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#shy anon
ronearoundblindly · 7 months
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Your Dog, His Tricks
a Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader tale set a little over a year after losing their virginity together and based on this ask.
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Summary: Injured on a mission and MIA for days, you return to a very high-strung boyfriend who can't express what he's feeling until it boils to the surface.
Warnings: arguments and smut. MINORS DNI. WC 5.4k
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You don’t know when it started, this sort of competition with your boyfriend, but at some point you and Steve became a packaged deal. Unfortunately, that package was labeled: Steve Rogers and his girl. You feel nameless sometimes, and you know you are better than that; maybe you aren’t super like he is, but you are (and were since before dating) a whole-ass Avenger in your own right. You are a stellar agent. You can bring home the top prize. You can finish this shit-show of a mission all on your own.
No help.
None.
You noticed a problem after months and months of fighting with Steve—no, that sounds wrong—beside Steve. 
Okay, maybe it’s not wrong-wrong to say fighting with him because you two do have the occasional argument. Just one argument, really. One argument over and over again about you fighting beside him, why it’s fine, why he should let it go. You are as safe fighting beside him now as you were before the two of you became this set, this lop-sided partnership. He still wants to protect you from shit you are trained to protect yourself from, shit you survived just fine without him, shit like the last three days.
He’s stubborn, and so are you.
You’ve had trouble getting him to back off. The Team is a team, and Steve does great, delegating all sorts of jobs when you are one among many. As soon as it’s you and him alone? He’s…overly helpful, over-protective, and generally over-the-top fussy. He is adoring and caring and competent. Apparently, those things make him feel capable of doing everything for you. It’s sweet until it’s not. Every time you start a project—laundry, cooking, organizing shelves, or leading an actual mission—Steve waltzes in and has to finish it for you.
Because he loves you. Because he’s trying to help. Because he can.
It makes you feel as if you can’t, or, at least, as if he thinks you can’t.
“Well, buddy, you can’t have this one,” you mutter outside of HQ’s gate, gripping your side and flicking open the phone you stole a few states back.
You’ve been gone for just shy of seventy-three hours.
At first, you truly had no way to contact the Team. You were on your own a thousand miles from home, fried comms and a spent weapon. You missed the rendezvous at the safehouse because it took twenty or so hours to find a vet office with the supplies to patch yourself up, and by the time you could have reached out, that ear worm wouldn’t leave you alone.
He’ll swoop in.
He’ll save you.
You’re his girl, so you need him. You can’t handle this without him. No one will believe you did once he gets anywhere near you.
Call it adrenaline. Call it blood loss. Call it shock. You can’t give up this glory, so you told yourself you needed radio silence to keep the recovered intel secure until back on Avengers campus. You told yourself the risk of interception was too high to chance a phone call.
Now, fifty feet from the infirmary, you need to get past one more obstacle.
You know Steve would jump from a third-story window to get to you, know he would scoop you right up into his arms and carry you over the threshold, know that would mean Steve wins.
No. Not this time. This is yours. You deserve the credit. You are crossing that finish line solo.
You jab the last of the epi-pens into your good leg, letting yet more adrenaline heave through what little of your blood volume is left and call the HQ secure line from the burner.
“Friday,” you start, standing at the bus stop, a blindspot from the Avengers’ surveillance cameras because the city already monitors it, “authorization Gamma-Lima-Four-Whisky. Do not declare connection. I repeat, do not declare this connection.”
The AI welcomes you back onto the grid politely.
“Thank you.” A bubble of pain bursts in your throat. “Give them a different location for this call, ok? Tell them it’s from the nearest functional payphone.”
Friday does as you say because why wouldn’t she? It’s not as if Steve is going to pause to question where the ping is—
—and he’s already out, on the bike, pushing that engine to its acceleration limit and narrowly escaping a shoulder check from the slowly opening gates.
You sneak right past, knowing he won’t look in his rearview, not with his eye on a prize ten blocks away, and you collapse just inside the garage ramp.
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You wake prone in the Regeneration Cradle after surgery to a kind, smiling nurse monitoring your progress.
It’s difficult to focus. After a few blinks, you can see her features clearly, then beyond her are just eyes.
His eyes.
Piercing blue doesn’t begin to describe the intensity of Steve’s gaze, and his silence is deafening.
Each quarter-minute he inventories the room, and he exhales. That is the sum total of what he can manage to do right now. He’s attempting to keep it together until you two are alone obviously. Steve fails at very few things in life; this is one of them. You can see the outline of his teeth through his tight cheek.
“Doc wanted me to tell you you did a great job,” the nurse states softly. “If you hadn’t packed those wounds so tight, you’d have died for sure.”
Your mouth is too dry to respond, so you flash a wry smile. No one gets the Cradle without…extensive injuries. You’ve never had the ‘pleasure,’ not even for your through-and-through last year.
Steve huffs in frustration, keeping his huge body out of the nurse’s way even when you can feel him try to astral project himself forward to hand you ice chips. Instead, you swallow cotton.
“Captain Rogers,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes from above, “your motorcycle has been cited for running five red lights with a further two dozen traffic violations. Shall I claim Official Avengers’ business?”
You croak ‘no.’ He says ‘yes.’
There’s a pause. “I will ask again later.”
Who says AIs can’t throw some serious shade?
Silence descends again as the spindling print needle moves on to a different wound. You’re lucid but wobbly trying to think, a combination of the waning anesthesia and pain meds.
If frowns could kill, your boyfriend’s would devastate the entire med bay.
This is what you hoped beyond hope to avoid, but it’s also why your endgame involved going solo.
“You’re making my point for me,” you sigh, your chest hurting more after surgery than it has in the past twenty-four hours. Clearly, your nerves are back online.
“And what point was that?“ he asks sarcastically, waiting in your own stubborn silence. “You gave me a heart attack.”
“Really?” You’re playfully shocked.
“No, not really! God.” He rushes closer. “What the hell were you thinking? If you had time to send me on a wild goose chase, you could damn well have called to tell me you were alive!”
The cradle’s lights shut off, job complete.
“Language, Steve.” 
He looks incredulous, engrossingly livid, anxious outrage contained by his one frayed thread of control left. 
“We found the intel,” he grits through a clenched jaw. “After power-washing your blood off it, everything was on the drive.”
You can’t sit up on your elbows yet, so you bite back, “good. It all worked out fine then.”
Wafting off him in thick clouds, Steve’s anger is near-flammable in the small room.
The nurse offers to step out for a second.
You say ‘yes.’ Steve barks ‘no.’
This isn’t the nurse’s first rodeo. “Alright, surgery went well. All debris and fragments removed. Your tissue is all intact now, too, but remember, this treatment doesn’t train new muscle fiber or nerve-endings.” She ignores Steve and pushes past to the other end of the table. “Rest up. Tomorrow, you can report to PT. They’ll work with you until you’re field-approved again.”
“She is not—“
“Both of you are ordered to rest,” the nurse snaps, nodding in Steve’s direction “—and make yourself useful by changing her drip when it runs out. If you can’t manage that, Captain, I will find a separate apartment or keep her here overnight.”
“No,” Steve breathes, visibly deflating. Like a scolded puppy, your boyfriend tucks his chin down, rings of grey settling beneath his dark sea eyes. It’s plain as day he hasn’t slept either.
The nurse calls for a wheelchair, and Steve dutifully helps you scoot off the table when it arrives. While he positions the IV to move in tandem, you attempt to push yourself by the huge rubber wheels and fail. Doc was not kidding about muscle weakness.
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Steve says nothing.
You’re rolled back to your shared room by the grumpiest Captain America. 
He helps you dress in baggy, comfy clothes and silently reattaches the line of your drip. Not one touch is in a sexual, sensual, or even intimate way even though you are naked at some point.
You can’t remember what you expected; you’ve been so focused on completing the mission for so long. Did you want a desperate homecoming? Did you want him to grovel or worship at your feet? You think, at some point, you knew he’d push back, but you thought…maybe…he’d want you more.
Steve seems to turn his interest on and off so easily, which is great professionally but hard to read personally…or maybe you’re just struggling under the distracting hum of medication. It’s a white noise you can’t ignore, lulling you unconscious, so you can’t analyze the situation anymore. Maybe, you think, you try…but the thoughts don’t come.
He situates you on his side of the bed—to accommodate the cord and stand—and tucks himself quietly into the smallest corner of mattress that his bulk can fit on.
He falls asleep holding your hand. It’s the only place you two are connected. After nearly eighty-five hours apart, that’s still worth it. Maybe.
At some point, his hand goes limp and falls away.
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Finally clear of mind, you keep watching Steve the next day. He doesn’t necessarily seem angry, and he doesn’t necessarily seem relieved either. He’s so robotic in his interactions. He won’t talk to you just at you. 
You understand why he was so standoffish last night, but you thought Steve would surely want you after that. You thought he’d start touching you again. 
You two waited so long for your first time, but after that, sex was relatively easy. Steve is an affectionate man when he’s allowed, when he’s in love, and you know he loves you.
Like the nurse said: all your tissue is fully healed. The only restrictions you have are in regards to field work, and the phantom jolts of pain—when you reach into a cabinet or take down a clothes hanger—aren’t real. 
Steve’s always an arm’s length away, just in case, meaning he is there to help you.
Always an arm’s length away.
No closer. No farther.
That afternoon you attempt to start talking about your mission, but that’s when he moves.
Steve practically sprints out the door with a half-baked excuse, so you go to physical therapy alone. You can go alone. That’s not the problem.
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If you thought talking to Steve was difficult, you weren’t ready for how hard touching Steve would be.
You try to initiate even a cuddle that second night, and he jumps up claiming to have forgotten something somewhere else that he promised someone. Your boyfriend can’t lie worth beans. You don’t know why he tries.
You’re asleep before he returns.
The next night is exactly the opposite. You spend longer at the gym, slowly and painstakingly repeating every single exercise you know in order to streamline these new muscles. It’s an unholy pain in the ass, but you do it because you can—and will—get back in the field.
Even though the workout was mild, you’re awash with that runner’s high when you return to find Steve passed out already. He looks so peaceful, brow relaxed and lips gently parted. He also looks, well, good enough to eat, but you’ll start slow.
There was one time early on, before you two went all the way, that you woke him up by grinding on him in your sleep. You think now, perhaps, you can recreate that, catch him off-guard and dissipate some of this tension between you. This would be a good release. You don’t normally go this long. Obviously, Steve wouldn’t have masturbated while you were MIA and possibly dead, and every other second since has been accounted for.
He practically can’t have sex anywhere else except naked in a bed. He’s even told you, point blank, that he feels no need to touch himself since he has you. You are what he wants. That’s what he said.
Except he doesn’t wake up to your advances. He just rolls over like you’re disturbing him and softly snores.
For the first time, you wonder if you’ve really broken the two of you. How long will he be mad at you for doing your job? 
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Steve rolls back over in his sleep, holding you close like nothing’s happened. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, but it’s enough and so, so wonderful to imagine all is well.
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About a week into your ‘recovery’ (which is sorta bullshit since you can do everything the same by now just with an occasional, faint twinge, no more than the strain of every workout, ever), Steve takes Sam Wilson up on his offer of 1-on-1 basketball for a while. The Team—minus you—has a raid planned in the morning, and there’s always nervous energy to burn off in anticipation.
Your boyfriend has been a nightmare grump, but no one wants to take on the hassle of convincing Steve that he’s being too Steve to Steve properly. He still won’t talk to you about anything other than the weather, food, or daily schedules.
You’re even considering taking a break from field work because this all has become too much. If Steve is gonna shut down after every dangerous mission—which is, in fact, all of them—then maybe it’s not worth the risk. You’re good, you’re great, but you aren’t super.
“Taste of his own medicine, I say,” Bucky mutters, sitting beside you on the bleachers between courts.
“Huh?” You were distracted, watching Steve and Sam squeak across the floor.
Steve sinks a perfect layup and doesn’t gloat. Do-gooder.
“He used to get so mad when I’d find him in an alley all beaten up,” Buck continues. “Thought I was being too protective. I trusted him, but he was puny and he did get sick all the time. He could take a punch, sure, but every mark took weeks to heal. Half the time, they were still yellow when some idiot landed fresh ones.”
Steve claps beneath the net, encouraging Sam, focused on not outshining anyone.
He’s been the same with everyone else but you, and the whole Team can see it. You shouldn’t be surprised someone is finally talking about it; you simply wonder how Buck drew the short straw.
“Didn’t wanna be babied,” Bucky snorts, fondly glowering at his century-long bestie, “while low and behold, he pulls that stunt with everybody, every day.” 
“Yup,” you pop, looking at the matte metal beneath your feet, knowing there’s a line between the ‘caring’ version and the ‘coddling’ version. Steve nose-dived right over that line this time.
“What he appreciated, though, was consistency.” Bucky swivels his hair around into a bun and ties it. “Punk is dedicated, and even if it was just him--the hund’ed pound soaking-wet guy whose only real talent at that point was getting back on his feet--he knew he’d fight anyway.
“Bit hypocritical to be mad at his girl for doing the same, don’t ya think?” Bucky muses, clucking his tongue.
The brunette watches you bristle slightly at the moniker. His girl. Not only is it what got you into this mess, it feels untrue based on that big, broad, cold shoulder you’ve received from the man racing back and forth in front of you.
Smiling, Bucky nudges you with his elbow. “I’m excited for you to get back on your feet,” he adds.
You’re stuck thinking about that long after Bucky jumps into the game.
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It’s no surprise then that when the doctor gives you the all-clear the very next morning, you’re over the moon and ready to strike. You don’t hesitate for a second when the alarm sounds less than an hour later.
The Team needs reinforcements. Your Team needs you.
You hustle into the back of a quinjet with a dozen agents. While the others file out to where the main conflict is raging, you sneak around the perimeter to suss out the mission goal, a treasure trove of enemy tech hidden somewhere in what was thought to be an abandoned village.
Not so abandoned if it’s lighting up like the pyrotechnics show on an action film set...
The explosions rattle the ground, yet you know the Team have breached the main chamber. Those enemy forces still fighting are distracting from a retreat. The other agents can catch them just fine. Your mission is intel recovery.
To keep your approach stealthy, you don’t announce your movements over comms, and Nat doesn’t scan back down the dark hallway you wedge into as she carries out an asset. If you weren’t so far back, you never would have seen him.
An enemy agent slinks out from behind a floor-to-ceiling tapestry right in front of you. His silhouette is short and thin; he’s built for stealth, too.
Your heart thumps loud in your ears as you follow, and that bastard gets close—so close—to Steve’s turned back that the pistol’s muzzle nearly touches.
Not this time. Not a chance. None.
You land a roundhouse kick to the exposed neck above his kevlar, and that sucker goes down like a sack of potatoes.
Steve turns around at the ready, stunned silent in the middle of his instructions to Bucky who is not visible from the other side heaped boxes. The papers still smoke where evidence was burned.
You salute at big, blue eyes. 
“On your six, Cap.” 
Steve looks at you, looks down at the man, and looks back up at you…pissed. 
“What the fuck are you doing?”
What the fuck indeed…
All you did was help your team. All you did was stop Captain America from getting his head blown off. In no small fashion, all you did was save your boyfriend’s life.
“Uh, you’re welcome.”
His grip on your arm is painful as he leads you all the way back to the jet himself, shoving you into the jump seat between other returned agents and shouting for you to 'stay right there.'
Bucky announces over comms that the rest is clean up. All but the specialized document interpretation and perimeter teams are moving out. 
Steve huffs, contemplates staying on a battlefield instead of going back with you, but decides to sit across the ship in silence again, fuming, making fists over and over in his fingerless leather gloves, bitterly sniffing as loud as possible the entire flight home. He refuses to answer a single person until the jet touches down at HQ. 
“Everyone off,” he bellows, “everyone except you.” 
You can’t stop it. Your hands fly up in exaggerated annoyance automatically.
“What do you want, Steve? I got the go-ahead this morning. I’m allowed to be here.”
“Stop doing that.” He rounds on you.
“Doing what? My job?!”
Chest puffed out, feathers ruffled, cheeks hot and red, Steve peels off his cowl. “Being insubordinate.”
“You’re not my superior officer,” you hiss, “we are equals, and if you think for one second I did anything wrong out there, go ahead and report me. From where I’m standing, I did the work, got cleared for duty, helped out the team, and stopped you from being shot.”
You poke a finger to his chest for each achievement listed.
“Fine," Steve shouts, crossing his arms, "but quit acting like a selfish coward.”
Them be fightin’ words. “A what?”
“You heard me,” he all but whispers.
It’s laughable, truly laughable how bad Steve is at hiding some of those wheels from turning in his head. This isn’t about today. This is the thing he buried the past week.
You roll your eyes. “If you’re gonna throw a hissy fit every time I get a scratch—“
“THREE BULLETS IS NOT A SCRATCH.” He tries—he visibly, painfully tries—to keep his cool one last time. “You weren’t ready,” he concludes, judge, jury, and executioner all poured into one star-spangled package.
“Say’s who?” You’re stepping closer, getting in his face because this is bullshit and unfair. “Last time I checked you’re not a doctor, and you should be thanking me for saving your ass—“
“It’s not your job to save me.”
“We have the same job, Steve! We are both perfectly capable of—“
“I know that,” he barks, hot breath mingling with yours.
“Do you? Because you don’t seem to think I can handle myself.” You push weakly at his chest, taunting, like it's a game. “Maybe you need to walk it off, buddy.”
His face cracks, an avalanche unmoored from a stable mountain.
Oh shit. You’ve done it now.
“Walk it off?! WALK IT OFF?!”
Steve charges like a bull seeing red, crowding you against the far wall, his own derisive finger pointed at your heart.
“You were injured. You didn’t make contact. You went dark for days, and you could have died. Alone. In the middle of nowhere. Who knows how long it would have taken us to find you. No—“ he cups your chin in a tight pinch “—you want to talk about the job? It’s protocol to check in. It’s common courtesy to let me know you’re alive, and it’s goddamn rude to ignore your own safety.”
A dark, hazy sheen layers over his sharp gaze. “Don’t make me keep you home.”
There’s a deep line of frustration carved between his brows. His nostrils flair as he waits, daring you to refute him.
“Well—” you purse your lips in defiance “—isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black.”
Steve lets go of you, smacked away by your cutting tone.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, whatever, Rogers,” you dismiss. “We both know you don’t have the authority to bench me.”
“Like hell I don’t,” he growls, grabbing your wrists and throwing your arms above your head, He weaves your hands through the cargo net behind you. The loops are tight and complicated in seconds, he’s so fast.
You can’t wriggle away.
“Let’s see how you like it.”
Steve roughly throws the zipper of your uniform down, letting the jacket hang open to show nothing but your sports bra.
“Feeling paralyzed—“ he dexterously undoes your belt “—exposed—“ your pants and underwear are yanked down to your ankles “—and afraid.” His last word thickens the air on the jet. 
How can this man launch you into unbridled lust in the space of two syllables?
Who. Fucking. Cares. How.
Steve’s fingertips teasingly glide over the swell of your breasts, brush down your belly, and tick their way in a casual walk between your legs. He retracts his touch the instant you let out a longing sigh, unable to restrain how needy you are. His fingers wander to perfectly clean and unmarked flesh…on your thigh, along one side, and a few inches below that. He’s tracing the bullet wounds he watched heal so quickly.
“Maybe I should leave you wondering how it’ll all play out?” he says absently, lost in thought, his thumb shifting to notch into the dip of your hip. “Maybe I should leave you wondering if we’ll ever—”
“Yes,” you whimper, no real idea what you’re saying. That’s not what answer you meant.
“How would you like three whole days of this feeling, huh? You think you’d fare any better than I did? Think you’d make it even five minutes?”
“Uh-uh.” Again, with no clue what you’re truly responding to, you buck your hips forward onto his long fingers.
The cords around your wrists get tighter while you struggle to set a pace. Behind you, the metal rings of the netting hit the hull with a soft clinking noise. 
“Not so fast.” Steve pulls his hand away just far enough to remove all friction. “Because three days, sweetheart, it was torture. Felt like an eternity right on the edge.”
“Please,” you beg.
One deliberate swipe of his fingers through your slick is enough to make you mewl.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Steve. Please, I need you.”
“Need me? You have an odd way of showing it, doll. You have to promise me—“ he thrusts his fingers in “—promise me you’ll never leave me.”
“I’ll never leave you,” you cry, convinced that it’s true for the sole reason: you never want to experience anything other than this Steve for as long as you live.
“You are so brave, and so…capable, and I know you can do anything, but you…can’t survive anything.” He takes excruciating pleasure in slow thrusts and teasing circles. “Promise me you won’t be so reckless. Promise, say it.”
“I promise.” Your weight sags into his ministrations, called to focus on nothing but where his hand disappears between you. “I promise I won’t be reckless.”
“That’s my girl.”
Your head falls limp against your tied arms. It sounds so good from his lips. Why did you ever doubt?
“I promise I’ll come back to you,” you manage out like a prayer.
“Yeah? That’s it. Is that what you want?”
“I promise. I promise, Steve.” You time your movements sloppily with his measured tempo. “Please, I need more.”
“I know. I know.” He’s strung out, too, listening to your pathetic whimpers after less than five minutes, exactly like he predicted.
You’re so over-wrought with desperation you can’t coordinate with his manhandling your legs apart—your knees, really, since your ankles are still caught in your pants. Instead of taking off your boots, Steve simply unzips himself and dives right into your wet, warm, and welcoming pussy.
Knowing he has a thing against anything naughty in his suits makes it sexier. You want his intensity—you’ve always been curious—and finally you have it: unhinged, untethered, super Steve Rogers. Your body makes room out of sheer joy.
“I know,” Steve coos, his face pressed to your chest as he adjusts. “Fuck, I know, honey.”
“Move, Steve.”
“No,” he says with a gentle kiss to your sternum. “You wanna come? Go ahead. You can do it all on your own. You can do anything you want, can’t ya?”
You groan in frustration.
You wanted this, an annoying voice in the muddled depths of your mind calls. You’re independent.
With a sob of both excitement and fury, your thighs weld onto that sturdy, I-beam beast. You brace your bent arms over your angled and hovering body, leveraging the cargo straps to hoist you up and down.
Your muscles burn, strained more than they were on your lone journey back to HQ.
Steve grunts and moans, the ghost of his wide spread palms beneath your back as a safety net.
“That’s it. That’s it, good girl.” 
Amidst your own noises, you can barely hear him. You’re not building to a climax, you’re falling into one at terminal velocity, flailing. Struggling to hang on and let go all at once, you do come, but it’s more of a plateau than a full release.
Steve’s unhappy and takes your ass in a bruising grip, finally pumping his thick length in and out, dragging the head of his cock across that perfect spot over and over.
“You can do better than that,” he snarls, hair wrecked and falling in his face.
Wave, undertow, and wave again, pleasures simply blend into the next. He gets handsy, keyed up and out of control, muttering “don’t you ever fucking leave me.”
You’d scold him for cursing if the air weren’t being punched from your lungs.
“Come on, sweetheart. Three for three.”
You’re almost disappointed he only wants you to come three times in payment for his days of torture. Even as a tear escapes the corner of your eye and your throat breaks in a hoarse “please,” you know you would give him more. You'd give him anything.
When you finally reach that shattering end, Steve is almost incoherently feral, one hand clamped at the back of your neck, the other anchored to the small of your back, slamming your ass to his leather-covered thighs like you are his mission.
“I promise,” you try to repeat, but you aren’t sure they sound like words.
Whether in response to you or as an errant thought, Steve’s own broken voice rattles at your sweaty neck. “You can take it,” he whispers gruffly. “You can take it.”
You’re floating by the time he comes, his hips stilling slowly. The buzz of your body now outdoes anything anesthesia or pain meds concocted.
Steve peppers your skin with lazy, light kisses until you remind him of your bound wrists, but then he’s overly apologetic and scrambling to free them.
He keeps himself inside you and maneuvers to sit with you on his lap.
You stay there for a while, your numb and sore arms folded between your chests. Steve only stops petting your shoulders to cradle your face, soft blue eyes roaming, adoring. He whispers concern that you’re okay, how are your legs, are you warm enough, you feeling good?
Yes, you think, you’ve taken care of your girl.
“I love seeing you like this,” he mumbles long after the pins and needles have abandoned their assault on your tired legs.
You tuck some silky hair behind his ear. “Like what? Fucked out?”
He’s floating too because he doesn’t chastise.
“Happy, healthy—“ he lets out a deep sigh “—home.”
“Speaking of home,” you say, inching ever so slightly higher to let him slide out of you, “wanna cuddle in bed all night and not get up until someone tries to break in the door?”
That knocks some of the glow off him. He drags a hand down his face. “Oh god, the poor people who have to clean this thing…”
“Let’s be honest,” you snort. “This isn’t the worst thing that’s been on you, but if it’s that big of a deal, we could go hose you down before handing our equipment in.”
He smiles, shaking his head in dismissal.
With his help, you climb off his lap and slowly shimmy up your bottoms, realizing he did truly make a mess of you both.
Steve looks down at his own lap, horrified. “Do I need to burn this?”
“That sounds like a challenge to make you filthier,” you consider, but maybe you should change into your civies before exiting the jet…
“Ya know,” Steve muses, passing over to the small locker of clothing overhead and grabbing a t-shirt and sweats, “I almost got shot in the head today, and you had three bullets fished outta you a week ago. I’m thinking we’ve earned a vacation.”
Workaholic Steve? Actively applying for time off? You’ll be damned.
“My my my, Captain Rogers…the real dirty talk begins.”
He huffs out a laugh and blushes.
“Well, I know we didn’t do anything more special than dinner for our anniversary, so…” He pulls you to his chest again, smelling of slightly musty laundry and pungent sex. “Let’s go on a fucking vacation.”
Your neck cranes to his height to see a soft smile. Oof, he’s good.
 “I missed you,” he adds like a prayer, “and you’re the badass who saved me.”
He giggles at your scrunched nose and watches you bask in that glory.
“Like I said, you’re welcome—“ you hug Steve, letting his warmth radiate through you, moving in time with his rising and falling chest “—and I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He kisses the crown of your head.
When you open the bombay doors, there’s a thermos left at the base of the ramp, a folded paper tucked beneath it. 
We should talk about how to better soundproof the jets. Brought you some refreshments. It’s hazelnut. ~Bucky
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Tags: @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jamneuromain @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @brandycranby
A/N: I sincerely give up on editing this anymore, so I hope it turned out okay 🙇🏻‍♀️
[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]
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princessbrunette · 2 months
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omg princess ur writing on pogue!rafe made me @____@ & also to anon that asked it, tysm cus it altered my brain chemistry; it just made me start daydreaming of 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡 w pogue!rafe n jj idkidkidk 🫣 (+ the gif ignited something in me 🙈, i just neeeeeed more of them togetherrr)
~shy anon
ooooo more pogue rafe?
i don’t think jj and rafe would get on at all. it would be like a civil war on the cut, jj hating rafe because rafe was unfriendly and entitled, always taking jobs from jj and always starting fights with him and his friends at parties, and rafe would hate jj because jj is effortlessly charming and seems to have captured your attention after your little run in with rafe. hes not gonna let the son of luke maybank of all people take what’s his !!
the two of them have definitely been thrown in the same cell before overnight, almost bonding — but things always go back to how they were once they’re let out !
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coffynman · 9 months
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૮(⸝⸝> ̫ <⸝⸝)ა he's so smug alkdfsk i'll give him a cuddle 😳🤭
-shy anon
(ps these are really fun tysm for sharing your work <3)
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Thanks<3
i'm not exactly in my best utmv vibe, but there we go
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littledollll · 1 year
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🕊️
Back with a request but not Agere :0 I know mad I have one of those to send next so don’t fret my love and how is your day going? Remember you’re so loved
Prompt~ so I feel like an angsty Larissa x reader fic based off the song “ceilings- Lizzy McApline” would be perfect. It goes on about how they wish to be with someone yet it’s not a real opportunity. They can’t be with them for some reason. I feel you could write that beautifully ~ shy anon🕊️
Lonely dreams
Larissa Weems x reader
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A/n: im hanging in there babes, it’s lovely to see you here like always, I hope you enjoy. Idk how to do songlyric fics so I won’t cuz scary but I’ve actually had vivid daydreams about this song and this is how it goes. Requests are open
Warning: fluff, loss, grief.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
You had the perfect life. Everything you’ve ever dreamt of came true for you. Your dream job, the love of your life, that easy going, calm, day to day and you’ve always craved, you finally had it.
A safe routine that repeated every day, you and Larissa worked and lived together like you always wished. You’d wake up every morning with littered kisses all over your face, making you giggle and pout. Making breakfast together was probably the best part of your day, you and Larissa together in a spacious kitchen with everything you could possibly need for the perfect meal, it felt like those love story movies, when they’d show those baking montages filled with laughs and attacking eachother with food.
Walking hand in hand through the hallways made you feel so confident, having Larissa Weems proudly showing you to the world. She walked you to your class with a kiss on the very tip of your nose, making you giggle and turn away to compose yourself before you had to start class.
“I will see you at lunch, my love.” Something made you want to pull her back, to stop her from walking away and give you just another kiss. But you didn’t, instead letting her go, “Have a good day, Issa” you said, before running off to start class.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
You had this unsettling feeling running through your bones the whole morning, but it all went away when you met Larissa for lunch. Routine. Just like always, your pre-packed lunch that you made together the afternoon before, a conversation filled lunch or maybe just enjoying eachother in silence. A second to just breathe and be, you hugged and kissed so softly, so sweetly you never wanted to go back. It was a movie, it was your perfect life.
And the day went on, you’d come back to her office after class was over and wait the two hours she stayed extra working after you. You mostly bugged her to get out of the office and come home with you, occasionally you’d poke her for attention and get a quick kiss which made you feel giddy all over and sedated you for another few minutes before you inevitably poked her again.
You were resting against Larissa’s shoulder when she closed the computer and looked your way, a sweet smile on her face. “Okay darling, we can go now.”
Larissa’s warm and dazzling smile, was the most comforting thing on this planet, you couldn’t love anything more. It was contagious, whenever she smiled you couldn’t help but follow.
Tonight you’d order take out, every week twice a week, Routine. You’d always pick something new to try for the first time together, and you’d sit together on the couch with nothing but music playing in the background, the second you were done eating you were always the first to fall asleep.
Shuffling down to get confortable as you nuzzled into her chest with a pleased sigh, you could hear her calm heart beat, how her chest lightly moved up and down with every relaxed breath. Your perfect girl, the perfect movie life.
But you woke up, and it was over. The fresh memory of her funeral as if it had been just yesterday. A year, a whole year. And your mind refused to give in to the idea, that was it. She’s gone forever.
There was no such thing as her soft lips waking you up every morning, you didn’t laugh and dance every morning with breakfast, you walked alone through the halls of this now so monotone school, you ate lunch at your desk with nobody but yourself, and you went straight home after school. Losing yourself in daydreams of seeing her again, until you cried yourself to sleep, all to repeat again the next day, routine.
You were harshly slapped by reality each morning. You woke up. And that was it, the end of your perfect movie.
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sleepingdeath-light · 9 months
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wally + getting pegged hcs ; 18+
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requested by ; shy anon (02/07/23)
fandom(s) ; welcome home
fandom masterlist(s) ; sfw | nsfw
character(s) ; wally darling
outline ; “Hello, I'm an adult (22-years-old) and would like to make a request for NSFW headcanons about pegging wally darling with a gn! Reader 👉🏼👈🏼
If this is something that might make you uncomfortable or you simply don't feel like writing, that is completely fine!!👍🏼
-shy anon (if nobody's taken that yet)”
warning(s) ; sexually explicit content, anal fingering, pegging, anal sex
note ; most of this is focused on context and lead up but the smut is definitely still there don’t worry
minors and ageless blogs will be blocked
pegging isn’t really something would have even known about let alone considered exploring with you — hell he knew very little about standard vanilla sex before you met so anything beyond that would be completely new to him
you’d have been the one to propose it, laying in bed on evening with your body moulded against his whilst he buries his face in a book that frank had lent him — something about entomology and the differences in butterfly and moth anatomy — when you randomly asked him about it
you were casual enough about it, your words slightly slurred in that way that tiredness tends to cause and muffled from the way your face was buried in the crook of your boyfriend’s neck
‘have you ever thought about pegging?’
your question gave him pause for a moment and you could hear him pause midway through turning the page as he asked you in that calm, deceptively innocent, voice of his
‘hm? no. i don’t think so… what is pegging?’
how he could sound so innocent despite everything you’ve done together never failed to shock you, but still you were far too tired for the conversation and just promised to explain it in the morning when you were more alive
and your wally, understanding as ever, nodded and kissed you on the head before placing the book to one side and moving to snuggle in beside you properly
seemingly just as exhausted as you were as he drifted off minutes later — the two of you falling into a peaceful, restful slumber
and the next day, whilst you were sat in your back garden with cups of steaming tea/coffee in hand and plates of breakfast balanced haphazardly on your laps, he does ask you about it
tone low and question so blunt that you choke on your drink as you try and get your jaw off of the floor — mind running a mile a minute as you try to explain what pegging is as honestly and thoroughly as possible
it was a long conversation had over pastries and hot drinks in the late morning sun — wally listening intently and interjecting with his own questions every so often but mostly just listening to your explanations
then came silence for a few minutes as he considered what had been said, brows furrowed in contemplation as he almost hid behind the comically large rim of his ‘dog’s best friend’ mug (a gift from barnaby, of course)
and then he startled you with a simple and blunt statement that left you momentarily speechless
‘okay.’
‘okay?’
‘i think i’d like to try that.’
and after a few minutes of establishing boundaries and making sure that he was actually okay with getting pegged, you started to make the necessary arrangements for it to happen
(which we’ll skip over for the purposes of getting into the smut)
you start off by helping wally find a position where he’s comfortable — one where he won’t feel the need to squirm or wince or contort himself in any weird way — which ends up having him laying on his back
then you have him spread his legs, instructing him to grasp at his thighs and tug them up towards himself — making sure that he’s comfortable every step of the way
once he’s comfortable, you start to prep his ass — spreading lube along your fingers and slowly massaging and scissoring your way further and further into his ass, taking your time and being as gentle and as careful as possible as to let him adjust to the new feeling
every crook and thrust and scissor and massage of your fingers and thumb coaxed new sounds from the base of his throat: whimpers and moans and groans that were damn near pornographic as they reached your ears
but for as much as he was enjoying himself — which was quite a bit given how much his cock was leaking and throbbing by this point — you both knew that this wasn’t the main event of the evening and, with great reluctance, you eventually had to withdraw your fingers from his ass (which earned you a frankly slutty whimper from your pink-faced and panting lover)
though his disappointment was only short lived as you quickly replaced your hand with something much larger — more intimidating even
the toy he’d specifically help you pick out for the occasion
deep purple in its colour with plenty of veins sprawling along the silicon phallus like rivers on a map — thicker at the base but not too long or girthy that it looked completely unmanageable
it looked bigger than it had in the store, perhaps made even worse by the unnatural sheen the generous layer of lube had given it, and you saw his eyes widen by a fraction when he noticed it’s presence between your legs
but, always willing to try something once, wally responded to your hesitance with plenty of reassurances and promised that he’d let you know if he genuinely felt threatened or uncomfortable
and so you continued on:,placing your non dominant hand on his hip, steadying yourself whilst you used the other to guide the heavy toy to his prepped hole — asking once again if he was sure and slowly pushing your way in once he assured you once again that he was willing to try
inch by inch you edged your way into him — watching intently as he flushed and whimpered and gasped and threw his head back against the pillows, looking for any sign of discomfort as you slowly pushed further and further in
flicking your gaze between the bulge of the strap as it goes deeper and deeper into his ass (pressing your fingertips gently against the bulge and admiring how stretched out he’s become) and his face — taking in every moan and groan and gasp that slips from those pretty lips of his until you finally bottom out and fall still
giving him all the time in the world — all the time that he needs — to adjust to the foreign pain of being filled to the brim
drowning him in praise and gentle touches until he was ready for you to start moving
calling him ‘good boy’, ‘pretty boy’, ‘my darling’ whilst you pepper kisses all over his face and neck and chest
repeating that he’s doing so well and taking everything so well and that you’re so proud of him whilst you brush messy strands of blue hair away from his sweaty forehead and entwine your free hand with one of his
rubbing comforting circles on the back of his hand and bringing it up to your lips — kissing each of his fingertips and knuckles as you wait for him to give you the go ahead and smiling when as he whimpered and panted beneath you
then, once he was finally ready and gave you the go ahead, you started to move — slowly at first, to let him adjust, before you started to experiment and find a pace that suited him better
alternating between harder and softer thrusts, shallow and quick vs deep and slow, angling your hips upwards vs downwards, and so on
watching him fall apart beneath you with nothing but love in your eyes, trying to ignore your own needs in favour of tending to him
seeing the way his back arched upwards and his unoccupied hand flew from the back of his thigh to grasp at the bedsheets beside his head — his other tightly squeezing your own as he lost himself to the pleasure
the way his legs, now unimpeded, wrapped around your hips and pulled you taut against him — forcing you to thrust deeper into his ass and coaxing a startling laugh from your throat in the process as you stabilised yourself once again
the way his hair, tangled and knotted, fanned out around his head like a halo that shook and messed up further with every thrust
the way his lips, wet with saliva and kiss bruised, parted into a beautifully perfect ‘o’ to let out a string of moans, whimpers, groans, gasps and cries of your name — occasionally broken up by something that might have been a plea
the way his hooded eyes, pupils perfectly round and dilated with need, stared up at you — unfocused yet still somehow brimming with adoration even now as you ravished his body
the way that his cock, slender and throbbing and terribly neglected, jumped and leaked with every thrust and the way he let out the most shameless moan when you leaned down and pressed your stomach down against it
the way he took you so willingly despite his inexperience because he loved you and trusted you — because he knew you’d never do anything to cause him harm
with such an amazing sight in front of you, it was the least you could do to keep praising him through his climax
assuring him that he was doing so well, that he’s taking everything like an expert
that he looks so pretty, so handsome, so beautiful, even, like this
that you love him, that you’re proud of him
encouraging him to be louder, to let go, to let you take care of him
and, with a well placed kiss on the underside of his jaw and a perfectly angled thrust straight into his sweet spot, you finally got to see him fall apart
he was a mess: all arching backs and parted moaning lips and a cock spurting so much that it covered your stomach and his
sweaty and panting and drooling and trembling
and, despite it all or because of it, so very beautiful because he was wally — your wally — and he was never anything less
he was the absolute most and you were thankful that he trusted you enough to do something like this — and you fully intended to reward him in kind with aftercare and whatever would follow
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dark-side-blog3 · 4 months
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So, I have this health issue, that if left untreated could cause infertility problems. I think it’s funny to imagine me saying that well… I don’t really care about children anyways, so infertility isn’t that big of a deal. Besides, treating it costs money…you know, playing it off like nothing.
And then any yanderes that want babies and a family freaking out over the possibility of me becoming infertile, a contrast to me acting like it doesn’t matter. Why do they care so much anyway??
(I do take care of myself though, don’t worry 👍)
I just like to imagine getting them to completely panic and be upset before forcing me to let them take care of me for the sake of our future relationship and family.
(Shy Anon)
Some itching to have a family someday are definitely going to zero in on the infertility... They'll save and splurge on every procedure they can get so that your genetic material goes towards your kids (because they will have kids with you, even if they have to adopt, but they'd really rather the kid be something the two of you made together).
They'd hold a doctor hostage if it meant getting some prescriptions, freezing your eggs, and treatment to help with your underlying condition.
The best possible outcome is you two conceiving, and carrying the child to term. Which means if other things have to be put on hold for this to happen, so be it!
No more work, it's distracting you from your birth exercises and kegals, and they don't want any stress to fuck up your already limited chances.
You can't have anything with caffeine or too much sugar, your body has to be in the best shape so it doesn't waste energy on things unbaby related. Even if you aren't pregnant, why force your liver to suffer when you're about to have someone who needs your body's full attention?
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eructofreak · 6 months
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man ur so right though,,,, guys with heavy bobbling bellies. letting out a lil burp or two with every step because of the bounce and disturbances to their agitated gut. then they finally sit down and the motion dislodges a fucking hugeeeee one, just forces it straight out their lips and clears their chest and leaves them to catch their breath. and giving their stomach a few pats like its a beast that needs soothing... swoon
— shy anon
Fuck me, major swoon. You keep absolutely delivering in my inbox.
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ask-the-nine-links · 11 months
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Who are the ones in the 4th wall breaking club? Just curious since i have not gone aaaaall the way back on this blog xd
-a shy annon
Wild: It was originally me, the Old Man, and Warriors. We recently inducted Four into the cul- club!
Four: You were about to say cult.
Wild: Haha where did you get that idea?
Four: Technically it can't be a cult-
Wild: Oh yeah? But to make a religion, you only need four people to recognize it. Why would cults be any different?
Four:
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boytumms · 5 months
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Heeheehee shy anon again :3c a soft and short thought: lonely shepherd boy with a tummy full of babies living a quiet life with his herd, but on a snowy afternoon he goes into labor ;; (he is indeed a shy and gentle boy (10000% WEARING SOFT FLOWY CLOTHES ALSOALSO) -shy anon
Awwwww sounds cute :D this reminds me of this fic actually!!
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hippyx · 2 months
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>///< to embarasin but I’m also a sys an I dunno your really cool I stay on anon
Shy anon
oh? alright! that is fine :) i am petting you right now anon
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princessbrunette · 2 months
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greetingsss~ im a lowkey follower of urs & as much as im "black cat energy", ur blog is the absolute cutest/prettiest/realist thing on here &&& i just lovelovelovelove everything abt it. 🤍 it makes me feel like a pretty dainty lil princess and i love it ???? also in love w ur writings ahaha anyways congrats on da 5k !!!
~ shy anon Dx
that’s so so so sweet im glad u feel that way !! makes me so happy thank you!!!!!♡
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coffynman · 9 months
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this is shy anon 😳 i didnt know he'd catch it like that 🤭
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he's Lust, what you expected
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princelylove · 2 months
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shy anon back again...! I'm curious to hear your thoughts lowkey.. What kind of things do you think Diego, Doppio, and Diavolo would like to do with their darling in bed/what would they be into? (nsfw)
I can imagine Diego and Diavolo maybe going rough if they feel jealous because someone tried to flirt with their darling a lot but would Doppio be the same i wonder..
Hii shy anon. Shall that be your formal name? 
Diavolo is a 33 year old virgin. It’s of my firm belief that despite Diavolo being the one who wanted Donatella, he was not the one who did the work. Doppio’s acting is perfect because he’s willing to commit. He felt nothing then, and he feels nothing now. He never really cared for sex- well. Likely because he wasn’t all that interested in his previous sexual partner, but just a general lack of interest, too. When Diavolo begs him to perform for you in his place, he gets kinda annoyed! You’re not even his darling, shouldn’t Diavolo care about his darling being fucked by someone else, right in front of him? (Dia views it more like Doppio using his body for him, so no harm done, although that’s suddenly a concern…) Doppio flat out refuses, mainly because he knows Diavolo’s going to sulk if you like Doppio “better”- even if you don’t know it’s Doppio’s hips against yours.
Diavolo tends to be rather possessive, you aren’t wrong in the slightest. When he finally feels comfortable being intimate with you (Once there’s no way you can escape with his dna.), marking you isn’t an uncommon way to start. He’s rather meticulous, as any man in his position ought to be, and slowly eases you where you need to be. Rough and slow. What torture. He’s very into body worship- he’ll spend a considerable amount of time touching and praising you before he actually finds it in himself to insert himself in you. You’re always meant to finish first, and if he accidentally does before you, he’ll apologize, and keep going for as long as you want him to. Diavolo is addicted to his darling, and won’t be happy with a quickie. You won’t have to do any work, just let him figure out what works best, and he’ll please you until the sun starts to invade his boarded up motel room.
Doppio is fairly vanilla, but he’s pretty happy to indulge you. He could go either way when it comes to who’s going to top, as long as you don’t put him out of work for a few days. He can’t handle a partner that’s very sizable, so if you’ve been particularly blessed, he’ll give you head instead of letting you penetrate him. Same goes for if you would prefer to use a strap-on for him. 
Diego likes to bite, and he likes to hurt you. He’s a very traditional “I’m better than you” type of sadist, but he isn’t dominant in bed. It’s hard to act bossy while someone’s rutting into you, but he manages just fine. He loves hearing the sound of his own name during sex, say his name while you’re fucking him and watch him melt. Saying his actual name is perfect, but calling him “Dio”? Heaven. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. 
Diego loves to be pleased in all sorts of ways- you do not have to penetrate him, although he’d love that. He’d prefer the focus to be on him, his pride gets in the way of his ability to be vulnerable. He’s too prideful to sleep around, so it takes a lot to give himself to his darling! He trusts you. Don’t ruin it. I think he’s also a virgin, which is hilarious because that makes Doppio the most experienced on this list, so he’s absolutely mortified when you pull it out for the first time. He’ll get used to it, though. Very used to it.  He won’t admit it, but he’s super into cockwarming. He goes crazy at the idea of sitting on his darling’s….. privates (He doesn’t like saying the word, whether it be plastic or not), and will practically rip out your neck if you hold him down and tell him to just adjust.
Watch him drool at the sight of you because he wants it, but just can’t bring himself to voice it. Telling someone to please you is entirely different than “I want you inside me so badly that it’s giving me a headache.” He’ll find the words one day, after you tame him. Watch out for his jealous spats, if you don't give him proper attention, he'll stop being so passive.
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Hi, I’m the shy anon from the other day. I would just like to say that I love and appreciate all of the sweet comments I received, they mean so so much to me. It also makes me feel a little better there were others who started as lurkers as well. As of now, I’m still petrified of even the idea of actually posting something. Who knows, maybe someday I’ll reveal my identity, but for now I’ll stick giggling and kicking my feet to two boys silently behind my screen.
💜
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dark-side-blog3 · 6 months
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I am deluded, except in the opposite direction. Anything they do, I see negatively.
Proclamations of love, I see as jokes, they’ll laugh if I take it seriously. Compliments, veiled insults about other parts of myself. Affectionate gestures and gifts, irk me because I look like an awkward idiot in front of everyone when I don’t know how to react. I’m convinced that they’re out to get me since nobody would try so hard to get close to me just because.
Delusional yanderes would be trying so hard to prove their worth to me. But I’m just crawling under a rock so I won’t stress over them making me look gullible. 😔
(Shy anon)
Every time you pull away, you do it to protect yourself. But what they see, is you trying to get away from them. You're abandoning them. And there has to be a reason for you to do that to them, which means, naturally, that they can fix whatever is wrong and keep you with them.
You're laughing them off. So they commit to telling you how they feel, grabbing your hand when you pull it away as they slide their soda bottle plastic ring over your finger. One day, this ring will be real, and metal, and prove how much they love you.
You squirm and shy away when they drape themself over your back and ask what you're thinking about, so they double down. Tell them. Why won't you say what's on your mind? Is it something dirty?
It escalates.
You try going places without them when they invite you out because you think they're going to embarrass or sexually harass you as a joke again. You stop inviting them over to your house, and awkwardly dismiss them when they walk you home.
They shove their foot in the door as you try to close it.
They barge in, following you from room to room, hounding you for an answer on 'why the fuck you're avoiding them? Why are you still mad? Why are you avoiding them? Are you scared of them? Why are you scared? Do they look like a scary person, buying you stuff, chatting with you, are these things scary people do? Why can't you just be fucking normal and be happy with them when they're being a good person. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why do you like making them into the bad guy? Why do you have to MAKE them the bad guy, just so you can be the victim?!
Why can't you see how hard they're trying to make you happy, and why do you have to fucking ruin it all the time?!'
The night ends with both of you emotionally exhausted, but with only one of you bound together by zipties and ducttape, head in their lap as they flick through tv channels, trying to find something to watch while they spend some quality time with you, against your will.
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tripleyeeet · 4 months
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You might not update 'A Lover's Folly' soon, but you're not getting rid of me. I'll be here, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment... to jump you whenever you post any writing. I'll shower you in my love for you and your writing, and before you know it... I'll be back in the shadows, watching... waiting... for the right moment... to strike again... ~Shy Anon
is feels like a threat? is this a threat? am i about to die soon???
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(even if it is i still love you shy)
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