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green is not your colour (1) - coriolanus snow.

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader.

Warning: Implied cheating.

Summary: You've been engaged to Coriolanus Snow for a few short weeks and have been living together for even shorter but, the betrothal is put through its first test when Coriolanus's affair makes itself known. Part (1/2).

Wordcount: 1.3k.

A/N: This takes place in the 'You Keep Him There' universe. A couple of months before Christmas Kiss. Please tell me you catch the Yellowstone reference.

11 months ago.

The stone bench cuts into the skin of your exposed thigh, one leg crossed over the other as your arm rests along the back of the garden seat. Goosebumps cover the length of your body; remnants of last night’s cold snap are still evident as the icy blanket that covers the Manor’s grounds slowly melt away with the slow rising sun. 

Of course, the cold was of no concern. Not when you had your new found habit to keep you warm. 

Taking a drag from the lit cigarette between your fingers, your gaze is unwavering as you stare down the anxious chauffeur who had pulled into the driveway of your new home at the same time that you did - belonging neither to you or Coriolanus.

It had taken you all of 30 seconds to piece together what was going on and who the car belonged to - after all, you weren’t supposed to be home until the afternoon. You aren’t surprised Coriolanus would do this but, it doesn’t make it hurt any less; doesn’t temper the green eyed monster threatening to rear its ugly head.

Sure, you didn’t like him but, the two of you had known each other your entire lives; would marry in less than a year, he belonged to you- you'd hoped those things would at least mean something to him too but, it doesn’t and again, that doesn’t surprise you but, you are disappointed. Disappointed that he would bring this into your home.

The chauffeur fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves, unsure of where to look as his gaze shifts nervously between you and the front doors until finally, they open and he relaxes slightly, eager to escape the weight of your stare as he wrenches the car door open for his passenger. 

You watch, hidden from their view as she emerges from your home, bidding farewell to your fiance. Crushing the cigarette, you wait until she’s about to enter the car to make your presence known. 

“I always suspected there may be something more between the two of you but, to become his mistress?” You stand, making your way over to her. 

Stopping a metre out, you drag your gaze lazily over her figure until you meet her own surprised one. 

“My, my, Clemensia, I never expected that from you,” you tut. “Although, I won’t lie. After your… stint in the hospital back in our academy days, I didn’t think he’d ever look at you again.” 

She flinches at your words but it doesn’t keep her down for long. The red-eyed, puffy-cheeked beauty straightening her back and puffing her chest with an air of arrogance that you did not appreciate. 

“What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” you repeat, laughing at the nerve of her. “Clemensia, this is my house. I can come and go as I please but, you? Well, we are going to have a problem if I see you around here again.”

"You can't stop me. He was mine first."

You take an intimidating step closer. 

“You want to sleep with Coriolanus? Fine. That’s your choice but, not in my house. Affairs are for hotels not homes, and if you ever step foot in mine again, I will make sure you never take another step again. Got it?”

She swallows thickly but nods her understanding. 

"Good. Now get off of my property before, I have you removed from it."

You don’t wait for her to go, sights immediately set on the fool you were to take as your husband in less than a year.

“Coriolanus,” you yell, throwing the doors open, anger finally revealing itself. “Coriolanus!”

You find him sitting at the head of the dining table, looking equally as surprised as his whore to see you. Unlike her however, he’s quick to hide it. 

“When did you-”

“You keep your whores out of my house, Coriolanus,” you warn him. “You keep your whores out of my house or I will teach you a lesson that I promise you will never forget.”

-

You spend the rest of the day sleeping, too tired from the morning's events and traveling to do anything else but rest, so it’s dark out by the time you leave your room. 

Padding down the staircase, your tummy makes its hunger known, growling out for anyone awake to hear. Sleepily, you make your way to the kitchen, not noticing the dim light emitting from the space until you're already inside with an unwanted guest. 

You look at him for a moment, thinking about whether to tuck tail and turn away or continue on your journey for food- your stomach makes your decision for you however, when it growls again. 

Coriolanus is the first to speak. “There's a plate in the fridge for you.” 

You don’t acknowledge him, opening the fridge in silence and indeed finding the plate of food inside. You pretend he’s not there as you move around the kitchen to warm your food up. When everything is ready, you take a seat at the kitchen bench- it’s then that Coriolanus decides to speak again.

“I think we should talk about this morning.”

“We have,” you answer him, tone clipped. “And I told you not to bring your whores into my house again.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You breathe a laugh of disbelief. Was it not enough to discover what you did this morning now, he wanted to discuss it too? Picking up your plate, you make to leave- there were other rooms in this place that you could eat peacefully in. 

“It’s over-” he follows after you, blocking your path. “Me and Clemmie. I ended things with her.”

“Clemmie,” you scoff the name. “How very considerate of you. Does she know that?”

“She does and I didn’t end it because of what happened this morning- I ended things weeks ago. She’s just having a hard time letting go but, I promise it is. I’m with you.”

You pause- pinching the bridge of your nose.

“You should’ve ended it months ago, well before we even got engaged.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

You nod but don't forgive him and he uses your silence to keep talking. 

“I want to make this work, I want us to get along, I want-” he hesitates, taking your free hand. “I want you to like me.” 

“What makes you think I don’t?”

“You made it very clear in the Academy that you don’t, I doubt your opinion of me has changed much since.” 

You smile bitterly down at your joined hands. Your dislike for Coriolanus in school differed vastly from why you disliked him now.  

You wonder if it would ever be possible to like Coriolanus Snow now. 

It was hard to see the possibility when your entire being now depended on marrying him. Your grandparents had already loved him, he was Old Guard, cut from the same cloth and as he got older, they saw the future in Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem. And that was before the proposal was even brought to them. Once it was… they would be damned if you married anyone else. When you attempted to go against it, they had made it known that they were more than willing to reduce you to nothing; taking steps to ensure you couldn’t refuse by hinging your inheritance of the Blizzard Telecommunications and Mass Media Empire and wealth on marrying him. Coriolanus Snow had snatched any freedom or hope for the future you envisioned for yourself away from you and he didn’t even know it. 

Maybe one day you’d move past it or maybe one day he'd accept that you never would but, for now you settle for “maybe you can start with buying me a new house.”

Coriolanus chuckles but you're being serious and he agrees, "soon."

“And Coriolanus?”

“Yeah?”

“I don't ever want to see you with Clemensia Dovecote again. I don’t take kindly to those who you would threaten to take what is mine. Green is not my colour and, I promise you won’t like seeing me in it either.”

-

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

bookofbonbon 2024. All rights reserved.

Alright, your girl has done it.

It, being -written Brady smut 🙈

from me to you, major john egan

pairing: major john egan x amelia mae egan

content: John is held as a POW in Germany. as the men are getting letters, it seems as though he hasn't received one. until hers arrived late.

an: thoughts on MOTA pt. 7? again, thank you @turn-thy-paige for the letter-writing ideas.

tags: to maintain your place on the taglist, you're expected to interact! @turn-thy-paige @neeville @ineedafictionalman @ihe4rtisa @lovebyceleste

"Major," said one of his soldiers. John's chewing slowed as his eyes lifted. In front of him was a letter. Beaten, battered, and torn along the edges. But, it was there. His heart leapt though his eyes didn't show it. Everyone around him had received something from a loved one except for him, so it seemed.

John accepted it with a nod and slowly returned to his position, movements slow from the turmoil his body had gone through.

The toll of war weighed equally heavy on the mind as it did on the body. Exhaustion and fatigue of the mind came just as frequently. Rest was necessary. Breaks were necessary. Moments of care, tenderness, and compassion were necessary to keep the men from crumbling beneath the immense pressure they were burdened with. With headstrong men, that was a rare occurrence. It usually came in the form of letters. Letters from friends, lovers, and families. They were the blood that kept the hearts of the men pumping. 

Major John Egan’s heart beat slowly. The strong organ drained more and more as the days went on. He huffed slowly. In his hand was a crinkled envelope. It had been stained with dust and dirt and the lefthand corner was ripped. Johnny was written in the middle. 

He tore the top of it and peeled the wrinkled paper out of the envelope. His head hung low as his eyes darted across the paper. Her scent was on the paper. Vanilla and sandalwood. He brought the letter to his nose and inhaled softly, a soft sob fell from his lips. 

Hi Johnny, it read. 

It’s been 67 days since you left. I told myself I wouldn’t count the days, but I couldn’t help it. The bed is cold, breakfast time is miserable to sit through most days, and my coffee would taste disgusting. You make it so well; what’s your trick? I never thought to ask. I didn’t think I would need to. How foolish of me. 

I've taken up a job—not out of necessity, but to fill the void in my days. It distracts me from the ache of missing you. I'm doing editing work at a local news station, finally putting my degree to good use. Sometimes, I steal moments to write about us, envisioning our future and the life we'll share one day.

Are you holding up, my love? War is often romanticized, but I understand it's far from glamorous. I can't fathom the things you witness and endure daily, the thoughts that must plague your mind. 

I think of you every day. I keep you in my prayers, begging God to keep you all and for you to return safely and soundly. 

Though it is easier said than done, find something to smile about. Stay positive. And come back home to me. 

I love you. See you soon. 

P.S. 

We’re having a baby. Make it home for the birth of your child, or we're going to have an issue.

With all my affection, 

Amelie Rose

A single tear hit the paper. A baby? His thumb grazed over her sentiments. I love you. See you soon. We're having a baby. “Soon couldn't come fast enough,” he whispered, yearning for the day he’d be in her arms again. With a heart heavy with longing, John folded the letter carefully, tucking it in the inner pocket of his jacket, finding solace in the promise of love and the anticipation of their reunion.

Can you write a fic where John and Amelia meet each other’s families?

promise of love, major john egan

pairing: major john "bucky" egan x amelia mae

content: john meets amelia's parents, but one of them is reluctant to give him their blessing.

an: hope you enjoyed, anon!

“I believe any man that she is with should be bringing something to her life. If you aren’t a positive addition to her life, then what are you? What are you contributing to her life?” 

Amelia’s eyes closed at the question of her father. Her chest heaved as her heart rate increased. She prayed like a saint day and night, begging God to ensure that the meeting would be beneficial, filled with love and understanding. Yet, the tension was thicker than the snow outside. 

Thankfully, Amelia’s mother adored John; she welcomed him with a warm hug and gentle kiss. His charm swept her mother off her feet and had her just as weak in the knees as Amelia often found herself to be. Her father was the opposite. His stare was stone cold and his handshake was stiff. The one thing she wanted to avoid, failed to be avoided. 

Amelia glanced at her lover, who seemed not affected by the stoic nature of her father. John Egan was a soldier. He wasn’t easily intimidated. He was strong mentally, emotionally, and physically. He knew how to fight for what he wanted and was trained to never back down from a challenge. With a soft sigh, John leaned pressed his back against the wooden chair. 

“With all due respect, sir,” he started. Amelia inhaled sharply. “Relationships are necessary in every aspect of life. You know, you learn, grow, and experience life with another person on a deeper level. Amelia doesn’t need me at all; if anything I need her. I can’t offer her a million dollars and the newest car, but I can give her the love, honor, and respect she deserves. She’s the most important person in my life and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. I swear by my life.” 

Amelia's father remained silent, his stern expression unchanged. He recognized where Amelia got her strong gaze from. Her father’s deep eyes bore into John's much lighter ones with an intensity that could intimidate even the bravest of souls. Yet, John held his ground, his gaze unwavering as he spoke from the depths of his heart. Amelia felt a mixture of anxiety and pride swell within her chest, grateful for John's unwavering commitment to her. Her hand dropped to his thigh, giving him a reassuring caress. 

After what felt like an eternity, her father finally spoke, his voice gruff but tinged with a hint of begrudging respect. "Words are easy, son. Actions speak louder. You say you'll honor and respect my daughter, but can you prove it?"

Without hesitation, John met her father's gaze head-on. "Sir, I understand that trust is earned, not given. I may not have all the answers now, but I promise to show you through my actions that I am worthy of your daughter's love and trust. I'll stand by her side through thick and thin, and I'll do whatever it takes to make her happy."

Amelia's heart swelled with uinsung pride. She reached out and gently squeezed his hand, silently conveying her gratitude and love. In that moment, she knew that no matter the challenges they faced, they would overcome them together.

From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother nod in approval. Slowly, his father did the same, saying lowly, “I hold you to that, son.” 

John nodded. “Yes sir, you’ve got my word.”

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Amelia said slowly with a small smile. She pointed toward the velvety dessert in the middle of the table. “Cake?”

Amelia's invitation to broke the tension in the room, providing a much-needed moment of levity. John flashed a grateful smile at her, relieved to move past the intense scrutiny of her father. With a nod, he accepted the offer, knowing that this simple gesture was a step towards building a bridge between himself and Amelia's family.

Soon, the atmosphere softened, filled with the warmth of familial love and acceptance. Amelia's mother beamed at the sight of her daughter and John, her heart filled with joy at seeing her child happy and loved.

With a sense of hope and commitment, John reached for Amelia's hand, intertwining their fingers as they shared a silent vow to face whatever challenges lay ahead together. 

With her father's reluctant approval and her mother's warm encouragement, Amelia felt a sense of peace wash over her. She knew that John was the one for her, and together, they would navigate the complexities of life no matter what.

My top Rafe Cameron writer 🙏🏽🙏🏽

Can i request a rafe cameron oneshot please? With daddy kink, something like Rafe manipulating reader into believing he's the only one who would love her since not even her dad loved her, it can start with them figthing and making her cry just to console her with the same hands that hurted her <3

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: ᴀʙᴜsɪᴠᴇ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘ; ᴀʙᴜsɪᴠᴇ ғᴀᴛʜᴇʀ; ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ; ᴅᴀᴅᴅʏ! ᴋɪɴᴋ; ғᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ɪssᴜᴇs; ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ. ᴅɴɪ ɪғ ᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴜɴᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛᴀʙʟᴇ!!!

ᴀ/ɴ: ᴀʜʜʜʜ, ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴅᴀᴅᴅʏ ɪssᴜᴇs sᴏ ᴛʜɪs ʜɪᴛ ʜᴀʀᴅᴅᴅᴅ! ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀʜʜʜʜ! (ᴛᴀɢ: @rvfecamerons ɪʟʏʏʏ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ᴜ ғᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ sᴏ ᴋɪɴᴅᴅᴅᴅ)

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

You stand in the dimly lit living room, your heart pounding as you watch Rafe pace back and forth. His eyes, once a soft blue that you loved, now seem dark and unreadable. He's furious. You don't know why, but you assume it's his father. You’ve been building up the courage to say this for weeks, and the words finally tumble out, even though you know you shouldn't say this now.

“I’m leaving, Rafe. I can’t do this anymore.” you whisper, your voice shaking.

The air grows still. Rafe stops pacing and turns to face you. His jaw tightens, and you can see the fury building behind his gaze. You take a step back, regretting your choice of words, but it’s too late to take them back now.

You pity yourself. You know you're not brave or smart enough, actually. That's how you felt your entire life. That's why you thought leaving Rafe. He is everything you aren't: smart, rich, admired. You're just the dumb, overly emotional girl who has never been loved. And also...his agressive acts are getting worse, reminding you of your father. And you hate that with burning passion.

“The fuck did you just say?” His voice is low, dangerously calm, sending chills down your spine. You let out a shaky sob, closing your eyes to stop the tears threatening to fall.

"I asked you a fuckin' question!" he yells, the sudden change of tone making you flinch. When you don't answer, he laughs, half annoyed, half patronising.

"Oh, wow..." he says, raising his hands mockingly, "not so brave anymore, huh?"

"w-well..I-" you start, trying to make your voice sound steady.

In an instant, he’s in front of you, his hands gripping your wrists tightly. The suddenness of his movement and the intensity in his eyes make you gasp. His fingers dig into your skin, and you wince, the pain mixing with the terror that’s quickly rising inside you.

“Are you talkin' back, tryin' to get fuckin' smart with me?,” he shouts in your face. You screw your eyes shut, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. Your insticts make you pull away, but his grip tightens. "Hey!" he yells, pulling you into his chest, his hands gripping yours unforgivingly. "Open your fuckin' eyes and look at me!" he demands.

When you don't obey his command, one of his hands leaves your wrist and connects with your jaw. He holds your head up, forcing eye contact, and your teary eyes meet his dark ones, sending new waves of pure terror through your body. The grip on your jaw is painful, but not as the flashbacks that flood your mind.

You remember the way your father used to do the same thing when you talked back or refused to do something he asked you to.

Panic makes you choke on air, and you let out a frightened 'I cannot breathe, R-Rafe...'

The room seems to close in around you, and all you can focus on is the pain in your wrists and the darkness in Rafe’s eyes.

He doesn’t seem to hear you, or if he does, he doesn’t care. “You think you can just leave? Okay, do it, baby! Where you goin'? To your daddy's? That used to beat your ass?.” His voice is harsh, making you whimper. His words hurt more than anything.

He finally loosens his grip slightly, just enough for you to gasp for air. But he doesn’t let go. “You’re not leaving,” he repeats, his voice softer but no less menacing. “Do you understand?”

You nod frantically, desperate to placate him, to make this nightmare end.

For a moment, he studies your face, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he releases your wrists. You stumble back, cradling them to your chest, your tears falling freely now. Your heart races, and you feel a cold dread settle in your stomach. He approaches you again, pulling you into an intoxicating hug. You sob in his chest, tears soaking his shirt. He gently soothes you, caressing your back. It feels so wrong, but yet there you are, letting the man that hurt you also comfort you.

"Daddy's here, baby..." he says, the nickname he gave himself lowkey making you sick. "I love you, only me", he says, smiling as he grips your chin and makes you look at him. "I'm your everything, baby. Never forget that. I really love you, baby..." he whispers, resting his chin on the top of your head.

You nod again, unable to find your voice, the fear still gripping you tightly. You know in that moment that things have changed, that you’re trapped in a way you hadn’t fully realized before. And the worst part is, you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to escape.

"It's okay, baby...Daddy's here." he finished, making your skin crawl.

😫😫

CRAVE

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: It starts with innocent kisses, just making out on the couch. But then you're grinding against him, and now you're soaking through your shorts, panting, trembling, desperate for more.

Words: 3,8k

CW: established relationship, smut, explicit content, dry humping, overstimulation, oral fixation, nipple play, teasing, praise kink, dom/sub undertones, Jason Todd being obsessed with you, minors DNI

A/N: Bestie who requested the dry humping, I hope this is everything you wanted 👀

It starts off innocent enough. Just the two of you, curled up on the couch, your lips moving against his, lazy, slow, deep. His hands are on your waist, warm, steady, grounding, his thumbs tracing little circles over the fabric of your shirt.

You're not even trying to start something—not really—you just love kissing him. The way he melts into you, the way he lets out little breaths through his nose, sighs into your mouth like he's savoring you.

But Jason? Jason always wants more.

His hands start to wander under your shirt, smoothing over your ribs, skimming higher, teasing, just barely grazing the underside of your tits before they slide back down. And fuck, you shiver, gasping against his lips, and he notices. Smirks into the kiss. Does it again.

"What? That get you worked up already, baby?"

His voice is all low and cocky, but his grip on your waist tightens, like he's holding himself back.

And you? You just whine. Shift forward, pressing in closer, feeling the way his thick thighs spread beneath you, the way his muscles flex when you move. You love being on top of him, feeling how fucking solid he is beneath you. And when you roll your hips just slightly—just barely—against his lap, you feel it.

The way he's already getting hard.

Jason sucks in a breath, his hands squeezing your waist. "Fuck."

And you do it again. Slow, just testing, just teasing, your clothed cunt dragging over the growing bulge in his sweats, feeling the heat of him, the shape of his dick, even through the layers. And God, he's so fucking big, thick and heavy and hot, already pressing up against you, already straining. You're always in awe, even though you know every inch of his body like the back of your hand.

His jaw clenches, hands gripping your waist tighter, and for a second, you think maybe he's gonna stop you, maybe he's gonna flip you over, pin you down, rip your clothes off, fuck you proper.

But he doesn't. Instead, he lets you. Lets you grind against him, slow and teasing, testing the waters, even though you know he's not a patient man. And when you do it again, drag your soaked little panties over his dick, he groans.

"That's cute, baby. Keep goin'."

It's a challenge. An invitation. And you take it. Because sometimes, Jason Todd doesn't do teasing, and neither do you. There's no need for games between you two, no need to dance around it. The tension is just part of your dynamic, something familiar, something you've both come to crave.

He's always been like this, and so have you—uncomplicated, raw, and to the point. No room for hesitation here, not when the pull between you both is something you've both learned to savor. When he's this close, when his hands are on you, there's no question. You're already lost to it, and he's always more than willing to take you there.

His voice is low, rough, almost a growl in your ear, his hands tight on your waist, guiding you, rolling you down harder against him. And fuck, you can feel him—thick, heavy, straining against his sweats, rubbing right against your cunt, hot even through the layers.

And God, you're soaked. Can feel how your panties cling to you, sticky and useless, the thin fabric doing nothing to stop the slick mess you're making on him. Every slow drag of his cock presses right against your clit, damp heat pooling between your thighs, smearing over the hard shape of him, and you swear you can feel the twitch of it through his sweats.

It's messy, desperate, all slow friction and building heat, his grip firm, making you move exactly how he wants. And you need it, need him, need more, need everything, because the drag of his cock against your soaking wet panties is just enough—just barely enough—to have your clit throbbing, aching, sending shivers up your spine every time you grind down.

And he knows. Can feel the way you tremble, the way your breath hitches every time your swollen clit catches on the thick ridge of his cock. His fingers tighten on your hips, breath warm, lips brushing against your temple as he groans, deep and wrecked.

"Jesus fuck, baby. You feel that? How fuckin' wet you are? Got my dick soaked and I'm not even inside you."

His voice is strained, almost shaking, his fingers flexing on your waist, digging into the soft flesh of your hips like he's barely holding back. And you? You whimper.

Because it's not enough.

It's not enough and he knows it, knows it by the way you squirm, by the way your little hands grip his shoulders, by the way your hips start to move faster, chasing that feeling, using him to get yourself off.

And Jason? He fucking loves it.

"That's it, baby, keep goin'."

His voice is wrecked, his lips dragging over your throat, hot and open-mouthed, sucking at your pulse as you keep moving. And you're soaked, so wet that you can feel it, that he can feel it, his sweats growing damp beneath you.

His dick is already leaking precum, the fat tip pressing right up against your clit, dragging against it with every desperate grind of your hips. And when you roll down just right—when your swollen little clit catches against the thick ridge of his cock through his sweats—you fucking cry out.

"Shit, look at you," Jason groans, his fingers digging in harder, gripping your waist, helping you move, pushing you down against him. "Ruin my fuckin' sweats, baby. Soak 'em."

And you do. Because you can't fucking help it.

Your body is burning, needy, the friction sending sparks up your spine, your cunt throbbing, clenching around nothing. Your nipples are hard, rubbing against the fabric of your top, dragging against his chest, and when you lean forward, when your lips catch his again, it's sloppy, open-mouthed, all panting little moans and wet heat.

Jason groans into your mouth, deep and wrecked, his lips parting against yours as his tongue slides in, licking into you like he's starved for it, like he needs the taste of you as much as he needs to feel you grinding against him. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging, a low, needy sound vibrating in his chest when you whimper for him.

His hands slip lower, squeezing your ass, spreading you open as he grinds up into you, as he meets your movements, making the kiss even messier—all spit and moans and ragged little gasps, your tongue stroking against his as you rock down harder.

It's desperate, greedy, like you're trying to swallow each other whole, like you're both chasing something just out of reach, the pleasure mounting between you, tight and unbearable. And it's so good, so fucking good that your fingernails dig into his shoulders, your body tensing, the pressure building, building, building.

Jason's growling under his breath, low and rough, all heat and gravel, his fingers squeezing into your ass, gripping, spreading, yanking you down harder against him. And fuck, he can feel you.

Soaking. You're soaking through your shorts, through his sweats, your pussy leaving a damp patch right against his dick, needy and messy, dripping for him.

His breath is ragged, hot against your lips, forehead pressed against yours like he's trying to ground himself, but he's fucking losing it.

"Baby, fuck—you're drippin' for me." His voice is wrecked, and his fingers flex, digging into the soft flesh of your ass, guiding you, rolling you down harder against his aching cock. "So messy, pretty girl. Keep goin'. Wanna feel you cum just like this."

"Jay…" you whimper, voice breathy, wrecked, your fingers fisting in his hair. "Fuck—"

And God, you want to.

Your clit is throbbing, rubbing right against the fabric, right against the shape of his dick, the flex of his muscles making you gasp. It's too much, not enough, too fucking good.

"God—feels so good," you breathe, hips rolling faster, more desperate, because you're so close, you can fucking taste it.

And Jason? Jason is fucking mesmerized.

Because you're so worked up, so desperate, using him to get off, grinding down like you need it to live. His cock is aching, leaking, straining against his sweats, and he can feel everything—the heat of you, the slick sticking to his clothes, the way your pussy's dripping with every little movement.

And then? He yanks your fucking shirt off.

Because of course he does. Because he needs to see you. He needs to see those pretty tits, needs to feel your bare skin against him. And his chest heaves, a rough groan slipping past his lips because fuck—fuck—your tits are bouncing, soft, perfect, your nipples hard, dragging against his skin as you grind down on him, desperate and soaked, making a fucking mess all over his lap.

His breath is ragged, his hands everywhere, groping, squeezing, a big, hot palm curling over your breast, fingers teasing your nipple, rolling it, making you gasp, making your pussy clench.

"Oh, fuck—"

Your head tips back, your back arching, pushing your tits further into his hand, and fuck, that does something to him.

Your skin is flushed, damp with sweat, your lips parted, moaning, your body soft and perfect, and all he can think about is how fucking good you feel, how good you look, how he wants to ruin you.

"Jesus Christ, look at you." His voice is low, his other hand gripping your waist, pulling you down harder, making sure your clit drags over the length of his cock. "So fuckin' pretty, ridin' me like this. Can feel how soaked you are, baby. You're gonna make me cum in my fuckin' pants."

That makes you whimper again. Because you're so fucking close. Every slow, slick grind of your dripping pussy against him sends sparks up your spine, making your thighs shake, your breath hitch, your stomach tighten.

His mouth catches one of your tits, sucking hard, dragging his teeth over your sensitive skin, moaning against you as his fingers dig into your hips. His tongue flicks over your nipple, slow and teasing, before flattening against it, circling, making you gasp.

And then he sucks. Hard. Wet. Messy.

His lips wrap around your nipple, hollowing his cheeks, drawing it deep into his mouth as his tongue rolls over it, flicking, lapping, dragging delicious heat straight to your core. The sound of it is obscene, slick and greedy, the warm suction making your breath hitch, your back arch, your thighs trembling where they straddle his hips.

"J-Jason—" you gasp, your nails scratching at his scalp as he groans against you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, like he needs to taste every inch of you.

And he does.

He switches to the other, his mouth just as eager, just as hot, licking broad and slow before closing his lips around you, sucking hard. His teeth graze the sensitive bud, making you shudder, your hips grinding down harder on instinct.

"Fuck, baby," he pants, his voice low and wrecked, his tongue swirling over your nipple before sucking it back between his lips, tugging, teasing, until you're whimpering in his hold.

His fingers tighten at your waist, guiding you, keeping you moving against his cock, making sure you can feel just how hard he is for you. "Taste so fuckin' sweet, could do this all fuckin' day."

And that? That nearly fucking breaks you, And God, he wants to push you over.

"You gonna cum for me, huh?" His grip tightens, his breath coming in harsh pants, his hips twitching up against you. "Gonna soak my fuckin' sweats? Make a fuckin' mess all over my dick?"

And you moan, nearly there, nearly fucking there, grinding down harder, so fucking close—

And then you cum. Hard.

It hits like a freight train, tearing through you, leaving you breathless, boneless, shaking.

Your thighs tremble, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you cry out, grinding down hard against him. It's blinding, mind-numbing, that sweet, hot rush of pleasure bursting through you, rippling through every nerve, making you whimper, making your toes curl.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—"

Your head tips back, the strain in your throat making your voice come out high and wrecked, and Jason's fucking mesmerized.

Because Jesus Christ, you're perfect. Your face all scrunched up in pleasure, your tits pressed against his chest, spit-slicked nipples dragging against his heated skin, every slow grind sending little sparks of overstimulation up your spine.

And it's too much. Too fucking much. He grits his teeth, his hands gripping your ass, guiding you through it, forcing you to ride it out. Forcing you to drag your soaked cunt over his aching cock, his hips jerking up beneath you, muscles tight and flexing as a deep, guttural groan rips from his throat.

Jason tries to hold it back.

Tries to keep himself from tipping over the edge, but when he feels it—the way your cunt throbs against him, the way you soak through his sweats, hot and messy, leaking all over his dick, he just fucking snaps.

His body locks up, his jaw clenching so tight it aches, a harsh, ragged groan tearing from his throat as his orgasm hits him like a fucking wrecking ball.

His cock jumps, straining painfully against the damp fabric of his sweats, his hips bucking up into you, grinding into the mess you both made, desperate, helpless, his vision going white-hot. The first thick spurt of cum soaks into the fabric, hot and sticky, making him moan, making him clutch at your ass, at your hips, dragging you down, forcing you to feel it.

And he just keeps cumming. His cock twitching, throbbing, sending thick pulses of heat spilling from him, the sticky mess pooling beneath his waistband, smearing between you, his abs tight, stomach clenching, body trembling as he rides it out.

His breath is ragged, shaking, his body taut and aching, every pulse of his dick making him jolt, making him curse, making his head tip back against the couch.

And he still doesn't stop. Still grinds against you, still pulls you down against his overstimulated cock, like he can't let go just yet, like he needs to squeeze out every last drop of pleasure. His whole body is buzzing, muscles locked tight, breath coming in heavy, uneven pants.

The mess between you is obscene. Hot and sticky, soaking through every layer of fabric, spreading with every little shift of your hips. His dick is still twitching beneath you, still so fucking sensitive, and yet he can't stop. Can't stop touching you, can't stop dragging out every last bit of it.

Fuck.

Jason Todd just fucking came in his sweats. And he doesn't even care.

Because you did this to him. Made him so fucking needy, so desperate, so fucking gone for you that he just spilled in his own pants like a goddamn teenager.

His chest is heaving, his forehead damp with sweat, his jaw slack, eyes blown wide, fingers still digging into your ass, keeping you pressed against him. His dick throbs, the fabric of his sweats sticky and hot, soaked through with his own mess and yours, and he loves it.

Loves that you soaked him through. Loves that you ruined him. Loves that you're still whimpering, still shaking, still clutching at him, pressing your slick, swollen cunt against the mess he just made.

And God, you're so warm. So soft and pliant against him, your body still trembling, every little breath catching in your throat.

"Jesus Christ, baby—" he pants, his grip unrelenting, his hands everywhere, sliding up your back, gripping your ass, keeping you there. "Made such a fuckin' mess of me."

But he's smirking. Looking at you like you're his whole fucking world.

Your body is still thrumming, overheated, your chest rising and falling in shaky little breaths as reality starts seeping back in.

And that's when it hits you. What you just did.

You just dry humped your boyfriend like a desperate little thing, got yourself off on his dick like it was the only thing that mattered, soaked through your panties and his fucking sweatpants.

But truth be told, so did he. Jason Todd—big, smug, cocky motherfucker—just came in his pants. Because of you.

Your face burns, stomach twisting, and you can't even look at him at first, fingers clutching at his shoulders, pressing your forehead into the crook of his neck as your mind scrambles.

Because holy fuck.

Jason's still catching his breath, but he knows you. Knows exactly how your mind works, knows exactly what you're thinking. And he's fucking grinning.

"Ah, fuck, doll, don't get all shy on me now," he murmurs, voice hoarse, teasing, still thick with lust.

His hands rub up and down your back, big and warm, grounding you, pulling you closer. You just whimper, hiding your face further, and he fucking laughs.

"You should see yourself," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "All fucked out and blushin'. It's cute, pretty girl."

You groan, trying to pull away, but he won't let you. His arms tighten around you, his lips ghosting over your temple, your cheek, making you shiver, making heat curl in your stomach all over again.

"What's wrong, huh?" he rasps. "That sweet girl brain of yours can't handle what we just did?"

Your thighs squeeze around his hips, still sensitive, and he chuckles, because he fucking felt that.

"Shut up," you grumble, still hiding, still flustered, and that just makes his grin wider.

"Can't, baby," he says simply, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw.

He pulls back just enough, waiting until your gaze finally flicks up to meet his.

He knows that look on your face all too well—the one where you start to overthink, where the heat of the moment makes you second-guess yourself.

He can see it in the way your brows furrow, your mouth pressing into that little frown, the soft blush on your cheeks as you get caught in your own thoughts. And yet, he can't help but tease. It's a part of him that loves the way you respond, how it takes almost nothing to fluster you, to bring you back to him.

But beneath it, there's something else—something deeper, something he won't say out loud but feels in every inch of his fucking soul. He loves this. Loves that after nearly two years together, you still get all shy like this, still blush like he hasn't spent hours between your thighs, hasn't memorized every little sound you make, hasn't fucked you stupid more times than he can count.

Jason hums, tilting his head, eyes gleaming as he watches you squirm.

"Y'know," he starts, voice lazy, playful, "you got me so fuckin' worked up, I didn't even realize what was happening 'til it was too late."

You peek up at him, still flustered, still warm all over. His lips twitch.

"You ever do that before?" His thumb rubs slow circles against your hip. "Get so into it, you just—" he lets out a short, breathy laugh. "—fuckin' lose it?"

Your face burns hotter. You press your lips together, hesitating. And that's when he knows he's got you.

"Oh, baby," he grins, full and wicked. "You have, haven't you?"

But then, he sees it. That little flicker in your eyes, the way your brows pinch just slightly, your lips parting like you're about to protest.

And it clicks.

"No way," he breathes, his grin stretching even wider. "You haven't?"

Your stomach twists. The heat spreads down your neck, over your chest, the embarrassment creeping in like a slow burn. You shift against him, like you can escape it, but his grip is firm, his eyes locked onto yours, watching every little reaction.

"Jason." You say his name like a warning, shoving at his chest, and he just laughs, catching your wrists, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

"S'fine, doll. No shame in it," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "Y'know the last time I came in my pants?" he says, voice low, almost smug. "Had a wet dream at fourteen."

Your eyes go wide, a little shocked laugh bursting past your lips. It's the way he does it—so effortlessly, so him—that makes your heart skip just a little. He knows exactly what he's doing, knows how to disarm you with just the right amount of teasing.

That's all he wanted. To make you laugh, to pull you back from that flustered little spiral, to remind you that this? This is just you and him. And you're fucking perfect.

"God," you giggle, cheeks still burning, still trying to wrap your head around it. "We're like animals sometimes."

Jason snickers, shaking his head, his hands brushing down your sides, over your hips.

"Nah, baby," he murmurs, tilting his head down, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to your forehead. "We're just fuckin' crazy about each other. Nothin' wrong with that."

And then he kisses you. Deep. Slow. Drawn out. Like he never wants it to end.

His lips are soft but insistent, warm and plush, parting just enough to let his tongue slip against yours, coaxing, teasing, pulling you deeper.

And fuck, you give in so easily.

The kiss is lazy, indulgent, slow in a way that makes it even filthier, his tongue rolling against yours, sucking, licking, sliding, wet and messy, like he's tasting you, savoring you, not in any hurry to stop.

His hands stay firm at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who's in control, who's keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And you can feel everything.

Your clothes sticking to you, damp, ruined, your panties a sopping mess against your swollen cunt, your shorts clinging to your thighs.

Jason's sweats? No better.

The thick, sticky mess of his cum is soaked through, clinging to his still-hard cock, and when you shift in his lap, just barely, just a little, he grunts into your mouth, sharp and throaty, like he's barely holding back.

And God, you feel wrecked. Overwhelmed, drenched, raw, but so fucking good.

A little moan spills past your lips, high and breathy, and Jason drinks it down, sucking at your tongue, tilting his head, deepening the kiss even more, as if he can't get enough.

When he finally, finally pulls away, it's with a slick little pop, his lips red and swollen, a little smirk tugging at them. His breath fans over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, teasing circles at your waist.

And then, low and rough, full of promise—

"Next load goes inside that pretty little pussy."

torture, major john egan

pairing: major john "bucky" egan + black!fem!oc (amelia egan)s

content: John is interrogated in Germany.

an: y'all...part 6 of mota....tore me up. spoilers ahead. let's talk about this part! comment, reblog, and send asks!

gif: @olympain

“Married?” 

Silence. The air was tense. How could it not be? An American soldier had been captured in the swamps of German territory, beaten like a mule, and whipped like a Roman traitor. Just outside of his line of vision, he saw the bodies of soldiers and civilians drug across the gravel lot. An American soldier had been captured in the swamps of German territory and questioned like a federal criminal by a German pilot who grinned like a cashmere cat; evil and conniving. Silence. 

The German interrogator, Hausmann, chuckled dryly and hovered his pen over the sheet of paper under his arm.“From what I hear, I assume you are unmar—“

“I have a wife,” he answered gruffly after some time. A lovely wife, at that. Full of love and affection, mercy and kindness. He missed her dearly. He kept a photo of her in his breast pocket but was too fearful of the damage to look at it. 

His throat felt thick like maple syrup running down the stump of a tree. His jaw shook as he inhaled the lit cigarette. He pushed the smoke out of his nose. 

Hausmann hummed. “Yes, Amelia. Amelia Mae Egan, correct?”

 John leaned forward. How the hell did he know that? He clenched his teeth. The tips of his ears reddened.

The interrogator nodded, his eyebrow-raising in amusement at the pilot’s demeanor shift. John saw the wheels turning in the man's head. In frustration, he ashed the cigarette and dropped his hand against the desk with a thud. The blonde interrogator met John's blue eyes. 

“Sorry, Major, I had to ask for documentation. She’s a beautiful woman. I didn’t think these kinds of…couplings were common in America. They aren’t here.” Gasket blown.

“I’m sorry, I’m a little confused,” John hissed. His voice raised an octave which caused the interrogator to jump slightly.``You asked if I was married, and I said yes. I don’t see the point you’re trying to make here, but I’m sure it isn't a part of your freakin’ protocol. Keep my wife out of it.”

Hausmann raised his hands in defense and laughed lightly. John failed to find the joke. His patience wore thin. “Easy, Major Egan. I meant no harm. But um, I have to say, you are making this harder than it needs to be. I simply would like to talk to you, so, I’ll ask you again…”

The words went over his head. His mind spiraled out of control. He had never seen this man in his life yet he knew of his personal life? He knew of Amelia. His precious Rose. He knew of his relationship with Buck, and he was holding it in front of him like a treat for an animal. Is that how he was viewed? As a rabid animal who went killing people like it was a sport? 

No, that wasn’t the case at all. He was nothing but a soldier trying to defend his country. If there was another way to solve the issue, who would he be to decline the proposition? And this…this was the punishment for it? His dignity, his life, and his purpose were all questioned by a man who was no better than he was. It was torture.

John’s tongue scraped the roof of his mouth as he lifted his eyes from the papers littered across the desk. Planes crashed. Soldiers lost. His wife at home, clueless about what had gone on. She was unaware if he was alive or dead. Hell, he had no clue where his fate lay either. Would there even be an opportunity to hear her voice again? He could only pray. 

He blinked away the tears that pooled in his eyes. Once again, he stated, “John Egan. Major…” Torture indeed. 

blonde callum turner so powerful he's got me seated to watch a movie about a bunch of twinks rowing a boat

art & photos are not mine - cr:

♡ top left is Testing the waters by Kim Cogan (2009)

♡ top right is Late Night Shower by Sasha Hartslief (2021)

♡ bottom picture is Interlude by Jeremy Lipking @lipking

~ Lila x

Her soul belongs to words and books. Every time she reads, she is home.