I Love Life Because There Will Always Be A Situation U Think U Will Never Get Over And U Always Do Every

aone? abo aone? alpha aone? 🥺

alpha! aone + mentions of heats / ruts + creampie + a.b.o dynamics + knotting + mild dubcon + mentions of guilt + excessive licking + manhandling + overstimulation + lots of cum + squirting + f! reader

— word count; approx 2.5k

with coming spring, he knows to be careful, more so than he already is- aone feels like he’s walking over thin ice.

he cant recall the last time he’s had to be mindful of ruts and cycling heats- but its different now, now he has you and he knows that things like this can go wrong so very fast. nonetheless, he’s come to you with a bag of fresh fruit and vegetables, hand already raised to knock at your door-

its not instant, the smell of something so mouthwatering that his knees feel weak slowly filling every space inside his mind. he can’t help but to bring an already clammy hand to cover his nose, but it’s already imprinted deep in his very being.

aone cant see you, but he can taste you.

theres a swirling heated battle rattling around in his mind. he knows you’re in your room, knows you’re bundled up in the safety of what he hopes is a comfortable nest, knows you’re in agony- begging for an alpha- begging for him to go and breed you.

its that singular thought that has him open your door, and it feels like it happens all over again, the searing heat and mouth watering with saliva, already panting with each heavy step taken towards your room.

his ears picking up the sounds of ruffling, can hear you turn around in bed, unable to get up thanks to the hurt your body is going through.

he can help you, he can… he’s going to help you.

the thumping sounds of his feet padding towards your room is enough to send you into a frenzy, nose buried into a fuzzy blanket- peaking up, you can only whine the second he’s standing outside the door.

“a-aone?” you cry, knowing you’d sent him a message denoting the early heat you’ve been forced to undergo- its what happens when you’re in the presence of such strong, fertile alphas... like him, like your new, sweet, giant, gentle boyfriend.

theres guilt settling deep, unable to really comprehend anything outside of small flashes of coherency, trying to make sense as to why hes outside your bedroom door, as to why hes slowly turning the doorknob, and as to why hes dropped a bag of groceries at his feet.

“i’m sorry.”

deep voice sending full body shivers straight from your neck, down the length of your back.

its not his fault and you know it- just how you cant stop the searing, harsh throbbing of your pussy, already wetting down the middle of your shorts, now feeling like your clothes prickle at overly heated skin.

hands immediately tear the soft blanket from you, bunching it to a ring of pillows and other clothing, his clothing.

he nearly collapses, heart thrumming hard in his chest at the sight, you two are so new to this relationship that he hasn’t even seen the skin you’ve suddenly presented him with.

“i’m sorry.” He says it with a broken lilt, stepping past the soft pillows you’ve kicked around.

it has you nearly thrashing around, legs already glistening with sweat- mouth hung open to hurriedly take in mouthfuls of his own scent. its mouthwatering, sharp and something that resembles mint and oak- it belongs to him, and only him and you cant and help but to whine.

a knee breaches past the safety of your nest and youre suddenly up- heated hands grabbing at the clothes hes wearing, a frenzy of soft and clammy touches along the cotton.

aone thinks he might die- just barely able to suppress any instinctual snapping, tampering down the need to shove your head into the soft bedding, wanting to shove his cock into your surely leaking cunt. he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, all guided by instinct and the nagging voice telling him to split you apart.

he wants you to lay back and let him take care of you, but there’s that gnawing guilt- and in a moment of clarity aone does something that shouldn’t have been possible in his headspace.

he steps back.

prying your hands off his body to put distance, any type of distance in between two heated bodies.

“its wrong.” Its all he says, still trying to simmer down the near overwhelming need to have you.

theres no words to truly describe the feeling at seeing you nearly cry at the rejection- his eyes closing, blunt nails digging into the fat of his palm before trying to step back.

“n-no!” its whiney- pitchy and warbled, shaky hands thumping against the bed- thighs squishing together, seeping arousal already started to coat the inside of them, it’s horrible and you want the pain settled deep in your belly to leave.

“want you- nobu, I want you.” you heave, bottom lip starting to shake, your eyes glance down to his crotch- and you can see the bump of arousal heavy in his pants.

its a desperate plan to get him to mount you like you need, but deep down you know how sweet he is- you know that hes wanted to make this special for the both of you, but once again the searing and pangs of heat don’t let you think straight.

a single glance to his now opened eyes is all you give him before turning around onto your knees, promptly shoving the slickened, sticky material of it down your legs- slumping forward to rest your cheek onto the mattress.

“please.”

its loud- loud and rattling around in his head, watching as you bend yourself over for him, a position he knows is ideal for taking you how he knows you need.

the drooling heat of your pussy finally presented is what eats away at the last bit of humanity he clutched in wide palms.

once more, aone brings himself to the edge of your bed- gripping at the skin of your hips, pressing that clutch of heat to his cock.

“bad.”

the word completely encompasses every feeling, every thought coursing through his dizzying head.

legs tremble under the feeling of his hands, of his cock pressing near perfectly against your pussy, grabbing at the sheets to distract from the throbbing.

“i know- i know.”

sharp sobs finally tumble forth, and he cant take it anymore.

you’re not too sure how he gets his cock out- maybe it has something to do with the tear and pop of the button from his jeans, but what you do know is that his swollen and throbbing cockhead is swiping up and down your messy folds.

all the sad, pitiful crying and noises sucked back into your chest immediately, tasting the heady scent of his own precum mixing in with your arousal.

aone brings a shaky palm to hold you down, long and thick fingers wrapping around the back of your neck, meat of his hand settled at the nape- instinctually pinning you with strength hes never used against anyone.

he needs to, because in one swift shove- aone sinks the reddened tip inside, splitting you open, momentum carrying his hips closer and closer to your ass.

gurgling out a mixture of his name and a shy thank you, while the burn from taking him in knocks any wind from your chest, legs nearly already giving way-

there’s a palpable restrain he’s undergoing, crushing, already crushing while he’s pushed your chest down flat- it feels like a sunburn painting every inch of skin, and aone cant take the burn anymore.

tilting his head back, hard eyes staring at the ceiling while your cunt pulses around his cock he speaks, grumbles out an, “i’m sorry.”

all before snapping muscled thighs to the fat of your ass- swollen balls pressed so close to you, it hits your throbbing clit- sending an involuntary twitch up your back, cunt fluttering hard, not helping the heat he feels.

aone wants to spit out every apology he knows while he drills into your cunt, but its too much. turned head letting him see your sweat lined hairline, lips parted while pretty screams leave them, drool already forming under a slowly curved up smile.

this is what you need. barely holding onto consciousness while hammering hips smash you down.

knees fully giving away, nothing in your body could have ever kept up with his large body swinging into you- all with an intent to breed, all with an intent to fulfill a screeching need imbedded deep within.

hands burn with the way you’ve clutched the bed, hips, along with every part of your body submitting easily, slumped near lifelessly, a violent display of power you’ve never seen aone use.

you’re slipping, every thrust bringing your body up and up and in the state of mind he’s undergone, it’s the worst thing imaginable.

letting up, thick, long cock still buried deep within gummy walls- he grabs your hips, picks you up off the bed, sensitive to the cry of pure displeasure that leaves your mouth, all with the way hes stopped moving.

“its okay- be still.” aone grumbles, and you do just that.

once more the sheer need to be good for him, to make yourself perfect and receptive for his cum forces your body to lay there, knees no longer pressed onto the bed, no longer pressed to anything while his palms keep you up.

muscles tensed- biceps curling with each drag of you back onto him, finally fulfilling that deep seated need that you’ve brought to him.

a blooming red heat curls up from his neck, dusted across his cheeks and nose- he thinks you look pretty, so perfect for him. the sudden urge to bite you- to tie you down to him is near overwhelming.

just barely blinking back that base need, all aone knows now is that he needs to fill you up.

focusing instead on your scent, the sweat rolling down every curve of your body, using you to slide down over his cock, creamy and wet with all the arousal your fluttering cunt produces in order to take him, absolutely no resistance in the tight heat of yours.

resounding, wet smacks of meeting hips have him dizzy, he’s ignorant to the fluttering, squeezing tight vice of your cunt every time you cum.

all aone knows is that it feels like your pussy is trying to keep his cock out- screams and warbling chants of his name increased the longer this goes on.

“n-nobu!”

this yell of his name comes out clearer than the others, full of much more desperation- white lashes flutter down to look at his cock stuffed inside when he feels a wet splatter hit his tummy, dripping down his balls and thighs. it takes him a second to think very dumbly that it’s all to help you take it- but the trembling, kicking limbs under him quickly disprove that.

with a loud groan, loudest you’ve heard him- he folds himself down, teeth throbbing with the overwhelming want to stake claim, but he just drools. the shirt still draped over him quickly dampening with the sweat slicked on your body, finally close enough to really taste everything that makes you- you.

he doesnt know why he does what he does, only that the need to have you closer- wanting to lessen the throbbing in his mouth, still rutting into your fucked out cunt, creamed around the base of his slowly thickening length, he laves his tongue up your neck.

stiffening under his hold, it’s the only thing you can do, unable to bring any part of your body to shy away, heavy chills wracking through sore muscles, involuntary clenches from your cunt nearly bring aone down.

his cock feels heavy and full, only animalistic drive brings him to press his dick inside- feeling the swell even more now, near suffocating while you squeeze in protest, chest heaving at the thickening.

your soft cries- warbling lilt of near mind searing pain has him try to comfort you in the best way he knows. still leaving trails of warm spit up your neck, grunting out harshly, nose dipping lower down your back, hand grabbing at your already limp arm and pulling it up, nose seeking parts of you that are dripping with sweat, he licks and licks.

does it to distract you to from the pain, to soothe you with heavy tonguing while his body near spasms, cock fully swollen at the base to keep you locked against him.

it hurts, but the feeling of his cum filling every swollen ridge inside finally has every burning thought settle down.

still fuzzy around the edges you simply blink- inhaling while he keeps dragging his thick tongue up your underarm, head nestled beneath it, sending waves of ticklish shivers down you.

“n-nobu?”

it comes out in a near breathless whine, no more is it muddled by any lingering want- tired from cumming so much, pussy stuffed full. it’s exactly what was needed, and by the sound of his soft grunting, still twitching cock dumping spurt after spurt, you knew he needed it too.

“mm.” he’s still tending to you, not satisfied until his cock begins to finally soften, any give of your battered walls brings forth a gush of cum.

its seeping from in between your overly stretched lips, a wiggle of hips finally snaps him out- prying himself from your body, proud of himself for keeping calm and not claiming you, not yet anyways.

“are you okay? feels good?”

he doesn’t know exactly what to say, settling on keeping any worry and anxiety down, you don’t need that right now- you need someone strong and he can do that, be that- but only for you.

finally stretching himself, he lets your body settle back down onto your bed, nest ruined from your thrashing arms- whining with the obscene amount of globs dropping down onto the bed as his cock slips out.

“its good, so good.”

still dizzy from it all, you can only wait while he slots his heavy body within your limp arms- whole body burning up, matching the temperature of your own.

hands so small against him paint soothing pictures, hearts and the initials of your name, goosebumps can only follow in their wake, this is the bliss that can only be described as easy. its easy to hold him, easy to touch and ease the worry, tummy warmed and full of his heavy cum, thanking in a small voice by his ear.

his heart pounds, still roaring, cumming like this- tending to your body was what he was made to do, no matter what shifted in the dynamics of your relationship, he just hopes he’s the one to hold you in the end.

Heyy, hope you're having a great day!

I just watched 'Animals' mv by maroon5 and was in my dark!Steve feels so...may I please request a serial killer dark!Steve stalking the reader, killing others & hiding it in his basement and seducing reader by acting like a nice golden boy 🙈👉👈

Thanks🖤

Title: Judge, Jury

Pairing: Serial Killer!Steve x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Everything he’s done, he’s done for you.

Warnings: descriptions of violence (non-graphic), dubcon, stalking, mentions of past sexual assault/rape and trauma, mentions of past child-abuse, manipulation, dubcon, unprotected sex, overstimulation, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, dead dove: do not eat for the love of god—

A/N: WHEW!!! so firstly, i loved this request, and i’m so sorry it took me so long to crank it out! this one’s clocking in at just under 9k words, so i hope it was worth the wait! i got OBSESSED with the idea of yandere!Steve trying to right all the wrongs in reader’s life, and, well… this is what came of it. PLEASE let me know if i’ve missed any warnings or tags! This is a work of FICTION, and it is Dark, so I assume once you’ve clicked through the link that you are comfortable with that. I do not give consent for my work to be copied, translated, or posted elsewhere, even if I am credited. This work is entirely mine, and unbeta’d, so read at your own risk! MINORS, DNI!!! 😘

🩸

“Shhh. Please, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” his voice is a whisper, barely audible underneath the clanging of the pipes, and the muffled whimpers making it through the gag. “You’re not asking anything new, you know.” he says, his eyes sad, almost sympathetic as he regards the middle aged woman cowering before him.

Her hands are tied to one of the rusty pipes behind her, and when she continues to whine, he grabs her face. “I said quiet.” she silences herself with a sniffle. “Thank you.” he leans away, resting his hands on his knees as he squats down. “You’re asking why you, right?” the knife in his hand moves easily between his fingers as he plays with it idly. “Why you’re here, what you did.” he cocks his head. “But you know what you did, don’t you Marilyn?”

Her eyes widen at the sound of her own name, and her struggles renew themselves. Steve presses the blade against her cheek, hard enough for blood to well along the blade. “You know what you did.” he looses the gag, knowing the moment he does the pleas will start. Steve doesn’t mind that so much—after all, he’s the one sending them to meet the God of their choice, he doesn’t mind acting as the priest to their confessor.

“P-please, I d-don’t know what you’re t-talking about,” she blubbers, and it makes the anger swell rapidly in his chest. He nicks her other cheek with the knife.

“Don’t lie to me, Marilyn.” he spits her name like a curse. “I know you remember.” He tilts her face up with the flat of the blade, wanting to see the recognition bloom in her eyes when he speaks your name. And it does. “You remember now?”

“I d-don’t, I d-d-didn’t—” she blubbers, and Steve knows by the guilty look on her face that she did, and she does. “P-please, Steve—”

“Oh, you remember me now, Mar?” he asks. “You remember how you took her from me?” he growls. “How you treated her?” he’s holding her throat now. “Foster home to foster home,” he growls, his grip tightening until she’s sputtering. “And every time she came home to you, the fucking men you never watched close enough? They got to her.” the curses slip from his lips unbidden, and Steve squeezes—and then regains control, releasing her. Marilyn coughs, and looks up at him fearfully.

“Please.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll jog your memory some more, we’ll remember it all together.”

🩸

The first time he sees you, he doesn’t really believe you’re the same girl he used to pick flowers for. You’ve grown up so much since he’s last seen you, and he knows you don’t recognize him either. He was so small then, so skinny and fragile, he knows you won’t reconcile that memory with the man who’s just happened to be at the coffee shop at exactly the same time as you for the past three weeks.

Or at least, that’s what he thinks.

“Steve?” your voice is tentative, questioning. His heart is pounding—you hadn’t noticed him before, your eyes glossing over him as though he was just part of the scenery. He’d been intending to come up to you soon, to re-introduce himself, but it seems like the wires have finally untangled, and you see the boy he used to be in the face of the man he is. “Steve, is that… is that you?”

He flicks his eyes up to yours, widening them in faux surprise. He says your name softly, slowly, like he’s drawing it up from the depths of his memories. You can’t know he’s been saying it every single day since you left, and thought of you just as often. “I can’t believe it’s you.” he says, allowing a small smile to grace his lips.

“I just moved back for work,” you reply, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I just, well I saw you, and I couldn’t believe it was you.” you gesture at him. “You’re huge!” you say, and he laughs. He doesn’t tell you that he had to get big, that he had to get strong—so he could find you. So he could protect you.

So he could hurt everyone who hurt you—and that was quite an extensive list.

“I couldn’t let Buck keep calling me punk forever,” he says, and pats the seat next to him. “Do you have a minute?” he asks, knowing that you do. It’s Tuesday—you always get a late start on Tuesdays.

“Totally.” the collar of your t-shirt slips down a little as you move to sit, and Steve sees the shiny flesh of your scar poking out from underneath it. He forces his face to remain neutral, but he can’t stop his fists from clenching angrily at the memory of it. You see his eyes dip, and your own follow their path, your hand coming up to lightly touch the skin before adjusting your shirt. “Still have it,” you joked, though your voice was strained, just a little.

Steve remembers that scar—and the man who gave it to you. His eyes go dark for a moment at the memory. I should have made her scream longer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s okay. Not like you weren’t there, right?” you shrug, as though unaffected—but Steve knows you. Knows you better than you know yourself—knows you won’t use a curling iron anymore, not after that. He hears the ice clink in your glass as you lift it to your lips, and his eyes follow the delicate movement of your throat as you swallow. “But enough about all that. How are you? I…wow.” you gesture at him again, that sweet smile back on your face.

He loves that smile.

“Well, I went into the service, but you already know that.” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck in a show of nervousness. “That toughened me up pretty quick.” It was only when he came back to find you gone, and Marilyn’s next foster-paycheck already set up in your room that he regretted ever signing up. “And now I do security work.” your eyes light up with interest.

“Wow. Like a bodyguard? That’s really cool, Steve.” you punch his arm lightly, the way you used to when he was six inches shorter than you, and ten pounds lighter, like the years hadn’t separated you at all. “I told you you’d have a cool job one day.” your mirth sparks his own, and he laughs with you.

“What about you?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Well, you know I still paint,” you said, lifting up your hands. He could still see the paint staining the cuticles of your nails and the pads of your fingers. “But I’ve got a day-job at the Met, so not too shabby.” you reply, dusting off your shoulder jokingly as you giggle. “Sometimes they even let me see the art before it goes out to the exhibits.”

“And you said my job was cool.” his chest feels full to bursting, and he’s so happy he almost doesn’t remember how hollow he’s been without you. “I can’t believe it’s been eight years.” he wants to touch your hand, wants to feel your soft, warm skin under his palm, but he knows it’s too soon. It isn’t for him—he’s been thinking about this day for eight years—but it is for you. His hand twitches with the effort of not touching you, and you smile at him obliviously.

“Ditto. It feels like just last week I watched you get on that bus.” your coffee is long cold by now, but Steve can see you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about him, and it’s perfect because that’s all he wants. He grins at you, and makes a show of digging his wallet out of his jeans, holding up a finger. He opens it, and slides out the faded polaroid he’s kept there all these years. You gasp. “No way. You do not still have that.”

“Oh, I still have it.” he hands it to you, and watches your eyes get just a little glossy as your fingers trace the image gingerly. He’s seen the picture so many times, he doesn’t have to look at it to see it perfectly in his mind’s eye.

It’s you and Steve, in a cheesy photo booth at Coney Island, your cheeks blown out like a goldfish, and your eyes crossed as you make bunny ears behind Steve’s head. He hadn’t been ready for the picture, and the flash had caught him staring adoringly at you, his lips slightly parted. It was the same day he’d left—you’d dragged him on that long subway ride down to the beach, saying he needed good memories to take with him.

It’s his favorite picture.

You hand it back, your voice thick with the tears he knows you won’t shed. “I can’t believe you kept that.” you wipe at your eyes, before laughing. “That’s a shit picture of me.”

“It’s the best picture of you.”

You look as though you’re going to say something else, when your eyes stray to the clock behind his head. “Crap. I gotta go, I shouldn’t have stayed this long,” you lament, slapping your palm to your forehead. Steve wants you to stay, wants to spend all day with you like this, but he knows he can’t, not yet.  He’s been patient so long—he can wait just a little longer. He watches you dig your phone out of your pocket. “Give me your number so we can hang out again?” you ask, and he nods, tapping it in and saving it. You call his phone, waiting for it to ring and then ending it. “There, now you have mine too.”

You smile as you get up from the table, and Steve’s chest aches. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“It’ll be just like old times,” you say, waving at him as you head for the door.  It won’t be, though.

He won’t let it.

🩸

Steve loves the choked gasp of fear they always give when they wake to find themselves not at home. It’s always the same—people are so predictable, he knows that now. Paul peers up at him with the same terror that Marilyn did a month ago, and Steve relishes it.

He deserves to be afraid.

“I’m sorry you had to wake up like this,” Steve replies nonchalantly, because he really isn’t. “But I’m afraid this really couldn’t wait any longer. It’s already been years, so I figured it was time for you to pay the piper.” Paul was easy to track down, not like Marilyn, who moved three states over to continue her foster-mother racket. He’s stayed in exactly the same place, like he was just waiting for Steve to find him.

He says something, but it’s muffled by the gag. “Speak up.” Steve replies, tugging it down.

“What the fuck do you want?” he asks hoarsely, and Steve grins.

“That’s a good question, Paul. I want you to think.” he says, watching as the older man flinches uncomfortably as hot steam rattles the pipe he’s bound to. “I want you to think about what you did ten years ago.” his eyes widen, panicked.

“I didn’t do anything! I’m a good man, a good father—” Steve brings his heel down roughly on Paul’s knee, pressing hard until he hears a satisfying crack. Paul screams, his cries dying down to whimpers as Steve kneels in front of him. He’s brought props this time, purchased especially for Paul. He watches Paul’s eyes widen impossibly more and his chin begin to tremble as he removes the curling iron from its place on the table. “What—”

“Good men don’t do what you did, Paul.” he twirls the curling wand between his fingers. “Good men don’t do that to little girls.” he reaches behind Paul to plug in the iron, and then places it in his lap. “Good men don’t force themselves on teenage girls in the bathrooms of their own homes, Paul.”

“She wanted it—” Steve knows he’ll regret his lapse in control later, but he can’t stop his fist from connecting with Paul’s jaw, and he wonders how many bones he’ll break before he gets to the real punishment.

“She still has that scar.” Steve snarls, his hand tangling in Paul’s greasy hair as he forces him to look up at him. “Still fucking has it. Because you wouldn’t even let her unplug the goddamn thing.” Paul shifts uncomfortably, trying to dislodge the heating iron in his lap, but if Steve is good at anything it’s knots, and his struggles prove fruitless. Steam rises from his clothes, and then the smell of burnt cloth begins to permeate the room.

“Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything—” his pleas devolve into screams as Steve stands up, dusting his knees off. “PLEASE!” Steve ignores him as he heads for the stairs.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Let’s see if you’re more honest then.”

🩸

“Steve!” your voice soothing to his soul, like cool water on a hot day. He turns, schooling his expression into one of surprise. He turns, a smile already on his face. Seeing you in your work clothes makes his throat a little dry. You still looked like the young woman he remembered when you were wearing your casual clothes; shorts, a t-shirt—but in your form fitting pencil skirt, your blouse with just one button undone, and your hair swept into a knot on your head… It was making him think unsavory thoughts.

Like whether you would cry if he ripped the buttons on your blouse to palm the perfect tits he knew were underneath. Whether you’ll scream his name or sob it—he wants you to scream it. “You told me you worked at the museum, so I figured I should come take a look.” he replies with a bashful smile.

“Checking in on me, eh? Think I need a security detail?” you joke, and he nods.

“Of course. The pretty ones always do.” your eyes widen a bit at the compliment, and he watches you bite your lip the way you do when you’re embarrassed. “I was thinking maybe we could do some catching up when you got off?”

“Oh totally! I’m actually done here in like thirty minutes or so, if you don’t mind waiting…?” he watches you glance back at the info-desk worriedly, as though you’ll be penalized for leaving your post.

“Of course.” He’s so excited to see you, the time passes without him even feeling it. “Dinner?” Steve asks when he meets you back in the main lobby at closing time. “You must be hungry.”

“Starving, honestly.” you admit, holding your belly. “I didn’t get a lunch break today and I’m pretty sure my stomach has turned itself inside out.” Steve grins. “What about you?”

“Famished.” Most of the restaurants near the museum are fancy, with at least an hour wait for a table, something he already knows. “Why don’t we just hang out at my place? We could order takeout.” he suggests, knowing you still feel safe enough with him to go. The thought makes his chest clench, because it’s all he wants, all he’s ever wanted. Because he’s the only person you’re ever really safe with, the only one who can protect you.

“Okay, why not. Where d’you stay nowadays? I’m assuming you’re not staying in the ass end of Ridgeway anymore.” you say, laughing. It’s a joke, but it’s also a way of gathering information. He knows you want to know if he’s living close to the old neighborhood still, so you can steel yourself against the memories. Steve wishes he could take that pain from you—but it’s the one thing he can’t save you from.

So he just punishes the people that gave you the memories instead.

“No, no,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I’m in Bed-Stuy now.” he makes a show of checking his watch for the time. “There’s a good Thai place, and if we call now, it should be ready by the time we get there.” you grin at him, disbelief written plainly on your features. You can’t believe he still remembers your favorites.

“God, how do you still know me so well?” you ask, jiggling his arm playfully with your elbow as the both of you head for the train station.

“I never forgot you.” he says, watching your face contort as you try to reign in the surprise. He knows you don’t want to remember, but that you can’t forget either.

“I didn’t forget you, Steve.” you say softly, grabbing his hand. “You were the one who showed me I could… that I could leave.” he wants to shout that you should have waited for him, should have trusted that he would come back for you, that he was going to—but he doesn’t. He swallows the anger and the betrayal because he knows it isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have stayed in that hellhole, not without him there to protect you.

You’re back now, and that’s what’s important. He squeezes your hand reassuringly. “I know you didn’t.”

The train is crowded, which he doesn’t mind, because it forces you to stand close to him, letting him inhale the scent of your skin, which is different and still oh-so-familiar. He’s reminded of all the train rides he’s taken with you prior to this moment, how they led him, inexorably to the now, where he’s standing in front of you, so close to finally having you the way he needs. The way he deserves.

They way you both deserve.

He was right, the food is ready by the time you arrive, and he insists on carrying it, ignoring your protests. His heart pounds as he leads you up the stairs. You’re trailing behind him, looking up at the large brownstone with no small amount of awe.

“You… rent?” you ask tentatively, and he shakes his head.

“One good thing about the army, I at least got paid enough not to have to worry about housing when I got back.” he knows you’re too sensitive, too fragile to know just what he did while he was gone—all the blood on his hands—but he’d do it again, and gladly. Because he needed to do it, needed to learn how to take a man apart with his hands so he could do it to protect you. He doesn’t mind, because it’s for you. So that you can be safe.

You kick your shoes off in the entryway, and Steve heads for the kitchen, putting the food down. You poke your head into the kitchen. “Bathroom?”

“Down the hall, it’s the second…no, third door on your right.” Steve replies. It’s like a dream—you’re finally here, in his home. You’re finally back where you belong, and he’s…happy. For the first time in a long time. He’s known the pleasure of the hunt, the satisfaction of doing the right thing, but he hasn’t been happy. Not like this.

“Thanks. Smells amazing!” you reply when you return. You’ve opened up your blouse to reveal the tank top underneath, and he quickly admires the ripe, round curve of your breasts through it. God, he wants to touch—he won’t, he knows better, he can wait, he’s nothing if not patient—but he wants to. “Can I help with anything?”

“You can sit right there,” Steve replies, pointing to the seat across from his. “And you can watch me work.” he winks at you, and you laugh. I’ll never get tired of that sound. You curl and uncurl a lock of your hair around your finger. Steve dishes out the food, laying out the appetizers between you so you can share. “How’s work at the museum?”

“Good! I mean, it’s pretty boring, but good. I gave a couple of tours today, so that was fun, but the best part is honestly getting home to paint.” you reply. You sound like you’re admitting something, and there’s a flash of guilt in your eyes. Steve’s not sure why you feel it—you’re an artist, not a tour guide. You shrug, clacking your chopsticks together. “At least I make enough to live, you know. Inside the city.”

Steve is content to just… let you talk. He prods when it’s necessary, but you’re fine on your own. He’s already followed you back to your Alphabet City studio, sat on the fire escape while you slept and changed and painted.

He even knows what your face looks like when you cum.

In fact, that’s what he’s thinking about as you tell him about college. When he asks if you want some wine, he’s thinking about the way your toes curl and you keen like you’re crying. You bite your lip—the same as you do when you’re soaking that stupid plastic cock, a poor imitation if he’s ever seen one—and then nod.

“Why the hell not?”

He goes for the glasses, making sure to fill both of them up equally. You don’t know he can’t get drunk, you don’t know what they did to him to make him so big and strong for you, but that’s okay. You’ll feel safer if he drinks too, he knows that. So he does, pouring himself a refill every time he offers you one.

“And—hic—what about you?” you ask, covering your mouth cutely as you hiccough. “I’ve been rambling forever. Did you… did you like the army?” you ask, cocking your head sweetly at him from across the dinner table. Your eyes stray to the dog tags at his neck, and he pulls them out for you to see.

“It was hell at first,” he says, leaning in as though he’s making an admission of his own. “And… honestly, I’m surprised they even let me in. Maybe somebody saw how bad I wanted to protect the people I cared about.” he looks pointedly at you. You look away bashfully, but he knows his point is made.

“Is that why you went?” you ask a small smirk on your face as you waggle a finger at him. “Really?”

“I saw… I saw some horrible things while I was away.” Steve replies—and this, at least, is true. He volunteered for the experiments, volunteered for the missions, and he’s seen the worst in people. There are monsters, but the worst ones, he’s found, look just like everyone else. They smile, they go to work, they pay their taxes. “You have no idea.”

And then they go home and do unspeakable things.

The best thing he ever did was go into the army—because they gave him the power to fight them.

“I think you’re really brave, Steve.” you say after a moment, and he sighs, shaking his head. “No, you are.”

“More wine?” he asks, knowing your head has to be positively buzzing after the entire bottle. You shake your head, sighing.

“I probably shouldn’t. I’ve already had too much, and I still have to take the train,” you lament mournfully. Steve stops the slow grin from spreading across his face. “And I have to work tomorrow.” he makes a show of checking his watch, eyes widening.

“It’s already pretty late,” he says, shaking his head. “You could just stay here, I have a washer. I promise, no one will know the difference.” he winks at you, and you laugh. “Besides, I haven’t given you the tour yet.” you’re too drunk to question why he isn’t slurring, why his movements are so steady and sure as he clears the table. “I wouldn’t feel right letting you take the train all the way uptown by yourself.”

“I guess… I guess I could stay. It’s not like anyone’s waiting on me.” you shrug. “Lead the way.” Steve knows you won’t make it through even half of the house before you’re too drowsy to continue. He’s counting on it.

“Follow me.” you make it through the first floor easily, but by the time he’s leading you upstairs, your movements are sluggish, and even sloppier than before. You almost knock into the bannister, but Steve catches you. “Maybe we can do this another time, when we haven’t had a whole bottle of wine,” he chuckles, and you grin at him sheepishly.

“Usually I have a higher tolerance,” you mutter, leaning on him heavily. “Ugh, sorry.” he shakes his head at you, clucking his tongue.

“Don’t be. Let me get you a shirt to sleep in.” the thought of you wearing his clothes is enough to make his cock strain against his pants. “Let’s get you into bed.” he leads you not toward the guest bedroom, but his own, something he’s surprised you notice when he settles you on the edge of the bed.

“Steve, s’this your room? I don’t wanna put you out of your bed,” you whine, and he chuckles. You won’t.

“Shh, doll. I don’t have sheets on the other bed. This is fine.”

He tosses you an old t-shirt, and heads into the bathroom while you change. It’s only the illusion of privacy, but he watches with rapt attention through a crack in the door as you strip off your work clothes with clumsy fingers. He’s going to map every inch of your creamy skin with his fingers and tongue, going to know your body better than you know it.

So fuckin’ perfect.

🩸

It’s easier to stage the body than Steve thought it would be—Paul’s wife left him years before, and the sad little apartment he rents above the bodega on their old street is as good a place as any. Paul can’t just go missing, not like Marilyn. He’s an example, a gift.

And he has to make sure you see it.

He deposits Paul on the bathroom floor, dropping his body like a sack of grain. He leaves through the fire escape, and waits. That’s the hardest part, waiting. Steve is patient, he knows how to wait, but that doesn’t ease the agony, not until he flicks on the news almost a month later, grinning as his handiwork is finally recognized.

“The victim is an elderly man, Paul Mazzano, fifty eight, who was pronounced dead at the scene. Here, I have detective Ford to share some details.” The newscaster points the microphone towards a disgruntled looking cop with a handlebar mustache. Behind him, Steve watches people parade in and out of the apartment building, as onlookers murmur just off-frame.

“Uh, yes. Well. Neighbors reported a, um, a smell. And when the landlord investigated, he found Mr. Mazzano in the bathroom.” Steve knows they won’t describe the scene, not really. They won’t say that they found him draped over the sink, a hot curling iron pressed to his chest. “We have several leads on a suspect, but as of right now no one’s been taken into custody.”

They have no leads, of course, but he knows they can’t say that. He turns off the television, almost giddy. He doesn’t have to wait much longer for you to hear the news yourself, and when you call him, sniffling, he’s ready.

“S-Steve? I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t know who else to call.” The two of you had been spending a fair amount of time together, and he’s pleased the fruits of his labor have paid off—it’s him you’ve called, not one of your other friends.

Him.

“What’s wrong? Are you alright?” he asks, knowing full well you’re not. He hears you take a deep breath.

“Somebody killed Paul.” your voice shakes as you speak. “And God, I don’t… I can’t… I don’t want to be alone. Can I come over?”

“Of course. Do you want me to pick you up?” he asks, and you sniffle.

“N-no. It’s alright, I’ll take the train.”

You only knock once before he’s at the door, tugging you into his arms as you sob. For a moment, Steve worries that you’re actually grieving as he helps you into the house. You’re still clinging to him when he seats both of you on the couch.

“It’s okay to be upset,” he says gently, stroking circles on your back as you cry. You look up at him with red-rimmed, watery eyes, and shake your head.

“I’m not sad,” you reply, roughly wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “I’m…I’m angry. I’m angry someone got there first. Jesus, isn’t that fucked up?” you laugh tonelessly as even more tears threaten to fall, welling up as you look up at him. “I wish it had been me.” Steve’s never felt closer to you than in this moment.

“It’s not fucked up.” he never would have let you, doesn’t want you to live with the blood on your hands the way he does, but it makes something hungry unfurl in him to hear you say it. “He’s a piece of shit who deserved to die for what he did to you, and it’s not fucked up to want justice.”

“You know what’s fucked up?” you hiccup. “I never told anybody. I never said a goddamn thing. I should have. And I never did.” you’re sobbing again, and Steve holds you tightly, pulling you into his lap. You curl against him, pressing your face into his chest as you cry yourself dry. You’re so small and vulnerable in his arms, Steve almost wishes he could bring Paul back and do it all over again, just for making you suffer.

“Well, now he can’t hurt anyone else.” Steve replies firmly. “He’s gone.” you lay there, sniffling against his chest until your breathing evens. “You can stay here today. I don’t think you should be alone,” he says, and you chuckle.

“Alone’s my middle name,” you joke, wiping at your runny nose and puffy eyes. “God, I bet I look awful.” You’re trying to lighten the mood, to distract from the real, heavy feelings he knows you’re shouldering. He wishes again that he could take this from you, that he could hold it for you the way he holds the weight of the justice he knows no one other than him can dispense.

“You look beautiful. Like you always do.” Steve replies, making sure to let his hand linger on your thigh. You’re vulnerable right now, easy to manipulate. He doesn’t feel bad about it, no—you need him, you just don’t know how much.  You mumble in response, shaking your head.

“I look like I got stung in the face by a bee. Probably several.” you dismiss him with a wave of your hand, and before he can preach patience to himself again, he grabs it, his eyes hard. Your breath hitches at the contact.

“You don’t know how perfect you are,” he says tightly, like he’s trying to force you to understand it. “How good.” you’re practically straddling his lap now, your expression anxious and unsure.

“Good people don’t celebrate someone’s death,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Then don’t be good.” Steve replies, and your eyes flash up to his. Your lip trembles. “Good people watched him hurt you. Good people ignored you, let you slip through the cracks.” he brings a hand to your cheek, and your eyes widen a little at the gesture. “Don’t be good.” he repeats it as he brushes a thumb across your bottom lip. Your tongue follows the motion, and you pull back suddenly, as if he’d struck you instead.

He’s worried he’s gone too far as you scramble off of his lap, your pulse thundering. You glance up at him with worried eyes, and he sees it for just an instant—desire. “Sorry, I just, um—bathroom.” you say lamely, shuffling awkwardly out of the living room and leaving him alone. You’re alone and adrift with only Steve to anchor you, and he knows you’re fighting hard against letting him be more than a friend. But you’d come to him for comfort when the news broke about Paul, you let him hold your hand—you’d slept in his bed.

You just need another push in the right direction.

Steve waits patiently for you to return, and when you do, your eyes are still red and puffy, but your face is clean and dry. “Sorry for barging in on you like this,” you say, scuffing your foot against the floor. “Shitty way to spend your day, listening to me blubber about the past.”

“Nonsense. You’re always welcome here,” he replies, dismissing you with a wave. You’ve always been overly concerned with others to the point of neglecting yourself, and Steve just wants you to feel as valued as you make everyone else feel. “Did you call out of work today?” he asks, feigning curiosity. You won’t be going, not in the state you’re in, but Steve knows it’s easier to convince than to command.

“N-no, not yet.” you reply sheepishly, rubbing your puffy eyes as you sit back down next to him, careful to put an extra few inches of space between you. Steve closes it by widening his legs, scooting closer under the guise of being interested in what you have to say. “I wasn’t… I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t, right? It would be stupid to call out because some guy who was shitty to me died.”

Steve feels the rage flare up inside him at your callous dismissal of your own trauma. He knows it’s what you’ve learned to do, to shrink yourself, to minimize. He won’t allow it. “Shitty to you? He raped you.” Steve knows you avoid using that word like the plague, and you reel back violently as he says it. Tears gather again in your already wet eyes, and your lip trembles. He clenches his fists against his thigh and sinks his teeth into his lip. “And I couldn’t do anything.”

He remembers what it was like to just… watch as all of the people in your life failed you over and over. Ignoring the signs, ignoring the bruises, ignoring everything, pretending it wasn’t happening. Steve remembers you climbing up his fire escape, still shaking, the burn mark fresh on your flesh.

He’s never forgotten it.

“It’s not your fault.” you place a tentative hand on his shoulder, and then rest your head against him instead. Steve’s heart is threatening to pound out of his chest. “We… we were just kids, you know?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.” he apologizes, shaking his head. “I just can’t… I can’t stand you being upset that he’s dead. Feeling bad that… you don’t feel bad.” he looks down at you, his gaze softening. “You’re too sweet for your own good.”

“Guess that means I should call out, then, huh?” you ask, and Steve chuckles.

“Yeah, I think so.” he knows you’re hurting now, that the scab on the wound of your childhood is open and bleeding. He hates that he had to do it, to make you see that he was your safety, your security, but you’re here now, so he knows it’s worked. “You hungry?” he asks, and you let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Why do you always take such good care of me, Steve?” you look up at him, doe eyed. “It’s… it’s like you never left.”

“Somebody’s got to, doll.” he drags his hand affectionately down your arm, reveling in the feel of your skin under his palm. “Somebody’s got to.”

He makes sure you call your boss to let him know you won’t be coming in, frowning at you sternly when you promise to make the hours up. You shouldn’t even be working at the museum, Steve thinks scathingly. It’s your work that should be gracing the walls. He watches you stow your phone before stretching across the couch, the hemline on your little shorts riding up to expose more of your smooth skin.

Steve’s so close to having you, so close to finally crossing the line between friends and more than friends, and he’s acutely aware of it as you recline next to him. “Maybe it’s dumb,” you say, looking up from the television to fix him with a nervous smile. “But I… I feel better being here.” you sound like you’re admitting something to him, like you’re confessing. “I always felt… safe with you. Even when we were little.”

Steve chuckles. “Even when you had to fight my bullies for me?” he asks, remembering trying to defend the two of you with nothing more than his skinny arms, his will, and a trash-can lid. You laugh too.

“Looks like you can beat up your own bullies now, though.” you patted his leg. “I don’t think you need me anymore.”

You have no idea, sweetheart. “Why wouldn’t I need you?” he asks, watching your eyes widen at his bluntness. You gape at him embarrassedly.

“I, well, I just meant—”

“I always needed you.” your whole body tenses at his words. The legs you’d platonically thrown over his own twitch as he places a heavy hand on your knee. “Even when I wasn’t here, I needed you.”

“Steve…”

“I thought about you every day over there, you know?” he says softly, focusing intently on the patterns his fingers are drawing on your skin. Neither of you are paying attention to the soft droning of the television anymore.

“You… you did?”

“Every day.” he repeats, his blue eyes resting heavily on yours. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asks, his brow furrowing. “I told you I was coming back for you.” a choked sound leaves your throat, and you try to withdraw your legs, but Steve holds them there, his eyes on yours.

“I… I didn’t…” you drag your hands down your face. “I didn’t think you really would.” you admit, hugging yourself as you look away. Anger makes him see red for a moment, and he snarls.

“I promised.”

“Steve, I was seventeen. I didn’t… no one had ever kept a promise to me before. And I didn’t—fuck, this is hard. I didn’t think I was worth keeping. I didn’t want you to come back for me because you deserved more than to come back to… this.” you gesture at yourself. “I’m all fucked up, Steve.” you give him a watery smile.

“I wanted to come back to you.” he doesn’t remember pulling you into his lap, but you’re there, your breath puffing across his cheeks as he cups your face. “All I fuckin’ wanted was to come back to you.”

Your mouth is softer than he thought it would be, your lips more yielding; Steve is positively drowning in you—and he doesn’t want to come up for air. He drinks the tentative sigh you release into his mouth, his hands traveling feverishly up and down your sides. You pull away, gasping.

“Steve, Steve w-we should stop—” he’s not listening, leaving a trail of kisses from the corner of your mouth to your temple as he strokes your trembling thighs. “I—oh—!” his fingers skirt underneath the loose hem of your t-shirt, stroking the skin of your belly. The scent of you is addictive—he can smell the laundry detergent on your clothes, the lotion on your skin, but underneath it, his enhanced senses can pick up your true scent.

He runs his nose along your throat. “Smell so fuckin’ sweet, doll.” he can’t resist the urge to run his tongue along the same path, and your little hands fist in his shirt, tugging on it. “Still want me to stop?” he attaches his lips to your pulse point, his teeth worrying the flesh. Steve sits back to admire his handiwork, the purple and yellow bruise blooms like a flower on your skin.

“I…no,” you admit in a small voice, and that’s all it takes for him to drag your mouth back down to his. It feels like he’s dreaming—he’s dreamed this before, after all, so many times—but this is real, you’re really here and God he’s not fucking letting you go. He groans against your mouth at the first tentative grind of your hips.

“Waited so long,” he pants against your mouth, one hand finding it’s way to your back to undo your bra as the other steadies you on his lap. You’re mewling as he finds your nipple with his calloused fingers, twisting it. “Always loved you, you know that sweetheart?” Steve’s already hard, his cock throbbing  as he thinks of all the ways he finally gets to have you.

All his.

It’s a heady thought that makes him sink his teeth into the soft, supple skin at your collarbone, and you whine for him. It’s so delicious that he has to do it again. “Ow! That hurts, Steve!” you whimper, and he chuckles against your throat.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Got carried away.” it’s too much for now, he knows that, but eventually, Steve knows you’ll let him mark every inch of you. You’ll beg him for it. “God, just want you so bad.” he grips your hips harder, guiding you over the bulge in his pants. You moan softly at the pressure, and he looks up at you through his lashes. Your lips are parted, your eyes lidded. “Feel good?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Good. You deserve to feel good.” his thumb finds the button on your shorts. “I want you to feel better, sweetheart. You’ll let me, right?” he asks, his thumbs drawing heavy circles on her hips. He can’t stop—indulgence after indulgence; you’re hell on his self-control. It’s strange, now that he has you, the desire is almost worse, because now he has to keep you, he can’t go back to watching. Can’t.

You look a little unsure, so Steve helps you along, slipping your t-shirt up to take your nipple into his mouth. You let out a strangled moan, and nod. “Y-yes, Steve.” the words have barely left your mouth when he pushes your back down to the cushions, pulling hungrily at your shorts. He remembers the sounds you made when he watched you, and he hopes you’ll make them now.

Maybe even better ones.

He exhales a sharp breath at the sight of the white lacy—racy—scrap of fabric adorning your hips, his nostrils flaring. All the times he’s dreamed of this moment, wished for it, he never pictured you wearing white. It’s fucking perfect. It’s in that moment that Steve knows he’s going to ruin you. Ruin you for anyone other than him. He tears frantically at the lace, and the elastic snaps against your skin. “I’ll get you a new one,” he says hurriedly before attaching his mouth to your drenched folds.

Heaven.

He knows he’s not going to see it—maybe ever—but this is as close as he’s likely to get. You whimper and shake above him, your hips undulating against his face as he laps at your core. Your thighs are trembling, soft sounds falling from your lips as he circles your clit with his tongue. He’s relentless, his fingers circling the tight, clenching entrance of your cunt longingly. Steve knows you didn’t wait for him—but you’re so tight and soft inside that he can almost pretend you did.

“Dreamed about this,” he murmurs against your thigh as he thrusts a thick finger into you. You hiss, your hips bucking.

“Y-you did?”

He curls his finger inside your pussy and a loud, broken moan tears from your throat. “Every fucking night.” Steve adds a second finger to the first, scissoring you slowly open. “They tried to bring women in for us, but fuck all I could think about was you.” a wet gush answers his words, and Steve’s other hand finds it’s way back up to your breasts, testing their weight and marveling at their softness. “How I was gonna ask you to be my girl when I got home, how I was gonna take care of you.” You’re bucking and moaning, and Steve steadies your hip with his hand, looking up at your face from between your thighs. “How I was gonna save you.”

He licks his lips. “But you didn’t need me to save you, did you?”

“Steve, Steve please, fuck, oh—“

“Not like you need me now.” Steve stretches you around his fingers, laving his tongue against your clit with a long, wet lick, and then you’re coming apart. You soak his chin and the couch cushions beneath you, that wail that he knows so well escapes your throat as you shudder against him. He stares at you in awe,  drunk on the taste of you as he watches you shaking from the pleasure he’s given you. “Say it. Say you need me.” your eyes are bleary and wet from your orgasm when they meet his, and his hands tighten on your hips. “Say it.”

“I-I need you, Steve,” you don’t sound sure, but that’s alright—he’s got you now, and he has time to make sure you know exactly what you need. The words make him groan, tearing at the button on his jeans as he eagerly frees his cock. He’s taking advantage of your grief, he knows it and he’s planned it that way, but you’re moaning and writhing underneath him just like he’s always wanted, so it’s more than worth it.

He’s not like the others, he’s not going to leave you, not now, not ever. Steve rips his shirt over his head, a growl escaping him at the sight of the slick mess at the apex of your thighs. Your scent is bearing down on him with the intensity of a speeding semi, and he has to have you, he can’t stop, not even if you wanted him to. He settles over you, caging your head in with his arms as he stares down into your eyes. Steve drags his lips across your own as the head of his cock slides wetly through the folds of your cunt.

“Ste-eve,” you whine, panting against his mouth. “Fuck, I need, I need—”

“I know, baby.” he sheathes himself inside of you in one glorious thrust, the wet noise of his entry ringing in his ears. He groans loudly, watching as your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open. You’re so hot and wet and tight, he can’t not move. He knows he should give you time to adjust, time to get used to the sheer size of him, but his hips are pushing against you before he can grab for the reigns of his self control. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re squeezin’ me so good,” he pants, pulling out until your cunt is sucking hungrily at the head of his cock before slamming all the way back in.

Every time he bottoms out inside you, a hoarse sob falls from your lips, and he presses his forehead to yours, breath puffing across your sweaty face. “Look at me.” your eyes flick open, and he growls as they meet his. “Good girl.” he knows he worked you open with his fingers, but you’re still squeezing him so fucking tight, wetness seeping out of you and soaking his thighs with every thrust. “My good girl.”

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he lays into you. Your words have failed you, though Steve occasionally hears a please or even better, his own name among your pleasure addled babble. He rocks his hips into yours, peppering your face with lusty kisses.

“God, Steve, please, gonna cum, fuck!” you’re crying again, tears leaking down your hot cheeks. He licks their salty trails and groans, burying his face against your throat. “Fuck, fuck, fu-uck—”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me.” your thighs dig into his sides as a keening cry leaves you, your back bowing up off of the couch cushions and pressing the softness of your breasts into his chest. You’re squeezing him so tight he almost can’t move, his cock trapped by the velvety wet walls of your cunt. He presses your thigh to your chest, opening you up deeper even as the aftershocks of cumming again roll through your body.

“Steve, Steve, Steve—” his name is on your lips like a prayer, and as his cock bottoms out inside you, he gasps.

“Taking me so good, sweetheart,” he leans back, mesmerized by the sight of your slick, puffy folds being spread open by the thick length of his cock. “Fuck, like this sweet pussy was made to fit my cock.” Steve knows he’s going to cum soon, and just the thought of finally filling you up is almost enough to make him bust as soon as it surfaces. He reaches between your bodies, his rough fingers rolling your clit between them.

“Ah! Fuck! Steve, Steve I can’t,” you’re sobbing hysterically, shaking your head and dragging your fingers down the sweaty, muscular planes of his chest. “I can’t again!” the sloppy, wet noise of your cunt is like music to him, and he groans. He knows you can, though, knows you can take it, knows you can give him one more before he lets himself follow you into sweet, blissful oblivion.

His touch is relentless. “Shh, pretty girl. One more. One more time, you can do it. It’s okay.” he’s not even really paying attention to the assurances that leave his lips as his head lolls back. God, he’d kill a million men just to do this.

Just to have you.

You scream as you cum again, and Steve feels his balls constrict as he falls over the edge immediately after. The slick evidence of your pleasure coats his cock and his thighs, and Steve holds you still as he empties himself into your pussy. He doesn’t release his hold on your hips until his cock stops jerking inside you, finally spent. You’re boneless as he pulls away from you, one leg tossed over the back of the couch, toes twitching. The sight of his cum dribbling down from the puffy, abused hole of your cunt makes his cock throb with the desire to repeat the activity.

Steve admires his handiwork, the bite marks littering your shoulders and throat, your messy hair, and the dazed, dreamy look in your eyes as you float slowly back to yourself. He kisses you again, and you wrap weak, trembling arms around his shoulders. He’s content to lay there with you reveling in the feel of your heartbeat under his ear. He’s reluctant to let you up when you wiggle impatiently underneath him, but he does, allowing you to scamper to the bathroom.

When you return, Steve sweeps you into his arms, carrying you up to the bedroom, where he deposits you, giggling, onto the silken sheets. “I’m not going to ask where you learned that,” you say, cuddling into his chest when he lays down beside you. His fingers trace shapes on your hips and he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s me who should be asking that question,” he replies, grinning at you. His eyes flash as thoughts from earlier return to plague him. Not her first. He wasn’t angry about it then, but thinking of anyone seeing you the way he’s just seen you… it makes him want to rectify the situation as best he can. He can’t fault you, of course, it’s not your fault, but… “There aren’t any boyfriends I’ve got to worry about looking for me, right?” he jokes, though he knows there’s not anyone who could give him trouble, not really.

You scoff. “Please. The last relationship I had was like three years ago.” you wave off his concerns, and place a tentative kiss on the corner of his mouth. Steve returns it eagerly, but when he pulls away, there’s a darkness in his eyes that he can tell makes you nervous.

“Got a name for me, sweetheart?”

The end.

Blue Velvet, 2012.

thinking about him purposefully ignoring the fact that you told him to be careful when handling you in bed. //////

he’s gut deep inside you, hitting all the sweet spots inside your warmth. clapping sounds filling the room with sin, your face buried within the pillow below you— silencing your pretty pathetic moans.

“damn. it’s so fuckin’ tight.” he groaned through his teeth with one hand gripping your waist. your body jolted forwards with each thrust he gave your pretty little pussy. “s-slow down.” sweet moans fell from your lips as you tried gaining balance with your forearms against the mattress.

his strokes getting heavier, “just like that angel.” his other hand pressed against the small of your back— making your arch deeper than before. “ooh s-shit.” your arms went limp as the tip of his dick repeatedly kissed your cervix.

warmth ceased from your waist of disappearance from his touch. your tiny body underneath his comparably large figure as he pounded into your tight cunt, swallowing him whole like it’s last meal. “wa-itt..?” confusion trailed through your voice, feeling tight tension of each individual strand on your scalp— his large hand had your hair wrapped around his palm in a firm grip before tugging your head towards his chest, losing himself inside the plushness of your walls fluttering around his dick— his thrust became unsteady, yet synchronized at an animalistic pace. “mmm-ph fuck,,.” you cried holding yourself up with the palms of your small hands.

“what’s wrong sweet girl?” he teased, wanting to see if you could actually handle what was given to you— his hand connected to the bare of your ass, giving it a harsh blow. “mmph that’s hurts.” your voice shook with a stern tone as your tummy curled together.

“my little doll doesn’t like it?” another blow fell against your ass, jolting up from the impact. stinging radiated throughout your ass— each slap sending you closer and closer to your approaching orgasm. “I said be gent-anghh .” his hands went back to the thin of your waist with the firmest grip, silencing your voice with one swift movement. “awn poor girl.” he smiled to himself, in honors of not listening to shit you said before you ended up underneath him. 

“my pretty girl can handle it right?” he grunted out as each thrust sent your body forwards each time. 

your insides were twisting and turning with pleasure building up. “I-I can.” you whined, throwing your head down as you heard a deep chuckle behind you, feeling the imprint of his nails dig into your flesh. his body hovered over yours as his lips aligned near your ear, “then bite your lip and take it.” his harsh tone bit back before abusing your poor cunt once again.

an: my main picture was toji tbh, but suddenly thought of other men :p

I joined the COD fandom a week ago and with my height of 158 cm I felt like this.

Literally us.

https://www.instagram.com/p/BrErlYagObC/

Ugh I just love mob Bucky and biker Bucky so much

Summary: Your biker neighbor invites you over for his birthday party. Just you and him. 

Pairing: Biker Bucky x reader

Word count: 1K

Warnings; Smut, Minors DNI, 18+,

A/N: Hastily written, will correct mistakes later. 

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘉𝘦𝘵𝘢’𝘥, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 (𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵)

Do not copy, rewrite, translate or post my work anywhere. No permission given to copy, translate, rewrite or post any parts of my stories.  

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The loud bass from his music shook your window, your blinds swaying back and forth, casting dancing shadows across your bed. Despite holding your pillow tight around your ears, the indiscernible lyrics bounce around your dark room. 

Four hours. 

Four hours of his god-awful music. To be fair, he warned you he was having a party, but this was ridiculous. You have so much stuff to do tomorrow and damn it; you need your sleep. Flinging your pillow at the wall with a frustrated scream, you turn over on your side. Grabbing your phone off the nightstand, you tap the screen. 

1:16

You push yourself up, muttering about inconsiderate sexy bikers while you shove a pair of shorts on. You’re straightening your t-shirt when the song ends and for a brief moment, you can hear yourself think, it’s so quiet. Quiet for the first time in forever. 

“Finally,” you sigh, resting your elbow on your dresser. You rub the back of your hand across your face and move towards your bed. 

Before you can touch the sheets, another song starts. Louder than before, now you can make out the lyrics. Kurt Cobain crooning “come as you are,” so clearly he might as well be next to you. 

“I’m going to rip his head off,” you grumble, stomping out of your room. “No, no, I’m going to shove your bike so far down your throat, I swear to God,-” 

You stop in the hallway, one hand on the wall, as you pull your shoes on. You fling your door open, looking around the block, all the other homes are still and dark, but not Bucky’s. Every single one of his lights is on, the music getting progressively louder by the minute. 

You slam your door shut and jog down the stairs and head to his front door. You’re so upset you fail to notice that only his bike is in the driveway. No other cars or bikes. 

You bang on his front door with your fist. “Bucky!” you scream, “Bucky!” 

The music cuts off and you can hear rummaging inside; you hit his door one more time. He opens it mid-knock, catching your fist with his large hand. 

 “Damn, you look good, happy birthday to me,” he grins, holding your hand close to his bare chest. He lifts your fist up, looking you up and down, “bout time you showed up,” 

“Wh-what?” you splutter, surprised at the sight of your neighbor wearing only a pair of tight black briefs and a brilliant smile 

Bucky chuckles, “yeah, I was running out of songs, I’ve been waiting hours for you, I would have started with Nirvana if I knew that was going to be one to bring you over,” 

“I-I uh,” You try to speak but then he kisses the back of your hand, his blue eyes flashing up at you. 

“Cmon in,” he says, caressing the inside of your wrist with his thumb. 

His skin is rough and calloused and the small circles he rubbing around your pulse feel good, for a second you imagine him doing to your clit. You drop your eyes to your feet, ignoring the growing throb in your cunt. Nope, no, you’ve avoided him since you moved in, you will not break now. 

You shake your head, “I can’t Bucky, I’m only here to tell you to turn it down and you can’t play loud music to get me to come over to your house,”

Bucky smirks, “it worked didn’t it,” he laughs softly when your faces drops. He lets go of your wrist, cupping your chin in his large hand.

 “It’s my birthday, don’t make me spend it alone,” his voice, deep and smooth, his bottom lip poking out in a faux pout. You fight off a grin, but he catches it and wrinkles his nose at you. 

He pulls you to his broad chest, tilting his down, “there’s only one thing I want for my birthday, gorgeous,” 

“What?” 

He arches his brow, “you know what I want,” 

Bucky has been after you since you moved in next door, his tough reputation preceding him. It’s at odds with the man who mows your lawn and fixed the drain in your sink.

Then again, he has refused to put up curtains, and he walks around naked too often, maybe he catches you peeking once or twice but you can’t help yourself.

He calls you gorgeous, but Bucky is stunning. And big. And thick. His eyes are captivating, those lips of his drive you mad sometimes.

“I think you want it too,” he murmurs, watching how your gaze drifts down to his groin. Your breathing is shallow, and it hastens when a tent forms the longer you stare. 

“Sleep, I uh-,” you clear your throat, bringing your eyes up to his six-pack. “I need to go to sleep,” you would think looking at his stomach would be better, but then you see a thin vein going down his shorts and you’re back to staring at his bulge. 

Bucky has an arrogant smirk plastered on his lips. He’s been wearing you down for weeks now, and he’s not giving up that easily. All he needs is one chance, and he doesn’t intend to blow it. Taking your chin again, he lifts your head up, lowering his mouth down, his stormy blue eyes locked on yours, “gorgeous, I will fuck you to sleep,” he promises, inhaling your gasp, 

He brushes his soft lips over yours until your lips part. “Ah, that’s a good girl,” he says, kissing you so passionately you melt into his chest. He wraps his arms around you, walking you backward, kicking the door shut. 

He guides you down the hallway, ripping your clothes off between kissing you until you’re half delirious with need. You barely get to see the inside of his room before he has you planted face down on the bed. His large hands lifting your hips up as you grip the sheets in anticipation. Bucky teases your folds with the swollen head of his cock until you’re writhing and soaking him with your slick. 

“Please, Bucky,” you whine when he strokes your clit gently, “I need you,” 

He loses control at the sound of you begging for him, “I’m right here, gorgeous, gonna take good care of you,” he swears, grabbing his shaft as he pushes into your hot, silky walls. An explosion of pleasure making him grunt when you grip him. He knew you would feel amazing, but this is beyond anything he imagined, “fuck gorgeous, you’re so tight, never leaving this sweet pussy,” 

You push your head in his pillow, mewling his name when he hits a soft spongy spot in you. His fast, steady pace pushing to the brink with every stroke, filling you completely until you can only moan. 

The symphony of skin slapping and your sloshing echoing in the room. Bucky lifts his leg up to go even deeper, making you deepen the arch in your back. He smacks your ass, “fuck baby, give it to me, cum for me,” he pants, pulling your hips back. 

He reaches down, rubbing his palm over your swollen bud, “that’s it, that my good girl,” he groans when you try to jerk away, needing a small reprieve from the barrage of pleasure he’s drilling into you, your stomach tensing as your arms give out, “don’t run baby, you can take it” 

He follows you down to the sheets, pumping in and out of you, his palm pressing down harder. The sensations surging through you, his hot heavy body caging you in until the coil breaks in you. 

“Bucky,” you cry out mindlessly as he fucks you through your orgasm, hot white pleasure washing over you. Bucky kisses your shoulder, taking your hands in his,, your walls holding him so tight he can barely move.

“Fuck, fuck, shit I’m gonna-,” he bites down on your shoulder as he nears his release, a few more frantic thrusts until you fill warmth in your throbbing core, his body relaxing on top of you. 

“Happy birthday,” you yawn. 

He hums contentedly, pulling out of you gently. He rolls onto his side, his hand rubbing your back, “Gorgeous,” he says kissing your damp forehead, “that was everything I ever wanted, but now that I’ve had a taste, I want more,” 

You smile drowsily as he kisses you again. “Now go to sleep so I can fuck you awake in a few hours,”

drapes his jacket over you when he notices you slouching and leaning on your forearm. You’ve definitely fallen asleep when you should be studying and working on your assignment but he’ll let it slide, just this once. (a lie) 

kisses your head and gently runs his long fingers along your back peppering his lips along your neck and arms, doting on you to make sure you don’t get a cold from the ac in the library. (why you chose to sleep under the fan will never cease to confuse him) 

has an album filled with pictures of you sleeping and sets them as his background, alternating between his favorite ones. He claimed to not be the type to obsess over their s/o but how could he not when you’re just so beautiful and loving you is one of the best things he’s ever done? 

Sometimes if he’s feeling generous he’ll finish your work (he’s done it enough that he’s matched your handwriting perfectly but he’ll never admit it) opting for the excuse that you must have completed it before passing out (a lie that loses credibility the more it happens) and when you get a perfect score on the assignment you run into his arms as he congratulates you. (maybe this was all a ploy for your affection) 

“Baby look I got a 100%!” 

“You’re amazing honey, how do you wanna celebrate?” 

Kuroo, Kenma, OSAMU, Suna, Akaashi, Sakusa, Iwaizumi, TSUKISHIMA, Daichi, Oikawa, Kita

"That's that beautiful, good luck."

"You're good, kind. I'm not."

"Don't be afraid, I won't bite."

"You can thank me later, fluffball."

"You're smart. Life is going to be hard for you."

"We fled together. I showed you my home..."

"Strange one, there's a blend of strong character and a sense of insecurity within you."

"You follow me without asking where we're going. You trust me. And I trust you."

"You know what I do. Today I am alive, tomorrow I might be killed."

"Think about yourself more often, beautiful one. Okay?"

"Just stay with me."

"Finally."

"You're already the best."

"To have a choice is freedom. Freedom is unknown. To be afraid of the unknown- means to be afraid of choice, of freedom."

"Take it. If you decide not to wear it, I won't take it to heart."

"Even if you try very hard... (smiles) I don't think anything is possible between us."

"It will be harder to kill, the second time."

"This is so that no one touches you if you don't want them to. Aim for the throat."

"Congratulations on your first, Mei."

"Don't worry. You are here. Close. That much is more than enough."

"If you want, I'll never bring this up again, and it will all remain a surreal dream..."

"You're beautiful, brave -maybe even mysterious- but definitely not scary."

"Would you like to stay here for the night? Or longer?"

"What you are to me; what I am to you."

...

"Everything will be fine."