, he overwhelms you with an unrelenting magnetism. Teeth clashing, his hands on your neck, your hair. It hurts, borderline bruising. Should he give you a moment’s breath, your lips would swell blue, burst capillaries a service announcement to anyone who thinks they could measure up. But Price keeps you to him, his beard rubbing you raw when he pushes his tongue into your mouth.

And it’s scorching, heavy. Folding to find the scars dotting the insides of your cheeks, bitten tissue in fits of rage. Sucking the mewls that stream from you as he meets them with his own, guttural groans. You collapse into pliability as he kisses – no, devours – you, losing that sparking centre, torrid effervescence blurring your senses. There’s no rhyme or reason, no connection to the person you’d hammered out of stone. Just drool, a dominating masculinity to melt into. Sticky like a fruit popsicle on some summer’s day.

He manoeuvres your head, tilting to the right, so he can push further onto you. An expert in all things dizzying; you can hardly keep up with the targeted onslaught. It takes all that is in you to breathe, clinging desperately to the front of his shirt – for purchase, for plea – and relinquish control.

Your back arches, front grinding onto him. He breaks away, saliva webbing between you, and tuts when you try to follow and bridge contact once more. “So eager, dove.”

Hovering near lightheaded rapture, you say the first thing that occurs to you. “Any slower and I might take charge.”

Entirely untrue. You’re porcelain in the molten pool of his desire. Harder, and he’d break you.

But his vicious snarl is enough to balance the lie. A scale tips in you, heavy stone of anticipation weighing on your gut.

“Mm. Is that how you want to play then?”

“Dunno what you mean.”

“Oh, you maddening li’l minx,” Price rasps, backing you up against the edge of his bed. He keeps you from falling onto it with a hand around the base of your neck. “I’ll show you what I mean.”

Reprimanding, he doesn’t choke you – not quite – though the grip on your throat is anything but gentle. Chafing calluses pressing into gooseflesh-prickled skin, you’re braced to his whims – locked into suspended animation as he takes you in. Your lashes, clumped with blissed tears. The constant, whistled whine, streaming from a punctured lung. Your sweat-flushed cheeks, honeyed sheen, tangy with iodine and still, sweeter than most that drips from you.

You, stuttering with frenzied pants, and searching for nirvana in his gaze alone.

His beard glistens with a concoction of both your saliva, and he smiles proudly under the varnish. You scramble on your tiptoes to meet him when he dips in again.

Price, captain. Spearhead of any team, bending rain to mould over a hefty cigar as he barks out rough commands. You’d seen it then, back on base, shivering under a debilitating monsoon. This fire, an unquestioned charge that threatened to batter you into place. One that does exactly that, right now. But you take it gladly when you're manhandled back onto a nest of cool cushions, crawling to your elbows to watch as he pulls his shirt off broad shoulders. Lift your hips for me. Putty, he peels your jeans off with one fell swoop.

“Fuck, look at you.”

Sinking deeper into oblivion, you grasp onto conventional straws – acts calculated in well-lit showrooms. A babydoll smile, a virginal blush. Your knees tap together as you attempt to shut your soaked panties from his view.

One well-placed, smarting slap thwarts the attempt. The delicate skin of your inner thigh blazes with a white-hot sting, carved to fit the shape of his palm.

“Keep ‘em open for me, now. I feast with my eyes first, dove.”

Fuck, indeed.

“C-Captain…”

The breathy murmur comes out broken, composed to the quick cadence of your heart. It slams for space, almost nauseating, squeezing your internal organs as it tries it’s best to just hang on. He’s sin, a transgression to whatever divine laws are sung in stain-glass lit halls. And maybe your body knows – maybe it’s adrenaline, the fight or flight that’s kept you safe all these years, coming back to blare it’s bad news. Red flashes, astigmatism. A cavern of fire ready to swallow you whole.

But if hell is anywhere near as glorious as the feel of his hands on you, then you’d plunge to the devil yourself.

“Bloody christ. You beautiful thing,” His words, for contrast, are whispered with a reverence so quiet you wonder if he meant for you to hear. “It’s a fucking wonder no one’s tried their way with you.” Secret tenderness spilling to the lilt of it.

(Not so secret is the lust with which he kneads your hips.)

“They have,”

Shifting, he brings your legs to either side of him. “Is that right?”

“None were worth my time.”

“Mm. And I am?”

“We’ll see.”

“Suppose we will. Update me when you’re tending to a sore cunt.”

He doesn’t give you the time to respond, hands anchoring beneath your knees to press your thighs up to your chest. You’re snapped in half, miniscule beneath his body – an anvil with weight alone. Beyond fanned lashes and a feverish glow, you see his arm crook at the elbow, slotting between your thighs.

But he only grazes over your panties, stretched thin over your drenched centre.

Your hips buck, seeking friction to sate the fattening pressure. Price only entertains your high-pitched whines with gentle hushes. And when they ebb to a varicoloured fog, found in teary eyes, he taps your bitten lips with two fingers.

You take them in, suckling vacuum around the thick digits. Lapping at his knuckles, smoothing over the tang of saltpetre and binder leaves. He takes a moment to enjoy the balmy envelope of your mouth before reaching deeper, knocking molars and pinning down your tongue until your chest twinges with throbbing hypoxia. Spittle pools behind your teeth, dribbling from the seal of your lips to coat your chin.

You have half a mind to doubt it, to curl in with the knowledge that all it took was a stern stare and some words of comfort for you to debase yourself. But Price meets your insecurity with a reinforced thrust of his pelvis, hard-on grinding into your ass. It’s enough to send you unquestioned lechery.

A loud rip and the sudden rush of cold air on your pussy is what it takes for you to realise he’s stripped you bare, pocketing your torn underwear with a sly shift. Your jaw remains unhinged when he pulls away, tasting the stench of sex that clots sticky at the back of your throat. As such, there’s nothing to dampen your needy cry when he slips the slicked digits between velveteen folds.

He touches you like his name is imprinted in bold letters across your navel, implanting blunt fingertips onto your electric centre – circling, harsh and rough and fast enough to spike fully-body tremors. It’s debilitating, overstimulating and somehow, simultaneously not enough; a defibrillator to your core, a deep dive into molasses waters. His thumb takes place on your clit when he finds you clenching around nothing, index and middle inching towards your sopping hole to plug you full.

And the stretch burns, squeezing into a space that’s only ever taken your smaller hand. It doesn’t hurt so much as it aches, your cunt rushing to accommodate the intrusion. You know, you know, it’s a fraction of what’s to come – he’s preparing you to take him, that hefty appendage that’s so big it can’t even slot in your ass, confined and all. Yet, you feel as though you should’ve been readied for this too. This scissoring – chock-full of competency, an expert hook that isolates the perfect spot off the get-go. A part of you you’d never been able to reach.

His free hand cradles your neck, steadying it as he crouches over you to shove his tongue down your maw. It’s not a kiss, far from the lip smacking of before – no. Price bleeds his groaned compliments into your lungs, battling for what orifice of yours can make the lewdest sounds. Your moans, choked on scotch-spiked spit, or the battered, airtight clinch, gushing new slick with every quirk of his fingers.

“Mm, you’re– fuck, love. So goddamn tight, you’re practically cutting off my blood flow.” He curses, voice damned with restraint. It settles in the back of your head, forced through the bromine-doused cotton that lines your skull. Nothing makes sense. Vowels form shapes that dance to an off-tune song, edges slicing you, severing synapses. Something about blood, something about love. You’d always prided yourself on deciphering the most complicated of inflections, but never were you given the handbook on empyrean pleasure.

You can only guess based on what you see. Ivory skin, smudged at the edges, no hard lines to his form. Washed with contoured muscles, a peach blush, ripe enough to sink your teeth into if you can muster the energy. A bristly beard, carving you cell-by-cell, scraping the sensitive skin between your chin and lower lip until all that’s left is a bottomless chasm to drool your words into. You don’t dare roll your eyes back, can’t bear to shut them, even as your peripheral vision fuzzes out.

“C-Ca–”

“None of that. C’mon, love. John.”

“John! Sir–”

“Say it again.”

“J-John,”

His thumb presses down with a vengeance, bearing down on a trillion little nerve endings that flare up, liquifying your guts into a viscous substance, heavy as it sloshes around in you. Your muscles tense, screwing into tight knots, your hips lifting off the mattress. Price’s nose taps yours while he peppers you with small pecks – your top lip, the corner of your mouth, your chin.

And it’s cataclysmic; both everything and nothing all at once. The bout of deathly quiet before a nuclear blast, where birds flock out of trees and you think you can hear the pitter patter of a pulse, erratic at your wrist. And when the ground rocks, trembling with an explosive magnitude, fire erupting in the distance. When you seize up in a ball of fear–

Your cunt clenches impossibly tighter, all but forcing his fingers from you. It’s terrifyingly strong; your orgasm wrecks you not in waves, but as one upturning tsunami, floodgates open to the duvet underneath you.

–and do your best to embrace a quick death.

He gives you a moment to find yourself. Boneless, you sink into the bed, teetering towards oblivion.

“Tired already?” He teases, massaging your calves with subdued vigour. The fingers once knuckle-deep in you slide into his mouth, waitressing your spoils to his eager palate.

“Mmnn…”

“Best snap out of it, precious. I’m not nearly done with you yet.” He draws away to tug down his pants, taking his briefs along with it.

You don’t really… process it, right away. Expression dazed, you stare dumbly down at his leaking cock, reddened head angry at his prolonged control. Reality finds you in increments, foam lapping at a sun-soaked shore, carrying with it seagrass and brine.

The first thought that occurs to you; he’s hairy. Not untamed – it’s clear he trims the curls at his groin – but, just like his face, Price exudes masculinity in even the smallest of aspects. You imagine swallowing the length of him, doing your best to take it all, and breathing in unadulterated musk as you’re crushed against coarse hair.

The second; he’s huge. It’s a fact that shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does, but the longer you drink it in, the more inconceivable it seems. You’d known – had face-groped it in the car, felt it poke your ass – and still. It slaps the softer flesh of his stomach, swells under his touch when he wraps his fist around the base.

Last (a final position you credit to your own humility); he’s practically throbbing. Life pulsing in the thick veins that branch up the frenulum, oozing copious amounts of prespend. You’re shaking your head before you have time to come up with an adequate response.

“That’s not gonna fit.”

Stupid. He’s got you cock dumb and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

For a moment, he backs away, kneeling at your ankles. Dread swarms you, buzzing doubt. Of course he’d lay off at your admission, he made it clear he prioritised your consent above his own gain. You can’t help but think it fitting; a slip up is what ended up costing you ecstasy.

But then – ridiculously, blissfully – he bends over, so his face is level with your cunt.

And spits.

Squealing, you throw a leg over his neck, winding your hands in his ruffled hair. His jaw remains hidden behind your pubis, but the scrunch of his eyes tells you enough. He’s smiling.

“Hey–”

But Price doesn’t listen. He reaches up to rub his saliva over your folds, careful to especially do so over your tender entrance. As he does, his tongue – that expert, warm, wet tongue – smooths over your clit, sucking it back to a swollen floret.

You keen, bucking into his ministrations. Watered boscage, you come alive with new life, a fresh vigour under a pink spring.

(He threatens the delicacy; raging sun, eclipsed, now, by his role as captain – caregiver – but verging on a supernova. Ever the firestarter, you’ll abandon reinvigoration in a heartbeat for ruin instead.)

“We’ll make it fit.”

Something you’d never admit so long as you’re bound to this underworld, cursed by Zeus and shackled to your boulder – you already feel another climax impending, with just the effort of his mouth alone.

So you pull his hair until he’s made to detach from you, entertaining your command, crawling up your body for his lips to smash yours once more.

“Just fuck me.” You whisper against him.

“Watch your tone.” He replies.

And it’s enough of a symphonious statement to truly emphasise it when he catches the divet of your cunt, sculpting you into a paradigm figure of devotion as you catch his eye. Florentine, glinting with an ardour you mirror in your own. Hooded under a heavy brow bone, blending into a perfect nose. Wrinkles and age lines and still so in tune with your much younger self.

You bite your lip when he finally drives inside you. He cradles your head to the curve of his neck.

“Fucking hell, dove.”

“Haah–”

Exclamations groaned simultaneously, unravelling ribbons curled with the sharp blade of a knife. It’s the same, flickering sting, a pressure less than pleasurable cramping in your lower gut. But they exist as subsidiary, fleeting points to acknowledge and move on. Nothing can trump the deluge that is his cock slotting into you, bursting through a dam that shifts to fit hard ridges – sucking him deeper, deeper.

“Jesus– fuck. Nngh– you perfect… perfect little–”

When he’s more than halfway through, you figure it’s safe enough to contract what you’d been trying to relax. You nuzzle your face further into his shoulder, nosing Maduro and suede, drinking the heady fragrance of his sweat-infused cologne. You wind your arms up around him, driving nails into rigid muscle, and search for purchase as he bottoms out with the aid of your squelching uptake.

“So– Yersobig.” You slur into him, muffled.

“I know. I know, precious. Breathe through it,”

And his hand trails downwards to find your clit again, lubed under his efforts. He emphasises his reassurance with a precise rub, right over where you thrum fierce and hot, feeding the gluttonous depravity that begins crawling up your legs. It festers like a day-old wound, sticky and raw, delicate at the seams.

In between croaked moans, you voice your voracity. “Jus’ move, old man.”

Price’s chest rumbles. You flush with the thought of making him laugh.

And promptly quiet down when he draws out of you in his first stroke.

Because oh.

You don’t get used to the sensation, after all.

Every thrust, you’re able to discern a new part of him. One, and it’s the veins that slide perfectly across your walls. Two, and it’s the way he thickens the further he pushes in, stretching your sensitive skin to its limits. Three, four, five; his mushroomed head wedges against the gummy wall of your cervix, pumping you full of leaden warmth.

You’re fucked. Literally and figuratively.

Propelled into a cosmic cavity that engulfs you with familiarity. Not some galaxy, beyond the exploration of man (though, you feel you can reach out and touch the stars). More so a fort, made of the quilt your mother had gifted you once. Nostalgic timelessness, hot chocolate glazing your gullet, resting rich in your tummy. You go out of your way to lick the dampness from his skin and place a purpling bite in its stead.

He ducks to graze his lip on the shell of your ear. You shudder under the gesture’s exposing simplicity.

“You’re takin’ me so well, dove. Doin’ so good for me.” He groans, sap onto a crackling bonfire.

“Y-You– s’feels so–”

“You can do it, c’mon,” As if to challenge you, he gains speed, pistoning at a brutaller pace.

“John! Oh my god, oh my god. You can’t do that. I’m gonna…”

“Cum for me, then. Make a mess of yourself.”

And it’s the filth he utters over anything else. The string of obscene promises, sung for only you to hear, his balls slapping your ass and his prespend smearing milky white on sweltering walls. Captain – sir – who orders death in dire seconds, who depends on cigars and the quick-thinking action of his subordinates. Taking on that same pitch as he urges you to find release, a slow-creeping apocalypse waiting to happen at your core.

So perhaps he still asks for calamity; perhaps he knows you’ll lose face the moment you’re milked for all you’re worth.

You give it to him anyway, collapsing over a pressed-pedalboard longing.

Nerves snapping, limbic system miswiring. You wrap your limbs around him and black out before you feel the full effects of it.

You resurface half a minute later and find yourself in a completely different position. Axis turtled, he’d flipped you over on your hands and knees to spear you from behind.

“What was it I asked of you, eh?”

His chest fits along your back, tree-trunk arms wrapped around your waist. You barely hear him under the pool you’d been thrust into, his words splintered like the tune on an old record player. You hang there for a perennial moment – not quite floating, not drowning – blinking as the world rocks by in a blur of creme and gold.

Your elbows buckle. He has you before you fall face first into a cushion, a forearm buttressing your collar. The action hauls you upright, until you can rest your head on his shoulder. Blood rushes to your head.

Ragdoll is the first thing that occurs to you. Wool lined with cotton, pilled stitching.

“T’tell you…” You croak, parched.

“Mm?”

“F’it was too much.”

“Is it, dove?” He speaks against your cheek, placing a sloppy kiss on the upraised plane. You lean into it, nose bumping his.

“No… no. Keep goin’, please.”

Price needs nothing else.

You flop onto his full-bodied support, temple slick with moisture, itchy when it scuffs his beard. His cock plunges into new depths like this, pummeling your abdomen with a noticeable bulge, his fingers brushing affectionately over the extrusion. You’re somewhat cognizant to it – awake to what’s happening, aware of the loving nature – but say nothing.

The arm spread across your chest rises to your throat, wrapping around the lean length. It constricts enough air to bring stars to your eyes, pulsing flashes of nirvana, speckling the freckled skin that fills your vision.

“Gonna – fucking… cum inside, precious.” He screws them shut, his face scrunching, a lined portrait in sybaritism. You weakly nod along. “You’ll be bursting with it. Will feel me for days, won’t you?”

“Yhh– Hahh…” You struggle against his choking hold.

“Shhh. It’s okay, I know. I got you.”

You grab onto his wrists, winding around the hair that dusts them, bouncing with the unrelenting roll of his hips. You’re so full, it’s too much–

And when he stutters – the smallest, most imperceptible amount – you tighten your core and brace against the torrent that stuffs you.

“Fuck.”

Molten. Viscid. He wasn’t lying when he said you’d be brimming with milky-white, splattered across your insides. Your stomach overturns with the sheer volume of it; already, it oozes from you, slipping from the thick plug of him to paint your quivering thighs.

And you think of the desert sun and heat-drunk resentment. Sand, scorching, scratching absurd crevices. You think of yourself, two months ago, holding out from everyone. Part of you is angry (her, maybe, still buried underneath this murky rapture) that it took this long, that you’d forgone fulfilment for fear that your poison would seep through.

Another, newer part of you forgives the orchestration of your life thus far – Bulgaria, Tess, the general and the sick process that enabled him. If this is what it was all building up to, then you can find contentment, tucked somewhere in the scant space between you and your captain.

(Stupidly selfish, you recognise, even now. Like looking at dead soldiers and exhaling when you realise they’re not someone you know.

Perhaps it’s the tip that catches your the divet of your cunt when he pulls out, designed to fuck those experiences out of you.

Barely friends, hardly more.

But you could be.)

taglist: @guyfieriii @nqberries @kkinky @ravenhood2792 @allekat1988 @rattlemyb0nes @simonrileywife @melancholyy-hill @sexlapis @s-u-t @sweetybuzz25 @hypernovaxx @glassgulls @superbafango

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obitohno · 1 year

Text

dreaming of best friend! bakugo who wills himself to feign indifference as you’re telling him about yet another of your failed dates. you’re rambling away, rolling your eyes every now and again, and bakugo honestly, truly couldn’t care less, because all he’s focused on is the fact that once more, you’ve sought comfort in the arms of a man who isn’t him.

it bites at his ego, he has to admit, because he doesn’t think that he’s exactly subtle when it comes to the attention that he gives you, and yet, some years have passed since the two of you met, and still, you continue to sigh wearily over the fantasy of your ideal man, failing to see that he’s literally right there.

but then, mid-rant, a confession spills from your mouth, and his head snaps towards you so quickly that he swears his neck cricks with the force. he’s frowning—glaring—and you’re squirming, grimacing under the pretence of embarrassment.

‘the fuck d’you mean you ain’t cum?’

you’re clearing your throat, eyes darting away from his, and you mumble, ‘well, i’ve made myself cum, obviously—it’s just… no guy has ever… made me… you know?’

no, he doesn’t know. he’s made a point of not thinking about you in the clutches of someone who isn’t him, because, when he does, it is usually with an ugly bout of jealousy that niggles at his nerves.

he fails to realise that, initially, you’d blurted the confession simply because you knew that he wasn’t listening, with the intent to catch him off guard. you’d be lying if you weren’t curious about his reaction, but it also wasn’t a lie, and now that his expression has morphed into one of barely concealed disgust, your curiosity has piqued.

there’s a glint in his eye, and it’s one that has you swallowing thickly, your thigh tensing beneath the heat of the palm of his hand, his fingers splayed across your skin. you’d be blind to not notice the way that he looks at you, and more often than not, you’ve been left questioning why he’s never made a move. for years, you’ve pined after the vermillion eyed hero, burying the extent of your unrequited feelings between the thighs of the strangers who have previously warmed your bedsheets. but now, with the bite of his nails dragging up the expanse of your bare thigh, your legs sprawled across his lap, your pulse starts to beat a tune at the tiny nub hidden between your legs.

you’re peering at him, wide eyed, the shape of your mouth forming an ‘o’ that he suddenly wants to kiss away.

and so, he does.

his taste dominates your palate, his tongue massaging over the wet of yours, and he greedily swallows the pitch of your surprised moan that is breathed down his throat. the heat of him is smouldering, welcomed between the parting of your thighs when his fingers nudge between them, pinching at the plush meat of your hip. he bends above you, the brush of his groin to yours enticing the tune of a low groan from the back of his throat, his lips claiming dominance upon yours.

‘never made you cum, huh?’ his smile is mean, yet the sight still forms an ache in your lungs, and you pout up at him when his fingers tease at the hem of your ridiculously skimpy shorts—the colour matching that of his eyes—the thin fabric doing very little to hide the plush outline of your dampening cunt.

his kisses serve to bring you to a state of breathlessness, his ego inflating when you grasp a handful of his hair, the muscles of your calves pinned tight around the width of his waist. he watches, enthralled, as the corners of your mouth tug into a viscous smirk that has his stomach knotting with anticipation as you demand, ‘let’s change that, hm?’

#♡ jordy is writing ♡#mha x reader #bnha x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo angst #bakugo smut #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou smut #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki smut

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cursedvibes · 8 days

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I know you like tenken, takaken and sukume but what are some other relationships or dynamics do you like in jjk and why? Could be romantic, platonic, familial, antagonistic or just plain toxic and fucked up, anything.

Thanks for the interesting ask! These are my favourites at the moment.

Mahito & Yuuji

I think it's the best antagonistic relationship Yuuji has in the entire manga. I like them both as a ship and platonically for what we get in canon. Although considering the scene in the anime where Mahito tries to murder kiss Yuuji, you could say it's one-sidedly canon.

I miss Mahito a lot lately and come to only appreciate him more and more with time. He was very good at building up a sense of dread and he has a viciousness to him that's lacking in the current Shinjuku fight for me.

He mirrors Yuuji without literally being related to him (so far, who knows what else Gege will reveal to be in Yuuji's gene cocktail). Yuuji learns something from him, reflects upon himself, his actions, who he wants to be and why he fights. They are both still figuring each other and themselves out. Both of them grow during their fights and become more dangerous, desperate and feral any time they meet. I love how Mahito is not only able to break Yuuji, but also to break him. Yuuji's hatred for Sukuna is smouldering, while for Mahito it is a raging fire. Yuuji has nothing to learn from Sukuna and no interest to engage with him anymore, while for Mahito it was raw and personal and resulted in Yuuji embracing the disgusting and ruthless side of himself that makes him so cold against Sukuna.

It's been great to see how even now Mahito still influences Yuuji. He was the first one who really taught him about the soul and what it can be capable of. Any time the soul is brought up, Yuuji's first thought is how Mahito was able to manipulate and contort it. He is able to hurt Sukuna so much because of what he learned from Mahito. As much as I miss Mahito and his personality, it wouldn't make sense to bring him back now, so I'm glad to see his continued impact on Yuuji this way. Overall, what I like about the two is how "juvenile" their conflict is. Cruelty of a child and innocence of a child clashing and both of them improving, growing and maturing through it. I also think it's very fitting that Yuuji never got to exorcise Mahito because the message is that Mahito represents a different side of him and he shouldn't ignore or destroy that side, he has to embrace it to be able to stomach what lies ahead.

Maki & Mai

If done right, I'm always a sucker for twin relationships, especially the codependency in it. I wouldn't say Maki & Mai are my favourite example of them or the best written one, but I still like them for what they are, particularly everything in Perfect Preparation and the Sakurajima colony. It could've been better and more consistently set up, but the payoff is still emotional and impactful and that's what I like them for.

Both of them need each other, wanted to help each other in their own way, but they never saw eye-to-eye or managed to communicate properly until after Mai's death. They were holding each other back through more than just the jujutsu consequences of being born a twin. Mai wanted Maki to give up and live with her at the bottom and Maki thought she had to shoulder all responsibility and could only go on and pave a way for them alone. Even after the have "become one" in a jujutsu sense and Maki unlocked her Heavenly Restriction, they don't immediately work together and have to learn how to communicate with each other and lift each other up, make up for what the other can't do. And through understanding Mai better and learning to hold her and fight together with her, she also begins to understand herself better.

I wish we got a more in-depth look at them, their past and relationship while both were alive before the Perfect Preparation arc. I hope Maki's arc will have a satisfying end and she will find something meaningful to do with her life.

Hakari & Uraume

Every time the leaks come out, I'm hoping for at least a glimpse at these two. There's been setup for some really interesting exploration of the themes of humanity and strength here. They are also just such a funny duo and it gets more and more hilarious the more chapters pass by and we don't see them. While Sukuna plays whac-a-mole with the main group, Hakari and Uraume have been "fighting" for 20 chapters now without seemingly getting anywhere except gossiping about what happens over at the main source of action. Wouldn't be surprised if we skip back to them to see them eating ice cream while watching the others get beaten up.

On a more serious note, I really hope the little speech Uraume gave in ch 245 gets picked up again and explored upon because it was the most interesting commentary we got so far on the source of sorcerers power, what it means to be human when you are so strong and also Uraume's background. Uraume's view of humanity and strength seems to slightly differ from Sukuna's and they also seem to reflect upon it more. They say forming relationships and fear of losing said relationships is what makes you weak and yet they have no problem following Sukuna and worrying about him. They are even open to forming bonds with others like Kenjaku or even Hakari. Hakari is actually the person we have seen them be most relaxed and friendly with so far. With Sukuna there is always a remaining formality and Kenjaku annoys them, but with Hakari they chat like a normal person. They make fun of him, but it's very colloquial. It seems like they actually came to see him as a true equal. There is no binding vow or old history binding them together, they simply want to keep Hakari from interfering with the fight and through that they got to engage with him without any pretence.

I just wish we actually got to see how their relationship developed over that now pretty significant amount of time and to see more of Uraume's worldview and maybe Hakari's too. He broke away from Jujutsu Tech and was left to build up his own independent existence together with Kirara. Very similar to Uraume and Sukuna. Now if we could only explore that connection between them more. On page. Not off-screen. I would've taken that any time over the pointless intervention from Geto's cult members or Kusakabe sacrificing himself.

Kusakabe & Yaga

I think this is Kusakabe's most interesting relationship and what actually gives him some depth beyond Exposition Guy. It's also where we see Yaga's more overtly caring side beyond his interactions with Panda. Unfortunately, it gets overlooked a lot, in part because Gege doesn't linger much on it beyond one or two chapters and Kusakabe's last words before getting cut down. There is literally nothing about this ship in fandom spaces. Probably because for some reason people think Yaga isn't hot enough (he's the literal definition of a dilf what more do you want?)...

Chapter 147 is interesting because it shows us the closest relationships and most hidden secrets both Kusakabe and Yaga have. We learn that Yaga not only makes autonomous puppets, but he actually has a whole Hundred Acre Wood-type of retreat full of the souls of dead people, children in particular. They aren't weapons like Panda, they don't fight, they are just allowed to live there. Protected by Tengen interestingly enough. She probably just doesn't care what he does or thinks it mildly interesting/quirky. This is also where we find out that Kusakabe has a sister (Usami?), who has been severely traumatized to the point of being catatonic and lost her son, Kusakabe's nephew. Despite the taboo, both Kusakabe and Yaga are willing to raise the dead not only to help her, but also to give Kusakabe something of his family back. It's the most vulnerable moment we've gotten of him and it speaks of their deep bond that Yaga was willing to do this. Doubt he would do this for just any jujutsu teacher (who doesn't even work for him). Creating that kind of cursed corpse isn't easy after all. But nothing strengthens a bond like necromancy. Kusakabe's last words about Yaga in ch 254 are also interesting. He fights for Yaga, knowing he wouldn't force him to do this, but reflecting on how they used to be able to fight together. They must have known each other for a long time. Kusakabe tells himself multiple times to not linger on the dead, but any time he does, it's because of Yaga.

A very interesting relationship with much potential that goes underexplored. I would've much preferred for his relationship with Yaga to be highlighted more in his fight against Sukuna than that out of place "interview" where people who barely know Kusakabe explain his character to us. If they could bring Gojo and Nanami back from the dead, they could've shown Yaga too. If you really want me to believe that Kusakabe is a kind person, show me more of how he acts around the people he actually cares about, i.e. Yaga and Miwa. He's a very different person around them, particularly Yaga and that's when he allows himself to be vulnerable.

So yeah, I think they explored each other's bodies to help each other through their grief.

#I thought about including JinKen too but I already talk a bunch about them everywhere else on my blog #plus I wanted to choose some where we already know a substantial amount about their relationship in canon #jujutsu kaisen #itadori yuuji #mahito #itamahi #uraume #hakari kinji #kusakabe atsuya #yaga masamichi #jjk spoilers

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bonefall · 7 months

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Just curious, but why did you decide to change Onestar pardoning the Dark Forest trainees to punishing them? Was it just to service A Vision Of Shadow's conflict, or were there other factors involved?

It frustrates me that in canon, there's no lasting repercussions for what happened in Po3 and OotS, almost as if the series just wanted to wash its hands of it.

Breezepelt is established to be an upcoming problem, and that goes away. All of the leaders shrug and move on. Bramblestar and Squirrelflight are happily together with bio babies after he treated her like garbage for 6.5 books.

We only really got any conclusions to these problems in SEs, where they feel rushed exactly because they were capping them in hindsight.

So you could say this change is "to serve the conflict of AVoS" but that wording feels dismissive to me. I feel like I'm fixing a problem. Arcs SHOULD feed into each other, no? Isn't the strength of WC the way that we get to follow the cats through the generations? See current events become history, and watch how small things cascade into big things?

And Onestar...

We're trying to set up that Onestar is becoming a harder and harsher person as he's consumed by the pressure of leadership, and his trauma from his near-murder in the WindClan Civil War. We are about to watch him become a MAJOR antagonist of AVoS, slamming an embargo down on ShadowClan until they deal with The Kin.

So how does letting *another* set of attempted traitors get off scot free really serve that? It doesn't make sense to me in-canon either. He refused to punish Breezepelt's mother when she was part of a violent insurrection and look at how THAT turned out!!

I think the end of OotS is the perfect time for him to go scorched earth, and show that he's beginning to consider leniency as a weakness. He also punishes Crowfeather earlier at the end of Po3 when Hollyleaf reveals the secret, in response to BB!Crowfeather being more loud and dramatic than his canon counterpart, cold and detatched.

Canon Crowfeather: "Everyone is stupid except me. I can't stand all of this. I deserve more respect even though I refuse to give it to anyone else."

BB!Crowfeather: "MY HEART SMOULDERS LIKE A PEAT FIRE, FOR YOU! LEAFPOOL, I'VE BEEN AS HOLLOW AS A DALE SINCE YOU LEFT ME" (nightcloud is literally right there. Leafpool is trying really hard to calm him down because he's making a scene and she really doesn't want MORE attention drawn to the romantic fling she had years ago and massively regrets)

But anyway, that's off on a tangent lmao. Bottom line is; it is to serve AVoS, but that's my goal with BB. To strengthen the narrative.

#better bones au #BB!Onestar

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gidaryeong · 4 months

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2023 drama roundup

Unchained Love: I still hum the unhinged flute intro on a regular basis, easily my fave intro of 2023! I didn't actually finish the show due to dwindling interest, but for the first 14 episodes or so I took a keen pleasure in it (and it made me go on a eunuch webnovel spree, expertly curated by @mercipourleslivres). I love it when heroines are allowed to be truly funny, rather than just quirky or ditzy. Also appreciate the goofy Lamp Prince turning into a brutal incel tyrant the moment he got power.

Six Flying Dragons: I don't think I can write anything succinct enough for the roundup format so I direct you to my "my sfd tag" if you want to access my enthused livetweeting. Show of all times, lives were changed.

Tree with Deep Roots: I literally can't think of a better topic for a tv show than Sejong the Great constructing hangul together with his band of nerds, one of whom he has a weirdly intense, vaguely erotic relationship with. Han Suk-kyu carried this entire show on his trembling shoulders. What an actor! What range!!! It was such a treat to watch him smugly debate his ministers, roleplay a farmer, and hiss half-mad soliloquies to himself in the dark. It took nuance and depth to portray the kind of inner conflicts and generational trauma that Sejong battles in the background of this drama. To be honest I didn't always enjoy the Milbon subplot which I felt got repetitive, and often found myself wanting to fast-forward the wuxia scenes. In a better world the show would have centered the whip-smart palace maids and their alphabet workshops. But I will definitely rewatch this soon. And maybe also write a fix-it where Sejong and Soo-yi fuck idk.

Quartet: Cute little murder mystery about a found family of freaks, liked it a lot.

My Country: The New Age: As entertaining as ever. Very fun to rewatch this back to back with Tree with Deep Roots, since Jang Hyuk plays diametrically opposite characters with the same vigor and commitment.

Gone with the Rain: Sometimes you watch something which you understand is technically a masterpiece but it doesn't do anything for you, and sometimes you watch a piece of campy silly fun and it makes you tingle with joy. This was the latter category for me. I liked the first and middle parts enough to make up for the lukewarm fizzle of an ending.

The Autumn Ballad: Has some fucked up elements that are difficult to stomach, but the parts that are good are really good.

Not Others: Bingeable! But imo they could have cut out the stalker/murder cases and just focused on the excellent family drama.

The Matchmakers: This surprisingly swooped in towards the end of the year as my favorite comedy of 2023, all thanks to a rec by @haraxvati. I adore Cho Yi-hyun in this role!!! She is so hot as a shrewd matchmaker with a fake mole and a twinkle in her eye. Love the virgin prince with his yearning-induced panic attacks (Rowoon didn't work for me in The King's Affection in a quite similar role, but he's so much weirder and lamer here, which is something I like in a man). I am obsessed with the side plot of the crossdressing romance novelist and the solemn police officer who is trying to capture her and ends up giving her free home renovations and smouldering looks instead. Also, Park Ji-Young and Lee Hae-Young are two of my favorite villain actors on their own, and here they are married!! Still have a few episodes to go, but I intend to binge them as soon as I post this.

Dramas I dropped or paused:

Our Blossoming Youth: I shipped the heroine and her cute maidservant a little too much to bear the dull prince they stuck her with. But I might rewatch it some day bc I want to write a Sherlock Holmes fic for the girls.

Little Women: A real disappointment, because I love Louisa May Alcott and I love Jeong Seo-kyeong. Once again, letting the women kiss might have solved much of it.

Island: Casting Kim Nam-gil as an expressionless cool-guy action hero offends me personally. (Yes Song of the Bandits I'm giving you the stinky eye also.) But Lee Da-hee and Cha Eun-woo were delightful!

See you in my 19th life: I couldn't, even for my most darling Shin Hye-sun, go beyond episode 1. There's something about a kid dating another kid even though she's a literal adult inside her brain that I can't really vibe with.

My Dearest: I do intend to finish this, but I lost the thread after the first half. It got a little too dark for me I think.

#you'll get my moving and minglan recaps in the 2024 roundup because i haven't finished them yet #(i like minglan too much to binge it and my husband won't let me watch either show without him)#unchained love #six flying dragons #tree with deep roots #quartet #my country: the new age #gone with the rain #the autumn ballad #not others #the matchmakers #our blossoming youth #tvn little women #tving island #see you in my 19th life #mbc my dearest #2023 recap #kdrama

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runninriot · 2 months

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Inspired by the prompt Love is just a four-letter word by @sal-si-puedes for @steddielovemonth day 27

the definition of love

wc: 944 | rated: t | tags: Established Relationship, Sappy Steddie, Dustin and Eddie friendship, Dustin and Steve friendship, Dustin is going through a bit of heartbreak

“This is so stupid! What even is love?”

It’s not a question Eddie thought he’d ever get asked by Dustin. But he gets it, knows how much it hurts to have your heart broken for the very first time. Especially as a teenager, when it feels like it’s literally the end of the world.

Eddie thinks about it, let’s the question sink in.

What is love?

Well, technically speaking, love is just a four-letter word. But it’s also so much more than that.

Love is a variety of expressions and emotions. Love is big gestures and little things that go unnoticed in the day to day life.

To Eddie, it’s the fear of losing Steve. It’s saying ‘Drive safe’ like a little prayer every day when Steve leaves for work in the mornings because Eddie couldn’t bear if anything ever happened to him.

Love is adoration, telling Steve ‘You look so hot in those jeans’ or ‘My pretty boy’ just to see him blush, just to let him know how beautiful he is.

Love is pride. To be rightfully self-appreciating of the things they’ve accomplished as a couple – overcoming insecurities, sticking together even through tough times, making plans for a future together.

Love is never wanting to be apart from Steve.

Love is a three-word sentence, a confession of the heart Eddie makes every night before they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Sometimes it’s saying ‘I’m sorry’ after a fight. It’s saying ‘I cooked your favourite meal’ or ‘Let’s watch that movie you like’.

Love is saying ‘Thank you’ and ‘Pleaaase, baby’.

Other times it’s not saying anything at all, when Eddie just lets his lips pour all his feelings into a kiss or when he lets his fingers worship Steve’s body, caressing each scar, each blemish, every perfect imperfection that makes him unique.

It’s the flittering butterfly wings he feels in his stomach when Steve smiles at him and the prickling on his skin he feels whenever they touch.

Love is holding each other. Having your favourite person’s arms wrapped around you for comfort, when you’re cold, or just for the sake being close.

Sometimes, love isn’t gentle. It’s rough and wild. Sometimes it hurts, runs through your veins like a raging fire, smouldering in your soul.

It’s passion and longing.

Love is taking each other apart, becoming one in heated moments. It’s the urge to bite and suck and lick, to savour the taste of sweat drenched skin and spit slick holes.

It’s the rhythm of their bodies moving in sync, grinding, and gliding, and sinking in.

It’s falling together and landing on clouds.

Love is the delightful sound Steve makes when he laughs loudly at one of Eddie’s stupid jokes and the soft, whispered words they share in the dark of the night.

It’s a melody Eddie absently plays on his guitar while his mind is filled with thoughts about Steve.

Love is a four-letter word but sometimes it’s five – because it’s Liebe in German, and Amour in French, and to Eddie it’s Steve.

Love is everything, and if it’s true then it’s forever.

Love is what makes Eddie’s life complete.

“You’ll know once you find it,” Eddie finally says, placing a comforting arm on Dustin’s shoulders to pull him into a brotherly hug.

It might not be the most satisfying answer but it’s the best he can give. And he knows one day Dustin will understand, when he finds the person holding the other half to his heart in their chest.

Eddie never expected to find his other half in Steve of all people but now that he knows what it’s like to love him and to be loved by him, he never wants to be without again.

“You just gotta be patient,” he adds, can see Dustin rolling his eyes without seeing his face, huffing and sniffling into his shirt.

There’s a gentle knock and when he looks up, Eddie finds Steve’s worried face peeking through the half-open door.

‘Is everything okay?’ Steve mouths, pointing at Dustin who still hasn’t let go of Eddie.

Eddie smiles and nods at his boyfriend, forming a silent ‘I love you’ with his lips, just because.

Steve turns around and tries to make his way back into the hallway.

“I know you’re there, Steve. Just get your ass in here,” Dustin mumbles into Eddie’s embrace, waving a hand in the general direction of Steve.

He only looks up once he can feel Steve’s hand on his back.

“Suzie broke up with me.”

“I’m sorry, buddy. That sucks.”

Dustin wipes his eyes with his sleeve, shrugs his shoulders, and sighs defeated.

“Love is bullshit.”

Steve and Eddie share a look, soft and doting.

“Yeah it is,” Steve smiles, “but it’s also the best goddamn thing in the world.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh, takes Steve’s hand in his and kisses the back of it.

“Ugh, you guys are the worst. I knew I should’ve gone to Robin instead. At least she knows what it’s like to be hopeless.”

With that being said, Dustin makes his way out of the room, ready to wallow alone in his heartbreak.

But before he exists through the door, he turns around one more time, finds Steve and Eddie still holding hands, looking at each other in a way that makes him want to barf and melt at the same time.

Because no matter how much he hates to admit – whatever they have, theirs is the true definition of love.

Maybe, Dustin thinks, feels something like hope blooming in his chest despite the lingering sadness, one day, I’ll find something just as perfect and wonderful.

#steddielovemonth #love is...#day 27 #steve harrington #eddie munson #dustin henderson #definition of love

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cloudculmination · 12 days

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Two Dredgen stand at the remains of a smouldering settlement. Carcasses strewn around and festering with the chewing bite of sorrowful weapons.

One of them broke the loud silence. "What happens with hope leaves? Just look at the Fallen and Riis. Just look at this..." He throws his arms up - disdainful of his, and his partner's actions.

"You fall into despair.."

He slowly and methodically peels off an outer layer of spineless armor, his gauntlets. He discards them on the ground. He doesn't even notice.

He begins to re-enter what was once a small town.

"The only way to get out is to crawl out of that pit of hell you sauntered proudly into, then.. Is to become the shit people walk on."

He unfastens his gloves and his chestplate, discarding those too. They fall unceremoniously.

"If not you'll just rot down there. I'd know."

The man sighs, and pauses to roll his shoulders, back facing his companion. A bad move, yes, but he could care less for his life. This opening was calculated.

"I've rotted outside and inside of Sol millions and millions of times before my Ghost could drag me back to the unliving."

He resumed the shedding of his uniform, unlocking the clasps of his mask and letting it drop onto the pile with a muffled rattle.

"So hear me now." His voice trembled with... something.

Not fear alone, but moreso... rage.

It seemed to burn hot into the penumbra of their encounter. His face did not need to be seen for this.

"In existence, if you want something? This is what it means to truly "take". You find what you need and rip it offa the poor sunovabitch..." He violently kicks a lump of mud. It was mixed with soot and blood. The coagulated mess was sent flying easily over 50 feet.

"Even if that sunovabitch is a baby and what you're takin' is candy." His shoulders tremble for a second, his breaths sounding controlled but his body almost heaving.

The volume of the soliloquy seems to be increasing. The man is loud and does not care. The other Dredgen is the only other around for approximately five miles.

"Their tears ain't your own here. In that moment. You wanted the candy? Con-fucking-gratulations. Enjoy it, savor it, because —" The man sucks in a sharp bitter breath, ripping off the remainder of his equipment, leaving him in tattered under armour.

"...Who knows. Maybe that same kid will show up one day and blast your brains out. I believe that's how it works."

Dredgen Hope is no longer present. The thing standing there, shudders almost bare, breaths hissing and shuddering in rage and pain and realization.

"If I learned anything about being a Shadow, it's.. that the only thing that take and don't give is lady death, brother."

He beats at his chest twice with a tightly held fist.

"But if you ain't ready for that unseen sister?..." He seems to slowly deflate, exhaustion catching up. Yet he slowly begins his slow walk away.

"You better fight or... just fuckin' get it over with, bust y'Ghost, and then yourself."

He staggers, reels and spits out some gunk and blood which was stuck in his trachea.

"It ain't right for ones such as us to feel guilt, huh? But remember what you were. And look at you now. If there's anything you should guilt and pity about... it should be your damn self."

Despair words. 'Better out than in.' An echo of a Ghostly spark encourages. The man walks in hope, a bit taller. 'I'm proud of you.'

"For fellas who like the Hive and are s'pposed t'be worshippin'? Y'all got the wrong fuckin' idea..."

Is the man instilling hope? Like another infection? Is he telling the other to go off himself literally? Is he just saying shit? It doesn't matter because the one saying these words doesn't know himself. He just keeps walking. He doesn't care if the other follows or not. Hell! He probably wouldn't fucking care if the other attempted to kill him or stop him.

He has no weapons but his words.

"I ain't waitin' on you no more. You either comin' or goin'. M'goin' to be a dead man walkin' some place else."

His words have power. It's why he seldom talks. But he thinks. He thinks this, with the Ghostly gossamer overshielding his mind;

Until the flash-fire of crazed burning-time -

Nips the roses at the bud -

Until the last flame dies -

And all words have been spoken -

A revel in mystery of a half-life -

Not yet discovered -

Another promise to be taken or left behind -

"Until next time, ol'friend."

His words can end gifts.

(He does not speak again for a long time. His Ghost helps with this.)

#writing #destiny 2 #faux grimoire #dredgen hope #destiny the game #shin malphur #zyre orsa #the drifter #the drifter destiny #dredgen vale

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ssj2hindudude · 10 months

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Ok, I've been watching a lot of skits lately (animafia, ssblayze, imtracyallen), so I'll go with the first thing I think of:

Who is the best Apsara?

Aiden: *fiddling with Shadowfax, then looks up*

Aiden: Huh? Who is the best Apsara? Obviously me-

Malini: Ace cakes, I love you, but shut up. You already chose Aru for a love interest. Don't say anything else ridiculous.

Aiden: What are you saying, mom?

Malini: Only that you're wrong about you being the best Apsara.

Aiden: How am I wrong? I'm out here using my powers to pull multiple feats.

Malini: What feats?

Aiden: My smoulder-

Malini: Which only works on Aru

Aiden: My singing-

Malini: Which also only works on Aru

Aiden: Let me finish! My singing got us through several situations including the final stage!

Malini: Yes, good on you for being able to use it as a distraction! It's not as though the same thing could be accomplished with a properly thrown anklet!

Aiden: Mom, why are you even here? Last I checked, being the best Apsara didn't mean being the one that got exiled.

Malini: First off, I wasn't exiled, I left them.

Aiden: Yeah, for a total-

Malini: Watch it, he's still your father.

Grandma M: And he's still more relevant to his character development than you were. What did you even do in the series besides give him one song note to get help from me?

Malini: ...

Grandma M: Thought so.

Aiden: Hold up, Grandma. What do you think you're doing here? I know you don't think you're the best apsara.

Grandma M: First of all, boy, I'd watch my tone if I were you. Second of all, of course I'm the best apsara. After all, I'm the only one in the family who's retained her powers in their prime, her youth-

Malini: And her wrinkles

Grandma M: and my wrinkl- WAIT A MINUTE

Urvashi: My thoughts exactly!

Grandma M: Urvashi-devi! *pranams* DON'T JUST STAND THERE, BOW!

*Aiden and Malini pranam*

Urvashi: Exactly. Honestly, having an apsara contest and not even inviting me, literally the epitome of Apsara-hood in the entire Hindu religion.

Aiden: Can we have a no-deity rule in these things from now on? They're too broken.

Me: No way, that's what makes it fun!

#the pandava quintet #aiden acharya #aru shah #aru shah headcanon #aru shah incorrect quotes #aru shah headcanons

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hendolish · 6 months

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Girlie that last benaaron fic got me like👀👀. Maybe another one but with car sex. And Aaron's like we can wait but Ben literally cannot and he practically jumps Aaron in the car. I'm such a sucker for desperate Ben you don't understand 😫😫

ben white/aaron ramsdale | desperate ♡ (smut)

The night air is crisp as Ben and Aaron step out of the dimly lit restaurant, their laughter lingering like a sweet echo. Ben's hand grazes Aaron's back, relishing the feeling of the smooth fabric of his suit under his fingertips.

Wine and a shared dinner have left him in high spirits, his usually reserved self giving way to a more playful, touchy-feely Ben that seldom makes an appearance. But Aaron loves it when he does.

They stroll down the quiet street, the glow of streetlamps casting a gentle, romantic sheen on the surroundings. Ben can't resist himself; he's drawn to Aaron like a moth to a flame. He slips his arm around Aaron's waist and pulls him closer, trailing a line of soft kisses along his jaw.

"You look well fit in that suit." Ben murmurs, his lips brushing against Aaron's earlobe.

Aaron chuckles, a deep, melodic sound that warms Ben's heart. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

Emboldened, Ben stops in his tracks, his fingers slipping beneath the collar of Aaron's shirt, caressing the nape of his neck. Their lips meet in a fervent kiss, a tangle of desire and affection.

It takes a while for them to reach Aaron's car, and Ben reluctantly breaks the kiss. The passion in his eyes is undeniable, a smouldering hunger that speaks volumes. He wants Aaron, and he wants him now.

Inside the car, they share a stolen moment, the privacy of the vehicle a haven for their desires. Ben’s kisses become deeper, more passionate, his hands exploring every inch of Aaron's body. It's impossible to deny the heat between them, and Aaron smiles against Ben’s lips.

"We should wait," Aaron murmurs, a hint of playfulness in his voice. He means they should hold off until they get home, but Ben is having none of it.

Ben shakes his head, his gaze intense. He crashes his lips against Aaron's, a fiery hunger igniting within him. He knows what he wants, and he's not one to wait; Aaron always gives him what he desires.

Aaron soon finds himself breathless, pushed back in the driver's seat as Ben climbs into his lap. Inebriated, it's not the most precise of manoeuvres and Ben curses under his breath as he knocks his knee against the gearstick.

"Not funny." He breathes out against Aaron's cheek as the blond can't help the laughter that bubbles out of him. Aaron takes Ben firmly into the circle of his arms in apology, grinding upwards to capture the shaky breath that falls from Ben's lips.

Their hands fumble, the urgency palpable as fabric rustles and belts unbuckle and soon Ben feels the gratifying touch of skin on skin, Aaron's heat pressed against his own.

"Please." The word rips itself from Ben's lungs as Aaron closes a hand around his cock, stroking it far too slowly. The smug look on the blond's face tells Ben he knows exactly what he’s doing and if he didn't look so fucking attractive right now in his suit jacket and tie, Ben would be having words with him.

Instead, he says it again, this time more desperate than the first, the need for Aaron to do something, anything, burning through his veins.

"Want me inside you?" Aaron checks with him eventually after Ben adds a few pleading kisses to the mix. Ben nods half-coherently as he presses his cheek against Aaron's, breathing heavily, "You still stretched enough?"

To have Aaron push into him with no prep, he means. Ben shakes his head, "Don't care." He probably is, but he would've wanted this either way.

Despite his own reckless attitude, Aaron still pushes inside of him slowly, gripping on tightly to Ben's hips so that he won't fall and take too much too soon. Ben grits his teeth as he takes each inch, the stretch burning in the best way, but he still manages to take all of Aaron's cock and can't help but feel pleased, grinning as he pulls Aaron into a kiss, the blond gazing up at him, mesmerised.

"Fuck."

Ben curses as Aaron begins to move, thrusting upwards into him at an unrelenting pace, the earlier fire burning between them rekindled. Aaron's large hands dig into the flesh of Ben's arse as they move together, the blond dictating their moves as Ben gasps and moans against his ear, kissing and licking at the shell.

And Ben can't take it as Aaron brushes up against his prostate, his entire body quivering with pleasure as he slumps forward against the taller man, relinquishing every last inch of control as he squeezes his eyes shut and loses himself to the pleasure of his climax washing over him.

He spills over his own stomach and shirt that remains hanging from his shoulders, half-unbuttoned. He probably ruins Aaron's too but he doesn't think the other will much mind at this moment in time as he continues to thrust inside of him, chasing his own release.

"Love you."

Ben tells him sincerely as he leans back slightly in Aaron's arms to hold his gaze, and that's the moment that Aaron finally falls over the edge, breathing heavily as he sinks Ben deeply onto his cock and spills inside of him.

And Aaron whispers it back to him a million times over between tiny little kisses pressed to every inch of Ben's skin until delivering one final lingering kiss to his lips that feels more intimate than anything that's ever been said between them.

♡

#benaaron anon… i love you SO MUCH #your prompts always scratch the part of my brain these two occupy so well oml #loved writing this reversal (ish) of roles desperate ben is indeed 😍🤩😍#england #england national team #england nt #england football #football #football rpf #benaaron #ben white #aaron ramsdale #ramsdale #the arsenal #arsenal #arsenal fc #fics #smut

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stormyoceans · 1 year

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NOTHING is funnier than puentalay's first two meetings. like you are a celeb after a long flight, you still need to go to work. you are calmly washing hands in airport's bathroom when suddenly a cutie calls your attention to himself. puen was not saying much but he was looking at talay like 'yeah sure i believe that you are not my fan' and then he looked at this hat very thoroughly and decided he likes him enough already to wear his gift and to let him adjust it on his head with his pissy hands. and don't let me start to talk about the way they almost kissed, i think puen's fanclub would block all talay's socials if they knew about it (because he kinda invaded their idol's privacy...). but still puen didn't even pushed him away. if he didn't need to work who knew what would happen lmaooo and the way talay looked at him. are you sure you are not his fan (you seem like a fan of his sexiness at least). okay all good talay is gay and a very handsome man called him cute i understand. so about their second meeting...

do we think puen saw talay and his first thought was 'universe brought us together'? because yknow he's such romantic. and then he unleashed his full flirting potential in front of everyone because I can't even look at the way he pressed on talay's shoulder forcing him to lie down and brought their faces very close without covering my face with my hands and peaking at them through my fingers. very professional technics puen who taught you that???

i think it would be so funny if one day they'll drink with gyo and joe and tup and tou and somehow their first meeting brought up and they start bicker because puen says something like 'you did this gift for me, you were so smitten' and talay's like 'you let me touch you with unwashed hands' and their friends groaning and asking them to shut up

they were unhinged from the very start is what i want to say

MESSAGES THAT COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND MAKE YOU CONTEMPLATE JUST HOW DEEPLY PROFOUNDLY UNIQUELY TERRIBLY COCAINELY SICKLY INSANELY DERANGED THIS SHOW TRULY IS

LITERALLY YOU’RE SO RIGHT ANON THAT’S THE FUNNIEST MOST ICONICLY UNHINGED MEET CUTE EVER SHOWN ON TELEVISION talay is standing in that bathroom with his pee hands telling a famous actors that he has a big head and puen is just giggling twirling his hair kicking his feet letting this complete stranger he just met push and pull his head around which somehow ends up with the two of them almost accidentally kissing. they spend the next 10 seconds just staring at each other inappropriately close while puen gives his best impression of sexy sultry smouldering look and talay is like 👁️👄👁️🏳️‍🌈❓

and then you have talay exhibiting the most behavior as he calls puen back just to specify that HE is the cute person who drew the alpaca, and when puen does indeed call him cute again, talay stares after him with such a dazed expression on his face that he has to slap himself out of it AND HIS HANDS ARE STILL PISSY BECAUSE HE WAS TOO BUSY BEING WHIPPED FOR PUEN TO REMEMBER THAT CRUCIAL LITTLE DETAIL. the sheer audacity he has to look gyo's in the eyes and tell her that he's not puen's fan like her when puen calling him cute has him moving like a clown....... something tells me he omitted the pee hands when he recounted the meeting to her SO I HOPE THIS COMES BACK TO HAUNT HIM WHEN PUEN INNOCENTLY TELLS THEIR FRIENDS

i would actually LOVE to see puen and talay bringing up their first meeting and bickering over who was more smitten (THE ANSWER IS BOTH OF THEM) and puen recognizing talay not only as the cute guy with pee hands that gave him the bucket hat in an airport bathroom but also as the hot corpse who could not stay still for a single take and who made him smile with his silliness!!!! AND YOU GET ME SO MUCH ANON HIDING MY FACE INTO MY HANDS AND PEAKING THROUGH MY FINGERS IS EXACTLY HOW I WATCH THIS SCENE TOO. puen really was demonstrating such incredibly professional techniques like pushing talay back on the ground by his shoulder, moving his arm out of the way, getting one inch close to his face, fixing his hair, telling him to close his eyes, gently brushing invisible dust from his face...... MEANWHILE TALAY IS JUST LYING THERE FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE AND WILLING A HARD ON AWAY AND GIVING EVEN MORE 🏳️‍🌈❓❓❓❓❓ LOOKS. ALL OF THIS IN FRONT OF AN ENTIRE CREW OF PEOPLE I MAY ADD

THE WAY WE'RE BARELY TEN MINUTES INTO THE SHOW AND THEY'RE ALREADY GIVING THE MOST EMOTIONALLY CHARGED UNHINGED ENERGIES EVER PUT TO FILM WE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN FROM THE VERY BEGINNING THAT THINGS WOULD ONLY GET EVEN MORE INSANE FROM HERE

#INSANE SHOW WRITTEN PRODUCED AND ACTED BY INSANE PEOPLE FOR INSANE PEOPLE ONLY!!!!!!!#GOD I LOVE IT SO MUCH 😭😭😭🤧🤧🤧#THANK YOU FOR THIS MESSAGE ANON IT MADE ME BOTH LAUGH AND SCREAM SO MUCH #vice versa #puentalay #m: ask

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doshmanziari · 1 year

Photo

Here’s the occasional mini-post. Look for a rewritten and more historically contextualized version of this post on my Substack soon.

Something that I've not seen any comment on regarding Elden Ring is how the game's occasional flares of bold color-clusters is pretty evenly matched, if not overwhelmed, by a ton of grays, a lack of bold contrasts (note how, in the second screenshot, there is no strong sense of how far any of the architectural elements are from one another; they might as well all be one mass), and what I find to be an overuse of fog effects. This is coupled with FromSoftware’s characteristically odd lighting (sans dynamic shadowing) which tends to give surfaces here a newly noticeable kind of cool metallic sheen (e.g., the non-grassy ground in the sixth screenshot above).

Put together, these details frequently burden Elden Ring with something of the ambience of big clumps of overlit, or weirdly underlit, clay pushed together and paired with a fog machine. The academy of Raya Lucaria, already a highly disappointing and bathetic non-entity of level design, becomes quite possibly the dullest location in the game with its frequent monochromaticism, only barely alleviated by the effect of interiors’ warmer lighting schemes.

For some, my pejorative comparison might fondly recall the diorama-like quality of Elden Ring’s landscapes, and fair enough. But I think it should prompt us to ask why FromSoftware’s “open world” arrival somehow often feels like their least colorful game of the Demon’s Souls mold, despite that not being strictly true. Too much of what we explore appears to be inappropriately bound to the eye-dominating silvers and grays of Dark Souls 3′s chilled and stilled Irithyll.

Frankly, a lot of Elden Ring looks like a game which has yet to receive its coloration, and I wonder if this lack is attributable to its scope, which may have led to broad applications of homogeneous coloration for buildings and various landforms. Dark Souls 3 had this issue in a number of places too -- the catacombs of Carthus and their repeat within the smouldering lake comes to mind -- and yet I can think of a variety of places and setpieces there which, were they in Elden Ring, would probably have been dunked in a pool of lifeless grays (e.g., all of the Profaned Capital).

Elden Ring also often subjects the player to rain (the only one of these games to do so, slightly excepting Dark Souls 2 and its exteriors for Drangleic Castle, which really look more like they have been rained upon), either due to the climate or the game’s mechanistic whims. Such rain showers just trade out more of the world’s color for a paltry effect-screen of raindrops and more mid-range grays. Where are the truly landscape-darkening storms? Why are Oblivion’s rain showers from 2006 way more atmospheric and delightful to get caught in than any of Elden Ring’s?

Elden Ring is perhaps especially disappointing here both because the size means you see more of this blandness and because its instances of genuinely striking coloration, perhaps unique among modern-day games of this scale (certain sights after the burning of the Erdtree have the harsh, almost ugly vigor of early 3D games and their throwbacks, such as the 2018 release Dusk), point to a more exciting general palette which never manifested. Perhaps it could be argued that this general chromatic uniformity strengthens the game as taking place on a single landmass; but could it not be all the more convincingly argued that one of Elden Ring’s most central thematics is that of fragmentation?

Why is this not a world where the shifts of climate, flora, and fauna, and even sky color -- some of these relatively dramatic -- are matched by notable shifts in the color of geology and architectural materials? Why are there so many crags and cliffsides and literally no instances of polychromatic striation? Portions of Caelid almost seem like the area is ready to realize these things, but one is ultimately left with the sense that the strangest thing about it all is that the sky at day is a heated, raging red.

#elden ring #fromsoftware

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initiumseries · 8 months

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You’re right, it’s definitely the size of his irises in proportion to the whites that makes Ben Barnes look so possessed.

Also seconded on the Paul as Stefan and Stefan only because ngl outside of that he gives me the ick and it’s not just because of his personal life, it’s literally his appearance and I cannot for the life of me explain why. I just think he looks skeevy and I hate the beard and whatever he had done to his face isn’t working for me. Still miles more attractive than Ian tho bc Ian is still wearing those hats and is re-living the glory days of when he was supposed to have had good hair but he just looks unkempt.

LOL possessed! I swear to god, that man is not what humans look like.

Ian looks haggard as HELL lol. Idk if it's drinking or what.

LOL, honestly, this pretty much describes how I feel about Paul in other roles lmao. Big time ick. The beard gives bum and I don't love it. Now that he's not required to be chiseled and sharp and hero hair, everything about his is just so...basic? Like...it's just not giving hottie or smouldering, so I'm not particularly interested, and he's like...the exception to the beard rule, it does not work for him, and also manages to erase his jaw? So now he just looks weak jawed and I can't STRESS how much a weak jaw is a turn off for me? So, yeah, Stefan ONLY please lol because, be serious:

And sure, we can argue that Paul is older in the second gif, and that's actually not the problem? It's that, without the bulk, and with this RIDICULOUS side part, he just looks like...the least hot version of a dad he could possibly embody. I'm blessed, folks can keep it.

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adamwatchesmovies · 1 year

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The Pope’s Exorcist (2023)

The Pope’s Exorcist makes me wonder if anyone has come up with original ways to depict demonic possessions since 1973’s The Exorcist. This would be a completely forgettable horror film if it weren’t for Russell Crowe, who is so much fun in the titular role that I would be completely on board for this to become a franchise.

In 1987, Father Gabriele Amorth (Crowe) is the Pope’s choice exorcist. Unfortunately, the Pope (Franco Nero) is gravely ill and Amorth performed his latest exorcism without authorization from his superiors. With the church looking to move away from the superstitions associated with possessions, his relevance in a new age of enlightenment is questioned. Nonetheless, he is assigned to help Henry (Peter DeSouza-Feighoney), a young boy who became possessed by a demon after moving into a new home with his older sister Amy (Laurel Marsden) and widowed mother, Julia (Alex Essoe).

In terms of an exorcism horror movie, there’s little new to see here, which means few scares. Projectile vomiting, scary voices (the demon inside Henry is voiced by Ralph Ineson), crab-walking, people getting tossed into the air, self-mutilation, crucifixes turning upside down and sudden ominous scars? check. check. check. On the upside, the setup is good. Julia and her family move into this dilapidated Spanish abbey they inherited after losing everything else. They plan on fixing it, reselling the building and then making a new life for themselves. When the film begins, there’s tension among them because Henry was in the ghoulish car crash that killed his father, Amy hates that she’s been torn away from her home, and Amy desperately needs this renovation to conclude as quickly as possible. They’re essentially stuck in this giant house with nowhere to go and no one they can turn to. It doesn’t take long for the supernatural stuff to reach level 10 but even if there was a slow trickle of terror, it would be hard for them to get out of there.

So far, there’s not much of a reason to see The Pope’s Exorcist. Thankfully, the movie gives you something to get excited about right away. The family being tormented by the demon are not the main characters; Father Gabriel is. Despite his affinity for strong drinks and sense of humor, he’s a man that cuts right to the chase. You fully believe he can handle any situation he walks into because he exerts such confidence and radiates charisma. You can tell Russel Crowe is just lovin’ it. How could he not? He’s got all of the movie’s best lines and offers the biggest laughs. This is not a horror comedy, but once in a while, it brings in some much-needed levity that shows this movie isn’t taking itself too seriously.

Towards the end, Amorth is taking on a “sidekick” (Daniel Zovatto as Father Esquibel) and both end up facing off against their own (literal) demons. It gets downright nuts, with many big special effects, and crazy revelations about what Hell's plans are - the kind that would’ve been right at home in a ‘90s horror action film. It's so out there it makes for some bizarre implications that I don't think are fully intentional. There's no way they are, not when this movie ends up with iron maidens, smouldering pools and naked lady demons. In a way, that's a plus but in others, not so much. There are several scenes that I think are supposed to be scary or shocking but completely miss their mark.

The Pope's Exorcist is more guilty pleasure than a genuinely great film, particularly when you consider the few scares, been-there-done-that exorcism stuff, and the inconsistent plot. I recognize the flaws but cannot deny how much fun I had nonetheless, thanks almost entirely to Russell Crowe. If you choose to see the picture, stick around for a little something at the end of the credits. (Theatrical version on the big screen, April 30, 2023)

#The Pope's Exorcist #movies #films #movie reviews #film reviews #Julius Avery #Michael Petroni #Evan Spiliotopoulos #Russell Crowe #Daniel Zovatto #Alex Essoe #Franco Nero #2023 movies #2023 films

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wench-and-jezebel · 1 year

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The Musketeers Reaction: A Rebellious Woman

Jezebel (@typicalopposite) reacts [with occasional asides by Wench (@scripted-downfall)]

[Starting out with both Athos and Flirt; a good start for both of us] Whooop whoooop!!

Le gasp

Oooooof, poor girl

Well shit, she ded

Oooop!

Men. 😤😤

[Bruh, this woman going for the Musketeers for why]

“As sane as you and me. Or me anyway” 🙂

Oooop plot twist

Ooooop!

Tantrum? “That allowed?” [*simultaneously* "Is that allowed?" Louis sounded so confused ;aldskfj] 😂😂😂

Ew men! Well, man! But still

[For an episode that started with Athos and Aramis, they haven't been in it much :( (just wait tho)] Ooop… You said that and they appeared 🙂

Ooooooop… Tantrum! [tbf, wouldn't you throw a tantrum if some dude wrote a pamphlet saying some other dude can have you killed?] Fair!

["That's very, very shocking" Sir, your Twelfth Doctor is showing]

Bruh. Your wife. [*simultaneously* Also. SIR. YOUR WIFE. IS RIGHT THERE] !!! LIKE HAVE YOU EVEN EVER LOOKED AT HER!?! (Flirt has)

Oooop ["Probably only mental vacancy" Biatch]

Poor Athos is getting heart eyes and his wife is just standing in the background

[Forget beauty; trauma's apparently the flirting style to choose] Ma’am’s gonna get ded

😖😖😖 [Ah, yes, have a *bone*]

Oooop! Now Athos has heart eyes! Er, heart lips? Heart everything

Ma’am that’s gonna get you DED [not saying that he's concerned about this, but] ☠️☠️☠️☠️

Ooop! Ooooooop!!

[Do you see what I mean, btw, by the Cardinal's scheming and misguided but not completely, totally evil? Like, he's definitely better than this dude] I do! [He's actively like. Okay, whoa, I said she was insane, I didn't say "deal with her firmly", is she reallyyyyyy a heretic?] ☠️☠️☠️☠️

["I'm sure his face was a picture when you kissed him" Yeah, but Milady don't care at alllllll] 😂😂😂😂

😦 OOF [ngl, he's got a point… She kinda needs to consider the consequences of what she's doing. I have so much analysis about this ep, oml] LOL But also ☹️☹️☹️☹️ oooof

😂 Mentally he’s like say no say no say no

Ack, would not want to be alive back then

"It ended badly?" "You could say that" He says with a smile

[She just ran smack into him ☠️]

Well damn BY HER HAIR ☹️☹️

[The bookssssss] 😭😭😭😭

[His face tho]

Oooop the fingers! He goes "four girls" and holds up his fingers and they literally are all pointing in different ways

[Someone's pissedddddd]

“Take this… but like… I want it back” [*simultaneously* Sir just gave away his gift from the freaking Queen]

“We all gotta accept our fate in life.” Everyday I wake up poor with a bunch of attitude filled hellions I think the same thing, chick 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

– – –

Jezebel: I can’t think of much to say… but Athos was giving the star lady the smoulder. Putting Flirt to shameeee! Then of course it all went to shit

Wench: Ma'am, I honestly don't get how you watch this and are like. *shrug* Not much to say. (All affection possible, to be clear.) But like. I'm watching it and I'm like. HOLY FUCKING SHIT OH MY GOD THE PARALLELSSSSS

Jezebel: Cause Athos is your beloved not mine 😂

Wench: Yeah, but you didn’t see the Aramis one either

Jezebel: Ok yeah no I didn’t 😂

Wench: Anyway, go on, say the parallels you’ve come to see

Jezebel: I’m not good at picking up parallels 👀 until they are pointed out. Or I know to look for them. And I mean… damn you! Just say them then, wench

Wench: Well, you’ve got: privileged noblewoman who has an idealistic view of the world and acts in the way she thinks is right accidentally getting people hurt in the process contrasted with Athos, who we know was a nobleman, and who was a bit naive/idealistic when he fell in love with Milady, and who got Thomas killed as a result. Which, to my mind, is why he takes her to the morgue. Is it harsh? Yes. But it's the same wake-up call he got when his brother was killed, and he knows where Ninon is heading if she keeps on her path.

Jezebel: And ahhh. Yes so that’s again a lot deeper than the parallels I assumed you meant, which were: strong independent woman? Enter Athos heart eyes. Woman may be deceitful? Aaaaand now she’s ded. Enter Athos broken heart eyes

Wench: Well, with the exception of the ded bit (because I’d not spoil something like that during midpoint, for shame!), that basically is the second parallel. (I had this already typed up before you sent that, so pardon the repetition, BUT.) You’ve got: Athos fell in love with Milady (a fierce, independent woman) and trusted her, and she ended up being very much not who he thought she was and killing his brother as a result. Fast-forward a great many years of self-loathing, guilt complex, and abstinence, and you’ve got Ninon (a fierce, independent woman) with whom he’s at least entertaining the idea of something happening, and he trusts her word that the girls aren’t there, and he finds out that no, actually, she lied to him. Which is (part of) why he’s so angry right now. And I'd wager another part of that is internally motivated because it's a second time that he lets himself put trust in a potential romantic interest and gets burned for it. (*snort* literally. Wait. WAIT. LAKSDJFL;KADSJFLKADSFJLKADSJF That's funny!!! Tell you during endpoint)

Jezebel: Ok lol

Wench: Anyway. Those are the parallels. Respond at will

Jezebel: Except Milady killed the brother herself and Ninon just taught the girl to think for herself and she acted out on it foolishly. Which, yes, the blame still can lead back to Ninon but I don’t think it makes her a bad person. Sooooo team Athos and Ninon for me 😂 Unless she is only in this episode and then never mentioned again… Then team fuck you writers 😂😂

Wench: You'll see what happens. Though, I will say... It did kinda seem like she encouraged the note thing? "Oh, lemme write this for you and then tell you that the Queen is a sympathetic ear *wink wink*" is kinda. Active. And, also, like I said... a lot of it is a matter of trust. She gave her word, he kindaaaaa vouched for her (but, more importantly, bought the lie), and then it turned out to be false

Jezebel: Fair!

Wench: I interpret it as: He thinks her goal admirable, but also thinks she's going about it the wrong way. She asked for his trust and abused it. Etc. Also, I'm sorry... I like Aramis; you know I do... but he annoys me sometimes. He acts like he knows all the details of a situation a lot of the time when he just... doesn't? And I feel like someone with eyes could see that?

Jezebel: No you’re right 😂😂😂😂

Wench: So, like, in the episode where they go back to Athos' estate, he keeps picking fights and worming for more information and even bringing up the vaguely bitchy "how many servants did this place have?" and stuff without reading the fact that This Is a Serious Development. He's actively opening up to them a bit, in an extremely painful way, precisely because he does care about Porthos, but Aramis is just being. Annoying. Or in this episode with the "she was protecting the girls, not deceiving you." Yeah, that's true. And intellectually, I'm sure Athos gets that. It changes nothing about the emotional side. And Aramis doesn't know about Athos' past, so you'd think he'd have a bit more care/curiosity and a bit less judgement

Jezebel: Yeah that’s fair!

Wench: I mean. They've known each other for like. Five years. Minimum

Jezebel: Trueeee! *Sigh* Dammit Flirt! You’re making me look bad for liking you

Wench: I will say... Anne (Milady), Ninon, Sylvie (not that you know her yet, but still). Buddy's got a freaking type ☠️

Jezebel: 😂😂😂😂😂 executed

Wench: Ma’am. Shut up (aff). Anything else for midpoint?

Jezebel: I’m good if you are 🙂

– – –

Ooooop you sure ma’am?

“This is family business” *Hand raised aggressively* Oh no

Ooooop

Cause women do have brains and thoughts of their own 👀

Ackkkk I couldn’t have livedddd back thennnnn [*You* couldn't have? Ma'am, you don't like conflict; you might have hated it, but you'd be physically fine. I'd be burned at the stake as a heretic in a fucking millisecond] ☠️☠️☠️☠️

Oooooop she poisoned ittttt [Where’d you get that from? alskdjf] The way she held the cup ☠️

[Once again: the truly wonderful state of trials at the time]

Now I know she poisoned it

Oooop!

[His expression 😭]

Seeeee I hold grudges ☠️☠️☠️ so I will struggle liking Milady if she ever isn’t the bad guy anymore. Maybe she’ll leave without a reformation arc but like. Nah

[HER SMIRK! What a bitch alksdjf]

How has it been proven [As I said… courts are great]

Respect for the queen! Proof she has a good heart, too, ‘cause her husband has been goofily eying Ninon all episode

“What will I do if he dies?!” DIE! You will die!

Ooooop… Poor queen

Ma’am, what does it matter if she was Aramis' girl? YOU ARE MARRIED [Ma’am. You act like the sanctity of marriage means anything. Literally two seconds. After you were just talking about how you couldn't survive. The lack of autonomy.] It was a joke Wench shush

[Portamis' side-eyes alskdjf] 😂😂😂😂 ["How do you know about Madame de la Chapelle?" "Her whole life is a lie" Bravo, Athos, that's very clear. Very informative.] Right 😂😂☠️☠️☠️☠️

Sweet lord this man

“You think I poisoned him?” Yep

40!?!? Sweet lord [Good news… She can follow the path of all wives these days and just. Affair] 😂😂😂😂☠️☠️☠️☠️

Why would he willingly drink out of another glass of water after that

Ooooof ☹️☹️☹️ [Ah, yes. I'm sick. Let me fondle this bone] A KNEE BONE [*Ah, yes. I'm sick. Let me fondle this *knee* bone]

And I’m a jealous bitchhhhh 👀

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

[To be fair, she didn't only betray her own sex. She betrays dudes more regularly, in fact] Fair… She’s just a betrayer of all things [Yup! Also… I'm sorry, but I do kinda love Milady. In a love-to-hate kinda way. She's just so delectably... morally fucked] 😂😂😂😂 You would ma’am! [I always loved Irene Adler too] Evil loves evil 😤😮‍💨 [Rude :( I feel attacked] Because you are ma’am 🙂 (aff)

And sir you will be going to hell for a lot more than just your relationship not being intact

[Athos is. Very Determined] He is!

Buddy… He said open his mouth, not lean in for a kiss [Portamis banter] You too Port

[ATHOS, STOP TOUCHING IT IF IT’S POISONED] ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️ [I KNOW YOU'RE NOT BIG ON SURVIVAL BUT STILL]

Oh the priest guy poisoned it

☠️☠️☠️☠️ Mood, Port [Because the Cardinal is the only one who can call off her death and he wants to save her alsdkfj Duh] … true 😂 God, to be alive during these trials

My dude why did you look?!!? You. Idiot.

[Damn, Athos, you speed-running the rescue]

Ack the intensity

Athossss [Also, more parallels here I'ma talk about in endpoint]

["I'm not a cruel man. Just a practical one." Like I said: true neutral] Very practical

Well damn 😦 [I mean. She do be alive tho] That’s true… But also, that’s so unfair [Indeed]

[Buddy, that be called blasphemy]

☠️☠️☠️ They go… we can hear you

[I love Peter Capaldi. And his accent is awesome] Yessss

[Oh shit more parallels]

And sad Athos again… Well, damn. Buddy can’t catch a break. [Ma'am, this is one of my favorite characters; happiness is exceedingly fleeting for them] ☠️☠️☠️

💔💔💔💔 [Poor Constance] Damn ☹️☹️☹️

[OH SHIT IS IT THIS SCENE? OH SHIT IT'S THIS SCENE. d'Artagnan.exe has stopped working… "I love you.” *blue screens* “I mean... respect and admire" "Say it again?" "I respect and admire you?"]

👀👀👀👀👀👀

OMG!!!! Awwwwwwww [This can't possibly go wrong] She is marr- fuck it, I ship ‘em [Ma'am has a het ship?!?!?!?!?! WHOA!!! (Yes, I recognize that I'm one to talk... shut up)] 😂😂😂😂 I love it tho! That was adorable!

– – –

Jezebel: Omg! 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 this was just an emotional roller coaster! Poor Athos! 💔💔💔💔 Like 🥺🥺🥺 buddy deserves to be happpyyyy! And it just gets ripped away from him! Like for once (and you know I like Aramis more 😂 but still) the heart eyes was aimed at him! And then it’s just like… nope. Nuh Uh! Not happening. She’s exiled now! And by the cardinal… the one his wife is working with! ☹️☹️

Wench: Not that he knows that, I don't think. Or does he? I can't actually recall

Jezebel: True, but WEEEE know 😭 I don’t think he does

Wench: Poor buddy

Jezebel: I don’t think he would have tried the little he did to save the Cardinal if he had 😂😂

Wench: Nah, he would. You underestimate his sense of duty/honor. It's like when he had to apologize to the Duke of Savoy… That was exceedingly humiliating, especially given the Duke's responsibility in the Savoy betrayal, and the fact that he felt his duty outweighed his sense of honor/pride is telling. Also, there would have been no other way to save Ninon; the Cardinal issued her order of execution, and he had to rescind it.

Jezebel: True!! I keep forgetting they needed him for that ☠️☠️☠️

Wench: And, finally, I do think there's a degree to which having the Cardinal helps. Because he's the King's right hand, essentially. His advisor. And a) it'd make France appear weak to have the advisor to the King be killed, especially by an emissary from Rome. And b) he does help the King on a lot of things. We tend to see his scheming side, but, again, at least this incarnation actively helps when it suits him.

Jezebel: Yeah his flip flopping gives me whiplash 😂😂

Wench: :)

Jezebel: And nooo, but Athos! Buddy straight up gone on his knees and begged 🥺🥺😭😭😭😭

Wench: And, just gonna remind... Athos was a nobleman. Pride and honor are bound to be pretty damn important. It's why the whole duty vs. love thing with Milady shook out the way it did; he had to do his duty, not just because of the King's ruling, but also because of his own sense of right and wrong... but it's tearing him apart because he did actually love her. (Kinda does, in some ways.) And he might hate himself as a result, but his honor still means a lot to him. Like in "Commodities" where the guy asks, "How do I know you won't betray me?" and Athos' response is a vaguely insulted, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." All of which makes clear how significant this was by putting that supplication into context.

Jezebel: ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

Wench: Thank you, thank you... I'm here all week! Follow me for more painful analysis. (And it's not JUST Athos analysis, to be clear. I pay attention to the others too. Like the Savoy thing. But like. Athos be interesting! I have put him under a microscope like a bug)

Jezebel: Also ack! I just feel so bad for himmmm ☹️☹️☹️

Wench: alskdjflaksdjflksadf Now you understand why he is my beloved

Jezebel: Athos be just your type of angst… The tragic hero that can never be happy!

Wench: a;lskdjf;lakdsjf TO BE FAIR!!! (And this isn't too spoilery) That isn't FULLY true for Athos

Jezebel: Which part, first or second?

Wench: *whistles* Or… Well. I guess I can say. The second.

Jezebel: Aight so the first implies enough 😂😂😂

Wench: Hmph

Jezebel: Anyway! I’m sorry I don’t think I will ever like Aramis and the Queen, unless they start having more scenes together to build a relationship. It’s just feels like purely lust rn. And this isn’t me just shipping Flort talking lol Which is also why I was like Hmph about her being jealous

Wench: They do have more later

Jezebel: Fair ☠️ But idk I just don’t like it ☠️☠️ But I do like her, so let that be said… She is so sweet and I feel bad for her 💕☹️ just not enough to ship her and Aramis ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️

Wench: Okay, but you haven't actually said why you dislike it… I, personally, think Aramis is an idiot for it, but I'm fond enough of them both that I'm on-board. As a passing ship that I don't obsess over but don't dislike

Jezebel: (Can you tell I’ve been writing I am not using my nickname 😤😤😤😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨)

Wench: asdlkfj

Jezebel: Well mainly just because I don’t see it. Other than he saved her and she gave him a necklace ☠️☠️ But also the thing about Aramis being an idiot! Which it sucks because you should get to be with the one you love and she was forced into a loveless marriage

Wench: You do realize he's been protecting her for years, right? Just because they only recently started interacting, doesn't mean there's not history of some kind. (Which is actually what's so insulting about the pilot episode. The King doesn't even know who Athos is despite them being there for years as some of the best in his regiment. So the Queen has likely interacted with them to a decent degree)

Jezebel: That true and fair! But I’m reacting to what I see ma’am! So Hmph 😂😂😂😂😂

Wench: Anyway, moving on. Milady thoughts?

Jezebel: I don’t likeeee herrrr 😤😤😤 lol! But also I think I missed why she was even in the place with Ninon in the first place 🤔 Or did the Cardinal send her after the death?

Wench: She was gathering dirt on Ninon to get her to stop. He wanted someone in there getting information, basically

Jezebel: That’s what I thought!

Wench: Also, going back to the Athos/Ninon parallel from earlier: Both end up giving up their money/lands/etc in response to tragedy, basically rewriting their lives/identities, and moving somewhere where they continue preserving their ideals but to a less obvious degree. And I was laughing about the "got burned for it" earlier because both relationships literally end in fire and flame. Milady burns down the la Fere house and Ninon is almost burned to death.

Jezebel: 😖😖😖😖😖😖😖 trueeeee

Wench: And then there's one final parallel (that occurs to me right now)... From Milady's POV, Athos intervened (extremely spiritedly) on behalf of Ninon and called of the execution, but had not been willing to do so for her. Obviously this isn’t full fair, since a) Ninon’s actions were only considered criminal because they were inconvenient, not because they were actually harmful, thus he would have done the same for anyone and b) he’d been living with the guilt of killing Milady for long enough that the situations aren’t comparable (e.g. he might have been able to think that he could take comfort in Milady’s execution being his duty the first go-round, but he knows that he can’t by the second go-round). But there ya go

Jezebel: True so you see why she’s upset… not that she deserves to be upset but you see it 😂😂

Wench: I understand why you don't like Milady, but I do think it's important to note that she does have a rather sympathetic story. I know things that make her even more sympathetic from later in the series, but you know some of it already... If you look at it from her perspective, she's spent her whole life shoved into the role of criminal to survive, and she keeps asking for someone to understand. And every time, she gets rejected, and she's back to being a criminal, but she just wants someone to understand. To recognize that she's not as bad as what she's been forced to do. But she also tells herself she doesn't care about that --- she tries to force herself to not care about that --- and years of having to survive some way or another have worn down her morals. So she's in this loop.

Still Wench: She's a street criminal but she finallyyyy finds a way to be happy, a way to love and be loved in return... and then Thomas finds out about her path and snaps, threatens to tear her life down, and she can't bring herself to trust that Athos would be able to (in terms of emotion or in terms of the law, it's a mix of both) see past that, so she kills him. And this betrayal/murder is what truly drives Athos away (except not even that, because he clearly still loves her in canon), but she sees it as just more proof that she is a criminal, will be a criminal, and can't be loved because she's a criminal. And then she goes and gets a job from the cardinal where, guess what, she's once again committing crimes for the sake of survival. But she's still so desperate (much as she doesn't want to admit) that she even goes to a confessional to try and get absolution, and the priest rejects her --- condemns her for her actions despite the fact that God is supposed to be forgiving, tells her she's unforgivable --- so she gets pissed.

Jezebel: Oh gosh that’s a lot ☠️☠️😮‍💨 I was like what happened 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Wench: Her entire life is a cycle of trying to survive, and then every time she tries to live --- to be recognized as not having much of a choice, to be seen as more than what she's done --- it gets snatched away. So she steels herself, goes on with what she has to do, and the cycle repeats.

Jezebel: Yeah, I can see that once you say it. Like with Sam! My biggest flaw in being a reactor is I don’t look deeper than what I’m seeing (and I’ll miss parts 😂😂☠️☠️) but once it’s pointed out I can really see it!

Wench: Anyway… anything else?

Jezebel: I think that’s all I have!

#jezebel (pr)#musketeers #the musketeers #bbc musketeers #bbc musketeers reactions #athos #porthos #aramis #d'artagnan #portamis #s01e07 #a rebellious woman

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acourtofsnakes · 3 years

Text

A Helping Hand - Bucky Barnes x Reader (f)

(Gif: @sebastianruinedme )

Summary: After a stressful week, you try to wind down with some personal time but nothing quite hits that spot. And a certain Super Soldier may just be more than willing to help you.

Warnings: 18+ Smut - Masturbation/toys, Oral (f receiving), fingering, neck play, arm/hand kink, dirty talk, a faint Dom theme if you squint, swearing – honestly, Bucky should just be a kink in himself.

Word count: 5k+ words full of hot playtime.

A/N: This is just filth, to be honest. I was feeling a certain way after watching episode 3 of TFATWS and seeing that scene with Bucky cleaning his hand and… ideas happened, and this was born. There’s not really a plot… simply enjoy.

Smut under the cut!!

Permanent Taglist: @greeneyedblondie44 @mamacitapascal

Part 2

There was something to be said about the advancement of toys in recent years.

There were hundreds of them. All different types. For all different things.

Rabbits, waterproof vibrators, pulsating and pounding ones, ones that felt like oral, handsfree vibrators, remote control vibrators – the list went on.

You had a lot. Tucked in a drawer of your dresser in a pretty box that just made you go all tingly in the knees every time you saw it.

You were proud of your collection.

And boy, did you love them.

They never let you down, ever.

But unfortunately, tonight was just not one of those nights.

It has been a tough week.

Not only had you taken a beating in training yesterday, but you were also late for an appointment across the city, which resulted in being yelled at by Fury.

You really regretted decided to help him when he needed it.

There wasn’t a lot going on lately, so you offered to help Fury when he needed it.

Usually, you were on his food side.

Yesterday, not so much.

Everything seemed out to get you, and after the shit show of the week, you just wanted to treat yourself. So, you’d holed yourself up in your room on your floor of the compound, had a long, luxurious soak in the bath, and then decided to work out your anxiety and tension with one of your many, many friends.

And for the first time in a while, they just weren’t hitting that spot.

Literally.

You groaned, throwing the third toy - this one a rabbit that was one of your most trusty companions - on the side of your bed.

For the last forty minutes, you’d been dancing between three different toys and your fingers.

You’d tried being on your belly, your side, and your back. You’d even tried a pillow.

But nothing was the right pressure on your clit, no toy or finger felt deep enough inside, and you couldn’t hit that spot inside without getting a wicked cramp in your wrist that forced you to stop.

You sat up, every nerve in your body wound to a knife edge, leaving you frustrated and tempted to throttle someone.

Or get someone to throttle you.

Preferably whilst pinning you to a wall... or a desk.

Or anywhere really.

You just needed something, anything to get out this frustration and give you the release you’d been desperately chasing all night.

It wasn’t even a case of hovering on the edge - you couldn’t even get there. The fire and heat just stayed a kindling ember in your belly, and never reaching that explosive fire.

After getting up and downing a measure of whiskey whilst watching the rain, you decided to try a last-ditch attempt with a different toy.

This one was a curved vibrator, with a thicker rounder head for supposedly perfect pressure on your g-spot.

Simple, straight forward.

Surely, if none of the others had done it, this one finally would.

After settling back on your bed, you took a little more care this time, even going as far to light a few candles to add an ambiance to the room rather than have it pitch black with the sounds of the rain.

You worked yourself up this time, building it slowly, teasing yourself with brushes of your fingertips over your throat and breasts, setting your skin ablaze.

You pushed yourself to the edge a little, and then worked over with your vibrator.

Until ten minutes later, when you literally launched the vibrator across the room and it hit the wall with a resounding thud, that echoed your hiss of frustration. “Fucking hell.”

A shit week, a shit day, and you couldn’t even fuck yourself well enough to be able to wind down and get some sleep.

There was a sudden knock and then Bucky’s voice echoed through your bedroom door. “Darlin’?” There was a slight hint of his Brooklyn accent peeping through at the end, stirring something within you.

You startled, sitting bolt upright and your head snapped to the door, “Bucky?” You had the good sense to lock the door, but still. He was right there.

His shadow moved beneath the door, and you realised he was leaning against it, “Is everything alright? I heard banging.”

Well, no not really. I’ve been trying to get myself off for the last hour and nothing appears to be working and I’m sitting here naked whilst you’re the other side of my door calling me Darling in that ridiculously hot accent that shouldn’t even be that hot. But hey, apart from that, everything’s great.

You slid off the bed, padding across the room after dropping your toys back in their drawer, glaring at it as you passed. You slipped a robe on before making your way across the fluffy rug to the door, “Yeah, I’m okay...” You unlocked the door, tugging it open.

Bucky was leaning against the doorframe, all broad shoulders, long lines and soft smile.

His searing blue eyes were instantly locked onto you, a smirk playing on those gorgeous lips.

He cocked his head, standing there with his arms crossed, and you noticed that for once, he wasn’t wearing any gloves. Just a simple long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans that hung sinfully close to his hips and... no boots. Just socks.

Like he’d taken his shoes off before waking into your apartment.

Ever the gentleman.

His arm was bare, the soft light of the hall bouncing off of the black vibranium and sparking the gold. You’d always loved his arm. The sheer power of it, the way you’d seen it shatter a man’s ribs instantly and tear through a brick wall like it was made of glass. The same hand that tickled behind the ears of a stray kitten in Prospect Park and test the ripeness of plums at the market.

You wanted that hand around your throat.

Eyes the colour of the Arctic sea roamed over your body, from your slightly mussed up hair to the flush along your neck that disappeared in the dip of your dressing gown. “Mm... are you sure about that?” He tilted his coyly, a smirk playing on his lips and you had a feeling this expression had been one of the trademarks since the 40’s.

You narrowed your eyes at him, more than aware that he was seeing far more than you wanted him to, “I’m fine.” You turned from the door, leaving it open for him to come in, “How comes you’re up on my floor, anyway?” You peered over your shoulder at him as you padded across the room to the drinks cart.

Yes, there was a bar on your floor, but why couldn’t you have a cart in your room? Tony hadn’t even needed to ask when designing it.

Bucky walked in, his footfalls silent like a cat, that training never quite leaving him, “I couldn’t sleep. No nightmares, just restless.” He added the last part quickly, in response to the concern that tightened your expression.

It was nothing unusual, Bucky coming up here to your room.

You often found each other after nightmares or rough days, seeking comfort and distraction from the darkness that lingered.

Some days and nights, you went out, needing an outside diversion from the thoughts.

Other times, you stayed in, watching films, talking, training or just... sitting quietly, knowing that the other persons presence was enough protection and reassurance. Words weren’t needed… just company.

You handed him a drink, plopping down on the end of your bed and you watched him sink into the couch opposite, “Anything you wanna talk about?”

Since everything with the War, Bucky was working on fitting back into a routine, into ‘normal’ life - or what could be considered normal for people like yourselves.

He was undergoing his mandatory therapy sessions, and they seemed to be helping him.

He was back in contact with Sam, and the pair even worked a few jobs together now and then, even if they did bicker like an old married couple - it provided great entertainment when you tagged along.

He leant back on the couch, settling his left arm across the back. He always looked at home on your floor, relaxed, like his mind could shut off a little. “Nah, I’m okay... Thank you though.” He shot you an easy smile again, one that he probably hadn’t used in.... decades. “What about you? Why are you up so late?”

Mimicking his shrug, you kept your expression neutral, making sure your eyes didn’t drift to that certain drawer, “Rough week. I was reading to try and drift off.”

“Mmmhm...” Bucky’s hummed response told you instantly that he did not believe you one bit. “What were you reading? Cosmopolitan’s best guide to toys?” That shit eating grin graced his face and he motioned gracefully with his left hand... to the corner of the room.

The vibrator you’d launched was sitting on the floor, nestled in the rug, the soft mint green silicone practically a beacon.

Okay.

Okay…. So. There were two ways you could respond to this.

Either play it off, deny it and change the subject.

Or…

Turning back to him, you shrugged again, “Oh, I’ve read that back to front. And made a few additions myself.” You cocked your head, a faint flutter in your belly as you awaited his response.

The barest flicker of surprise danced across his beautiful, rugged features before dissolving into something confident and smouldering. “Well, it looks to me like their guide isn’t true to review tonight. Something tells me you’re having a little bit of trouble.” His voice had begun to lower into a deeper, the natural roughness of his voice coming out.

It stoked that fire within you, warming your blood and curling low in your belly.

“And if I was? What would you suggest to help?” It was almost impossible to remain sitting still as the atmosphere folded and changed. There was one obvious route to your back and forth… and you wanted it.

Wanted… him.

And if you were honest, you had for a long time now. There was just something about him that you’d always been drawn to, a simmering tension that settled whenever you were together.

Bucky rose from the sofa in a fluid movement, walking toward you slowly, casually, but with the grace and prowl of a wolf eyeing up its next meal – you.

And fuck, you wanted him to devour you.

He slid his hands into his pockets, feet silent on your wooden floor, “Well… I would say that as wonderful as your toys may be… they’re just that. Toys. They can’t… feel what you like.” His eyes burned through you with each of his steps. “They don’t hear the noises you make when they hit the right spot. They don’t get to see the way your body reacts, the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip because it feels overwhelmingly good.”

He was close enough for you to smell his cologne, and that only added to the growing wetness between your thighs as his filthy, beautiful words.

Bucky stopped in front of you, removing his left hand and touching his fingers to your chin to tilt it up to face him, “They can’t know the little things… the deeper angle, that extra finger or sweep of the tongue… they can’t make you so wet that it runs down your thighs and they can’t make you arch off the bed as you shatter into starlight…” He sighed softly, shaking his head in mock disappointment, “I’m afraid they just… can’t make you come the way a real person could.” He applied a little pressure to the underside of your chin, and you rose to your – unsteady - feet instantly, putty in his hands.

Holy fuck, Bucky Barnes had a mouth on him.

Your teeth had indeed sunk into your lower lip, and your breathing had grown shallow. It was an effort to keep your thighs firmly locked together… Because you were just as wet as he had said.

The dark flame in his eyes told you that he knew the reaction you were having to him. He brushed a cool thumb over your lip, then tugged it gently to free it from your teeth and at the same time, he leant his head down to your level, “They can’t make you come like I can, darlin’.” This close, his warm lips brushed the shell of your ear, his voice reduced to a husky rasp that only further drew out that Brooklyn accent.

The soft moan that left your lips was almost pitiful, but you didn’t care, “Shit.”

You breathed the word, earning a deep chuckle in your ear before Bucky pulled back, only enough to see your face, “You want me to help you? Give you a helping hand?” His words were low and seductive, but he was looking between your eyes, making no more moves until he knew you wanted this.

If you changed your mind, he would leave right now, and say no more about it.

That very thought pained you.

Something had always hovered between you both… and maybe now was the time to let it out. You shared a few kisses on nights out and he had featured heavily in your fantasies night after night, wishing your fingers were his, the toys were him….

You met his eyes, your own clear and sure and you kept that gaze as you parted your lips. Then swept your tongue along his thumb and tilted your head down just enough to take it between your lips. The vibranium was smooth, cold and it felt oddly delightful on your tongue. “Make me come, Bucky. Prove to me you’re better than the toys.” Your voice was low with need, a soft pleading note for him there as you gazed up through your eyelashes.

The Arctic blue of his eyes deepened to near midnight, his pupils blowing out as he watched you talk around his thumb, your tongue sweeping over the metal and he almost purred, “Oh, baby, you won’t need toys when I’m done.” And then he was on you.

He gently pulled his hand from your face, instead placing it lightly around your neck, the heavy metal settling on your collarbones and that alone drenched you.

He looked between your eyes, checking one final time and then his mouth was lowering onto yours, his lips warm, plush and ever so inviting. Instantly, he licked a teasing line along your lips, which you would have parted for him without the request.

Bucky’s tongue slipped past your lips, sweeping against yours in hot strokes as he explored every corner of your mouth.

He tasted divine, and even more so when his thumb lightly tipped your chin back and he traced the tip of his tongue along the roof of your mouth, licking over the ridges and showing you exactly what that tongue could do.

A groan left your lips, and you slid your hands up his arms to those shoulders, those gorgeous broad shoulders that all you wanted to do was dig your nails into them and use for support as you rode him.

A deep curl of delight and joy was unfurling within the heat in your belly, because you needed this, needed more of him and his hands and his tongue and his words… and you were finally getting it

Hell, he had only just started kissing you and you already could have fallen apart just from that.

“Why have we not been doing this all the time?” Was the only thought that your already fuzzy mind could come up with as he pulled away slowly from your lips, only to begin pressing hot, open kisses against your jaw that were all teeth and tongue. He seared a path to your neck, kissing all over until he found that particular spot that made you whimper and arch into his body.

Bucky laughed low against your neck, the sound vibrating, “Oh, baby, you were struggling, weren’t you? I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already a mess…” He used his hand on your throat to tilt your head to the side, before biting at your skin, sweeping his tongue over the hot and sucking a deep mark there.

A slight whine rippled in your throat, fingers pulling as his shirt and your chest pushed against his, the firm heat of him making your nipples tighten, especially when he pushed into you.

Bucky slipped a hand between your bodies, tugging at the cord of your dressing gown and it slipped from your shoulders, leaving you bare and open to him.

He licked down your neck, his tongue smoothing over the shape of your collarbones and then down your sternum to your breasts. He butterfly kissed the soft flesh, then almost delicately sucked at your rleft nipple, lifting his vibranium hand to squeeze the other, “So beautiful…” He mumbled it half to himself, his dark mussed up curls soft against your skin.

One of your hands trailed up the back of his neck, slightly tangling in the hair at the base of his head and you pushed your chest further into his mouth, “Tease.” The word was a soft gasp, your eyes closing in pleasure and your lips parting.

He chuckled, pulling back to blow a cool breath on the wet skin, watching your nipple harden and then he moved to give the other the same treatment, “Oh, I’m a tease, am I? I can stop if you like.” He grinned around the delicate skin, just slightly grazing his teeth as he tugged your nipple and then he continued his trail of kisses down your body, slowly sinking to his knees. “I don’t think you’ll ask me to stop though, darlin’.” His right hand grasped your ankle, and then he ghosted warm fingertips up your leg, past your knee and then pausing at your inner thigh, at what he felt there, “No. No I don’t think you’ll ask me to stop at all.”

The cocky bastard grinned once more against your stomach, before dipping his tongue inside your belly button.

“Bucky…” You couldn’t hide the whimper in your voice, nor the way your hips rocked forward in a plea. It was almost painful how much you needed him to touch you, needed to feel his lips and his tongue.

“Shhh, baby, I know.” His hands slipped up your waist, as soothing as his gentle coo against your belly button and then he brushed his lips lower and lower… and then finally, he pressed a soft butterfly kiss to your pubic bone.

A low groan tore from his throat, his hands digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he saw you, swollen and positively dripping for him, “Oh, darlin’, look at you…”

The sheer desire and awe in his low voice caused heat to flush along your cheekbones. You weren’t shy by any means, but the almost primal admiration in his voice was something you’d never heard before, the pure want and desire to make you feel good and worship you.

Bucky admired the sight before him for a single moment, before lifting his eyes to yours and then he dove in, immediately devouring you like he was starving. His deft tongue slipped through your slick folds with ease, and he moaned again at your taste, at your smell, everything.

He pressed his tongue flat against you before sucking at your clit, with such an intensity that you almost choked. It was a simple movement, but it shot electricity through your body and made every single nerve stand on end.

He let that coil of energy begin to build, and then he licked back down, his hands sliding down to palm at your ass cheeks before digging his fingers into your skin, pulling you in further so he could bury his nose against your clit and his tongue – fuck, his tongue pushed inside of you, hot and heavy. It just felt so, so good, his nose putting pressure on your bundle of nerves, his tongue pumping inside you.

Your hands flew down to his hair, winding through it to keep him there, keep him doing that, to keep him fucking you with his tongue, “Buck-”. You weren’t sure what you were begging him for, only that you just needed to say his name, needed to do something.

Your hips began to rock in time with his thrusts, and you became aware of it only when Bucky’s muffled moan reverberating through you.

He liked it, no... he loved this, that you were grinding against his face as his tongue worked inside you, tasting parts of you no one else had ever gotten right before.

“Fuck, Bucky, keep doing that – I’m-” You cut off with a high moan, your head tilting back as you rocked into him faster, chasing down that high that was so tantalisingly close. It hadn’t taken long, you were so worked up from your failed attempts that you were already there.

Bucky’s began to lick and suck you with new fervour, his head moving in time with the jerks of his hips, feeling the way your walls were tightening around his tongue. His fingers dug harder into your ass, and you felt the silent command almost, Come.

And you did.

You cried his name out to the sky, every nerve in your body winding to near painful tautness before you shattered on his face, your first orgasm ripping through you.

Bucky didn’t stop, working you through it and drawing it out further and further as he lapped up every single drop you gave him, moaning himself like it was the most tantalising thing he had ever tasted.

He stopped only when your grip released on his hair, the sensitivity of your nerves almost painful, your legs shaking like crazy and he lifted his hand from between your thighs, his lips and chin glistening. He rose from his knees, nudging you back onto the bed and instantly crawling up your body, “You have no idea how good you taste.”

You whimpered slightly, catching your breath as you watched him crawl up you, eyes burning like sapphire fire, his tongue licking slowly over his lips as he savoured you. Words were beyond you, desire still coursing through your veins and you were a little in awe at how quickly – and hard – he had brought you to your first orgasm.

Bucky grinned devilishly, “That won’t be your last.” He lowered his mouth back to yours and as you tasted yourself on him, you grew instantly wet for him again.

His body brushed into yours and you felt how painfully hard he was through his jeans, the sounds and taste of you getting to him of course.

Your fingers had barely brushed against his restrained length when he shook his head, nipping at your lower lip, “Oh no, baby, this is all about you.”

You ignored him, palming him through his jeans and he moaned lowly before his eyes flashed, his hand suddenly back on your throat and he moved his hips away so you couldn’t get to him. “I said no.” It was almost a snarl, “This is about you. Not me.” His hand tightened just slightly around your throat, making it that little bit harder to breathe and your eyes rolled back at how delicious it felt.

It was a huge kink for you, the idea of someone – of Bucky - taking control, being in control of your body even it was just for a little while. You didn’t need to think or do anything. Only feel and be at the mercy of his touch.

You relented, legs falling open for him and you tilted your head back, searching for his lips.

Bucky granted you the kiss, a slow, languid kiss at first that was all simmering passion and tangling tongues, the taste on you still lingering on his lips.

He palmed your breast again, tugging and squeezing the flesh until he scratched his nails lightly down your ribcage and belly.

Yes, yes-

He wasted no time, no more playing and his fingers slipped lower, circling over your clit with a delicious pressure that had you instantly moaning into his mouth.

He toyed with your clit a little more, before gathering your wetness and then sinking two fingers inside you, pushing all the way into his knuckles, then drawing back out slowly.

As he withdrew, you moaned long and slow into his mouth and he began a steady rhythm. Pushing and curling his fingers inside you a few steps, then circling and pulling at your clit, ever so subtly switching it up with each pass so you couldn’t predict what he would do.

It felt amazing, but… there was something still missing. It still wasn’t quite enough to send you over that final edge… it wasn’t what you’d been fantasising about.

No, it was his left hand. That dark, golden vibranium hand that was currently seated around your throat.

The knowledge of what it could do, the sheer power in it that could easily crush your windpipe or shatter your jaw with a single flick of his wrist.

That is what you needed.

Those cool, powerful fingers inside you, working you over – that was the best toy.

It was like he could read your mind somehow, or the way your body sung to his tune. He lifted his head, looking down at you with those searing blues and he cocked his head, a slow grin lighting his gorgeous face, “Oh… This-” he scissored his fingers inside you, stretching your walls and ever so slightly brushing up against that spot, “isn’t quite what you want, is it, darlin’?”

Holy Christ, he was going to destroy you before you even got what you wanted.

You looked up at him, panting, hips rocking to the slower thrust of his fingers and you shook your head.

Bucky swore softly, panting himself and he squeezed your throat once before lifting his fingers, “You want these, don’t you?”

Instead of answering him, you ducked your head, taking his three fingers into your mouth and immediately gliding your tongue around them, up and down in slow, dirty strokes.

The effect was instantaneous. Bucky’s hips jerked slightly against yours, his mouth parting as he watched you suck his vibranium fingers, hollowing your cheeks, eyes rolling back in your head like… like it was something else entirely.

He groaned, swore again and then almost ripped his fingers from your mouth and from between your legs at the same time.

Your entire body mourned the loss, feeling empty, clenching around nothing but mere seconds later, he plunged those three vibranium fingers inside of you, slick with your saliva and how unbelievably wet you were.

It stung a little, but only added to the feeling as your hips rose off the bed, “Shit, shit-”

They felt… like the best toy you could ever imagine. Smooth, cold, and hard enough that you could feel every faint ridge of the joints as he slid them in and out. You reached out, grabbing his arm with one hand and the bed with the other, needing something to hold onto as instinct took over. Your hips rode upwards, back arching as you rocked his fingers in deeper, feeling them in your spine almost. It was better than you could have imagined.

Bucky dropped his head to your chest, spreading his mouth over your breast and his other arm slid over your hips, pinning them to the bed so you were forced to take it. “You wanted this, baby… You take it.” He bit down on the soft flesh of your breast before smoothing his tongue over it again, working an alternative rhythm to his fingers and thumb again, so that your brain couldn’t keep up with which one to follow. It knew only the waves of fire singing through your veins.

Time may have very well dissolved, because you could only feel pleasure, tinged almost with pain.

The thick, hard stroking of fingers as they stretched and wrecked you.

The circling, hard-soft-hard pressure of his thumb on your clit.

The bite of his teeth on your breasts, neck and chest, followed by the wet press of his tongue.

The way he couldn’t help his hips slightly rocking against your leg.

This was almost like a fever dream, expect your brain couldn’t have come up with something this mind melting. Not even if you were really, really worked up.

The noises in the room were absolutely sinful. The unrestrained cries and moans from your lips, Bucky’s groans and his filthy words, the wet pump of his fingers inside you – it was obscene, filthy and completely, painfully mind-blowing.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Bucky, please-” You had no idea what you were begging for, but every single nerve and muscle in your body was coiling tighter and tighter, your hips jerking against his arm as he pinned you down, forcing you to take this, to feel everything he was doing with no relenting. Tears were beginning to blur your eyes and the pleasure he unleashed upon you was almost painful.

Bucky somehow moved his fingers harder, deeper, the ability of the tech in his arm allowing him to do so, “Let go, baby, come on, let it go for me..” He dropped his head, biting down on your neck and he pressed his fingers against that spot inside you, flicking your clit with his thumb and then it all just snapped.

Waves and waves of hot fire flooded your body, dragging you up to the stars, further. It ripped the air from your lungs, made you half scream his name in a never-ending prayer.

It just didn’t stop.

Bucky kept moving inside you, drawing out every single second of your mind-shattering orgasm, letting go of your hips so you could grind them into his hand. “That’s it, baby… Look at you, so beautiful like that…” His praise spurred you on, making you feel almost like a goddess as you flooded his hand.

He stopped only when you slumped back onto the bed, sucking in deep breaths as you tried to piece yourself back together.

Better than toys indeed.

A little while later, you stirred from a light dose to see Bucky lounging on your couch again, cleaning the grooves and metal of his fingers with a soft cloth.

The sight of him concentrating, taking such care and detail with the clean-up, the cleanup from the mess you had made, had you instantly wet again. “Bucky.”

He looked up, hearing the low thrum to your voice and a smirk crossed his lips.

You had a favour to repay for his helping hand, after all.

#well #that happened #i am not sorry #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #arm kink

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