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luxaryllis · 2 years

Note

Hope I didn't ask for another request too soon, but I saw that you write for Genshin Impact? Could you maybe do the dorm leaders from twisted wonderland reacting to mc with a vision?(Sorry I really love the dorm leaders.) Maybe Mc has a different vision for each dorm? And how would they react to what happens when someone loses their vision and how people get visions in the first place? (If you didn't know you lose your ambition and sometimes memories.)

Genshin!Reader with TWST Dorm Leaders

Note: Hi!! And it's alright haha; I'm sorry this took a LONG TIME to answer and post-

And yes, I do wrote for Genshin! And of course I can do that!! It took a bit of a while for me to choose an element per dorm, but all's well!! And yes, I know what happens when you lose a vision-

While I haven't been playing Genshin so much recently (experiencing burn-out), I do know majority of the storyline! I'm AR 53 in my main acc so I know a lot!

And my first Genshin request!! Yey!! I hope you all like this!! 💙💙

Also, please note that the personality/ies of each MC for each dorm will be based on what I think are the common traits for each vision. And for each Mc, I made it that they're used to fighting, like they have enough experience in a battle. But their backgrounds woun't be shown or mentioned, so you can fill those parts in however you want!

And since no one can have all visions at once, I'm going to assume that it's a different MC for each dorm or something, so yeah-

Heartslabyul - Hydro:

Riddle Rosehearts:

🥀 What do you think the world was thinking, putting a Hydro Vision with Grim?

🥀 There's just a bunch of "Vaporize" effects EVERYWHERE!!

🥀 The Welcoming Ceremony? "Vaporize"'d!!

🥀 And didn't the Dark Mirror say that MC has no magic?

🥀 Then WHY ARE THEY USING MAGIC RIGHT THERE, IN FRONT OF HIM?!?!

🥀 Yeah... the welcoming ceremony was full of mist.

🥀 Riddle also doesn't understand why or how this supposed "magicless" student can use magic

🥀 When the headmage had asked MC, they said "this isn't magic... this is my Vision.", gesturing to the strange blue gem on their person.

🥀 What do you mean "vision", that blue gem is where and how they see???

🥀 In the end, Riddle's questions end up ananswered, and a bunch of new questions pop up.

🥀 Someone pls help this boy 🤣🤣

🥀 He's just really confused now 🤣

🥀 Anyway, nothing much really happens.

🥀 I personally believe that most Hydro vision havers have some sort of sense of justice or have a certain TYPE of virtue with them or something similar (even Childe doesn't pick fights for fun; he just fights who he thinks is strong enough; though his mental stability is very questionable-)

🥀 So when Riddle gets mad at Ace because of the Mont Blanc incident, MC's "virtue senses" started tingling.

🥀 So, like the original MC, Hydro!MC also revolts against Riddle.

🥀 But, unlike the original MC, Hydro!MC would add in more comments about Riddle's horrible behaviour, which angers Riddle even further.

🥀 So yeah, plot goes on.

🥀 When MC finds out about Riddle's past, they feel rather... sympathetic... towards Riddle, but still believes that it doesn't necessarily fully justify his actions, nor does it put him in the right.

🥀 So yeah.

🥀 I headcanon that most Hydro-vision weilders are great thinkers or strategizers most of the time; like they can think pretty quickly and sharply. And most of them also do pretty good at playing in the background (similar to Kokomi, who doesn't exactly do much of the fighting (from the fighting) as she does more strategizing and healing in the beckground; and Xingqiu, who literally made an entire plan for the traveler and Paimon to fix the conflict of Chang the Ninth, and didn't ask or receive any credit, due to the fact that he did everything behind the scenes)

🥀 Or I might be overanalyzing-

🥀 But anyway, MC helps the ADeuce combo think of a plan and strategy for the duel.

🥀 It depends to you whether or not you want MC to think that ADeuce would win or lose against Riddle.

🥀 But anyway, plot goes on.

🥀 Again, Hydro!MC also revomts against Riddle, but this time, may have accidentally let it slip that they know about Riddle's past.

🥀 They also insult Riddle's mom.

🥀 ...and Riddle.

🥀 Yeahh....

🥀 That causes Riddle to ALSO insult MC and their parents/guardians.

🥀 Their reaction depends on you.

🥀 Riddle overblots and MC is actually the first one to start fighting it.

🥀 Because of their sense of justice and/or virtue, they just feel the need to get Riddle out of that horrible mindset he has.

🥀 So yeah! Also, since Riddle's Overblot's main attacks are mostly fire and/or grass, Hydro!MC does have a bit of an advantage.

🥀 Also a disadvantage, because there's mist all around now.

🥀 It's also probably flooding a bit-

🥀 Riddle VS Hydro!MC literally looks like 🌊🌊🔥🔥🌫🌊🌳🌳🌊🌊🌊

🥀 MC doesn't have to worry about accumulating blot, so they deal the most punches to Riddle's overblot.

🥀 MC is also the most experienced with fighting a bunch of strange stuff (like regisvines, hilichurls, mitachurls, lawachurls, etc), so they recover quite quickly when seeing an Overblot phantom or something pretty out of the ordinary.

🥀 So yeah! MC does help comfort Riddle.

🥀 They also apologize for insulting him and his mom, though they truly do mean what they said.

🥀 They admit that they may have gone too far with their insults and snide comments, though.

🥀 They also try help fix the dorm.

🥀 The hydro stuff they summoned during the battle also disappear, along with whatever weapon they were using.

🥀 Riddle (and the rest of Heartslabyul) are pretty fascinated by how the water and the weapon simply disappear to those pretty gold sparkles.

🥀 So during the Revenge Unbirthday Party, after the other Heartslabyul students run to chase Chen'ya out, they decide to ask MC about their world.

🥀 MC talks about their world, the visions, the 7 Archons, basically everything that they know.

🥀 They also explain that a person's vision represents their ambition; so when a person's vision is taken away, they also lose their ambition.

🥀 Riddle asks what happens to a person who loses their ambition/vision.

🥀 When he finds out about it, he's horrified. People lose their memories, and sometimes even get mental disorders?

🥀 When MC tells them about the Vision Hunt Decree in Inazuma, Riddle is reminded of what he did as a 'tyrant'.

🥀 MC mentions that the people here are very lucky that getting your magic disabled doesn't have much circumstances or go through any bad effects in this world.

🥀 And Riddle wholeheartedly agrees with that.

🥀 If MC is from Inazuma; and have been affected by the Vision Hunt Decree, be it by seeing a close one go through the consequences of losing their vision, or from seeing someone d*e at the hands of the Shogun or the Tenryou Commission, Riddle apologizes if his actions have caused any bad memories to pop up.

🥀 Afterwards, Riddle and MC often hang out.

🥀 MC also shows Riddle some cool and fun tricks using their Hydro Vision.

Savanaclaw - Dendro:

Leona Kingscholar:

🦁 Another disaster during the Welcoming Ceremony

🦁 Because Grim's flames keep burning MC's dendro attacks.

🦁 This causes a burning smell that Leona does NOT like.

🦁 It's too much for his nose.

🦁 And from my speculation (as we have NO released playable Dendro characters at the moment), Dendro-vision weilders would most likely be quite knowledgeable and possibly wise. Because the Dendro Archon is the God of Wisdom. So, for this, I will be saying that Dendro!MC is pretty smart and thoughful and pretty witty.

🦁 So luckily, for both MC AND Leona, they stop trying to help stop Grim.

🦁 How the hell does this herbivore have magic, when the Dark Mirror said that they DON'T have magic??

🦁 Another confused person.

🦁 But Leona's pretty quick to shrug it off and go about his life, thinking that the herbivore wouldn't be such a bother in the future.

🦁 HAH! BISH YOU THOUGHT!!!!

🦁 Anyway, when MC meets Leona in the Bitanical Garden, Leona (like he does with the original MC) sniffs them.

🦁 He notices that they smell a lot like plants. Their scent is very... nature-y. Not necessarily earthy, but close.

🦁 When he found out that MC was on the case of all the incidents and accidents going on, Leona also didn't think much of it.

🦁 What he didn't expect was for MC to LITERALLY walk up to him and CASUALLY ask him if he knew why no one from his dorm was getting injured.

🦁 Sh*t

🦁 Dendro!MC would definitely wonder why no one from Savanclaw was getting injured.

🦁 Plus, Jack mentioned that, "he probably won't get targeted".

🦁 So MC, being the smart@ss they are, goes to investigate Savanaclaw.

🦁 Leona replies that he doesn't know, and that the culprit might be too scared to mess with Savanaclaw.

🦁 MC refutes this, by saying that the culprit should have also been cautious of Diasomnia, Scarabia, and Octavinelle students too, as they are the most... calculating and most likely to get revenge.

🦁 Leona is now intrigued and interested in this herbivore; he thinks that they seem really sharp.

🦁 Leona then replies, "How would I know? I'm not the culprit."

🦁 MC is now absolutely sure that Leona is a suspect.

🦁 Before they could ask him to come with them (to interrogate him further), Leona adds, "What? If you really suspect that I'M the culprit, where's your evidence?"

🦁 This leaves MC quiet, and they leave Leona, frustrated.

🦁 After that, Leona makes sure that Ruggie is more careful with his "work".

🦁 But this does cause Leona to be a bit more daring at the same time.

🦁 As usual, plot continues, but MC is a lot more thoughtful; they even closely inspect the "crime scenes".

🦁 Plot goes on again.

🦁 Now, MC and Riddle's plan definitely OBVIOUSLY worked.

🦁 Also, MC definitely talks and critically criticizes Leona.

🦁 They mostly criticize his way of responding to a situation where he knows that someone is better than him.

🦁 They also comment on how f*cked up his life is, but the way he acts towards his life is probably even more problematic.

🦁 They don't talk about how he's the second-in-line; they know not to play with that part of his life.

🦁 Also because they don't know about his background yet.

🦁 Leona overblots

🦁 Again, Dendro!MC is quick to go up to Leona and fight his overblot.

🦁 The fight is normal, to be honest.

🦁 Except MC is in a bit of a disadvantage.

🦁 Since I see MC using their Dendro to capture people, like trap them, Leona would simply turn their attacks to dust.

🦁 So they're left with trying to affect him through making plants/flowers with strong pollen to disorient him.

🦁 It works; since Leona's a lion, his nose is quite sensitive.

🦁 Plot goes on.

🦁 I don't see Leona being someone who would willingly acceot comfort, and MC acknowledges that.

🦁 So they don't comfort Leona.

🦁 Instead, they ask him why he wants to be king so bad.

🦁 They also give him a bunch of questions to ponder over.

🦁 Like, "don't you want to be something else?", or tell him that there are other better options than being a king.

🦁 After that, Leona is a bit less hostile to MC; he is STILL wary, though.

🦁 He asks questions about MC world, though.

🦁 When he finds out about what hapoens to a person when they lose their vision, he's a bit more nonchalant.

🦁 Don't get him wrong, though.

🦁 He's pretty terrified at the thought of all those side effects.

🦁 He's also pretty glad that he isn't in MC's world.

🦁 But other than that, he's pretty chill!

🦁 He also plays Chess with MC a lot!

🦁 He thinks that they're a great opponent to go against.

🦁 Their scent is also pretty relaxing sometimes-

🦁 So he steals them away from whatever task to use them as his pillow.

Octavinelle - Geo:

Azul Ashengrotto:

🐙 Now, for Geo Vision wielders, I see them as people with a specific sense of duty and and perseverance; and are often great/recognized in what they do.

🐙 So I’ll be basing that on this MC.

🐙 Azul easily notices that this supposed magicless student has a very... calm and mentor-like aura/vibe to them.

🐙 When Grim causes fire everywhere, Geo!MC doesn’t stop Grim; but they create shields to protects everyone from the fire.

🐙 Azul also notices that the magicless student made certain... constructs? around the place.

🐙 What these constructs do is up to you-

🐙 Azul is now curious.

🐙 The supposed magicless student actually has magic..

🐙 Perhaps the Dark Mirror was unable to detect magic from them?

🐙 However... shield magic and creating constructs are quite useful...

🐙 Perhaps they would be willing to make a contract with him?

🐙 *insert Azul's capitalism thoughts*

🐙 They could have other abilities that he could take advantage of too...

🐙 Coming back to the Octavinelle Dorm, Azul's thoughts were full of how he could possibly get MC and the new students into a contract with him.

🐙 MC seems like a very respectable person, so they might know what he's trying to do...

🐙 Or not...

🐙 Azul knows not to judge someone based on their cover or outward appearance, so he has Jade and Floyd observe spy on MC.

🐙 Before the Octavinelle Arc, Azul has always been trying to get them in a contract with him.

🐙 However, MC has a feeling that Azul's intentions aren't as nice as they seem.

🐙 So they're quite cautious and wary of him, and often dodge his attempts to capitalize on their talents and abilities.

🐙 They also can't help but think that there's more to this shady b@stard than meets the eye...

🐙 They volunteer to teach him how to use their weapon, though!

🐙 Unless MC uses a catalyst-

🐙 But other than that, they're alert around him.

🐙 When MC FINALLY appraches Azul about the jerk anemones, Azul is celebrating on the inside.

🐙 F*CKING FINALLY!!

🐙 Ahem!

🐙 Anyway, Azul puts in the contract, "The Ramshackle Prefect's Powers, Abilities, and Knowledge"

🐙 He put it in a small font.

🐙 He was half expecting, half not expecting that MC would fully read the contract.

🐙 MC does read the contract; it takes a while to do, though.

🐙 And SOMEHOW, MC finds the small fine print, and explains to Azul that it's impossible for someone to use someone else's Vision.

🐙 They also tell him that they CAN give him knowledge abouy their world, though.

🐙 Azul begrudgingly accepts and acknowledge this and takes off the part where it takes Mc's powers away, should they break the contract.

🐙 MC accepts the contract, after going over it a couple more times to check for any other rigged prints.

🐙 Azul fully expects that MC won't be able to complete the contract.

🐙 However, what he doesn't know, is that Geo!MC is very dedicated.

🐙 Once they start something, they WILL end it.

🐙 So, the plot goes on as usual.

🐙 When Azul realizes MC's plan, he's surpirised, but a small part of him was a bit satisfied.

🐙 Finally, a worthy opponent.

🐙 MC might have commented a bit on Azul's unfair scamming.

🐙 Azul interprets this as MC bullying him, which further brings him to overblot.

🐙 During Azul's overblot, MC was easily able to shield everyone from his attacks.

🐙 They also dealt quite a lot of damage to the Overblot phantom thing

🐙 When Azul wakes up, MC already has a few herbs or a potion to make him feel better from the pain.

🐙 When they confront Azul, they also comfort him a bit.

🐙 MC tells him that he doesn't have to prove anything; and that those bullies were kids.

🐙 Besides, people dislike or are afraid of anything/anyone they aren't familiar with.

🐙 This doesn't exactly comfort Azul, but it does help him be more open-minded

🐙 MC also tells him about their world; and gives him some knowledge about common things in their world, as well as what they're really good at.

🐙 When Azul finds out about what happens to someone who loses their Vision, he's also pretty scared and horrified.

🐙 He is aware that the side effects are NO joke.

🐙 If you are from Inazuma & have been affected by the Vision Hunt Decree, he has a lot more respect for you.

🐙 Azul is also very interested in the Geo Archon; the God of Contracts, you say? 👀

🐙 But other than that, Azul admires MC for MC perseverance and dedication to what they do.

🐙 And MC admires Azul for his business and his hardworking-ness. Even though sometimes, his intentions aren't as positive.

🐙 Basically, both admire and look up to the other and better themselves to be like the other.

🐙 Great friendship, all-in-all.

🐙 MC also works as a guard or a bouncer for Monstro Lounge.

Scarabia - Cryo:

Kalim Al-Asim:

☀️ Oh dear...

☀️ Another disaster during the welcoming ceremony-

☀️ When Kalim's butt was on fire, MC probably froze it for a while.

☀️ The ice was controlled, and wasn't numbingly cold, don't worry.

☀️ MC also probably tried stopping Grim by freezing the fire, aka cancelling it.

☀️ Another mist combo-

☀️ MC also froze Grim too.

☀️ Again, the ice was controlled and not too cold either.

☀️ Kalim was AMAZED by the supposed magicless prefect's powers.

☀️ He probably forgot that the Dark Mirror said that they were magicless.

☀️ He thought that there was a small misunderstanding.

☀️ Now, my headcanon/s for Cryo Vision wielders is that they've mostly lost something, or longing for something that they can't have (like Qiqi, who lost her life and memories; Ayaka, who lives a very rich life, but longs to be treated as a normal person, etc). And most of them have quite ironic circumstances. (For example, Chongyun is an exorcist, but he hasn't seen a spirit; Diona is a bartender, but hates alchohol; Ayaka is a very famous and loved person, but has very few trusted friends)

☀️ So MC has some characteristics there.

☀️ I also imagine MC's attitude to be a bit closed off and reserved; quite the opposite to Kalim.

☀️ Polar Opposites Become Besties trope?? 👀👀

☀️ Anyway!

☀️ Kalim was VERY excited about becoming friends with the person who helped him!

☀️ Actually, I think he already does consider them friends-

☀️ But when he sees them in the Scarabia Dorm, he's absolutely excited to get to know MC better!

☀️ He shows them his favorite food and has them dance/sing with him (if they're comfortable).

☀️ Basically, it's all fun and games until Jamil mind-controls him-

☀️ MC, who doesn't understand what's going on, feels a bit betrayed; because one moment Kalim is all sunshines and sparkles, and the next, Kalim's really scary and demanding.

☀️ They also get very concerned about Kalim.

☀️ That is, until they notice a pattern.

☀️ Before Kalim goes all strict and tyrant-y, Jamil is with Kalim.

☀️ Most Cryo users are a bit analytical, and observational; so I do think this will apply to Cryo!MC.

☀️ This makes MC pretty suspicious of Jamil.

☀️ Kalim still isn't off the hook, though.

☀️ Whenever Jamil stops his Snake Whisper on Kalim, Kalim is always confused as to why MC and the others avoid him, or act a bit distasteful to him.

☀️ When it's revealed that Jamil did what he did, Kalim is betrayed, and MC is quite mad and upset at Jamil on behalf of Kalim.

☀️ When Kalim is still feeling sad, after getting thrown to the "ends of the world", Mc comforts Kalim; saying that while Jamil's feelings is pretty justifiable, his actions aren't.

☀️ Basically, MC comforts Kalim.

☀️ Unfortunately, they can't do anything about the freezing temperatures.

☀️ MC is also probably used to the cold, as they do have a Cryo vision.

☀️ Tbh, I'm torn on how I want the scene where Kalim uses Oasis Maker to go, so you have a choice in this:

☀️ The first choice is that everything goes on normally; the Tweels turn into their eel form and swim everyone else back to Scarabia.

☀️ Or after Kalim uses Oasis Maker to fill up to oasis, MC freezes the river so everyone could simply skate or slide back to Scarabia (ka(e)yaking)

☀️ Or MC summons a Cryo summon that brings everyone to Scarabia.

☀️ Your pick, really.

☀️ When they go confront and fight Jamil's Overblot, Kalim is amazed at MC's talent and ability with their weapon.

☀️ They have him use Oasis Maker so they could freeze the water.

☀️ This makes the mind-controlled people to slip or freeze.

☀️ After all that, Kalim and MC continue to be close friends!

☀️ MC also makes sure Kalim doesn't do anything TOO extreme.

☀️ Jamil sighing in relief in the background.

☀️ Kalim and MC are definitely Freeze combo besties!

☀️ When Kalim asks about MC's world, he's amazed at the Vision stuff.

☀️ But when he finds out about what happens to people when they lose their vision, he's crying.

☀️ If you have a close one who's went through these side effects, he definitely feels sorry for you and cries for you.

☀️ Other than that, you're both amazing besties!!

Pomefiore - Electro:

Vil Schoenheit:

👑 Probably the BIGGEST disaster for the Welcoming Ceremony-

👑 Grim's fire and your Electro do NOT work well together-

👑 Overload reactions make explosions, right?

👑 Yeah... not a great idea.

👑 I think that most Electro Vision wielders are people who are very clear and honest with their identity; and are often loners. They also often reject or contradict what society often think is "normal", so they're often considered "strange" or "abnormal".

👑 So I'll be basing Electro!MC off that.

👑 Also, Electro people are GORGEOUS, or cute-

👑 Anyway, Vil absolutely LOVES MC's appearance; it very much suits them.

👑 Also, that lightning magic they create is very aesthetically pleasing; especially with the prevailent purple and black surroundings.

👑 What Vil DOESN'T like is that the lightning and fire create explosions.

👑 It's very dangerous!

👑 Luckily, the creature is stopped.

👑 When Vil sees MC's friends and that creature are auditioning for the VDC, he's intruiged, and sorta expects that MC would also audition.

👑 Surprise, surprise! They didn't audition!

👑 Anyway, he surprised that MC is just there for moral support; but shrugs it off.

👑 When he gets to Ramshackle, it's honestly even more of a mess because MC has had to stop Grim's shenanigans often.

👑 So Vil is disgusted and concerned cuz HOW THE HECK DO YOU LIVE HERE?!?!

👑 Anyway, plot ensues normally.

👑 Vil overblots, etc.

👑 You absolutely DESTROY his overblot.

👑 Like, he barely stood a chance, since Electro does very well in long-ranged.

👑 So MC's able to deal great amounts of damage while staying pretty far away from him to not get so affected by the poison.

👑 After all that, MC comfort everyone when NRC loses.

👑 After the overblot, Vil approaches you (or you approach Vil, either is fine), and you both talk.

👑 I don't think that acting is a thing, outside of plays and operas, etc; since there isn't a TV in Teyvat-

👑 So MC asks Vil about them.

👑 In return, he asks about MC's world.

👑 When he finds out about what happens to a person when they lose their vision, Vil is also pretty horrified.

👑 There aren't any side effects to losing your magic in Twisted Wonderland, unless it was specifically from someone else's Unique Magic; so this is all foreign to Vil.

👑 Afterwards, he's pretty chill honestly.

👑 He also has MC sometimes model in his room, or do some skin care or hair care together.

👑 MC and Vil also have salon/spa hang outs; he pays.

👑 Vil likes the sort of collected, yet powerful presence MC has, and respect that.

👑 He gives MC clothes to further accentuate that aura they have too!

Ignihyde - Pyro:

Idia Shroud:

(Note: This might be pretty short compared to the others as I don't know much about this character. I might edit this soon when I do know more about the character, though.)

💀 Oh dear...

💀 Pyro!MC using their Pyro to stop Grim's fire doesn't fix anything-

💀 Plus...

💀 Idia is freaking out at the background cuz the heat might melt his tablet-

💀 HOW IS THIS HEAT WORSE THAN THE NORMAL FIRE SPELL!??!

💀 AND WHY THE HECK DOES THIS SUPPOSED MAGICLESS STUDENT HAVE MAGIC?!!?

💀 Plus, being so skilled at it too-

💀 Idia solemnly swears to himself never to go near MC.

💀 He sees MC as this deadly character in a game that saves you, but is really scary-

💀 He also notes that Mc's origins of being from another world is like the generic normal isekai anime/game story.

💀 He now also sees MC as an Isekai Main Character

💀 Now, most Pyro characters are very passionatw about a certain skill, thing, or goal they have. Like Xiangling and cooking; or Diluc and keeping Mondstadt safe; etc.

💀 So Idia sort of sees MC's passion as something to be careful about.

💀 He wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of their weapon and their vision.

💀 Since idk what happens during and after Idia's overblot, I'll be keeping this short-

💀 Sorry-

💀 When he finds out about what happens to people when they lose their vision, Idia is pretty horrified...

💀 He's pretty curious as to how people handle it, but is probably too scared to ask-

Diasomnia - Anemo:

Malleus Draconia:

(Note: This might be pretty short compared to the others as I don't know much about this character. I might edit this soon when I do know more about the character, though.)

🐉 As he wasn't invited, Malleus doesn't know what happened during the Welcoming Cermony.

🐉 He does hear Lilia (who heard from Sebek and other first years) tell him about a supposed magicless prefect who apparently had wind magic, had helped save the students from a fire cat monster.

🐉 Only thing is, it doesn't help much-

🐉 In fact, the wind/Anemo that Anemo!MC uses only fans the flames higher-

🐉 So they had to stop unless they wanted NRC to burn down.

🐉 He found a great interest in this child of man.

🐉 So when he finds out that they are the now-Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm, he's quite satisfied.

🐉 He IS quite sad that he won't be abke to go to Ramshackle for hsi nightly expeditions/walks, but he's still content with being able to learn more about the prefect.

🐉 Now, in my opinion, Anemo Users are often people who also have a sort of sense duty, while still advocating (or longing) for a sense of freedom in some way (For example, Jean and her sense of duty as the Acting Grandmaster, while advocating for freedom for Mondstadt; Xiao and his role as the only Yaksha, longing for freedom from his perpetual agony; Sayu's a hard nut, but perhaps her role in the Shuumatsuban and her wanting to sleep more to be taller, perhaps??). Some Anemo users also have some type of role model or leader or something similar (like Sucrose has an admiration and looks up to Albedo very much; Jean who looks up to Lady Vanessa, and the Anemo Archon). I also see that some Anemo vision wielders prefer to work alone rather than in a big group; or they carry a burden that they keep alone (like Jean and the burden of all the work being the Acting Grandmaster; Xiao and the burden of his karmic debt; Sayu and her burden of being small and often underestimated)

🐉 So I'll be modelling Anemo!MC based on that.

🐉 So, when Malleus and MC become close, MC is a lot more open to Malleus, and treats him like how they would anyone else.

🐉 They admire how Malleus is very strong and efficient in magic too.

🐉 Both Malleus and MC often show off a bit of tricks using their vision or magic.

🐉 MC also tells Malleus about their homeworld, all the adventures they've gone through, all the hardships, etc.

🐉 In return, Malleus also shares some of his own knowledge about Twisted Wonderland; and gargoyles!

🐉 Especially gargoyles!!

🐉 When he finds out about what happens to a person who loses their Vision, he's quite taken aback.

🐉 He's not exactly downright HORRIFIED, but he is pretty surprised that there would be such consequences to losing that.

🐉 Other than that, he's also quite chill about it.

END!

OMG FINALLY POSTED SOMETHING!!

So sorry for the long wait, and I hope you enjoyed this!

Comments and feedback are always welcome!!

Thank you everyone for your support and for reading this!! 💙💙

#twst #twisted wonderland #genshin impact #genshin #twst x genshin reader #twst x genshin #twst crosscrossover #genshin crossover #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim #vil schoenheit #idia shroud #malleus draconia

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birdy-the-tweet · 5 months

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❄️•Nexocember•❄️

Day 2 - Nexo Power

So I wasn’t able to come up with a drawing, but instead, I’ll take a dive at a writing piece! I swear I’ll get the first episode to the Nexo Knights rewrite finished soon, but until then, enjoy a little tidbit of Dragon Paladin (Macy and Clay).

Yes I call them Dragon Paladin, I love me DnD puns in the knights' duo names whether platonic or romantic.

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Time Stamp: S1 E2 - The Book of Monsters Pt. 2

8:58 PM

Clay fell harder than a boulder to the surface of his bed. For the first time in what felt like an eternity of routine and rotary races against the clock for mandatory workouts, exhaustion had finally taken a toll on his psyche. If his body were non-Newtonian, he would've melted through the sheets and not given a fluid ounce of care for it. But it wasn't because of the abrupt standoff at the gates of Knightonia against the repulsive forces of Jestro, nor was it the hours of festivities spent after their victory in the ballroom of the palace. As much as all his persistence in knight training and stress to remain top of his class cracked at the glass case shielding his mental strain from the world, neither of those jarring events came close to the reason he wanted to sleep like the dead.

No, the reason he - like all the other classmates he joined forces with - felt this exhausted was because of the Nexo power.

He hadn't the slightest clue what a "Nexo Scan" even was until the climax of their battle. Against all odds, when the enemy outnumbered them a dozen to one and mocked their defensive stances with their maniacal cackling, an odd request provided them a second chance to win the fight. They each lifted their shields in the air. He remembered how strange that demand was, especially from a freshman like Ava. Never would he doubt her intelligence, but he had every reason to question her motives when his ankles were becoming worn chew toys for spherical lava pests. And out of the blue, a surge of energy pulsed through them stronger than his record of eight espresso shots in a single latte. His vision blurred to a golden hue, illuminating every threat in his view as a neon violet target. He swore every swing of his sword could crush steel effortlessly with how he mopped the Knightonia bridge with the dark mist of fallen monsters.

It took everything in him not to collapse in front of the palace doors when he returned with his group in triumph, and he had to use Macy as a crutch for the majority of the celebration following the fight. Great bird of the storm, he was tired. No amount of sword training or weight lifting could prepare him for what a real battle was like. Merlok was right. So was Dauntless. Just because they were graduates at the academy doesn't mean they know everything about being a true knight of the realm. Experience was the greatest teacher, and it sure did love biting everyone in the neck today.

Clay could tell the others were worse for wear as well judging from how they also struggled to stay awake during the party. Aaron had to be dismissed early after blacking out, something he never did even when challenging dehydration, and Macy almost used her slice of shepherd's pie as a pillow. The spell- scan- module- whatever it was, it had an effect on all of them except for Dauntless, but he didn't bother questioning why. He was already experienced in combat and probably fought worse foes in the open world. This was probably a warm-up in their eyes.

He could hear Macy and Lance bickering in the hallway over a heated blanket, the only one available apparently in a giant palace befitting a hundred human staff, a royal family, and double the number in Squirebots. If he were to assume, the blanket they had chosen was gold, therefore it meant something to the nobleman like a coin of copper to an orphaned child. Both knights sounded hoarse in their speech, slurred by an unexpected lesson in combat and endurance. Macy somehow sounded more gruff when she threw logic at Lance's face like the bits of confetti you could never get out of your hair, and Lance insisted he deserved a treat after being exalted as a hero of the realm for many hours past his bedtime. A part of him, for once in his life, hoped Lance would win that argument. It would mean Macy would spend the night with him, and he could use a friend right now.

He rested within the confines of the princess's bedroom, the place he had taken refuge for the night after Macy insisted he would be treated with "friendship privileges" instead of taking a guest bedroom. He had to admit he felt spoiled, but he could get used to the luxury. Her bed was layered in the finest fur blankets and silk sheets, most of which were folded neatly at the foot minus a single fleece comforter she used and worn down over a decade of sleepovers and wrestling matches. There were a lot of fond memories on that blanket. Heavy eyes painfully tugged open to glance at a smudge of purple permanently staining the short fuzz of the blanket's pelt. They smeared blackcurrant jam while enjoying pancakes one morning, maybe two years ago. A reward for staying up all night binge watching the Ned Knightly movies and all the franchise's animated shows from worst to greatest, he remembered clearly. Macy loved that series. She could go on for hours about why it's one of the most underrated franchises in all the kingdom. Knightjago was his personal favorite, not that he'd tell anyone but her. He could still hear her nagging at him for his stupid crush on the fire knight. As of this day, they're both happy he got over that. Somewhat.

A rabbit's angry thumping could be heard in a rhythmic pattern, approaching the door at a slow but steady pace like its turtle nemesis. The footsteps were too heavy to be Lance, too light to be Dauntless, and he wasn't even sure if Aaron was any closer to being conscious than he was an hour ago. He felt the corner of his lip tug upwards at the revelation of who won that debate outside.

The door split into two segments, then retreated into the frame's hollow exit points to reveal a tall figure standing at the other side. Clay was never happier to gaze upon crimson red hair bouncing in its dramatic cheerleader ponytail as Macy dragged herself to the bed, not even caring someone was in the room with her while she removed her shirt and fished her drawers for something more comfortable. "Hey Clay..."

"Mmh," he hummed back, unfazed while his colleague undressed herself near his vicinity. They'd known each other for so long, neither of them had any reaction to seeing one another nude. Perhaps that character trait of their friendship is what convinced at least a whole grade of students they were star-crossed lovers, but really, Macy just preferred using the men's dressing room for armor donning and showers. "Tired...?"

"Yes." The red haired knight could've made the drawer her new pillow if she didn't have enough energy to rant about that one unholy topic. "It feels like a hover horse hit me."

"Maybe because one did-"

"You finish that, I'm throwing you out the window."

"Okay okay, I surrender." Clay flicked a single hand to the air as his white flag, but he could only keep it suspended for a few seconds. "Please tell me you slapped that Squirebot."

"Better! I fed it to the horse."

A sputtering string of muffled snorts unraveled into a quiet, heartwarming round of laughter, first from Clay and then infecting Macy. Her laugh was horrendous, more akin to a duck's quack after dunking its head in a bowl of spiked fruit salad that only drowned the rasp slicing her throat, but he loved it. He loved how ugly it was and how easily he could fall victim to its contagious tone.

"But hey," Macy attempted in the middle of a chortle, discarding the remnants of her work suit and slipping on a Ned Knightly tank top with the character's face painted in a stained glass art style on the front. "The knave had it coming."

To prevent another pandemic of giggles, the swordsman focused instead on inching to the other side of the bed so his friend would have room. He felt shameful for the wry smirk he knew crossed his face at a thought lingering so vividly in his mind, but he couldn't bear to keep quiet about it. "Speaking of knaves, I heard you and Lance outside."

"Oh that? Stupid prissy makeup model. I'd bite my thumb at him if I wasn't surveyed almost every waking moment of my life." She swayed like a penguin towards the bed, reaping the rewards of her social struggles as she collided right against Clay's front. "But eh, I might still do it tomorrow. I wanna see his face drop."

With jelly for arms, he wrapped both limbs carefully around her torso and squished her tenderly into the middle of his chest. He loved watching her melt into his embrace. Usually it was the other way around, but he wasn't opposed to being the bigger spoon. "You might make more mouths drop than just Lance. It's not really worth it. It's just a blanket. He'll gripe about it being too hot at some point."

"Yeah... Who needs a blanket anyways? I have you."

"Okay now you're sounding weird."

"What?? You're warm!"

"You realize if your dad walked in on this, he would assume the worst."

"Yeah... But he can't throw you out the window like I can."

"Is that supposed to comfort me?"

"I dunno, is it?"

He dared not add anything onto her claim. There was no point detesting the comedy of their unfortunately hilarious situation. The school had assumed for four long, insufferable years they were a couple with how close and comfortable they were around each other, it had become something they embraced to the bare minimum. His worst fear of King Halbert barging into the room on a scene that could only be the intro for an adult movie was nothing more than something they made into nothing more than an inside joke. It would be funny watching the king's face take a sharp 180 at nonexistent implications. He wasn't ready for grandchildren, and fortunately for him, the both of them had no intention of bringing any into the world. For Macy, she was still searching for someone to call her own. For Clay, he wasn't necessarily interested in ever bearing kids.

The tone shifted from melancholy to serene with a synchronized sigh from them both. Juggling time management in his Tetris game for a mind, Clay muttered a subject change into her ear. "Hear anything from Aaron?"

"He's still out I think," Macy breathed back lowly. Furrowed eyes could picture the ginger haired archer and where he laid almost perfectly. "Dauntless is monitoring him constantly. Won't let anyone into the room without his say. I tried. He's not letting even my dad in."

"Mmh, makes sense. He's the only one who wasn't affected by..." His voice trailed off to forage for the right words, but all he uncovered were fragments of theories. A scan? A spell? A coding command, an incantation? Ugh. "...whatever that was."

She groaned in disgust and dread at the mere mention of the "Nexo Scan", voice trembling like a chicken in a fox den. "I still can't shake the goosebumps off from that. What even was that?? What did Merlok tell you?"

"Nothing." Not surprising. "Ava was the one who told me to lift my shield up. Then we got that... scan."

He could recall that voice perfectly. It thrummed like an ethereal engine, uttering a command so potent it frosted over his blood. 'Dragon of Justice'. Funny. He sure didn't feel like one during that fight, and he could only assume Macy wrestled with the same confusion and anxiety as he was about the scan in general.

The question he asked himself reached Macy's mouth first. "Is it gonna happen again?"

He didn't dare invoke a lie at this hour. Dishonesty would only spell more trouble for him and for his colleague. "...I'm not sure. Maybe. I'd assume so, yeah. If we gotta keep confronting Jestro like that, it's bound to happen again. Unsettling or not, it was the one thing that secured our victory on the bridge."

"But it didn't feel right. It felt... unnatural. Like something inhumane was sending jolts of electricity through my skin. It didn't hurt, but it made me feel all... weird and..." When words failed her, the princess shoved her face into the gray tinted fabric of his shirt. She always found it cute how his modesty carried over to his casual attire. It was - at least in her eyes - a fantasy to go to sleep without a shirt on, but Clay always seemed comfortable with t-shirts and sweatpants. "I don't know. I didn't like it, but it helped. A lot..."

"I know. I'm sure Merlok will better explain it once we've all recovered." Wishful thinking on his part, but hope was a powerful warrior in the face of doubt. "But you should rest. It's been a long day for everyone."

Unable to argue what she knew to be true, Macy melted further into his arms after a silent moment of contemplating the debate. Everyone was tired. She could hear it in Clay's voice, and he seldom showed his fatigue even when he'd go for days without a wink of sleep. If the armies of monsters and attacks on the kingdom persisted, they needed to be ready. Or at least, more ready than they were today. But who could blame them for that? This was supposed to be their Graduation Battlebration. Now they lost their chance to fight the automatons at the Joustdome, and they have to endure dozens of more fights with monsters and terrors and lava abominations. Now they were the heroes of the realm, the only ones throwing their pride aside to actually do their job as knights, and thousands of people are cheering for them. Now they're accountable for all those people and the harm those beasts could cause. And it's all because of-

No. She didn't want to antagonize Jestro. He was a broken man, prone to mistakes but seeking only the kindness and validation from even the people who mocked his name. This wasn't his fault, not fully. She shouldn't bear that mindset when they hardly even knew what they were truly up against.

That was a tomorrow question, just like the Nexo Scan. Macy would swallow her unease and regurgitate it tomorrow when it was a new day. Not graduation day. Not the most important day of her life. "Yeah, you're... you're right. Sorry."

"Don't be. I'm confused too. We'll get answers, I promise. Just sleep. Okay?"

After a heinous wrestle with her worries and hopes, her gaze softened, and she settled into a more comfortable position against him. "What about you though?"

"Oh I plan to sleep. I couldn't bring myself to walk to the Joustdome even if I wanted to."

She huffed at the humor in his accusation. "You're actually gonna sleep?"

"Maybe," Clay admitted. "I hope so." His voice teetered on uncertainty, knowing his sleep schedule better than anyone. "But I won't leave your side if that makes you feel better. That counts as resting, doesn't it?"

"Look who's sounding sappy now..?"

"Oh be quiet." In hopes of silencing any further claims, he squeezed her against him and sadly muffled all the laughter that was left in her system. A shame really, but if she started laughing again they would both spend the next hour incapacitated by it. They could share a joke or two in the morning when they were a little more rested. Once she eased her giggles to hibernation with a sigh, he stole the opportunity to leave a kiss on top of her head. "Good night, Macy."

"Mmh, g'night boulder brain..." And just like that, she drifted into la la land.

Or at least he hoped she did. He could never tell. Minutes collided with hours, and his perception of time blurred with his vision. By the time he was certain Macy was safe within her dreams, he could barely grasp how far into the night they were. But he did know two things. One, he would sleep for more than two hours for once.

And two, he had a lot of questions for Merlok.

#nexo knights #lego nexo knights #clay moorington #macy halbert #nexocember

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mourntheantagonist · 2 years

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thinking about billy showing up to steve’s house hurt. thinking about how billy just walked around hawkins aimlessly for hours and hours after stupidly running out of the house as his dad was doling his punishment for missing curfew. thinking about billy finding himself walking along a stretch of country road lined by only trees and the light of town just fading behind him as he walks into the darkness. thinking about billy not caring that it’s getting darker the further he moves forward. everything is numb. he can’t feel a thing anymore. thinking about a light appearing in the distance. it’s dim but it’s there and billy follows it because his legs are about ready to buckle underneath him from just how tired he is. thinking about billy turning the corner and immediately recognizing the burgundy car in the driveway. thinking about billy immediately wanting to turn around and keep walking in the direction he was walking—walk until he saw the sign that said he was out of hawkins, at least then he could say he escaped. thinking about a porch light turning on and a door opening before billy has the chance to flee. thinking about steve, sleepy and confused, trying to figure out why billy hargrove is standing outside his house moaning like a dying animal. thinking about billy not even realizing he’d been making any noise. thinking about steve walking up to him, seeing red where it shouldn’t be, seeing blue eyes that have somehow lost their color, filled with the color of fear and pain instead—gray. thinking about steve not knowing what to do other than stand there and talk to him. thinking about steve just talking to him casually, like he doesn’t notice the split lip or the black eye or the limp in his step. thinking about steve just talking to billy about the weird dream he was just having and how it must have had to do with all the cheese he had before sleep because for some reason it always gives him the weirdest dreams and chocolate also has a similar effect and…and. thinking about how steve is rambling away about things that should make him laugh and poke fun and thinking about how even though steve has not said a single thing that should make a grown man cry, that’s when he breaks. thinking about billy just shattering in front of steve while steve talks about his weird sleep problems, full blown tears, legs ready to go limp, and he would have fell to the floor if steve hadn’t caught him in his arms. thinking about how billy let himself fall, because somewhere in his mind, he knew that steve would catch him.

#this is what you get now #rambling blocks of text #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things

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jojossillywalk · 1 year

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why does avdol know about the assassins

if we compile context facts in one place, i think Some theories could be made

he seems particularly knowledgeable about hitmen: "mafia, governments, and militaries employ his services (devo)," "he's paid to make them look like accidents (grey fly)," recognized cameo on sight. and knows that "no one" who has faced devo is alive. he also knows midler's range.

if you are paid, there is a decent possibility that you leave a paper trail. joseph seems confident in avdol's abilities to track people down very little (he asks if avdol can gauge anything from a photo with a dark background).

joseph isn't wrong: avdol can pinpoint your address using an unfortunate fly.

ordinarily an advocate of tactical retreat and restraint, but bystander death in front of him will negate this. he also believes "some things are too evil to be allowed to live."

has a knife on hand, which he tosses to people in case they want to skip the hard part.

one of the best moods that we see him in is when he, in effect, has cameo cornered in an area where avdol has complete tactical advantage: wide open space, the terrain is known to avdol, cameo doesn't know the full extent of avdol's strength and has been caught off guard, etc

he is fine with battling jotaro, but immediately disengages when jotaro says "i'm locked in here because i keep hurting people without meaning to"

very familiar with stand battle power: he's the one who states that stand power is in relation to range, he knows that breath restriction diminishes a stand (unless you are dark blue moon or jotaro i suppose), and he assumed that a recently manifested stand wouldn't be as clear as splat was- he can even estimate your distance if he knows enough about your stand beforehand (we see w cameo and midler)

similar to the tarot (all experienced with stand fights), avdol uses knowledge as a metric of advantage- "the enemy knows everything about you- you said that you've lived on your own, but at this point, you're not going to be able to win by yourself."

you could argue that avdol's general demeanor is understandably impacted by how much knowledge he has: he's visibly confident and enthusiastic during the cameo fight. in the polnareff fight, he's cautious, but somewhat relaxed (even charmed) by the fact that polnareff is extremely open about his abilities.

conversely, as early as dark blue moon, "a stand that i, avdol, haven't heard of." knowledge is a very important aspect of how he fights. avdol also notes that with strength, "this is the first time i've encountered such power."

side note, magician's red requires a lot of knowledge: not only are you dealing with the stand, which has a lot of components making the whole, but avdol's very aware of the environment. we see him making really versatile usage of his surroundings, using the statue of magician's red, he uses the ground to solve tactical problems multiple times (making the tunnel and burning the hole under the train track), and red acts as a life/stand sensor.

his test of character for both jotaro and polnareff is exposing his back and walking away- in the mariah episode, we see avdol's actual reflexes in regards to things flying at his back. during combat, this man determines whether he wants to be friends with you based on whether you try stabbing him in the back.

this could be also interpreted as avdol partially basing that judgement on how someone responds to their opponent disengaging!

finally, he's very, very casual about faking his death.

basically a summary of this behemoth but! based on context, i think it's safe to say that avdol and polnareff have more in common than initial impression, because i don't think avdol was using all that information to make trivia games.

that said! i don't think he was tracking with the express intent to battle/kill- even when splat was getting rowdy, avdol doesn't go full throttle, and is quick to stop. i think it was more a statement of "essentially having telekinesis won't free you from consequence," and once he realizes that jotaro wasn't using splat to just bat people around, he hit him with "Turns My Back On You Haha Hope No One Stabs It"

hell, avdol choses to spare polnareff before he realized that polnareff likely had a fleshbud, based on the actions of that episode. he immediately tries to give iggy some gum after iggy is in the cage. i think avdol is definitely an enjoyer of Snappish Weirdo Guys.

#mohammed avdol #muhammed avdol

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flaringfoxsoul03 · 1 year

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Hello I was wondering if I could get a twst romantic matchup? I’d also love if you could put me in a twst dorm however you don’t have to!

I’m bisexual with she/her pronouns.

For personality I’m creative, introverted, and individualistic and structured. Though I’m introverted, around my friends/comfortable places I can be quite talkative, humorous and outgoing. However I definitely treasure my alone time the most.

As for hobbies escaping to new worlds while reading books/comics, watching movies, and playing rpg video games. My favorite genres are fantasy and sci-fi, though I do love a good classic from time to time. Apart from that, I love working out.

My interests on the other hand are art/tech focused. I’m currently in art school working with mostly digital mediums, though I sometimes work with traditional. I love my practice and everything from interaction/game design to visual effects and web design. Sometimes I’ll bring out the graphite and ink. Once I get started on an idea there’s no stopping me.

Random Likes: coffee, chai tea, dark chocolate, rock/blues/jazz/soundtrack music, cafe art shows, arcades, comic book stores, purple, thai/Indian/Chinese food, roller blading to classic rock, quality alone time

Random Dislikes: people i am unfamiliar with and have to make small talk with, the biting cold, rain, non fiction, staying too close to reality and not being allowed to daydream/imagine/roam freely in my thoughts, too much physical touch, overly crowded areas

Thank You!

Hell yeah I could put you into a dorm! I don’t see why not, your form default however will be like Ace and Deuce; normal human features only. Other than owning some magic (no special move will be mentioned), I’ll place you into a dorm like that. Ramshackle will be out of the picture for obvious reasons. And with that, let’s get to the match~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I match you with…

Idia Shroud!

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Look, you literally gave me this match on a silver platter. Better yet, might as well be in the Ignihyde because not only will you be more likely to run into the recluse, you get to practice on your special talents most and improve your styles! Plus, earning a secret admirer from afar isn’t so bad, especially if it’s your dorm’s House Warden!

It was painful trying to meet Idia for the first time in person. The man’s so shy! He’s absolutely terrified of any type of public speaking and can’t get what needs his physical appearance this time when he can send Ortho or his tablet. But he bumps into to you being too focused on his whirling thoughts and oh boy, both of you are a mess. Yet, it’s a beautiful mess, he scatters your papers of art which causes a colorful explosion. In the midst of the chaos, you both make eye contact. Out of every romance manga Idia’s ever read, he’s bushing to match your hues on your cheeks! You whisper quietly as to not draw more attention than necessary to ask him if he’s okay, he can only nod his head as he’s too stunned and terrified of his voice to speak. You look around, lighting up brighter than any screen could illuminate, your eyes sparking with a flavorful idea as you whip out a small note pad and pull a pen tucked behind your ear as you jot your little mental creation down as to not forget it. Idia is truly and utterly lost, but he doesn’t hate that he accidentally made a fool of himself in front of you. He notices his dorm’s crest on your blazer and keeps a mental note of your facial features for later cross referencing to find you in his systems. This would not be the last ‘accidental’ meet up with your House Warden as you quickly explain your haste and gather up the papers as he aided along side out of automatic reflexes. Ortho came to scold him for being late but only saw his older brother on his knees looking utterly and completely out of this world

Is beyond ecstatic when he ‘bumps’ into you again, but still far too nervous to talk to you about any real conversation. His saving grace is that you show him the mobile game you’re playing that happens to be a very exciting RPG that got fully released at the beginning of the year. You had heard in passing that your House Warden was a gamer to the core, so you thought of the flames for hair boy who had helped you break your Artist’s Block. It must be him, so you thought you’d indulge him and the dam broke so wide, you thought you accidentally opened the gamer’s encyclopedia for the game! He stopped midway to apologize for rambling, but then you asked him what a certain term meant as you couldn’t help but notice he abbreviated something. This was the start of your paths intertwining indefinitely as time could tell

Respects your level of intelligence in your areas of expertise while you respect his own mad skills in the technology department. He even helped animate your art to life for little short videos, which turned into a contest of who was blushing more with all the videos you two ended up making together

Definitely appreciates that you’re more of an introvert, he would probably set you on fire with his hair more often than not if you were more extroverted. He likes that he doesn’t always have to spend all his time with you because he’s also just too exhausted by socializing sometimes and he needs a break from everyone. Not that he doesn’t love you or anything, he’s just unable to be around anyone because his social battery is immensely drained compared to everyone else

I think one surprise I think you could have Idia be truly caught off guard is jazz music. More specifically, him liking jazz music in the end after you first introduced it to him in one of your playlists. Sure he hears something similar to when he’s with Azul Ashengrotto when he meets with him for club activities in the Monstro Lounge when it’s devoid of people, but not the way you’ve shown him. He may accidentally info dump you on how jazz came to be in Twisted Wonderland, but I have a feeling you’d appreciate him telling you a little history lesson about it anyways

===================

And the follow ups are:

Azul Ashengrotto

And

Vil Schoenheit

===================

And that’s all folks! Sorry it took so long! I had Writer’s Block!

~Fox

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland idia shroud #twisted wonderland idia #twst #twst idia #twisted wonderland matchups #idia shroud #idia #shroud #twst idia shroud #twisted wonderland azul #twisted wonderland azul ashengrotto #twst wonderland #twst azul #twst azul ashengrotto #azul #ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto

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asherlockstudy · 3 years

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How to do perfect staging: a lesson from Italy

I mentioned at some point I might actually make a post drooling over Italy's Måneskin performance and staging. I was kinda bored to be honest and decided against it but then all those trashy rumours that try to bring the winners down seemed so disgraceful and embarrassing to me that I decided again to do it. Now, the truth is that their performance was a little better in the semi-final introduction act. Perhaps this was due to the anxiety of the Grand Final. This is why I am going to use photos and gifs from that act and perhaps this will show to some that the perfect package might need a little bit of everything, and not just slap your language on the audience's ears with the expectation that this alone is always enough. *Did I make this too personal?*

Anyway, I digress. And I don’t mean that the Grand Final performance wasn’t still the best of the night, I just mean it wasn’t at the same God Tier level as the semifinal one.

Here's why the Italians took advantage of the Dutch stage until its very last millimeter and way more cleverly than any other country.

This is the only act that starts from the back of the stage, where the singer Damiano David waits for us alone.

Even with the rest of the 25 competing countries, this intro makes you forget that you are watching a contest with 26 countries as guests. Unlike anyone else, Italy looks like the host, like this place belongs to them and the frontman waits for you to show you around and possibly drag you to the world of Måneskin. In fact, you almost forget it’s Eurovision - this now looks like a Måneskin concert or, even better, a more private space of theirs with an ominous industrial feel. One of the most impactful things now is the lighting. Take a look at it. Almost all contestants throw all the lights on themselves or on some important prop they have prepared. The Italians are the only ones who chose to just light the stage itself. The simple white lights on the black stage give the impression of depth and it is the only act which shows emphatically the size of the stage. Why this? Well, we already established that in the first seconds the viewers feel they are in a new space belonging exclusively to Måneskin - the lights make us feel that their area is vast and dark and we are about to be drawn to its depths.

Damiano indeed guides us to the front as he sings, where the rest of the band are on the top of a platform. The other members won’t come down and join Damiano until he sings the appropriate verse “Buona sera, signore e signori” (=Good evening, ladies and gentlemen) and accompany it with a theatrical flamboyant bow (that feels very Italian). That’s when, technically introduced to the audience after the official greeting, bassist Victoria de Angelis and guitarist Thomas Raggi come off the platform and join Damiano.

There’s nothing excessive about the visual effects. Only the use of white lights that give the perception of depth and in the background the big shadows of the group’s silhouettes. They are in the front and they cast their shadows in the back; they create to you a feeling of being trapped by them but do you really want to escape?

When the second verse starts, Victoria and Thomas take the paths left and right of the stage and leave Damiano alone. They take even more advantage of the stage and in a typical classic rock band way. These two play with the side cameras but the focus is more on Damiano, whose verse sounds more like a tongue-twister. Since the cameras are rightfully on Damiano, I must now address the elephant in the room. Damiano is particularly attractive. In fact, the whole band is almost mind-bogglingly attractive and they clearly take a lot of care about how exactly they are going to look but Damiano, as the frontman, does especially so. So let’s talk about the outfit. They all have essentially the same outfit, however it is cut differently for each based on the person’s looks and personality. Isn’t it fantastic?

Damiano, who oozes confidence and sex appeal, has accordingly the most “provocative” outfit of the four. His chest and arms are bare so that his many tattoos can be seen. I’ll talk about the other outfits later as they all have their place in the... uh... white lights.

During the second chorus Victoria and Thomas return at the center and after the chorus it is time for the first solo; Victoria’s. The cameras are now on her but the lighting remains modest to accentuate the dark beat of her bass.

Victoria is the only girl of the group and the most dressed of them all - how refreshing! Her outfit is more similar to Thomas but she is buttoned up in the front. How does she wish to underscore her uniqueness as the woman of the band? But of course, with long flamboyant girly sleeves that come to delicious contrast with her aggressive stomping and her wide strides. Both her hairstyle and her outfit is inspired or basically just outright 70′s classic rock look.

It’s time for the bridge of the song right after her solo and Damiano has his attention on her and also draws the viewer’s attention to her some more. This part of the song is lower and softer - in relative terms - that’s why Damiano “chooses” her to sing it to. The lights now turn red, the intensity rises but there’s light flirtatiousness between them, with many smiles to each other and the camera that turns around them as they launch at each other playfully.

Then the song gets darker, more intense, the guitar stronger than the bass and Damiano’s voice turns to a scream. For this part, he turns to his bro, guitarist Thomas and he now draws the attention to him.

He grabs Thomas by the neck in an intense, intimate way (that doesn’t mean sexual, just intimate. His interaction with Victoria wasn’t sexual either). It is clear that through different ways Måneskin want to stress how good and close their relations are and that their singer, who is apparently a show stealer by birth, wants to ensure that they all get equal amount of attention from their audience. I love this.

True enough, nobody is left behind! The last chorus starts with a drums solo and Damiano goes up to the platform to now meet and introduce to us Ethan Torchio. Ethan stands up and his giant shadow is on the now blue background: this is the moment for the - so I hear - somewhat shy drummer to shine in his own aesthetic. The Italians leave none of their assets to fall down and Ethan’s impressive hair rightfully steals the show.

Just like Victoria and Thomas look alike, so do Ethan and Damiano, that’s why their costumes are the most similar. Ethan has a vest that covers him more than Damiano but leaves his arms bare. Because whose else the arms do you need to see if not the drummer’s?

This song has something peculiar because it was not a song originally written for Eurovision; it slows down in the end and does not end on some impressive note from the singer as usual but with the last solo we expect, that of the guitarist, because everything is fair in Måneskin! The focus has to leave Damiano, so now it’s the time for the visual effects to finally catch fire, literally, because nobody is allowed to take their eyes off them! Måneskin use a huge amount of pyro that however feels appropriate for the intense chorus and the ending guitar solo.

Thomas steps up for his solo and I forget we are in 2021. This is the most 70s thing I would ever hope to see.

In a hell of pyro, Thomas looks like he was tranferred right from a 70s rock ‘n roll concert. His outfit would be gladly taken by Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones. The unbuttoned jacket with this boho tie, such a classic 70s fashion touch. His haircut and even his FACE are the epitome of the 70s - what an ending sequence!

But hey we reached the end and this is Eurovision, the song slows down dangerously. Like I said, the Italians forbid us to get distracted. The attention must return to Damiano ASAP. Damiano says one last line and takes the audience with him to the very end with a death drop.

There you have it. Måneskin had me holding my breath for the full three minutes and I did not want to take my eyes off my TV. There are countless shows that are awesome - in this very Eurovision as well - but I was impressed by how they seemed to have found the perfect balance for everything in every single moment. They found the perfect stage concept for the song, they relied on visual effects only when they needed them and they stressed every twist and turn of their sound with a perfectly fitting move or interaction. They also all effortlessly could hold your attention and they made sure that they all would, with members often helping bring out other members. This performance was beautiful and, above all, clever which is why it was undoubtedly the worthiest of the win.

#eurovision #eurovision 2021 #esc 2021 #eurovision song contest #italy #italy 2021 #maneskin #damiano david #victoria de angelis #ethan torchio #thomas raggi #music #songs #zitti e buoni #flashing tw #more

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avtrbee · 3 years

Text

late night punishments

this is my first smut so KJJSHDKFJ please send some feedback, i wanna know the areas in the fic that are good and the ones where it needs to be fixed a lil. enjoy :>

here's my masterlist

summary: gojo finds out you disobeyed his orders, causing him to give you a piece of his mind

warnings/tags: degradation, choking, spit swallowing (?), breeding, overstim, face slapping, gojo being a lil mean to y/n, smut so 18+ please

nsfw under the cut

You cried. You can’t help it. You’ve been on your back, fists crumpling the sheets in an attempt to grab something, and legs spread wide open for Gojo Satoru for who knows how long, his hand gripping your hip tightly that you were sure it would bruise, and the other one on squeezing your left breast.

You feel your tears stream down, mixing with the sweat and the saliva on your face. You were overwhelmed by the feeling of being too full, too good, too much, and above you, Satoru grins.

Your tears don’t deter him, instead, it encourages him. He doesn’t stop his thrusts, 7-inch dick snug inside your cum filled pussy, pushing in and out all over and over again. You can hear yourself from the way your juices react to his cock. If anything his actions make you cry out more.

“Aw,” he coos, never stopping his thrusts, in fact snapping even harder, “why are you crying? What happened to all your bravado?”

His voice sounded so gentle, so caring, and soft. It almost fooled your almost mindless state, but you knew him well enough that it’s just a facade. He doesn’t care if he hurts you, as seen by the love bruises littered all over your neck that trail down to your thighs. You don't mind it though. You were drunk on him.

“C’mon, can you come for me?” Gojo asked, caressing your face. You merely sob out in response because you can’t, you’ve already come more times than you even cared to count, you’re spent and you’re tired. Satoru has also cum twice, and it marvels you how his dick was still that hard, how he’s still going. “I- I can’t- Satoru please-“

“Whaaaat?” He asked, slowing down his thrusts to a full stop. He looks back at you with half of his dick still inside you, a mixture of your cum and his escape to the sheets. For a moment your body sags in rest. “You can’t?”

“N-no…!” You cry out. “I can’t anymore, please.”

Satoru looked at you with his head tilted, as if contemplating your plea. Unfortunately, you missed the way his eyes glinted when he reached to pull out your vibrator. You were still comprehending how he got your toy and how he knew when Satoru thrust back inside you. You groaned, reliving the feeling of being full coming back, your pussy clamping at the sudden intrusion.

Satoru’s eyes rolled back to his head. “How are you still so tight?” He chuckles, flipping the switch of the vibrator. “I’ve been fucking you for hours and yet your fucking pussy still wants more. I married such a whore.” He whispers to no one, flicking your swollen clit with his finger.

He presses the vibrator’s head on to where your clit was, and you let out a scream so loud you’d reckon you would have woken half of the Gojo estate if there were any people. The benefits of being the only two Gojos were that Satoru can make you scream as loud as you can and no one would hear. It was too much, too good.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” he hissed, slowing down, but thrusting even deeper. “How you used this when I’m away? I could smell you on this toy, whore.” Satoru pressed the vibrator harder against you. You hear a switch and you feel the vibrator go faster, making you cry out, tears streaming down your face mixing with the saliva leaking off your mouth.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” You gulp, trying to form coherent words. You were in a system overload, overwhelmed with how Satoru has been pounding in and out of you for hours, and now with the sudden intrusion of your beloved vibrator.

You really didn’t mean to. Satoru had made it clear that you were not to touch yourself while he’s away and in turn, he wouldn’t touch himself on his mission trip. Think about the desperate, mind-blowing sex we’ll do when I get back! He said cheerfully after seeing your disapproving stare. And while that was a good argument to make you last two weeks, you found yourself frustrated and angry and missing your husband just a little bit too much. “I-I just missed you, Satoru. I was n-never satisfied, it could never compare to you…!”

Above you, your husband's face morphed into an expression of displeasure. His piercing gaze stared at you disgustingly, as if you said something to insult him. “Oh? You missed me?” he asked with a high-pitched mocking tone. “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

You felt a harsh slap on your face before his hand crawled on your neck and Satoru started to squeeze. The sensation made you tighten up with your eyes rolling at the back of your head. His pace was relentless still, never giving you a break. It wasn’t until you started seeing dark spots did Satoru let go of your neck.

You feel him toss the vibrator somewhere on the bed, and you could feel yourself flinching from its effect on you. Satoru’s hands found your face as he went deep inside you in a mating press.

“O-oh-“ you groan, enjoying the feeling of his cock kissing your cervix.

“Open.” He commanded. His hands squeezed your cheeks tightly, and with little to no resistance, you opened your mouth as wide as you can with your tongue sticking out. The sight of you made Satoru chuckle. You looked so helpless, so lost in the bliss of pleasure that you’ve let go of your composure. “Swallow.”

Blue eyes watched you eye the string of saliva that came out of his mouth that you happily caught on your tongue. His spit felt warm and different in your mouth, but the idea of him coating your insides that his cock could not reach sparked a flame in you. You happily swallowed him.

“I know we agreed on having no children,” Gojo started, keeping you in a mating press, thrusting inside you over and over again. “But I’m really tempted to make you a mommy, Y/n-chan.” He threatens, pushing his cock deeper inside you. “Tsumiki wouldn’t mind a little sibling and Megumi will be glad he isn’t the youngest anymore, yeah?”

Your eyes roll back to the back of your head, lost in the pleasure Satoru generously gives you. “P-please, faster- faster…!”

“Hey,” Satoru says before slapping your face harshly. His hand goes back to your face to grip your chin, forcing you to stare at his eyes again. “I asked you a question, Y/N. Don’t you want to be a mommy?” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond. Instead, he lets you go and flips you on your stomach. You barely register the bed before a hand grabs a fistful of your hair, lifting you on your knees.

“Please, please be a mommy for me,” he whispers in your ear. He lets go of your hair and uses an arm to hug your shoulders closer to him. “Look over there, Y/N-chan.”

He guides you to look at the long mirror in front of you that you usually use to check your outfits before leaving. Now a reflection of your naked body stares back at you with Satoru behind. You see everything- from the bruises he left along your neck and thighs to how you desperately push your ass into him, a silent plea for his cock. Your pussy is dripping, so much so that the majority of your inner thighs are coated with lines of Satoru’s falling cum from earlier. If you spread your knees wide enough, you can spot more liquid falling directly out of your pussy to the bed.

You watch as his free hand opens and presses your stomach. “This stomach is going be full of my cum, and eventually, my baby.” He whispers in your ear. “I know I’ve already filled this tummy twice, but I’m gonna do it one more time. Just in case.”

“Wait, Satoru-“ You feel him aligning his cock back into your pussy- and then he thrusts, faster than he has before. You scream, both of your hands clinging to the arm around your shoulder for support. Satoru keeps you in place firm enough for you to watch yourself be fucked by him in the mirror. You see your tits bounce upon each thrust, and his hand pressing even stronger on your stomach. You look absolutely pathetic in the mirror, head barely supporting itself with your hair in a mess. There was a familiar feeling stirring in your stomach, an early warning that you’re about to come again, something you didn’t even know was possible up until this point.

“Ohoho,” Satoru giggles. He presses his nose to your ear as he whispers, his hot breath hot against your skin. “You think I can’t feel you squeeze my dick every time you hear me say that I’ll get you pregnant? “

Lost in the pleasure and in chasing your high, you involuntarily squeeze him again, earning another laugh from Satoru. “I’ll do it, Y/N,” he vows and you find yourself meeting each thrust he gives you. “I’ll get you pregnant, wifey.”

“I’m close-“ you gasp, desperately grinding yourself against him.

“Yeah? You are?” He asks and you feel the hand on your stomach crawl to your inner thighs before furiously rubbing your clit. “Cum then. Cum.”

You scream at the sudden overstimulation. Then finally you’re in your high, eyes seeing stars while milking Satoru’s cock so good. He stops rutting in you, lost through how good you feel around him squeezing again and again like he hasn’t fucked you for hours. You feel yourself shake at the near end of your orgasm until your legs gave up and made you drop on the bed. The bed thuds as Satoru falls behind you.

After a few moments, you breathe out a puff of hot air while staring at the ceiling. “That was great.”

Beside you, Satoru grins and it’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen. His hair is flat sticking to his face, and his blue eyes are so full of love it makes your heart burst. He kisses your shoulder so gently as if he didn’t fuck you to oblivion just a few seconds ago. “I know. I’m the best.”

You roll your eyes at him. God, you love him-

“Y/n-san, Gojo-san,” called a voice from your door. “I threw up.”

You whip your head so quick to the door only to find Megumi holding the doorknob. He was in his pajamas, with the stuffed dog toy Gojo bought for him on his other hand. He did look sick, your poor boy, but you really couldn’t focus on the child. You were too busy scrambling to cover yourself with the blanket.

“Oi, Megumi. Wanna have a little sibling?” asked Satoru playfully at the same time Megumi asked, “Why are you sweaty?”

“I want a little sibling!” shouted Tsumiki, rushing into your room. “I do! I do!”

Was she there the entire time? Your mind blanks at the thought of Tsumiki possibly hearing everything that you didn’t even notice Satoru smirk and you. “Told ‘ya.”

Megumi stared at the pavement beneath him wide-eyed and with a heavy breath. “They weren’t wrestling…”

He felt a smack at his back and flinched to his side, only to see Itadori’s concerned face. “Oi, Fushiguro. You’re not looking well.”

Megumi could only stare at him in shock. “They weren’t wrestling.”

"Huh?"

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #smut #gojo satoru x reader smut #gojo x reader smut

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skyeet-the-writer · 4 years

Text

The Love Among Us

Chapter 1-- I’d Never Snitch On Daddy

so i haven’t seen many corpse husband x reader stories on here, so i decided to upload one myself. i’ve been watching jacksepticeye’s among us videos and when i heard corpse talk for the first time, i was like, “hol up” and now i’ve been obsessed with him. also, go stream his music on spotify, it’s amazing. enjoy! x.

corpse husband x female!reader

summary: while playing among us, y/n watches corpse kill felix in o2. when his body is reported, however, she doesn’t tell who killed him.

word count: ~3.6k

warnings: swearing, mentions of death (not real death), mentions of murder (not real murder)

EDIT: before i wrote this and after i published it, i did not know that corpse did not like to be referred to as “daddy”. had i known this, i would have not even thought of posting this. and since i know now, i won’t refer to him as such in the future. thank you. (10/19/2020)

EDIT 2: this is the first part to my corpse x reader series. i will be adding chapters as we go!

next>

4 rounds before the incident

“I was in coms with PJ!” Sean exclaims.

“He is doing the liar voice!” Felix shouts with a laugh.

“I’m not,” Sean tries to say, but everyone talks over him and the voting time ends. Everyone left alive, though it was only four people, had all voted for him and he yells at them as he gets ejected.

stinky was not the imposter

2 imposters remain

The round ends and everyone unmutes themselves.

“Lizzie, you saw Felix kill me and you did nothing!” Roomie yells as soon as the round ends and the imposters are revealed.

“Yeah, because I was the other imposter.”

“Oh. Okay, well that makes sense.”

Everyone laughs and Ken starts the round again.

“Wait, can I invite y/n to play? She’s doing her twenty-four-hour stream and she just finished playing Monopoly with Mark, Bob, and Wade,” says Lizzie, looking down at her phone as they all appear back in the waiting room.

“Yes,” Corpse blurts out and there are a few laughs and chuckles.

“You were quick to answer, Corpse,” Sean teases.

“Shut up,” Corpse mumbles and there are even more laughs.

Lizzie smiles and taps into her phone. “I’m gonna invite her.”

“I can’t believe that you actually made that deal, y/n,” Wade is telling you after ending the second round of Monopoly that you’ve played with them.

You smile and cross your legs on your chair. “Look, I was going bankrupt and it seemed good at the time. Besides, Mark was going to win anyway, he owned half of the board.” Your phone buzzes beside you on your desk and you pick it up. “Lizzie texted me.” There’s a sound effect that plays in your headset and you look up at your screen and smile. “Thanks to _lorieplays _for donating a hundred dollars, that means a lot. Thank you so much.”

“Do you want to play another round?” Marks asks.

You shake your head, reading the text from your friend in England. “No, I don’t want to lose to you again.” You laugh. “Nah, Lizzie wants me to play Among Us with her and a few others. It was fun playing with you guys.”

“It was even though you took all of my money,” Bob snaps.

You laugh. “Yeah, yeah. See you guys later.”

“Bye,” says Mark.

“See y--” Wade begins but you cut him off when you disconnect from the call.

“Oops.” You put a hand over your mouth and laugh. “Sorry, Wade. Okay.” You straighten up and glance over everything, making sure it’s all working properly. “I have to pee and I think my roommate ordered pizza, so we’ll be back after this short break. Enjoy this live feed of my pet rats.” You giggle and switch the stream over to a view of your two rats in their cage where you have a camera set up. You take your headset off and head out of your recording room.

Every two months, you have a twenty-four-hour livestream where you play games with your friends from all around the world. Despite being only twenty-five, your Youtube channel had grown exponentially in the past three years and you’ve had the chance to meet lots of other Youtubers like Markiplier, PewDiePie, and your close friend, LDShadowLady.

Currently, you’re on hour twenty of twenty-four and you’re beginning to feel the effects of not sleeping for a whole day. You had been drinking coffee and energy drinks for the past four hours and that seemed to perk you up for two hours max. But your roommate had ordered pizza and that would hopefully wake you up.

After going to the bathroom and grabbing an entire box of pizza, you return to your recording room and sit down. You put your headset back on and eat a slice of pizza before switching the views back to you. “And we’re back. I hope you guys enjoyed my rats because I don’t. They keep me up at night.”

You read a comment while loading up Among Us and laugh. “No, they’re not dead. They’re sleeping. They do that a lot when they’re not fighting.”

When you finally get into the game and entire the code, you spawn in. You also quickly join the Discord chat and wince when nearly ten voices hit you at once.

“y/n!” exclaims Lizzie and the other voices die down for a moment before rising to greet you.

You wince again but laugh. “Jesus, you guys are loud. Hey, Lizzie.” You move your character to the customize tab and go to try and switch your color. But then you frown and realize that you’re stuck with being dark blue. “Damn, I wanted to be white.”

“Do you want to switch?” Corpse asks.

Your eyes widen you your stomach flips. You hadn’t noticed Corpse was in this game. Immediately, your chat became flooded with keyboard smashing and lots of “omg my shipp” and “y/n rlly said ‘anna oop-’”

“Uh, yeah, if you don’t mind,” you manage to stutter out and take a bite of pizza as Corpse’s player comes over and the white option becomes available. You select it and also select the goggles in the hats menu.

“How’s your stream going?” asks Sean.

You shrug. “Pretty good. I’m super tired, though. I literally almost fell asleep while playing Monopoly with Mark, Wade, and Bob.”

“You went to college, right?” You’re pretty sure that’s Roomie.

“Yep,” you affirm with a nod even though they can’t see you. “You’d think that those all-nighters writing papers and studying for finals would make me able to do this.”

There’s a laugh in the group and the round starts.

3 rounds before the incident

You scratch your eyebrow and sigh in relief when you’re the crewmate. You mute yourself and slide up in your chair.

“I like being the crewmate,” you say, heading towards admin as a habit. “It’s a lot less stressful than being imposter.”

After doing your tasks in admin and fueling the engines, you stumble across a dead body in the lower engine and a vent closing.

“Oh,” you say, and press the report button. You unmute yourself and begin with, “So I saw a vent close but I didn’t see who went in.”

“Who died?” asks Lizzie.

“Felix,” says Sean.

You smirk. “It’s always yellow that dies first.”

“Where was the body?” Ken asks.

“Lower engine,” you reply.

“I was in medbay with Corpse doing the scan so it wasn’t him,” PJ says and Corpse makes a noise of confirmation.

This makes your cheeks heat up and you smack a hand over your mouth. Your chat explodes again but you decide to ignore it.

“And I was doing wires in cafeteria,” Lizzie says.

“Sean, where were you?”

“I was in reactor doing the simon says thing,” he answers.

You sigh. “I hate that one. What about you, Ken?”

“I was with Roomie in electrical doing the power thing. You know, the one where you have to divert it somewhere else.”

“So do we skip then?” asks Lizzie.

“No one is super sus, so I’m going to skip,” you answer.

When no one is ejected, you mute yourself again. “I dunno why, but Sean seems pretty sus. Because I didn’t see him on the way down from upper engine. But I guess he could have gotten there in time.” You shrug and run over to the trash chute in the cafeteria. “RIP to Felix, though.”

After doing the trash there, you head down to storage, running into Corpse doing the wires in there. You wait there to clear him and once you do, you run a few circles around him to get his attention and he follows you over to the trash in storage and watches you do that. After that, the two of you head over to electric together and do wires there.

Suddenly, there’s a body reported and you unmute yourself.

“Sean just killed Lizzie in front of me!” exclaims PJ.

“PJ killed Lizzie,” Sean retorts, flipping the blame. “I watched it, he didn’t realize I was there and murdered her.”

“I watched PJ do the scan in medbay, he’s cleared,” Corpse says and you find yourself smiling for no reason. “Sean, you killed Lizzie.”

“I knew he was sus,” you say, grabbing another piece of pizza. You look at the box and your eyes widen. Had you really already eaten half of it?

“Wait wait, how am I sus?” Sean asks.

You take a moment to swallow. “Because when I was doing fuel earlier, I was running down from upper engine and didn’t see you in reactor. Sure, maybe you could have gotten there earlier, but it was super weird.”

The discussion time ends and PJ immediately goes to vote for Sean as well as you, Corpse, and everyone else still alive. Sean ends up getting ejected.

stinky was an imposter

1 imposter remains

“You’re such a detective, y/n,” Sean says when he gets ejected.

You laugh. “I just play this game too much.” You then mute yourself and smile. “I am a genius.”

You end up finishing your tasks quickly after that and then stand in the cafeteria and eat another piece of pizza and read some of the chat.

“’ What am I going to do after this?’ I don’t know. I might play some Minecraft. Should I have a poll on Twitter? I’m stuck between public Among Us games, Minecraft, and taking random quizzes on Buzzfeed.” You smile and hear another sound effect and something pops up on the screen. “Thank you to coochie man for donating a hundred dollars, that means a lot.” You laugh at their name. “I love your name, by the way.”

There’s some rattling in the cage behind you and you turn around to see one of your rats drinking water. You turn back to the chat and read another comment. “’ Do you have a crush on Corpse?’” You blush and smile, biting your lip. “I mean, his voice is hot. I’ve never met him since he lives in San Diego and I live in h/t, but yeah, I guess I do. I’ve been listening to his music for the past few days and it’s really good, you guys should go check it out.”

You look up and unmute yourself when a body is reported. “Who died?” you ask. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Are you already done with your tasks, y/n?” Corpse asks.

God, even the way he says your name is making you blush. “Yeah, I get them done quick.”

“She does that,” says Lizzie, “She always gets her tasks done quick.”

“Ken is dead by the way,” says Roomie and your snort, smacking a hand over your mouth. “I found him in the hallway by navigation. Where was everyone else?”

“I was in cafeteria doing nothing,” you say, leaning back in your chair and spinning around just a little. “I think I saw PJ downloading while I was in there, but I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Yeah, I was downloading,” says Ken.

After more discussion, Corpse points out that Jaiden had been following him and it looked like she had been faking tasks.

“No I haven’t,” she says.

“That sounds like something the imposter would say,” you hum with a smirk. “That’s pretty sus, Jaiden.”

Everyone else agrees and you all end up voting Jaiden out.

jaiden was the imposter

0 imposters remain

You cheer as the round ends and a blue victory screen pops up for the crewmates. “Good game, guys,” you say and play again, waiting for the host.

1 round before the incident

“Oh my god, I’m imposter again?” you groan and sigh when you spawn back in. “I was just imposter, I don’t want to be it again. I’m so bad at it,”

After another short round of you and Felix losing to the crewmates, you all agreed to play two more rounds before Sean had to leave. So you move your character to admin where PJ is and fake the card swipe before moving over to the admin security thing where you could see who was around where. Luckily, no one appeared to be near admin, so you quickly kill PJ and escape through the vent and come out through medbay.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” you whisper over and over, running down to storage. “That was clean.” You fake getting fuel and go back up to the upper engine.

When PJ’s body is reported, you see that your fellow imposter, Sean, had reported it. You stay silent for most of the round and only say that you were in the fuel area when it was reported.

“Yeah, I saw her run past electrical earlier,” Corpse says. You blush and glance at your exploding chat and shake your head.

After everyone skips the round, you mute yourself once more and head towards navigation. “I hate this.” You drag the last syllable and watch Lizzie enter the room. You wait a moment before walking towards her and killing her, jumping into one of the vents. You let out a sigh and flex your fingers. “I’m so stressed.” You exit out of the vent into shields and your heart stops when you see someone else in there but you realize that it’s the other imposter, Sean, and you relax.

You run past him and go to the trash compartments and pretend to unload those. And that’s how the rest of the round goes. You kill someone, someone reports it and you vote someone off. Eventually, you and Sean do a double kill and end up winning the round.

You unmute yourself.

“Let’s go!” Sean exclaims and you smile.

“I can’t believe you killed me, y/n!” shouts Lizzie. “I thought we were friends.”

You laugh. “There are no friends in this game. I’m not loyal to anyone in this game. You could be my best friend and I would fucking murder you.”

“That’s cold,” says Roomie as everyone else spawns back in.

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Wait, PJ disconnected,” says Sean, and you all end up waiting for him to rejoin.

In that time, you look at your chat and say, “Hey, do you guys have any questions for who I’m playing with. I’m asking you, chat.”

“I swear if someone asks about my hands, I’m leaving,” Corpse says and everyone laughs.

You laugh louder when you read a comment and read it aloud, “_Ironlady _says that you should be a hand model, Corpse.”

“Okay, I’m leaving,” you hear Corpse say over everyone laughing.

“No, stay!” you exclaim, trying not to laugh. “C’mon, don’t leave.”

He sighs deeply and your brain goes fuzzy. “Fine. I’ll stay for you.”

You beam and your tummy turns. You ignore the whistles and remarks from everyone else and stand beside Corpse. You suddenly wish that the little bean characters could hold hands.

When PJ joins the server again, Ken starts the round and you cross your fingers, hoping to get crewmate.

0 rounds before the incident

You mute yourself and sigh when you’re a crewmate. “Thank god.” You let out a breath and go over to admin with everyone else. You swipe your card and go to the cafeteria to do some wires there.

The game turns out to be rather uneventful. A few people die and two people are voted off before the game gets truly interesting. And that happens when you walk in on Corpse and Felix.

“I’ve had this song stuck in my head for days,” you’re saying, walking from electrical over to O2. “And I can’t get it out of my head. Maybe singing it will help.” You hum the first part. “Don't go in there, you'll become one. Freaky creatures, monster party. Eyes of yellow, scales and feathers, tails in tethers. Turn the lights off. Bend the nightmare, you control it. Artful dodger, easy does it. Shut the closet, get under the covers. Snakes and lovers. Turn the lights off.” You do a little dance for a moment and continue hum the song, glancing at the chat as you go towards O2 after doing wires in storage.

“Like, I know the song, it’s just been stuck in my head,” you explain. “And it kind of annoys me--”

But you stop as you enter O2 and watch Corpse murder Felix. Neither one of you move and you don’t know what to do. “Uhhh.”

Then, without thinking, you turn straight around and make your way away from the scene of the murder. “I didn’t see anything!” you shout to no one. “I suddenly can’t see who murdered Felix.” You smack a hand over your mouth and stand in the middle of a hallway. “Oh my god, what do I do? I don’t want to snitch on Corpse, he’s hot.” You scratch the back of your neck and shrug, continuing on to reactor. “I didn’t see anything.”

You’re in the middle of doing the simon says in reactor when Felix’s body is reported. You unmute yourself and fidget with the sleeve of your hoodie. You know exactly who killed Felix.

“--was in O2,” says Jaiden and you focus back into the conversation. “And I didn’t see anyone around.”

“I saw you heading that way, y/n, but I know it wasn’t you because I saw you do the trash in storage.”

You look at the screen when Sean talks to you and you chew your lip. “I know who killed Felix.”

“Who?” asks almost everyone at the same time.

You close your eyes and swallow. It’s just a game, why are you taking this so seriously? Suddenly, a song lyric pops into your head and your stomach flips. You imagine yourself saying it and no one knows who you mean except for him.

You open your eyes. “I’d never snitch on daddy.”

There’s a laugh in the chat and you blush fiercely, your livestream chat blowing up once again.

“I think we know who it is, then,” says Sean, laughing.

“Yeah,” agrees Lizzie and your eyes widen.

“Wait, what?” you ask, watching everyone vote almost as soon as the discussion time ends. “Wait, hang on, who--”

“We know who you’re talking about, y/n,” PJ tells you.

You vote for yourself and your brain goes blank as you see that everyone voted for Corpse. He even voted for himself. They knew. They all _knew _about your feelings for Corpse.

The round ends with Corpse being voted out and the crewmates win. There’s some talking, but you stay on the victory screen. You’re trying to decide if your mad or embarrassed or both.

“I didn’t know you’d say that, y/n,” Corpse says, effectively breaking you out of your trance. “I thought you were gonna snitch on me.”

“You heard her,” teases Lizzie and you can tell she’s grinning. “She’d never snitch on you, Corpse.”

He laughs and you feel something in a certain place. “Oh my god, I’m gonna die of embarrassment.” You put your face in your hands, listening to your friends tease you in the chat. You suddenly want to jump out your window and run into traffic.

“Don’t die,” comes Corpse’s voice through the onslaught of teasing. “I’ll be sad.”

“Fuck!” you shout and slam your hand on your desk, shaking your equipment and scaring your rats. “I’m so sorry, Corpse, that was really weird, I--”

“Stop.” He interrupts you and the chat goes silent and you look up at the screen even though you can’t see him. “It’s okay. It was funny.”

Your eyes widen and then narrow. Funny? He thought what you said was funny? How could he think it was funny?

But then he speaks again and he sounds oddly flustered. “Uh, I gotta go. Um, it was fun playing with you guys. Bye, y/n.”

“Bye Cor--” but then he disconnects and you’re left talking to no one. “--pse.”

There’s a long moment of silence until Felix breaks it. “I can’t believe you just watched me die and didn’t do anything about it.”

There are some laughs and you smile faintly, rejoining the game. “Yeah, uh, sorry about that.”

“Are you okay, y/n?” asks Lizzie.

You blush and swallow. “I don’t know. God, I’m so weird.” You run a hand through your hair and adjust your headphones

“No, you’re not,” Roomie assures you. “He has a crush on you, too.”

Your eyes widen and you scoot up in your chair. “He does?”

“I mean, he called you pretty once during a game and said that he watches your videos a lot, so maybe.”

You groan and sink in your chair. “I’m gonna go, I need to run into traffic now.”

A few people laugh or chuckle and Lizzie asks you if you’re actually going to leave.

“Yeah,” you tell her. “But not to run into traffic. I’m going to go play Minecraft to soothe myself.”

“Aw.” You can practically hear her frown. “Okay. Bye, y/n.”

“Good luck with your stream,” Ken tells you.

You grin. “Okay, thanks, bye.”

When you exit the game and leave the chat, you scream. You actually scream and it’s loud. Your roommate even knocks on your door, asking if you’re okay.

You look at them and nod. “Yeah, totally fine. Probably about to have a mental breakdown, but I’m fine.”

“Okay,” they say and lean on the doorframe. “But I’m not cutting bangs for you again.”

You laugh and nod. “Yeah, okay, fine.” They leave and you turn back to your stream, feeling like you’re about to cry. Corpse knows you have a crush on him. And it seems like he has one on you as well, but now you’re embarrassed because you called him ‘daddy’ on stream.

You rub your eyes. “Well, now I know what’ll be streaming on Twitter tonight,” you tell the chat.

#corpse_husband #corpse husband #x reader #female reader #corpse husband x reader #corpse_husband x reader #jacksepticeye #among us #ldshadowlady #pewdiepie #fanfic

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con-fection · 3 years

Text

violence and intimacy are the only universal languages | BUCKY BARNES x READER | 18+ oneshot

synopsis: In which Bucky Barnes fucks John Walker’s girlfriend, who turns out not to be John Walker’s girlfriend at all.

[Alternative synopsis: Bucky happens to meet you, John Walker's girlfriend, and you're nothing like he expects you to be. He's anticipating a woman that's arrogant, mindless and fake, following after Walker like a lost puppy, a woman who puts on a front to the whole world, a terrible person hiding behind the girl-next-door facade. You're nothing like that - you're soft, intriguing and absolutely lovely, everything that's good in the world. And he's very much attracted to you, desperate to show John who you really belong to.]

Content warnings: 18+ This is SMUT. Contains sex/explicit language/,masturbation.

THIS IS SET DURING EPISODE 2 AND WILL CONTAIN SOME SPOILERS AS IT USES SOME DIALOGUE FROM THE SHOW :) IT’S ALSO TOLD FROM BUCKY’S POV :)

Word count: 17K

John Walker is absolutely insufferable.

He is a man high off his own arrogance, regarding himself as the ultimate authority, and relegating every other member of this planet to being below him. He is a bastardisation of everything that vibranium shield stood for. John doesn't have bravery, but he has pride in spades, which is more than good enough for everybody around him.

Captain America had been so deeply beloved that his loss left a crippling gape in the very heart of the American dream. It was a space that required filling - and so, in the absence of Steve Rogers, the apparent next best thing was located.

But Walker wasn't the next best after a man like Steve Rogers. They may vaguely resemble one another, in their facial features, icy blue eyes and broad, towering stature, but John fails to measure up in each and every way that matters. He fundamentally lacks the most important qualities that Steve had in abundance.

Steve Rogers had been a heart-wrenchingly good man, burdened with a righteous sense of justice, a strong moral compass and compassion. His life had been far from easy, wrought with losses that left him fractured into pieces of himself. He was loyal to a fault - willing to wage a war against the United States' government to try to clear the name of a comrade so close he would have died for him a thousand times over. John would dance to whatever tune the government gave him, so long as it resulted in his name being glorified.

John Walker knows nothing of that sacrifice. Every alleged 'brave' act comes from his warped sense of reality, one that has given him the impression he simply cannot die, that he can't be wrong in any way.

Each time he jumped on top of a grenade, or put himself in the line of fire, he came out unscathed, and so he did it again and again and again, revelling in the praise he recieved afterwards, and the eventual mantle that was bestowed upon him.

Steve had never once come out of a single fight uninjured.

That was part of the mysticism, of his heroism. He would be hurt time and time again. And yet, he would never fold. He didn't bend or break under the pressure, under the pain. He didn't so much as waver in the face of all of it. his devotion to doing what was good and what was right always prevailed, irrespective of how many bones he may break or how much blood he may lose.

Despite the fact that John Walker, the second Captain America, lacked any of the characteristics of his predecessor, he became America's sweetheart. People were desperate to have somebody fill the space that Steve Rogers had left, and to the public, it seemed like John Walker was perfect.

He gave flawless interviews, where he came across not as an arrogant, self-serving puppet of the state, but as a humble, bashful, honest man that represented the very soul of America. Watching him talk was reminiscent of his predecessor, and of course, each public appearance had been carefully orchestrated so that would be the case. Every word that spilled from his mouth was premeditated, designed specifically with the intent to appeal to the populus.

John Walker got to parade around wearing stars and stripes, cradling a shield that he was very much undeserving of wielding. And, he got to do all of this accompanied by two people.

The first was Lemar Hoskins, the Battlestar. Like Walker, he too had served in the armed forces, and was to be considered a decently skilled fighter, though he failed to measure up to the likes of either Bucky or Sam.

...and then there was you.

Bucky found John Walker to be absolutely insufferable, a blight on Steve's legacy, and some tiny, bitter sliver of that hatred was reserved for you, too.

The new Captain America served the country with his best friend Battlestar and his lover, you.

You weren't like them. You weren't some jacked-up soldier fresh out of the army who had kissed enough ass and earnt enough medals to be made into a hero. Instead, you were practically just the eye candy. America's darling, hanging off the arm of their beloved hero. There was something magnetising about you that made people just love you instantaneously. It was a raw appeal that nobody was safe from.

Initially, Bucky had regarded you as an odd choice. You weren't even a superhero. You didn't take up a stupid, convoluted mantle like 'Battlestar' had. Rather simply, you were just there, tagging along, looking pretty and people adored you for it.

There was something very intriguing to the people of America about their new Captain America and his sweetheart - you, a stunning supermodel-type with a dazzling mind and a blinding smile. It was easy for them to project onto you two, the perfect superhero couple who had a fairytale romance.

Bucky utterly detested John Walker and his lost-puppy sidekick, Battlestar.

Some tiny sliver of that malice had initially been generalised to you, too. It was hard not to feel slightly bitter as he saw the two of you on TV, giving interview after interview, cuddled up to each other. It was all so terribly fake, utter bullshit that people eagerly lapped up because it was the version of reality that they desperately wanted to believe in.

It had to be fake - nobody is simply that charismatic, especially not when they're holding hands with John Walker. There was something about the way they, they being your PR team, had styled you in a few of the earlier interviews that gave him the distinct impression that they wanted people to be reminded of Natasha Romanoff, minus the bloody past.

For a while, for your first few public appearances, you had been relegated to wearing dark clothes and leathers that made you seem every bit a femme fatale, though any semblance of danger was nullified by your friendly smile.

It also seemed like that route had been abandoned, and now you tended to appear wearing lighter clothes, whites and creams that were more innocent, like your PR team had doubled back on itself and decided to switch from the 'whore' to the 'virgin'. You seemed more genuine like that, in florals and paler colours.

Bucky would be lying if he said he had never watched any of your interviews. It had merely been a simple fascination, a way to satisfy the nagging feeling of curiosity that threatened to consume him. They were interesting, and he consumed them with an almost ravenous hunger. Simple curiosity, that was all. That was all that he would let it be.

That interview that John had given at his old high school had just been the beginning, his very debut to the American people. Since then, there had been a few more, some featuring Battlestar, who would sit obediently at his side, and others featuring you.

You would curl up next to him, eagerly pressing yourself into John's side, smiling widely as you began the interview. There was a slightly angelic quality about you, a veil of innocence around you, your lilting voice like a siren's call, and your bright, doe eyes. With a well practiced ease, you would entwine your fingers with John's and sweetly tell him, looking at your lover intensely, that he was the best thing that ever happened to you.

It was fascinating to watch, to see just what kind of image your PR team could put across. You seemed every bit like the all-american girl, like the unattainable girl-next-door who would go to church every sunday and would be an inspiration to girls across the country.

Despite the innocent-seeming way in which you were deliberately styled, you never once came across as naive. Instead, there was never any vapid or vain qualities to you. It was like you just didn't know how pretty you were, or the effect you could have on people.

As nice as you may have come across in all of those interviews, every bit the picture-perfect media darling, Bucky knew it was all a farce. John had managed to seem like a decent, determined man who was down to earth and wanted nothing more than to provide inspiration to Americans, no, to the whole world. But all of those things about John simply were untrue.

Every interaction he had with the public had been carefully created to construct an image of him that incited adoration from the public. There was no reason whatsoever why you wouldn't be the same.

In fact, Bucky found it more likely than not that you were a complete inversion of that sweet, charming woman you appeared to be on TV. It left him with a sour taste in his mouth and biting back at bile rising in his throat. It was nauseatingly fake, all masquerading around as good and just using Steve's emblem.

It wasn't until he met you that the malice rescinded.

His escapade with Sam to see Isaiah had ultimately concluded with handcuffs being wrapped around his wrists and a visit to the local police station. Bucky had been taken into some tiny, isolated cell with boring blank walls that are comprised of chipped bricks covered poorly by cracking blue and white paint, constantly escorted and monitored by police officers, who were buzzing dually with excitement and tension at having both the recently-pardoned Winter Soldier in detention, and avenger the Falcon stood outside in the hall, demanding answers.

Doctor Christina Raynor had strolled into the precinct with both weariness and disappointment in her eyes. She walked almost like a woman defeated, one hand clasping the strap of her handbag and the other falling aimlessly at her side.

Immediately, she gravitated towards Sam, who was seated rigidly in some tiny, uncomfortable plastic chair amongst a myriad of members of the public, people who were also waiting for news about their friends or family who had been arrested.

Clamoring to put on the most polite smile she could, Doctor Raynor introduced herself to Sam, barely managing to get in a complete sentence before she's interrupted.

Swiftly following the arrival of the Doctor is the entrance of John Walker. John strides into the precinct dressed in the Captain America garb, shield positioned on his back. There's something terribly strategic about the decision to be constantly wearing the suit. Perhaps it's to offer a sense of security, or maybe it's because without it John has no authority to operate on. Either way, his mere appearance results in a horde of frenzied police officers trailing after him, desperate for a selfie or an autograph, something that John mindlessly indulges them in, smiling the whole time. Sam's face instantly sours as John enters, his eyebrows tugging down into a frown.

John Walker simply saunters in, a falsely cherubic smile on his face as he stares down at Christina. "Bucky's not going to be following a strict schedule any longer."

Doctor Raynor's previously jovial attitude towards John's presence dissipates, quickly replaced by confusion. "We haven't finished our work." She protests, setting her jaw. "Who authorised this?"

There's a note of challenge in her voice as she presses John for an answer. She's the professional - she's very much the one capable of understanding Bucky's mind, and yet John doesn't take her concern into account. He doesn't even look phased by it. He's completely unbothered by any opposition thrown his way - it had never mattered to him before, and it had no reason to bother him now.

"I did," John says, pointing to himself.

Sam and Christina both stare him down, equally perturbed. They exchange a brief glance. Doctor Raynor's concerned in a professional capacity - not only is Barnes her patient, and it is her prerogative to help him take control of his mind and heal, but she is also commanded by the state to oversee his psychiatric care.

Responsibility for him falls onto her - she's the professional. Christina is the doctor, the one who understands the human mind, and John very much is not. Sam, on the other hand, is personally concerned. As much as he pretends he despises Bucky, he does care, albeit begrudgingly. He wouldn't be here if he didn't.

A tiny beep goes off, signifying that a door is being opened. Bucky is walked in by two police officers, looking mildly agitated for one second, and completely numb the next, all emotion dropping from his face to put a cool, unfeeling visage into place. It's a mask that gives him obscurity, that allows him to distance himself from the mere possibility of being vulnerable.

Christina forces the two of them into some botched attempt at therapy, forcing them to look into each others eyes and get far closer than either of them are comfortable with whilst she presides over them, poking, prodding, inquiring.

It's a demand of some emotional vulnerability that Bucky simply does not want to produce. It's not exactly heart-wrenching but it does make him feel robbed, like something had been taken from him against his will. It didn't feel like healing, like what therapy was meant to be. It felt difficult. It felt like a quiet rage building in his gut that he desperately wants to keep under wraps, lest he lash out at somebody.

It leaves Bucky feeling stripped raw when they finally leave the police station.

By the time Bucky and Sam step out onto the streets the sun has already set. The sky is dark, a deep navy blue that's mostly covered by thick dark clouds that besiege the atmosphere. The whole street is lit by lights that have been left on in people's windows, or blinkering blue lamps that run along the outer wall of the police station.

A blaring, almost comically loud beeping noise disrupts the fragile silence of the night. Lined up outside of the station are a series of police cars, all emblazoned with white lettering reading 'BALTIMORE POLICE DEPARTMENT'.

The sirens of one of the police cars is going off wildly, the noise being one disruption and the blue and red flashing lights emitting from the roof of the car being another. It's an annoyance, and creates a false sense of urgency. Those sirens are normally used when somebody's life is at risk and members of the police force are going to respond. In this situation, there's no rush, no hurry, there's no crime.

Leaned up against the car, grinning wildly, is John Walker, still dressed as Captain America, all dolled up in navy blue and red, a silver 'A' on his breast.

When he sees that he's successfully captured Sam and Bucky's attention, which he garners from the fact that both of their heads whip towards him, attracted by both the loud noise and the bright lights, he turns off the siren, restoring the tentative peace to the darkened streets.

This time, though, Walker's not alone.

Next to him, propped up against the hood of the car is Battlestar, also dressed head-to-toe in his tactical gear, arms folded over his chest and a stoic expression on his face. There's something about him that just lacks any individuality. John masqueraded as somebody else, somebody whose mantle he had no right to use, and he's always constantly accompanied by a pale imitation of a comrade.

As likely as it is that Walker and Battlestar have engaged in combat together, they're not comrades, not in the way Bucky and Steve were. He and Steve had been willing to do anything for each other - endure any pain, run from the forces of the state if they had to, even die for one another.

Walker didn't seem like the type to lay down his life for somebody else out of a genuine heart-felt devotion to them.

And then, stood a few feet away from both Walker and his loyal sidekick is you - the lover. There's a decent amount of distance between you and them, separated from one another by enough space that it quite literally looks like you're desperate to avoid Walker's presence. You huddle over by the wall of the precinct, jaw set like you were irritated by the ear-splitting sound of the siren, though you don't voice a complaint. Unlike the two men, you're not dressed like you're headed out to battle, like you're some kind of protector. No, you're dressed in some pale, flouncy sundress that grazes your thighs, and you're shivering in the night air. Of course you are - it's freezing.

Bucky has to bite back a sneer just at the sight of the three of you, a vile, acrid remark just on the tip of his tongue. He has just spent the best part of his day in some cramped cell that reminds him all too much of a HYDRA facility, and then being interrogated by his own therapist, who is desperate to push him into emotional vulnerability all in the name of progress. He isn't in the mood to play happy families, and especially not with the man now wielding Steve's shield.

"Gentlemen!" John calls out, waving his hands in the air as if Bucky and Sam hadn't already started their stride towards him, matching expressions of disdain on their faces. "Good to see you again. Have I introduced you to my girl yet? No?"

It, of course, was a rhetorical question. The two of them had only ever seen you in snapshots of public appearances that you had made at John's side. You weren't actively accompanying Captain America or Battlestar on any of their missions, and as far as Bucky is aware, there are no plans for you to do so. You're not a soldier. You're not built for battle - you're softer. More gentle. You're not the state's attempt at creating a superhero. Allegedly, you're just a regular girl - pretty and smart and charismatic, but otherwise perfectly regular - who just so happens to be dating John Walker, the new Captain America.

John doesn't wait for a response from Bucky or Sam, but he does gesture to you, beckoning you over to him by crooking two of his fingers.

You approach him, your dress ruffled by the wind. In that instant Bucky thinks that the two of you actually do seem nothing like how you do on those televised interviews - his prediction had been correct. The persona was lovely, enchanting even, but it was just that. A persona, an act for your public image. There's something almost mechanical about the way you approach John, your hands folded across your chest in an unsuccessful attempt to shield yourself from the cold. It's all too robotic. It's not effortless or affectionate. You don't look remotely comfortable, but you slide up next to Walker and Hoskins regardless. Clearly, Battlestar isn't the only one who follows Walker's commands like an obedient dog.

You slot yourself in between Battlestar and John, a grimace passing over your face as you press yourself into his side. It's odd, exceptionally so, for Bucky to see this - god, you look reluctant to accept some modicum of warmth from your own boyfriend, who you'd proclaimed publically that you loved more than anything. It's almost like you resent his touch.

And oh, that's nice. It's almost cathartic seeing somebody meant to love and adore John avoid his touch like he's got some contagious flesh-eating disease.

There's a great deal of recognition in your eyes as you look at Bucky and Sam. It's likely you'd already been made familiar with them as a result of Walker's fevered desperation to unite their forces.

Bucky's looking at you intently, just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to open your mouth and prove him right - for you to prove that you were just as fake as Walker and Hoskins. It almost seemed inevitable, really. It's all too easy to seem good, sweet and polite on those well-orchestrated interviews. But real life is a completely different matter all together.

Bucky's well versed in being able to tell when people are lying, easily spotting their little tells, locating them in the flutter of a limb, the arch of an eyebrow or the twitch of an eye. It'll be a matter of moments until he spots yours. Any act was doomed to fail around him. Everybody gives themselves away somehow.

You introduce yourself, stating your name and giving them a shy wave. "It's nice to meet the two of you." You say sweetly, a smile lighting up your face.

Bucky's eyes widen involuntarily. Oh. It was one thing seeing that enchantment on TV, and another seeing it just feet away from him. There was something absolutely enrapturing about the silky quality of your voice, and the way your eyes sparkled even in the dim light.

He hadn't expected you to actually be...pleasant. It was all supposed to be this fake persona, and yet, he can practically sense the genuity on you. You don't twitch like some little rabbit, or stumble over your words. There's no sweat beading on your brow, and you're not avoiding eye-contact. If anything, you're welcoming it.

There was no fucking way. No fucking way at all that you could actually be as nice as you were in those interviews and be with John Walker of all people. You should be horrible simply by being associated with the man.

"Well, now that we're all acquainted we can move onto our first order of business." John says, not even glancing at you. His gaze is focused solely on Sam and Bucky, steely and deceptive, completely dismissive of how utterly lovely you look.

Bucky's having a hard time even looking at John, not when you're right there, not too far away, looking absolutely angelic. There was no way it was some act, right? That facade had fallen through for both John and his stoic sidekick the minute they opened their mouths, but when it came to you... the complete opposite was true. Sam had definitely remarked on his staring problem more than once, and Bucky was very much hoping that in the dark you wouldn't be able to tell that he was looking at you in something akin to awe and unrepentant curiosity. He was looking at you in both fascination and scrutiny, staring intently like he was about to authenticate a work of art.

His deep rooted dislike of both John Walker and Battlestar was still very much present, but he was currently experiencing some emotional turbulence over his deep lack of hatred for you. It simply seemed to have evaporated the second you smiled at him. Which was...concerning to say the least. Shouldn't he hate you? Shouldn't your very presence have stoked that spark of malice?

"Look, if we divide ourselves we don't stand a chance. You guys know that." John says. He's all charismatic and confident, self-assured in a way that comes across as mildly condescending. It's a pale, cheap imitation of Steve's ability to rouse even the most slovenly of men and turn them into righteous soldiers.

"So what do you got?" Sam asks tiredly.

John immediately begins his speech, eagerly describing the plight of Karli Morgenthau, and how her journey around the globe is being aided and abetted by sympathisers who want to see the world return to the way it had been during the years of the blip. These sympathisers had much preferred it when half the world had been reduced to ash and something akin to anarchy had been allowed to prevail.

Whole governments had collapsed in on themselves, and often, borders ceased to exist. It was complete free movement - there was a distinct lack of separation between different human factions, like all of humanity had been united by that grave event that took half of the planet.

Bucky had no idea what that world had been like. He'd only seen the shell of it, the hellscape that was left once the other fifty percent of earth's inhabitants returned to life.

Battlestar makes a few brief interjections, explaining a few minor aspects of the tale - the geotagging, that this threat is most likely operating out of eastern europe, and that Karli has stolen the medicine to take it to one of the camps.

They don't tend to be sanitary places. Disease runs rampant there, and nobody tends to really care about those who fall sick and succumb to their illness. Of course they need medicine - there's probably hundreds of people who are in the throes of sickness, vomiting their own guts out, their wounds crusted over with coagulated blood, infected and festering.

"Well, there are hundreds of those all over the planet since the blip. So, I guess you'll have to look real hard," Bucky says, shrugging with a sort of apathy. It's rather vindicating to watch the way John's lip curls up in disdain.

"Well I guess it's good we have-" John begins, his jaw set and his tone confrontational, dripping with very thinly veiled rage.

You sigh, a tiny little breathless sound that makes Bucky freeze up slightly. It sounded, for a lack of a better word, rather nice. Melodic, even. "John, calm down." You tell him, not entirely unkindly, but not sweetly, either.

There's some kind of quality to your voice when you speak to John like you're negotiating for hostages, not like you're having a conversation with your lover. It's curious, but Bucky tries not to attach too much meaning to it.

Bucky gives you a stiff sort of nod, and you reward him with a smile, your lips curving upwards. "Where is she now? Do you know?" He says, softer than he probably would have if you hadn't been there.

"No. We don't know, Bucky." John's voice is a near yell. He shifts agitatedly, gesticulating wildly, tossing his arms about and shoving you slightly, letting you nearly collide with Battlestar, who is forced to grasp your arm to keep you upright. Battlestar's hand curves around your upper arm, pulling you back until you're steady on your feet. "But it's only a matter of time before we find out."

Relatively quickly, Battlestar's hand drops from your arm, and you give him a whisper of thanks before turning to give John a glare. He hadn't even so much as muttered an apology. He was completely focused on Bucky, the two locking stares in some kind of silent battle, one of wills.

"Things are really intense for you, aren't they, Walker?" Bucky can't fucking resist agitating him, letting the taunt roll off his tongue easily, not even bothering to resist grinning when your lips quirk upwards. Oh yes, you think he's funny - he can see it in the way you press a hand to your lips in a successful attempt to quell a rising peal of laughter.

"Walker's right." Sam is the one to turn to Bucky and snap at him. He tries to diffuse the situation, glancing between you, Bucky and John like he was watching something that had the potential to go very wrong. "It is imperative that we find and stop them. But you guys have rules of engagement and authorisations you have to get. We're free agents. More flexible. It wouldn't make sense for us to work together."

Tentatively, you set a hand on John's shoulder, feeling the coarse, kevlar-esque material of the suit beneath the tips of your fingers as he turns rigid, looking at Bucky and Sam coldly, all pretences of being nice completely gone, having simply evaporated into the cold night air. "Mr. Wilson isn't wrong."

Like Sam, you seem to have moved on to an attempt to prevent the escalating tensions from reaching their head. You try your best to soothe John, and his shoulders do sag fractionally, like he's just been reminded of your presence. There's something about the way that Walker looks at you that's utterly unappreciative. Perhaps John doesn't want to be grounded - if his will is being resisted then he'd rather be aggressive than diplomatic.

Sam scoffs at the name, "You don't have to call me that. In fact, please don't call me that."

"It's polite isn't it?" You say, smiling, even as John ruthlessly shucks your hand from his shoulder, dismissive of your touch. He gives you an irritated kind of look, a silent admonishment of you challenging his authority. It's not the kind of look that equal partners give each other, and your ensuing glare isn't, either.

"Suppose so," Sam shrugs, his lips quirking up in amusement.

"Mr. Wilson and Mr. Barnes aren't obligated to help," You tell John softly, seemingly speaking through gritted teeth. "Clearly, we all want the same things - to get that medicine back and bring Karli to justice. But, if you're not all going to be able to work cohesively on a team and get the job done, it may be best to work separately. It gives you all the opportunity to handle things the way you want to. This should be about doing the right thing and accomplishing the mission, not about who's calling the shots."

John nods stiffly, turning to you for a brief moment. There's some kind of red light coming from within one of the nearby buildings, and it's lighting up the dark street in shades of red, crimson light spilling over his cheekbones and dancing across one side of his face. He's the very image of begrudging agreement. "Alright then. Just one piece of advice for you boys. Stay the hell out of my way."

"Gladly." Bucky mutters under his breath, not missing the fact that you catch it and your smile widens.

As Bucky and Sam begin their exit, he can't help but to spare you one last glance over his shoulder. Bucky's eyes quickly roam over your form, as if he's mapping you out, or trying to emblazon the image of you within his mind - bathed in dying red light, still smiling serenely at him even as he's leaving. He really cannot figure you out.

The line of what's real and what's fake seems awfully blurred when it comes to you. Normally he's excellent at detecting a performance, but when it comes to you, Bucky has no idea whatsoever what is going on. And it's very much intriguing.

John Walker he would have no problem whatsoever in leaving alone.

...but you on the other hand, were a whole different story.

There was some grand, captivating quality that you had in spades that was even more potent in real life than it had been on camera. It was in the way your hair was jostled by the wind, the pale sundress that skirted your soft-looking thighs, the curve of your hips, the way you smiled and that hypnotic twinkle in your eye.

Walker and Hoskin's lovely personalities had been something of a farce, but yours wasn't. It did, however, make him wonder what somebody like you was doing with them - how you could aid and abet their actions even though it was glaringly obvious you weren't always in concordance with them.

"Man, I do not know what the hell was going on there, but I very much did not like how you were looking at Walker's girl like she was a piece of steak, or something." Sam shudders, muttering quietly once they're out of earshot of Walker and his companions.

"I don't know what you mean." Bucky feigns ignorance, setting his jaw and very much trying to push the phrase 'Walker's girl' from his mind. It just...didn't seem right.

In all of those TV interviews, the two of you had seemed like a perfect couple - you only appeared that way because Walker was plastering on a faux persona. In reality, the two of you seemed fragmented, distant from one another though Walker did have some tiny modicum of respect for you.

There was nothing about the real, raw interactions between the two of you that indicated any intimacy. It was the complete antithesis of the united front the two of you presented, of the perpetually happy lovers that America adored.

There was just no way it could be true. In fact, it sets off something that's terribly close to jealousy in his gut. Walker's an arrogant prick who carries a shield he has no right to even look at. He especially doesn't deserve you - you with the pretty eyes and an aura about you that screamed 'holy', 'saintly', even.

Yes. That was probably why he disliked it. Because it was probably inaccurate. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way you enchanted him, nothing to do with the sight of your bare legs and absolutely nothing to do with the lovely way you said 'Mr.Barnes.' It had absolutely nothing to do with that whatsoever.

"No, no." Sam protests. "I've seen you, you know, stare at people before - but god, never like that. Fuck, man."

And it's true. It was obvious to anybody that spent more than thirty seconds with Bucky that he had yet to acclimate and adjust to social scenarios, and that once he was focused on one thing had an abject refusal to move his gaze away from it. Bucky had heard Sam call it both 'creepy' and 'unnerving', and hoped, for some inexplicable reason, that you thought differently.

After all, your eyes had barely left his. It wasn't staring if both of you were doing it - then it was mutual, some kind of joint focus on one another.

"Like what, Sam?"

Sam just shakes his head, looking disdainful, his nose turned up like he'd just smelled something foul. "Mmhm, like you wanted to do some things to her that, for the sake of my own mental health, I would rather not think about."

Well, technically, he hadn't thought about anything that bad - just your voice, your smile, and the way you might say his name. But, in that instant, Sam's words derail all of those thoughts. Because, really, you had looked so lovely that it would be forgivable to think about you like that.

There was that cute little sundress you were wearing, grazing your thighs whenever you moved or whenever the wind picked up. It's all too easy for him to imagine skirting his fingers up your smooth, soft thighs and let his hands explore you, roaming over your ass and your inner thighs, enjoying the feeling of your skin and the little noises he could provoke from you.

"...stop thinking about it. I can literally hear your thoughts right now." Sam says, grimacing at Bucky's spaced out kind of look - his glazed over eyes and the fingers twitching at his sides. It's all too easy for him to see the gears shifting in Bucky's head, openly reliving the few moments he had seen you.

"I'm not thinking about it," Bucky outright lies as the two of them continue walking down the street.

"No, you absolutely are thinking about it." Sam objects. "I can sense the impropriety."

"Oh yeah? You can sense it?" Bucky glares at Sam, unable to resist antagonising him. It's safe, reliable even, between the two of them. They'll perpetually annoy one another, being challenging, rude, and utterly impolite, knowing that when it comes down to it, they'll fight side-by-side without objection, trusting each other implicitly. But in these moments when there's no imminent danger, that opposition is welcome. It's routine, even.

"Hell yes, I can sense it."

Bucky just scoffs at him, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. It wasn't really as if Sam was wrong. There was something especially fascinating about Walker's girl - if that's even what you are. He'd known you for a matter of fleeting moments that passed by like dandelion seeds in a breeze. And yet, something about it felt terribly significant.

He hadn't actually expected that appeal to be real. He anticipated that just like Walker's carefully groomed public image, it would have been falsified.

The only thing that really seemed fake about those interviews was your affection with John. It was non-existent in real life, and for a while, you had avoided touching him, until you had to diffuse the situation. That was very, very curious. Just where had Walker found you? He had to doubt that the relationship was genuine.

Somebody as nice, as innocent-seeming as you would never go for Walker. Not when Walker's the kind of guy that Steve would have tried to fight as a scrappy teenager, before he even got the serum. The kind of guy who Bucky would inevitably have to knock the lights out of in order to protect Steve. That kind of guy objectively did not belong with someone like you.

Bucky has to shake his head ever so slightly. It's a dangerous line of thinking. God, he doesn't even know you. He's met you once, and you'd exchanged only a few words. Irrespective of how nice you seem, how entrancing you are, he doesn't know you. It hardly matters whether or not your relationship with Walker is genuine. It shouldn't matter to him. It really shouldn't bother him.

But it does, and that fact alone is almost as bad as the fact that John Walker is the new Captain America. It causes the same bitter feeling to swell in his chest.

Sam and Bucky fall into line next to each other, walking side-by-side, the dull noises of their footsteps hitting the pavement reverberating throughout the streets. There's a comfortable silence between the two of them. Words aren't needed now. They often aren't. For all of their antagonisation, they can understand each other perfectly fine with a single glance. That's what comradery is.

There are neon lights that illuminate the streets in shocking tones of red and turquoise, reflected in stray puddles that pool in the potholes of the roads. The lights seem dulled, boring despite their vividity. He'd seen brightness before. It didn't look like a street sign. It looked like the curve of your smile and the silent rage you directed at John Walker.

---

Bucky's flat is near-barren.

As much as he hates empty rooms - they remind him of cold cells in underground bases that he wishes more than anything that he could forget - he's also come to the realization that he very much hates rooms that have too much furniture.

They all feel uncomfortable, unfamiliar, a bastardisation of a normal life that he feels he has no right to live. He's so unused to the feeling of a mattress beneath him that the floor next to his bed is easier for him to sleep on. And he hates that, too.

The simple inability to slip back into a normal life makes him feel woefully inadequate, like there's still something deeply wrong with him despite the fact that the command words had long since been removed from his mind.

Sam had returned to his own home a while ago, leaving Bucky utterly alone in the flat.

It's not necessarily loneliness that he feels, but it is a kind of numbness that is close to it - the dulled pain of loss. Perhaps, if everything had gone the way he meant for it to, he would be sharing this place with Steve - Steve who would take a bullet for him, fight any force in this universe or the next for him. Steve who would probably encourage him to sleep in the bed and not on the floor next to it.

That realisation prompts him to shuck off his leather jacket, toss it into the recesses of his room and try to distract himself.

He runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes and just revelling in the darkness. Mindlessly, he sits down on the very edge of his bed, already knowing that he won't be sleeping there. It seems somewhat pointless to even try.

Despite the Soldier being gone, there are some effects of his presence that linger. Slowly, he's been getting better, but there are a few traits he doesn't know whether or not he'll ever have the courage to discard. Sleeping on the floor is one of them. That constant need to be vigilant is another. Often it manifests itself as paranoia, and at other times as staring.

Oh god, the staring.

Bucky knew it could be bad sometimes - Sam made remarks about it often enough - but today, he really felt like he couldn't help himself.

Maybe he shouldn't have stared at you so much. It probably wasn't welcome. In fact, it had been described as 'unnerving' and 'creepy' more than once. But there was just something about you that made him not want to look away.

His eyes flutter open and he lets out a ragged groan of frustration, a low noise that originates at the back of his throat.

Somehow, every little nagging thought always leads back to you, which is inconvenient to say the least. He does have to keep telling himself that he doesn't know you, mentally repeating those words like a mantra, instructing himself to just leave that train of thought alone completely, and to discard any and every thought that pertains to you. You're with Walker. He doesn't know you - but he could.

Bucky takes in a deep breath, hand digging through the pocket of his trousers, emerging with his phone. The internet was a pretty vast thing that had initially taken quite some getting used to, especially when he was still living in Romania. It had been difficult to become comfortable with the amount that society had progressed whilst he was with HYDRA.

He still couldn't get used to the music or some of the fashion trends. By the time he got to living in Wakanda, he was more than used to the intricacies of modern day technology, despite the fact that once he came out of cryogenic freezing he lived a fairly simple lifestyle.

He can't really resist searching your name.

Immediately, article after article pops up, all with headlines about you and Walker. Bucky lets out a minor, quiet noise of discontentment, opting to avoid the articles and instead look at the videos, the interviews that you had given. In most of them, you're accompanied by Walker, and occasionally by Battlestar, too. Bucky absolutely does not want to watch those ones. It feels like John simply sitting next to you is somehow corruptive.

There are a select few interviews where, mercifully, you're by yourself. Some of them are from your earlier days, where you're dressed in black leather, which was absolutely a confusing wardrobe choice.

Privately, he much prefers you in the sundress and the pale colours. In the one that he chooses to watch, you're dressed in another sundress - this one's a pale sort of pink with tiny, blooming white flowers dotted over it. For some inexplicable reason, Bucky thinks he prefers you like this - innocent, summery, and not a pale imitation of somebody who was meant to be scary - not that you had the potential to make him afraid in the slightest.

You're in some room, sitting in front of a grand, white window, seated on a wicker chair opposite the interviewer. There's a few potted plants dotted around the floor, aloe vera, lavender, a cheese plant and some other flowers that are in full bloom, their soft petals unfurled. You're beaming happily as the interviewer begins, soft sunlight spilling over your profile, warming your skin.

"It's a pleasure to finally have the opportunity to interview you - and you're so kind to let us into your house like this." The interviewer says, looking between your angelic visage and their copious sheets of notes, each one full of questions and follow-up questions that they were desperate to ask you.

Ah. That makes sense - all the plants. You seemed like the type to like them.

"The pleasure's all mine." You say, and yes, there it is. That transfixing look about you that he's slightly hooked on now that he's seen it in real life. It's a bit addictive to watch you, and god, even just thinking that does very much make him feel wrong.

"How about we get started, then?" The interviewer says conversationally. "You know, every single person in America is curious about you. I'm just here to ask the questions on everybody's minds! Just who are you? Come on, tell us about yourself."

You don't flounder. Not even for a second. You're utterly effortless in the interviews just as you had been mere feet away from him. "Well, I'm just your average girl, really. I'm nothing special, I promise you. Honestly, I'm so grateful that everybody loves me so much. I really wasn't expecting it."

Sitting there, a serene expression on your face, you sound utterly bashful, humbled and sweet in a way that wasn't quite the same as it had been in real life.

God, seeing you in real life was different to the interview. You had been, for a lack of a better word, better than how he expected. He'd anticipated meeting female John Walker, arrogant, self-assured and willing to try to strong-arm him into fighting for their team, more like Walker's puppy than your own individual person.

And you were nothing like that - you'd challenged Walker, hell, you even seemed reluctant to touch the guy at first, and then, you'd laughed and smiled devastatingly sweetly whenever Bucky would agitate him.

" - oh yes, my favourite flowers are - " You're still talking sweetly but he's only capturing fragments of what you're saying.

It's hard to focus on your exact words when you've shifted slightly, and that sundress has slid up your thighs ever so slightly, exposing more of your legs to Bucky's heated gaze.

Fuck - you don't even realise what you're doing and how it's making him feel. You're just innocently trying to get through an interview, talking about something mundane, like your houseplants, and it has Bucky's imagination running wild.

If Sam were here, he would definitely be sensing impropriety right about now.

Bucky swallows thickly, biting his lower lip in an effort to stifle the ragged breath he's struggling to take. It feels almost like there's no air left in his lungs. It's all too easy for him to picture you, right there in front of him, giving him that lovely saccharine smile, your lips pulled upwards. You'd saunter into his room, sundress skirting against your thighs, and he would be utterly enraptured.

He clears his throat, squeezing his eyes shut for just a fraction of a second. He could practically feel the blood rushing south, pooling downwards until his cock was pitching a tent, straining uncomfortably against his dark jeans.

Bucky can't even bring himself to feel any shame - he's just chasing a sensation, chasing a fantasy of you as he tugs his jeans down, shucking them off and discarding them, letting them land somewhere near his leather jacket.

With an unsteady breath, he shuffles back awkwardly onto the bed. Without so much as a second thought, he's pulling his boxers down his thighs and resting his flesh hand against his cock. He's beyond hard, steely even, and Bucky has to bite back a groan. Even the touch of his own hand doesn't offer him much relief.

He discards his phone, letting the interview keep playing, just listening to your cadence and the entrancing way you spoke, not really picking up on the words themselves.

It's all too easy to imagine you being here, in that tiny little sundress, stalking towards him. He'd want you to straddle him, your thighs framing his, sundress riding up, exposing more of your legs. He'd push the fabric up, and instruct you to hold it there.

You'd probably give him something like a shy little nod and that dazzling smile of yours, your hands fisting the fabric and holding it up.

Fuck - it was all just too good to think about.

Bucky's grip on his cock tightens as he slowly strokes himself. He could easily tug the top part of the sundress down, too, to expose your tits. Maybe he'd even play with them for a bit, licking, nipping and sucking until there's a constellation of bruises and bites decorating your decolletage.

You'd probably beg, all whiney and breathy and absolutely desperate for him, struggling to maintain your hold on your dress, your fingers twitching as you pushed your chest towards him. It would be fucking lovely. He would finally pull away, admiring his work before bothering to address your needs. He'd trail his hands up your thighs.

He had to wonder exactly what you were wearing underneath it. White? Black? Lacey? A tiny little thong that rises high on your hips, the kind he can easily rip off with his bare hands or push aside?

Or fuck, even more addicting, what if you weren't wearing any at all? His fingers would smooth up your thighs as you trembled, meeting your bare cunt.

Bucky doesn't even bother to try to quell the groan that rises up within him at that thought. God, that would be nice. You'd be wet - so wet, dripping, coating his fingers and trickling down your thighs. He'd rest his dark, metal hand on your waist whilst the fingers on his other hand ran eagerly through your folds, teasing your clit as he memorised all of the little sounds he could pull from you before he'd plunge two fingers into you.

You'd cry out, and he'd swallow the sound with his mouth, crushing his lips to yours and letting you gasp into his mouth. When he finally pulls away from you, fingers knuckle deep inside of you, your face would be painted a bright red, and your lips would be swollen as you begged him, fucking begged him to fuck you.

He'd deny you at first, watching you tremble and twitch on his fingers, practically fucking yourself on them.

Bucky would stroke at your clit, tracing tiny circles over it and watching your face contort in pure, unadulterated pleasure. He'd let you get off on his hand first. Would your eyes roll back into your head? Would you scream for him, yelling out his name? Would you get even wetter, impossibly making his fingers even slicker, fucking soaking him? You'd probably seize up, your spine going rigid, your mouth tumbling open and your walls flutter around his finger, convulsing uncontrollably.

And then, only then, would he fuck you.

God, you'd take his cock so well.

Maybe the stretch of it would be a bit much at first and you'd squirm in his hold, his metal arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you impaled on him. The noises you would make would be utterly lovely - whines and fragments of pleads that never quite get finishes because you keep interrupting yourself with your own moans.

Eventually, he'd have you in his lap, your legs folded over his, one of your hands holding up your sundress so he can see his cock entering you, pushing you open, the other resting on his face. You'd bounce on his cock, whimpering like a kitten, biting at your bottom lip whilst he stared at you in awe.

You would be good - so, so good, tight and hot around him, absolute perfection.

He'd mark your neck up too, so that it'd match your tits, leaving tiny, bloodied indentations of his teeth up the column of your throat, soothing the sting by laving his tongue over them, the taste of your blood blooming on his tongue.

'Walker's girl' his ass.

It wouldn't be John fucking Walker whose name you were crying out. It would be his. It'd be his love bites littering your neck, and it would be his come leaking out from your cunt, trickling down your thighs.

He's relentlessly fucking his fist at this point, grunting and groaning at the mental image of you riding him to completion, snug around his cock, begging for him. There's some deep, nigh unholy pleasure building within him, ripping through him like a hurricane.

"God, fuck -" Bucky comes almost violently with a cry of your name, jerking quickly, hot come spilling over his knuckles. The pearly white beads trail down his hand, oozing onto the bed sheets.

He can still hear that interview playing, your melodic voice grounding him as he comes down from his high.

You're talking about some sport you had played in high school, and the interviewer is lapping it up, eager for your attention and the exclusive interview. Bucky's chest is heaving, rising and falling heavily as he struggles to catch his breath.

Was it probably wrong to get off whilst thinking about another man's girlfriend? Yes. But, Bucky didn't particularly care, not when he'd just had quite possibly the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life, and especially not when it was 'Walker's girl' he was getting off to.

Walker probably couldn't make you come if his life depended on it. But Bucky would.

It's definitely strange that he wants you so badly. Maybe he just wants to take something from Walker the way that Walker had taken the mantle of Captain America.

He didn't really know how he'd react if he ever had to see you again. There's no way he can look at you in any non-sexual capacity, and he can just sense that this won't be the last time he comes whilst thinking about you.

It's probably for the best then, that he'll be staying out of Walker's way. There will be much less temptation on his part to interfere with your relationship. Yes, it's definitely for the best. He's probably just stressed and overworked, and that was the reason he felt the need to fuck his hand whilst thinking. about you. Just stress. And it's not exactly wrong to want to relieve that stress, is it? No. Not at all.

This is perfectly fine, and even if it wasn't, he wouldn't be seeing you again.

---

Just as Bucky had been getting ready to go out for the morning, dressed in jeans and some dark jacket that did a reasonable enough job of hiding the distinctive metal arm, a loud rapping reverberated through his apartment.

Immediately, he's frowning, and some of that old, ever-present paranoia is reawakening, like it's coming out of a coma, its dormancy ending abruptly. He pauses, slowing his gait and balling his hands into fists, bracing himself.

The knock doesn't sound like anybody he knows. It's not Sam - Sam either barges in, makes one single loud bang, or will just yell obscenities until Bucky stumbles out of his flat to meet him. This knock, a gentle rapping, is softer, more polite, and unfamiliar. If he's lucky, it'll have been just somebody who had got the wrong apartment number, or who wasn't yet aware that the previous tenant had moved out. It happened sometimes.

This knock could have a perfectly reasonable explanation behind it - it could be an honest mistake, or some unfortunate door to door salesperson whom he was about to scare off. Still, despite the fact it could be innocuous, it does have him on edge.

Cautiously, Bucky approaches the door, taking in a deep breath as he undoes the latches one by one. Slowly, he opens the door. It feels like ripping off a bandaid. To his surprise, it's neither somebody who's out to hurt him, nor somebody who's got the wrong apartment number.

It's you, standing outside of his door, wearing another one of your pale sundresses and a knitted cardigan, looking like something out of one of his dreams.

So much for not seeing you again.

Maybe he just had exceptionally bad luck, or the universe hated him. That absolutely had to be what it was - some grand, sadistic cosmic being had it out for him and was desperate to make his life hard.

Why the hell were you here? Was Walker sending you to harass him? That would be objectively cruel, and an unfitting punishment just for rejecting the opportunity to work with him. And - how the hell had you found his flat? That absolutely wasn't meant to be information available to anyone.

"Walker's girl?" He says, staring down at you, frowning.

Bucky doesn't dare call you by your name, not when the last time he said it was when he was coming all over his own hand. He hates the fact that he calls you that, and even more than that, he hates the wince you make. It's perfectly understandable that you don't like being called that, irrespective of whether it's accurate or not. Which he hopes it isn't. And then he resents himself for even being bothered by whether it's true or not.

He doesn't fucking know you. He shouldn't care.

You remind him of your name - as if he could ever fucking forget it. You brush it off pretty quickly though, smiling up at him. "Mr. Barnes, do you mind if we talk?"

Bucky is very much not enjoying the emotional turmoil you're putting him through. "Sure. Come in. And it's just Bucky."

He most definitely should not be letting you in. That would be a bad decision and he especially didn't want to get ideas about you whilst you were in his flat. And yet, he found himself readily opening the door and welcoming you in, before closing the door after you.

You make your way into his flat, looking at him gratefully.

"What's the deal with you and Walker?" The words tumble from Bucky's mouth, gruff and awkward, before he can even think to stop them.

A look of mild confusion passes over your face as you blink up at him. "Oh, John? I mean, we're not really a couple."

"I thought not." Bucky says, feigning impassiveness, even though there's absolutely nothing neutral or disinterested about the hopeful feeling that blooms in his stomach.

"Yeah. It was meant to be good for his public image, you know. The all-American guy with the perfect relationship. And I have debt I need to pay off - tuition and all that - and they compensate me for my time." You explain, laughing lightly. It sounds like bells chiming in the wind, and awakens in him some long forgotten memory of watching the sunset. It's reminiscent of something, someplace happier where his head was a whole lot lighter.

Bucky actually feels a genuine bolt of relief skirt down his spine. Of course he had been right. There was no way that Walker could get with somebody as good as you, somebody who seemed very much like an angel put on earth.

Your eyebrows tug slightly downward, "Was it obvious?"

"You looked like you'd rather have been anywhere else."

That prompts a peal of laughter from you, and all traces of concern simply evaporate from your visage, quickly forgotten. "Yeah, I suppose so. John can be...difficult at times. He's very strong-willed and we don't always get along."

"You two seem to get along well enough on camera," Bucky remarks, voice lower than he intended for it to be. Really, he doesn't want this to descend into some kind of interrogation, and he doesn't want to scare you off.

"I'm a decent actress," You say with a shrug. "And we normally do our TV appearances when we're getting along. John's not always easy to get along with, but occasionally we manage to put it all behind us. It may seem scummy, I guess. We are practically lying to everyone, but I do need the money and it's easy work."

It further reassures him - of what, Bucky doesn't quite know, but he doesn't feel half as on edge as he had been earlier.

You're not Walker's. He fucking knew it.

He couldn't possibly even conceive of a universe in which you would ever even consider Walker's advances. That bastard was lucky you even looked in his direction.

"I get that." Bucky says understandingly, a tentative smile playing across his face, his lips quirking upwards.

"I do actually have a reason for being here, Bucky." You say, sighing softly.

Oh. Yes. Of course you did. He'd almost forgotten that you needed a reason to visit - this wasn't a social call, of course it wasn't. The two of you had only ever met once, no matter how well he thought he knew you after having seen what is probably hours worth of footage of you. It's probably not a good thing that he's feeling so familiar with you - no, it's definitely not a good thing that he's feeling so familiar with you. In fact, it's probably very bad, especially with his proclivity for avoiding any form of emotional vulnerability or attachment.

"I...have the clearance to access some information that may benefit you." You say. Right now, you're being the most serious he'd ever seen you. There was a sort of solemn expression about you - your mouth set in a firm line rather than a happy smile - it's bordering on grave, and he's immediately compelled to listen, a frown forming on his face.

"Yes?"

"You and John both want the same thing, but you're not going to work together. I know for a fact you won't, and I really don't blame you. He's planning on going to see Zemo for information about the serum."

Bucky doesn't even tense up at the name. Helmut Zemo is an absolute bastard who had almost ruined his life, in addition to temporarily forcing him into a dangerous headspace, into a part of himself that, at that point, was very much present and very much not under control.

But now, the codewords are gone. They won't activate shit. Zemo's practically been neutered in that regard. He may not be able to invoke the Winter Soldier, but the mere mention of his name absolutely does invoke some kind of visceral, biblical rage that howls for revenge.

It's the kind of anger of the Old Testament, though Bucky isn't much for religion these days - the kind of anger that is desperate for 'an eye for an eye', to make Zemo hurt just as much as Zemo had hurt him. For retribution.

"We were planning on seeing him, too." Bucky says, a little stiffly, though he retains his composure.

"You'll want to get there before John does. He's planning on telling the guards not to let you in - Zemo will have his visitation rights revoked and you won't even be let on the premises."

Bucky lets out a tiny noise of irritation, a bitter little sound that originates in the very back of his throat. Of course, of fucking course Walker wouldn't be content with just working separately from himself and Sam.

Rather than just let it be, he'd try to actively obstruct their ability to work on the case - to help people. There was something about Walker's willingness to possibly prevent a breakthrough for the sake of his own ego that left a very bitter taste in Bucky's mouth. It was a complete stain on Steve's legacy.

"You have two days until John and Lemar visit Zemo. They'll probably be alerted when you show up, though, so I suspect you won't have long." You continue.

There's a possibility that you are working with Walker and this is all part of some elaborate scheme to impede his involvement in this. You could be lying through your teeth.

You had already told him you were a decent actress, and he definitely believed that to be true. Anybody that could be lovesick around John fucking Walker was either delusional or worthy of an oscar. Bucky was inclined to believe you were the latter.

That story about needing money for tuition made sense, and it also seemed reasonable that Walker's PR team would want to give him a girlfriend. A similar kind of thing had happened with Steve back in the forties. He'd been made to do all sorts of stupid campaigns, and a lot of them had involved pretty women like yourself who were willing to act, hell, even sing and dance, for the money.

Bucky wants to believe you're genuine. Surely he'd be able to tell if you're lying - he's good at that, at identifying people's tells and the falsehoods they're spewing.

"Thanks for the heads up." He says somewhat gruffly as he looks down at you.

"Lemar had a lead on the medicine and vaccines, too. But I don't know exactly what he's found." There's something about the way that you sigh that indicates frustration. "It's difficult to get information out of him. He's nice and all, but we're not close enough that he's willing to divulge a lot."

Bucky's slight frown deepens and he steps just a little closer to you, revelling in the fact that you don't stumble back or glance at the door. You're not afraid of him in any capacity.

"You're fishing for information for us? Why?"

That's the one thing he can't work out. Why show up here? Why bother to give him the warning? What could you possibly have to gain from it?

"It's the right thing to do." You say simply, that solemness receding from your pretty face to allow that sweet smile to return. "Whether it be you or John, somebody has to bring these guys down. It's only fair that you both have the same information, and I can get it to you."

How lovely. God, how had you managed to embody the spirit of Captain America more than the man who carried the shield?

"Right, right." Bucky doesn't even have a hard time accepting the answer. He should - he should poke and prod at your motives, but he doesn't want to. He finds that the desire to do good for the world is sufficient enough, especially when it comes to you. Because of course you want to help people, of course you want to help him - as if you hadn't been perfect enough already.

"I'm looking into the camps, too. It's hard to narrow the parameters, though. There's just so many of them." You say, somewhat aghast, like you're disappointed that they even exist in the first place.

There's a haunted kind of expression in your eyes, like you'd seen too much. And you probably had. Looking into all of those camps, rampant with disease, crime and horrifically painful deaths, couldn't have been easy, especially if you weren't acclimated to something so macabre or devastating.

"Hey," Bucky places a hand on your shoulder - the human hand - and he can feel the soft texture of your knitted cardigan beneath his fingers, as well as the heat radiating from your body. "Thank you. I appreciate it. You're doing the right thing. You're good."

Words of encouragement are somewhat difficult for him to come up with. He has no idea what will reassure you, so he just tells you what he knows to be true and it's enough. It's more than enough judging by the way your eyes light up and you smile at him. There's something almost devastating about that smile, and knowing that he had been the one to cause it.

"Thanks," You say, your voice barely above a whisper, voice a little hoarse. Oh. Oh. Your pupils were blown wide, and you were staring at him intently.

He falters for a fraction of a second, wondering if he'd done something wrong. And then it dawns on him - you'd liked the praise.

You had fucking liked it when he praised you. Well, shit. The rush he got from that realisation alone made him feel nearly high, like his head was in the clouds and he'd just done copious amounts of illegal substances. It was addicting, in short.

It's then and only then that he actually notices just how close the two of you are, and suddenly he's revisiting the thought that maybe letting you into his flat wasn't such a good idea.

Bucky can very nearly feel your skin beneath his hand. Having you here is such a unique brand of torture - you're exquisitely close, and you're looking at him like whatever it is that's between you, this mad, mutating attraction is reciprocated. It all feels a little too good to be true.

You probably shouldn't be looking at him like that. There was no way that the attraction he felt could be reciprocated. No way whatsoever.

"I should probably give you my number," You say, your voice still a little low - if anything, it's become silkier. Sultry, even, and it has Bucky's head spinning. "I'll send you everything I have."

"Yeah," He says, somewhat breathlessly. It's with a deep reluctance that he drops his hand from your shoulder, already missing the warmth and the closeness.

He probably shouldn't have touched you in the first place. You were so small next to him, dressed in your pale little sundress, cardigan slipping down one of your arms, pooling at your elbow to reveal a single, unblemished shoulder. There's something almost painfully innocent about you, the complete antithesis to him.

He had been a killer a thousand times over. Bucky had taken more lives than he could even begin to count, and despite his best efforts to reconcile and to make amends for it, his hands were still stained red with blood. They didn't deserve to touch you, no matter how badly he wants to.

Suddenly, you're turning away from him, snatching a piece of paper that had been lying around his flat and scrawling a series of numbers onto the back of it - your phone number. Without so much as a second thought, he's peering over your shoulder as you write them, eyes carefully following every digit that you inscribe.

You whirl around, paper clutched tightly in one hand and settling the other on his chest, fingers ghosting over his shirt. You're so, so close - a mere matter of inches away from him, and your hand is directly over his heart. Hopefully you can't feel the way it beats slightly faster as a result of the contact.

There was a high chance that if it had been anybody else, Bucky would have avoided their touch and shirked the vulnerability. He liked being in control of himself, which often translated in remaining isolated. But he doesn't really want you to take your hand off his chest. He doesn't want that at all. In fact, he'd much prefer it if you touched more of him.

The tension is literally palpable, hanging about the air like a thick fog. No, more like smoke really, with the way your presence threatened to asphyxiate him.

"Bucky," You say, so softly, your voice dripping with reverence. There's just something about the way you whisper his name that's so much better than any fantasy he could ever concoct. He's half-certain that you're going to drop your hand from his chest or shove him away, admonish him for getting too close. But you don't. Your hand remains pressed against him, fingers splayed over his torso.

He can't help but say your name in turn, his voice raspy as he looks down at you. Carefully, he takes the paper with your number on it from your hands and sets it down on one of the countertops. And still, you don't remove your hand from him. You're looking up at him and your eyes are so dark, tumultuous pits of lust that bore right through him.

Bucky leans ever so slightly closer to you, his flesh hand cupping your jaw. His index finger is curled under your chin, and the pad of his thumb is resting on your plump lower lip. In response to his touch, your lips part ever-so-slightly, and he can feel your breath ghosting over his flesh in light, shallow puffs of air.

"Do you want this?" He asks, his voice a low rasp, rough and bordering on ragged. It feels very much like he's entered dangerous territory. This is like playing with fire whilst being desperate to get burnt. He just needs to be sure. He's desperate for that reassurance, for you to explicitly say that he's not crazy or creepy, that this is mutual.

"Yes," You say, lip moving against his thumb as you speak.

In an instant, he's moving his thumb to caress your cheek and then crushing his mouth to yours. There's something utterly greedy about the way he consumes you, teeth smacking together, tongues roving throughout each others mouths, completely plunderous in nature. Because that is what he's doing - consuming you, entirely ravenous in the way his lips press repeatedly against yours.

Your hands become fisted in his shirt and jacket, and his metal arm wraps around your waist, crushing your chest to his, anchoring the two of you together. It seems as if you've gone weak in the knees. You practically crumble against him, pressing yourself into his torso until his metal arm is the only thing that's holding you up.

Oh. This was definitely reciprocated.

There was absolutely no need for him to wallow in guilt or shame or wish not to see you - because you wanted him to. It didn't fucking matter whether or not his hands were stained red, not when all you wanted was for them to touch you.

All too soon, your mouths part slightly and you're panting against one another. Your lips are red, beautifully swollen, and wet with saliva. With a mixture of his and your saliva.

"Tell me to stop," Bucky mumbles heatedly against your lips. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll never touch you again. I promise."

It's a promise he won't want to keep. Not when he feels like a single kiss has completely fucking ruined him for anybody else.

"What if I don't want you to stop?" You whisper, gazing at him with this blazing fire in your eyes, challenging him.

"Do you want me to keep going?" He asks, and he's afraid of the answer. He has no idea what he wants - he's partially inclined to want to avoid the emotional implications of getting involved with you like this, of succumbing to your allure, but he also very much wants you to say yes, to beg him to touch you like you need nothing else more than you need him.

You tremble against his chest, a soft, keening whine tumbling from your mouth that has Bucky feeling dizzy, like the world had just tilted on its axis without any warning. It's a delightful little noise, melodious and sinful. It was so, so much better than he had imagined. He can barely refrain from rutting against you, high off the sound of your moans.

"Yes." You sound absolutely fucking devastated, pushed into abject neediness. He's reduced you to some kind of desperate mess, clinging to his chest like he's a lifeline, like you're remiss to let go of him.

And fuck, that one simple word is all the confirmation he needs.

Every single disparaging thought shatters to pieces, demolished by your eager moans. The way your chest wracks with sudden shudders, the way you breathe unevenly, perpetually unable to get enough air in your lungs as he keeps stealing it from you, your dilated pupils and your desire for his touch is all for him.

It's intoxicating.

Eagerly, he presses his mouth back against yours, revelling in the way you groan into his mouth, your eyes fluttering closed so your lashes can rest against your cheeks. Fisted into his shirt are your hands, bunched up in the fabric, constantly tugging him towards you in eternal desperation for more contact.

In the next moment, he's using the metal arm curved around your waist to hoist you into the air, letting your feet hover above the ground. It's all too easy for him to lift you.

Your legs had long since turned to jelly, your knees weakened and buckling. Your weight isn't a burden. He could toss a car around if he felt the urge to, which he doesn't. That is absolutely not even close to the urges he's having right now - the urges to make his fantasies a reality, to experience every lewd thought about you that had flitted through his head.

You release a small noise of surprise that Bucky eagerly swallows, biting at your bottom lip and memorising the delightful noises that the action pulled from you.

With his arm anchoring you to his chest, and you quite literally swept off your feet, it's easy for him to maneuver you through his flat, keeping his lips connected to yours as he walks you through to his bedroom.

The only time Bucky's mouth leaves yours is when he relinquishes his steely hold on you, laying you down gently on his bed, letting you rest atop his plain sheets, your sundress riding upwards.

And even then, he doesn't allow that separation to last long, clambering on top of you and surging forwards, capturing your lips again.

He's practically caging you in with his arms, allowing you no opportunity for escape.

Your fingers slowly unfurl from their previous position where they're been fisted, harshly gripping the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in what had been a successful effort to bring him closer to you. Now, your hands are wandering, beginning to explore. They roam freely, smoothing over his chest, tracing indecipherable shapes and fragments of words across his torso.

They easily pause at the lapels of his jacket, tugging it off with precision. Bucky has to move his arms slightly to help you divest him of the item of clothing, and he flings it somewhere across the room, not even bothering to check where it's landed. A single item of clothing seems totally irrelevant when you're beneath him, writhing at his touch.

"Please," You say between intense kisses, eyes blown wide with lust. Your pupils have expanded immeasurably, leaving a tiny ring of colour around them. "Off," You demand, tugging at his shirt.

Bucky chuckles, the low noise reverberating throughout his chest, making his torso rumble under your hands. Grinning, he pulls the shirt up and discards that too, leaving himself in just his jeans and you in your pale sundress and knitted cardigan. It's then that he falters, realising you can see the arm - of fucking course you would see the arm. There was no way that you wouldn't. It was just another horror of his existence that couldn't be avoided.

Strangely, though, you don't look at it in abject horror, reminded of his crimes, of the despicable acts of violence he had committed in the name of HYDRA.

Instead, you look at it reverently, one of your hands coming up to trace the grooves in the arm.

It was darker than any of his previous ones, a midnight matte black with stunning strips of gold running through the divots between panels. You trace the labyrinth of steady golden lines gently, fingertips tracing over the plates that comprised it. You were just as gentle with it as you were with the rest of him. His breath hitches in a way that is utterly obvious, though you don't outwardly react to it.

Your hand skirts down his metal arm, your fingertips coming to rest against the palm of his hand. The two of you aren't quite holding hands, but you very nearly are. Softly, so devastatingly softly, you tug the dark metal hand towards your face.

And you turn his metal hand over, planting a soft kiss to the centre of his palm before releasing it.

It was rather lovely, really. It made his chest swell up with some emotion that evaded description. Immediately, he's going back to kissing you, licking up into the cavern of your mouth, wordlessly showing you just how much he appreciated the small gesture.

Then, Bucky's mouth begins to traverse away from yours. He plants kisses down the column of your throat, only pausing in his quest to stick his nose into your neck, inhaling strongly. Your skin had a scent - a beautiful, honeyed kind of scent that he could very easily gain an addiction to. Fuck, everything about you was easy to gain an addiction to.

Before long, he's going back to suckling at the skin of your neck, interspersing his licking and sucking with bites that make your spine arch and prompt you to groan loudly. This great expanse of smooth, soft skin is available to him and he intends to take full advantage of it, making your skin bloom like some otherworldly piece of artwork, covered in red and purpled bruises. Interspersed between them were perfect iterations of his teeth, little crimson indentations from his incisors.

There was something absolutely animalistic about marking you up, covering you in aching bruises with his mouth alone. There was something about it that made him feel like he was laying claim to your skin, warding off anybody else who so much as dared to want you, somebody like John fucking Walker.

He probably shouldn't feel thrilled at the prospect of other people seeing you like this, your neck collared with a constellation of bruises and bitemarks that he had put there. Especially if it's one of your PR team, or even Walker himself.

Bucky pulls away from you, admiring the absolute mess he had made of you. Your hair is haloed around you on his bed, your throat is blotched in various shades of red and purple, your lips are swollen, your eyes are blown wide, and your nipples have pebbled against the fabric of your sundress. You look so fucking beautiful.

With some great urgency, Bucky divests you of your knitted cardigan, flinging it away and discarding it with some of his clothes. With his flesh hand, he eagerly tugs down the top-half of your dress, sliding the thin, flimsy little straps down your arms and pulling the fabric over your chest away to expose your breasts to his hungry eyes.

"Fuck," He breathes, shuffling forwards, one shin planted either side of your torso as you lay down, looking up at him in awe.

Bucky lets out a low noise of approval, sliding his hands up to your tits and squeezing them, earning him a strangled sort of noise that rips itself from the back of your throat. He pulls, tugs and pinches, listening intently to the different kinds of moans you reward him with - if he tweaks your nipple just right, you'll give him a breathy cry of his name.

"You like that, hm? You like my hands on your tits?"

"Yes, yes I do," You whimper. The metal hand and the human hand offer very different sensations. The flesh hand is warm, calloused, trembling slightly against your skin. The dark, metal hand with streaks of gold through it is no less dexterous than the organic one. It is, however, slightly colder to the touch, and smoother, comprised of plates of metal that don't have much of a texture. Both make you arch into their touch, perpetually desperate for more.

Bucky really can't help himself. He lowers his head, licking a broad stripe up one of your tits, eagerly mouthing at it whilst he tugs on the nipple of the other one, constantly keeping his mouth occupied. You're wrapping your hands around the back of his head, splaying your fingers over his skull, making desperate little noises as you drag your hands through his short hair.

He has you a squirming, pleading mess beneath him as his tongue roams over your chest, as he alternated between sucking, biting and pinching, watching reddish marks bloom over your torso. He's very much set on making your chest match your neck, painting it with bruises. There's something about this - the marking - that makes him feel absolutely feral, like some kind of rabid animal giving in to its most base urges.

"Please," You're begging for him - fucking begging. When he glances up, he can see your lips trembling, the perspiration beaded at your hairline and your glossy eyes. You look absolutely wrecked, and you sound it, too. Bucky's half tempted to ignore your pleas, but he doesn't want to be cruel. Not with you.

"Please what, doll?" The affectionate word slips from his lips and he hadn't even thought to stop it. "Do you want me to touch you here instead?"

His flesh hand slides down from where it had been cupping your tit, ghosting along your clothed ribs, down the plane of your belly. His touch prompts you to moan, despite the fact his hand isn't making contact with your bare skin. Not yet, at least. It's fascinating how receptive you are - so good for him.

Bucky keeps going, smoothing his hand down the curve of your hip, tugging your sundress up to expose more of your legs to him. His hand splays over the top of your thigh, thumb resting at the junction of your thighs, concealed by the very edge of your sundress.

You do something that surprises him. With a desperate groan, you reach down and grab his hand, tugging it towards your cunt. "No. I want you to touch me here, instead."

Well, fuck.

The very tips of his fingers meet your panty-clad sex, and immediately Bucky is using his metal arm to yank the bottom part of your sundress upwards, folding it up onto your stomach. Really, it's been reduced to a scrap of white fabric bunched around your waist, having been previously tugged down over your tits.

The panties were lacey. White. With thin, flimsy pieces of lace running up your hips. Bucky takes in a deep breath, staring intently at the slightly translucent patch over your pussy, the delicate fabric saturated, made wet by your liquid arousal. His fingers drift up over it almost in awe. Fuck, you're soaked. Absolutely soaked for him - all for him.

Bucky's fingers retreat from their position, but only temporarily. He slides your panties over, pushing them to the side so that he can appreciate your cunt. You gasp, your hand flying off his, where you'd previously been guiding his fingers, slapping over your mouth, barely muffling a groan.

With a renewed sense of confidence, Bucky dips his fingers into your folds. They're slippery - slick is seeping out from your neglected cunt, wetting the inside of your thighs, making them fucking gleam. You're soaked, absolutely dripping onto his fingers as he explores the most intimate part of you, slowly dragging his fingers over your clit and then circling them around your hole. You twitch and moan prettily in response to every tiny movement he makes, hypersensitive and desperate.

"Fuck." Bucky chokes out, dipping a single finger inside of you and admiring the way you convulse around him. Tight, hot and wet. His avid imagination and fucking his fist is one thing, but the sensation of you wrapped around his digit is another thing all together. Some stupid fucking fantasy could never compare - why had he even bothered to imagine that it could?

"God, Bucky, please." You whine helplessly, one hand still clamped over your mouth, muffling your words slightly.

Spurred on by your plea, he crooks his finger, pumping it in and out of you a few times before he adds a second one, using it to push against your walls, spreading them slightly in an effort to scissor you open.

"So fucking wet, aren't you?" Bucky's voice is verging on a growl, utterly animalistic as you gush over his fingers. You shuffle slightly, your hips rising and falling in a stunted rhythm. You're trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, desperately chasing an orgasm, your face contorted in pleasure. The fingers splayed over your jaw are twitching. Every single part of you is affected by him, writhing and trembling, perpetually desperate for more.

"Yes - yes," You chant, your voice a dying whisper, almost lost between your moans and whimpers.

"You're dripping," Bucky remarks, watching in fascination as your slick tumbles in steady streams down his fingers, "Fuck. All for me?"

You not emphatically, moving your head up and down, struggling to look him in the eyes, desperate to let your head fall back against the bedsheets. "Yes."

Bucky's thumb rubs harsh, unforgiving circles over your clit, his forefinger and middle fingers rocking into you, stuffed deep inside your cunt, covered in the slick arousal that's practically pouring out of you. You buck wildly against him, crying out in pleasure.

"Please - I'm gonna," You manage to stutter out, working your hips downwards, grinding onto his fingers, chasing your pleasure.

"Come for me, then." Bucky says.

He's incredibly fixated on every single thing about you as you come undone - the way your walls clamp down on his fingers, clenching tightly around the digits, the way your pretty, lust-blown eyes roll back into your skull, and the absolutely angelic noise that the pleasure he and he alone has brought you tears from your throat. Watching you come undone is wonderful. It's some kind of magical sight, made a thousand times better when you moan his name as you reach the apex of your pleasure. It's so fucking gorgeous that it threatens to make him come in his own pants like some rabidly horny teenage boy.

If Bucky hadn't already been uncomfortable, cock straining his jeans, rutting against the denim almost painfully, he would be by now. Especially when you give him that hazy post-orgasm look, a contented sigh leaving you as you finally remove your hand from where it had been clamped over your mouth.

Slowly, he drags his fingers out from inside of you. They're gleaming, coated in your arousal. Without an ounce of hesitation, he brings them to his mouth, eagerly sucking them clean, his tongue darting over every callous, every wrinkle, every crease on those two fingers, chasing your taste, completely ravenous as the flavour of your cunt explodes over his tongue.

He'd fucking ruined himself. There was nobody else after this. They wouldn't be able to compare to you in any way.

You bat your eyelashes at him, biting your already bruised lower lip seductively. Bucky's looming over you, pulling his saliva-soaked fingers from his mouth, the two of you breathing raggedly, panting like dogs.

Wordlessly, you reach forwards and palm his hard cock through his jeans, squeezing him in a way that leaves Bucky groaning, desperate for more.

"You're gonna let me fuck you, doll?"

"God, please." You breathe, eyes darkening almost imperceptibly. If he hadn't been so close to you then he probably wouldn't have caught it.

Eagerly, he undoes his belt, pulling it free from the confining loops of his jeans, and discarding it. Even as he's divesting himself of his remaining clothes, Bucky's eyes are always on you, watching you intently.

Oh yes, you definitely sparked his staring problem, especially when you're looking at him with hooded eyes, the expression on your face one of pure lust, pure need for him. Quickly, he pulls his jeans down, readily discarding them, along with his boxers.

Bucky's hard, leaking cock slaps up against his stomach. Taking in a weak, ragged breath, you beckon him closer until he's looming over you again, his chest pressed to yours and his cock jutting into your leg.

"Please, Bucky. Don't tease. Just fuck me."

"Oh, gladly," He quips, lips tugging upwards into an infuriating half-smirk.

Your panties are still pushed to the side, allowing him to run his cock through your folds until it's coated in your warm, slippery arousal. He lines the very tip up, teasing you with it for just a moment, revelling in your breathy whimpers and ensuing pleas. The very head of him catches on your entrance, and he uses it as an opportunity to begin to enter you.

His flesh hand is resting on your hip, fingers curling into your side possessively, the black and gold metal arm being utilised in an effort to keep holding himself up. Your hands, gentle and soft, scrabble to find purchase on the plane of his back, nails raking over his skin, leaving tiny red lines in their wake. Fuck. You were marking him up, too.

He wasn't even bothered by it. If anything, Bucky was pleased - he'd proudly wear whatever marks you gave him. They were little pieces of you, a litany of evidence that you'd touched him - that you had wanted to touch him.

The very head of his cock breaches you, splitting you open. He's thicker than you had anticipated, but the stretch is welcome. He practically burns you as he enters you the first time, stilling half of the way in to allow you a moment to breathe.

Happily, you writhe against his chest. It burns - but oh god it burns so nicely. The wonderful, near-painful intrusion of him is heavenly.

You're panting into the crook of his neck, frenzied breath ghosting against his throat. "More - please, more."

There isn't a single ounce of reluctance within him as he pushes the rest of his cock into you until he's fully seated.

"So fucking tight," Bucky babbles. His chest is trembling slightly, crushed against yours. There's just so much to feel - so many sensations to comprehend and decipher. You're so tight, gripping his cock like a vice, all wet and warm. It feels like fucking paradise - like some slice of heaven that he'd been gifted. Perhaps some cosmic being didn't have it out for him after all. If they did, there was no way they would allow him this.

Your legs shift, wrapping themselves around his waist, coaxing him deeper inside of you. You're moaning directly into Bucky's ear, your breaths fanning across his neck, fingers digging into his back as you cling desperately to him, saying his name like a prayer.

"Please - move." You're begging, on the verge of sobbing, lips pressed up against the column of his neck, mumbling little indecipherable words that all lead back to him fucking you hard.

And he does. Bucky unrelentingly pistons in and out of you, fucking you into the mattress. It's almost aggressive between the two of you. His hips are snapping up against yours, colliding almost violently, whilst your nails are shredding his back, though he barely feels the pain that he should.

You're a fucking mess. If he's destroyed by this, then you absolutely are, too.

Pathetic, mewling whimpers leave your throat, muffled only by the fact that your mouth is pressed into his neck, though your lips will occasionally move against his skin, your mouth falling open in a near-silent gasp as you try to pull air into your lungs. Your tits, marred by bruises and bitemarks that he had put there, are crushed against his chest. Your legs tremble from where they're almost, but not quite, interlocked around his waist, keeping him as close as possible.

He rocks into you, spearing you on his cock, enraptured by the cacophony of reactions he pulls from you.

"Can John do this? Can John fucking Walker make you feel this good?" Bucky's talking incessantly, those words dripping from his mouth before his mind can even register that the thought had ever even flitted through his brain.

He probably shouldn't be thinking about John fucking Walker whilst he's inside you, whilst his cock is nestled deep in your cunt and you're close to coming for a second time.

But he is. He looks at the vibrant red and purple bruises that litter your neck and torso, the bite marks across your body, the evidence that he's been here with you, the evidence that you had let him touch you, and he can't help but wonder if Walker had ever done this to you.

He can't help but to wonder if Walker had ever taken you like this, like a fucking animal, leaving his own god-awful marks across your throat, fucking into you with one of those sundresses that you wore whilst masquerading around as his girlfriend bunched around your waist.

Bucky really fucking hoped not.

He couldn't conceive of anything that Walker deserved less than you. Walker may not have really been dating you, but he still got to touch you, to put his hands all over you in those stupid interviews, utterly undeserving of that privilege. Walker didn't have any fucking right, any fucking right at all.

You weren't 'Walker's girl'. You didn't belong to John. And for good reason, too. You were so much better than him - the kind of person who was able to look at the mission objectively, put your differences aside, and feed the other team information. All because you wanted to do the right thing.

You gasp against his shoulder, head falling back onto the bed so that you and Bucky can lock eyes as he ruthlessly pounds into you, the obscene sound of flesh hitting flesh filling the room.

"I - fuck - I never fucked John," You say, struggling to even form words.

And god, doesn't that make him glad.

"Yeah?" Bucky challenges you slightly, still grinning as his eyebrows raise a fraction. "And you're not fuckin' gonna."

Walker didn't get to put his filthy paws on you. Bucky wouldn't allow it.

You seize up around his cock, hands grappling at his back, and then sliding over to hold onto his shoulders, the fingers on one of your hands splayed over the seam that ran over his black and golden metal arm. Your fingers gently caress the border between machine and man, gentle, in complete contrast to the way you'd clawed at his back. His blood was probably under your fingernails considering how hard you'd scratched.

"'M so close," You whimper, desperately rolling your hips.

There's something utterly debauched about you. All of that angelisism had easily given way to depravity under his touch. You were practically mewling for him, making these little breathy noises that cause his cock to swell, getting increasingly desperate to climax a second time. That debauchery is located in every single moan that leaves your mouth, in the marks you've scratched into his back and in the way your sundress is bunched around your hips as Bucky fucks you.

"Yeah? Gonna come again?" Bucky asks, breathing raggedly.

He already knows the answer. Of course you're going to come again. He can feel your walls tightening around his cock, constantly fluttering, on the very precipice of your climax. You're close, probably painfully so, and so is he - but he's not gonna come first.

"Mhm," You groan excitedly as Bucky rubs at your clit, sending sparks of pure pleasure racing through your gut.

"Walker couldn't make you come like this," Bucky says more to himself than you, though you seem to really enjoy when he talks, convolusing on his throbbing cock as you desperately chase your high, all whilst he's snapping his hips up into yours, fucking you so hard that at times your eyes will begin to roll back into your skull, and your legs will shake against him. "C'mon, doll. Who are you gonna come for?"

"You. You. You."

"Good girl," He remarks, grinning as you tighten around him. "Fuck, doll. You have the best pussy I've ever fucked - 's mine. Not fucking Walker's. He doesn't get to have you like this. And I do - fuck."

It's then that he spears hard up against something pleasantly devastating inside of you. That sensation, delivered in tandem with Bucky's fingers circling your clit has you coming instantaneously. The barrage of pleasure washes over you like a tsunami, wrenching a cry from within you. You shatter beneath him, falling apart to a thousand pieces, utterly wrecked.

"Bucky," You sob enthusiastically as your orgasm crests, speaking his name over and over again like a prayer, like it's the only word you know.

It was one thing watching you climax on his fingers, and another when it's his cock. It feels otherworldly, watching you come undone as he fucks himself into you. It's probably the best, most arousing thing he's ever seen, you, beneath him, writhing, squirming, calling his name out over and over again.

He doesn't even bother to stave off his own orgasm any longer. It would be impossible of him to even try. If the image of you under him, legs hooked around his waist, trembling from the sheer force of the pleasure he's given you wasn't enough, the fucking heavenly feeling of your cunt wrapped tightly around his cock is. You clamp down around him, as tight as a fucking vice.

Bucky's own orgasm barrels into him like a truck. It's a burst of pure, blinding, hot pleasure that rips forth from somewhere in his gut.

It strikes every single nerve ending in his body, and suddenly he's coming, emptying himself inside of you, ropes of his come painting your insides, filling you up.

You both lay there for some time - it could be seconds, or it could be minutes. It's impossible to tell. Time seems hazy when he's with you. He's still laying over you, panting and grinning at the same time. The two of you just smile lazily at each other, completely spent and sated. He shifts most of his weight to be on the metal arm, lest he crush you with his weight.

Eventually, you surrender his hips from your legs, letting him pull out of you and roll onto his back so he can lay next to you whilst you both catch your breath.

Tentatively, you pull the straps of your sundress back up your arms and fix your underwear. Bucky panics internally, quickly turning his head to face you.

"Going somewhere?" He asks, as casually as he could.

"I do have to get back to work," You laugh. It sounds like bells in the wind. "I have an interview tomorrow that I have to prepare for."

Bucky just nods stiffly, trying to quell the internal disappointment rising within him. What the fuck had he been thinking? He shouldn't have touched you in the first place, and now you were probably regretting the fact that you let him fuck you.

"I'll swing by tomorrow with whatever I can find on the medicine," You say, so sweetly. "If that's okay with you?"

"It is, yeah." He says gruffly.

They need the information. The near-devastating disappointment he's feeling right now is irrelevant. Walker and Hoskins have the state's resources at their disposal.

He and Sam have whatever leads they can scrounge up, and whatever you're willing to give them. Because you're good - so good, and he knows that, but he also feels like he's dying a little bit on the inside because of you.

"Maybe I'll let you take me out to dinner next time."

And Bucky falters, looking at you with wide eyes. "Next time?"

"If you want a next time." You say, avoiding his gaze.

Bucky sits up slightly, cupping your jaw with his hand and gently tilting your face, forcing you to look him in the eyes. Now, you look enraptured by the sight of him. "I do want a next time."

"Good," Your voice is quiet, a mere whisper, talking to him in soft, hushed tones. "Because I want a next time."

He leans in closer to you, giving you every opportunity to stop him as he lowers his lips to yours. You don't. You don't want to stop him, not when you're completely enchanted.

Bucky hadn't been the only one that felt rather awestruck that day you'd met outside of the police precinct.

Really, you didn't much like your job. It paid the bills, and kept you ahead on your debt payments, but you didn't like it. The men you worked with lacked the heart that Captain America had.

And sometimes, the weight of pretending got a bit much for you. It had culminated in your guilt, and ultimately you lying in Bucky Barnes' bed, kissing him tenderly.

"So, I'm sending you back to Walker, huh?" Bucky chuckles as the two of you pull away from each other, proudly eyeing the bruises that descend down your neck and below your, now rumpled and creased, sundress.

He'd be sending you back to John Walker with small brands of possession bitten all over your torso, not to mention the fact that beads of his come were streaking your inner thighs.

Well, that'd probably show Walker that even though he got to publically call you 'his girl', you'd never belong to him in the most intimate of ways.

Bucky very much wanted Walker to see it - to see what he'd done to you. God, he'd pay so much fucking money to see the look on that bastard's face when he realised the woman he flippantly called 'his girl' was fucking somebody else.

Not just anybody else, no. She was gladly fucking one of the people that Walker hated the most. Bucky can almost envisage the way Walker's jaw would drop and the rage that would blaze in his eyes.

"I'll be back." You laugh. "As if I'd want to stay away."

Even more beautiful than imagining Walker's reaction, though, was the prospect of you coming back again.

#the falcon and the winter solider spoilers #episode 2 of the falcon and the winter soldier #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #female reader #smut #bucky barnes smut #john walker #sam wilson #fake dating

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soulmate-game · 3 years

Text

Harley’s Plea for Help: Chapter 2

Chapter 1

“How long do you think it’s gonna take before she decides to sneak out?” Nightwing asked over his comms, lazily leaning against the balcony railing in front of him with his head resting on one hand.

“Dude, I started sneaking out almost twenty minutes ago,” a girl’s voice made Nightwing squeak and turn around, to reveal a teenage girl leaning against the door that led to the balcony he was on. “I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by doing unnecessarily showy gymnastics down from my hotel room’s balcony, no matter how much fun that would be, so I just snuck out one of the hotel’s back exits. Then I looked up to admire the moon and saw you here, staking out what is clearly my suite, and decided to come pay you a visit.”

“How long have you been there? And how did you even get behind me? I hope you didn’t break and enter, that’s an actual lived-in apartment behind us right now,” Nightwing asked, turning around to analyze the daughter of Harley Quinn for the first time in person.

She looked just like in her pictures, of course. Jet black hair like her father’s, except it seemed to have a bluish shine in the light. And her eyes were definitely Harley’s— thank goodness for that —vibrant blue and clearly analyzing him with the same amount of intensity as his did her. He had to bite back a chuckle. In a turn of complete irony, she really did look like a Wayne kid. Fit all of Bruce’s usual criteria to be adopted. But she was tiny, even smaller than Harley’s lithe form. He, Bruce, and Tim were of the hypothesis that the exposure both her parents had to Ace Chemical’s vats of acid likely had an effect on her DNA that stunted her growth. Perhaps there were other effects that they wouldn’t be able to figure out until they got to know her better, too, though it was clear that her skin was a likely one. It wasn’t unnaturally pale like her parent’s after their acid dips but it was paler than normal for sure, just a shade or two shy of being paper white.

And he could see, now, what Harley meant when she referred to Marinette as a powerhouse. It wasn’t very noticeable in pictures, but up close Dick could see the carefully honed muscle of an acrobat curling over her otherwise slim build. Combined with the knowledge that Marinette had been taught at least some serious self defense from a young age, he could see how such a tiny package could be a remarkable threat when necessary.

Marinette grimaced as the other Batfam, who were all nearby staking out her room from different angles, dropped onto the large balcony with them.

“Uh, well. I didn’t break and enter, I rather not get off to a criminal-ly start on my first night in Gotham, you know? But I realized that even though I was able to figure out the exact room you were staking me out from, I realized as soon as I got into the first floor of the building that I had no idea how to actually get to you. So I just climbed the stairs all the way to the roof and scaled my way down to this balcony, and pretended I’ve been here for a while when really I was barely able to hear you ask when I was gonna sneak out. I’m still out of breath, actually,” she put a hand on her chest and sure enough her breathing was still slightly fast. But not enough to be worrying or even all that noticeable. Yet another piece of evidence to show that she was a very active individual and had resistance built up to physical activity.

“Yup,” Robin groused grumpily, crossing his arms. “With all that rambling, you couldn’t be anyone else’s child but Quinzel’s.”

Marinette’s face immediately flushed pink all the way to her ears. “I’m sorry! I’ve been trying so hard to quit that habit, too!” She grumbled a bit to herself, putting her face in her hands. They all chuckled at the display. Red Hood ambled over, draping his arm over her shoulders (he nearly had to bend in half to do it, the height difference was that bad).

“As adorable as your freak out is, why’d you even come up here anyway? There’s no way you’d scale down a ten-story building just to say hello.”

She let out a heavy sigh at that, slowly peeling her face out of her hands. “Yeah, I recognized you guys right away. And honestly, as much as Momma Harley would be super proud of me for managing to give an entire group of vigilantes the slip, she’d also ground me for life if she found out that I saw you guys and still snuck away even though she probably swallowed her pride and asked you guys to babysit me, right? Self preservation. Contrary to popular belief, I do actually have some.”

“Wait,” Red Robin held up a hand, brows clearly furrowed under his cowl. “You expected her to ask for our help?”

“Well,” she made a so-so motion with her hand. “I didn’t think of it beforehand, but it all clicked once I saw Nightwing. I know how much my mom is worried about me, especially since you-know-who broke out a few days ago. She is more than worried enough to ask you guys for help. Even if she does complain about you guys, a lot actually, she also has made it clear that she trusts you guys with the stuff that actually matters.

“‘You know who’?” Batman repeated, arms crossed. If Marinette squinted, she thought there might have been a grin on his lips. “Is that how you always refer to him?”

“What else am I gonna call him?” she asked, face going deadpan. “Sperm donor? Source of a large amount of my self doubt and depreciation? The prime reason I haven’t been able to see my mom in person more often over the years? Oh, I know! How about I just always refer to him as ‘that bastard I wanna punch,’? That sounds good!” she rolled her eyes sarcastically. “Only one person in this world has the right to be considered my father in any capacity, and it sure as hell isn’t him. Genetics notwithstanding.”

Red Hood straight up guffawed at that, landing several rough pats on her back that made the girl stumble a bit. “Yep, I like this one! But as fun as it would be to see you give that jackass a mean left hook, it’s better if he never finds out who you are or knows that you’re here,” the vigilante’s voice got dark and serious very quickly. “He doesn’t forget people he finds interesting easily, and if he ever finds out about the connection you have to him, he’ll be a constant threat in your life.”

“I know,” Marinette agreed with a nod. “And if this conversation was happening two years ago, I’d say that my mom’s concerns aren’t unfounded. That I am too easily emotionally compromised and despite my deep seated issues and hatred for that man, I couldn’t guarantee he would be unable to get to me.”

Batman straightened up, as did all of his sons around him. None of them had missed the ‘if’ there. Batman’s voice went from charmingly deep to it’s usual gruff grumble. “What changed in two years?”

They all watched as Marinette gulped, taking a deep breath as she stalled for time, looking out at the view on the balcony before seeming to steel herself and return her gaze to Batman’s. When she did, it was suddenly full of iron will.

“I didn’t lie when I told Mom that I came to visit her— but that isn’t the whole truth, either. If I just wanted to visit her in Gotham, I would have waited until I was eighteen like we agreed. But I can’t wait, Paris can’t keep going on like this. I entered that contest because it was the fastest way to see you. I didn’t know if I would win, but… I had to take the chance. There was no way I’d be able to get to Gotham behind my mom’s back otherwise.”

“What are you talking about?” Robin hissed, stepping up to his father’s side. “Paris has been silent. If anything were happening, we would have heard about it by now.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Marinette corrected, never losing that ironclad look in her eyes. “Because a combination of magic and politics is keeping it quiet. No news about Paris’ situation is able to leave the city limits. Magic makes any non-native who leaves Paris think that everything they experienced was just a crazy dream. Natives won’t forget, but politics has all of us under very strict NDAs if we leave city boundaries, and all of our local news and social media is blocked from being accessed by anyone outside the city. But, I figured a little breaking of the rules wouldn’t exactly put a stain on my family’s reputation or anything, so,” she dug in her pocket and pulled out a thumb drive, holding it up for all of them to see. She swallowed again, but never stopped her eye contact with Batman. She held out the thumb drive.

“I came to Gotham to ask for your help. This sped things up, I didn’t expect to see you on my first night here, but two years in Hawkmoth’s Paris has really taught me how to roll with the punches. This,” she shook the thumb drive. “Holds videos of every fight since HawkMoth first showed up. It has all the information I’ve gathered over two years, tracks his movements and lists all his targets and— everything. But I’m not a detective, I’m a designer. I make clothes, I spar on the weekends, I am not good at getting evidence to prove that someone is a magic-abusing villain holding an entire city hostage.”

“We’re gonna need some details, Little Q,” Red Hood finally removes his arm from around her shoulders, instead crossing his arms and looking down at her sternly. “If your city has a villain holding it hostage, is anyone fighting him? And if you do have someone fighting him, why don’t you need our help, or why didn’t they call the Justice League? The JLE should be in Paris, right?”

Marinette snorted, face scrunching up in obvious distaste. “I’ll have to answer those a little out of order. First; the JLE was kicked out of Paris. They moved their headquarters to Italy about five years ago, I’m just surprised they apparently kept that secret from you,” she gestured to all of them, who indeed seemed very caught off guard by that tidbit. But Marinette just sighed and continued. “Though that’s a good thing, actually. We do have heroes, it started out as just a pair but it’s grown into a small team out of necessity. They didn’t call the Justice League because the last thing we need is any powered heroes coming in and making it worse— your league doesn’t have the best reputation for letting newer heroes take the lead even on their home turf, you know,” she pointed out, which made Batman shift a bit guiltily. He knew the JL was often a bit… heavy handed in their methods.

“What makes the situation so bad that you don’t want to bring experienced heroes into it?” Red Robin cut in, sounding as if the whole situation was a puzzle he was determined to sort out. Which, really, was exactly what Marinette had been counting on. She shot him a finger gun, grinning.

“That’s exactly the point! Hawkmoth uses a magical artifact, like I said— but this artifact can brainwash anybody who experiences even the slightest negative emotion. Sadness, anger, fear— anything negative. And it gives them powers, but puts them largely under his influence,” her expression twisted again, this time into a wry little grimace. “I guess you can say that my momma’s psychiatry background has secretly come in handy a lot over these past two years. And Hawkmoth is exactly why I try to tell Momma Harley to stop visiting me— I have worked my butt off to keep her from finding out about his attacks or getting Akumatized. Every time she shows up it gives me a heart attack!”

“Akumatized?”

Marinette waved a hand dismissively. “It’s the term used for when someone is turned into a super powered villain because of HawkMoth. The brainwashing— really it’s more similar to a straight up corruption. The person usually lacks their usual moral compass, and just seeks to soothe whatever set off their negative emotion in the first place. Usually, that means they seek a bloody revenge. And if someone who already has extensive training or extremely strong powers gets Akumatized, guess what?” She made jazz hands even though her face was deadpan. “Extra powers, or amplified ones, for the metas or superheroes who are Akumatized. And imagine what someone with, say, Batman’s level of experience could do if he had powers and no moral compass,” the silence that followed her words was deafening. She just nodded, knowing she had gotten her point across. “I’ve been working my butt off to stay positive, because if I’m Akumatized…” her shoulders fell, and she had to swallow a lump in her throat. “... I have no idea what I’d turn into, but if you take into consideration both my training and my family history… it’s really best if we never find out what kind of magic-powered supervillain I’d make.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Nightwing said after another long moment of silence for that to all sink in. He gestured at her with an open palm. “You’ve been dealing with a terrorist for two years who targets emotional vulnerability, you apparently have never been corrupted by this magic at least to present day, but your mother still worries about you being very emotionally fragile. And your heroes are not detectives, which is clearly what you need or you wouldn’t have asked us for our help.”

Marinette nodded. “I used to be very impressionable. At the start of all this, I was a huge people-pleaser. I got attached to new people in a matter of minutes. My mom always said I reminded her too much of herself— but two years of fighting off a guy trying to get into my head—“

“Wait,” Batman nearly barked, taking a step forward. “He’s been targeting you? You specifically?”

Marinette nodded grimly, mouth a straight line. “Not from the beginning, but this past year it’s been painfully obvious. He might be able to sense the strength of people’s emotions, and unfortunately I don’t exactly experience my emotions very… gently. All of my emotions tend to the much more intense side of the spectrum. If that’s true, then he might know that any negative emotion I feel will make an extremely strong Akuma. Either that, or he’s going by process of elimination. All of my friends, except for one, have been Akumatized already. So has my Papan and my grandmother. But it’s obvious when he’s targeting someone, I’ve felt him try to override my will on several occasions. But I can’t just repress all of my negative emotions forever, so consider us working against the clock right now. That thumb drive has all the details you need about our heroes, how exactly Hawkmoth’s powers work, and so on.”

“Do your heroes know you’re asking for our help?” Red Robin asked, gaze burning a figurative hole through Marinette’s face. “Better yet, if this drive has as much information as you say it does, how did you get it?”

Marinette handed the drive over to Batman, who finally took it and tucked it in his belt as she answered.

“Momma Harley might have a lot to say about your detective skills, but you are all still strangers to me. So consider this a test of your abilities— I expect that you will all go to extreme lengths to verify all of the information I gave you anyway. After all, I’m still the daughter of your most hated enemy. Right?” She met each of their gazes, one by one, with a challenging one of her own. “You’ll just have to figure out my connection to the heroes on your own. And how I got the information, too. It shouldn’t be too hard for the so-called world’s greatest detectives. And maybe this can double as a trust exercise. I fully expect you guys to scour through every inch of my past, and dig up everything you can on me. I encourage you to try to find everything you can, so that hopefully you can decide to trust me on your own once you have all the details laid out in front of you. By the way, for your own sanity? I’d start with reading about all of our heroes’ powers and abilities before you watch any footage of past attacks.”

Red hood rocked back on his heels, trading glances with the other vigilantes before they all shared a nod. Apparently having decided their course of action, Red Hood leaned down and hoisted Marinette up into a princess carry. All traces of her previous iron will melted away in favor of the high pitched squeal of surprise she gave, and once more she became an overly flustered teenager.

“Alright, little cutie. Let’s get you to your mom’s place before she and her crazy plant lady fiancé come hunting us down.”

“I can walk! I can freerun on my own! Mon dieu please let me down! Eeeeek!” She squealed again as Robin slapped a domino mask over her eyes and Red Hood wasted no time jumping over the balcony railing with her still in his arms. The fact that they were lowered down by a wire wrapped around Hood’s waist didn’t seem to take away any of the fright that came with a sudden drop over an eighth-story balcony.

Part 1

@emotionalsupportginger @alysrose-starchild @emistar0 @kibastray @justanotherfanficlovinbitch @alyssadeliv @blackroserelina @blackstarlight-co @readingalldaysleepingallnight @maanae @aespades @jaybird-and-co @fleursroses @probably-a-hologram @misterpianoman (didn’t work sorry)

#dc x mlb #dc x miraculous #maribat #bio!dad au #Bio!mom Harley Quinn #Bio!Dad joker #mlb x dc #ml x dc #Harley’s Plea for Help #platonic brucinette #platonic jasonette #platonic Harley Quinn x Marinette

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noctumbra · 4 years

Text

❝scars❞

summary ─ “jamie,” you whispered, and bucky─ he sobbed quietly at first. His chin was trembling slightly, eyes were now red and his nose was tingling. “oh, jamie,” you murmured as you ran your hair on his face gently, so gently.

pairing ─ roommate!bucky barnes x reader

warnings ─ smut, +18, angst, mentions of nightmares and scars, mirror sex, body worship, sarge kink, oral sex, bucky fucks like an animal, also my fav position like holy shit skdfjskjfs

a/n ─ this... IS LONG and shouldn’t have had angst in it but well *shrugs* hope you like it!! seven days late, but better late than never right? please leave a comment if you like it! thank you <333

KINKTOBER DAY ELEVEN: roommate!bucky + body worship + mirror sex + daddy sarge kink

When you came home after a very tiring school day, you found Bucky lounging on the couch and flipping through the channels.

He looked sick, pale; his mid-length hair sticking to his face, t-shirt was sweat soaked, his sweatpants had stains on them and his face. God, his face looked haunted. The purple-ish dark circles under his eyes were deeper and more prominent now; they had a haunted, wounded look in them. His lips looked bitten harshly; they were very red and swollen, and bleeding just a little. His cheekbones were more visible than a week ago. It looked like he lost a lot of weight in the span of two days.

Feeling your heart broke, you hung your coat and toed your boots off. You were making noise intentionally; scaring him was the last thing you could ask for him right now. So, you moved onto the small kitchen you shared, dropping your bag on the tiny table, you made a move towards the coffee machine that was chirping happily.

“Hey,” you called out softly only to get a grunt in return. It was not his day, you realized. You sighed. It never stopped you before and you weren’t about to start shying away. “You want some coffee?” You asked, “Or I could make you your tea? Lavender?” Bucky didn’t say anything. Sighing again, you put your cup on the counter, making your way to Bucky.

“Bucky?” His eyes flicked to yours for a second, but he averted them quickly. He knew that you could tell that he was not okay, knew that that was why you were acting like he was something fragile.

He hated it.

He hated being so fragile, weak, and broken. He wanted everything to be okay, but things he saw and did… They didn’t let him be. They were haunting him every day of his miserable life, and you were witnessing it.

“Hey,” he heard you call out to him again, so soft and loving. Bucky felt like he could cry like a baby, so he just pushed the tears back and clenched his jaw. “Jamie,” you whispered, and Bucky─ He sobbed quietly at first. His chin was trembling slightly, eyes were now red and his nose was tingling. “Oh, Jamie,” you murmured as you ran your hair on his face gently, so gently.

Bucky didn’t deserve your gentleness, or your kindness, really. Not after what he done overseas. Not after what he saw.

“Sssh,” you hushed him as you cradled his jaw in your warm palm. His stubble was tickling your hand a little, but you didn’t mind. He needed all the affection you could ever give to him. “C’mon,” you murmured, “Let’s get you out of these clothes and maybe give you a shower, shall we?”

“I’m not a baby or a cripple,” he whisper-snarled.

“I know,” you agreed. “You’re not a baby or a cripple. You’re Jamie; you can do whatever you want on your own if that’s what you wish.” You stroked his cheekbone. It felt too sharp under your finger. “You’re also my friend,” you whispered, “No, you’re more than a friend; you’re my only family, Jamie. Families take care of each other when it’s needed.” Bucky sniffed. “Let me take care of you?”

He couldn’t say no. It’d be a dishonor to say no, especially when you were being so patient and kind with him. You were also right; you were a family.

“Okay,” he whispered and let you help him off the couch. Both of you walked towards the bathroom with quiet steps. Bucky was slightly shaking in your arms; the effect of his nightmare was still present in his mind. When you reached the bathroom, you helped him sit on the toilet after you closed the lid.

“I’m gonna bring you some clothes, okay?” You asked him while you turned the water on. Bucky nodded slowly. “I’ll be right back,” you whispered and squeezed his hand. You quickly made your way to his room; opening his closet, you pulled out his softest sweatpants and t-shirt, also grabbed one of his clean boxer briefs.

Bucky looked up as he heard you come back. You were holding clean clothes and his towels in your hands. You placed them onto the washing machine and turned to him. He knew this part. He needed to get out of his clothes. He didn’t want to, but he had to.

“Jamie…” You whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. He closed his eyes and sighed. It wasn’t that you hadn’t seen him without a shirt before, you had. This shower thing wasn’t your first rodeo. Sighing again, Bucky gripped the hem of t-shirt and pulled it over his head. His scarred arm was hurting badly; he had dug his nails very deep while trapped in the nightmare, there were some bad nail marks on his forearm. Bucky discarded the t-shirt somewhere in the bathroom and stood up to shed his sweatpants. Now he was realizing that his clothes were really filth; his habit of ignoring to face with himself after a nightmare made him also ignore the filth that the nightmare usually brought with itself. “Yuck,” he whispered to himself, but you heard it. Chuckling softly, you moved towards the tub to check the water. It was the right amount of lukewarm; leaning towards hot more than cold, Bucky hated cold things.

“Water is ready,” you announced, stepping aside so that Bucky could get in the tub. He did, partially hiding his arm and his private areas ─ not that you hadn’t seen it before. Bucky groaned softly as he lowered himself into the water. All the tension in his muscles was slowly going away with the warm hug of hot water and he thanked you softly. “Anytime, Jamie,” you answered him cheekily. “Now, wet your hair a little so that I can wash it for you.”

The bath went on without a hitch; Bucky had let you wash his hair, even let you use the conditioner, and he helped you while you were washing his body.

You remembered your first times with him.

You were desperate for a cheap-priced room because the girls which you shared your dorm room with were bitches and hated you with their guts. When you saw his ad on the newspaper, you almost screamed because the offer was exactly what you were looking for: two room and one living room, separate bathrooms, tiny but practical kitchen. All the bills and grocery shopping were to be paid fifty-fifty. The place was close to your campus, too. You were only a little hesitant about the other room being belong to a man, but you had handled with it by installing new locks both on your room’s and the bathroom’s door after you signed the contract.

The man said that he had been away, overseas. He did four tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, had been dumped on the unforgiving cold of Siberia. At the very least, his last tour had almost caused him to lose an arm, though he had very heavy scarring on his left arm and less heavier one on his left thigh. His chest was filled with small scars, too.

He wasn’t a bad guy, though. He was actually a sweetheart made of cold stares and war-built huge muscles. He looked intimidating, you had decided on after a month you had spent with him. He was also a funny and smart guy, a gentleman really.

You’ve been sharing this small apartment with him for three years now.

“Mmm,” You heard him hum happily as you combed his hair. You could see his reflection on the mirror. You moved onto your room because his bed was filthy and you didn’t want to leave him alone even for a minute. You had a body length mirror in front of your bed, and you were sitting on the bed while he was on the floor, between your legs.

“Your hair is always so soft even though you’re shit at taking care of it,” you grumbled silently. Bucky chuckled, shoulders trembling slightly.

“It’s the genes, honey,” he said, feeling a lot more like himself. You smiled. You ran the comb in his soft and long hair while humming to yourself contently. The genes he was talking about were strong and pretty, you realized. He had this beautiful shade of blue eyes, very kissable lips and a handsome face. You were actually very surprised when you learned that he had been single ever since he had joined the army which happened when he was eighteen and he was thirty-three now.

“You’re beautiful, you know,” you said, watching his reaction through the mirror. Bucky scoffed. “You are, Jamie,” you insisted. “Your hair and eyes and lips… You have a very handsome face that most of the girls I know would fall in love with. Those freckles,” you ran the tip of your fingers on the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones. “They’re absolutely adorable. So is the dimple on your chin. I know you hide it with your beard, but you shouldn’t. It gives you a different kind of look.” You put the comb aside as you locked eyes with him on the mirror. His eyes were wide and surprised; he didn’t expect getting these kinds of compliments from you it seemed.

“You’re very self-conscious when it comes to your body,” you started gently as you peeled the towel off his shoulders. His fingers went lax and he let you put the towel aside. “You have a beautifully toned body, Jamie. These muscles were earned with hard-work, not with steroids. You gained them when you were saving innocent people and killing the ones that maybe deserved to be killed.” You ran your fingers on his biceps, feeling them shudder slightly under your touch. One of your hands moved to his chest while the other stayed on his left arm.

“These scars? They’re telling me that you’ve made sacrifices for the people you have save or tried saving,” you murmured and kissed his cheek. “They tell me that you almost died while saving those people.” Your hand on his left arm tightened just a little, making him understand that you were talking about what happened on his last tour. “All the scars on your body tell me a story, Jamie. They make you a badass and a hero in my eyes. A brave man who risked his live just to save the others.” You heard him took a sharp breath before the soft sob escaped his lips.

Kissing his cheek again, you moved the hand on his chest south. “You think you don’t deserve good things such as love and kindness. Honey,” you whispered. “You’re one of those people who deserve them the most.” You grabbed his chin and turned his face to yours. His eyes were red but dark, pupils dilated. This was both touching and arousing for him, you knew it. “You deserve to feel good.” Your thumb stroked his cheekbone gently. “You deserve to feel loved.” He leaned in just a little. “Jamie…” You whispered just before he kissed you.

The kiss felt like a huge, much needed breathe that you both refused to take for a long time.

Moaning into the kiss brokenly, both of you panted. Lips sliding on each other’s hungrily, Bucky turned his body to you between your legs, rising on to his knees. He cradled your face with his hands. Tilting his head to his side, his tongue licked a small line on your lips, gently asking for permission. With a whimper, you gave it to him. His tongue dove into your mouth, making you moan this time.

“Y/N…” he whimpered when you pulled away for oxygen. “I─ I really want this.” You nodded and kissed him on the lips chastely. “I want this a lot. You. I want you.”

“Me too,” you agreed. “God, Bucky, three years─” Bucky just whimpered brokenly and leaned in for another kiss. This time taking you in his arms, he lifted you and laid you down your bed. His body was on top yours, covering yours in a way that got your head all fuzzy with sweet feelings. You wrapped your arms around his neck as you pulled him down even more.

His right hand was on your jaw, cradling your face in his large palm gently. His other one was roaming all over your body. Stroking every single naked body part it could find, you shuddered under his body. His lips were so soft, so kissable, you moaned at the feeling of them against yours. They were stroking yours so nicely, you felt amazing. Loved.

“Jamie!” You mewled when he sucked on your bottom lip. His stubble covered face was now moving to your neck; you bared it to him by throwing your head back. You fisted his hair. Your fingers were gripping the soft locks harshly, Bucky gasped. His teeth clamped on your widely beating pulse and nibbled softly. “Fuck,” you breathed as his bite turned into a suck. He was marking you, and you were fucking loving it.

“Smell so nice,” he murmured against your skin. “Y/N, honey girl,” Bucky moaned when your hips thrusted up unintentionally. He pressed his own down, stopping you from moving. “It’s been a very,” Bucky chuckled, “very long time since I had sex. I don’t wanna come in, like, two seconds.” You giggled and watched his face for a short while, an idea was forming in your head slowly. You pushed at his shoulders a bit. Bucky frowned.

“Mirror,” you murmured, “Sit in front of the mirror for me?” Still frowning, Bucky did as you said. He got off the bed and sat in front of the mirror. You followed him a second later and helped him get out of the sweatpants. Also taking his boxer briefs off, you slid your hand over his bare chest. You felt his muscles shudder under your fingers and you smirked. “Let me help you to let some steam off, okay?”

Breathlessly, Bucky nodded. You laid on your stomach after you positioned him in a way where he could see what you were going to do to him through the mirror clearly.

“Oh, fuck,” he whimpered when he realized what you were up to. You winked at him and kissed one of the scars on his chest.

“Relax,” you murmured. You smirked again when you heard him chant curse words under his breath. You lowered your head and took a hold of his half-hard cock. Moaning softly at the feeling of him in your hand, you licked your lips before you placed a kiss on the top. His precum smeared all over your lips with one kiss, you hummed. Bucky panted; his lips were parted and his eyes were glazed. You loved this look on him.

Winking at him again, you closed your lips around his cock head and sucked softly.

“Holy fu─” Bucky choked over his own moan and his hips bucked up to your face just a little. “Ha─! Shit, sorry, fuck, ‘m sorry.” Panting wildly, you stroked his thighs without stopping yourself from sucking his cock. You bobbed your head up and down a little; taking just a little bit more of him with each slide. His taste had your taste buds singing; the right amount of bitterness and something that was unique to him. You loved it. You pulled back and licked the throbbing, thick vein from bottom to top. Bucky whined loudly from the back of his throat, eyes pleading. You looked at him and keeping the eye-contact you closed your lips on his head again and sucked for real.

“Ah!” Bucky cried out loudly, head thrown back onto the bed. “God, fuck, yes…” He murmured softly. “I missed─ Ah!” You hummed around him; vibrations making him feel so good that Bucky knew that he was going to come very soon. He moaned, thrashed a little as you sucked him like a lollipop and whimpered. He forgot how a blowjob made him feel so freaking good. He forgot how it felt to have someone else touching him like this, giving him the pleasure and psychical contact that he had been missing like crazy for the past years.

“Y/N…” He whimpered your name softly. “’m gonna come,” he warned, “Fuck, ‘m so close, honey. Please.” You hollowed your cheeks and sucked even harder; your fingers found his tight balls and started to roll them, squeeze them gently. Bucky shouted and whimpered, hips twitching. “Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck─” He couldn’t even warn you about coming; his orgasm hit him like a freight train and Bucky felt his whole body trembling violently, toes curling, before blacking out for a couple seconds.

You hummed throughout the whole thing softly. Having stopped playing with his balls, you just suckled at him. His cock was throbbing in your mouth while he was whining and moaning under his breath. You pulled off and started to jack him without an aim, just to bring him down. His eyes blinked open a couple seconds later. His skin was covered with a thin sheen of sweat, eyes so dark, you couldn’t even see the blue in them anymore. His cheeks were pink and he looked debauched in the best way possible.

“Hi,” he breathed, smiling tiredly, but wide. You smiled back at him.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” You asked. You knew it had been a long time for him, he just told you and you assumed since he wasn’t hooking up with anyone etc. You were worried just a little because it was his first orgasm in a very long time.

“’m… I feel amazin’,” he grinned. You chuckled, your worry melting away. Bucky grabbed your hand that was still on his cock and tugged you up from it. You went to him. Bucky wrapped his arms around your waist and hoisted you up on his lap, lips finding yours immediately. You breathed out a soft moan as his lips collided into yours. Kissing him felt incredible, having his warm body against yours… You were in heaven and you were going to enjoy it until the very end.

“I wanna be in you,” he whispered against your lips. Moaning, surprised, you nodded. “Can we, honey? Please?”

“Mmm, of course, Sarge,” you hummed, feeling him stiffen. You pulled back just a little, heart beating wildly because of the possibility that you might have fucked everything up by calling him Sarge. Then, he blinked and his face contorted into a dark version of before.

“Hmm,” he hummed at you back, approvingly. “Is that how things gonna be? You gonna call me Sarge to rile me up?” You chuckled; both relieved and surprised.

“Yeah, do you not want me to?”

“Oh, no. You are to keep calling me Sarge and nothing else,” he said, voice commanding. Giggling softly, you nodded.

“Yes, Sarge.” Bucky smirked at you and stroked your cheek. “Before we get into it for real, kiss me again?” His face softened a bit and he immediately complied. The next couple minutes were lost to kissing; heated and soft and chaste, all kinds, and undressing. By the time you stopped kissing, both of you were as naked as the day you were born. You felt your face heating up, you buried your face into the crook of his neck. Bucky trailed his fingers down your spine, making you shiver. Bucky held you tightly against his chest and he laid you in front of the mirror.

“I don’t think I can do slow,” he murmured. “Honey, you understand what I’m saying? I can’t do slow.” You nodded as you cradled his jaw, nails drawing shapes on his bare back.

“Yes, do it. Don’t be slow, Sarge, c’mon,” you urged him. Bucky’s face darkened like it did a short while ago. He leaned in kissed your lips chastely, and then he moved to your jaw. Peppering kisses to your breasts, Bucky took one into his mouth and sucked on it. You moaned sharply, hand slipping in his silky soft hair. One of his hands was kneading your breast while the other moved to your wet pussy. You cried out when his fingers brushed your swollen clit.

Bucky pulled back to moan. “Fuck, darlin’,” he groaned, “You’re fuckin’ drippin’. ‘s it all for me?” You nodded as you bit your lip to stay quiet. “No,” Bucky growled. “Lemme hear you.” His fingers flicked your clit harshly and you cried out with the sudden pain mixed with pleasure. “There ya go…” He murmured and his fingers ran up and down your pussy, getting his fingers wet. He was murmuring to himself, but you weren’t listening to him. His fingers were so close to where you were aching, but he wasn’t touching you.

“Please,” you whined.

“Please, what?”

“Sarge! Please!” He hummed and pulled his fingers back. You heard him fumble and then you felt his cock moving against your pussy. He groaned softly. “Please!” You begged again. Bucky just growled and he slid inside of you.

“Fuck─” He gasped and panted, hands slapping the ground next to your head, he towered over your pleasure-wrung body. “Tight,” he snarled between his clenched teeth. “Tight as fuck, holy shit, baby girl.” You hummed and whimpered, nails scratching his back and leaving red marks on his skin. “Yes,” Bucky said, “Touch me, mark me, baby, do it!”

You cried out as he pulled back and slammed back in harshly. You dug your nails into his meaty back, dragging them down, you held onto him tight. His hips were driving into you at a harsh, punishing pace, but both of you were loving it. His cock was hitting every spot that had you click every time you played with yourself. You cried out with each hit of his hips against yours. The slick sound of your meeting were filling the room, driving you both even crazier. Your head lolled to your side and you caught a glimpse of his sweat-slicked body moving on top of yours like an oiled machine and you gasped, back arching, you came on the spot.

“Wha─” Bucky gasped, too, with the sudden vice-like tightness around his cock. He lifted his head where he had buried into the crook of your neck and looked at you, surprised. You moaned as your legs shook. “Honey─” Your back fell back on the ground and you tried to catch your breath.

“The mirror,” you gasped, your clit was still throbbing wildly. Bucky groaned and closed his eyes for a second and then opened them again, eyes turning towards the mirror. A devilish smirk appeared on his face when he understood what just happened. He sat up on his haunches and he turned you onto your belly with one move.

“Fuck─” you moaned, “Bucky─” He slapped your ass once, the stinging pain reminding you what you did wrong. “Sarge. ‘m sorry, Sarge.” Bucky hummed and he manhandled your body towards the mirror. He pulled you up against his chest and placed his right arm on your stomach while his scarred one wrapped your shoulders. He sat back against the bed, taking the same position that you sucked him on.

“Look at the mirror, honey,” he murmured into your ear. You whimpered and did as he said. You gasped at the sight. You could see where your body ended and his had begun. You could see the throbbing thick vein of his cock disappearing into your abused-looking pussy. One of your nipples was pink from Bucky’s suckling and beard. Your neck was red because Bucky was hiding his face there before you came around his cock. You looked fucked thoroughly while you haven’t actually gotten around to it.

“Sarge,” you moaned. Bucky kissed the sensitive skin just beneath your ear and sucked on your earlobe.

“I know, darlin’,” he murmured. “Hold on tight.” You did, grabbing his arms around your body, you held tight, and he started to move.

His hips were thrusting upwards like a mad man; his balls were hitting against the slicked skin and creating an obscene sound, the muscles on his thighs were jumping with each thrust. Your pussy was making the slickest sounds, though. Your breath hitched as you moaned, and your head fell against his shoulder.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he ordered, and your eyes snapped open. You found his eyes on the mirror and looked into them. They had a wild look in them; something dark and desperate was lurking around. You moaned pitifully. Bucky grunted. The pace he was going at it became faster, and you knew that both of you were so close.

“Sarge─ Bucky!” You whined as his left hand sneaked towards your pussy and started to roll your clit between his fingers. Your eyes rolled back even though you tried to hold them on the mirror like you’ve been ordered to.

“Come,” he sneered, “Come for me, darlin’, c’mon.” His cock was driving and stroking deep, deep inside of you and you knew it wasn’t a hardship to do what he said. You screamed, shouted and cried out as you tightened around him and came for a second time. Bucky grunted behind you when your pussy squeezed him. His balls were hitting you more harshly; his cock was harder than before.

“Sarge!” You moaned, “Come for me, Sarge, please! Come in me, please, please!” You chanted as you dug your nails into his arm. Bucky gasped, a loud and raspy moan left his mouth and he came. His thighs twitching under you, you felt his cock throb. His thick come washing your walls, Bucky panted hotly behind you.

Both of you panted for a while, trying to get your breathings in control. You melted in Bucky’s strong embrace long before. He was lax behind you, and you were happy.

“We are doing this again,” he murmured, “and again, and again… After you let me take you out on a date, maybe?” You chuckled and looked at him over your shoulder. He looked sheepish and a little unsure. You knew it must be a bit hard for him to do so when you considered his past. You kissed his cheek.

“Of course,” you agreed easily. “Though, you don’t have to take me on a date to do this again and again… I won’t mind is what I’m sayin’,” you grumbled. It was Bucky’s turn to chuckle. He started to place kisses all over your shoulder, neck and cheek.

“Okay,” he said, voice quiet. You hummed happily as you buried yourself into his warm body even more. Then, you realized something.

“Sarge, huh?” You joked. Bucky groaned.

“Shut it,” he grumbled. “It’s─ bleh, whatever.”

“Yeah, okay,” you said, but the taste of having him blush because of your joking was too delicious. “But seriously, though. Sarge.”

Bucky growled and he laid you on the ground, over your belly as he covered your body with his large one. “I said shut it.” You looked at him with sparkling eyes.

“Why don’t you make me, Jamie boy?”

The twinkles in his eyes were nothing but promising.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes fanfiction #roommate!bucky #modern!bucky

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no-droids · 4 years

Text

Rumors, Freebies, and a Race for Last Place

Part Two of The Bet series

Pairing: Poe Dameron/Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 22.5K DONT say shit alright just don’t

Warnings: Okay. There is degradation in this, some name calling and heated interactions. There is a LOT of smut, dirty talk and rough sex. If these things offend you, please do not continue reading.

***

It’s recommended to read part one first.

***

Getting into the x-wings is always fun.

It actually might be your favorite part. Granted, alarm bells ringing and thousands of jumpsuits scrambling in all directions is never typically a good thing, but there’s also an inherent rush about it, a thrill in launching up the metal paneling as quick as you can and suiting up to provide aid. It’s a side-effect of camaraderie, of being surrounded by like-minded individuals willing to do everything they can to help. You never feel like you’re going to your death, even though that’s often the grim reality for at least one of you on a good day. There’s always a roaring in your ears while you do it, adrenaline sharpening your senses and preparing yourself for conflict, not thinking anything beyond gogogogogo—

But getting out of the x-wing is… not great. At least for you. It’s sluggish. Your body is always completely drained and you never come out of it feeling the same way you went in. Even in times of victory, there’s a somberness inside you after battle. As much as you tell yourself you’re fighting for good, for prosperity against an evil machine hellbent on enslaving the galaxy, there’s only so many explosions lighting up in front of your eyes and screams cutting out through your comms you can take before winning just doesn’t really feel like winning anymore. Most pilots are able to handle it better than you are, but since you joined the Resistance, you’ve never truly felt the desire to celebrate. Not even when you serve a massive, glaring defeat to the other side. There’ll always be at least one missing x-wing, one empty seat at the table, one person not here to celebrate with you.

You came back in one piece this time. Barely.

The whole mission went sideways—literally. You’d purposefully stationed the tandem just outside the coordinates you were meant to be surveilling so that you’d be hidden from sight and dead to the scanners should the fleet arrive, but something must’ve happened. You must’ve powered down a few seconds too early after he turned the thrusters off, because apparently the ship drifted in dead space for close to eight hours without either of you noticing, having no working computers to actively read your location and correct it. You were sitting ducks right in the hyperspace drop zone by the time the First Order showed up, and by that point you had no choice but to engage.

“Gold-Ten,” a voice murmurs from behind you, and you blink, suddenly seeing the base landing platform stretching out long in front of you, hundreds of docking ships and boisterous pilots scrambling out of them to hug their comrades and congratulate them even as medics rush past with white coats and gurneys. They’re never for the pilots, but they dispatch healers anyways whenever a convoy returns in case a straggler gets picked up. There’s an unspoken understanding in space battle—pilots never get injured. They either come back unharmed, or they don’t come back at all.

Dameron.

You turn around and watch him slowly approach you with an unreadable expression, his jumpsuit still bunched halfway down his torso. The once bright white sleeveless undershirt is now greasy and damp with sweat, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. He winces with every bow-legged step—you know the feeling—before he’s standing directly in front of you and something is carefully being pulled out of your hands. You didn’t even realize you were holding onto anything.

Your helmet. You forgot to leave it in the x-wing, and you’ve been carrying it around under your arm aimlessly while mentally checking off the squadrons as they return, counting the numbers you lost today while everybody else hugs and whoops and claps each other on the back.

It’s not as bad as you were expecting it was going to be, not as bad as it seemed just an hour earlier when you were listening to Dameron bellow out evasive flight maneuvers a millisecond before he enacted them and you adjusted your firing at the TIEs accordingly. You used to think you were quick with how rapidly you could suit up and fly out, drop in to assist and engage, but on the other side, it felt like your reinforcements lollygagged for ages before arriving. You were left to defend against an entire fleet in one stupid ship, more lines of TIEs sinking like flies from launch decks every second.

“Gold-Ten,” you hear again, and you blink a few times, needing to focus your vision before you can find his gaze.

Dameron’s palm, previously hovering a few inches above your shoulder, suddenly drops to spread along the curve of it and you take a deep breath, almost wanting to shudder at the feeling of something touching you. You channel all your focus into it, feel his fingers branch out strong along the tight muscles in your neck, giving you an anchor you automatically lean into.

You and him are no strangers to touching. Before today it was mostly reserved to poking and prodding and flicking and light slapping in an effort to piss each other off, but now… you can’t even think about it right now, your body will just fucking glitch out on you. After everything that just happened, you cannot think about where else that hand has been recently, not right now.

“You did… you did really fucking good today,” he tells you quietly, slowly trailing his hand down the length of your entire arm until he catches your wrist and a few of your fingers in his loose grip. “Seriously. That was… we were…”

His touch is so present, so reassuring. Grounding, when all your mind wants is to just float away. You glance down at where his fingers are gently tangled with yours and you feel your hand tighten just slightly, the smallest squeeze while he blinks down at you.

“We almost died, like… every single second,” you barely manage to croak, not really having the words to express it right now. You always need at least an hour or two after missions like this to just sit in one place and regroup. Usually you find yourself wandering back to your room to lay on the bed and stare up at the ceiling while you consider your own mortality, but Dameron interrupted you this time before you could process it by yourself. “We…” Your voice sounds absolutely shredded. “W-We shouldn’t even be alive right now.”

“I know,” he nods in soft agreement, taking a small step closer to you. “But we are alive. Hey.” He dips his head as soon as your gaze starts to drift, catching your eyes once more and drawing your attention back to the present with a squeeze of your hand. “We’re alive, right? Be alive with me.”

You take a big breath in and close your eyes, feeling the oxygen fill your lungs once more, but this time, it’s… restorative. A wonderful, beautiful reminder of your existence. You’re alive. Usually the word just feels like a synonym for persevering. Pushing onwards despite trials and tribulations, not looking back. But the way he says it, especially with his hand in yours and a quiet invitation to tag along, it sounds… breathtaking. Full of light, and hope. It suddenly leaves the dim shadows and slides into a completely different category of feelings, feelings you’d never imagine being able to conjure so quickly after such a close brush with death. Alive—it slots right in next to words like colorful, radiant, sunshine, and butterflies. Enchanting words, ones you’d like to hear again and again.

Your eyes slowly open and there he is, the man you were sure was going to accompany you to the afterlife. You were stuck with Poe Dameron in one of the closest calls you can remember, and strangely, his presence was nothing if not… a comfort. For the first time in your life, you were grateful he was there.

You open your mouth, suddenly feeling the needy, unfounded urge to tell him that. “I’m gla—”

“Dameron!” You hear a series of voices call from somewhere to your left, and he immediately drops your hand to whip his body around and place himself directly between you and the approaching onlookers, using his large frame to hide you from their sight.

“What’s up, Briggs?” Dameron projects to one pilot in particular that seems to be leading the group, his back oddly close to you in this position. Your fingers still feel tingly from where he was holding onto them.

A chorus of congratulatory, “Nice flying, Captain!” and the like can be heard floating through the air from beyond his shoulders, before the leader speaks loudly over them. “Hey—me, Seven, Six, and Twelve were gonna grab some drinks in the mess hall with a few of the Blue girls,” he tells Dameron, slowing to a stop as soon as he sees you standing awkwardly behind him. “Oh hey, Goldie.”

You lift a hand and clear the remainder of the dissociation from your throat, not knowing him well enough beyond the squadron he and his group fly with. “Greenies.”

“Anyways, I guess they wanted to know if you’d come too. These idiots are convinced they’re never gonna give us the time of day unless you—”

“Uh—fine, whatever, just give me a few minutes alright?” Dameron quickly assures him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll meet up with you guys later.”

A few of them take turns giving him heavy claps on the shoulder and acclamatory words before the group eventually disperses, and he waits a few more seconds for their attention to fully scatter in another direction before turning back to you.

Shit, he’s standing really close. Why is he so close to you? You take a step back and blink up at him, the noises of the landing deck gradually amplifying back up to normal volume as you retreat back into your own space. Since when did he have that effect on you? You suddenly feel wide awake, and the chorus of happy chaos surrounding you is something you’re finally able to take in. You knew it was happening before, but it was like it just existed outside of the creeping numbness. Now, the knot of internal turmoil has untied itself a bit and you feel your surroundings start to fight for your direct attention.

Dameron continues to look at you the same exact way, though. Like you’re still the only one here.

You look down at his half-suited figure and blink at the helmet loosely held in one of his hands. Hey. Hey, that’s yours—

“Give me that,” you hiss, suddenly snatching it from his fingertips. “You have people waiting.”

The cutting words serve to snap him out of whatever spell he’s under. Dameron quickly lifts his head and looks around a few times with sharp eyes, before hooking your elbow and twisting you into a complete 180 until your back faces most of the excitement. You resist, immediately trying to push him off you and worried he’s going to confront you about… things, but he’s determined.

He doesn’t say anything to you at all, though. His fingers quickly grasp the baggy fabric of your jumpsuit even as you sputter and start to ask what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, and you glance down just in time to see him yanking the gaping velcro closed at your crotch.

Your cheeks instantly start burning as he tugs and smooths the fabric down until it’s seamless once more, especially when his eyes flick up to yours without moving his head. Fuck, you’re instantly hot with some wicked emotion, a mixture of embarrassment and outrage and… something else. Maker, you almost wish you were numb and disoriented again, if only so you could avoid feeling whatever the fuck this is.

You quite suddenly shove your helmet back into his stomach with an infuriated sound even as he doubles over with a shocked whoosh of air, changing your mind about returning it to the ship yourself before storming off without another word.

***

Okay, so you’ve done some thinking, and. Well. Fuck him, that’s what you’ve decided.

No—not… fuck him. But like, fuck him. You know. In the negative sense of the word. The bad fuck.

There’s a full tray of food sitting in front of you but you’ve so far been unable to touch it. Mostly you’re just wondering why the fuck you’re even here. Well, you know why you’re here—you should eat, it’s dinnertime and this is the mess hall. You’ve been known to skip out on meals after heavy missions, secluding yourself away and just wallowing for a bit, but you… strangely didn’t feel like doing that today. You don’t want to self-isolate when you feel okay enough to avoid it, not again. So you’re here, because the clock says your tummy should want food, but you can’t bring yourself to even look at it.

No, you’re looking at him. Glaring, actually.

Across the mess hall and beyond the transparisteel divider that separates the cafeteria from the bar area, Dameron is all eyebrows and smiles and side nudges and winks right now. You can’t hear him—the sound won’t travel this far, but you can see him situated in the middle of a rowdy group of pilots. He laughs in that disgustingly charming way of his, where his stupidly cute nose scrunches up all cute and stupid and you want to just ask the Maker why he’s doing this shit to you. What have you done to deserve this torture? Sure, you may have willingly agreed to it, even… conceived and propositioned the idea, and sure, absolutely nothing is stopping you from forfeiting and walking away at this exact second, but does that make it okay? No, you’ve decided. It’s not okay. He’s not allowed to… to make you feel like this, so fuck him. In the bad way.

“Just fuck him already,” a voice suddenly grumbles as someone plops down into the seat to your right, plastic trays of food clattering loudly on the table and snapping you out of your reverie. Gold-Sixteen blocks your view as he silently drops into the seat in front of you and wraps his green lekku around his neck a few times before immediately beginning to shovel food into his mouth, while Gold-Three opens her box of blue milk next to you and continues. “The Blues never fucking shut up about it, it’s getting annoying.”

“Don’t listen to her, Dime,” Gold-Eleven tells you, quickly occupying the seat on your left and biting into a crunchy piece of fruit, talking loudly over the chatter even as he chomps. “Rossi just knows her pool is up tomorrow, she doesn’t want to lose any of her precious credits.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Gold-Three immediately snaps, leaning forward and around you to point the prongs of her fork at Eleven threateningly. “Zhang’s pool starts on Sunday.”

“Oh fuck off, you guys are betting on this now?” You groan, shoving your plate away with a flick of your fingers now that you’re certain you’ve completely lost your appetite. Sixteen immediately snatches up one of your bread rolls while Zhang swipes your juice and Rossi goes for a packet of glockaw sauce.

“You’re the one who announced it in front of everybody, we’re just being active spectators,” Rossi returns, ripping the packet and pouring the sauce on her vegetables with a shrug. “How the fuck do you bet against fucking each other though, that’s my question? It’s a paradox, wouldn’t you both just lose at the same time?”

“Dameron and I aren’t going to fuck,” you tell her very slowly and clearly, starting to get a headache. Why is it impossible to avoid this conversation topic, even with an entire Resistance base to roam around in? “Ever. The bet never had anything to do with fucking each other, it’s about not fucking other people.”

“Literally what is the difference?” You hear Rossi ask with her mouth full, but Zhang speaks over her.

“Somebody should probably tell Nine that, she’s the bookie,” he tosses out carelessly, dropping the core of his piece of fruit to his tray before wiping his hands on his jumpsuit. You bury your face in your hands and let out a loud, exhausted sound into your palms, not knowing which response serves to aggravate your already emotionally overloaded ass even more. Nine is the bookie, of fucking course she is. “But hey, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think any of it actually goes outside of Gold, so.”

“I’ve heard the Blues talking about it, but that’s it,” Rossi chimes in while chewing some of her veggies. “Maybe some Reds. Point is everybody else thinks it’s already happening, honestly.”

“What the fuck,” you whisper, using your knuckles to rub at the backs of your eyes until bright spots appear. Where are stress headaches localized? Are those the ones right under your brow bone? Because stars, you feel it. “Fucking… why? Why do people think that me and Dameron are…?”

Nobody at the table immediately responds, and you drop your hands after a moment to look at each of their astounded faces in turn.

“You fucking serious, bitch?” Rossi blurts first, her voice completely deadpan, and you growl in vexation.

“Have I not been vocal enough about my severe dislik—”

“And yet you kicked Nine out of your room to let him bunk with you,” Zhang immediately suggests.

“You request mission assignments together,” Rossi adds.

“Spend your off-days together,” Zhang continues.

“You’re both really weird about how long it takes the other person to shower,” Rossi tacks onto the list Zhang is now making on his fingers and you shake your head frantically.

“No—no, that’s so that we know neither one of us is cheating,” you try to explain, and you already know it sounds unconvincing without needing the two quick, lofty and sarcastic nods on either side of you. “Showers and off-days are prime masturb—no, you know what? No. I’m tired of the assumptions, I don’t owe anyone shit. This is super fucking uncool of you guys, you know that? It’s insane that this is what counts as gossip in the Resistance nowada—”

“There’s only so much bad news people can take, Ten,” Gold-Sixteen grunts down at his almost finished plate, and all three of you snap your gazes across the table at him. The forest-tinted twi’lek doesn’t speak much, it’s uncommon to hear his voice without distortion over the comms, but you blink as his sharp teeth continue to form words without looking at you. “Quit being so sensitive. Rather bet on this shit than which system is getting demolished next.”

And with that, Sixteen excuses himself with a silent nod, having gobbled down his full plate while you, Three, and Eleven were bickering. You feel your cheeks flare with anger and shame—you didn’t deserve that, you immediately reassure yourself, but the hidden self-doubt the comment sows just further contributes to your upset. You want to call out to his back that just because the First Order exists doesn’t mean you have to put up with your own fucking squadron turning you and your mortal enemy into glorified race fathiers, but he’s already leaving the mess hall while Rossi and Zhang have moved on to other topics, both of them continuing to grab more food from your tray as they talk.

You have a tough shell. But today was… a lot. You bite your lip down at the table against the sudden wave of emotion, blinking quickly to clear the weakness watering your vision.

See, this—this right here is why you use last names. These people aren’t your friends. Betting on who you fuck for laughs, using you as a source of entertainment without your consent just because they’re in the middle of a war, and then guilting you into feeling like you’re the one acting like a stuck up bitch about it? You’re fighting in the same fucking war—you’re on the front lines just like everybody else and nobody gets to lecture you on the devastation of battle. You almost died today. You fought tooth and fucking nail to stay alive and by all accounts, you shouldn’t even be sitting here right now, much less dealing with this childish shit. This is your squadron. These people are supposed to be the ones closest to you out of everyone, the ones you’ve been flying into chaos in formation with for years, and yet not a single damn person has even mentioned your performance to you today, all anyone can ever seem to talk about is—ugh.

Unfortunately, your unobstructed view also allows you to look at the source of your bad mood once more, immediately noticing the way more people have crowded around him now, and the headache continues to throb painfully behind your eyeballs. You were in the same ship, does nobody realize that? You were gunning, he was flying—you were offense, he was defense—that’s the only fucking difference, and yet, it’s like that side of the mess hall is just completely lit up with hearty laughter and music playing from someone’s holopad and congratulatory drinks being passed around, while yours is… well.

You continue to fume inwardly, struggling somewhere between bitter and hurt, and you can see your reflection through the transparisteel giving him a death glare, wondering how many of the people surrounding him have made bets with Nine. How many of his little entourage have their money wagered on Dameron getting in your pants by a specific dat—

You stop short while staring at his handsome face, an infuriating, horrifying thought suddenly striking you. No… no, he wouldn’t…

“Does he know?” You immediately interrupt the chitchat between Three and Eleven to ask with a deadly edge in your voice, tipping your forehead at pretty boy. Ooh, you can already feel it burning. It would be so fucking typical. Oooooh, Maker, if he’s heard even a fucking whisper about this outside wagering going on amongst the pilots, you will fucking smother his ass in his sleep tonight. How could he not know? With as many friends as he has? If you’re just being made aware of it, then it’s a given that somebody has to have told him by now, which just means that it’s all the more possible—shit, even more likely—that he’s… participating, too. You do your best to keep your voice even, but you can hear the quiet fury shaking in it. “The bet about when me and him are gonna fuck, does he know about it?”

“Who—Dameron?” Zhang turns his head. “No, I don’t think s—”

“Yeah,” Rossi says at the exact same time, and your blood instantly turns ice cold as Zhang leans around you to blink at her stupidly.

“No. Yeah? What?” He says, sounding genuinely confused.

“Yeah, remember?” Rossi confirms with a shrug. “Nine was mad as all shit, came at me in the rec room a few weeks ag—fucking Maker, Eleven, you were there.”

“Oh,” Zhang suddenly exhales, “yeah, that’s right. Oh, yeah, Dime, he knows.”

You’re—fuck, you’re about to rampage. You’re burning a fucking hole through Dameron while he converses animatedly with his numerous buddies, waving an open hand and shaking his head at someone with a smile and then gesturing broadly to this side of the transparisteel. His pool is probably up soon, you figure. That’s why he came onto you so strong earlier today. He was going to get two weeks of your pay, plus whatever he must’ve offered up to Nine that says he’d get it to happen within a certain amount of time. Perfect, your old roomie and the arch nemesis you stupidly agreed to trade her for, two asshole peas in an asshole pod.

“—she thought I was the one who told him—” You know Rossi is still talking but you’re not actually hearing any of it. Nobody has any fucking idea. Nobody has any idea what he did to you today, how unbelievably close you were to… to actually… “—was all just for fun, but then he had a few choice words for her and told his squad that if any of them had made a—” You don’t know why you’re so surprised honestly, you should’ve expected…

Wait.

“Wait,” you suddenly blurt, and while she shuts up immediately, your mind starts whirling even faster. Dameron had some… what? “Wait. Explain. You’re saying he didn’t…” You slowly shake your head, furrowing your eyebrows and trying to piece it together. “He didn’t… place a bet with her, or anything?”

“What? No,” Rossi shakes her head a lot more forcefully than you, getting frustrated. “No, fucking—didn’t you hear anything I just said, Ten? He got all high and mighty for some stupid reason, totally reamed her ass out for it.”

“But…” You blink, stunned. “But… why? Why would he…?”

Rossi shrugs. “Fuck if I know. All she said was that he ordered Black not to throw in, made her lose a fuckton of money from it. Had no idea Dameron would be so touchy about his sex life, honestly.”

He… he isn’t. He isn’t touchy about his sex life—you feel like he never shuts up about it.

Rossi continues talking, but you’re not listening again. You stare stupidly at yourself in the clear transparisteel as Dameron’s voice comes back to you, repeating something you specifically remember him saying earlier today. Something you thought was just a careless jab at the time, aimed blindly at one of your comrades with nothing more than the intent to piss you off.

…I swapped housing assignments with your shitty roommate and slept in the bunk below yours for a month and a half…

You blink beyond your own reflection to focus on him once more, still lost in his own little world, not paying a single lick of attention to you while you’re essentially having a fucking crisis over here. You didn’t think the insult had any real substance to it at all. You just naturally assumed that was the result of him wanting to lash out at anything or anyone remotely close to you, if only to get a reaction, so you never gave him one or paid it any mind.

This is why he said that about Nine? Because he knew she had organized this fucked up betting pool behind your back?

Stars, you need to get out of here, all these rumors are fucking with your head. Your assumptions and the hairpin turnarounds are giving you worse whiplash than Dameron’s… well, admittedly spectacular flying today. You were wrong about wanting to avoid isolating—in fact, that suddenly sounds like a phenomenal idea.

So, you just get up and leave right in the middle of Rossi’s sentence, needing some time alone. Neither of them call out to you as you quickly walk around the table and through the barrier towards the exit, thank the Maker, and you’re just about to retreat with no interruptions until suddenly two Greenies step in front of you and block your path.

You halt immediately, looking up at them with a furrowed brow. “What now?” You grunt, not having the patience to even wait for a response before attempting to squeeze around them.

“Hey, so you really saved our asses out there today, Goldie,” the one on the left quickly sidesteps in front of you and rushes to say, and you settle your weight back on your heels with a huff.

“What are you talking about?” You glance back and forth between them, not recalling a time you’ve ever spoken to either one, before jerking your head to gesture over your shoulder. “Go congratulate trophy boy over there, he was the one flying.”

“We did,” the one on the right tips sideways to look at Dameron behind your shoulder, likely still laughing and joking with someone about something, something super fucking dumb probably. “Well, uh. We tried.”

“What?” You let out a heavy sigh and rub your temples. “The fuck is that supposed to mean? I don’t have the time.”

“He won’t take any credit, just keeps saying that all he did was steer you around,” the other one shrugs as his companion straightens and looks down at you once more. “Wouldn’t accept any drinks we offer him, nothing. So we thought we’d buy you one instead. Unless you’re… leaving?”

It takes you a few seconds to process that, even as he allows the open invitation to hang in the air. You can’t stop the way your torso automatically twists around to study your copilot from across the mess hall in baffled silence, suddenly realizing that they’re… they’re right. Dameron has no congratulatory drinks sitting in front of him even though more and more people have made their way into the bar. He’s just sitting there grinning and nodding along to something someone else is saying, completely and blissfully unaware of the extent to which he’s fucked with you in the past twenty minutes. The past… whole day. Month and a half. Or… fuck, how long have you known him? Two years?

But then Dameron’s gaze gradually drifts this way, before suddenly locking with yours. His eyes flick behind you to look at the two Greenies blocking your exit, and then back to the way you’re staring at him, wide-eyed and startled.

He suddenly stands up and starts to take a few steps towards you, and the sheer abruptness of the movement causes you to react immediately. You stumble your way backwards through the two pilots, feeling a few hands reach out to steady you through the awkward fumbling, but you slap them away and announce loud enough for Dameron to hear beyond them that you’re taking a shower, and you don’t give a fuck how long it’s gonna be this time.

***

The knob squeaks as you turn the water on. Usually you’d step back and wait the grueling five minutes or longer it takes for it to heat up with your arms crossed over your naked chest, but this time you move directly under the freezing spray, hoping to use the ice cold to shock your system.

You're finally alone.

Technically solitude doesn’t really exist within this base. You’ve heard of others that are a little nicer, having a little more room for the ranks, but not here. Housing assignments, showers and restrooms, mess and recreation halls—they’re all communal. Everyone is given rotating shifts, so while that means there’s never any true quiet to be found, it also means that showers are spread out well throughout the day and night.

But, at least for this moment, there’s nobody else around. At least in here, in the tiled chamber with multiple shower heads stationed around you—you’re sure there are a few girls lingering in the locker room and the entry area beyond it, but for right now, you’re blissfully by yourself.

And yet, you can’t seem to enjoy it.

You know you should be basking in the isolation. You should be thrilled at the rarity of only hearing your own flipflops slap against the floor as you turn around and drench your hair with the icy spray, but the lack of an immediate distraction for your focus allows it to wander to things you don’t want it to.

Explosions, mostly. Lighting up like fireworks in front of your eyes even as they flutter closed and let water drip down them. Constant, never-ending. Some of them small—TIEs you shot down, allies drawing fire away from you and then subsequently getting overwhelmed, zipping through dense debris from deadly collisions so quick that you had trouble distinguishing friend from foe. Some of them were massive—star destroyers splitting apart, warp drives overloading, enormous casualty counts. You don’t know how many lives you took today, not directly.

The beginning was the worst—when you were still slightly disoriented, when you were panicked and screaming into the comms for assistance. Then the closest stationed tandem showed up first—Red-Two and Eight, you think it was. Doesn’t matter now. They took some heat off you before the cavalry arrived, but you remember Dameron barking out your name the second their left thruster got nicked and they started spiraling, a ferociously deep, “With me!” cutting through the white noise. It was enough to snap you back, forcing you to instantly flick your eyes away and focus dead ahead without witnessing their demise.

It wouldn’t have normally been necessary. You’ve been flying with the Resistance for years, you’ve seen way too much bloodshed by now. But you’ve never been the catalyst of it—you’ve always been able to confront threats accompanied by your squadron, right between Nine and Eleven, the flight controls rumbling steady under your palms. You’ve never faced down an entire fleet in one single ship. You’ve never had to rely so directly on the skills of another pilot in order to stay alive.

The water slowly heats to a lukewarm while you reach for the shampoo.

Surprisingly, for as much as the two of you clash in normal interactions, it was like everything eventually became… synchronized. Spectacularly so. Dameron started off the enemy confrontation by calling out his flight patterns to give you a chance to adjust your firing in real time, but then at some point, it just stopped being necessary. There was a moment where you both were able to suddenly… get it. Get each other. He didn’t have to say anything after that—you could predict each other without second guessing, react instantaneously, and work your way through the littered battlefield accordingly. You never thought it would be possible to collaborate so well with someone you’ve spent ages despising. Sure, you’d both die if you didn’t—shit, you’d probably still both die regardless—but this kind of teamwork extended beyond the need to survive. It doesn’t matter how much you want to stay alive when reading someone else’s mind is physically impossible, but for some reason… You have no idea why, but it apparently came naturally between you. It fell to pure instinct, pure reaction, and remarkably, his would somehow match yours perfectly, every single time.

You lather the shampoo in your hair, remembering how his voice changed over the course of the mission. How it gradually shifted from panicked roars and barked orders into ecstatic cheers and genuine praise after landing a difficult shot, how he just couldn’t seem to stop whooping.

You smile softly as the tepid water rinses away the dirt and sweat from your body, until the temperature is brought up to a gentle, comfortable warmth raining down you and echoing in the empty shower room.

And, your first name. Dameron kept calling you that, the whole time. The one you’re now absolutely certain you’ve never personally given to him. The one he would’ve had to have listened for specifically. Remembered, or at least asked the right person about. But why? It’s not… it makes no sense, he doesn’t give a shit. He’s notorious for not giving a shit. He can’t even be bothered to remember the names of the girls he’s actually with—so why did he go to the trouble to figure out yours? You’ve been nothing but a thorn in his side the same way he is to you, right?

Right?

Your mind starts recollecting more recent events, trying to work through and process it by yourself. He was… singing your praises today. He was openly giving you credit for the win while you pouted in the corner and assumed the absolute worst of him. As much as you’re frustrated that nobody else seemed to give voice to your contributions, you’re even more surprised that he was the one who did.

And then even earlier. Gold-Nine, holding wagers with members of your squad (and others, apparently) about when you’re going to fuck him. Dameron, tearing her a new one for it, forbidding Black Squadron from throwing in and not attempting to hide his disdain for her from you. He… he defended you. Stood up for you when your own squad was being a bunch of dicks behind your back. And nobody ever fucking mentioned it to you. What did Rossi say—a few weeks ago? He’s known all this time and only today, only after you… openly showed more interest in him than you ever have, after you worked up enough nerve to try in your own little way to flirt back this time instead of responding to his casual comments with contempt and disgust, only today is when he decided to make a real move on you.

…Your mind is completely blank and yet you still feel yourself start to heat up just a bit at even alluding to the events that took place earlier. The way his fingers felt—

Steam begins to fill the open concept chamber while you shake your head against the train of thought and reach for the soap, beginning to circle the bar along your arms and shoulders with a sigh. This is already the longest shower you’ve taken in almost two months, and your body slowly relaxes under the mist and heat as you take forever cleaning yourself, slowly and hypnotically rubbing the soap along your skin.

The second you let your eyelids dip shut at the feeling, you immediately shiver at a flash of Dameron dragging his finger out of his mouth and blinking dark eyes at you through the transparisteel.

Fuck. The soap slips from your hand and you quickly catch it against your body before it falls to the ground completely, suddenly feeling the need to breathe in the misty air a bit harder. Shower, you’re in the shower. Come on.

The dirt and grime is scrubbed from your face and you tilt your head to move the bar of soap across your neck. As it lathers, you can’t help but remember the way his lips felt against the skin right there, the scratch of his beard. You keep working the soap against that same spot for a while, not knowing if you’re trying to wash away the sensation or simulate it, until you gradually slow and make it lighter, softer—yes, that’s closer to how it felt, that’s—

Soon the water is boiling hot and you’re trying not to boil along with it, remembering everything he said against this spot, the filth he whispered to you here. Your pussy starts to throb between your legs as the memories play out in your mind, how close he got you to shattering bliss without even really working for it. If you put it all together collectively, you don’t think he actually touched you for more than a minute or two total today. Mostly he just talked to you, but stars, he hit buttons you didn’t even think you had, had you a split second away from cumming harder than Maker knows while his finger rested just above your clit and provided no stimulation whatsoever.

Fuck, you enjoyed it. You did, you’ll admit it when there’s no one else here but you. You enjoyed the fuck out of it. You wish he’d do it again. Force you to lose, force you to cum so you can at least blame him for it, remove your responsibility from the equation and allow you to put just one more thing on his shoulders, to taste ecstacy instead of expecting you to bear the weight of pretending you don’t need it any longer. He was doing you a favor, you realize that now. Your body is staging a fucking coup and you wish you could’ve called mercy before it got to this agonizing point. He turns you on, you fucking admit it. He inspires violent emotions in you—jealousy, arousal, anger, temptation—thoughts you don’t want to have and consolidating it all into various forms of hatred makes the finer details easier to ignore. Your perception of him has always been skewed by your iron will, but he all but took a fucking sledgehammer to it today, dented it beyond all recognition. You want him, you want to him to take it all away, you want him to fuck you—in the… fuck, in the good way.

You don’t have a thought beyond that. Your hand quickly falls down the length of your body to wash your private parts, biting your lip as your hips slowly start to rock into it. You’re getting clean, you’re getting clean, this is how you clean yourself, this is… yes, as long as you keep the bar of soap pressed between your palm and the top of your curls like this, you’re cleaning yourself and you can just… ease your finger down just a little bit and—

Flipflops suddenly echo from the twisting hallway leading to the tiled freshers, and you immediately snatch your hand back up again, not needing to turn around to know another girl is walking into the room. A knob somewhere to your right eventually makes a dull squeak as you quickly finish washing up and turn your showerhead off, grabbing your towel and wrapping it around yourself.

Maker, you feel like your pussy is plotting your demise. Fuck, you can’t believe you almost cheated in the fucking showers just now where literally anyone could walk in, you thought you would’ve had more self-control than that. You make your way into the changing rooms and grab your pajamas, starting to tug them on without fully drying your body and having only one thought in mind.

Dameron will probably be celebrating late tonight. You can tuck in early, scurry back to your room and cheat there.

Well, no, not cheating, because you clearly remember making a very compelling argument about wet dreams earlier today. Maker, a freebie, the word has never sounded so enticing. What you’d say amounts to a… bye-week orgasm basically, since you know he’s already lost at least one match against his own body and you’re meant to be competing on the same level. It’s only fair to let you persevere through the toughest part of the challenge if he was allowed to throw a game early on and still stay in the competition. Maybe he threw multiple games, you never got a straight answer concerning that, so it’s still under review. He could’ve thrown… three games, even. Or four.

You dress as quickly as possible and then nearly bolt through the entrance area to the restrooms with all the sinks and stalls. The balled up dirty clothes and wet towel in your arms allow you to hide the way your nipples are stiff and tender against your thin pajamas, and you can’t wait to climb into your bunk and take everything off under the covers. You’ll be able to cum, at least once. It’ll relieve so much stress, get rid of this nightmare headache, rip through your body like lightning and paralyze it until you can start over from square one and think like yourself again.

And, you’re just about to power walk your ass back to your quarters when a body nearly slams into yours as soon as you step foot outside the door, your shoulder jerking back just in time to avoid a collision.

A mechanic, you think. You’re not exactly sure, you don’t hang out with too many of them—he’s Chiss and his glowing red eyes don’t even land on you as you gasp and sidestep him at the last second, but it’s not him that catches the majority of your attention. He just exited the men’s room at the same time you left the women’s, and the door takes a moment to swing shut behind him.

You freeze. It can’t be more than a few seconds—but it feels like everything slows down and it lasts a fucking eternity.

Dameron is standing at a sink in the far corner of the room, naked except for a towel identical to the one in your arms wrapped loosely around his waist. He cradles the base of his own throat with one hand and gently drags a razor down the smooth contour of it with the other, his chin tilted up high and regal while his eyelids dip low to concentrate on his movements. He glances down and holds the foamy blade under the running faucet, tapping it twice against porcelain before the door slides him out of frame.

I can shave, a low, silky murmur slowly fills your ears, heat swelling low and hot in your tummy. Tonight, I’ll shave it off. Make it nice and smooth for you.

You feel like your body is just a collection of rigid knots all tied together, and the one between your legs is the tightest it’s ever been. Stars, on another day you’d say it feels like a bad cramp, even though you know your injection makes your period rare and like clockwork. Regardless, the split second image makes you shudder and clamp up painfully, and you just stand there and stare at the closed door for a second, trying not to shake.

Fuck, this is so fucking… presumptuous of him.

Realistically, you know it could have absolutely nothing to do with you. It’s his face—you’re not self-centered enough to have completely lost your concept of autonomy. He can do whatever he wants to his body, and that includes facial hair, full stop. You also know that he’s not being… obvious about it, no matter how much it feels that way to you. He’s using the sink and mirror at the very end of the room, not any of the ones nearest to the door—but even if he was, it’s not like he could’ve planned for you to walk out at the exact moment the metal hinge was angled wide open. He couldn’t possibly have intended for this, for you to see him doing this. He wasn’t making a show, didn’t even notice you standing there. You blame literally everything on him, or at least you always try your absolute best to—but this one…

It sends a hard shudder down your spine and you clutch the fabric in your arms tighter, trying not to drop it. Fuck. This is torture. Fuck him. Good and bad—both ways, all the ways he can be fucked, fuck him. Your head is spinning, you’re sweating fresh out of the shower, you need to cum. Maybe if you hurry, you can get that precious orgasm before he’s finished, because if Dameron is able to intercept you before you can tend to this, you’re… you’re not sure how you’re going to say no to him.

You don’t even think you want to anymore.

You feel like you’re just… holding onto it on principle now. Too stubborn and hardheaded to want change. Too stuck in your own ways to recognize how much everything already has changed.

Somehow, you end up making your way back to your room, but the whole thing is a blur. Your flipflops plap against your heels as you navigate through hallways as quick as you can, emptier than you’ve seen them in months. You know most of the pilots are probably out celebrating in either the mess hall or rec room, but the thought doesn’t really presently register. Almost nothing registers besides your continuous forward motion and the way you feel yourself throb with every step, aching for something you are going to get tonight. Fuck, you are so attached to this orgasm now, it’s not going anywhere and neither are you. You deserve this, you deserve some relief. Come hell or highwater, it’s happening tonight.

As soon as you step into your room and slap your hand blindly against the wall panel to close the door behind you, you’re carelessly dropping the bundle of fabric to the floor and then shrugging out of your pajamas in the cool pitch darkness, having exactly one mission in mind. You don’t bother with lights, with brushing your hair, with literally anything besides clamoring up the ladder to your top bunk and wiggling under the thin bedsheet, making sure to pull it up to your chin before your legs butterfly open. The tip of your finger wets itself on your tongue and then you’re dropping it down and sliding it against your poor clit, the pleasure arcing and flaring so sharp and sensitive even from your touch that you have to give it just a second.

…No, no you don’t. You don’t have to give it fucking anything. You keep moving your finger hard and quick even as your hips naturally want to jerk away from it, shoving yourself through the sensitivity with gritted teeth and a ferocious will.

Fuck, how long do you think you have? Was Dameron shaving pre or post-shower? You can’t remember, all you know is he had a towel around his waist. And that thin gold chain hanging down his neck. Was his hair wet? Fuck, why can’t you remember? His chin and jaw were smooth as silk, you know that much. Post-shower, then. Probably. Probably?

His chin and jaw were smooth as silk. You keep getting stuck on that no matter how chaotically your thoughts whirl; they fling out in different directions at different velocities but all somehow manage to go in a perfect circle and end up at the same place you started. His chin, his jaw, his mouth, his neck, his chin, his mouth, his jaw, his mouth, his mouth, his mouth—

You feel yourself start to clamp down and you speed up, chasing it. The pleasure starts burning deep inside you, the fire slowly licking down your thighs and rising up into your abdomen, and then—

And then a series of quiet beeps from the hallway practically blare like alarm bells to your frantic mind.

You immediately stop moving your finger, snapping your legs tight together and flat to the mattress as soon as the door to your room shifts open and fluorescent light spills inside, and you feel like you could actually fucking cry right now.

All this edging is just a form of self-flagellation at this point. You lay there and try not to make a sound, try not to tremble hard enough to shake the whole bunk with it, but even your breathing feels like it’s going to give you away. Dameron, shirtless with his towel draped over his shoulder, slowly steps into the room and then pauses almost immediately, making your heart stutter for a second at what so blatantly caught his attention.

One quick glance down towards his feet confirms the simultaneous hope and fear—you left everything on the floor. The towel, the dirty clothes, and your pajamas are strewn about haphazardly right where he needs to walk.

You know what it must look like to him. A trail of clothes leading directly to an occupied bed isn’t exactly subtle, even though you didn’t necessarily intend it that way. Still, what can you say? Your hand is shoved in between your legs right now and you’re in your birthday suit under this thin sheet, what the fuck can you say to him? Sorry Dameron, got too caught up with how stupid wet you get me that I left those there on accident on my way to cheat, but totally not because I lowkey want your help doing it. Convincing, that’ll go over great.

Dameron slowly lifts his head to look at you. Or, at least you think he does—the light from the open door behind him casts his body in a dark silhouette, but you know your face is perfectly illuminated for him right now. Blinking down at him from the top bunk with your brows pulled up in the middle, wide-eyed and desperate and caught red-handed. Fuck, you don’t know if he can see the way your knees are clamped tight together and your hand rests perfectly still against your pussy like this from the angle he’s at, but you know it has to be super fucking obvious either way. You’re breaking the rules, you’re touching yourself, and you both know it. You can’t lie, you can’t even sit up without confirming his very valid suspicion. He can call the game at any point, but…

You watch his head fall back down to study the mess you left for him once more. Fuck, are you positive that was an accident? Normally you wouldn’t second guess anything about your own understanding of the interactions that occur between you and him, but—you’ve never done that before. You’ve lived with roommates on this base for years, you don’t just… get naked before getting into bed, that’s bad form. How are you going to get up in the morning without having your pajamas shoved near your feet while you sleep? Wrap this thin bedsheet around yourself and scamper down the ladder until you can snatch them up from the floor, and then what? Climb all the way back up just to wiggle the clothes on underneath the blanket before going back down again? Maker, you fucked up, your pussy is plotting your fucking demise.

But then everything inside you pulls taut as Dameron suddenly decides to move. Slowly, he leans down to catch your orange jumpsuit closest to his feet with a few fingers, before he stands upright and carefully begins folding the fabric without saying a single word to you. Electricity buzzes through you as he very obviously takes his time with it, using nearly his whole armspan to lengthen and fold the sleeves while his chest and chin meet for support. When he’s eventually satisfied with it, he takes a few steps toward the empty desk on your side of the room and then sets the neat rectangle of fabric atop it where you usually keep it.

You bite your lip and you can’t help it—you start to move your finger as he goes back to sort the pajamas you wore for barely two seconds from your dirty clothes, folding and putting away whatever is clean and then tossing the rest into the shared laundry basket that gets collected every week. Somehow it makes you feel even more naked, seeing all your clothes be returned to their proper places, realizing that this is your base state now, this is what you’re going to wear tonight. Nothing. You left everything on the floor and trapped yourself up here, he’s simply shifting a pawn forward two spaces in kind now that you’ve made your first move.

You can feel yourself pulse threateningly against your own fingertip while he collects your wet towel and drapes it over your closet door to dry, and your breath comes louder through your nose while you bite back the noises you want to make, the way your movements so desperately want to speed up. Your hand working the way you want it to under the white sheets would be too much, too revealing, but you don’t know how much longer you’ll be able to care.

But then of course, the asshole has to go and put away his towel and clothes, and you endure through the whole thing while pressing back and forth against your clit so hard and slow that your toes curl and pull the sheet tucked under your chin taut. After that’s done, he makes his way over to the portshade above his desk and slowly slides it open a few inches, the light of three moons outside gradually filling the room. However, when Dameron goes back to press a button on the wall panel and close the door to the hallway, you immediately see how much softer it is in here, how the artificial fluorescents have thankfully disappeared and the room illuminates more than it blinds, glows more than it beams. He presses one more button as the lock inside the paneling slides into place.

You bite your bottom lip and try your best to hide the pleasure you’re building for yourself while he makes his way back to his desk, quietly swiping the radio off it and lowering the volume knob completely before he flips it on. The noise slowly amplifies until you’re able to catch two distinct voices conversing in Huttese—it’s the only lingua franca that still broadcasts on this old technology in this part of the galaxy, but he’s already flipping through the stations in search of something specific.

If you were thinking straight, you may have actually recognized this for what it is, but you’re having trouble even processing the details of your general surroundings right now, your mind is lagging and too slow at reading between the lines. Dameron’s doing exactly what he said he would do. He laid it all out earlier for you in the x-wing, telling you exactly what he wanted plain as day, and now he’s checking the whole list off one by one. The shade is open and the room is lit just enough to make him out, the door is locked, and he’s finding something to listen to. Something quiet, and easy.

If you were thinking straight, you’d realize that there’s a much more obvious reason why he shaved his beard—you never told him the truth about how much you liked it. You never tell him the truth. You allow—even encourage him to think the sharp things you say to him are exactly how you feel. He did it because he believed you.

Oh, but you’re not thinking straight. Your thoughts are scattered and the only thing they can agree upon is how good this feels, even as your breathing starts to grow heavier, grow louder underneath the sound of the radio. The thought stays right beneath your consciousness, tugging at your preoccupied mind. You work your finger with just a little more verve now that he’s flipping through the stations, knowing he’s distracted by spinning the dial through intermittent white noise while different voices and songs fill the room for just a second at a time.

Your bed, his voice suddenly echoes through your thoughts, originating from your subconscious but almost sounding like it’s coming from the radio in your delirious mind. I want you comfortable.

Fuck, the understanding finally clicks the second he flips to a slower song and you start to burn at the thought of what’s next. The silent promise that his actions allude to. You have the realization way too late but at least it still comes at all with the state you’re in. Your hand slows down immediately, not even needing to consciously consider the choice between achieving orgasm through your finger or his mouth. Still, it’s hard to stop touching yourself completely when it feels so fucking good to your deprived body.

Fuck, it’s barely been a few seconds since your realization and yet you immediately bristle in distress at how fucking long he’s taking.

So you open your mouth. You’re desperate and needy and on the verge of something, and it comes out without thought. You don’t think it’s loud enough for him to hear, but his head immediately lifts and looks unseeingly at the wall in front of him for a second, as if he’s questioning if he imagined it. A soft melody plays on a bluesy guitar while you hiccup and wait, but he doesn’t move.

And then you say it again, higher and tighter in your throat, pitched up to an impatient, girlish whine. “Poe…”

The radio is tossed onto the bottom bunk as soon as he spins around and walks towards the ladder, but it’s like your finger has a mind of its own the moment he disappears underneath your line of sight. Your legs spasm against the mattress and you bite your lip, not caring about the frantic way your hand begins moving under the sheet as his muted footsteps climb up the rungs.

Your eyes snap to his as soon as you can see him beyond the railing at your feet, heaving himself up until everything above his waist is above you, too. His pauses there and his lashes quickly dip to the shameless movements between your legs as you work yourself towards that approaching bliss, and then flick back to the way you’re biting your lip and looking at him so torn, wanting so badly to wait for it but not being able to right now.

Slowly, he begins to move forward, crawling his way up the mattress and over your body, noticeably careful with where he places his limbs. You’re not hard to dodge, though—you’re like a rigid stick of desperation under him, knees and ankles still clamped tight together and your arms streamlined as close to your body as possible with tension as you keep rubbing your clit. Not to mention the sheet is thin and shows your figure almost perfectly with how tight you’ve hooked it under your chin, only leaving the finest details to the imagination.

But then there starts to be a little strain against the fabric, an unspoken question he’s still bothering to ask even though you could’ve told him to fuck off ages ago. Poe could yank the sheet down and flip your shit over and destroy you right now if he wanted—fuck, like you want him to do—but his face slowly appears in front of yours instead and his dark eyes search your features for answers. The length of his chain dangles from his muscular neck and glows against his golden skin, his whole upper body stretched long and bare over you.

From the gradually increasing tightness pulling on the fabric, you expect the sheet to rip down your body as soon as you lift your chin and let that resistance go, but instead… stars, it’s slow. Why is he going so fucking slow?? The bedsheet barely flutters down to your collarbone before he’s able to stop tugging on it so hard, and then he just gently inches the hem down from that point on.

Fuck—your eyes drop to his lips as he eventually reveals your shoulders and sternum to the room, and then lower to your cleavage while you let out a hushed whimper, praying he understands the extent of how vulnerable you’re allowing yourself to be. You don’t do this often—and you definitely don’t do it with someone like him. He’s the one who said you needed this, isn't he? So why the fuck is he dragging out the anticipation? Pretending like he doesn’t see the way you’re begging for help in the middle of another warzone that’s breaking out for the second time today?

Poe’s head drops down to give the contour of your neck a long drag of his tongue, slow and hot and wet, the sheet eventually dropping beneath your nipples and exposing them to the cool air. You bite your lip and keep working yourself under the fabric even as it’s led down the length of your tummy, and you just get wetter and wetter feeling him mouth at your skin as the radio continues to play soft from the bottom bunk. He follows the skin as it’s revealed, licking down from your collarbone and working with the increasing rate of your breathing. His lips never feel like they vary in pressure, even as your chest heaves up and down and your lungs work hard for air.

His open mouth slowly drags down the curve of your breast and it makes your blood burn fire through your veins. You nearly choke when your nipple is enveloped in soft heat, his tongue quickly fluttering up under the stiff peak and giving it to you so gently, contrasting so light and vernal with how brilliant and neon bright the need between your legs is. Your hand starts to work quicker, and fuck—you can hear it now, your desperate movements audible over the shallow breaths and the sound of one song gradually fading into another below you. You’re just too fucking wet and your pussy is smushed with how tight your legs are pressed together—the noise is unavoidable, and Poe’s knees are planted too close to either side of your thighs to spread them really at all.

Fuck, you knock against the resistance regardless to let him know what you want, but he doesn’t budge and it makes you just about lose your damn mind. Does he have to make everything so fucking difficult? You couldn’t close your legs earlier and now you can’t open them, and it’s like he’s able to take perfect advantage of each opposing position to prolong your torture.

But then his tongue leaves you even as his jaw opens just slightly, and that’s the only warning you get before his teeth graze your nipple with a sudden arc of sensation and you flare up all at once.

It’s a miracle and a curse that you’re able to stop at the very last second, your hand jerking away from your pussy and flexing into a fucking death claw on your thigh at how close you were, and you don’t know why. Why did the fuck did you stop? There’s nothing standing in your way right now, you’ve consciously given yourself express permission to cum, but still. It must just be learned instinct at this point—hammered into your muscle memory for weeks on end to not allow the pleasure no matter what, especially when you’re this fucking close to it.

Nonetheless you garble out nonsense and cinch inwards on yourself to fight it off now that you’ve apparently decided against it. There’s nothing worse than a half-assed orgasm, and you have to quickly summon the conviction behind your split second reaction before it’s too late and your body takes the pleasure any way it can get it.

Poe’s mouth releases your nipple at the way your whole spine suddenly hunches in and he drops his forehead to your chest, breathing heavy down the slope of your breast as you tremble and grapple for your sanity.

“Did you just cum?” Is the first thing he says to you, his voice is so ragged and stony it’s practically gravel crunching as he speaks.

“N-n-no,” you quickly stammer at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe correctly. Inhale, exhale—fuck, which one is inhale again, which one comes first? Maker, does he need to call a fucking medic? “Huhhhhalmost?”

Poe takes a deep breath and slowly releases it with a bassy and warm mmmm rumbling against your skin, so coarse but pleased enough to sound like melted chocolate dripping down your body. The noise sends a violent shudder through you and it’s almost enough to knock you back to that edge again, even without your fingers assisting it.

His head dips and the sheet pulls down even more, just below your belly button now, and you let out a quiet gasp in anticipation, nearly on the verge of begging him to keep moving downwards. But when Poe’s eyes close and his mouth suddenly moves back up to open over your other nipple instead, your patience snaps.

Fuck him, bad way. This is your orgasm, you’re done waiting.

“I’m gonna cum,” you snarl furiously down at him, shoving your hand between your legs even as Poe’s lips quirk against your skin. It’s not a warning, it’s a threat. If he’s gonna be like this, he doesn’t get to share it with you. It’s your orgasm, you’ll give it to yourself if he doesn’t give a shit about it. “Thought you wanted it, guess not.”

You immediately feel his teeth again in response to your admittedly slightly bitchy comment and this time he lets your nipple roll just a bit between them, making you jerk at the sensation and quickly find your clit again. Oh, you’re soaking fucking wet, you’re wet everywhere. Slick and swollen and burning, and it’s not going to take much at all. The sheet sticks to your overheated body and you can’t tell the difference between your sweat, his saliva, or wetness from between your legs—it all just feels damp and slippery as you gradually lose your bearings under his mouth.

“Fuck this, I’m gonna cum,” you breathe once more, possibly nothing more than a mindless reiteration but most likely just one last veiled plea for him to give you what you both want. As if he can tell, Poe quickly lifts his mouth and suddenly the sheet is ripped the rest of the way down your naked body completely, sharp and frustrated, and then his lips brush against your elbow as it twitches, nipping the sensitive skin there.

“Brat,” he growls quietly against your forearm as he keeps dragging his lips down further, following the path it makes along your tummy. “Just likes making shit difficult.”

“You’re the one—” you hiccup, trying to sound angry but just melting into a puddle at the tip of his tongue slowly trailing down your frantically moving wrist, “—you’re the… the o-one who… who…?”

But you’re already sprinting towards that edge, feeling him drop even lower and his hot breath fan against your fingers, and at this point you’re too far gone. Poe gently kisses at your closed thighs, in perfect position and ready for you, but you can’t stop yourself anymore unless he makes you stop, and the longer he waits down there without grabbing your hand to replace it with something better the more you don’t give a shit about whether or not it’s going to happen. You can feel the orgasm rising, you can feel your toes flex and everything start to lock down for the approaching tsunami. You’re going to get it this time, you’re going to cum, you’re going to—

“This is—” you rasp, “—this is a f-free, a fffff-ffreeeeb—”

His tongue softly grazes your knuckle as it works.

And then there’s a moment. A suspended moment that seems to go on forever, where you’re launched directly over that cliff and yet you still seem to be gaining altitude. Where’s the drop? You’re already cumming—you can feel it, there’s absolutely no fucking going back now, but it’s like your sheer desperation has so much momentum that your body tricks itself into believing there’s nothing to land on, no gravity to immediately rip you straight down to your demise.

You choke out his name and your back arches with it and that must be the signal, because Poe finally pulls your hand away and lets his chin dip, and then his jaw falls open and allows you just enough time to catch the glimmer of his pink tongue before it slides wet and slow through your swollen folds.

Heat. It sears through your whole body with a wracked shudder, the slick glide over your clit as his eyes flutter closed, and within the very first second of feeling his mouth on you, you’re instantly cumming inside it.

There. There’s the drop.

The burning erupts into molten chaos, crumpling your whole body on impact like an accordion, but he sinks all his weight down on your legs and forces you to endure it with everything below your waist pinned to the mattress. It’s fucking mayhem. You feel like your voice actually rips itself in half with the ragged cry of blinding relief, so enormous and soul wrenching in power that you couldn’t even hope to muffle it. You can’t move your hips through it, you can’t stutter up to ride it out—you have to experience the whole thing with your lower body completely still while his tongue takes slow, gentle licks at your throbbing clit, only able to sit your shoulders up and slam them back down and grab his head as you endure.

You cum hard. Fucking hard. It’s daunting and explosive and utterly devastating in the havoc it wreaks, and just when you think you’ve seen the worst of it, it’s just so slow. Creeping along and obliterating everything in its path, taking an eternity to pass because of how fucking big it is.

When you’re finally able to float back down into your own body again, the first thing you notice is how tight his hold is. Poe’s arms are wrapped around your thighs to keep them pressed tight together and you can feel the wetness all the way down to your fucking knees as they tremble against each other. Stars, what did he do to you? You feel like you actually wet yourself, there’s way too much dampness on the mattress underneath you to feel anywhere close to normal for you.

His mouth eventually leaves you but his head doesn’t move, nothing else moves. Even his hot breath feels like rough stimulation to your throbbing pussy.

And then Poe shifts and adjusts his body just enough, catching the backs of your knees and slowly spreading your legs up and apart like you wanted to do ages ago. They feel like jelly, wobbly and unsteady even as his thumbs hook right under your knees and easily support most of their weight. Your pussy is soon exposed completely, and his shoulders move down just before his head drops to lick the collection of wetness right from your entrance. Fuck, he couldn’t get it from the previous angle your legs were at, just your clit at the very top—but this is deep and personal and you know he’s probably getting mouthfuls of how hard he just made you cum, using the tip of his tongue to scoop your arousal up and swallowing it quietly before going back for more.

“Poe,” you whisper, and he rumbles low in his throat in response without stopping. This isn’t for you, this isn’t for your benefit right now. Your pleasure receptors aren’t concentrated right here, just the physical evidence of them being overloaded just a few moments ago, but he stays for longer than necessary. He keeps his mouth here far longer than you need to push past the throbbing sensitivity and start to crave the sensation again, forcing you to bite your lip to stop yourself from telling him to move back up just a couple inches.

So you seek it out instead, the lower part of your body clearly not listening to a damn thing your mind tells it right now. Your hips drop and his velvet tongue catches your clit at the apex of its repetitive motion, and you gasp and rock upwards again as Poe groans and immediately rises with you to chase it. He attaches to the swollen flesh and sucks at it gently for you, following your lead, letting your wet fingers comb his hair back from his face and clutch a good fistful of it as you plant your feet and slowly grind up into his mouth.

Fuck. He was right. You needed this. Everything about it is heaven—endorphins pour off you in waves as you roll your hips against his face, and he lets you do it. He’s not just pliant, he’s willing. His tongue works diligently, his eyes close and he moans into your pussy, allowing you to tug his hair and fit to his mouth exactly how you want.

Oh, everything burns. Everything smolders and sparks, because he’s always been so withholding and now he’s just going for it. He’s reading your mind better than he did during the battle today, not necessarily submissive in his approach but… servicing. Accommodating. Finally giving in and putting real effort into helping you chase after another shot of ecstasy without being so stingy about it like before.

As soon as you feel another familiar swell of something deep down, your mouth is suddenly dropping open.

“How many—” your ragged voice comes out without thinking, and it takes so fucking long to actually attach the train of thought to its conduit of translation. You swallow thickly and flex your fingers in his hair, tugging at him to ground yourself, trying to anchor yourself to the very thing that’s about to fling you into oblivion again. “—fuck, how many times did you… how many fr-freebies do I—do I…”

Poe eases his chin back just enough to respond, and the slick sound his tongue makes leaving your clit makes you shudder and miss the wretched words at first. “Mm. Just the one.”

And then his tongue is already sliding back through your pussy by the time your eyes pop open in immediate panic, and your clit is in his mouth again as soon as yours drops to frantically contest.

But the words aren’t coming, it feels too fucking amazing. Your jaw goes slack and your fingers tighten in his hair. Maker almighty, the orgasm swells up so sharp and quick that you have to fucking kick him at the very last second to get away from it. Thankfully Poe’s mouth abruptly leaves you with his oof of shock at your audacity, lifting his head as you snap your legs together and grit your teeth through your miserable retreat from ecstasy. You don’t even notice the way your knee almost knocks into his jaw with it—you just focus on shamefully easing your way back down again from the platform overlooking bliss like you’re too afraid of the high-dive. After a second, you actually have to turn on your side and rock yourself like a child as Poe slowly sits up with a grimace, lifting his arm to rub at his ribcage where your heel slammed into him.

You peek an eye open to watch him do it and oh no, it’s not a good plan. He’s so… fucking hot. Fuck. He’s unbelievably good-looking—his hair curls and frames such handsome features, his body is lovely and warm and seeing his chest bare and up close like this makes you want to reach out and slowly drag your hand down the smooth curve of his side. But then your gaze catches on the dark sweatpants tented shamelessly between his legs and how he’s glistening with perspiration, too, and how he tugs at the fabric covering his crotch and sighs softly, blinking down at you slow and intoxicated with lust.

You have to close your eyes and bury your face into the pillow because your body is latching onto anything to keep you within inches of that edge. The mere sight of him is enough to make you worry for yourself. You take deep breaths and do your best to tune his existence out entirely. Just you, just you in your bed, trying desperately not to cum without even touching yourself. You’re naked and curled up and there's no one here to look down at you with deep brown eyes, no one else breathing and especially not equally as loud as you are. Just you, just you.

And, just when you think you might finally get to the point where you’re not teetering anymore, where you’re at least mostly certain that moving around and looking at things and just existing in general isn’t going to make you completely unravel hands-free at any moment, he has to fucking… go and be himself.

You peek up to see him staring down at you, dark and intimate and devouring, before his hand gently brushes down the curve of your hip. “Maker, you are so fucking hot right now. Was that a close one, pretty baby?”

Your hand snaps out to grab his wrist with a whimper and you don’t know if your intent is to stop him or just hang on for dear life, but your grip is weak and you shake and Poe takes the opportunity to grab a handful of your ass while you do absolutely fuck all to stop him.

“Mmmm. Open your legs,” he murmurs, releasing your flesh just to give it a soft smack. “You’re only making it worse like this.”

“What? W-What do you—” you stammer, but Poe drags his hand down your thigh to catch one of your knees and pull it up without waiting for your babbled reply. Both knees go with him, your pelvis wound too tight and frozen to do anything but rotate your whole entire body on your tailbone.

“You’re just adding more pressure by keeping them closed,” he explains, wiggling his fingers in between your knees to try and get enough of a grip to pry them apart. “C’mon—open your legs, let yourself breathe.”

“Nnnnnnstop talking,” you groan, trying to slap at him, but he’s strong enough to force the movement regardless, levering your knees apart and then pushing them tight to the mattress. And, though he would normally be right about it, you’re fighting your mind to get away from the orgasm just as much as you are your body. The sudden exposure and the positioning and the way he automatically drops his gaze down at your needy pussy with his cock still hidden in his pants like that only serves to displace the cause instead of eliminating the effect. Closing the door and opening a window, shifting the stimulation somewhere else but allowing it to throb steady and aching regardless.

“Much better,” he sighs lowly, digging his fingers into the sore muscles inside your thighs and you just keep your hands loosely attached to his wrists as he works. “Fuck me, baby’s got such a pretty pussy doesn’t she?”

“Poe,” you wheeze up at him, hearing him rumble at the sight of your cunt contracting around nothing, probably shining and glistening with your desperation for him. By this point, you’re worrying again. You have no doubt whatsoever that he could talk you into cumming just like this, with your hands trembling and clutching at his wrists. If he keeps murmuring filth while holding your legs open and staring at your pussy like this, you have no doubt you’ll find a way to get there somehow.

Thankfully, he seems to understand. He goes quiet and just keeps massaging your sore muscles while you try not to writhe underneath him. Stars, it’s like he’s genuinely doing what he can to take it easy on you and you’re still all kinds of fucked up about it, still frantic and desperate while all he’s doing is just squeezing your legs.

“Calm down,” he gruffs, but you can’t. “You’re working yourself up, don’t—”

“Stop talki—” your ragged growl is cut off by your own hiccup as you quickly find the strength to shove at his hands, knowing they’re at least mostly to blame for your prolonged tightrope walk. You can’t fucking think when he’s touching you, you become too hyper-aware of your own body, it feels too good in a way that’s hard to describe and impossible to explain. Poe’s palms immediately listen and raise in front of him in surrender, his back lifting to give you space while you hide your face from him with shaky hands and gasp. It’s pathetic and your legs are still held wide open and your fingers tremble hard enough to resemble a malfunction.

You just. You need a hard reset. You need that thirty seconds of complete idle, of figuring shit out on your own without an electric current running through you before you can start working properly again. It can’t be rushed, it’s necessary when most people just want to power down and then right back up again. The wires connecting your parts are all criss-crossed and tangled and sparks are lighting up at the slightest stimulus, you just need to experience absolutely nothing for thir—

“I’m sorry,” Poe murmurs, still staying in his own space but the gravelly voice shooting a bolt of lightning down your spine. Thirty seconds, of course he couldn’t give you thirty fucking seconds. “Fuck, you’re so hot, I’m sorry—”

“Please stop talking,” you beg him, your fingers curling against your face, “Maker, I—I don’t want to cum—”

“Fuck, I know, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucki—”

You go to kick him again and even though it collides wrong and does nothing more than get your message across, the jostle is enough to knock you back from the approaching oblivion just slightly. It serves to wake you up way more than it remotely hurts him, the equivalent of someone just smacking a piece of machinery and fixing the problem temporarily.

You heave an enormous breath and blink your eyes open behind your fingers, immediately locking with his. Poe’s teeth are digging into his bottom lip but he’s mercifully silent, even when you drop your shaky hands down to your spread thighs and stay equally silent another full minute while you make the effort to right yourself. After awhile though, you realize he must be taking cues from you, waiting for you to speak.

Only, you suddenly don’t know what to say. You’re at a complete loss, looking up at him through your eyelashes in uncertainty now. Something you’ve never been around him, even as your pussy is wide open for him to look at. He hasn’t recently, though, you don’t think. He’s just keeping his eyes on your face, watching you bite your lip and blink up at him while your mind whirls, the only sound that can be heard is the radio continuing to lull from the bottom bunk.

You wish he’d say something. How come he’s choosing right now to listen to what you tell him to do? You don’t… you don’t know what to say to him. Why can’t you figure out something? You fidget but then suddenly feel your expression lose all its struggle and just look… innocent. Needing his help.

“Do you want me to leave?” Poe eventually asks after another moment, tentative of breaking the silence, and you frantically shake your head before he’s even finished speaking. Fuck, something drops in your stomach at how desperate you’re probably coming off right now, but you’re so lost and you know that’s at least one question you know the immediate answer to.

Poe tilts his head thoughtfully, slowly reaching a hand towards your thigh without removing his eyes from yours. “Want me to make you cum again?”

You shake your head again, wide-eyed and worried. He immediately pulls his hand back and blinks slowly at you.

“You want to be edged more?” He asks lowly, and you shake your head vehemently for the third time. Poe sighs and sits back, planting his palms to his thighs and pulling at the fabric of his pants in budding frustration, clearly tired of playing twenty questions. “Well what do you want, baby? You wanna just hang out? That’s fine, I don’t care, but you gotta tell me.”

Fuck, he’s right, what do you want? The only thing that’s standing in your way of feeling better, you soon realize.

“Want you to cum first,” you mumble, cheeks warming at how childish you sound.

“Not a fucking chance,” Poe immediately scoffs, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “And pouting at me isn’t gonna help.”

“Why not?” You breathe, dipping your gaze down his body. “I can use my mouth.”

“I don’t—” he stops short, suddenly registering what you said and switching gears. “You can—?” Poe narrows his eyebrows and looks suspicious. “You’ll let me… cum in it?”

“Okay,” you whisper in breathless agreement, sitting up and reaching for him, but Poe groans and pushes you back down on the mattress with a flattened palm against your shoulder like you just aced a test he was hoping you’d fail.

“Fuck whoever’s idea this was,” he grits darkly to himself while you arch up against his hold, wanting him to grab your tits but knowing it’s not a good idea right now. “Maker, I’m so fucking hard—fuck whoever’s idea this was, making me turn that down—”

“You said,” you pant, licking your dry lips and blinking up at the ceiling, trying to control yourself, “before, you said that you’re… you’re not doing this for a bet, right? So why not?” Your voice goes softer when you flutter your gaze back at him, even though the accusation feels like it should be sharper if anything, since it comes from a very real place of distrust. “Were you just… lying to me about that?”

“Fuck, come on,” Poe groans, his voice starting to waver as he shakes his head and squints one eye at you, exasperated. “You don’t get it. You can’t think of a single fucking reason I don’t wanna blow my load just yet? Really?”

The sentence coupled with his rock solid hold on you skitters a thrill through your body and you automatically reach up to run your hand along his forearm. He looks down at the caress and then back to your face and fuck, even you feel like you’re sending mixed signals right now.

“You could… fuck me,” you whisper, and Poe’s dark eyebrows pull up as his gaze falls down your naked body, nodding and digging his teeth into his bottom lip. An agreement backed by so much unspoken desire that it looks like it almost hurts him just to hear you say it out loud. “And we can just… see who cums first.”

“Yeah?” He croaks, his eyes pinned between your open legs. “Just say fuck it all and race for last place? Okay.”

Your heart pounds, having just enough wherewithal to preemptively establish a safety net for yourself. “And—and we can’t finish at the same time or we both lose.”

“Fuck,” Poe groans, reaching down to catch the hem of his sweatpants with his thumb and lifting his hips until his cock is exposed to the dim room. “We can’t stop once we start, then, we’ll have to see it through.”

Except you don’t catch any of the last part because, uh. Well, to sum up. May the Maker have mercy on you all.

Just like that, the only thought in your mind is… you get it. Okay, you get it. He told you before that girls were only interested in him for his cock, and it actually… stars, it makes so much fucking sense now, you totally get it. You thought maybe he was just boasting as a form of overcompensation at first—or, to put it another way you’ve probably used in conversation with him before, talking big talk but walking small walk. Only now, you’re… humbled. By a fucking dick, you’re humbled.

You haven’t seen more than a few of them in this context, so you know you’re not necessarily qualified to give an informed opinion, but heavens it’s a sight. It’s thick and swollen and just a shade darker than his complexion and everything inside you rockets to attention as soon as he wraps his hand around it. It’s big. It fills his whole palm without much room to spare. Far larger than what you’re used to, and you know that no matter how he fucks you with it, you’re gonna feel it tomorrow. Next weekend, probably.

Your eyes must betray you, because Poe suddenly loosens his grip and breathes your name softly, causing you to flick your eyes back up to his. You didn’t realize you were staring so openly.

“I’ll go slow,” he reassures you quietly, voice gentle and knowing. The complete lack of sarcasm or aggression in his tone is enough to snap you back to yourself, knowing that can’t possibly be right. He’s talking to you like he did when you stumbled your ass out of the x-wing today, when you were barely responsive and lost in dumb shock. He doesn’t have to… be nice to you right now, like you’re still only moments away from losing it. It’s offensive.

“I can handle it,” you harumph, widening your legs while Poe immediately suppresses a grin.

“'Course you can,” he sighs with the slightest note of fondness creeping into his voice, dropping his hips as he lines up at your entrance. “And I’ll go slow anyways.”

You open your mouth to respond but at the first push of his head inside, you inhale sharply and your palm immediately shoots out to press against his chest on complete instinct. The stab of pain is impossible to mask from your features and Poe instantly stops with a shaky breath, watching how your jaw drops at the intrusion and your face contorts.

“Ahh. Shit…” he whispers as his head tips down, dark eyes clamping shut and his hold on you tightening. “What—shit, what the fuck…”

“Keep going,” you growl out, even though you know you’re just making it more difficult on yourself. You can take Poe’s cock, you can take it, he has absolutely nothing to brag about, it’s completely normal-sized—

His hips inch forwards and you gasp at the excruciating arc of sensation, slapping at him harder.

“Keep going,” you babble while locking your elbows and shoving him back, “fuck, keep going, keep going—”

“Baby,” Poe groans, wrenching one of your hands from his chest and bringing your wrist up to his mouth to kiss and breathe hot air on it, “baby, you gotta let me—”

He moves a little more and you cry out, jerking your hand back from his lips and knocking it hard against his chest before you even realize it. Oh shit, you can’t handle it, you haven’t been fucked in so long—

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, trying to be nicer by flattening your palm but then immediately digging your nails in, “fuck, I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s been awhile since I—”

“Shit, I can tell,” he pants brokenly, his fingers dropping back down to flex hard on your hip. “Hoooolyfuck, I can te—ah, fuck, it’s alright, it’s alright, just—nnnnnnshit, okay, just relax, don’t tense up too muuuh… much—”

His cock pushes deeper even as he keeps rambling through it and you feel yourself being rearranged to make room for the slow movement, giving way to a rich pleasure even as the discomfort increases.

Poe stops once more when your hands shove up against him, somehow simultaneously shakier and firmer than all the other times put together and a little more than half of him inside you at this point. You’re so slick and hot between your legs that there’s no resistance besides the stretch, nothing to stop him from slamming home besides your weak hands trembling at his collarbone, but everything about the way he stays completely frozen for ages says he’s controlled and patient.

Everything except his face, you soon realize.

When your body is finally able to come to terms with the sensation and you blink up at him, Poe isn’t looking at you anymore. He’s staring directly over your head at the wall, tangible regret manifesting itself in seething frustration marring his expression. His eyebrows furrow and he scowls but all of it is silent and directed at himself, as if he’s asking why the fuck he actually agreed to do this. You know then that it must be really fucking wet. You know then that you must be just blazing hot and tighter than sin and as if in rhythmic agreement, his cock jumps inside you with each pounding rush of blood through it. You can see the sweat beading at his hairline as he continues to ignore you for the moment, choosing instead to silently lament at the wall like it did something to mortally betray him.

You could… make this a sprint, something devious suddenly whispers to you. He’s struggling through the pleasure and you can outlast. From the severity of that look alone, you can put an end to it before it even starts.

Admittedly, you don’t even let the devil finish his damn sentence before you decide to take your own initiative. You clamp down around him as hard as you can and Poe whips his attention down to you and punches out a curse that sounds like you wrenched the word from his throat before he was anywhere near ready for it. It comes from somewhere high and defenseless in register and then quickly falls down into a growly pit as his hips automatically lurch forwards the rest of the way inside, hard, smacking into yours as you squeeze wickedly around him.

You keep squeezing through the sudden upward shove of bliss, you keep tightening up even though you’re making agonizing noises and your eyes clamp shut and it hurts. But stars, it feels good, why does it feel so good when it hurts so bad? It makes your throat scrape and your face twist up, but you can hear his cursing getting louder and more desperate so you still don’t relax your viselike hold around him.

“Stop it—” he snarls down at you rabidly, “—oh fuck, stop or you’ll make us both cu—”

Shit, he’s right. You know he’s never been more right about anything as soon as his hips stutter and kick up to a full blown gallop in the middle of his furious scolding, and the sudden build of ecstasy is so fast and intense that you sob his name, not being able to loosen your muscles anymore as soon as it overtakes you. But it’s like a closed circuit, you’re both recycling the same pleasure without knowing how to shut it off. The harder you bear down on him, the faster his hips work, the vicious cycle compounding and circling and manifesting in the perfect typhoon within just a few tumultuous seconds.

But then suddenly he rips himself out of you with a gasp and it’s not a moment too soon, because both of you have to scramble and grab onto things to brace yourselves through the worst of it. You choose the mattress and he chooses the railing, and through the searing discomfort and settling of the chaos that’s becoming more and more familiar to you as this exhausting day passes, you know you fucked up. You underestimate his self control, time and time again. But, exactly like earlier today, you feel a thrill skitter up your spine at how he’s going to respond to your brazen treachery in the face of a newly established truce.

“Fuck,” he jerks his head to spit the obscenity at you, sounding more pissed off than you’ve ever heard him, the shredded anger in his voice starting to burn through you. “Fuckfuckfuuuuck—you make me so mad. You make me so mad. I wish I could fuck you right now, on Maker, I’d ruin you. I’d wreck your shit until you learn and you’d deserve every single fucking second of it, you—”

He stops short and growls jagged sharp in frustration, but you can’t help yourself.

“Say it,” you whimper on a dare, feeling your heart pound. The words quiver with an inexplicable sort of excitement as you dig your fingers into the mattress, wanting to hear his voice snarl the mysterious profanity. “Say it. ‘You…’—what? Say it.”

Shock suddenly paints his previously tense expression blank, even though his pupils blow out and his chest heaves. Your voice is too breathless, it’s too needy to sound nearly as antagonistic as you want.

And then Maker, it’s as if the sheer control he’s clinging to serves to spark his vexation even more. Mad that you would ask for something so enticing at a moment like this. Your heart thunders as Poe nearly flashes up close to you and points a threatening finger at you.

“You’re not going to get what you want from me,” he snaps, quiet and furious. “Not tonight. I don’t give a shit, I told you I’d slow fuck you and now I’m gonna do it until you act right.”

“You’re an asshole—” you move to lift up onto your elbows, but his hand suddenly plants against your clavicle and shoves you back down flat on the mattress.

“Not even ten minutes after I make you cum and you’ve already got a fucking attitude problem again,” he shoots back, positioning his cock at your entrance with his other hand once more, and Maker you’re drowning between your legs. His sharp rebuttal and the firm hold on the upper part of your chest makes it that much wetter, knowing you can’t do much more than lift your legs the way you need when he eases his way back inside.

“P-Poe—” you gasp breathlessly, but it's like he doesn’t hear you.

His expression tenses and he shudders out a low growl. “Fuck. Tight little baby. Rude little baby, just wants everything her way but doesn’t know how to behave herself.”

You have to bite your lip hard to hold back a whine when he’s completely sheathed and his hips connect to yours, and… shit. You already feel it. You already feel that simmering starting to take hold deep down once more, that monstrous second orgasm you’ve been fighting now digging its claws into you and licking the base of your spine with fire. And, as if he can tell, his demeanor instantly changes.

“Uh, oh,” Poe murmurs quietly, equal parts lilting and baiting, slowly dragging his cock out and then starting up the laziest pace you’ve ever experienced with his hand still planted high on your sternum right below your collarbone. “Can you feel it coming? Fuck, I can,” he shudders. “Already. Fuck, you’re so wet, you’re so wet—wish you had let me eat you out mor—”

“You can’t c—umm,” you hiccup, grasping his wrist and writhing through the building ecstasy, and you don’t know who you’re talking to at this point. Your other palm slaps at his shoulder with increasing urgency—fuck, he’s been fucking you for barely ten seconds and you’re already struggling to hold everything back. Only, his hand quickly grabs yours and pins it to the mattress, his face dropping closer as he rolls his hips achingly slow. You feel his back working with the steady pace, you see his neck flex as his cock drags so thick inside you, and then your gaze starts to lose focus a bit. It slides up his throat as lazily as he’s augmenting your pleasure, following the contour of his smooth skin until it reaches his face.

And mercy, Poe’s tongue comes out to wet his lips and a dark curl hangs down his forehead, concentrating hard on fucking you steadily without giving into the same creeping euphoria you’re feeling, and you have to turn away and bite back a whimper at the metal railing when the image starts to burn you alive.

“No,” Poe gruffs and his hand slides up a few inches to frame your jaw, twisting until you face him directly once more. “Right here, you stay right here with me.”

Your eyebrows pull up weakly and your eyes flick across his stunning features, the way he’s so present, so focused and determined while you’re starting to drift. His skin is so smooth, so golden when his jawline used to be dark, and—

“I—” you choke, starting to lose it, “—I-I…”

“What is it, baby?” Poe growls, staring down at you with unwavering, intense concentration. “Tell me. You gonna cum?”

“I…” you whimper, blinking at him slowly, “I… liked your… b-beard…”

Poe’s eyes, previously hardened and steadfast, suddenly go a bit dumb, a bit dazed. After a second, his eyebrows lose all strain, his gaze turns warmer and he rolls his hips deeper—

But the swell begins to become the only thing you can comprehend—that and the fact that you should be fighting it. You should be revolting against it, but now he’s looking so softly down at you and you can’t remember what could possibly be so bad about letting him take away all this ache and desperation again. Let him continue to take it away, over and over and over until it’s nowhere to be found at all.

And then Poe leans down and kisses you. And it’s… nothing like you’d expect.

It’s gentle. It’s tender. It goes on forever while he rocks into your soaking wet cunt, easing his throbbing cock in and out of you with such a smooth, repetitive motion that sends sparks of ecstasy down your spine at the apex of each thrust.

You handle it silently. At first. You don’t audibly react to any of it, you force your voice to at least keep quiet if you can’t hide the pleasure from your face or body, but then true to fucking form, he has to go and ruin it all. Poe uses his knees to scoot up just the slightest bit, and then his moan breaks through the absence of the desperate sounds you’ve been holding back as his tongue slowly slides into your mouth.

Your pussy flares, contracting painfully around his cock as it hits a spot that makes your legs shake against his sides. Your eyes roll back as his soft tongue dips into your mouth and everything just gets tighter, and tighter. Poe moans again and his hips push a little bit harder into yours on the next thrust, and it’s almost like a domino effect, except that doesn’t do it justice. It doesn’t topple one by one, it doesn’t take any time at all for the beginning to reach the finish—it’s a house of cards, the whole thing collapses and crashes down in on itself all at once.

You cum.

You lose. Fair and square.

You make a long, anguished whine into his mouth as you just start spasming, clutching hard at his shoulders and drenching his cock with it, your eyes squeezing shut as you cum so slow and fucking helpless around him. Oh Maker, it’s fucking devastating, it feels even more destructive and powerful than the first one. You pull and shove and claw at him equally, mouth slack as Poe tightens his hold and keeps tasting your whimpering cries, fitting his hips snug to yours as he slowly pushes you down through the debilitating ecstasy. You sob in euphoric defeat and a low, bone-shattering groan of satisfaction rumbles through his chest in response, grinding his cock into you and holding it deep as your pussy convulses.

All those weeks of holding out, just to lose. You had a freebie, he gave you an orgasm already and it was like a massive dose of spice to your deprived system—all it did was make your body want it more. Even worse, your orgasm doesn’t immediately inspire one in Poe like a part of you hoped it would, if only so you could reasonably contest the validity of the outcome. He’s able to ride out every twitch and flex as you shudder your way through it, continuing to lazily slide his tongue into your mouth while it’s held open and slack. He tastes like you. He tastes hot and slick and everything about your body feels the same way, damp and unbearably warm from your nape to your elbows to your cunt to the backs of your knees.

You lay there for what feels like a lifetime afterwards, powerless to the way your thighs tremble violently against his hips and letting the tip of his tongue slowly trace the bottom edge of your teeth while he firmly keeps his cock buried inside you. It pulses thickly and you know he wants to cum, you can feel the tension pulling at his shoulders as he keeps perfectly still. But then Poe shuffles his arms up until they’re braced around your head, using himself to box you in completely without moving his lips from yours. His teeth close on your bottom lip as he inches his hard cock out long and aching from your sensitive channel, and then groans and goes back to the same exact dragging pace from before.

Your expression furrows, even as he keeps kissing you and the movement lights up your oversensitive nerves. Fuck, you want him to speed up, it’s all the more shattering and viseral when he takes his time. What is he doing? What is he waiting for?

“Fuck me,” you whine against his lips, demanding a quicker pace. You don’t know why he isn’t just letting loose on you now, giving into his body’s need to cum. He’s aching for it, still rock hard inside of you. “Come on, I already l-lost, just fuck m—”

“Told you before,” Poe whispers back, refusing to speed up. He keeps his pace dragging and steadfast, no matter how much you work to entice him. “Never… fuck. Never gave a fuck about that stupid bet. Suffer though.”

The complete lack of harshness in his tone sears through your nerve endings even though what he said wasn’t exactly nice. You never thought hearing him tell you to suck it up could be delivered in a way that inspires so much arousal in you, but then his tongue is in your mouth again as his hips work slow and easy, and your eyes roll back at how… overwhelming it feels. So intimate. You’re completely surrounded by him, his forearms propped next to your head and his mouth on yours, and… Maker, there it is again. Your body is so deprived that it’s already gearing up to go again. He’s being lazy and you can’t fucking stand how it’s breaking you down. Gradually, with incredible stamina and a patience you never expected from him. When you first feel that pull, part of you still wants to pick up the other end and start a tug-of-war with the sensation. You’ve been fighting for so long that your body almost doesn’t know any different, its automatic reaction is to resist.

A distraction, that’s what you need. That’s what guys do to stop themselves from cumming too soon, right? Fuck, think of something, think of…

—Poe, you can't think of anything but Poe. Fuck. His cock sinking deep, the way he tastes, how his fingers thread into the damp hair at your crown so you can feel him that much more, how you can hook his biceps with both hands and swirl your tongue around his while he fucks you open. Your hips roll up with the pace and almost immediately stutter back down again, not sure if you can handle the wicked shot of oversensitivity—but then Poe groans and shifts up until his thighs are under your ass and he can curl you in more, lift your feet a bit more and make you feel smaller. And—stars, the next thrust in is enough to nearly make you bite him on complete accident, an unexpected sound ripped from your throat as he keeps that specific angle.

Poe keeps going. He keeps kissing you, keeps rocking into you. He lets you claw at him, lets you grapple helplessly while his cock shreds molten hot euphoria deep inside you, and then everything tightens up again.

“Ah, fuck,” Poe breaks away and curses a whole few seconds before you descend into mindless chaos once more, garbling out broken syllables with the absense of his mouth keeping yours occupied. Your voice crescendos and breaks at the same time you do, the pleasure arcing through you over and over and wringing you out repeatedly around his throbbing cock. Poe’s lips quickly move forward and give your whole cheek an open kiss while your expression crumples with it. Teeth drag down your skin as he moans hot air across your skin, his hips slowing to a complete stop with an obscenely slick sound.

You throb and clench around him and his lips are suddenly on yours again, his tongue sinking deep and dominating. Your mouth is slack and all you can do is squeeze him through the bliss, scrape your fingernails down his back and hope it leaves a mark.

Eventually the tremors pass and you’re dead in the aftermath, you don’t have energy. Your body is starting to acclimate to the slow orgasms and just let them steamroll you flat, fully accepting now that you can cum but still putting everything you have into it like every single one might be your last for a while. You come back to yourself enough to feel Poe’s cock solid and achingly hard inside you, and your bottom lip is being tugged between his teeth.

And then he eases out and goes back to fucking you. Same speed, same control.

Your eyes nearly fucking cross. “P-Poe—”

He immediately makes a noise of disapproval with his mouth closed, a nuh-uh but kept tight in his throat. He doesn’t want to hear it, he’s not even letting you finish your thought.

You can’t take it, though, you didn’t think he was capable of this. This is torturous in an entirely different way, overstimulating and shattering you with every thrust.

So, you think back to the one thing that got him to nearly snap earlier, the one time you really got to see that fire you love playing with. Only now, you need that fire, you need him to take everything out on you. Your floor muscles clamp down without warning and squeeze him as tight as possible, squeeze squeeze squeeze until you feel his hips stutter to a halt once more. Your breath catches—fuck, is this gonna work?—but then Poe breaks away from your lips to drop his head and sink his teeth into your neck.

You nearly squeal at how careless he is about it—an animal that bites you lazily even though it sends sharp agony rocketing through you. Again, your attempt at sabotage backfires spectacularly as a subsequent flare of pleasure swells up, and oh, that’s what you want, you want him to be mean—

“Please,” you whimper, hooking your ankles behind his back and locking down hard enough to make your toes curl. Poe groans as you grab a fistful of his hair and tug at the way your skin pinches between his teeth—you know you’re gonna have a bite mark for a few days and it thrills you. “Fuck, please, Poe—please just fuck me, please, I want you to fuck me until it hurts, fuck me the way we both nee—”

“You and me almost died today,” Poe grits into your neck, cutting off your desperate whimpers with a short growl. “Maker, it was so close, I don’t think anybody has any f-fucking…” His hips pull out and then spear deep and you choke, tightening and tightening. “But—shit, we didn’t, we lived and now—oh fuck, now baby’s finally letting me fuck her and I’m not cutting it short, no matter how pretty she sounds asking.”

His words sound slurred against your neck and you can’t tell if it’s his delivery or your perception that’s lagging. But when you feel Poe inch his cock out and start to slowly fuck you through the tightness, you let out a weak little whine and feel yourself drifting… somewhere else.

Things subtly lose their clarity, your eyelashes dip and you stop talking because words won’t come. You can’t tell if you’re staring at the ceiling or your eyelids or the back of your head, but Poe’s voice abruptly breaking through the silence makes you realize you don’t have a concept for time anymore. You couldn’t tell him how long you’ve been floating, but you almost don’t understand what he’s saying at all and it takes you a remarkable delay to fully comprehend. But judging from what he says, it sounds like it hasn’t been long.

“Shit, are you cumming again?” He suddenly gasps into the crook of your neck and grinds his hips achingly hard into yours, “O-Oh—fuck yeah, you are—baby’s cumming again—”

“P-Poe?” You stutter and smack your hand against something, him maybe, not knowing literally anything else. Not knowing what he’s talking about, not knowing where you are, not knowing your own name, “Poe—oh m-my… God—”

“Whhh—W-What—?” You hear him breathe a split second before everything compresses down tight, and then it all shoves forward at once. All of the buildup makes itself known the very moment it becomes too much to control, like a flash flood but the downpour happened miles away. You think you might actually squeak this time, helplessly cry out like it hurts because stars, it does. It hurts so fucking good, it spiders pure plasma through your entire body with rhythmic jolts and wipes your mind completely vacant. Your shoulders shoot you up and knock your chin into something and you think you might be crying? You don’t know anymore. Your spine comes back down to the mattress like the damp fitted sheet covering it is made of pure ice—your body is overheated and you keep tensing and jerking back up until Poe forcefully pins you tight against it, growling filth under his breath as he slow fucks you through it.

You feel his hand dropping down between your bodies and you sob pitifully at the ceiling when the tip of his calloused finger brushes your clit.

***

You lose count.

It’s just… constant, there isn’t a point in keeping track anymore even if there happened to be the ability—which, nope. Not even close.

He ruins you slowly. Meticulously, with nothing more than steady, unwavering determination. Every structure you built, he takes apart by hand instead of bulldozing it the way you beg him to when you find the words. You’re certain you find them—you must find them at some point, but they’re interspaced between babbled gibberish and breathy whispers of his name.

Even though it’s slow—Maker, it’s so slow—you’ve never been so fucking exhausted. He makes you give him everything and then he drains the reserves, the hidden ones you weren’t even aware existed. He never goes fast enough; in fact, you think he’s actually slowed down over the unknown amount of time it’s been since you first called out his name and asked for this. If you were in a frame of mind to notice, you’d probably realize he’s trying harder and harder to not cum, but in your wild headspace, it just feels like a prolonged punishment for you. It still feels like he’s depriving you for his own pleasure, even though he’s actually depriving himself for yours. But you always do manage to find some way to read things wrong with him.

Eventually, he begins to waver. He stops talking so much, stops chastising you when you plead with him. He hasn’t looked at you since he first kissed you—he’s either hidden his face in your neck or closed his eyes as his soft tongue slides across your bottom lip before dipping inside.

But then there comes a point where even you realize he’s struggling not to let go now, and in your faded traces of sanity, you hear your broken voice cut through the sounds of the soft radio.

“Y-Y-You—” you gasp, trembling under him, “—youneedtocum. You need to—”

“No,” Poe grits against your chin, sounding shaky and weak no matter how sharp he makes his consonants. “Fuck, not yet, I—I-I don’t want to yet.”

“Oh no,” you wheeze out, feeling the swell begin again, the familiar flicker of warning you get as his cock slowly rocks into you. Maker, the pleasure is getting raw and painful even as your pussy is drowning his cock with it, allowing him to glide slow and deep into your sensitive channel and letting the sheer tightness of it be the only resistance your body puts up. You can feel the wetness on your cheeks though, the tears of frustration gathering as your body prepares itself for yet another wave of attack. “Oh no, ohhhhhnononononono—”

“I don’t want—” Poe gasps, his hips stuttering just a bit and one of his hands coming down to smack the pillow next to your head as he chokes, “—don’t want this to… e-end yet, I—”

Your next orgasm suddenly slams through you and Poe immediately rips himself out of you before it’s too late. He shushes you frantically while you sob in distress and writhe side to side through the contractions solo this time, having nothing to clamp down on, not even able to grind up into him because he keeps his leaking cock elevated far beyond your reach.

Oh, that’s it. That is it.

“Fuck me!” You wail up at him, water blurring your vision and tears streaming down your cheeks, “Stop fucking around and just fuck me, you asshole! Fuck me and fuck me hard Dameron or I swear to every fucking star in the sk—”

You don’t get too far. He’s immediately scrambling over top of you and a strong hand is clamping down tight over your mouth, muffling your high-pitched cries against his palm. Your legs are shoved apart and one is caught under his arm and wedged back as far as it can go. His head drops to your neck, and then he snarls a ragged, “Brat—“ under your ear before ramming his cock back inside you.

Stars. Stars light up, it’s so much—the angle, the force, the speed, the sound his hips make as they start ruthlessly colliding with yours. Your eyes screw shut and you dig your nails into the meat of his back, but he doesn’t slow down—he speeds up—

“Fuck, you still think that throwing your little fucking fits works on me?” He hisses, drilling into your g-spot with such blinding hard precision that you can’t do anything more than just claw at his chest, gasping for air that just won’t come into your lungs. “Huh? Think you can just be a little bitch to me about it and it’s gonna change anything? You still don’t have any fucking idea, do you? Look at me—” he snarls, grabbing your face and shaking it to get you to respond, “—look at what you fucking do to me—”

But you can’t. You already came countless times and he’s lurching you up the bed with every single rabid thrust into your blindingly sensitive cunt, fucking you into the railing and then the wall behind it. You still feel his fingers grasping at your jaw, forcing you to address him, to look at him, and you can’t seem to focus your vision on his blurry features even when your eyes flutter open. You’re too dumb with grinding pleasure to see anything besides blurs and stars, to say literally anything back to him. But that’s not what he cares about.

“Oh fuck yes, there it is,” his voice whines, pitching up something vulnerable as his hips ram you into the corner hard and unyielding, “fuck, there’s those pretty eyes, that’s what I wanted, baby, that’s all I wanted—th-that’s—fuck, that’s—”

They must cross, or roll back, or something, because suddenly you can’t see him at all anymore. You don’t know what happens—but you know it’s wet. You know it bursts forth something fierce and you shriek his name with a hoarse and shredded voice like he steals the last part of your whole fucking soul with it. Fuck, you’re not even there for most of it, you might actually black out.

In your conscious moments, you can feel his whole body flexing over and over again on top of you. He empties his load deep inside you and takes a fucking eternity doing it, so many breathless praises leaving his mouth so quickly that they slur together and you can’t understand any of it even if you could hear him. All you can do is feel your cunt tighten and convulse in tandem with the throbbing of his cock, rhythmically working the cum out of him until Poe stops stuttering his hips, until he finally trails off into nothing but labored gasps and slumps down on top of you in exhaustion.

You both lay there for a while, dead weight breathing.

You want to hold him, your cum-struck mind quietly provides in the comedown. You want to feel his body now that you can finally think straight and take a moment to enjoy this blissful relief. He fucked you so good and you want to touch him, you want to run your fingers through his hair and massage the tight muscles at the base of his neck.

But then you just start giggling.

It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid. You smack your hand over your mouth but the garbled noise easily floats beyond it, completely elated and having absolutely no explanation at all.

Poe quickly pulls his head back to look at you and you try to twist sideways under him to hide it, but you can’t stop—like a complete loon, you snort and start to laugh harder at the ridiculous sound. Oh, you don’t just float, you’re the air itself, so light with endorphins that you close your eyes and get lost in the fit until water wets the outside corners.

After a moment, a hand gently grasps your wrist and slowly pulls it down until he can see the way your mouth opens as you giggle, hear it unobstructed and let the sound bubble up at him and fill the room. And you blink your eyes open just in time to see him slowly break into the most dazzling smile you’ve ever seen him bestow a person.

And… you’ve seen him grin a million times. He’s almost always smiling, as long as you’re not right in front of him. He smiles at his squadmates, he smiles at girls, he smiles at complete strangers, and you always thought it was pretty. Always knew that he could light up a room with it, you always knew he could get anything he wanted with it, but this… this isn’t that kind of smile. That one is practiced and alluring. It wasn’t fake, necessarily, but that smile’s purpose always had more to do with making anyone who happens to witness it feel a certain way than it did about signifying his own emotional state.

This one is… goofy. Amazed, and uncoordinated. Thunderstruck in a way, except the clouds all part at the same time and let you see a rainbow. It makes you feel… alive. Colorful. Radiant. Sunshine. Butterflies.

Poe quickly drops his lips to catch yours and you moan happily, sliding your tongue into his mouth this time. You both adjust, you arch into him as he pushes your damp hair back and makes a deep noise of satisfaction, letting you explore while he wraps his arms around you and finds a way to make this atrocious position comfortable. Every part of you is smushed up against him and there’s absolutely no space to be found, and you’ve never been happier.

“We made a mess,” he groans against your lips, rocking his hips into you with a disgustingly slick sound as if to illustrate, and his cock is soft but it’s still so thick that it stays buried inside your sloppy entrance. “Shit, I—I think I might be bleeding.”

“What?” You ask breathily, and he heaves himself up with his elbows just enough to reveal his chest. You both tuck your chins unattractively to look and you don’t immediately see any blood, but your claw marks are clearly red and visible scraping down his pectorals. “Oh. Pfft. You’re fine.”

He drops back down with a huff and your head is tilted at the perfect angle catch on the tiny droplets of blood decorating the marks criss-crossing his shoulder blades. Oops.

But he’s already kissing up your neck and over the curve of your jaw and making out with you again like he can’t get enough of it, and you forget. You forget everything. You forget every disagreement, every gripe with him you’ve ever had. It’s all wiped away and replaced with giddy, childish adoration. Resetting completely and starting off on the rightest foot imaginable.

“Let’s go to my bed,” he murmurs, and you make a tight noise of disapproval. No. This is good, this is how you want to stay. The railing is digging into your lower back and he’s heavy but you’re perfect like this, this is perfect. “Baby,” Poe pants against your lips in exasperation when you quickly clutch the back of his neck and keep him glued to you, “mmph—you got everything all wet—”

This time you make a low hum of agreement and drag your hand down the bare curve of his spine to his ass to give it a squeeze. A testament to how hard and raw he fucked you. Poe shudders hard enough for you to feel his body tremble but you just kiss him harder, pulling him down onto you more.

“You’re gonna have to give me, just like—I don’t know, at least an hour or two,” he chuckles, grabbing your hands to make it easier to peel himself from your body and groaning when his cock finally slips out. “Come on, let’s hang out in my bed.”

You’re so boneless when he pulls you to sit upright, you roll a little bit and Poe has to catch you, and you laugh again. Maker, you’re a complete mess and absolutely delighted about it. Your attempts at grumbling and complaining don’t hold any sway when you’re still trying not to giggle, and Poe is able to pull you to the top of the ladder and make his way down first.

As soon as he’s out of sight and calling up to you, you weakly slide into position with a groan and feel yourself leaking at the movement. “Gah—look what you did. I’m all… gooey.”

“I know, s’the hottest fucking thing,” he says under his breath from the floor, before beckoning you by tapping on the closest rung a few times. “Come on, be careful.”

You do as he says, easing your naked body down one step at a time with wobbly legs. It’s clumsy and you whine the whole way through, wordlessly grousing and mumbling.

“Oh, I just know it,” he comments on the sound, “nice clean sheets, I’ll get the violin.”

Normally, you probably would’ve snarked something back down at him, but you’re still so loopy and shaky-legged that you just start laughing again. The fact that he’s absolutely right and you’re being ridiculous about something like moving beds suddenly strikes you as incredibly fucking funny for some reason. You don’t realize his hands are hovering inches away from your hips until your legs buckle and Poe quickly supports your weight.

“Maker,” Poe chuckles before giving you a firm yank, and then catching you before you can tumble down the ladder in your naked, teary-eyed mania, “let’s go, giggles.”

He carries you a few steps to the mattress and plops you down on top of the comforter, letting you take up the whole bed while he sits on the end and puts your feet on his lap. Poe grimaces for a second and then shuffles until the radio is pulled out from under him, and you can hear the soft sound of it playing once again. You bury your face into his pillow, inhaling the warm scent lingering there while he tosses it carelessly to the side and rubs your shins for a little bit, watching you stretch out naked on his mattress.

“I’m not giving you two weeks of pay,” you suddenly grunt, and he just grins down at you, not arguing. Not saying anything. Sitting in comfortable silence with you when you’re expecting him to bicker. So you stay like that for a long time, breathing deep and relaxing, until Poe’s hands leave you for a second…

… to pull a bag of chips out.

Maker, at the first squeaky sound of the wrapping assaulting your eardrums, you want to roll your eyes. You want to tease him about how fucking typical it is. Like clockwork, you could probably set your watch to his middle of the night cravings. You don’t know why you thought fucking him would change any of that.

You want to give him shit for it. You even open your mouth, the snark on the very tip of your tongue. But then your stomach growls as soon as he rips the thin plastic apart.

Poe’s eyes shoot to yours and neither one of you move, but apparently your tummy doesn’t get the memo. It takes forever to trail off into silence again, and he blinks. Fuck, you know you should’ve forced yourself to eat at least something earlier. Warmth floods your cheeks and you scramble for something to say, but there’s no way to play it off.

“Would you like some chips?” Poe suddenly asks with a boyish grin, raising his eyebrows and tipping the open bag freely in your direction.

The corners of your mouth pull downwards even as the inside of it waters. You wouldn’t call it stubbornness necessarily as much as it is a… a desire to stick to consistency. After the unbelievably hard time you always give him about midnight snacking, you’re hesitant to partake.

Though, the chips rustle against each other and sound absolutely fucking delicious as Poe shakes the bag and bounces his eyebrows, and you know what? Fuck it.

You snatch it without thinking, cradling the precious food to your chest as you dig your whole hand in and shove a bunch into your mouth at once. You catch him smiling again, but he doesn’t comment.

You both take turns, and by take turns you obviously mean you take turns stealing the bag from each other instead of just setting it equidistant between you and openly agreeing to share it, but it works for you. It seems appropriate. And then it’s quiet again, just munching and crinkling, except for the radio continuing to play from its place in his lap. You have to work to listen over the loud crunching vibrating through your skull, but when you finally manage to stop chewing and catch a few bars, you suddenly find yourself trying not to smile again. Fuck, it’s been years since you’ve heard this song, you love this s—

“Fuck, I love this song,” Poe promptly exclaims with his mouth full, licking the tips of his fingers before scrambling to pick the radio up and twist the volume knob without using his wet fingertips. He starts humming over the melody, loud enough to almost drown it out completely, because of course he does. The one damn time you actually want to listen to his radio and he still finds some way to mildly irritate you.

But this irritation is almost… fun. You want to laugh just as much as you want to yell at him.

“Hey, who sings this song?” You immediately ask over the sound of him clearly not knowing the lyrics, already ready with it. Oh, the round is in the chamber, your finger is on the trigger, you are ready, and Poe’s eyes sparkle as he seems to stop and think about it.

“Mm, not sure,” he eventually shrugs, just before you rush, “Let’s keep it that—”

And then he’s slapping a hand on your leg and belting out the chorus while you scoff, giggling. He ruined the punchline on purpose and is now getting chip dust all over you, but you know any complaint you make will be drowned out by his suspended notes and backing track, so you just roll your eyes and swipe the bag of chips from him while he continues to serenade you.

“My ears are bleeding,” you mutter under your breath.

He has a nice voice, you think.

#poe x reader #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #reader insert #Smut #no-droids

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jackrrabbit · 4 years

Text

Sidekick /// Dabi x f!Reader x Shigaraki (18+)

Summary: During a rescue gone wrong, a rookie sidekick catches the attention of two villains.

A/N: Thanks for 1k followers!! This is the fic that made me create a smut blog/lowkey inspired this. imho this might be the spiciest thing I’ve ever written 😳 also wanted to call out @kazooli because this is highkey inspired by her lol thanks queen

Tags/warnings: quirk kink, reader’s quirk makes other quirks stronger, noncon, threesome, lots of foreplay, outdoor sex, mild overstimulation, degradation, mild violence, threats, chronological/temporal inaccuracies, fucking long

You can hardly be blamed for not recognizing them. It’s only been three weeks since you debuted as a pro, and you’re not even really a hero. You’re a sidekick, and apparently you’re not important enough to have been briefed on the major villains you need to look out for. You’re just…doing your duty. Rescuing civilians indiscriminately. Stupid, naive little sidekick. It’s not your fault that the lives you just saved belong to the two most notorious villains around.

Still, Shigaraki can’t wait to see the look on your face when you find out.

///

The disaster you ‘rescue’ them from—the League’s bar crashing down, the result of a small-time villain’s poisonous gas quirk—isn’t even a disaster. It’s a minor annoyance, sure, but Shigaraki and Dabi would have been fine without you…even though both of them missed Kurogiri’s warp gate and ended up trapped under a wooden beam in the wreckage of the building… Okay, it’s more than a minor annoyance. Shigaraki hacks violently as the cloud of foul-smelling steam and powdered debris enters his lungs. The poisonous quirk doesn’t seem to be having the same acid-burn effects on his body as it did on the building, but he can’t assume it’s harmless.

Father… Shigaraki took Father off his face to drink at the bar earlier before the gas hit, and now in the confusion the severed hand is either buried underneath the rubble that used to be the League’s main base or somewhere else out of view. “Father? Father!” Shigaraki calls out, attempting to shift under the crushing weight of the beam.

“Shut up,” Dabi says from somewhere to Shigaraki’s left. “Kurogiri took it in one of the portals, I saw it.” He looks worse than Shigaraki feels—something hit him in the face as the bar collapsed, and a few of the staples (piercings? stitches? whatever) on his right cheek are torn open and bleeding.

“Are you lying to me?”

Dabi sneers and rolls his eyes. “Let’s just get out of here.” His palms glow blue and Shigaraki follows suit, letting four fingers sit on the wood that’s pinning both of them to the ground. It’s too heavy to lift, so they’re going to have to get rid of it…a task that seems significantly more difficult when it becomes clear that neither of them are positioned at the right angle to touch it.

Shigaraki tries to wrest his arm out enough for his thumb to touch the wood, but it’s impossible. Beside him, Dabi’s having the same issue. “Shit, I can’t reach—“

“Is someone there?” Confident, clear, and oddly robotic, your voice cuts through the din of gurgling water from cracked pipes and police sirens like a lit flare in the darkness. Shigaraki tenses and halts his attempts to get free from the beam, and a second later Dabi mimics him.

“I heard voices.” The same unfamiliar voice rings out through the half-light, now accompanied by a body—your body, taking a series of awkward jumps down the piles of rubble to land in front of the two of them. The outfit you’re wearing is ridiculous: a pair of metal boots that clang against the cement wherever you step, matching braces on your arms, and a space-age chrome motorcycle helmet to top it all off.

A hero. Shigaraki’s lip curls in disgust as your head turns his way.

You scan the scene quickly, eyes resting on the two men trapped in front of you for a moment before you turn back to the opening in the wreckage. “Found two civilians!” you call out to the rescue workers just in case they’re within earshot, although it’s unlikely.

Dabi snickers under his breath. Civilians? Even in the chaos, you should’ve known the second you saw them who you’re looking at. Are you faking ignorance? Got something up your sleeve? It’s either that, or you genuinely don’t recognize them. Priceless.

You kneel down in front of the fallen beam and give a half-hearted attempt to pick it up. It doesn’t budge. No surprises there—if it were light enough for you to lift by yourself, the two men held down by it would have no problem getting out with their combined strength. You’re going to have to use your support gear to get it off them.

But first—you search for a memory of your rescue training. Reassure the victims. They’re probably panicking.

“It’ll be okay,” you tell them, your voice coming out mechanical and distorted from the helmet you’re wearing. “You’re going to be okay. I’m here to save you.”

This time, Dabi has to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Ah, yes…they’re so lucky that there’s a do-gooder little hero around to rescue them, because they’d be helpless otherwise. The laugh is still audible, though, and Shigaraki shoots him a glare.

You raise an eyebrow at their expressions. Did he just laugh? Well…you’ve heard that people sometimes have inappropriate reactions in times of crisis. The dark-haired man seems more badly hurt, so you creep toward him first, careful not to disturb any of the debris and trigger an avalanche reaction. “I’m going to check your injuries now,” you tell him, and your gloved hand brushes away a sweep of spiky hair to examine the sizable red bump growing on his forehead.

Ouch…there’s no way that doesn’t hurt, but the man’s not letting any of the pain show on his face. Instead, he looks disinterested at best, and at worst? You almost get the feeling that he’s eyeing you up under your hero costume. Not that you can blame him. Damn this skin-tight bodysuit—it leaves basically nothing to the imagination.

“Does it hurt a lot?” you ask him. “I don’t think this is too serious, but they’ll look you over for a concussion when I get you to first aid.”

Dabi shrugs and you frown. Is the non-verbal response because of the ripped stitches in his face? Is it too painful to talk? Or could there be brain damage? Or maybe he’s just a man of few words or something…?

“Can you get on with it? Pick up the fucking beam already,” Shigaraki hisses.

Startled, you pull your hand away from the other man’s forehead. That ungrateful little…nope, nope, don’t get annoyed, he’s just in shock. “O-Of course, sorry. Just gotta make sure it’s okay to move.”

Luckily, the beam doesn’t look like it’s supporting anything else that’ll fall if you pick it up. You crouch down next to one end and steady your feet against the cement, lifting up with all your strength while activating the effects of the support items you’re wearing. When you feel the metal on your arm braces grow warm, you remind yourself again to thank the developer of your costume. You may not be a fan of the way-too-tight bodysuit that clings to everything, but the strength-enhancing armor that you wear on your arms and legs more than makes up for it.

A second later, you hold back a grin. It’s moving! You try to ignore the unpleasant screech of metal against stone as the beam slowly lifts into the air. As soon as the men get out from under it, you pant and let it crash back into the ground. “You guys okay?”

“Mm…yes,” Dabi replies, running a hand over the torn piercings in his cheek. “Got any more gas masks for the poison mist?”

“Don’t worry! The Commission is familiar with the villain who created it, and the gas isn’t harmful to anything living. Only buildings. It’s a troublesome quirk, but we’ve got it under control.”

“Then what’s with the helmet?”

He can hear the hesitation in your reply, even distorted and tinny through the metal speakers. “Uh…I, well…”

Now that you’re getting a good look at them, the two scarred faces in front of you seem weirdly intense, considering you’ve just saved them from a collapsed building. The dark-haired man’s eyes are…very, very blue next to the burned-looking skin underneath, and the other man’s greyish-blue hair isn’t quite long enough to obscure a pair of red irises that are scrutinizing your face with obvious hostility.

You give a nervous shake of your head to clear it. “Um, the helmet is…it’s dangerous if I take it off. I should get you guys back to the rescue area, I need to meet up with my hero…” Without thinking, you take a step back and then one more, not knowing exactly why you’re backing away when you’re supposed to be escorting them. “I’ll just lead the way?”

With your third step back, though, you bump into something hard. What was that? Your head jerks around but before you can identify what it is that stopped your retreat, you feel the faint sensation of something tapping lightly on the back of your helmet.

And then…it just…crumbles.

What just happened?

You cough and shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of dust. A breeze whips through your hair, sending a chill through you in more ways than one. How? No one pulled the helmet off; you would’ve felt it if they had. More dust sticks to your face, and you rub your eyes so you can open them.

Behind you, Shigaraki waits with outstretched fingers an inch away from your neck. If he had to explain the decision to decay your helmet strategically, he could—you’re a hero, a potential threat, and he wants to know what you’re hiding under that outfit just in case you figure out who they are and decide to turn on them.

But really? He didn’t think about it that much. It was an impulse reaction to you walking away from them; a tantrum. Child-like.

Once your stunned face is exposed, Dabi has to wonder what you were even trying to hide. You’re…surprisingly ordinary. Young-looking—a rookie, fresh from hero school graduations a few weeks ago maybe? Large, expressive eyes, lips parted in shock, but nothing particularly interesting. Shigaraki cocks his head to the side to study your face too, and both of them are so focused on your appearance that it takes a moment for them to notice the feeling.

Well, feeling isn’t really the right word, but there isn’t a word for the way your quirk works. Dabi’s eyes widen when it reaches him and behind you, Shigaraki stiffens. You notice.

There’s an involuntary quiver in your voice as you break the silence. “Y-You guys must have strong quirks if you can feel it just from that.”

Dabi sucks in a breath. So this is your quirk? It’s different…he’s never felt anything like it, not that he’s exactly sure what it is. There’s some kind of energy in the air around you that he’s breathing in, a feeling like taking a shot of espresso after days of sleep deprivation.

No, it’s stronger than that. The head rush after doing a line of cocaine would be a better metaphor.

Either way, he’s awake—more awake than he can remember feeling in a long time. Heat rises to the surfaces of his palms unbidden, his quirk appearing without him calling it. “What is this?”

“…It’s called Boost,” you say, licking your lips as a dry wave of heat radiates out from the man in front of you. “I can strengthen other people’s quirks. That’s why it’s dangerous—if the villain finds us—“

“It must have been hard to get through hero school with a quirk like that,” says a raspy voice from behind you.

What—? Your head twists around. When did he—

Shigaraki grips your shoulder with three fingers, holding just tightly enough to keep you from stumbling forward and away from him. His pinky and ring finger hover an inch over your costume, careful not to disintegrate the fabric he’s touching—although with the power sparking through his veins at the moment, it almost feels like three fingers would be enough.

“…Doesn’t really seem like the kind of quirk a hero has.” His voice, soft and pondering (a weird contrast to the harsh architecture of his facial features you’d seen earlier), feels very close to your ear. Something soft tickles your cheek. His hair?

A voice (an instinct?) deep inside of you is telling you to run. You ignore it. This is normal, right? It’s not uncommon for civilians who’ve just suffered a traumatic villain attack to have questions, even if those questions seem irrelevant to the situation at hand. You have to answer, even if your gut is churning. “I’m not really a hero. Not yet. For now, I’m a sidekick to one of the pros—and speaking of which, I really need to find—“

“But how does it work?” Dabi doesn’t notice himself making a conscious decision to step forward, but he does anyway and being closer to you feels right. He can see the trepidation on your face as he gets close enough to reach out and touch you, but you can’t really ask him to stay back, can you? Not when your quirk feels this good?

“I—“ Is it unreasonable that you think you’re being trapped right now? They’re just a couple of civilians, right? The question itself is common enough. People often wonder how you can be a hero. It’s a concern you’ve had to address dozens of times over the years. “Well, I work with rescue operations, especially with other heroes who have healing-type quirks. I can also assist in combat in some situations.”

“In combat? If you’re with a hero and a villain, you’ll enhance both quirks. Seems counterintuitive,” Dabi says, half aware that his voice is getting lower.

“And you clearly don’t have physical abilities. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have…these.” Shigaraki taps three fingers on the metal brace on your right arm.

“The effects can be unpredictable. And I can increase the degree of the enhancement with physical contact.”

“Contact?”

“Yeah. The gloves of my costume come off. My quirk is way stronger when it’s skin-to-skin.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them.

You shouldn’t have said that.

Shigaraki’s ring finger and pinky, which were hovering over the arm brace, come down to rest on the cold metal. The effect is instant: no crumbling, no slow decay—it’s there, and then it’s dust. His quirk in action, boosted by yours.

“What—What are you doing? What did you just do?” You try to pull away from him, but he holds you tight by your collar. His other hand comes up to grip your chin, and in one long sloppy stroke, he licks you from your neck up to your jawline.

You shudder. So does Shigaraki.

“It’s my quirk,” he tells you slowly. His breath is steamy warm on the cold, wet trail of saliva painting your throat. “Decay. Have you heard of it?”

You flinch away from his hand and your back falls against his chest. Of course you’ve heard of the Decay quirk. You might be a rookie, but even civilians know about the young, impetuous head of the League of Villains. Jesus, how had you not recognized him earlier? White hair, red eyes…you should have known. You should have left him under that beam. “Shigaraki…Tomura.”

“So you’re not completely clueless. Do you know me, then?” Dabi asks. He would think he’s the more noticeable of the two (the burn scars usually identify him), but you just stare up at him with the same deer-in-the-headlights look as before. Smirking, he lights a blue fire in his palm and it jumps up toward your face—not just the small spark he intended, but a bright, high flame. “Maybe this will help you remember.”

“The Forest of Beasts incident. You’re the one who started that fire,” you whisper. You’ve seen the TV coverage of the attack on UA’s training camp, the abduction of that teenage student, the forest lit up blue from wildfire. No wonder his skin looks burned.

“Dabi,” he corrects you.

Breath is coming out of your mouth in shallow puffs. Are you hyperventilating? Is this what hyperventilating feels like? You’re definitely panicking. They’re so close to you, caging you in between them. The smoke from the blue fire is uncomfortably hot over the exposed skin of your face, and Shigaraki’s lethal hands are still touching you. If they want to kill you—and why wouldn’t they?—you’re fucked.

The flame goes out and Dabi’s hands come down to squeeze your wrists. His palms are hot like he was holding them in front of a lit stove. It’s not painful, but it’s a threat.

“I’ll fight,” you say.

Your voice is trembling, and Shigaraki likes it. The effects of your quirk, the way he felt when he licked your face… And you’re afraid. He can see it in your shoulders, the quivering of your torso pressed into him. It’s nice. He wants to feel it more.

You’re struggling against their hold, and Dabi feels the urge to laugh. “You’ll fight…the two of us.”

“If you try to kill me, I’ll—“

Before you can finish your sentence, Shigaraki’s hands flit down to your metal support gear and disintegrate it. Shit. He’s fast, and you’re helpless.

Dabi releases your wrists and cups your face in a mockery of intimacy. His eyelids flutter closed as his skin meets yours… Fuck, he could get used to this. You smell so good, sweet and soft and clean, like fruity shampoo. What is that, watermelon?

Life must be difficult for you, hm… Everyone around you must want to touch you constantly. It seems like Shigaraki enjoyed licking you—maybe bodily fluids are an even stronger conductor of your quirk? Pushing easily past your resistance, Dabi forces your jaw upward and kisses you.

Oh…yesyesyes, just like that. Perfect. Dabi has to bite down a groan as his tongue enters your mouth. It’s ridiculous for someone else’s spit to taste this good, but he’s right—your quirk is amplified by the contact from the kiss.

After a moment he has to break it to regain focus and make sure he’s not burning you. You cringe away from him, your cheek brushing against Shigaraki’s neck, but Dabi tangles his hand in your hair to pull you back. He runs a finger against your closed lips, letting the pad of his fingertip heat up until your mouth drops open in response to the threat.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shigaraki asks, voice laced with revulsion. Privately, you agree. What’s going on? You were sure you were about to be either burned to a crisp or decayed into the equivalent.

Dabi laughs under his breath. “Try it. It feels crazy good.”

Curious now, Shigaraki wrenches your head around and tilts your jaw up to repeat Dabi’s action. When you refuse to open your mouth, he taps your jaw warningly and a hiss of fear escapes you. Would he really kill you? He decayed your support gear so quickly—would it be the same for your body?

Well, what’s going to stop them?

You open your mouth.

Shigaraki’s lips are harsh and unsentimental against yours. His tongue sweeps over the inside of your mouth, invasive and brutal. He grips you forcefully, his face pushing you deeper into the strained hold with your head twisted toward his. You’ve never been kissed like this before. His spit—it’s in your mouth.

And Dabi’s hands are on your waist. “How do you get this thing off?” he murmurs, pinching the fabric of your bodysuit.

A surge of panicked adrenaline gives you the strength to pull back away from Shigaraki. “What? No, you can’t!”

“Are you going to stop us, little sidekick?” Dabi mocks. “I think I can burn it off without too much damage.”

“Let me.” Shigaraki takes hold of the cloth, careful so when it dissolves into dust his hand isn’t touching you, and within a second—a second—you’re left shivering in just your underwear and boots.

“Help!” The plea squeaks out and you hope blindly that there’s a hero close enough to hear you. But is there even anyone who can fight them? You certainly can’t. “Help me! Somebody!”

“Shut up.” Dabi sends up a tongue of flame from a fingertip and you shriek as the heat sears against you. “Oh, come on. You should feel lucky. Bad guys like us usually don’t hesitate to take heroes out.”

“I don’t— Please, I’m just a sidekick, I’m a rookie— What do you even want from me? Just let me go, I won’t tell anyone! Please let me go.”

“Well, I think I know what I want.” Dabi traces circles over the tender skin of your hips, playing with the elastic of your underwear. He meets Shigaraki’s eye over your shoulder. “I think he wants that too. Right?”

“Yeah, I want…I want to fuck her,” Shigaraki hums. This isn’t like him, but he can’t help himself. You’re different. Leaving you here and never feeling this stimulant again isn’t an option. He buries his face in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, bites down on the soft skin there, and sucks.

You whimper, half from his answer and half from the sensation of his chapped lips on your neck. “Why are you doing this?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but…you smell like something I want to eat. Especially this.” Dabi kneels down in front of you and hitches one of your legs up over his shoulder so you feel his hot breath washing over your clothed pussy.

You whine and attempt to wriggle back away from him, but Dabi’s grip on your thigh holds firm. His other hand brushes against the fabric of your panties to rub up against your slit and another surge of panic jumps up your throat. You can’t let him do this.

You kick your foot against his back, desperately attempting to make contact using the heel of the high boot that’s the only piece of outerwear still left on your body. It hits him awkwardly and he growls. “Damn it. Can’t you keep her busy?”

“Ahh…” Shigaraki ceases his oral assault on your neck and scratches a fingernail against one of the bright red marks marring your skin. He feels almost dizzy from the way your quirk is affecting him. Behind him, the broken expanse of wall digging into his back is the only thing keeping his focus. “Behave, sidekick.”

Before you can respond to the mocking title, Shigaraki’s face is against yours and his tongue is in your mouth again. Rough fingertips work up under the band of your sports bra and pushes it up over your tits. You screw your eyes shut at the sudden feeling of cold air on your nipples, and you know without looking that they’re standing up. Shigaraki gropes you thoughtlessly, keeping one finger lifted off of your skin, and you gasp on his tongue.

“That’s better.” Dabi’s mouth returns to brush against your panties. To be honest, eating you out isn’t the first thing on his mind. What he wants—what he really wants—is to shove you up against the wall and fuck into you and find out what your quirk feels like when you’re wrapped around his cock. But you’re probably not wet enough for that, and it’s not like Shigaraki is going to do anything to take care of you. Dabi would be surprised if the other man’s ever eaten pussy before in his life.

Besides…you smell good. It’s not even just the feeling of your quirk exciting him. The rich, feminine scent of your pussy is inches away from him, and Dabi is dying to make you cum in his mouth.

A moan curls up from deep in your throat as Dabi caresses the lips of your pussy through your underwear. You don’t bother protesting—at this point, it’s unlikely that any plea you could muster would stop them. Your earlier begging didn’t do much besides spur them on, but you still cry out as softly as you can when an unnaturally warm fingertip slips under the cloth of your panties to dip into your slit.

“Oh? You’re wetter than I expected. Are you enjoying this?”

Your frantic denial falls on deaf ears. Shigaraki rasps out a laugh and bites down on your neck again. He’s supposed to be keeping you still, but he can’t help enjoying the way your almost-naked body feels as you press yourself back into his chest, trying to force some space between yourself and Dabi.

Your squirming is no problem for Dabi, though—you’re so soft and vulnerable and the velvety skin of your inner thigh looks so delicious… He nuzzles against the area of bare skin and latches on to it, sucking until he’s sure you’re going to have a mark in a few minutes. The thought of leaving hickeys on you like a teenager is sickeningly nostalgic. You’re probably going to try to forget this when they’re done, aren’t you? But you won’t be able to, not when you’re covered in love bites and bruises. You’re going to be marked up for weeks.

Fuck, he’s hard.

Too impatient to bother taking off your panties, Dabi just pushes them aside to gain access to your damp cunt. His fingers feel hot—too hot, almost unbearably hot; you feel like you could melt into a puddle and your pussy is certainly slick enough as he pets your clit and slides one finger in, then two… You whimper and shake your head, silently denying what’s happening to you. The intrusion is uncomfortable, but Dabi’s fingers quickly find that rough patch inside of you that makes you want to beg like an animal. You hate it, but it feels good.

“She’s so tight,” Dabi says with something like awe in his voice. You can hear Shigaraki panting behind your back.

“Get on with it,” Shigaraki says.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

For a second you just feel Dabi’s humid breath against your dripping cunt before he closes the space between the two of you and his tongue slides onto you, laving over your cunt to come to a rest on your clit. A sound you’ve never heard yourself make before forces its way out of your mouth as Dabi eats you out in earnest, rubbing his tongue against your clit in a stuttering rhythm that gives you no time to catch your breath.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Your head rolls back onto Shigaraki’s shoulder. You feel like crying for a million reasons at once. Maybe you’re already crying—the sounds you’re making are almost like sobs. You want him to stop. You never want him to stop. Your hands twitch as you fight the impulse to fist them in the villain’s hair and pin him down between your thighs.

“Fuck, oh fuck, no stop please stop, ah…!” The stream of gibberish coming out of your mouth crescendoes into a real sob as you feel your climax coming. No—you can’t—you can’t cum here, in this broken-down bar, on the tongue of a villain, but it doesn’t matter that you can’t, because you’re going to cum anyway.

“Please don’t, please let me go—“ You writhe uncontrollably as the desire to cum sweeps over you, but Dabi just curls one arm around your thigh and pulls his face away so he can push his fingers back in, angling his palm to grind roughly over your clit. The harsh, rough texture after the warm wet softness of his tongue is enough to push you over the edge and you cry out your orgasm, your pussy clenching onto Dabi’s fingers as he works them in and out of you.

Unable to support yourself, you crumple like paper, and only the two villains you’re sandwiched between keep you upright.

“Fucking finally,” Shigaraki growls, and he pushes you down so your knees scrape painfully into the rubble. Your earlier resistance was cute, but so is your dazed compliance as he pulls your hips up to meet his.

“You’re going first?” Dabi asks incredulously. After he did all that work getting you off? No way.

“You can use her mouth,” Shigaraki tells him. His cock is straining against his pants and he groans as he releases it and rubs it over your panties. He could decay them, but…they’re cute. Pale pink, peach-pink, except for the wet spot over your cunt. Precum is already dribbling out of his cock as he pulls your panties to the side and lines it up with your pussy. Jesus-fucking-christ, you’re wet, sopping and slimy. Doesn’t that mean you’re begging to get filled up? Shigaraki hears himself sigh as he slides the head of his cock up and down your slit so it’ll be wet enough to go in.

You’re still out of it, dizzy from your orgasm and the tension of the situation, but you snap back to your senses with the feeling of something hard pushed up to your entrance. “Wait!” you yelp for what feels like the hundredth time. The gravel scattered over the wreckage where you’ve been forced onto your hands and knees digs painfully into your flesh as you pull away from Shigaraki, but he holds fast to your hips with pinkies raised.

“Uh-uh,” Dabi admonishes with a grin, as if he’s reprimanding a dog for not coming when called. He settles himself in front of your front and kneels again. Your hair is mussed but still silky soft and he takes a moment to enjoy the way the strands slip over his skin before he tangles his fingers close to your scalp and yanks your head in his direction, forcing your cheek to chafe against the crotch of his pants. It’s not difficult to tell what the the thick bulge is through the fabric, and you try to flinch away only to be caught again and immobilized.

“You’re going to take care of us,” Dabi tells you. “Like I took care of you. Okay?”

No, it’s not okay, it’s absolutely not okay, and you would say so if you didn’t see Dabi’s expression darken at your obvious denial and feel a wave of acrid heat coming from his hand in your hair. The smell is worse than the feeling, honestly—you’ve had enough run-ins with hair curlers and flat irons to recognize the smell of hair when it’s three seconds away from burning. “Okay! Okay,” you answer, panicked, voice muffled by the fabric of Dabi’s pants.

“Good girl,” he purrs, and the heat fades.

“I’m not waiting any longer,” Shigaraki says from behind you.

“Then don’t.”

You whine, too scared to try to get away again or even plead with them to let you go, but it doesn’t matter. Shigaraki’s cock presses into your pussy, and there’s nothing you can do to stop him as he slides into you, inch by inch, torturously slow. Is there anything to bite down on? You need to do something, anything to distract from the pain of Shigaraki’s cock stretching you out. He’s big, impossibly big.

Eyes squeezed shut, you bite your lip until you can taste copper and scrabble around blindly until your hand finds loose fabric to grip. It’s something of Dabi’s, probably the coat he’s wearing if you remember correctly, but your brain isn’t exactly working right at the moment—

“You were right…shit, she’s…she’s so fucking tight.” Shigaraki’s voice is low and labored with the effort of not thrusting into you all at once. “Feels like…she’s trying to push me out…”

Fuck it, he thinks. Would it really be so bad if he did push all the way into you in one stroke? It’s better to just get it over with, isn’t it? Yeah…you’d probably prefer him to do it quickly. And besides, he can’t wait another second to feel you all the way up to the base of his cock.

Your strangled whimper is drowned out by his satisfied groan as he shoves the rest of the way into you in a single sudden thrust. The pain knocks the breath out of you in a gasp, and your eyes fly open as you clutch Dabi’s coat like a lifeline.

“It hurts—!”

“Yeah…yeah, I bet it does,” Shigaraki pants, holding your hips steady as he thrusts in and out of you. The bored nonchalance of earlier is gone, replaced by a feral intensity as his cock carves its way through your pussy. If you didn’t know better, you’d think there’s something affectionate in his voice.

For Shigaraki’s part, he can hardly think of anything aside from the soft, hot, wet cunt wrapped over his dick. It’s taking every vestige of concentration he has left to make sure he’s holding a single finger on each hand away from your skin. It’s pure bliss. Your body was made to be fucked like this. He wants to live inside your pussy, he wants to do this every day, every minute. Fucking you raw is the best he’s felt in months…years. And it doesn’t hurt that your quirk is still working on him, still sending pleasurable shocks of energy that make him feel simultaneously like he could keep you pinned down for hours and like he could cum any second.

“Oh, she’s crying,” Dabi says, tilting your chin up so he can look into your eyes. You flinch and try to jerk your head away, but his hand is still holding you by your hair and he’s so much stronger than you are. They both are, even without using their quirks. “Look at me.”

You comply, more by reflex than any real desire to obey. It’s pretty striking to Dabi how cute you look as Shigaraki pounds into you so fast and deep you can hardly catch your breath. Your eyes are glittering with unshed tears, your tits bounce with every thrust, and you’re still holding onto Dabi’s coat like your life depends on it. It’s almost like you’re pulling him closer. Adorable.

“She can…take it,” Shigaraki responds breathily between thrusts. “Such a good whore, taking my big cock in her tight little pussy…”

The backhanded compliment jars you and you feel hot tears spill over your cheeks. “I’m—not—a—whore,” you manage to say, each word punctuated with Shigaraki’s skin slapping against yours.

“Really?” Shigaraki’s pace slows and he leans closer to you so he can reach an arm around and swirl two fingers against your clit. You mewl like a kitten at the unexpected stimulation and he laughs rudely. “Feels so good…can’t believe the heroes don’t want to fuck you like this all the time…”

You shake your head desperately and bury your face in Dabi’s chest, barely noticing him stroking your hair and then reaching down to unzip his pants.

“No, no, I bet that’s what you do as a sidekick, right?” Shigaraki’s thrusts are back to frenzied jerks, and he rubs over your clit just as roughly. “Spread your legs for your hero…you’d make a great personal cocksleeve. Or maybe they rotate you around so every pro hero gets a turn…?”

“No, I don’t! No! Ah— ahnnn…” The denials pierce the air uselessly as the villain’s cock fills you up again and again. You’re not a whore, you’re not…even if it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the growing pressure of Shigaraki teasing your clit in time with his cock rubbing against your sweet spot. It still hurts—he’s so big, bigger than anyone you’ve ever had sex with before, but there’s no way you’re going to admit to yourself that it’s starting to feel good.

“…Is my cock better than All Might’s?” Shigaraki’s words are cut off by his own grunt of pleasure as your cunt twitches around him.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dabi cuts in. “I’m sick of hearing a guy’s voice moaning. I’m going to get soft.”

Past the point of comprehending the situation, you look up at him gratefully, only to reel back in shock as Dabi frees his own cock from his pants and it brushes against your cheek. Trying to pull away from him is more instinct than rational thought, but he holds you just as easily as before and forces two fingers into your mouth. You tense, ready to bite down, (and hopefully take a few knuckles off) but he sees it coming and suddenly your mouth is horribly burning hot.

“You’re going to suck my cock now,” says Dabi conversationally, extinguishing the flame almost as soon as he started it. It’s not so bad—probably more like a coffee burn than anything else—but you’re coughing and spitting anyway. “Say yes.”

“…Yes,” you whisper, voice barely intelligible.

“Good little sidekick. And you’re going to be very careful. You’re not going to use teeth.”

You nod, unable to mount a defense with Shigaraki mercilessly fucking you from behind.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Y-Yes!” you squeal as Shigaraki finds a particularly sensitive spot inside you.

“Good.” Dabi drags your head down to hover over his cock and massages your jaw until it falls open. “Suck.”

One of his hands falls to your shoulder to try to stabilize you, but you can’t help feeling the threat in the motion. You quickly duck down and attempt to ignore the heady smell of sweat and precum as you trace your tongue up the underside of his dick. He’s big too, maybe thicker than Shigaraki, and you hate yourself for feeling lucky that it’s not this cock inside your pussy right now.

The stunt Dabi pulled burning your mouth made you salivate, and you let drool coat your tongue as you lick around the head. But it’s not working—you rock forward every time Shigaraki stuffs his dick back in your aching pussy, and Dabi’s cock smears over your mouth haphazardly.

“I said suck. Not lick.” Suddenly (although you don’t know why you keep expecting some kind of warning before these villains find a new way to violate you), Dabi grabs the back of your head and shoves his cock into your mouth. Your throat constricts involuntarily as the thick head triggers your gag reflex, and all three of you shiver in unison.

“Do…do that again,” Shigaraki says, voice strained. “She tightens up…when you do that.”

Dabi smirks and thrusts into you again, relishing the warm, humid cavern of your throat around his cock along with the pure swell of energy from your quirk enhancing his. His rhythm matches Shigaraki’s and his cock hits the back of your throat with every rapid pump, making you gag and clench like you’re trying to milk the cum out of him. What a perfect little slut… He can see from Shigaraki’s sloppy movements that you’re squeezing around his cock every time too.

The feeling of having one villain cock buried in your pussy while another ravages your throat is unthinkable, even more so with Shigaraki’s fingers on your clit coaxing out an earth-shaking orgasm. But you’d almost be able to forget what’s happening—god knows you’re delirious with sensation, barely able to keep track of who’s doing what to you—if not for the sound. The wet slap of Shigaraki’s hips against your ass, the horrible squelching from your (dripping wet, even if you don’t want to admit it) pussy as his cock pistons in and out of you, your choked moans and gagging noises, and above it all, the unrestrained voices of the villains fucking into you.

You feel like a fuck toy, a sex doll, used without mercy by the two most evil people you can think of…and you’re about to cum.

Your voice is getting louder by the second, and the pulsing of your cunt around Shigaraki’s cock is telling him exactly how close you are. He curls his body over yours to get a better angle to rub your clit, enjoying your high-pitched whine in response. “Yeah…that’s right…good girl. Cum on my cock…like a good little sidekick.”

You keen and goosebumps rise on your skin as Shigaraki licks at the sheen of sweat on your back. He feels your climax almost as soon as you do… If your scream wasn’t stifled by Dabi’s dick in your mouth, everyone within a one-mile radius would know you were getting fucked silly, yeah? The walls of your pussy clamp down on Shigaraki’s cock, your body begging for his cum, and he grips your ass to make sure you can’t get away as he comes to his own orgasm inside of you.

Fuck… Shigaraki could die right now and be happy. He keeps stroking your clit, knowing it’s cruel, knowing you’ll be overstimulated and sensitive and that it’ll hurt to keep touching you like this after you already came, and not caring because every time the tips of his fingers push that little magic button, you shiver and squeeze him like you’re trying to milk him dry.

Shigaraki gives a few last thrusts, pushing his cum deeper into your body, fucking it into you so you’ll be dripping white for hours, and then finally pulls out. The slurping sound your cunt makes as his cock leaves your pussy is obscene. So is the cloudy trail of mixed white and clear fluid that connects your pussy and the head of his cock until he pulls it away. He loves it.

Knowing that Shigaraki came—inside you, no less, the inconsiderate bastard—Dabi grips the back of your head and tugs you down to deepthroat him. Your walls twitch involuntarily and Dabi groans, letting himself shoot his load down your throat. “Yes…yeah…yeah…just like that. Swallow.”

You don’t swallow. You don’t do anything but gag on his cum and gasp as he thrusts into you. Dabi pulls you off of him, annoyed and ready to threaten you into submission again…until your head lolls to the side and he can see that your eyes are closed.

“Shit, she passed out.”

“…What? Are you kidding?”

Dabi slaps your face lightly. You wince in your sleep but don’t wake up. “Nope. Must’ve been when she came the second time.”

“Is she…” Shigaraki trails off, not sure how to end the question. ‘Okay’ isn’t exactly right.

“She’s breathing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The two of them wait for a moment, but you don’t move. When he catches his breath, Shigaraki wipes off his dick and pulls up his pants. Dabi does the same. Without them holding you, you flop down into the fetal position on the broken concrete. “What now?” Shigaraki asks.

Dabi wipes the sweat from his forehead. “You tell me, leader. I’m surprised Kurogiri hasn’t opened another warp gate to get you back. Guessing you don’t have your phone either?”

“…We can go to Giran’s place to meet up. They’re probably waiting for us there,” Shigaraki says, scratching at his neck.

“Do you have cab fare?”

“I don’t have my wallet on me. You?”

“Not enough for a cab. We’ll have to take the train. You can owe me.”

Shigaraki looks down at you. You make a pitiful scene, naked except for your boots, sports bra, and cum-soaked panties. Your neck is bruised red and purple, and you’re shaking, shivering in the cool air now that the sun has sunk further toward the horizon and you’re not being touched. “Are we going to leave her here?”

“What, you want to bring her on the train with us? You don’t think that’s gonna look suspicious?”

“Well…” Their eyes meet and Shigaraki knows Dabi’s thinking the same thing he is. You have a lot of potential as an asset. They haven’t even had the chance to see how your quirk boosting works in combat, but Shigaraki almost wants to pick a fight just to give it a try.

And fighting power aside, Shigaraki isn’t a fan of the possibility that he’ll never get to fuck you again.

“Yeah, I know. But she’s a pro hero’s sidekick. She can’t be too hard to find.” Dabi shrugs off his coat and crouches next to you. You’re limp enough that he has no trouble lifting you into his lap and guiding your arms through the sleeves of his coat. Once you’re wrapped in the black fabric, he does up the buttons, combs through your hair with his fingers, wipes the mixed cum and spittle off your chin, and admires his handiwork. Sure, anyone looking closely at you will know at least a little about what happened—you’re still sweating in the cold, you have that undeniable ‘just got fucked’ look all over you, and the smell of sex is overpowering. But at least you won’t have to walk back to the rescue tent in your filthy underwear.

In your sleep, you nuzzle into Dabi’s chest, reaching blindly toward the source of warmth. He grins and strokes the back of your neck, soothing warm fingers over the bruised skin there and enjoying his last opportunity to touch you and feel your quirk working…for now, at least. “You know, I wonder why villains don’t get sidekicks. Seems a little unfair, right?”

Shigaraki’s sneer matches Dabi’s as he bends down to run his fingernails over your cheek, almost hard enough to hurt. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

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