Reblog If You’ve Ever Imagined Yourself Being Interviewed With The Avengers Cast As If You Were Apart

congrats on 1.5K! can i request a threesome with dadsbestfriend!bucky and dadsbestfriend!steve 🥵

JOIN MY 1.5k SLEEPOVER!🧚‍♀️

[dadsbestfriend!bucky x fem!reader x dadsbestfriend!steve]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* word count; 381 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

[a/n; YOUR MIND!!! this will be 1940s AU, and i'm giving the dad a random name lol]

warnings; SMUT! MINORS DNI, +18, age gap (reader is in her 20s), dirty talk, insinuations to threesome, if uncomfortable please don't read. press keep reading for smut :)

fridays were your favorites.

and not because you'd have dessert with your girlfriends, or landed a date with a nice boy to drive up to the drive-in theater.

butterflies swarmed in your belly the second you stepped foot into your house, grinning at the sight of your father hosting a cook-out for all his buddies from the war.

"[y/n], come 'ere!"

you giggled at his calling, rushing over as he embraced you, introducing you to everyone, but your eyes were glued to a pair of ocean blue ones.

"that's the pretty little doll i prayed to come home to, steve, a fuckin' gem," bucky took a swig of his cold beer as his best friend chuckled, scanning you shamelessly, noticing the mischievious glint in your [e/c] orbs.

"gorgeous, but john wouldn't think twice to kill ya', that's his angel," the brunette scoffed with a following smirk as he saw you disappear back inside your home before nodding to him discretly.

"come on, punk, let me show you something,"

"sweetheart!" you squealed the moment bucky sneaked into your room, wrapping his thick arms around you as he inhaled your rose-scented locks.

"i missed you so much, jamie," you whimpered as he began nipping at your neck but you jolted away the second you caught a glimpse of another man in your room.

"baby, you know steve, right?" nodding shyly, your heart hammered against your chest as the masculine cologne invaded your sweet room tempestuously.

"you're gonna be a good girl for us, right? gonna show stevie how wet you get, how pretty you look stuffed with my cock," his lustful whispers were drowned out with his hand reaching beneath your modest dress, rubbing your slit through your panties, smearing your wetness.

"tell stevie to touch your pussy, doll," your eyes met with the blonde's wild ones, mesmerized by the way bucky shedded you of your clothing, shuddering at the sudden breeze rushing through your window.

"please, touch me, stevie," he stepped forward, gasping as you yanked his hand towards your slit and coated his fingers with your leaking juices, dragging whimpers from your gaping lips as steve instinctively toyed with your swelling clit.

"don't make a sound, kitten, we're not leavin' til we fill this pretty pussy with our cum.

someone better

azriel x reader (acotar)

warnings: self doubt/insecurity, slightly angsty, fluff

word count: 1288

summary: you know azriel loves you, but you can’t help but feel like he could do better.

a/n: ok so this wasn’t requested but i wanted to write something with my favourite bat boy to kick start this account so i hope you enjoy! requests are open :)

“You know you’re being completely ridiculous, right?”

You groan, removing your hand from its position across your eyes as you glance over at Cassian lounged beside you on the bed.

“I didn’t invite you here to insult me, Cass. You’re supposed to be comforting me.” you whine, Cassian shaking his head with a chuckle in response.

“Well, I’m sorry but I can’t comfort you over something that doesn’t exist, Y/N/N.” he retorts, reaching out to poke you playfully in the side. “I mean, do you even hear yourself?”

Keep reading

Do you ever read a smut so good that you feel a heartbeat in your pussy for just a sec, because same.

Sleep

Maze Runner Minho x Fem!Reader: Sleep

Word Count: 287

“I do not deserve you,” Minho murmured, his low voice husked over from exhaustion. He kept a secure grip on her waist, pulling her into his chest before relaxing with a content sigh.

She was sure he did not mean for her to hear that, but she responded anyway. “Mmm, but I love you anyway.”

She felt Minho’s grip tighten and tensed when he shifted his position, settling back down when he placed a warm kiss on the back of her neck.

She loved moments like this; the way the heels of his feet dragged on the floor as he struggled to get up the steps of the Homestead. How she could see his eyes drooping at dinner after he had a long day of running.

He always struggled with his pajamas when he was so too tired, most of the time settling with no shirt and a pair of shorts. She loved when he would make her jump when coming up from behind and hugging her gently, his forearms wrapping around her middle. At that point, he would pull her onto the bed, already wishing to sleep the rest of the week away.

“You’re so warm,” Minho mumbled with his eyes closed.

She shuffled out of his arms - ignoring his tired whines - and twisted around so they were face to face. Minho, seeming to understand the hint, rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. She buried her face in his rising-and-falling chest, inhaling deeply. Minho tangled one hand in her hair, pushing down whenever she twisted, while the other rested on the small of her back.

“Never leave me.” Her voice drifted in and out of consciousness, but she managed.

“I promise.”

Afterburn

(Everyone x F! Reader)

Rating: M Wordcount: 8k Tags: Aftercare, Post-nut clarity, Praise kink, Taking a bath together, Just 6 dudes taking care of their girl after completely and utterly wrecking her A/N: ...This was supposed to be a drabble. No few regrets. My personal take on the aftermath @yeyinde 's "Body electric". Special thank you to @guyfieriii @moondirti @zwiiicnziiix @ladiilokii and many others

Summary:

It’s over.

The world around you feels dense, cryptic, laden with mysteries and vagueness as you still try to process how you ended up here. Your eyes stare up at the creaking, wooden rafters of the safehouse, vision still swimming, dried tears flaking at the corner of your gaze. Every small motion seems to roil with a discomfort that’s heavy with the aftereffects of pleasure, bleached to the bone and dull, cracking at the edges. Splayed over the table where maps and gear had been hastily shoved aside you can’t deny the chafe, the rawness that manages to soak deep into your veins.

The boys are milling around you, speaking in tired, disbelieving tones at the events of the past few hours, at how you had managed to take them, all of them at once.

It had been a blur, your memories drowning in a cacophony of slickened skin and torrid, whispered praises, or grunted pleasures and hissed curses as they all took as much as they gave. You weren’t sure who’s idea it was at first, but in the course of fucking you, of ruining you, you had surrendered completely to them, let their hands and voices guide you as you floated on an endless sea of sensation and desire. Even as they had drunk their fill of you, of your salted moans and whimpered, pleasured cries, they had been ever attentive, listening to the roll and tide of your ebbing lust, knowing exactly when to push and pull you like the ever-changing undercurrent of the ocean itself.

Now, in the aftermath you feel like you’ve been washed ashore, left there by the churning waves as fluid drips across your skin and clings there like salt.

You don’t survive this long with the 141 without your fair share of injuries. Burns, cuts, and blisters are your war medals, decorating your skin with a silent story of pride. Grenades, IEDs, the ground shattering sensation of a missile launch or the back-kick of a rifle. These things were familiar to you. Not this.

When you blink, it’s to wince at the rough chafe between your legs, the tender touch of a love bite sucked into your throat. You ache all over, and while the afterburn of pleasure still roils low in your stomach, sated and simmering with fading euphoria, the dull, insistent stretch and soreness of handling five men at once feels at once too much, too sharp, too severe.

A whimper bubbles up your throat when you try to shift, try to roll over onto your stomach with your back still braced on the harsh metal table braced against your back. Someone had been kind enough to spread a towel under you, but it’s still not enough to ease the bite of discomfort clinging to you like rose thorns.

The chatter around you ceases instantly at the sound that pours from you when you try to move. The world around you seems more like hazy, indiscernible shapes with how overstimulated your senses are, an abstract of shades and shapes that make little sense to your pleasure-addled brain. Yet even so, it’s Rudy’s face that flickers into your vision, brow still slick with sweat but scrunched with concern.

“Shh.” He hushes you, and his hand is petting your hair from your face and your eyes flutter shut under his touch. “Easy, mi Corazón.”

“How is she?”

The voice is gruff, accented, and the question itself seems more like a demand than a question, spoken with an air of unquestioning authority. Price.

“Tired.” You manage, voice tacky and stick in your dry throat as you swallow and taste bitterness there. “Sore.”

Rudy clucks at you, and the sound feels for all the world like a worried mother hen. His thumb smears a drop of flaking cum against your cheek, and the touch is tender, careful with your over exhausted state.

Except then there’s another touch, one that grasps at your hand and raises it between two calloused palms, bitten with years of duty.

“Ya did good, hen.” Soap coos, and you twist your head to see him, his eyes still glazed over but bright, warm as they regard your lidded gaze. “Did so well for us.”

You can only hum, trying and failing to find the wherewithal inside you to summon a proper response. Soap smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.

“What do you need, doll?” A different voice asks, and you tilt your head to see Gaz leaning on the table next to you, one hand planted next to your shoulder as he gazes down at you. His head is tilted, eyes tracing over the mess of fluids and grime caked on your skin. There’s something that flickers across his eyes, bitter and almost guilty, and had you not been so spent you would have reached for him, murmured reassurances against the curve of his jaw.

“Water.” You mutter instead, and instantly Gaz is gone from you. Before you can try and follow him with your eyes there’s hands bracing at your shoulders, fingers spreading against your bare skin. The world shifts around you, body bent and raised up to a sitting position.

“Easy, querida.” Alejandro soothes as you let out a little whimper of discomfort when he sits you up. “Con suavidad, mm? Gently now.”

You don’t have the strength to sit up by yourself, choosing to lean heavily on him instead, body slouching and trembling. From what you aren’t sure. You’re bare as the day you were born, and though the safehouse seems a touch chilled by the evening air, the shiver in your limbs runs deeper than that, wear and overspent.

“Soap.” Alejandro speaks, and his voice is muted, quiet so as to not startle you. “A blanket.”

Soap’s footsteps fade just as Gaz draws near once again, wrapping your hands around a canteen even as your grip shakes unsteadily. When he helps you tip the flask, the water soothes mercifully over your chaffed and cracked throat, and you gulp greedily. Yet it’s too much too fast, and it only takes two deep swallows before you cough and splutter, water trickling down the corner of your lips.

“Careful.” Gaz warns, voice low as he hovers in front of you, one hand still engulfing the hand holding the canteen. “Not too fast, doll.”

Yet then you feel him pause, shift and make room for a different figure that presses closer to you, a calloused hand gently gripping your chin and tipping your head back once you’ve caught your breath. When your eyes flutter open once more, it’s to meet the vision of Captain Price, eyes grim as he faces you head on, gaze never wavering.

“How bad?” He asks, and you know that tone, firm and demanding to know what you know, for you to not lie as you convey the depth of your awareness into his.

You swallow.

“I’m fine.” You tell him, and it’s the truth. You feel the ripple of suspense, of apprehension dissipate with a sigh from the men around you, relieved yet still precariously concerned with the sight of you, shivering, exposed, and exhausted from the inside out.

“I’m just…tired.” You emphasize again, incapable of conveying much more. “…and kinda gross.”

Price nods, the motion firm. You can see him digesting the information you’ve given him, letting it simmer and ruminate as he configures his next attack like a battle-hardened soldier.

“Rodolfo.” He states, and you hear the sergeant shift somewhere behind you, standing at attention on instinct at the solid, instructive tone of the captain’s voice. “Is there a bathtub here?”

“Si.”

“Good. Go run a warm bath. Not too hot. Gaz will help.”

“Rog.” Gaz affirms, and when his touch vanishes from you it’s Alejandro who keeps your hands steady, with your shoulder still pressed to his chest and head lolling onto his collarbone. He’s murmuring soft words at you that you hardly hear, fatigue dragging at you insistently like a riptide.

“Soap.” Price summons next, eyes turning to the Scotsman who still hovers close to the three of you with the blanket he’s retrieved. “Think you can find a clean set of clothes and fresh sheets?”

Through your wobbly gaze you see Soap perk up, eyes glinting with the look of a mission driven soldier.

“Aye, cap.” He confirms and takes two large steps before he’s again vanished from your sight.

It’s only once he’s gone that Price turns back to you, his calloused hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head up to face him once again. You whine at that, at the way the motion reminds your body of what’s already there, tender and raw and aching.

“Easy, love.” He gentles you, and his voice rumbles rough in his chest like cigar smoke, smoggy, acrid but warm all the same. “You did so well for us.”

His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, touch firm and insistent despite the little hiss of tenderness you summon in response. Yet then the captain’s eyes soften, drinking in your flushed face and clouded gaze, lips parted under the rough pad of his thumb.

“So well.” He repeats, eyes distant for a moment as they trace over your lips before at last flickering up to your eyes. “Now let us return the favor and take care of you.”

It takes a moment for your hazy thoughts to process his words but when you do, you ease into his touch, breathy exhale spilling across the flat of his palm and eyes rolling shut. With a single, blissful sigh, you surrender once more to these men, let them take care of you in the way only they can, with their soft, firm voices and calloused, tender touches that bouy you as if you're lost at sea.

Then, the soft touch of a fabric as Price helps Alejandro drape the blanket across your form, enveloping you in a soothing warmth. You go limp, more pliant than you already are, leaning into the warm embrace of Alejandro’s form. A single hand comes up to clutch the blanket, velvety and worn under your fingertips.

Price vanishes somewhere beyond you, and Alejandro tucks you further into his side, nose buried in your hair as you shiver against him. Your bare legs dangle from the edge of the table, feet barely skimming the ground. Price’s voice is somewhere nearby, murmuring to someone you can’t see. You think you hear the sound of running water somewhere, but your thoughts feel clouded, hazy and sated with the knowledge that these men are intent on your care as much as your pleasure. For a moment you feel the riptide of fatigue pull at you, lulling you under as sleep beckons with an insistent, raw promise.

Footsteps. A presence, omnipresent and heavy like the force of gravity itself. You don’t open your eyes, don’t need to, already knowing who’s shadow falls across your form.

“Give her here.” Simon asks, demands from the colonel, voice low like the rumble of distant thunder.

You feel Alejandro stiffen, hesitate at the thought of entrusting you to the hulking soldier, remembering the way you went blank-eyed and completely limp under him, under the weight and pressure and force that is Ghost.

“Let him.” Price encourages, voice careful between the two. “I’ll need your help in here, mate.”

That seems to do it, because Alejandro is pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head before he extricates himself from you, steadying you long enough for Simon to catch you by the crook of your knees and width of your shoulders, hauling you up against him. The blanket bunches around your form, legs dangling and head lolling into the breadth of Simon’s chest.

Yet the motion isn’t without punishment, not as you’re shifted and your body protests valiantly at the abruptness of it all. A choked, pleading moan frees itself from your throat as Simon begins to walk away from the common area, strides large and purposeful.

“S-Simon-“ You try, unsure exactly what you’re pleading for but wanting to be closer, huddled deeper into his massive form.

“Easy, love.” He murmurs in response, accent thick and cloying in your thoughts. You settle at that, at the illusive, strangely sympathetic tenor of his voice. You’re too tired to do much else than recline against him with a shivering sigh, limbs aching and caked in grime.

It’s the sound of his boots against tile that rouses you only moments later, the warm steam of the bathroom curling across your skin and licking against clammy, chilled flesh. Ghost hovers just inside the doorway, hands splayed against you as they cup you to his form. You wish you had the forethought to lift your arms, tangle them around his neck, but the thought is gone as another figure hovers at your side.

“I got it from here, LT.”

Simon gruffs a sound of affirmation, and with surprising care dumps you into Gaz’s waiting arms. The blanket wrapped around you gently pulls away, and when you shudder Gaz’s lips are pressed into your temple.

“It’s alright, pretty girl.” He hushes. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

He’s bare, you realize dimly, exposed flesh pressed against you. The thought is strangely mortifying, considering the man has been balls deep in your ass earlier. Yet you don’t realize why he’s naked until he’s stepping into the tub, lowering you down with him into the warm, soothing water.

It takes a few moments for you both to settle, some of the water sloshing out onto the tile with both your forms inside the tub. Yet Gaz’s chest is pressed against your back, legs on either side of you and arms caging yours as you sink lower into the water with a blissful sigh. You feel it when he rumbles a chuckle, a hand vanishing as he reaches for the supplies Rudy no doubt provided him.

You reach for them as well, but your hand is gently knocked aside by the sergeant you’re pressed against.

“Nuh-uh, love.” He chuckles. “This is all me.”

You find it difficult to protest, instead sinking further into the warm water.

He starts by gently pouring water over you, dunking your sweaty, matted hair and loosening the strands carefully with his fingers. The sergeant works systematically, lifting each limb and scrubbing it free of flaky cum and caked sweat, the soft bubbles of soap grazing across your arms and legs. You relax into him completely limp and utterly euphoric. Everything smells like coconut and aloe, aromatic and perfumed and warm as the water laps at your legs and chest.

Gaz takes careful attention to your face, gently cleansing it free of the tear trails and semen caked against your cheeks and the corners of your mouth. He’s murmuring gentle encouragements to you all the while, voice hushed and soft in your ear, full of “There we go, that'sa girl, sit up for me? Thank you, doll. Almost done, back next, shh, easy.”

When he gets to the apex of your thighs however, you flinch at his touch, just barely too firm against your chaffed, stretched holes.

“Take it easy.” A voice gruffs, and you blink your eyes open, vision adjusting to the dusty brown hues of the bathroom, seeking the cockney laden voice.

He’s there, in the corner, arms crossed and lurking, massive frame hunched into the otherwise too small space. Ghost’s eyes level at the both of you, gaze unblinking, blistering as he observes, watches, intent on observing and seeing through whatever mission he’s been tasked with.

Gaz only nods at him, his voice quiet in your ear as he speaks.

“You want to do this?” He asks, tone low, concerned at your reaction. You manage a nod over your shoulder, delicately taking the washcloth from his grip and letting it sink beneath the murky water.

It takes a moment, but you manage to hiss past the pain and arch up to scrub yourself, cleaning the mess of caked fluids that decorate your inner thighs and ass. You can feel Simon’s gaze on you all the while, the way he’s taking in every wince and jolt that flashes across your face.

“Deep breath.” Gaz encourages softly in your ear, and when you oblige there’s a slosh of water pouring over your head and dampening your locks.

You moan when Gaz works his fingers into your hair, massaging shampoo into your scalp and raking his fingers against the crown of your skull. You melt into the touch, all previous indications of soreness vanishing in the instant it takes him to chuckle warmly at your response.

“That’s nice, yeah?” He asks, and you can hear the touch of smugness in his voice, pleased with the way you grow limp and pliant against him, the way your eyes roll back into your head at the gentle, rolling motion of his fingers into your scalp. You can only hum a sleepy “Mmhmm.” In response, blissed out on the sensation.

He’s surprisingly good at this, you find out, making sure to go so far as to condition from the tips of your hair up, carefully combing your hair through his fingers. You relax fully into him, sink yourself up to your nose in the cooling water and let drowsiness take hold. Yet it’s only when you shift that you feel him, feel the hardening nudge at the small of your back that has you stiffening, sucking in a sharp gasp of air.

“Gaz…” You warn, casting a pleading look across your bare shoulder.

You’re not sure if it’s the warm water, the lingering haze of lust, or the blissful, relaxed sounds that spill past your lips, but you can feel him, can feel the blunt pressure of him against the nudge of your spine. It sends a lingering shower of sparks racing through your veins, but the heat of it is dulled, muted by exhaustion. You can’t, not again, not right now.

Gaz seems to read your mind, sees the way your eyes flicker with wariness. His hands still for a moment as he leans, entering your field of view with warm eyes that dance with a touch of mischief below the caramel surface.

“Don’t you worry about me, doll.” He replies softly, but there’s a sultriness there that isn’t fully extinguished. “This is all about you.”

And when his thumbs dig a dull, heavenly touch into the nape of your neck, you find it hard to complain.

All too soon, you hear the bathtub drain gurgle as Gaz pulls the plug, the water receding like the tide gone out to sea.

“They done?” A voice asks from the doorway, and your gaze blinks up to reveal Soap, present with what looks like two changes of clothes in hand.

“Just about.” Gaz replies, and you feel him shift as he detaches himself from you, scooting so he’s halfway out of the tub and can help you wobble your way to a stand to step out onto the cold tile.

Yet at the first step your legs tremble like an unsteady filly, and it takes both Soap and Gaz to steady you, sit you down on the edge of the tub. When you plop down on the edge, however, a remainder of soreness shoots across your hips and up your spine and you’re unable to bite back the moan that escapes you.

Gaz and Soap shoot each other a look, self-satisfied smirks tugging at the corners of each of their mouths.

“Shut up.” You grumble, feeling warmth threaten to flush across your face once more.

They spare you, thankfully, and as Gaz dries himself off it’s Soap who’s drying your hair, wiping the water from your shoulder and back. You trace the planes of his face as he does, watching the way his brow scrunches with concentration, the way his eyes linger over the swell of your tender, bruised breasts and the curve of your hips. The plumpness of his lip is sucked between his teeth, and you can tell he’s restraining himself, trying not to indulge with his touch on you, letting his fingers wander and press and summon whimpered pleas from your bones. His hands are assertive in the way only soldiers are, resolute with duty and yet still somehow gentle, considerate when he grazes over the soreness of you.

You attempt to help, feeling a trembling strength returning to you now that’s your hydrated and clean. Yet Soap merely grumbles at you, refusing to hand over the towel.

“Just sit back, hen.” He tells you, and his voice is firm despite the tenderness there.

You purse your lips at him, feeling a flash of guilt at letting yourself be so completely pampered like this, not allowed to do so much as properly dry yourself. Yet Soap notices, steely blue gaze flickering to yours when he notices your hesitation.

“Lass.” He begins, that cocksure smile tugging at his lips once more. His eyes are sparkling, and you can’t stifle the helpless flop of warmth that pools inside of you at the sight. “You just let us shag you seven ways to Sunday and were bloody perfect for it. Let us spoil you, aye?”

Yet you’re still unsure, and when the Scotsman sees you’re unconvinced he sighs.

“When else are you going to have five burly men at waitin’ on you hand and foot?” He asks almost impatiently, and that thought is intriguing to say the least, enough to make your hand fall limply back to your side.

Soap grins. The warmth thickens.

“That’s a good lass.” He murmurs, and there’s a touch of smugness in his voice, at the way he’s managed to school you into surrendering, letting yourself succumb to his touch once more. Yet that conciliation is enough to get him chattering now, tongue loose as he purrs little praises and encouragements at you all the while.

“So pretty.” He coos as he turns your face up in his palms, towel brushing hair from your brow, as he wrings water from your hair and carefully wipes at your still tender hips and thighs. “Perfect little bonnie for us.”

You’re pliant, docile under his touch, letting him do as he needs to and letting the familiar touch of hebetude pull at your senses. It would be easy to fall asleep right here, to lean against him and let rest take hold of you, drown you as it's meant to. Clean now, warm and undeniably sated, the promise of sleep creeps near with a touch that feels achingly familiar. The temptation is an enticing one, the promise of deep, velvety unconsciousness dragging at you even as Soap reaches for your change of clothes.

“Arms up.” He encourages, and you can’t help the drowsy little grumble that escapes you in protest.

“ ‘m tired, Johnny.” You slur at him, but the sergeant merely tuts at you.

“I know hen. I know. We’re almost done.”

You grumble even as you oblige, lifting your arms up and letting him slide a T-shirt that seems far too large for you over your bare torso. Pants follow, and you have to fumble with the drawstring of the sweatpants to cinch them around your waist so they don’t pool at your hips. Yet it’s the hoodie that Soap slips your arms through that makes you slouch into comfort, hum a note of appreciation at the back of your throat.

“Smells like you.” You mumble, eyes sleepy and warm at your sergeant, and you see Soap melt.

“Only the finest.” He grins back at you, eyes glinting with that tell-tale elation he has whenever he’s got your full attention.

There’s a call from down the hallway that you don’t catch, one that draws Soap’s attention and causes him to turn his head. You follow his gaze at first, but find yourself distracted by the shadowy figure still present in the corner, head tilted as he observes you, watches you watch him. You can see his eyes, see the way they’re slightly narrowed at your slouched form on the edge of the tub. It isn’t clear exactly what Simon is looking for, but he seems to find it nonetheless, gaze darting up from your pebbled nipples to your open, curious expression.

“Think you can stand?” Soap asks you, drawing your attention back to him. You nod, and with his help wobble to your feet, bare soles still sliding across the wet floor.

Yet again, when your legs shake with weakness it’s all you can do to remain standing, hand gripping Soap’s arm with a trembling, unsteady grip. Your gaze flicks upwards, once again finding the skull mask that haunts the edges of the room and the periphery of your thoughts. You don’t make a sound, barely alter your expression, but within moments Ghost is rolling his shoulders to push off from the wall, closing the distance between you both and wrapping an arm around your waist.

He doesn’t say a word as he scoops you up once more, and even Soap seems a bit surprised at the sudden gesture, eyebrows arched as the mammoth soldier cradles you into his broad chest.

“I-“ You try, but when Ghost’s eyes peer down at you your throat feels dry, tongue heavy, and the words are lost.

Soap trails you both as Ghost escorts you back in the direction of Price and the others. As you round the corner your nose instantly fills with the thick, scented spice of garlic and onions, and soon you find Rudy and Alejandro in the kitchen, turned to each other with smirking, tell-tale smiles as they bend over a pan of something that you think smells like heaven.

“Here.”

You turn at the sound of Price’s voice. He’s seated at the head of the table, and the chair creaks as he scoots away from the table, widening an arm in Simon’s direction. Simon follows the order without protest, gently depositing you into Price’s lap even as you whimper at the tender flesh of your ass coming into contact with him.

You should be embarrassed, you think. You should be a little bashful at this circumstance, perched in the lap of your captain who smells like cigar smoke and gun oil, at the way his arm closes around you and keeps you braced against his chest. Yet Price is warm, solid, his grip on you firm and reassuring, so you struggle to find yourself to care.

Price reaches for something on the table, a tube of what looks like ointment. You blink at it for a moment, brow furrowing even as he deposits a liberal smear on his calloused fingertips. When he catches your wary expression he merely huffs, the mutton chops of his beard twitching upward with his smile.

“Ointment.” He explains. “It’ll help with the tenderness.”

You arch an eyebrow at him, surprised but also a touch curious.

“You say that like you’ve been in this situation before, captain.” You remark carefully, but Price merely huffs at you, warm, smoky breath ghosting across the planes of your face.

“Years of experience, love.” Is all he gives you before his hand is snaking under the hem of your shirt, up to the tender, suckled flesh of your breasts. It’s a shock, you flinch under the cold touch of his slickened fingertips. Yet Price’s opposite hand digs into your thigh, steadying, guiding in the way only he is. You arch into him with a little protest as he smears the ointment across the rise of your chest, whimper caught in your throat.

“Easy.” Price gentles when you squirm, and the tickle of his beard whispers over the nape of your neck when he presses a kiss there. “I got you.”

You only nod, eyes scrunched shut and breath stuttering in your chest, hands gripping his arms and head tucked back against his shoulder. Your heart thrums louder, skin burning, yearning for the grip of him but knowing it’s too much, too soon, that you can only sit there and take it as his war-worn hands smooth the cream against your battered flesh.

Yet it’s when his touch vanishes from you, when you sigh that you hear him huff, chest jolting with the motion as you brace against it. Except then he’s shifting, and you feel a hand pull at the hem of the sweatpants you’re wearing -black, you notice- as his fingers descend past them, along your belly and towards the core of you.

“C-captain-!” You shudder when Price smoothes lotion across your folds, and suddenly the world is too hot, too bright, and you’re shivering under his touch, body growing taut. Yet Price’s touch is purely medicinal, purposeful and clinical even as you gasp and writhe weakly against him.

“You can take it.” He encourages, voice grumbling and firm, ever the leader, anchoring you from the discomfort and the rapid, uncertain flutter of your heartbeat.

You try to stay still, you do, but Price’s and feel like a warming brand against your skin, reigniting a coiling flame there, one that you can’t indulge in despite the wish that you could. It’s all you can do to tuck your head back against him, shiver under his hand cupping the core of you, your hands digging into him as you seek gravity. When you whimper, Price’s touch softens, soothing circles into your hips, your thighs, your ribs.

“There we go, love.” He rasps when you sink against him, caressed into docility as you perch on his lap. “That’s a good girl.”

You whimper, and the sound is enough to summon a grumbling groan, caught like the grind of gravel deep in his chest.

“So fuckin’ beautiful.” And it’s Soap’s voice nearby, lilted low with desire as he watches you writhe and whimper on the lap of his captain, eyes scrunched shut and hands clutching at him to ground yourself from Price’s perseverant hand slid under the waistband of your pants. You look at him, gaze half-lidded and hazy, and when you do his eyes flash darkly at you, a curse bitten off in a language you wish you understood. It summons a weak, distant burst of arousal in you, one that has you squirm back against Price, seeking ground on which to retreat.

Yet all you find there is a grunt, a hand digging into your thigh with a warning as you recognize the bulge that presses up against the swell of your ass.

“Careful now.” Price mutters darkly, and you shiver at the desire there, even with his hand flat against the front of you, his beard tickling the nape of your neck as he at last withdraws his hand. “I don’t think you're quite ready for us again, sweetheart.”

For a brief, dizzying moment, you wish you were.

Footsteps, and when you turn your head Alejandro is approaching from the all too distant realm of the kitchen with a plate that has steam curling into delicious, mouth-watering whisps. When you catch his eyes you see him grin, and it feels for all the world like a promise of things to come, blooming like cumulus clouds against a far-off horizon.

“Arroz rojo.” He announces as he sets the plate in front of you, the red rice blooming with the scent of cumin at the back of your throat. “Rudy said you might appreciate something easy on your stomach.”

You twist in Price’s lap towards the direction of the kitchen, catching Rudy’s dark head of hair as he turns to meet your gaze. Contentedness blossoms across his expression, deeply satisfied and almost glowing with the hazy aftereffects of a man completely and utterly sated.

“Let me know if you like it, mi Corazón.” He replies, and his voice is almost shy, a touch bashful despite the fact that he’s the same man who spilled down your throat earlier.

Price’s fingers tap on your thigh, drawing your attention back to him. You crane your head to look at him, and then shiver at the darkness there, restrained but still ominously present.

“You’re going to have to move, love.” He gruffs at you. “Unless you want me to spoil your appetite.”

You gulp.

“Here.” Alejandro offers, arms open. You don’t have a chance to protest before you’re being moved between them, transferred from one set of arms to the other, adjusted until you balance on Alejandro’s lap.

“I-I can feed myself.” You try, feeling the ripe blister of embarrassment creep up your face as Alejandro reaches for the plate before you.

Yet the colonel ignores you, fork clinking as an arm keeps you braced against him, even as you try to appeal to him with half-lidded, weary eyes.

“Can you?” He asks, and that damned smugness that’s present in all of them is there in him too, as his eyes gleam down at you, a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth.

Still, you nod valiantly, grappling the fork away from his hand even as your own grip shakes lightly, spilling grains back onto the plate. When Alejandro chuckles the sound is warm, like the blaze of sun-kissed skin and spices curling on your tongue. His hand engulfs yours, steadies it as you raise the fork to your lips, letting the warm, cloying spices curl across your tongue.

When you give a little hum of enjoyment Alejandro practically purrs in your ear, and you realize that this must be doing something to him. With your tender and sore figure perched in his lap, the object of his desires smelling like musk and aloe and just a touch of him-

“Me estás volviendo loco con esos ruidos.” Alejandro murmurs, and the sound is more of a groan than anything else, spoken into your damp hair, arms hauling you tighter against him as you savor the food, a happy little noise hummed high in your throat. “The sounds you’re making are almost as pretty as you, bonita.”

“I take it that means you like it?” Rudy asks as he sets down a glass of water in front of you beside the plate, and you grin up at him, pleased.

“Mm.” Is all you manage around a mouthful of rice, and you see Rudy’s eyes melt, glaze over at the sight of you, fed and happy and satisfied. His hand flicks out, and you still as he brushes a stray grain from the corner of your mouth, drawing his thumb back to let his tongue run across the tip of his thumb. You still, tracing the motion with your eyes as a different heat flicker within you.

“Agua.” Alejandro encourages, reaching for the glass and tipping it up towards your waiting lips. You follow the command, the motion is easier now than it was before, when you were fresh out of a warzone that left you blistered and bruised but sated.

The two men before you seem entranced by you, damp and warm and docile in Alejandro’s arms. There’s a sense of pride there, you know, something about keeping you warm and fed and clean and protected that makes something primal pace against the confines of their thoughts. It’s the thought that they’ve rendered you to this much, carved gasping, lecherous words into your flesh and pushed you over into the abyss, time and time again, only to haul you back into their waiting arms.

It's not just them. When you cast a glance about there’s chairs pulled up to the table you were defiled upon, the men around you quiet but observant, gazes looking over your slouched, cuddled form with your drowsy, pleased expression and damp hair sticking to the corners of your face. Price, with his smoldering stare like the glowing burn of tobacco; Soap with his bright, keen gaze that glints at you from the distance between; Gaz with his softer, warmer eyes that still hold the hazy dying dusk of desire.

Ghost, who lingers against the wall just beyond. His eyes haven’t left you this entire time. It feels almost wolfish, the way he doesn’t shift, doesn’t blink when you look at him, arms crossed and gaze still dark, hungry for you in a way he doesn’t bother to conceal. You can still feel him, feel the way he split you open and left a piece of himself there, branding you with the heat of him nestled against your womb and his teeth grazing possessively over the underside of your jaw.

Alejandro’s fingers trace there instead, drawing you back to him, and your lips part around another forkful of arroz as he’s murmuring words into your skin that taste like cloves and paprika, aromatic and piquant.

“Wish we could keep you here, carina.” He mutters as you swallow, as his thumb smoothes over the still-trembling hand in his grasp. “We could keep you happy here.”

You are happy. Blissfully so. Despite the tenderness and fatigue, you’re undeniably comfortable, clean, fed, warm, satiated from the attention of the men around you. These men, who you’ve fought beside, who you’ve entrusted your life and body to, the ones who took their own pleasure from you as much as they gave you yours.

Maybe it’s the simmering coolness of your nerves, the way you’re so exposed and vulnerable like this, or the way Rudy’s hand pets your hair, the way Alejandro is murmuring to you, or the way Gaz looks at you with something that feels suddenly like longing-

You feel tears swell against the corner of your eyes, fat and heavy and too hot for your blistered skin. There’s a tightness that clogs your throat when you tilt your head back, trying to keep them from spilling like a cup over filled.

“Hey, hey, hey-“ Rudy coos, and his finger smears the growing wetness from your gaze, clearing it so you see his face flicker into view, brown-eyed gaze tenderly soft and worried at this sudden change in you. “Mi vida, what’s wrong?”

You swallow, and the capsicum taste of cumin lingers there. It does nothing to quell the tightness there, something skin to a sob threatening to bubble up when you speak. It dissolves as a sigh instead, one that falls across Rudy’s fingers cupping your face as you gently shake your head.

“Nothing.” You say, but your voice cracks in betrayal as you try to find the words needed to explain this strangeness in you, overwhelmed and burning at the edges but undeniably happy in a way you’re unfamiliar with. You feel like you’ve been dragged from hypothermia and into a sauna, body and mind reeling at the adjustment but grateful all the same, trying and failing to express the rawness of the sensations that threaten the crux of you.

“I’m just…happy.” You tell him at last-

And begin to cry.

Now they crowd around you, hush you with gentle words even as mortification and contempt flood your veins. When you try and wipe your tears, hide your face as you sniffle, there's a hand that pulls it away, wipes your face. Hands smooth along your shoulders and sides, rubbing gentle reassurances there that echo into the air around you.

“I’m sorry.” You manage between stifled hiccups. “I-it was good, really good, I-I don’t know why-“

“You’re exhausted, love.” And it’s Price who’s talking now. You think it’s his hand that cups your chin, over your quivering lip as you try to contain yourself. “You’re overwhelmed and tired. ‘s not your fault.”

“ ‘M sorry.” You try again, but he merely tuts at you, and there’s hands in your hair and Alejandro’s voice against your shoulders and someone’s holding your hand and rubbing circles into your hips and-

“Don’t you worry about that now.” The captain tells you, and his voice is softer now, almost ginger in the way he’s regarding you, you who’s taken bullet wounds and shrapnel and yet have become undone by the simple, irreplaceable act of being cared for.

You nod, feeling your shuddering gasps begin to wane, the shiver in your limbs subside as they once again drag you ashore, out from the blazing sun and into the cool shade of their embraces.

“Think you can handle a few more bites, Querida?” Alejandro asks, and you nod, let him lift the fork to your mouth even as salt obscures the taste.

“Next time I’ll have you come to the ranch and make you elote e carne asada.” Alejandro rumbles, and you feel the smile of him against your shoulder.

“ ‘Next time’?” Soap chuffs, and that’s enough to draw the attention away from you and to the sergeant, who crosses his arms in Alejandro’s direction. “What makes you think there will be a next time, mate?”

“Yeah.” Gaz chimes in, and he’s leaning forward so one arm rests against the table. “Besides, your ranch? Next time will be back at Beacon base in the UK.”

“You’re both wrong.” Price grumbles, fingers tapping on the width of his arm. “We’re staying in Lancashire at my place.”

“Now hold on, captain-“ Rudy objects. “Do you know how expensive it is across the Atlantic? Tickets these days are-“

They’re bickering, the previous, united camaraderie of soldiers evaporating as they discuss the group’s future endeavors like mapping out battle plans, pinpointing targets and 0600’s and supplies. You don’t bother to listen, not even as Alejandro’s tumbling voice echoes over your head and his arm wraps around your middle in a gesture that seems more possessive than it does stabilizing, the warmth of his hand burrowing against your ribs with nothing but the cotton of your too-large shirt to separate him from your skin.

Full now, belly warm and senses cloudy with contentment, you lean your head back against Alejandro’s shoulder, body slumping as you feel the familiar drag of fatigue wind around you, pulling you downwards. There’s nothing left. You don’t think you could walk even if you wanted to, limbs heavy and immobile. There’s fuzz between your ears, like cotton balls soft to the touch, obscuring sound and sight as the heavy weight of drowsiness washes over you.

“A few more bites, carino.” Rudy encourages, and you whine at him, too far gone to summon a real protest. The sound is enough to make Alejandro brace his head into your shoulder and groan at the little pleading whimper in your voice, too full and tired to bother with much else.

“Chica bonita.” Rudy purrs at you. “Are you tired? Need to sleep?”

You nod up at him, feeling a small flush of self-awareness at how you must look right now, bedraggled and tired and damp, draped in clothes far too big for you, eyes lidded and heavy with the promise of sleep. Yet Rudy’s eyes are affectionate when they catch yours, and you can taste the melted chocolate that oozes from them, dark and sweet.

“Let’s get you tucked in then.” He murmurs, looking over your shoulder at Alejandro. They exchange in Spanish you don’t understand, and it gives you the opportunity you need to let your head drop, eyes fluttering shut even as you’re lifted, moved. The world tilts around you, yet this time it feels less like the daring free fall of a skydive and more like the gentle, reminiscent swing of a hammock on a sunny afternoon, dappled sunlight streaming through a forest canopy. The world is warm, cloaked in color and birdsong, the air around you like a salted ocean breeze that licks at the folds on your clothes and tangles in your hair.

“Shh, shh, gently now.” Soap murmurs, and you can smell him as he helps you down into the bed he’s helped make, military corners tucked in with precision. You sink into it, knowing it’s nothing more than a cot but thankful to the gods to at last be horizontal, laying on your side as a hand lifts your skull to slide a pillow there. You curl in on yourself even as a blanket falls across your form, shivering.

Yet when Soap tries to leave you catch him, fingers tugging on his pants even as he tries to step away.

“It’s cold.” You manage, voice small despite your bold, unspoken request. Little do you know that when you ask like that, when you blink your pretty lashes up at him, nose hidden under the sheets and fingers hooked on his pants leg, that there’s no way he can refuse.

“Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus.” He breathes, voice thick with wonder. Yet then he’s moving, tugging off his boots with a curse. The cot shakes as he braces on it, shudders when he manages to slip into the sheets next to you. A thick, brawny hand comes up to cup your skull, dragging you into his chest and pressing you there, and when you breathe in it’s him, cedarwood and ashes of the fire, thick and musky across your senses.

When you think it’s finally, blissfully over, however, there’s a hand petting your hair, and a younger, British voice on your other side.

“Room for three?” Gaz asks, and you manage to free a hand enough to wordlessly reach for him, wanting, needing him at your back. It’s not long before he’s settled in as well, spooning you from behind on the bed that is almost definitely too small for three people, two of them being built, sinewy soldiers.

You don’t care. You’re warm on all sides, warm from pleasure and affection and treatment from all of them. It feels like you’re suspended, floating on something beyond yourself, spirit lifting from your corporeal form and into the darkening sky above yet anchored by the touches of the men beside you. You’re too far gone to notice Rudy come, place a kiss atop your hair; to notice Alejandro drape another blanket over you, of Price and Ghost discussing in low tones by the doorway. The others stay, linger, on chairs or nearby. You think you see Rudy and Alejandro on the cot beside yours when your eyes flutter open.

Your vision shifts, gazing over the slope of Soap’s neck to the lit doorway. Ghost mutters something, a goodbye perhaps, and turns.

It’s to be expected. The man is a lone wolf, he works alone. For him to even be here is a miracle, and to have even participated at all a divine sign from the gods themselves. Now, however, he retreats to where he belongs, to the shadows that engulf the breadth of him, the kingdom where he was born and where he shall remain.

“Simon.”

The name escapes before you can stop it, and Ghost freezes, his head jerking upwards as he hesitates, turning to you, hidden within the embraces of his comrades.

You swallow, trying to conjure the spell to keep him here, within arm’s reach, forever now and always.

“Don’t get lost.” You mutter at last, and you think maybe your vision wavers when his shoulders droop, when his eyes blink at you, reflecting light.

His shadow falls across you on his approach, the width of him bulked by the tac gear he still hasn’t entirely gotten rid of. Ghost- Simon- blots light from the doorway like the shadow he is, absorbing brightness and drowning it in the essence of him. A hand reaches, smoothes the hair from your face.

“Never.” He mutters enigmatically, and even so you feel the edges of him splinter, crack like obsidian.

Your eyes flutter shut under his touch, cloak the world in mystic darkness as you surrender to him, to these men, to at last the inexorable, inescapable comfort of them, of sleep.

Imagine dancing up on your boys - Maze runner

Reactions 

Minho: Damn i know girls are attractive but this Greenie is something else. I’d definitely take a bite out of that, but i’m pretty sure i would rather want this one all to myself. 

Headcannons - How it went down 

- Your having fun your ass jiggle, raking your finger’s through your hair and making your hips sway 

- Minho would have a front row seat with Gally. 

- Minho’s eyes wouldn’t break away from you for a second. 

- His eyes would be running all over you. 

- Minho would be man spreading whilst smirking at you. 

- He’d occasionally lick and bite his lips

- This boy wants you! 

- Don’t be surprised if Minho gets up and tries to start interacting with you

- Minho would defiantly get all up in your grill trying to sexually intimidate you 

- Your nose’s would be touching. 

- Minho would be staring at your lips 

- You would be able to feel his breath on your neck 

Be careful Greenie you got a real thirsty boy here. 

Newt: (At first) *Blushes looking away not wanting to disrespect you in any way shape or form. (later on) *Smirk and laughing ass off at how easily you’ve gotten power over the shanks. “You know what i think it’s time i put a little Greenie back in their place.” 

Headcannons

(the bomb fire has finished and your walking over to the homestead just you an Minho) 

- Minho would be trying so hard to convince you to sleep by him tonight. “You really don’t want to be sleeping with a buff handsome guy like me?” 

- Newt would march over telling Minho to back off and get back to the homestead. 

- Newt would glare straight at you.

- “You can get your ass up into my room, thats where you’ll be staying from now on.” 

- “No..” you never really liked being told what to do 

- “I think you forget the real one with the power here.” He whispers in your ear.

- Newt would drag you by your wrist all the way up the two-story building and into his room 

- Newt would shove you in and lock the door. 

- “Lets get one think straight from here on out you are mine and only mine. The only person you will answer to that isn’t me is Alby.” 

- “Your only gonna shake that ass for me Greenie” 

- Newt would force you to give him lap dances, strip, toy with him and much more. 

- Newt knows that he would never get this opportunity again 

- You admit you like this side of Newt through he can be with rough with you. 

Looks like you got yourself in a real tight situation Greenie. 

Thomas: “Woah….” *Chokes on drink, blushes like crazy and starts fantasising about you.*

Headcannons 

- Thomas wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you. 

- Thomas would bite and lick his lips whilst watching you. 

- Later he would start to hiss and pant and his pants start getting tight. 

- Thomas would beg you to help him out. 

- You would be able to see his eyes pleading with you. He looked beautiful in such a vulnerable state. 

- Thomas would treat you like his queen. 

- He would just about anything you say. 

- He’s addicted to you and he will always want more. 

Good job Greenie you turned Thomas into a simp. 

Gally: “You better bring that ass back over here baby girl or im gonna have to punish you.”

Headcannons 

- Gally definitely wants you all to himself 

- This Shank very protective and possessive

-  You wouldn’t have a choice Gally would force you to stay by his side the rest of the night. 

- He would want you sitting in his lap. 

- He would keep his hand around your waist 

- Would definitely glare at other gladers especially Thomas.

- Would give you kisses on the check

- Gally would also kiss your neck regardless of if your in public or not. 

- Gally isn’t the one for public displays of affection but he wants you and he wants everyone else to know that. He enjoys looking at there pissed of expressions know that the can’t do anything. 

- At the end of the night Gally wants you sleep with him, your head on his chest and curled up close 

- Your so unpredictable and thats what he loves the most. 

Not bad Greenie 

hi bubba, remember that massimo torricelli edit? i was wondering if you could so something similar with bucky, or mob seb you choose so reader is mobs ex and they meet at a club and he sees her with some guy and gets jelly and pulls her to a private room and ... well you know what to do ;)

'Feel It' by Michele you mean? Oufff... Anyway, here we go

Oh, love me a classic mob!seb

Okay so, you're at a club with some friends, and the guy you've been talking to since you and Seb broke up - for a couple of weeks now

And the last person you expect to see at the club is the devil himself - Sebastian.

Standing there, with his hands in his pocket and his guards surrounding him.

Anger all over his face as he sees another guy's arms around you

You send him a smirk and look away, pretending he isn't there full on staring at you and sending death glares to your new 'boyfriend'

A few drinks later, you realize one of your girlfriends is nowhere to be seen so you go look for her

But you don't know where the bathroom exactly is so you get kinda lost

And before you know it, Seb's right in front of you.

"Are you lost babygirl?" he asks, smirking while he looks at you.

"Oh screw you." You groan and try to walk away but he grabs your hand and pulls you into him

"Where are you going? Huh? Back to that piece of shit you came with?" he asked, disgusted when he mentioned the guy he saw you with, trying his best to contain his jealousy

"Why do you care? You're the one who asked me to leave, remember?" you spat back and he pulled you closer

"Watch your tone. Don't provoke me." he said, sternly.

You sassed back, "Or what?"

"Or I'm gonna fuck you while he watches and show him that you belong to me." he said it so effortlessly

You scoff and try to leave but he tightens his grip around your waist

He dips his head into your neck and kisses you gently, inhaling your scent which he had missed so much.

"Tell me you don't miss me." he mumbled, daring you to agree while he nibbled on your skin; making you moan shamelessly

"I don't miss you." you lied, while tilting your head so he could have more access to your skin.

He chuckled. "Tell me you don't want me right now. Babygirl, look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me to fuck you."

You couldn't lie this time, you could never resist him for long anyways.

He slips his hand under your dress and slips his fingers past your underwear and toys with your clit; smearing your wetness around.

He chuckled again when you instinctively roll your hips against his hand.

"Your body is betraying you, baby."

Seb ends up dragging you to one of the private rooms at the back of the club

And neither of you can keep your hands to yourselves once you are past the doors.

"Fuck, I missed you so much." he mumbled breathlessly against your lips while he undressed you eagerly

You threw your head back and moaned when he slipped his fingers inside you; stroking your walls gently and making you whine his name in pleasure

"That's right, only I can do this to you." he whispered against your skin as he removed his fingers from you and cupped your core, "You're mine." he growled in your ear

Maybe he'd push you down on your knees and hold your face gently. "You've been bad, babygirl. You better make it up to me." he whispered and undid his pants.

You lower his underwear and take his erected cock in your mouth hungrily.

He groaned as you slowly dragged your tongue over his slit, stroking his cock with your hand while you teased his tip with your mouth

You took as much of him as you could; your tongue stroking along the length of his cock

You bobbed your head around him, hollowing your cheeks and making him groan every time you ran your tongue across his tip

He pulled away right before he came, because your mouth felt too good and he wanted to fuck you properly and remind you that you belonged to him.

"Come here." he pulled you up and held your jaw in his hand, parting your lips and kissing your open mouth while he walked the two of you towards the couch

He pushed you down and climbed on top of you, wrapping his hand gently around your throat.

"Seems I need to remind you that you're mine, huh?"

OH but would he be rough and wild, because he just needs to get all that anger and jealousy out of his system.

He'd spread your legs apart and push into you, and watching you whine under him

You pull him closer by the back of his neck for a messy kiss while he speeds up into you

He'd groan against your lips, mumbling about how good you feel around him

You could only whimper and mewl under him; his body moving against yours so perfectly that it turned your head into a foggy mess

He'd speed up again, making you squirm and moan louder.

Maybe he'd even alternate between fucking you, and pulling out to lean down and eat you out before pushing into you and fucking you again.

He'd make you lose your mind

And you'd soon feel the pressure in between your hips getting too much to bear, so you let go

Coming undone hard and violently around him, holding his shoulders for dear life

He moaned out loud and finished right after you, leaning down to kiss you so he could keep quiet and not make too much noise while he came

Panting and hearts racing; you two stayed there, him unmoving in your arms. His heavy body on top of yours, while he kissed your neck to calm you down

"Dump that idiot. And come back home with me. It's not the same without you." he mumbled against your skin after some time, and pulled away to see your reaction.

You caressed his cheek and nodded. "But you have quite a lot to make up for as well." you smirked.

He sighed "I know, I'm sorry baby. Just come home." he leaned in to kiss you, now content that his girl was back with him.

a/n: i never wanted mob!seb so bad before

No bc you know something's wrong when EVEN this mf would be a better Captain America than John Walker

Y'ALL KNOW I'M RIGHT

kaz x mute reader headcanons!

summary: kaz dating a mute reader

warnings: none!

A/N: this was such a neat request & I hope I’m on point with this one - I have a mute cousin so I feel like I’m going in the right direction with this

Okay, to start things off - Kaz wouldn’t think anything of it

He’s not a guy that would worry about how it would impact a relationship

Throughout his entire life, he’s been insanely quiet - only speaking when need be. And that’s something that drove a lot of people away

So with you, he feels like he can be himself

It makes him feel safe & comforted, and he wants to provide those same feelings to you

He priorities communication, wanting you to feel heard & recognized

So the first thing he does is places a notepad and pen on the corner of his desk

You both spend most of your time there, Kaz quietly working while you organize all of his papers filled with chicken scratches

When he’s deep into his work, it’s hard to snap him out of it

So the paper is there for you to write down things to communicate with him

Kaz eventually becomes trained to snap out of his work when he hears your pen against paper

It’s like Pavlov’s dog salivating when the bell rings

His head immediately snaps up and he stares at you until you’re done jotting down the message

It becomes a running joke among the Dregs how Kaz continues to snap to attention when someone starts writing on paper

“You’ve got him trained!”

Another thing he does is beginning to craft your own custom sign language

He becomes immediately concerned that someone could “intercept” the messages when you two are signing back and forth while on heists

So he creates an entire custom language, specially fit for heists

Long phrases that would have needed multiple signs now only needs one

There’s a sign for “go, now”

Another for “meet at rendezvous point”

Even one for “Jesper is late”

You of course help in the creation, advising him to base the new signs roughly off the old ones - so it’s not entirely foreign

He loves your input and it helps to tone down his mind that literally races with ideas

Once you two master it, it’s so fun having a secret language all to yourselves

Eventually all the other Crows begin learning it and they find its far easier to sign to one another rather than mouthing words

It becomes a second nature for all of the crew

hii! i recently saw on tiktok that elizabeth olsen lets chris write on her arm when he's feeling anxious during press so could i please request a chris evans x reader where the reader takes elizabeth's place and chris starts falling in love with the reader thanks to their help??

butterflies ⟶ chris evans

hi!! thank u so much for sending this in, the thought of chris dealing with anxiety IS CONSTANTLY breaking my heart...i mean everyone has it but like our chris 🥺 he doesn’t deserve to feel like that!!

and i saw the video for this, it was so adorable!

i’m just gonna tag @bearbear0923 bc ik how much she loves fluff

pairing: chris evans x reader

summary: chris has got butterflies for you—do you feel the same?

warnings: little bit of angst, mentions of anxiety, age-gap, really bad ending

masterlist

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sharpie ink is cold and sends a burning sensation over your skin, staining it so dark that even warm water and soap won’t wash it away, but when chris is drawing small butterflies on your forearm, it’s impossible to tell him to stop. his eyes are focused, not on the reporters shoving microphones and questions in his face, but on the small doodles he illustrated. “they could be tattoos,” he’d joke, with his tongue sticking out between his lips.

you would reply with a “maybe, chris” because the idea of a permanent picture on your skin. but unbeknownst to you, chris was serious.

robert, scarlett, and even mark had offered to help soothe his anxiety during nerve-racking moments. a few interviews had gone haywire, he’d even left a premiere in japan early, and no one had the ability to calm him down. except you. something about the way you spoke, the way you embraced him and held him in a tight hug, gently shushing him if a tear managed to escape. at first, no one else could see it.

but chris was in love. there had been countless sketches over your arms, wrists, hands, and any other bare spots that were easily accessible to chris. it had just been a friendly offer when you noticed the anxious look on his face during a press conference, and he had absentmindedly taken a sharpie to your forearm. “uh, chris?” you’d questioned, noticing that his strange actions were gathering the attention of your castmates and the audience in front of you. he’d brushed it off with his much-appreciated charm and people thought nothing of it. chris had later apologized when returning to your hotel rooms, enlightened to hear you say, “honestly, chris, if you ever need anything--including drawing on my arm,” he chuckled. “it’s alright. i’m here.”

it was not in his intentions to ‘catch feelings’. he felt immature, childish, and unprofessional to fall for his younger costar, but you were persistent on the drawings. eventually, it had even turned into holding and squeezing your hands underneath tables, but you seemed so unbothered by it he wondered if feelings were reciprocated. 

“she’s totally hot for you,” robert had joked in a hotel room one night. he had a glass of water in his hand while chris held a beer bottle, but he’d been so busy thinking about if you loved him back, he’d hardly taken a sip. yet somehow, both men were slurring their words. “but remember, man, if you go for her, people are gonna talk about it. she’s, at least, what...ten years younger than you? at least.” 

chris wasn’t being his normally chipper and talkative self. instead, he leaned back quietly on his bed and attempted to joke, “thanks for making me feel young again.”

the next day, he tried to restrain himself from anymore drawings or hand-squeezes. no more contact with you--it’d only have his heart shaking in his rib cage and he’d be falling head over heels for your all over again. unfortunately, and much to his dismay, he’d failed. all it took was one glance at you, and chris felt woozy in his stomach. your hair had been styled so perfectly, the color of your dress complimented your complexion so sweetly, and when your eyes met his, he only then noticed the smallest flecks of gold in them.

after countless interviews spent with either extremely rude or boring journalists, whose questions harshly peered into the privacy of you, chris, and your castmates, you noticed a sadly familiar look in chris’ eye. you popped open the lid from a permanent ink marker and watched as chris snatched it from your hand to scribble tiny doodles on your skin.

chris drew exactly what he was feeling. a small birdcage containing large butterflies too big to fit through the cracks to escape. they rattled around the metal, a clanking noise echoing through his rib cage with every beat of his heart. his tongue peeked through his lips, and with every stroke of the sharpie, a masterpiece was created on your skin. but, despite his adorable gaze that you noticed in the corner of your eye, you continued to speak with interviewers and answer their questions, almost disregarding chris’ presence.

little did he know, however, you’d given him permanent ink so that when you went to sleep that night, wishing he was in bed with you, you could look down at the drawing he’d made for you and imagine chris was yours.