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jmflowers · 1 year

Note

Please dedicate to @lacallemojada

For APF, who underestimates how cute I can make disgusting things. And for Ducks, who humoured me and my ridiculous ideas.

Solemates

One of her socks goes missing the day after she wins gold.

Maya doesn’t notice right away, not until she’s packing her bags to leave the athlete’s village. Not until there’s only one sweaty, blood-covered sock in her pile of dirty clothes.

She looks for it, at first, because she isn’t really thinking about that. Isn’t thinking about anything except how her father probably wants to frame them, wants to hang them above the mantle in the living room as a testament to what a Bishop is capable of.

What a Bishop can win.

What a Bishop can overcome.

She gives up, after a while, when it’s clear there’s no sock to be found. Instead, she shoves her sports bras and her leggings and her training gear into her duffel bag, ignoring the sharp stench of sweat laced into the fabric.

Ignoring the sharp pinch of her ankle in the bandage wrapped around it.

When she steps out of her room for the last time, gold medal hanging heavily around her neck, she doesn’t look back. Doesn’t think too hard about the missing sock.

Doesn’t think at all about dropping the other one in the trash.

Carina’s living in Milan when it arrives.

Actually, living in is a generous term. She’s more gravitating, lugging herself between hotel rooms and friends’ couches with only a suitcase to her name.

It hurts too much to put down roots, still.

And she’s not really thinking about what anything means, when it shows up on the bathroom floor. Isn’t thinking anything beyond the grief sticking in her bones.

Or maybe that she should really find better accommodations if the cleaning staff would miss a disgusting, sweaty, bloody sock on the bathroom floor.

But then it does come rushing back, all at once. Her mother’s voice, soft and familiar and comforting, weaving a tale of soulmates and eternity and meant to be.

She isn’t expecting it, when it arrives. Has given up expecting that such a thing is even meant for someone such as her. But she doesn’t deny it, when it appears.

It’s too hard to ignore when it smells so bad.

Her bra goes missing a couple months later, when she’s settled back into the spare room at Gabriella’s. And that Carina does notice right away, because she’d washed it and hung it in the bathroom with the intention of wearing it and the whole draw of moving back in with Gabri is that she doesn’t touch her stuff and –

Gabriella stares at her like she has grown an extra head when she asks. “Why would I take your bra?” she mutters, strolling past into the kitchen, “It wouldn’t fit me.”

She remembers again, then; remembers the sock wrapped in a plastic bag to hide its smell, shoved into the very bottom of her suitcase. It feels unfair, just a little, to know that someone, somewhere in the world, has gotten her nice bra and in return she’s received their disgusting sock.

Their bloody, sweaty, stinky sock.

At least her bra was clean.

Maya finds it in her pack while she’s sorting through her things on a hostel bed in Nepal.

She pales instantly, shoving it into the open pocket to hide it from her bunk mate. Shakti has been too intrigued by everything Maya has done in the last few days they’ve been together – from brushing her hair to doing sit ups on the floor.

Shakti doesn’t need to see the rather lacey bralette that’s somehow magically appeared in Maya’s pack.

Unless Shakti is the one…

No, Maya thinks instantly, there’s no way. It must’ve been one of the other girls, one of the other many people she’s crossed paths with in the last week of her travels.

A funny joke.

The fabric is soft beneath her fingers, despite the lace. Warm, almost.

And tiny; far too small to fit her own breasts.

She keeps it without much more thought, wondering if maybe she’ll cross paths with the girl who put it there. Wondering if maybe she’ll get a bit of practice removing it from the body it belongs to.

She doesn’t think about what the appearance of an undergarment is supposed to mean.

Andy gushes about it years later, grinning over a shot glass on her front porch.

She’d found her sock as a child, tucked beneath the covers of her bed. She thinks it belongs to Ryan, Maya knows, thinks the flirty glances they’ve been sharing across the front lawns of their parents’ houses mean they’re meant to be.

It all sounds ridiculous to Maya, though. Too far-fetched to be true.

Even if Vic has found one, too. An undershirt, stained with sweat, buried in the bottom of her gym bag while she was at the academy.

“I bet that means he’s in really good shape,” Andy suggests, smirking salaciously.

“What about you, Bishop?” Vic asks, handing over another shot of vodka.

Maya laughs, throwing it back quickly, drinking away the memory of soft lace beneath her fingers. “Monogamy is for the weak,” she declares loudly, eyes shifting to Andy’s face and the sharp fall of her smile. “Or the very, very dedicated.”

“Not quite monogamy,” Vic challenges, glancing off towards the approaching form of Ryan.

“Yeah,” Andy whispers, “It’s soulmates.”

She doesn’t think about it, when Maya’s warm hand slides into her own, a drink and a story hovering between them. Doesn’t think about it when they talk on the phone, or over dinner, or beneath the covers of Maya’s bed.

Carina doesn’t even think about it when Maya shows her the gold medal for the first time, her fingers soft and her kisses softer.

In fact, she forgets about it at all until she shoves her hand into the bottom drawer of her dresser, searching for the last of her things to pack, and lands on the plastic bag instead.

She knows what’s inside without looking. Remembers the sweat stains and the blood and the smell. It’s ridiculous, to have hauled it along with her for all these years.

Ridiculous, that she drops it into the box alongside the rest of her clothes, destined for their new home with Maya.

Carina is very good at packing, Maya finds, but less so at unpacking.

Her boxes of things litter every surface of their newly-shared apartment, the only indication of Carina’s organization the carefully written labels stating that they are, at least, in the right rooms. Like the box of toiletries in the corner of the bathroom.

Or the one that’s taken up residence on top of the dresser instead of in it.

Maya starts there, carefully extracting articles of clothing Carina has deemed okay to be folded. Her other things – the nicer things – have already been hung safely in the bedroom closet, Maya’s own collection of rarely-worn dresses and jackets relegated down the hall to the living room.

She stops when she reaches the bottom, confused by the plastic bag nestled amidst Carina’s intimates. It smells a bit, even though it’s been carefully wrapped up, completely out of place within the gentle scent of Carina’s laundry detergent.

“Carina?” she calls before she can think better of it, before she can even really register what it might be, “Is this yours?”

“Oh,” Carina murmurs when she appears in the doorway, a spatula still in her hands. She lowers it slowly, considering.

“Is this yours?” Maya asks again.

Carina frowns. “Sort of,” she nods, “It’s my… sock.”

“Oh,” Maya repeats, glancing down at it in her hands, “Oh.”

“You can throw it out,” Carina suggests, turning back towards the kitchen, “I don’t need it.”

“Hey, wait,” Maya calls after her, following, still clutching the offending object tightly. “How long have you had this?”

Carina shrugs, suddenly indifferent as she resumes unpacking her kitchen boxes, carefully arranging items in drawers. She’s good at it, now that she’s trying to deflect.

“You don’t even want to open it?” Maya offers. “One last time?”

Carina shakes her head. “I don’t need to.” She looks up, smiling softly, effortlessly yanking the breath from Maya’s lungs when she promises, “I love you, Maya.”

“Besides,” she adds on as an afterthought, waving her hand between them as though dismissing it, “It’s stinky and sweaty and covered with blood. I should’ve thrown it out years ago.”

“Now I have to see it,” Maya laughs, grabbing hold of Carina’s wrist to pull her closer.

“It doesn’t change anything,” Carina argues, tipping into Maya’s arms, “I am still choosing you, bambina.”

“But what if we’re sole mates,” Maya chuckles anyways, teasing even as Carina’s words send a flood of butterflies through her stomach. “What if it’s my sock inside this bag?”

“If it is,” Carina whispers, nuzzling closer, “I’d like my own sock drawer, because yours are very gross.”

She unwraps it slowly, both of them recoiling slightly as the years-old sweat reaches their noses. It’s plain looking, beneath the blood stains; simple.

Except for the Team USA logo on the toes.

“Oh,” Maya mumbles.

She steps away, slowly at first and then quickly, her feet picking up speed as her mind does. She dashes towards the living room closet, reaching on her tiptoes for the box tucked into a corner on the shelf.

She should’ve known, she thinks. Should’ve considered, that first night. The first time she pulled lace up and away from Carina’s body. The first time Carina’s array of bras appeared along the top of the shower door, hung to dry.

The first time her fingers felt the warmth of soft fabric beneath them.

Maya opens the box slowly, uncovering the bralette she’s kept for all these years.

“Oh,” Carina echoes when she turns. “Oh.”

“My sock,” Maya whispers, stumbling back across the room to Carina’s side, feeling the pull of her like gravity. “My Olympic Gold Medal sock.”

“Now I definitely want my own drawer,” Carina declares, dipping low to capture Maya’s mouth with her own, “And my favourite bra back.”

#look what a stinky sock can do #solemates #all the puns #trope challenge #fic writing challenge #ye doubt me????#very nearly had that thing in the trash at the end there #fic by me #minefic #tumblr prompt party #janelle's asks #cuteasducks9

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ourunsungheroes42344 · 21 days

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New Multifandom Fanfiction

My submission for the Cult of Chaos Discord April Challenge: If I could make myself love you, I would.

All 5 sections are standalone scenes that answer the prompt, they do not connect other than that and therefore you do not have to be familiar with all 5 fandoms to read.

The Witcher (TV) - Jaskier/Geralt

Castle - Kevin Ryan/Jenny O Malley & Kevin Ryan/Javier Esposito (implied)

Charmed (1998 TV) - Chris Halliwell/Leo Wyatt (Father/Son, not romantic)

Eureka - Zane Donovan/Jo Lupo (past) & Jo Lupo/Jack Carter (implied)

Harry Potter - Tom Riddle/Harry Potter

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spanktember · 2 years

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SPANKTEMBER 2022 PROMPTS

We are so excited to share these prompts! Posting starts on September 1st and goes to September 30th, so you hopefully have plenty of time to plan and create!

Double trouble (2 spankers and/or 2 spankees)

Testing boundaries

De-aging

AU setting (of your choice!)

First time (spanker or spankee)

Birthday

Rare pair

Missing scene

Additional punishment (corner time, writing lines, grounding, etc.)

Caught in the act

Aftercare

Different Positions (over the knee, bent over the couch, etc.)

Use of implements

Take the fall

Crossover

Good intentions

Maintenance spanking

Role reversal

Ear pinching and/or hair pulling

Reverse age AU

Spanking for misbehavior

Double jeopardy

Counting

Visible marks

Witness(es)

Fix-it

Unresolved issues

Praise

Reluctant spanker and/or spankee

Mystical

If there's a day that doesn't speak to you, feel free to use one of these alternative prompts:

Time travel

Fake out

Song inspo

Flashback

Unjust punishment

Remember to feel free to ask any questions! And if you are over 18 and would like an invite to the Discipline Fic discord server, send us a DM here, or feel free to reach out to @dilfdarthvader and they will be happy to send it to you.

#spanktember #writing prompts #writing challenge #prompt challenge #prompt month #fic writing #fic writing challenge #fandom event #fandom challenge

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nurse-buckley · 11 months

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If you see anything you want to request send me a message with pairing and what you want to see - please don't just give me "knocked out eith x character" I need a little more to write what you want to see!

#bad things happen bingo card #fic writing challenge #challenge #bingo #bingo cards

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itsfirecat · 3 months

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(text description in ALT and below the cut)

Based on some rumblings I heard, I ended up quickly throwing together a fun little WIP bingo sheet! I'll admit I largely wrote the prompts for writing, but I think a good number of them should also apply to art!

Ultimately, the goal is to have fun, and finish whatever WIPs you can (without burning yourself out or having a bad time). If you needed a sign to pick up that project you've been putting off, the time is now!

3x4 Bingo square titled "Finish your fucking fics february"

the top three across left to right read "Update your oldest WIP", "Finish a WIP that's been buried deep in your drafts", and "Finish a WIP that you haven't posted yet"

the second row reads "Finish a recent WIP", "Finish a WIP you're scared of" and "Finish a WIP that's been haunting you"

the third row reads "Update a partially posted WIP", "Finish any WIP/Free Space", and "Finish the next WIP in a series you've been avoiding"

the last row reads "Update your newest WIP", "Finish a WIP that's been ignored for at least 6 months", and "Finish the next chapter for a fic you've been meaning to for months"

#Finish your fucking fics february #fanfic #fanart #bingo #fandom bingo #fanfic bingo #fanart bingo #challenge #fanfic challenge #fanfic writing #event

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bebx · 6 months

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AO3 writers when canon sucks:

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thevioletcaptain · 1 year

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i genuinely don't care how good a piece of ai generated art or writing looks on the surface. i don't care if it emulates brush strokes and metaphor in a way indistinguishable from those created by a person.

it is not the product of thoughtful creation. it offers no insights into the creator's life or viewpoint. it has no connection to a moment in time or a place or an attitude. it has no perspective. it has no value.

it's empty, it's hollow, and it exists only to generate clicks (and by extension, ad revenue.)

it's just another revolting symptom of the disease that is late stage capitalism, and it fucking sucks.

#''but i just want to use it to--'' don't care! it's shit! stop fucking feeding it!#if you need help generating ideas or jumping off points then join an artist or writer group online #talk to people #make connections #that's what art and writing is supposed to be about in the first place #i'm mad as hell etc.#so goddamn sick and tired of seeing ai shit get passed around on here #it's bad enough in general but every time i see more of it showing up #tagged as fan art or as fic #the angrier i get #heartfelt imperfection in art and writing will always ALWAYS be worth more than the most technically ''perfect'' ai generated image or text #fandom problems #ai generation algorithms die in a fire challenge 2k23 #just a heads up that i'm muting this post and will no longer see responses to it #because i'm tired of seeing dogshit takes from jackasses who want to ''debate'' me #there's no debate you're in the wrong on literally every level and you can die mad about it

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steveseddie · 2 months

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up against the wall (with me) @steddiemicrofic prompt: pin, 388 words | rated: t | cw: none apply

Eddie can admit he’s thought about Steve pinning him against a wall at least once.

More like twice. Maybe three times. Four if you count that daydream where Steve pinned him against his car.

He always thought reality would be better than fantasy, and while he can appreciate feeling Steve’s hands on his waist and the length of his body against him instead of just imagining it, reality lacks an important detail from Eddie’s fantasies.

Steve isn’t kissing him.

Sure, it would’ve been confusing if Steve randomly pushed Eddie into an alley and started making out with him, but he isn’t any less confused by Steve dragging him here and then not kissing him.

“Steve?”

One of his hands covers Eddie’s mouth. “Shhh.”

Eddie gets momentarily distracted by the weight of it against his mouth. Before he embarrasses himself by moaning or something, he licks Steve’s hand.

“Ew!” Steve wipes it clean. He should’ve known Eddie would pull that move.

“Why are we here?”

“Kelly Donald was coming our way,” he says, which doesn’t explain anything. “She’s been to the store a few times to ask me out. I turned her down again yesterday, said I’d be busy all day.”

And he had been- hanging out with Eddie.

“Why not take her up on the offer?”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t feel like going on dates with random girls anymore, kinda have my eye on someone.”

Eddie’s face falls. “W-who?”

“Well-”

“Steve! I thought that was you!” Kelly says. “What are you doing here, silly?”

Her eyes widen when Steve shifts and she sees Eddie. He expects her to yell, and maybe so does Steve, who moves to block Eddie from view, shielding him.

“Sorry!” She says, surprising them. “Didn’t see you there. Eddie, right? Sorry to interrupt, I’ll go!” She hesitates, then faces them again. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. Sorry I kept asking you out, Steve, whoops!”

When she leaves, Eddie says, “You should go after her, explain this isn’t what she thinks. This is how rumors start, Steve, you don’t want the girl you got your eye on hearing about-”

“Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the person I have my eye on, you idiot,” Steve says, and then he’s kissing Eddie! Against a wall!

Eddie takes back what he said- reality is so much better than fantasy.

#steddie #stranger things #steddiemicrofic #hello this was a real challenge for me 388 words go by so fast but i did it and i'm happy with how it turned out #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fic #monse writes

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tripleyeeet · 8 months

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BLEED YOU DRY (1)

SUMMARY: When you awake to find Astarion attempting to drink your blood, you find yourself making a interesting decision.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader (reads as Gender Neutral but future chapters will be femme focused, just a heads up!)

WORD COUNT: 3,273

WARNINGS: Bloodsucking, that's about it?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, so I'm aware I'm way ahead of schedule for this Haunted Hoedown thing but I'm going to be gone for a few days in the middle of it so I figured I'd get a headstart now to make sure I get every day done but also to build the hype? Maybe?

Basically this is going to be a little twelve part miniseries based on prompts from this writing challenge. I'll make a masterpost either tonight or tomorrow with all the ones I chose, plus some other stuff, so you guys know what's going on!

The prompt for this particular day was "I want to watch you bleed."

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

The squirming tadpole behind your eye is what wakes you up. Its constant movement, wriggling from edge to edge quickly prompts you to groan and palm your eye, attempting to suppress the feeling as you blink through the darkness. It takes a moment to adjust —to feel that twitch of the creature die down— and when it does there’s a sigh of satisfaction that leaves your lips.

Despite how long it’s been, you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to the fact that you have a parasite living inside your mind. Even after experiencing the insertion firsthand, you often forget it’s there, looming behind your retinas, awaiting use every time you run into another. Normally it’s so still, barely inching out of place; sitting there, incubating within your thoughts. Tonight though, something’s urging its presence. Keeping it awake as you close your eyes again, scrunching up your face once it moves a second time.

Angrily, you sit up and turn your head, suddenly catching Astarion’s gaze, noticing the open-mouthed grin he offers in response.

“Shit.”

You narrow your eyes, focusing on his teeth. How bared they are; ready to strike at a moment's notice despite the only food lying around being you. “Were you just about to bite me?” you ask and almost immediately he attempts to play it off as if it were nothing, scoffing and rolling his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you if that’s what you’re insinuating. I was only going for a nibble.”

You can feel your tadpole squirm. He’s telling the truth, albeit for reasons that are more selfish than he lets on. Despite seeming otherwise, he only wants to drink from you for strength —for energy. His desire to kill you is minuscule, lingering in the shadows of his mind for a potentially later day but surprisingly such notions don’t scare you. Astarion may be a bloodthirsty creature but for now, he’s an ally.

“And you didn’t think to just ask first?” You raise a brow at him, watching his expression twist into something bordering between confusion and interest.

“I’m sorry, just ask?” he parrots, exploring your features and how they remain calm despite the context.

He was expecting you to be angry. To throw some kind of fit and deny. It’s what any normal person would do, but considering the circumstances, offering up a little blood to build up the strength of someone on the same side is worth more than the annoyance that forms across your face.

“Yes, like a normal person,” you chastise, taking in the scowl he offers in response.

His brows furrow at the sound of your words, angling upwards to appear as sinister as possible, and you can’t help but snort. Something about his constant disapproval is almost humorous at this point.

“Normal? Darling, I’m a creature of the night. A blood sucking fiend. A—“

“Vampire, yes, we’re all well aware given the teeth.” You poke at your own canine, tapping the enamel with open lips just as he swallows hard and narrows his eyes.

“Yes, well, obviously considering such details I thought it inappropriate to ask. People don’t typically agree to such perilous sounding terms,” he says, voice light and airy. Casual, you might say, despite the context.

“So instead you were just going to go for it?” You raise your brow, a smirk playing across your lips as he rolls his eyes.

“Seemed like the best possible option… at the time.”

You offer him a quiet ah, nodding your head as the two of you remain still, watching each other. Trying to gauge how the other is feeling without the use of your tadpoles.

Based on what you know about Astarion you assume he’s too stubborn to ask. Now that he’s caught, regardless of whether or not he needs the blood, he’ll never find himself in a position to be desperate enough to say those simple little words. Being a man of persuasion, he’ll most likely just talk his way into it —make it seem like the whole thing was your idea in the first place before diving right in.

It’d be respectable if you weren’t the victim. If it were Wyll or Gale and you were to bear witness to his deceptions, you’d fully support it. Encourage it even if he were to ask your opinion.

Since it’s you though, you can’t help but feel a bit frustrated. Astarion and you have never been particularly friendly. Having only been around each other for a few weeks, all you’ve talked about is the Illithid and how you plan to get rid of it —what you’ll do after it’s gone. But even the latter conversations hardly spark specific details. Mostly they’re just brief mentions of wanting to run away. To become hidden after the war is over.

You assume someone’s looking for him based on the way he speaks and carries himself. When you’re on the move he hides within the pack, using you all as a shield while he looks around. Always on high alert, his ears twitch at any foreign sound, his eyes dart to meet the faces of anyone you may come across. At night, he’s always the one to keep watch and over time you’ve come to realize it isn’t just because he doesn’t sleep. It’s because he’s looking for someone.

Even now, as he stands above you, you can see his eyes looking past you to focus on the underbrush. The way they narrow with focus, pushing past your face. He can sense something that you can’t —feel the eyes of some foreign presence staring at the two of you.

You’re tempted to use the tadpole to find out what exactly it is but quickly refrain once you hear the shuffling of branches behind you followed by Astarion’s breath of relief.

“You alright?”

His eyes shut for a split second. His chest heaves a single breath and in that moment you’re struck with an odd sense of sympathy. The feeling of pity laces throughout your thoughts as you imagine Astarion’s life before all of this. You imagine it isn’t great. Considering he’s a vampire, there’s probably at least an inkling of trauma there after living, dying and coming back as something other than yourself. No sane person would be the same after that, especially when taking into account all the symptoms. Before his transition, he could do mundane things. Enjoy the pleasantries of life like the sun and sleeping and food.

Nowadays, all it seems he craves is blood and power. Flesh of whatever he can get his greedy little hands on. The upper hand in any possible argument. Both make what Astarion is on the surface, but looking at him now, wondering what else lies behind that thick, defensive coat of first impressions, you know there are other things. Nicer ones he refuses to showcase.

They’re the details of his life before everything. Traits reserved only for himself, and for some uncharacteristic reason, you’re tempted to find out what they are.

“If you need to…” Trailing off, you feel your stomach twist at the realization of what you’re about to offer. The consequences are high, maybe even too high, but perhaps the benefits could be deemed higher. At this point, you’re certain no one else will give him what he needs. They’re all too noble or guarded to allow Astarion, regardless of his current allegiance, to drink.

They don’t trust him. And even though you find yourself in the same boat, feeling the skepticism of your words start to echo in the back of your mind, you know it’s the most logical thing to do. Sure, it may not be the right one. By a long shot, it’s probably one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had, but you know deep down that it’s necessary for your survival. To ensure that, when all this blows over and the potential of you going your separate ways occurs, Astarion doesn’t view you as an enemy.

“If you need to drink, you can.”

His eyes widen only a bit. Just enough for you to notice the slight shock that spreads across his features. “I can?”

There’s a reluctance you feel begin to bubble up but instead of acting on it you merely shut it down, nodding your head. “Yes, but only a little. Don’t want you bleeding me dry before this whole thing is all over.”

Somehow that makes him laugh. “Oh, darling, I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.”

You force yourself not to smirk as he lies through his teeth. Knowing him, he’d suck you dry if it weren’t for the fact that there’s safety in numbers. “Unfortunately for me this isn’t a dream.”

“Fair point,” he replies, taking a short step forward. After that he slowly begins to crouch towards the ground, watching you closely —focusing on the rise and fall of your chest as his face falls mere inches from yours. “For now though, I promise to do no such thing.”

“And you’re certain you’ll keep it?”

He hums, a grin pulling at his cheeks. “For now,” he muses. “In the future though…”

He’s so close you can feel his breath. Hot and heavy puffs pushed through a low, far too sultry tone of voice that has you pressing your lips together in a thin line.

Out of everyone, Astarion’s always been the most intriguing. The one you’ve had this constant back and forth with, debating whether or not to approach or run. Aside from the obvious vampirism, it’s quite obvious that he isn’t like the others. From what you’ve been able to piece together, he doesn’t have a cause. A God or some sort of leader he’s willing to lay down the law for. He’s not noble like Wyll or faithful like Shadowheart. He’s just Astarion. A bloodied wolf all by his lonesome, following the rest of the pack.

You’re sure he has desires like the rest of them. Wants and needs that’ll inevitably be gifted to him at the end of this —so long as you all survive. Like everyone else, he has a purpose in mind, but what that purpose is is unbeknownst to you thanks to the charm he offers in replacement of the truth. Because of this, he feels almost like a treasure chest. A trove of untold riches kneeling before you, tempting you to open.

“I’m sure the future will have us far enough away from each other where that doesn’t happen, so I won’t worry.”

Almost immediately, he can tell you’re fishing for information. The way his brow slightly upturns and the flirtatious grin across his face transitions into more of a smirk. It makes you internally curse, knowing that no matter how hard you try you’ll never beat him at his own game. His way with words is too precise. Too calculated, even for someone like you who grew up convincing people of your lies.

“You never know. Perhaps after this is all over I’ll follow you. Linger amongst the shadows until the time is right.”

You can’t tell if he’s kidding. His voice is too convincing to be completely certain, so you merely roll your eyes. “Yes, well, if you do decide to drink me to death, be sure to make it quick.”

He clicks his tongue, leaning slightly further in. “What would be the fun in that though?”

There’s an unfamiliar ache inside your chest. A rupture of pain that wreaks havoc against your ribcage, pounding. Now that he’s close to you, you can assume it’s always been there but because he’s so good at posing a distraction you weren’t fully aware of it until now.

“Fair point,” you repeat his words back to him, deeply inhaling just as the tadpole suddenly shifts in tandem with your chest. Ebbing and flowing across your inner eye in time with your shaky breath, you notice Astarion pick up on it, humming knowingly.

“You fear me, don’t you?”

Despite the answer being blatantly obvious, your lips remained sealed. Closed off, regardless of the truths the rest of your body spills.

“It’s quite alright, darling. It’s normal. Creatures of the night are hardly meant to be trifled with.”

He’s in your face now, a mere hair’s length away, once again baring his teeth. Against your lips, you can feel the movement of his words pushing through the air, coating you in further reluctance as the withheld breath inside you finally releases. As it hits his face, he blinks and pulls away. Ever so slightly giving you the space you need to recollect your thoughts and swallow back the fear.

He’s terrifying. Even you have to admit that. Unlike Lae’zel he’s more calculated in his intimidation, opting to pull you in —to make you feel comfortable— before he ultimately strikes. Because of this, his threats feel more authentic. Less like simple tactics used to get you to back off. They aren’t words of warning —they’re promises. Declarations of a moment he’s more than willing to make a reality if given the chance.

“Do you want my blood or not, Astarion?”

Your patience is thin. Your chest is in pain and while the tadpole inside unwittingly reaches out to his, driving you both closer as he instructs you to lie back down and get comfortable, all you can feel is temptation. Desire.

Upon resting your head, you feel the connection between you grow stronger. Inside, your head flashes with icy sensations that trickle down towards your neck. Small tremors of what’s to come as Astarion positions himself around you.

When he leans down, there’s a moment where you think of retracting. This is all too sudden, you think. A mistake made in hopes of gaining the upper hand. Just moments ago you were made unaware of the full potential of Astarion’s charms, but now that you’re lying beneath him, awaiting the moment he sinks his teeth into your flesh, you can feel the regret begin to build.

“It won’t last.”

Pulling yourself from your thoughts, you look to see him staring over top of you. Both of his arms are planted on either side of your head, bending at the elbow so that he’s low and close. “I’m sorry?”

“The pain. It won’t last long, I promise.”

Strangely enough, he sounds sincere. Not that that means much when a good portion of the words that exit his lips are lies. Still though, instead of returning to that previous headspace you merely breathe and nod, waiting for the moment the tadpole’s connection vibrates with confirmation and Astarion begins to lean in.

It’s a slow process. Above you, his shoulders shift, pushing his arm to cup the back of your head and expose your neck. Against your skull, Astarion tightens his grip to steady the endless thoughts that race through your mind as you share a glance. It’s small but important. A moment of recognition that tonight is not the night you die at his hand, but merely a preview of what might come if your paths wrongfully cross.

At the last second, you give him a curt nod and feel him dip, running the tip of his tongue along your jugular before the presence of teeth poke holes through your flesh. At first, it's painful. The blood that’s sucked through your veins pulsates through the open wound in stinging waves as you feign a soft groan. Then Astarion’s grip around your head tightens at the sound, pushing you further into his mouth. Further into the euphoria he takes as the feeling transcends into something numbingly cold.

Your eyes flutter shut at his continued feed. The feeling in your hands begins to fade even as you somehow find them moving to Astarion’s back, one of them pressing against his shoulder, the other finding purchase in his locks. At that point, you can feel Astarion moan against you, desperation filling his every cell as his teeth shift further into your neck, prompting your eyes to shoot open.

He’s going to kill you at this rate. To drink you drier than an insect's husk, so, through half-conscious pushes, you tell him to stop. To let go and to keep his promise as you grip the roots of his hair and pull.

As it happens you see his eyes shift to yours. They’re blown out completely, the whites of his eyes stained red to match his ruby pupils. For a moment, they remain locked to your half-lidded ones, honing in on the way they start to flutter again before you see them tightly close. Then he finds himself ripping away and gasping for air. Coughing through the thick blood that coats his tongue as he stares down at your neck.

The wound is only slightly gaping. Two well-defined puncture wounds sit side by side, but at the moment you can’t feel them. Instead, there’s still only numbness. A space of nothing that lingers between your head and chest, making you shift to sit up and place your hand there, finding more blood.

“See? Over before you know it, right?” He laughs but all you do is glare.

“You almost killed me.”

“Ah, yes, but notice the key word being almost.”

If you weren’t so heavy-headed you’d punch him in the throat. Maybe strangle him if you could get the right angle. “Yes, fine, you’ve had your fun. Now, do you need anything else or am I fine to pass out now?”

You expect him to say something else. To make some quip about the safety measures of post-bloodsucking, but he doesn’t. Instead, he merely inches closer, staring at you as he reaches for your bloodied hand and pulls it close.

Once again, your tadpole wriggles against your will. Throughout your skull, it practically dances as Astarion glances down, taking two of your fingers into his mouth with careful precision. If anyone were to see they’d most likely faint at the mere lewdness of it. Frozen in time, your body refuses to move as he laps the blood off your skin, staring at you through hooded eyes that make you want to scream.

You’ve never been in this kind of position before. Sure, you’ve experienced many kinds of intimacy, both sexual and not, but somehow this feels different. Forbidden, in a sense. As if sharing this moment is not only wrong but also against some sort of ethical code.

At first, you wonder if it’s because blood isn’t necessarily something that’s given. Always taken. In battle, it’s ripped from your skin through the means of injury. Punctured or sliced out of you at the hands of a sword. No bond goes along with it. No mutual agreement that any life will remain once the deed is over.

But then you begin to think of Astarion. The elven vampire now infected with the Illithid. Like you, he’s been changed. Subtly shifted into something new. Overall, your transformation isn’t nearly as different as his. Before the infection, you could still enjoy the pleasantries of being human, but still, there’s this connection that draws you towards him. It makes its presence known within the tadpole. Throughout the movements that echo in your minds as Astarion cleans the last of the blood away, looking at you with soft eyes.

“I consider this a gift, you know,” he says, dropping your hand, and moving away to stand without so much as a thought.

You blink back your confusion, trying your best to focus on the genuine-looking smile that appears as he takes a few steps backwards, never breaking eye contact until he telepathically adds I won’t forget it then stalks away.

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fan fic #astarion series #astarion x reader #astarion x you #baldur’s gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fan fic #bg3 fan fic #haunted hoedown #writing challenge #summer writes

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𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦

summary: After what you assumed would be a successful mission, things veer off-course and you're stuck with Bucky Barnes in Istanbul with no way out until morning. The tension between you comes to head and nothing will be the same again.

parings: Protective!Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Sniper!Agent!Curvy!F!Reader

word count: 6.5K

warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, canon-level violence with just a bit more blood, guns, reader is a sniper/sharp-shooter, hate-making out, degradation, fighting, insults and cursing, teasing/banter, reader and bucky don't know how to talk about their feelings (or to eachother), spanking, doggy, angry-horny, rough-ish sex, pent up anger, pent up sexual tension, power dynamics, protective!Bucky, vague hinting to Bucky's PTSD, no use of y/n, reader is tagged as curvy and is described as such but body description is kept to a minimum

a/n: this work is for @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge! My prompts were "enemies to lovers" and "Again! Please, again!" I am incredibly thankful to Suz for letting me participate. I haven't been able to participate in a challenge since forever ago 😅 ALSO! This is my first time writing enemies to lovers, as well as curvy!reader! even though i'm curvy myself, i hope i did okay ♥ This work is not beta-read. all mistakes are my own. If any mistake is glaringly obvious, please feel free to message me and let me know! p.s. I listened to a lot of PVRIS + Nothing But Thieves writing this, can ya tell? p.p.s. the amount of willpower and struggle with my muse it took to finish this is... a lot. i think she scratched my cornea at some point.

If I’ve missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @unearthlydust | dividers by @cafekitsune | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist title from: You Know Me Too Well by Nothing But Thieves Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

Bucky Barnes has always hated you, and you have always hated Bucky Barnes. At least since you first met, that is.

Being the newest recruit– and only sharp-shooter– to grace the S.H.I.E.L.D. Direct Action Team’s roster since signing on the Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, the hostility was almost immediate from the second you walked in your first day.

You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.

When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.

Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.

After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.

You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week.

With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.

Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together.

Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”

The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival.

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A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’

“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door.

“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.

You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.

Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger.

“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.

It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder.

The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit.

“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.

“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip.

Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing.

“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.

You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.

“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.

Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.

“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”

“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink.

Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it.

You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time.

You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell.

Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.

The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.

“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear.

“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”

White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.

He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.

“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.

His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.

You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below.

With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.

“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost.

“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape.

“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”

He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully.

“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.

“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.

“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”

He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.

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The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium.

There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form.

Your face burned.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?”

You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.”

He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.

♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.

You swallowed a groan.

“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear.

“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”

“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”

“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”

Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours.

“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.”

You wanted to take his finger and break it.

You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.

You doubted it was convincing.

“Fine.”

He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion.

When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.

“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

“When the hell did you–”

“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.

“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance.

He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.

The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles.

“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.

Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.

It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike.

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The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own.

Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–

“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously.

“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side.

“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.

“Because there’s only one fucking bed?”

“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.

You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”

His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward.

You swallowed. “You heard me.”

One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard.

Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body.

“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.

“Look at me!”

“No! Fuck– Get off me!”

With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.

You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.

“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.”

His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it’d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”

You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone.

“Is that all, Sergeant?”

His Adam's apple bobbed.

“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.

“You heard me.”

The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged.

“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.

“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”

Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.

“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you.

And you let him.

“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.

“Holy–fuck, holy shit.”

Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why.

He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame.

“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your heart stopped.

“You’re telling me.”

Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door.

Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy.

Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.

Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however.

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?”

You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”

“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.

“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release.

“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.

“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”

He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”

“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”

“Number fuckin’ one.”

The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core.

Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.

“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.

He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs.

“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass.

SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”

SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”

SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.”

Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him.

“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”

You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure.

“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you.

“Fuck! Again! Please, again!”

He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you.

“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode.

“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”

“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.

For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile.

“Thanks.”

He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”

You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”

“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.

“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”

“Mhmm, sure,” he hummed. The covers shrouded you as he placed a metal hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb in soft circles as he pulled you in for another electrifying kiss.

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leonardcohenofficial · 5 months

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literally nine would have treated martha so right i don’t even wanna TALK ABOUT IT

#they would have had thee biggest big brain conversations and constantly challenge each other and also i KNOW that sex is good I DON’T WANNA #TALK ABOUT ITTTTTTTTTT #doctor who #nine #martha jones #someone write that fic i can’t express enough how much i NEED THIS #also just need freema and eccleston to do a project together

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jmflowers · 1 year

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I'm the mood to write some truly unhinged, completely dumb, tropey bullshit. And I don't think this Maya/Carina fandom has enough of that hilarious wonderful in its midst. I wanna laugh about fanfiction again, sooooooo

TROPE CHALLENGE!

Hit me with a trope, AU, etc. you'd love to see Maya and Carina written in to - anonymous or not. The more ridiculous the better, tbh. And I'll (try) to write you a few hundred words of comedic, stupidly heartfelt fanfiction.

Might take a few weeks, a few days, a few hours, who knows! Let's just have some fun while I try to get through these last couple months of college before I graduate.

#trope challenge #hit me with your best trope #so far we have dirty sock soulmates coming in hot #fic writing challenge #honestly just make me laugh and I'll do it for you

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joyful-enchantress · 1 year

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Spring Heat (18+) | Loki x Fem!Reader

banner created by the amazing @springdandelixn

A/N: You help your husband through his yearly heat, which is part of the Jotun mating cycle. He's afraid he might hurt you, but you are determined to stay... I wrote this for @springdandelixn and her Double-Trouble Sleepover! Congratulations, Beanie, my love! I hope you enjoy this little fic that I put together for you 🖤

Genre/Warnings: Jotun mating cycle AU, smut (18+), rough sex, choking, dubcon? (everything is consensual but Loki is not entirely in control of himself), language, light angst, fluff too, filth with feeling, established relationship

Word Count: 3182

The sights and sounds of springtime were all around you as you strolled through the palace grounds —

The busy twittering of birds as they searched for food and fought over tree branches on which to build their nests.

The chattering of squirrels and rabbits and other small animals as they came out of hiding to begin a new season of life.

The rich shade of green returning to the grass in the meadow, speckled with pops of color where wildflowers were beginning to bloom.

Speaking of blooming flowers -- the palace gardens were thriving, and in the next couple of weeks were sure to become a spectacle of color, ranging from delicate pastel hues to bright, vibrant tones. Just in time for the Spring Festival that would be held at the end of the month.

Yes, spring was upon you. Your favorite season. It meant warmer temperatures and sunshine and new life.

But despite all the bright cheerfulness that spring brought with it, for your husband, Loki, it also brought with it a certain darkness.

His heat.

Loki was of Jotun blood; a Frost Giant. And with that heritage came certain Jotun traits, some more easily embraced than others. One such trait that your husband found more loathsome than the rest was the Jotun mating cycle.

Each year since his body matured, around the time of the Spring Equinox, Loki would find himself at the mercy of his primal instincts. Unable to control his animalistic urges to mate, he’d lock himself in his chambers until it would pass.

That is, until you had something to say about it.

When you learned of the agony he endured — both physically and emotionally — locked in his chambers for anywhere from one week to one month until his heat cycle passed, you couldn’t bear it. You had to do something to help, if you could.

You remembered the conversation you’d had with him well. It was shortly after your wedding…

————

“Loki, isn’t there anything that would make it easier to endure? Or at least make it come to an end more quickly? I can’t imagine a week of that, let alone a month.”

“Unfortunately, no, darling. There isn’t really anything that can be safely done to help it. The healers can give me an elixir that will suppress it, but I can’t take it every year, or it would lose its effectiveness. And besides, a heat the year after a suppressed heat is always more intense and agonizing.”

Your eyebrow cocked, looking at him with curiosity. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience…?”

He took a deep breath before answering, “Yes, I’ve taken suppressants occasionally in the past. The temptation of a year of reprieve was too great for me to resist at times. But I always found that the following year’s heat was far worse than what is typical. More desperation, more madness, more… pain.”

Your heart broke for him in that moment.

“Why does it last so long, Loki?”

He gave a mirthless chuckle. “It lasts as long as it takes for one of two things to happen. Either it quite literally burns its way out of my system, like a fever that takes weeks to break. Or…”

His voice trailed off, and he looked off into the distance, as if he was searching for his thought amongst the forests and rolling hills.

“Or…?” You gently encouraged him to continue.

Loki let out an exasperated sigh and quietly admitted, “Or… I mate. Breed. Fuck.”

Something about the way he enunciated the hard ‘k’, his Adam’s apple bobbing sinfully as the sound clicked in his throat, had your core throbbing with need and a wave of hot arousal unfolding over your body.

You blinked a few times as you contemplated what he said. “Well that seems easy enough,” you replied cooly, as if you were discussing the weather.

“What…?” He looked at you, perplexed.

“If having a good fuck will bring your agony to an end, then that seems like an easy solution to me. I can help you with that —”

“NO!” His rich baritone voice boomed as it cut you off, dripping with authority, anger, and — was that fear? “You don’t understand, my love. I am not myself when this happens. I lose myself, I lose control. I no longer am capable of keeping up the Asgardian façade; my Jotun form takes over and I am overcome with the primal desire to mate. I lose all regard for decency, I become… a monster. I am a monster.”

“Loki…” you reached a hand up to caress the side of his stupidly beautiful face, running your thumb soothingly along his sharp cheekbone and slotting your palm against his chiseled jaw, which was tightly clenched. A sign of his distress. “I love you, Loki. Let me help you through this.”

“I love you too, darling. More than my life itself. Which is exactly why I can’t let you do this.” He wrapped his large hand around the back of yours and turned his head to the side to tenderly kiss your palm. “It isn’t safe. I could hurt you. Badly.”

“I trust you, Loki. I trust you with my life, no matter what physical form you assume.” The next words you uttered came to you as easily as breathing, “I want to do this. Please. Use me. Use my body to sate your desires and end your own suffering.”

His emerald eyes widened at your words, most likely shocked at how brazen and self-assured they were. But swirling behind the shock was something else. Reverence. Trepidation. And lust.

He slowly swallowed, gathering himself together and collecting his thoughts after you scrambled them with your salacious plea.

“Alright then, darling.” He cautiously relented, his eyes boring into yours, searching for any sign that you were having second thoughts or hints of doubt. “Come springtime, when my next heat cycle is upon me, I’ll let you help me. I’ll let you be the balm that soothes my burning, searing ache.”

————

And now, spring was upon you. And any day now, it would be time to make good on your promise to him. For better or worse. You suddenly had a renewed appreciation for the words you spoke in your wedding vows to him, just 8 months ago.

Loki has been warning you for the past few days that his heat is imminent, and could take over at any time. He could feel it; all the warning signs were there. The restlessness. The irritability. The discomfort. Crawling under his skin like an itch he can't scratch. Until it makes him snap.

Each and every time, he asked if you were still sure. He reminded you that you could change your mind, that he didn't expect you to do this. That he'd never expect you to do this. It was entirely your choice.

And each and every time, you stood firm in your decision. You wanted to help him. You would do this.

The sun was beginning to set on your evening stroll, so you altered your route so that it would lead you back towards the private chambers that you shared with Loki. As you approached the hallway which led to your shared door, you could feel a distinct, unseasonal chill in the air.

Was this it? Was tonight the night?

Once you reached the ornate wooden door, you noticed a thin blanket of frost coating the edges of it, as if, behind the door, was the force of winter itself, its icy chill seeping through the gaps between the door and the frame.

You reflected for a moment on the irony that all this frost and chill was the result of something called a heat, and you couldn't help but chuckle to yourself.

But then you remembered that not just fire, but ice, too, can burn.

A shiver rolled down your spine, and the cold seeping through the doorframe wasn't entirely to blame.

You took a moment to gather your courage, reminding yourself that this was Loki. Your husband. Your one true love.

You could do this.

You softly knocked, each tap of your knuckles against the cold wood sending a jolt of bravery through you.

"Loki... can I come in?"

"Pet..." The voice that answered you was familiar, but more... ragged. It was deeper, if that was even possible, and assumed a huskiness that made your usually gentle husband sound nothing short of feral.

It sent a surge of hot, wet arousal through you, which pooled between your thighs.

"I'm here, Loki..." you whispered like a prayer. "Let me help you."

"This is your last chance, pet," he warned. "You can still change your mind. But the moment you open the door, I'm afraid there will be no going back."

Good thing you had no plans of going back.

You opened the door and stepped into your chambers; after ensuring the door was closed and locked, you took a deep breath. This was it.

As you turned around, you came face to face with your husband.

Except he wasn't quite the Loki you knew. For one thing, he was taller. Much taller. At least 8 feet tall. You briefly wondered how you'd be able to take him in this form. His usually porcelain skin was replaced with a brilliant cerulean, and across every bit of blue that your hungry eyes could find, were ridges that swept across his skin in bold strokes and delicate lines, forming intricate patterns that you longed to trace with your fingers. As your eyes settled on his face, you found some familiarity there. You recognized the bone structure and the shape of his nose, the curve of his lips; the luscious raven locks that framed his angular face were unchanged. But in place of the emerald orbs that you knew and loved were two glistening rubies, staring at you with an intensity that could only be described as ferocious.

He was beautiful. Flawless. You saw no monster before you. Only your husband. Showing you a side of himself that he has kept hidden from you. Until now.

You broke the silence first, and simply muttered, "I love you, and I am here. Use me."

And that was all the permission he needed.

He closed the distance between you impossibly fast, like a predator stalking its prey, and wrapped an icy hand around your throat, squeezing firmly, the coldness stinging like pins and needles against your skin.

His lips met yours with an urgency that you hadn't experienced before; any hint of gentleness was gone and in its place a brutal clash of tongues and teeth as he claimed your mouth, a throaty growl slipping past his lips as he basked in the taste of you on his tongue.

Fear crept up your spine for the first time since you entered, and you brought your small hands up to claw at his wrist, a desperate attempt to let him know that you needed a break; you needed to breathe.

Something within him seemed to get the message, because he peeled his mouth away from yours and released your throat, repurposing his hand to wrap around your midsection and toss you unceremoniously onto the large bed in the center of the room.

You had to admit that part of you enjoyed the way he was manhandling you.

He wasted no time freeing himself from his garments and strode towards the bed, where he situated himself over you, caging in your small frame like a hungry animal about to enjoy the spoils of its hunt.

You gulped at the sight of his enormous cock, as it bobbed angrily against his stomach, covered in the same ridges that decorated the rest of his body, the tip weeping with the evidence of his primal desire. For you.

"These pretty silks have got to go," he rasped against your ear, his breath somehow both hot and cold.

He roughly grabbed the fine fabric and you winced as you heard him rip it to shreds as easily as if your dress was made of flower petals from the garden.

Within seconds, you were bare before him, and his ravenous gaze lazily roamed over your body, savoring every dip and every curve like the sight of you alone could sate him.

Even though that couldn't be further from the truth.

When he decided that his eyes had had their fill, he brought two fingers up to prod against your lips, his gaze meeting yours, daring you to defy him.

But you didn't dare.

You submissively parted your lips and wrapped your mouth around his fingers, astonished at how much your mouth had to stretch just to accommodate them. A wicked smile tugged at his lips as your tongue danced over his digits, preparing them for exploration of another warm, wet hole.

A gasp escaped your lips as his fingers were abruptly pulled from your mouth and pushed inside your weeping cunt. They pumped and stretched you almost as much as his normal cock would, and you shuddered at the thought of what was to come.

The nerves melted away though, as his thumb found your clit and worked the sensitive nub in sweeping circles, pleasure taking over your senses and lulling you into a state of calm.

"Loki..." you whispered softly between your whimpers and pants.

He growled in response, withdrawing his fingers from your soaked pussy and wrapping his hand around your thigh, forcing your legs open as wide as they would go.

Before you had a chance to adjust to the new position, his huge cock was at your slick entrance and he thrust forward, forcing as much of himself inside you as he could, his girth stretching your walls and the tip pushing against your cervix. The sudden intrusion took your breath away, and the stinging pain you felt caused unshed tears to well in your eyes. The coldness of his skin only heightened the sensations, forcing your mouth open in a silent scream as he claimed you.

You loved him. You wanted this. You silently reminded yourself as a large blue hand found your throat once again and wrapped around tightly.

A feral moan left his lips as he began to rut into you roughly. Pushing himself in as far as your body would allow. Over and over. Chasing his own pleasure without regard for your own.

"So warm... So tight... You take me so well, pet." He grunted between thrusts. "You're mine."

You couldn't help the fresh pool of arousal that gushed between your legs in response to his words. Even as he wrecked your body and used it like a toy, you loved nothing more than being his.

His rhythm became sloppy and you knew he was close.

With a wild growl, he pulled out of you and violently flipped you over onto your stomach. You were thankful you were on the mattress and not on the floor in that moment.

His large hands dug into your hips, pulling them upwards and angling you so that he could sink himself once again into your tight cunt. You turned your head to the side, gasping for air between shameless moans as he pounded into you from behind like an animal.

It didn't take long for him to reach his peak; he let out a primal roar as he came, pumping you full of his seed. You felt it leaking out of you, dripping down your inner thighs as he continued to shallowly thrust into you while he rode out his high.

And that was the last thing you remembered before darkness blurred the edges of your vision and you succumbed to exhaustion, your body limp and spent.

Later, when you came to, you wiggled your fingers and toes first and slowly worked your way to moving each limb, assessing the soreness. There was an undeniable ache, but nothing you couldn't manage. You sat up in the bed and looked around the room, searching for Loki. Your eyes settled upon his familiar Asgardian form, huddled on the chair in the corner, as if he was putting as much distance as possible between the two of you without leaving you alone. His eyes were red, but not because of his Jotun blood. Because he had been crying.

"Loki, what's wrong?!" you frantically asked.

When he realized you were awake, he rushed to your side. "What's wrong? Love, look at what I've done to you!" He gestured to your body, to the bruises on your inner thighs, your hips, your wrists, your neck. He pointed to the mess between your thighs, to the bit of blood that was on the sheets between your legs. "I'm a monster. A vile, disgusting creature. I should have never let you do this!"

He looked away from you, ashamed.

You reached for his hand, in an effort to reassure him. "Loki, I wanted this. I wanted to help you. I insisted." Your thumb stroked the back of his hand in soothing circles, willing him to believe that you were okay. "And look! It worked. Your heat lasted only a few hours instead of weeks!"

"But at what cost?" He muttered, without meeting your gaze.

"I am your wife. We are a team, in everything. I vowed to be there for you and to love you no matter what, for better or for worse. A few bruises and some soreness are a small price to pay once a year if it means my husband isn't in agony for weeks at a time."

He sheepishly met your gaze then, peering up at you from under his eyelashes.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered softly.

"Yes you do. Because you are the most amazing person I know," you smiled easily as you said it. "Now, I did say we are a team, so if you're done sulking, I do believe it is your turn to do your part. Don't you have some magic healing powers that could soothe some of my aches, or am I misremembering?"

Now it was his turn to smile at you. He got to work straight away, a blanket of green seidr engulfing your body and buzzing through you, soothing away the worst of your residual pain. Then he spent the day spoiling you, running you a hot bath with your favorite rose scented bath oil, pampering you with a massage, and waiting on you hand and foot.

"Darling?"

"Yes, Loki?"

A wolfish grin crept across his lips. "When you've had a day or two to recover, I intend to make last night up to you, tenfold. To drown you in so much pleasure that the only word you'll remember is my name as it falls from your lips like a mantra."

You met his grin with your own cheeky smile. "And I intend to hold you to that, Laufeyson."

His lips met yours, then, in a passionate kiss; one that conveyed all the love and adoration he held for you. Your lover. Your husband. Your everything.

Spring was definitely your favorite season.

Tagging some lovely people who might be interested. No worries though if not, of course! @lokisgoodgirl @muddyorbsblr @mochie85 @cheekyscamp @give-me-a-moose @sarahscribbles @gigglingtigger @ladyofthestayingpower @mischief2sarawr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @wheredafandomat @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @loopsreacts @maple-seed @fictive-sl0th @coldnique @thomase1 @peachyjinx @superficialdomina @peaches1958 @evelyn-kingsley @simplyholl @tallseaweed @cake-writes @tripleyeeet @lokiandbuckysdoll @vbecker10 @lovelysizzlingbluebird

#rolling into spring writing challenge #beanie's double trouble sleepover #beanie's sleepover #spring writing challenge #milestone sleepover #loki #loki laufeyson #jotun loki #jotun loki x reader #loki x reader #loki x you #loki smut #loki imagine #loki fic

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javiscigarette · 12 days

Text

Emergency Contact

Frankie Morales x f!reader

Summary: Frankie gets in trouble and this is the last time you're helping him. At least that's what you tell yourself.

Warnings: angst, smut, post break up, mentions of drug/alchol use/abuse, military ptsd, frankie on a downward spiral and needs to get his shit together, emotional smut because I had to, fingering, oral (f receiving), creampie, frankie is literally this emoji -> 🥺 the whole time

w/c: 6.8K

a/n: part of @iamasaddie writing challenge 2.0!!! I picked puppy eyes brown and my genre was angst with the prompt: "Tell me how to fix this." And guys listen. I literally never write angst I’m such a softy but I tried my best with this okay! and I obviously had to include some smut I just couldn't resist hehehe. Also thank u to my baby love @undrthelights for finding theses pics and for everything else you do :) enjoy!

my masterlist

You should scream at him, yell at him. Tell him to get the fuck out, fight him tooth and nail to prevent him from worming his way back into your heart, to avoid anymore pain. But then he’s against you, his chest flush against your back, legs tangling together under the blankets. He slips an arm around your waist, the other underneath you, pulling you against him tighter as he nuzzles into your neck, burying his face into your hair and takes a deep breath. “Just one more night" he whispers. "Please. Just let me have one more night."

The vibrations of your phone buzzing on your nightstand pulls you from a deep slumber, your heart is already pounding at the sudden noise, the rest of your body slow and sluggish as you try to gain your bearings.

You paw for your phone, squinting at the brightness of the screen when you find it. A call from a number you don't recognize. You debate letting it go to voicemail but the area code is local and that makes you pick up, a raspy Hello? leaving your mouth as you roll over in bed, glancing at the clock.

2:13 am.

The sound of your name crackles down the line, the immediately recognizable voice causing your heart to plummet to your ass.

"Frankie?" You ask, sleep quickly leaving you as tension takes its place.

"...Yeah, sorry, I…I didn't know who else to call." His voice is frail and pinched.

You don't have to ask him what's wrong, your brain already piecing the puzzle together You've been in this exact position before. The anger is already starting to creep in, your brow furrowed and stomach twisting as a familiar rage blooms in your chest.

"You couldn't have called anyone else?"

You know the answer is no. The rest of the boys are on a mission, leaving him behind after he failed on his promise to stay clean for long enough to get cleared to go. And now, you’ve fallen victim to that decision too,being the only person left to call whenever he finds himself without a leg to stand on. Frankie in trouble, you bailing him out. Just like normal.

"I'm sorry I didn't want to bother you I just..." he takes a deep breath and sighs. "I'm at the station on Oak street. Can you maybe... pick me up?"

You close your eyes and take a moment to compose yourself and reign in the anger at the way he's gotten under your skin already.

"What did you do this time, Frankie?"

He's quiet for a second before he finally says, "DUI. And um, slightly resisting arrest? It’s uh, it’s my first one and I didn’t blow too high so they’re letting me go as long as I show up for court in a few days."

His voice is soft but you can hear him fighting back emotion, his voice cracking and straining under the pressure. the sound eliciting sympathy you desperately wish you didn't feel.

"Jesus, Frankie," you sigh, defeated already.

It shouldn't even faze you at this point. It should be expected given the path he's fallen down since his return home from their last mission 3 months ago. The Frankie you knew before he left had been a steady force. Protective, headstrong but soft in his demeanor, so sweet and full of love. The man now standing in his shoes still holds some traits of that Frankie, but they've all been scarred and tainted with his fall from grace.

Memories of the nights spent tucked in his bed, his arms around you, his hands buried in your hair come flooding back like they usually do. The sound of his laugh, the feel of the downy hairs on his forearm pressed against your skin and the steady thrum of his pulse under his jaw as you placed kisses against his neck. The words you would speak softly to one another in the early hours of the morning, secrets only shared with each other under the protection of black velvet night sky.

All of it traded for bitter resentment and anger towards a version of the man that was ripped away from you.

When he was gone, you’d sleep in his shirts and on his pillow, clinging to the faded scent of his cologne as your brain conjured up ghost touches from his fingertips. Dreaming of the day that he'd come home, how he might touch you, and kiss you, the taste of his lips and the feel of his skin on yours. A reunion so deeply desired that the day after he returned was a sharp double edged sword - a blessing, and a curse. The Frankie that walked back in your life was broken, smothered with the weight of the innocent lives on his hands.

Warmth and tenderness traded for stony silence. Nights now spent at the bar, warming himself up with vodka instead of your embrace. Fights ending in harsh words and raised voices as he stubbornly dug his heels in deep, too ashamed to admit he needed help. Staying out late with no warning and coming back at dawn smelling of smoke, weed, and liquor. You are always wondering where he went, who he was with, if he was safe, or if he’d found someone else to soothe the pain.

Then the coke. An old habit that was kicked to the curb in his earlier years now back with a vengeance. Your ultimatum quickly following.

This or you.

A choice you prayed he'd be strong enough to make, but was clearly not.

And now here you are. Two months since you walked away, trying to convince yourself it was for the best. The majority of the last two months of his life is a mystery to you, which you've accepted is probably for the better.

"I know," he finally replies. "I'm so sorry baby, you know I..."

You can almost hear the way his jaw snaps shut, three words catching on his tongue. You don't need to ask to know what the next words are. Tonight was not the first time he's tried to use them in a vain attempt to patch up a crack in the foundation of your crumbling relationship.

There’s nothing but silence on the line as a war wages within you. Part of you wants to believe that he’s the selfish, careless man that he’s recently proven himself to be. But your heart whispers in your ear a softer notion. He's scared. Fragile. Battered. Embarrassed. Alone.

With a heavy sigh, you run your hand down your face in a feeble attempt to wipe away some of the grogginess clinging to you.

"I'll be there in 20," you say.

There's a pause before he speaks, "Really?"

Always an air of disbelief.

"Yes. But this is the last time I'm doing this Frankie, I mean it,"

"I know, I... thank you."

You don't bother to reply, simply hanging up the phone as the heaviness of this final gesture sets in. The gravity of the situation, of the line you're about to cross, already threatening to consume you.

This will, without a shadow of a doubt, be the last time you show up to save Frankie’s ass.

At least that’s what you tell yourself. Just like you told yourself the last time this happened and the time before that. But this time will be different. You'll set new boundaries. That's it, just ride this storm one final time and be done.

You know it’s a lie, one you desperately want to believe it.

___

He’s standing outside the doors of the small station, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, wisps of smoke rising and dissipating in the still night air. He looks up as he hears the engine of your car approaching, the red glow of his cigarette temporarily highlighting the deep frown on his lips as he takes one last drag before he flicks the butt aside and heads your way.

The anxiety radiating off of him is tangible as he drops into the passenger's seat, gently shutting the door and peering at you with wide puppy dog eyes full of shame. You don't look at him, focusing on backing out of the parking spot before pulling onto the road.

He picks at the skin around his thumb and bounces his leg, his jaw tight. You wonder how long he’s been at the station. How long he’s been sober. You’re still not sure if he entirely is right now.

Most of the ride is silent save for the hum of your engine and the clicks of your turn signal. His eyes never leave you, he can feel him boring a hole in your profile, trying to catch your eye as you watch the road.

"What?" you finally snap.

"Nothing, just...I was wondering if I could stay with you tonight. I can sleep on the couch, I…I don’t really want to be alone right now" he speaks so softly it makes your stomach lurch.

"Absolutely not."

"Please? I'll leave early in the morning, by the time you wake up I'll be long gone."

The rage is back, glowing red hot in your chest, fingernails digging into the leather of the steering wheel, your knuckles white and tense. How fucking dare he ask.

"Absolutely. Fucking. Not," your grit your teeth with each word, biting off the end of the sentence with a sharp finality.

"Right. Okay."

Silence takes over once again, your heart slamming against your chest, heat crawling up your neck as your cheeks grow red and damp. No. No. Absolutely fucking not. Absolutely not.

Frankie leans his head back against the headrest and rolls it to the side to watch you again. You can feel the disappointment radiating off him, hear him sniffling, his eyes, big and glassy, pleading when you glance over at him.

It would be a lie to tell yourself that your “plan” isn't already halfway out the window as your jaw clenches and your gaze ping pongs between the road ahead and the man beside you. Deep in the darkness of your soul you know that with Frankie is where your comfort lies. It’s tucked in the space between his ribs, squished alongside his heart and lungs, running the length of his spine and settling between each vertebrae. You worry you may never be able to completely dislodge it, unsure if it would ever fit anywhere else in any other person.

Maybe it would be easier if Frankie didn't fill up the cracks in your heart with the fractured parts of his. If he didn't take up room in your brain that's not his to own, if he didn’t crawl under your skin and take root into your DNA. Now every cell in your body knows what it feels like to be next to him, now programmed to cry out for his presence when he isn’t near.

And it’s no different now. He’s here, looking so pathetic it’s almost laughable, staring at you with tears sliding down his cheeks that glisten in the glow of the headlights passing you by. Crying over something that’s entirely his fault. You should be the one crying right now. Not him.

So you do.

Hot angry tears spilling over your lash line. Though you can’t decide who you’re more upset with. The man who drank himself out of your life, or yourself for falling for him once again in spite of it all. Either way, it’s not enough to convince yourself to stay firm in your decision.

Fucking pathetic. Both of you.

“You’re out first thing in the morning and then I’m done Frankie. I fucking mean it this time, we can't keep doing this to each other."

“Okay. I promise baby, I will. First thing, I promise." He replies quietly.

Your hand flinches with the urge to reach over and slap him for calling you baby. But instead, you clench your jaw and you shake your head at him.

"Don’t call me that, Frankie."

He quickly nods his head in understanding, his eyes again facing forward as he wipes away the wetness from his cheeks, watching the road the rest of the way to your house.

—

Neither of you move once the car is parked in your driveway. The silence is heavy, cut only by the tick of the engine slowly cooling once you remove the keys from the ignition. You chance a look at him and find him picking at his thumb once more, his face red, his eyes soft and timid when they meet yours.

“Tell me what happened, Frankie?”

You ask even though you don’t really want to know.

Frankie sucks in a breath and scrubs a hand down his face.

"I got into a fight at the bar, got kicked out, made the dumb fucking decision to try and drive home and...now I'm here," he laughs mirthlessly as he waves his hands as a vague gesture to you, your house, his current situation. You can't tell if he's telling you the whole story, his answer simple and devoid of context. The context you’re sure wouldn't be good for you to know.

“You could’ve killed someone, Frankie. yourself included,” you say after a few beats, your voice comes out sharp, frustration bleeding in each syllable.

He slowly nods as huffs out a breath.

"I know... it was stupid, and I was an idiot I...shit I was really careless and not thinking straight I’m sorry. I'm really sorry I-"

"I mean seriously Frankie,” you snap, cutting him off. “Do you ever, I mean ever, think about anyone but yourself? Or has it genuinely never crossed your mind that your shit might possibly affect the people around you?"

Frankie opens his mouth, eyebrows furrowed as he's about to respond. You don’t give him a chance to.

"How many more times are you going to take advantage of me, make me look like a fucking dumbass always showing up to rescue you? Why am I always the one covering for you, taking your crap, cleaning up your messes, only to have you throw it right back in my fucking face, every single time!"

Your voice cracks at the end of your sentence, chest heaving with each word that flies from your mouth. Two months worth of bitterness bubbling up from deep down, spilling over and cascading down your face in the form of frustrated tears.

"When did you become so fucking selfish, Francisco?!"

Hearing his full name fall from your lips spurs Frankie on, the last of his shards of resolve flying away as his walls come down.

"I don't fucking know okay?! I don't fucking know!" You flinch at the rise in his voice and his tone stings. But it's how quickly he follows up with a softer, feeble excuse that adds fuel to the fire, "I'm doing the best I can."

That does it for you. Hot searing molten rage pulses under the skin of your face, the tips of your ears hot with blood.

"Doing the best you can? The best you fucking can, Frankie? Fucking bullshit! Getting into bar fights, spending all your money on booze and blow, losing your fucking pilot license because you were too coked up to see straight? Was losing your driver's license just putting your best foot forward? Throwing your whole life away just because you refuse to get clean? Is that really the best you can do?"

You pause and swallow, giving Frankie a second to take it all in, letting him process the onslaught of scalding truths you've thrown at him, before you quietly continue,

"I can't keep doing this, Frankie. I just can't."

He sniffs and shakes his head in what appears to be defeat, his gaze fixed on his hands folded in his lap.

“I know...fuck. I know I’ve fucked up alright? I know that. I just don't know how to fix this," he admits quietly, his wide eyes watching you helplessly. “Tell me how. Tell me how I can fix this. Please."

You bark out a laugh, sarcastic and cynical.

"Are you serious right now? What do you mean you don’t know what to do? How many times did I help you try to find a therapist, try to get you into a program? How many times did I suggest AA? Don't fucking tell me you don't know what to do because you do."

He nods, shifting around in the seat, sniffling yet again as he looks back at you. "Okay, okay. I get it, okay? But what can I do right now? To fix this at least for tonight?"

You sigh, deep and heavy, your entire body now just exhausted. You half wish he would put up more of a fight, call you a bitch, snap back at you for going off on him. Maybe it’d make it easier for you to let him go. But instead, he looks at you with desperate eyes and you can feel your resolve crumbling once again.

"Just forget it, Frankie.”

But he won’t give up that easily. The man is persistent, you’ll give him that.

"I'm serious. Tell me what I need to do right now to fix this. What can I do to show you how sorry I am?"

You stare back at him, jaw clenched, biting back the next words you were about to speak. They die on the edge of your tongue. You know the answer is.

Not a single damn thing.

"Look, I'll try harder, I fucking promise alright?” His tone becomes more frantic as your silence stretches on. “I’ll fucking try harder, please just...please," Frankie pleads, more tears welling in his eyes.

Your throat is tight, your head spinning and aching as your blood roars in your ears. He's already taken enough, stealing more would simply be the end of you. Giving in now would mean you've swallowed the bait, falling hook line and sinker into his trap, stepping back onto the slippery slope you've fought so hard to escape. And for what? More heartache, more bullshit excuses, more fighting, more pain?

But one glance into his wide-eyed, watery gaze and you know he's got you. Again. Faster than you can tell your mind no, your heart, foolish and hopeful, speaks for you instead.

"Lets just get some sleep, okay? It's late. We can...we can figure it out tomorrow."

"Thank you," he whispers immediately, relief coming off of him in waves. "I really mean it, I-thank you, I promise I’ll—“

“Can we not talk anymore Frankie? I just wanna go to sleep."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, let’s go."

There's nothing left to say, washing over the two of you as you make your way inside. You give him a towel and dig up some of his old clothes that live in the back of your closet from when he was here almost every night. You're back in bed before he’s done with his shower, tucked underneath the covers with your face pressed against your pillow, the silk fabric soaking up your tears of sadness and frustration.

The water shuts off and you can hear him getting settled in the living room. A pillow being fluffed, the creak of the couch when he sits.

And then soft footsteps on the hardwood 5 minutes later, padding their way into your room.

He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t bother speaking either. He just simply creaks open the door and walks over to the other side of the bed, peeling back the covers before slipping into bed beside you.

You should scream at him, yell at him. Tell him to get the fuck out, fight him tooth and nail to prevent him from worming his way back into your heart, to avoid anymore pain.

But then he’s against you, his chest flush against your back, legs tangling together under the blankets. He slips an arm around your waist, the other underneath you, pulling you against him tighter as he nuzzles into your neck, burying his face into your hair and takes a deep breath.

“Just one more night" he whispers. "Please. Just let me have one more night."

You don’t have any fight left in you. Because at the end of the day, a night spent wrapped up in his arms, inhaling his scent, touching his skin and his beating heart is worth a thousand fights. And a million shattered dreams.

You don’t answer him, but you don’t tell him to leave either. Instead, you block out any looming thoughts, the impending worry of where this could go, or how bad the damage will be. For now, you chose to focus on the rise and fall of Frankie's breath against your skin, the way you fit so perfectly into his arms.

One more night.

Frankie presses a kiss into the back of your neck, repeating his previous sentiment in a rough scratchy whisper, "Just one more."

And you listen to it resonate, bouncing around the walls in your head and tickling the space behind your eardrums.

Inhale

Exhale.

You should want to fight.

But instead, your body melts his, molding your bones and flesh against his, fitting into all the creases and gaps that have been carved out and reserved just for you.Trying to forget, to bury this pain as deep as possible,. Just for tonight.

He waits a few more minutes, waiting until your breathing levels out with his before he makes his next move. His fingers trace mindless patterns on the skin of your stomach, goosebumps erupting under his fingertips, rippling outwards like a rock being tossed in a pond. He leans in once more, slowly dragging his nose up the length of your neck and curling his lip to press another kiss behind your ear. Then another.

And then another, this time lingering as he sucks softly on your skin.

Inhale.

You close your eyes, hoping for anything but this, yet feeling the sting of arousal spark below your skin.

And exhale.

You’re better than this. You won’t stoop down to his level, you won’t let him chew you up and spit you out again.

But fuck, his lips are soft and warm, so is the breath as he exhales against your neck, lightly swiping his tongue and soothing the faint red mark he left behind with a small little hum.

“Frankie..." You warn, albeit much more breathless and weak than you would have liked.

“Tell me to stop and I will," he murmurs, his beard gently grazing your sensitive skin, causing your toes to curl.

You take another deep breath, but this one is shaky, as you can't help but tighten your grip around his hand, squeezing his fingers as you lean your neck to the side, exposing more of your soft skin to him.

Dead in his trap. Caught so fucking easily. Pathetic.

But if his teeth and lips and tongue and soft, gentle touches are how you go down, then so fucking be it.

He hums his appreciation against your skin, scraping his teeth down to your shoulder, latching his mouth on a spot and sucking harder. Strong, callused fingers continue exploring, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, waiting for you to give him permission.

He rolls his hips forward against your ass and you bite your lip to stifle the whimper at how hard he is against you, his soft grunts in your ear traveling straight between your legs and fanning the flames building.

Then suddenly, he's sliding his hand up your shirt, squeezing your waist and traipsing over your chest until he’s cradling the weight of your breast in his palm, his thumb slowly brushing over your peaked nipple, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to moan out loud.

A small gasp escapes you instead, your fingernails digging into the back of his hand.

"Frankie."

This time not a warning. It’s a plea. A desperate, burning want that you should be ashamed of.

He murmurs into the shell of your ear then, his tone is deep and scratchy.

“I miss you...I need you, baby. Just tell me to stop if you want. But I... fuck I miss you so much."

You don't tell him to stop.

You roll your hips back instinctively, a warm wave of arousal washing over you at the feeling Frankie's hardened length pressed firmly against your ass. He grunts in satisfaction as his palm slides from your chest and up your throat to your jaw. His grip is gentle as he turns your head to face him, his lips against yours without missing a beat.

It’s too easy to fall right back into him, back into the practiced, very well rehearsed routine. To let him glide his tongue along the seam of your lips and coax them open so he can lick into your mouth, getting the taste of his tongue stuck behind your teeth. Too easy to let him remind you just how easily you fit in the palm of his hand, how tightly you’re wound around his finger.

He kisses you fervently, desperately almost, lips and tongue moving against yours as though he’s trying to devour you whole, just like he used to. He’s been starving for too long.But right now, he's finally found nourishment, the feeling of your body under his hands and the taste of you on his tongue feeding his soul. Wanting more. Always more, entirely unable to help himself.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he murmurs, his mouth half a centimeter away from yours. “Let me make you feel good baby, please.”

As if you could say no.

As if you even wanted to.

He pushes his leg between yours, thick, firm muscle under warm skin pressing against your clothed core and you answer him with a roll of your hips, seeking out any sort of friction you can.

It takes less than half a second for him to have you flipped over on your back. When Frankie truly wants something, he does it quickly and efficiently.

He moves above you, licking and kissing a trail down your neck. He makes his way down your body, greedily nipping at the skin stretched over your collarbones. He swirls his tongue over each nipple, only moving on when he’s satisfied. He presses wet, open mouthed kisses to your ribs and your tummy just above your navel, his beard tickling skin, making it twitch under his mouth.

Your body is cooperating far more than it should, your hips lifting up instinctually when he hooks his fingers into the elastic of your panties, your thighs automatically parting further, and your hands migrating to his head. Your fingers tangle in his soft curl, your nails softly scratching his scalp just like you know he likes.

And when his tongue drags up your thigh you have to sink your teeth into your bottom lip to stop the reactive moan. But your back arches with pleasure anyway, the last bit of your resolve evaporating into thin air as you give into him freely.

His hands burn hot where they smooth over your skin, a comforting weight and a familiar drag of calloused palms fueling the fire and tightening the coil in your stomach.

“Missed you so much,” he whispers, his breath fanning over your pussy before you feel the first stroke of his flat tongue up through your center.

This time, you're not strong enough to hold back the breathless mewl that leaves your mouth. You immediately push down on his head while simultaneously canting your hips upward, needing more friction, dying for more of everything he's willing to offer. He slides his arms underneath you and hooks his hand over your hip bones, holding you down and keeping you in place as he tries to find salvation between your thighs.

Heavy breaths through his nose as he uses his mouth, lips and tongue working in tandem to take you apart. Lapping and sucking at your clit while his fingertips nudge at your entrance, dipping just enough to tease, waiting until he hears the high pitched whimpers that he's after.

And when you've reached that level of desperation he wants from you, whimpering and panting, he slowly dips a finger in.

He moans along with you as though he's the one experiencing the pleasure. He's always gotten off on this almost just as much as you. The warm, slick slide of his fingers in and out of you, how you gush on his tongue, your thighs trembling on either side of his head, the tingle of his scalp when you tug on his hair.

More addictive than any substance he's ever found solace in.

And against your better knowledge, you're more than happy to indulge him, let him chase the high you give him and let yourself drown in it as well.

Your back arches off the bed as he adds another finger, grunting into you and thrusting faster as you tighten and flutter around them. He finds the spot he's looking for with practiced ease, whimpering into you and groaning along with you as he drags his fingers back and forth along the spot that has you bucking your hips into his hand.

He knows how to get you there. Knows how to do it fast. And right now, that's what he wants. He's craved it too long, spent far too many nights with his hand wrapped around his leaking cock your name on the tip of his tongue as he fucked up into his own hand. He wants to hear you fall apart again, feel you coming on his tongue, your walls clenching as they try to suck his fingers in deeper. Wantsto know that he hasn't ruined absolutely everything between the two of you.

"Come on baby, lemme feel you,” he urges, voice deep and rough as he brings you to the edge. His mouth, licking and sucking at your clit, works in perfect rhythm with his fingers, sliding in and out, crooking them at the exact angle and speed he knows will get you there.

"Please, Frankie...need to– fuck, I'm..." Coherent words evade you as he works you towards your peak, your breath stuttering as you struggle to keep air in your lungs. Your grip tightens in his hair, tugging roughly in an effort to ground yourself as the wave of euphoria starts to crest, the undercurrent pulling you down.

Frankie growls in approval as you tighten around his fingers, all your muscles tensing as the sensation crashes into you. Your mind and body shut off and float into that sweet state of oblivion as Frankie's name falls from your lips, mixed in with a litany of profanity and slurs and choked back moans. He doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down until you're yanking on his hair hard enough for it to hurt, trying to wiggle away from his touch.

Frankie raises his head up and locks eyes with you, the tip of his nose, beard, and cheeks shiny with your arousal as he looks up at you through his dark, heavy lidded lashes.

"Want you so bad," he sighs, breathless and needy, crawling up your body and resting his weight on his elbows on either side of your head. He kisses you again, soft and sweet as if he has the right, tasting yourself on his tongue.

You whimper into the kiss and hook a leg over his hip to pull his hips towards you. His cock strains almost painfully in his boxers when he grinds it against you, your warm arousal dampening the front of the fabric.

"Gonna let me baby?" He rasps when he moves to your neck, his teeth scraping sensitive flesh.

You both already know he's won. You're not even putting up a fight at this point, any dignity you thought you had left totally abandoned the moment you picked up the phone. But he asks anyway, needing the verbal affirmation, needing the confirmation that you want him as badly as he needs you.

And you can't lie.You're both equally weak and vulnerable. Two pathetic, heartbroken creatures chasing a temporary relief. A small glimmer of something to make the pain more bearable, something to fill the hole for the briefest amount of time.

You both know. And neither of you care.

No response to his question. Instead, you push up the hem of his shirt up and he does the rest, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the floor before he hooks a thumb underneath the waistband of his boxers and tugs them down his hips and off his legs.

Your hand finds his cock and he hisses at the contact, his hips shuddering as he pushes forward into your grip. You swear he's thicker and longer than before, heavier and hotter where you hold him. Your thumb brushes over the tip, spreading the pearls of pre cum around, coating the rest of his length to ease your glide. Frankie's mouth finds your neck again, tongue and lips tasting and teasing, his shaky breath in your ear.

You try to push up onto your elbows in an effort to roll him over, wanting to take over. But a palm finds your chest, gently pushing you back down until your flat against the bed again.

"Wanna look at you," he says simply, as he pushes his length into the palm of your hand once more before sliding out.

He lets his length rest against your sensitive clit and gently rocks his hips, slicking himself with the mess between your legs, sighing whenever you gasp each time his tip nudges at your clit.

"Please..." you whisper, feeling pathetic and needy, but at this point too desperate to care.

And he’s equally impatient, not waiting another moment before lining himself up and slowly pushing in.

You tense at the initial intrusion, not having been with anyone in far too long and the feeling is almost overwhelming. You're trying to remember how to breathe again as you let your head fall to the side, trying to hide from his intense stare. But Frankie's there, using a gentle finger to tilt your face back up towards him as his hips moving at an agonizingly slow pace to let you adjust.

"That's it baby. Look at me."

And you do, the heat in your belly burning brighter with his eyes boring into yours as he witnesses your surrender to him. Your heart aches, still raw and tender and in pain from all the hurt that's transpired. But you ignore it and tell yourself the tears in your eyes aren't a result of a broken heart, but rather of how full you feel as Frankie's length finally bottoms out in you.

"Fuck..." You both curse under your breath as he stills for a moment, letting you adjust before he starts to move his hips. You cling to his broad shoulders as he pulls out of you, his eyes glued to where you’re joined, his thick cock slick and shiny with your arousal before he slides back in again with a quiet groan. He repeats the motions over and over watching as he pulls out almost completely before pushing back in, stuffing you to the hilt.

"Shit,” he hisses under his breath, his eyelashes fluttering when you clench in response. “You feel so good baby, fuck."

He buries his face into your neck, panting and pressing soft kisses as his pace starts to speed up. The soft grunts in your ear turn into more desperate moans when you lock your legs around his waist, pulling him, trying to get him even deeper than he already is.

Your fingernails dig into the skin of his shoulders, holding on for dear life, hoping that you’ll leave half crescent moon shapes embedded into his flesh. A painfull reminder for the morning that you were here and this was real, despite the circumstances.

His hands slide under your ass, angling it upwards to let him hit just that little bit deeper inside, pushing the air from your lungs with each thrust. The muscles in his forearms flex and strain as he tries to hold back, always making sure you finish before he does.

And he doesn't have to wait much longer. Your orgasm is creeping up and taking over your body and Frankie can sense it. He knows exactly what to look for, knows all the signs.

One hand moves to reach between the two of you two fingertips pressed against your pulsing clit, drawing fast, tight circles just like you like it. Your grip on his shoulder tightens, your nails digging into the skin and dragging down his back as his thrusts become more erratic.

"Keep lookin' at me," he grunts and you struggle to keep your eyes open. They sting, the image of him above you starting to blur around the edges as he drives you closer and closer to your release.

"That's it, baby. Lemme see it, lemme see you come on my cock."

He doesn't have to tell you twice.

You come undone again just like that, dizziness spreading and heart hammering in your chest as you sob out, pleasure consuming you from within. He fucks you through it, not giving you a chance to catch your breath, as he curses and rambles in your ear about how he's missed this, how he's missed you.

You've barely started to come down when he grabs one of your legs behind your knee and pushes it into your chest, letting himself sink even deeper into you. The new angle has your head spinning, drowning in an unparalleled amount of pleasure. Your eyes flutter and roll back in your head as you whimper his name, fingers curling into the pillow above your head.

He doesn't last much longer, breathless moans and strangled whimpers into your neck as he gives you the last few sloppy thrusts. He's almost there, and when he tries to pull out, it's the way your leg tightens around his waste and your needy whine that sends him over the edge, groaning and cursing with his face in the crook of your neck as he spills himself into you.

His cock pulses inside you with every wave, his hips chasing his release, tiny jerks as he empties into you. He stills, his heavy breathing in your ear, his weight resting on you, heavy but grounding, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin.

Once the room stops spinning and the stars clear from behind your eyes, you drop your legs. With a shaky sigh, Frankie starts to pull out, both of you groaning in protest as he slips out.

His cum leaks out of you, quickly pooling between your thighs no matter how hard you squeeze your legs together. And when he catches sight of it, it makes your face burn. At the mere sight of his sticky, warm release spilling out of you, mixing with your own, Frankie swears he could go another round right then. Something about knowing he marked his territory, his claim on you established once again. He looks up at you, your eyes closed, forehead creased, and he has to dig his nails into his palm to keep from dragging his fingers through the cum leaking out of you and pushing it back in, keeping it where it should be.

But the weight of reality is starting to press on him once again, the fear and shame from earlier taking root again and tugging at his stomach and pulling him out of the euphoria.

He kisses your hip bone once before making his way to the bathroom for a wet washcloth. The room is silent as he cleans you up, wiping gently between your legs, both of you keeping your eyes on anything except each other's.

When he's done, he stands and moves to gather his clothes off the floor, tugging his boxers back on before heading towards the door. But your shaky, watery voice breaks the silence and freezes him where he stands.

"You're leaving?" You ask, voice squeaking at the end as you pull the sheet up to cover yourself, as if it would protect your heart when he ultimately breaks it again.

He turns to look at you, his heart aching in his chest from the innocent way you're looking at him. The way your eyebrows draw together, and your lips pull into a frown, the way your lower lip trembles as your eyes fill with tears.

"Can I stay?"

His voice is quiet, fragile, as if speaking any louder would scare you off, would cause you to start yelling at him again until you ultimately kick him to the curb for good.

He stares at you through the darkness of the room as you chew on your lip and try to grapple with the split decision you’re facing.

The logical part of your brain is screaming at you to say no and end this right here and now. But that part of your brain is buried and silenced underneath the heaviness in your heart. That desperate need to hang onto whatever's left. You swallow the lump in your throat and give in.

"Please," you plead softly. "Don't...don't want to be alone anymore."

A rush of air leaves his lungs as the pressure is released from his chest as he climbs back into bed beside you. Your head finds his chest, curled into his side and letting his arms wrap around you. His embrace is familiar, comforting, your safe space.

You count the steady beats of his heart in your ear as his blunt fingernail scrape lightly up and down your back, knowing it always soothes you. No words are spoken but the air between the two of you is thick, full of the things you both want to say, but neither of you speak.

Sleep wraps its tendrils around you once again, exhaustion settling in your bones. You welcome it fully, even though you know when you wake up, you'll have to face the reality of the situation once again.

You can only hope that he'll still be here in the morning to face it with you.

For now, you let yourself drown in the warmth of his embrace, pushing away all the other things that are gnawing at you and letting yourself relax in the arms of the man who broke your heart.

Just one more night.

Thank you for reading!! :))

#writing challenge 2.0 #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #triple frontier #triple frontier smut #triple frontier fic #pedro pascal characters

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