#Fic with art

[samodivaa]

Thrill me, Fulfill me

You agreed to help for one mission—now you are both lustful and carnal, affected by sex pollen—you are flint, he is tinder.

Warnings - sex pollen, smut, rough/possessive sex, Hydra past, breeding kink, choking kink, multiple orgasms

Words - 8k

(the 3D render is for this fic, enjoy :3)

The horizon tips on its side, and slowly, hour by hour, the day spills out and soon the night will spread its darkness—traveling through the countryside is a charming escape and in a chronicle of events, with the light of the days—you feel the light inside too, your human spirit wanders in thoughts as you sit on the BMW’s trunk with closed eyes. It is June, and the world smells of roses, moments like these leave a rich heritage of beautiful memories in their going—in a fortunate combination of delightful weather, Bucky and freedom—your soul feels at peace.

“I talked with Sam, he wants me to help him” There is an endearing nervousness in his voice “I was wondering if you would like to come with us”

In an instant, you reply with an annoyed face “No”

“No? Come on, you need people other than me in your life”

He scolds as he nests between your legs, fingers finding their way on both sides of your hips, drawing soft circles as they travel up towards your waist.

You arch an eyebrow at him, as if the answer is obvious “I don’t need others”

“You will love Sam, I told him about us, I mean-about us living together”

“You did, why?” you clip your words, hissing them into his face as you give a wide-eyed, searching look.

“I used to invite him over to my apartment, he started wondering why I stopped. I wanted him to know anyways”

“What else did you tell him?” you look at him with an arrested expression. His smile fades, and he finds himself staring into your eyes “James?”

It is only a brief moment, but you catch his blink of surprise at your demanding tone before he offers a tentative smile.

“I-I told him about your connections and he was hoping that-” he trails off quietly and you notice a tightness around his mouth and a dimness to his usually bright eyes.

You regard him thoughtfully and he sees the comprehension dawning in your eyes. You know exactly what he is asking.

“Did you miss the part of how I built them?” you ask, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

He huffs in annoyance “Well no, but don’t worry-”

“Oh, hey Sam, I am another brainwashed assassin and when I escaped I did it willingly, for money, nice to meet you by the way”

“I get it, but you are changi-”

You snap, pinching your eyebrows close together.

“And this is my former partner who I used to occasionally fuck at Hydra and now that we have reconnected, we are fucking and living together”

“Anything else you want to add?” 

“No, that's all” you finish bitterly, furious with him for letting Sam know so much about you.

“He already met you once in Madripoor, he knows about your past. Trust me, he is a good person, he accepted me”

You let out a hollow laugh

“I am not Captain America’s best friend, James. I am nobody, I don’t even have a legal identity”

You explain in a humorous yet deprecating tone, staring into space.

“Look at me, you need to trust me” he coos, his blue eyes have a doorway to your heart, the place where his care for you resides “I know that you are scared, but you need other people in your life”

It's the caring that he lovingly gives, the passion that he shows—that convinces you every time.

“If I break your heart, I break mine, darling”

Shifting your mouth from a frown into a light-hearted smile, you let out a small chuckle from underneath your breath. His metal hand rests on the small of your back, in that sweet spot that makes you feel feminine and protected—vanity, fear, uncertainty—all such distortions within your own ego—condition you to stay silent about your own feelings. Your programmed mind-pattern still needs to heal, all you need is time, you will get there eventually.

You kiss him on the cheek, which kind of surprises him.

“Хубаво, ще дойда” (Okay, I will come)

His gaze flickers up to your eyes and he can detect no deceit, no mockery. 

There are many circumstances that lead to arrogance: one is when you're wrong and you can't face it—but you decide to face it this time, because you know that your brain relies on the familiar. It is reluctant to experience the unknown, which is the very essence of your human life.

The past should have no power over the present, but it still does sometimes—anger and death are deeply rooted, your emotional thermostat is broken. Everything in you is broken—you view yourself as pieces and Bucky somehow sees you as a whole.

Inside, your soul was so cold that you hated everything. You even despised the sun, for you knew you would never be able to play in its warm presence—you were condemned to stick to the past, working as a hitman for years. Everything changed when Bucky decided to track you down. You knew he was spying on you, because you made it easier for him.

You were afraid of the aloneness that you trusted for so long, but that is the truth that you still store in the granary of your mind. Maybe you will tell him one day. Maybe one day you will let him know that he helps you abandon your corporeal prison.

"Я просто люблю запах страха" (I just love the smell of fear) you whisper—a knife-wielding lunatic.

You face the attackers in a kind of instantaneous flash and see the disconsolate eyes, which remain stamped on your heart like the hot coals of fear, the power of death is then borne out by you—the queen at the bloody carnival, not afraid to spill blood while Bucky tries to prevent hurting, killing people at all cost.

It is easy when you work together, just as in the past—but he is holding back, you are not used to seeing him fight so carefully—Winter’s brutality is non-existent.

You sigh as the last man drops dead to the ground. With a knife in his chest. Or, rather, a pair of knives in the chest.

Yes, you helped them locate the rumored Hydra base, but Bucky’s intense paleness on his face shows regret, because you still don’t mind killing—you give him a pitying smile when your eyes meet before your system is poisoned with something.

It is such a tumultuous and intemperate invasion that you forget why you are here. And then your eyes meet again, there is fascination in his gaze, menaced by some invisible danger, and you want to succumb the terrible desire to weep when you realize what it is and you look at the mysterious trembling of your hands—your gaze goes up, but Bucky is nowhere to be seen.

He knows he has to go somewhere, he heads back to the apartment and he has feelings of sorrow, regret, directionless rage, a broad feeling of impotence. The horror of this misfortune penetrates Bucky so deeply that he is close to a panic attack—as if reliving the nightmare he sometimes has—Hydra giving him the pollen back in 1990.

He wanders all through the rooms as if walking in his sleep, chewing on his quiet rage.

He knows the theoretical mechanics of the pollen and he can barely stay on his feet because of the weakness of his knees, his skin is burning and he can’t resist the urgent need to palm himself through his pants—it starts slow and will go progressively worse. 

He rubs his hand over his scalp, where his long hair used to be—now shaved very close to his head and bristling against his fingers, he lowers his blue eerily crystalline eyes before closing them. He feels like he should be crying, but he couldn’t summon the tears.

—it’s all his fault. Why did he need to come to your apartment a year ago, on a beautiful August’s evening?

„I knеw that we were following me, Soldat,“ you loudly acknowledge him, drawing out the derogatory term while your back is turned to him.

Stillness wraps Bucky up in a cold embrace, a chill running down his body as he hears you speak. On the string spun of your angel voice, grief and pain drowns him. The tone drawn from memory in his dreams it’s the same, unblinking, robotic as you offer him one spare look before focusing on cutting vegetables on the wooden board.

He exhales, then he slowly enters the apartment. „It is not Soldat, it’s Sergeant now“ his breath hitches and he stops as soon as he enters the room.

There is a crack in his stoic expression, excruciating memories flooding his mind. He knew that somewhere, some day, maybe at a less miserable time, you may see each other again, but he couldn't wait any longer.

The memories are still in his mind and the pain—too ripe in his heart. The more deeply he felt, the less he was able to breath, thinking of grief, and of getting past it.

That's why he came. He needs you in more ways that he wants to confess.

„Oh? What do you want, Barnes?“ your face is carefully blank.

„I wanted to talk to you“ he starts, taking a couple of steps towards.

Shadows lick up the side of his cheekbones, making his skin gold as he slowly walks to the opposite side of the kitchen island, you hear him move the wooden seating.

„And you couldn’t just-I don’t know…have knocked on the door?“

„Sorry, I didn’t know how to-“

He says, a tremor makes his voice uneven. Bucky takes in a deep breath to balance out the embarrassment thrumming through him.

„It is easier to be loyal to past habits, can’t blame you“ you murmur, voice perfectly respectful as you think about it with a heavy heart.

You said it as a matter of fact, without the scorn and mockery, but as an accepted truth before placing the knife you have been using, on the cutting board and finally facing him completely as you step closer to the island as well, leaning forward on your elbows.

But the wintery feeling of the pollen is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring that summer's memory of meeting you.

The memory played in his head, with a hopeless nostalgia that he was completely disoriented—he doesn't care if you are heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid, grasping with incurable programming and mental problems, he enjoys spending time with you. He would rather have misery with you than happiness with any other person, because it is shared, you have a deep and silent understanding.

He was so happy when you suggested living together four months ago—he was okay with the sleepovers at each other's apartments—never was bothered with the need to rush your companionship.

The key to personal development lies in the daily routine—creating new memories with you stretches out psychological time, and lengthens his perception of both your and Bucky’s lives. When he wakes up from a nightmare he is so relieved, because he wakes to a dream, he enjoys the miracle of living with each other as much at the table as in bed.

Bucky finally lays on the bed, his head aches. He admits that he is still human, vulnerable, and sensitive—but he begins to remember how it had been when Hydra gave him the pollen and his self revolted at this, hates himself for not being able to fight it, hates himself for bringing you here.

He is sick with conflict, destructive emotions festeres in him while this sludge eats away at his insides and Bucky is acutely conscious of the swift passage of time, it will make him become blunt and callous—there is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get for him, but maybe this is what he deserves.

When you push open the bedroom door, you can’t prevent it from scraping against the uneven floor. Suddenly, in the absolute darkness of his mind, Bucky is brought back to reality. He is not surprised, for without knowing, he has been expecting you to come.

You close the door behind you as he stands up on his elbows—wondering why are you such a stubborn, blind, obtuse woman—why are you here?

Your scent carries across the room and paralyzes him with longing.

“Stay away, why did you fucking follow me?”

You stop in shock at the words he utters—they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless.

He is vulnerable, slightly paranoid. Although his voice is broken by uncertainty and his hands seem to doubt the existence of things—he tries to appear composed.

You can feel his eyes traveling up your whole body, staying on your side for a split second before moving up to meet your gaze.

“James, we don’t have another choice, we don’t have time”

You can't blame him—he is scared, scared and frozen, afraid of what he can do to you...the old primitive urge for sex. It's getting harder to control it with every passing minute—every second is lived with terrible intensity. It all flows over you with a screaming ache of pain—as you see him, the need grows even faster...and all you can do is remember and feel—the effects of the pollen—like a disease of the blood, dispersing throughout the body.

He looks like a bundle of past recollections, knotted up in a bundle of flesh.You remember what his flesh has gone through—but you also remember what he put you through that day. You feel the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation, you appear solid in front of him, but you are mimicking nothingness.

“God, I smell you. So hot and sweet”

The blank hell in the back of his mind starts to break through, spewing forth like a dark pestilence, the pollen eats away the pith of his humanity—the chaotic words pour out of his mouth as he gets up from the bed and you self-paralyze, your back hits the door—but this is the only way that will pull you both out of the plunge of—pain, need.

Your sexual attraction to him has been heightened beyond measure, as much as you try to bury it deep down in fear, the lust is getting greater than any other feeling or emotion. Every part of him is heightened to you now...his voice included.

He stops in front of you, belatedly realizing where his feet have carried him. There is no glamor, no attempt to hide it, nothing: his need taking slowly over all his senses. The unwelcomed bubble of intrusive lust, sinking into an even more heavily occluded state—you feel it too as he molds his front to yours and pins your breasts against his chest.

You are mesmerized by the tiny flecks of indigo in his blue eyes—you can drown in those eyes and it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. His beautiful features offer themselves to your gaze as you trail through them, annoyed at how attractive he looks—putting your mind into a darker cloud of irritation, waiting for him to do whatever he wants.

You feel stuffy, there is not enough air to breathe as he cages you against the door, his consciousness already vanishing and deforms itself in something primal, there is a delicious animal fire in his gaze.

“I want to taste you so desperately, it rages through me-fuck, fuck this-I want to fuck you”

His eyes are growing moist with indignation, with angry impotence, he is barely controlling himself. It is the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning— it’s hard—but not harder than his cock.

“Do it, come on” you gasp out.

“If you don’t get out of here, you know what will happen”

He explains weakly, and when you say nothing, he grabs your waist with both hands, vision already blurring. His bones fill up with foam, a languid fear, and a terrible desire.

Bucky’s control dies a slow death, shedding layers like leaves until—there will be none—he tends to be particularly rough, aggressive and possessive when given the pollen. You remember the feeling of possessiveness he had as the Winter Soldier over you, so intense it transformed into an obsession over your body.

“I'm not leaving, I need this as much as you” you say, tremulous with longing.

Bucky stares at your mouth as you speak—it looks provocative to him when you talk.

“Enough, dammit, leave”

His voice tightens, it pierces your soul—half agony, half lust.

You still have the choice of running away and finding someone else to do it, but leaving Bucky behind—you know there is not a girl in the world that can handle him, no one else has the serum, but you—your brain is ricocheting in between. It all drifts to the periphery of the mind when you meet Bucky’s eyes.

“It’s normal-” you say haltingly, your expression turns guarded.

He is livid, a sad look on his face

“We are not normal” he interrupts with a soft firmness “It’s insane to pretend we are”

You are both aware. Catastrophically aware.

“Stop talking, we’ve been through that once-”

and you look so well-equipped for this that is seems abnormal to Bucky, he is conquered by the obstinacy of you—so docile and willing to help—he wants to be emancipated for the moment from the torment of the pollen, but the guilt is still eating him.

“Do you remember the year it happened?”

"You always ask me whether I remember the stupid years, lets just-” you say with a shrug.

"It matters, it matters to me. I hate that you remember, I hate myself for what I've done to you” He explains, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with his human hand.

"James” you whisper his name tremulously “I don’t blame you for anything”

His pain is paramount and you want it to end. His pain, his guilt. You are willing to suffer for the rest of your night so that he can take the easy way out of his needs. You admit it to yourself, without bitterness—you need to sacrifice dearly on behalf of Bucky. 

“I’ll lose control” What you cannot forgive is dishonesty—you would rather know the hideously unflattering truth of his devastating visions than foul evasions “If you try to run now, I will probably chase you down anyways”

With all that waiting you have lost the strength of your legs, the firmness of your breasts, your tenderness look—barely keeping your heart intact. Maddened by that prodigious talking, you shamelessly groan, closing your eyes.

“This is bad,” you whimper “Oh God, this is bad. Please, do something”

The next critical manifestation: the unbearable pain.

“Snezinka-” (snowflake)

“Stay with me” your eyes shone “Play with me, please” like those of a cat.

In that state of hallucinated lucidity—you just can’t take it anymore. Presently the need grows stronger, hesitating then no longer. The attempts to conceal the pollen’s effects don't work anymore.

“At least…give me permission this time” Bucky shakes his head, sadness vibrating through his body as he speaks through clenched teeth.

“Yes, do whatever you want” you moan, shaking, desperate for his touch.

And then you see something possessive wash over him, making your body shiver in anticipation.

“Please, I need yo-”

You say, nodding at the soul-reaching blue crystals, not looking away from him, but Bucky doesn’t let you finish as he kisses you. His lips are warm, his body is heat and muscles against you. He kisses you like a tide, gentle at first, but with the ability to drown, his fingers digging into your waist, urging you ever-nearer to him, even when it’s physically impossible to be. Then his fingers slithers over your chest, hands immediately find your breasts and he starts to massage them for his own pleasure.

His fingers curl around the edges of your soaked blood shirt, pulling and eventually tearing it away from your skin.

There is lust and there is pain, a whirling wheel—not stopping.

He wastes no time, kissing you deeply again, already missing the feeling of your skin.

“I am yours, you know that”

A simple reply, his voice cut into you like glass, his words bleeding into your skin. It isn’t something to be argued against, it’s the truth and you acknowledge that. It’s ridiculous, absurdly sentimental to think that you managed to lay a claim on him like you did in the past. 

You are trying to think of something, coming up short when he presses his hips flush against yours again, the chest harness wrinkling under the tight grip of your fists, pulling him and he hems you up against the door, grinding his cock against you. You slide one hand downwards, wrapping around his hard manhood and squeeze, Bucky moans quietly and involuntarily rolls into the contact, desperately seeking relief.

“Fuck” he says, a bit too breathlessly.

„James-this is not enough“ you undulate your hips against the aching bulge.

His name falling on his ears like that sent chills down his spine, he can hear the beat of his heart, his palms belong on your skin as he closes the gap between you. Nothing is sweeter, nothing else than you—lust is spreading like quickfire in his veins, groaning in the kiss.

“I know, I know” he whispers, a hint of exasperation and affront in his tone, leaning forwards to kiss you yet again, teasingly licking at your lips as he pulls away.

Sexual perversions mix with guilt and adrenaline as his mind sees in scattered images of varying vulgarity. Bucky grips your waist and lifts you off the ground with ease, dropping you softly on the luxurious white linen bed.

You lick your lips, trying to quench the thirst for him. Your throat is dry as you watch him between your spread legs—his belt clattering noisily as he unbuckles it, popping the buttons of his jeans open, followed by the low purr of his zipper coming undone, he drifts his hands down his sides and hooks both thumbs into his jeans, sliding them and the boxers down his legs. The corners of his mouth curve upward when he notices you staring a moment too long as he removes his jacket and shirt.

You remove your own pants and then you spread your legs open, positioned right in front of his standing body—one hand toys with your breast through the bra while the fingers of the other hook in your panties and drags them down your legs fast before throwing them in his direction.

His breath stutters as he catches them with his metal arm, becoming more and more aroused with every beat of his heart that runs down his shaft. It’s becoming more painful. He starts to pump his cock, the veins bulging beneath his grip—even in his large hand, it looks intimidating, the veins in his neck tightening.

He’s quite tall with broad shoulders and an athletic physique that even his leather jacket cannot hide. Your eyes continue their upward travel to his strong square-shaped face framed with short brown hair that falls to his shoulders and deep, blue eyes. 

He then craws on top of you and he cannot articulate a word, capable only of an animal sound, a strangulated wheeze that shocks him deeply, enraging him, this sudden loss of the faculty of speech that feels somehow bestial and forgotten now.

It is the impatience of the way he tears your bra from your body that really scares you: the pollen getting the better of him and you spread your legs wide, exposing your overall and the fragrance of the essences permits in the air, he smells it.

His cock nudges around your sleek mound until he gasps as he guides his sticky cockhead glides through your delicate folds. He doesn’t say anything as he slips inside you, burying himself to the hilt.

Sex with you this time is different, he has never felt this dominant, this claiming, this selfish. He is so far in that his balls are right against your pussy lips.

His greedy lips are once again on your skin, devouring everything he can—licking, sucking, and kissing, not holding back his throaty moans. He drags his lips up your throat, along your jaw, back toward your mouth. His lips are usually gentle and loving, promising long days and summer forever—but they soon turn sharp, peppermint, winter.

Animal logic. Prey. Predator… teeth dragging against your neck, living marks. The primal lust, the sheer need to claim you, quickly finding ways to express his sacred hunger to you in animal passion. He snarls out gluttonous groans against your skin as you clench and seize, pounding you harder as your body contracts. Pleasure breaks out like a wildfire, reaching around your temples; shooting up and down your spine.

You're perfect when you're underneath him, it's where you belong, beautiful face and pretty wide eyes locked onto his powder-blue orbits—curves cushioning him, your obedient body lush, muscular, but still feminine, your eyes flashing—and all he wants is to ruin you.

It's a sinful sight each time he buries the length of his cock all the way inside you, shaft slick and wet and glistening when he pulls it out. You make the prettiest noises when he shoves in deep only to pull out and slam himself back inside, you've got the prettiest expression as he grips your legs and folds them up to fuck his dick into you even harder than before.

“Don’t stop, don’t, please”

There is something raw and pleading in your voice that surpasses sexual desire, these fleeting moments of carnal craving.

He continues to trail his lips down the front of your throat and you realize that he is mouthing words against your skin “Mine. Mine. Mine”

“You feel so good every time, snezinka” he murmurs at your ear as slide to your throat and he tightens his grip on both sides on your neck, reducing the blood and oxygen to the brain. When he loosens, the rush of blood and oxygen to the brain results in an explosion of dopamine, followed by a shamelessly loud moan from your lips “I think that I love you”

“We’re drugged. That’s why,” you gaspe “Did you forget?”

Bucky acknowledges your words, they sink into him—he focuses his attention on your skin. He nibbles at your earlobe, loving the sharp intake of your breath, skin breaks out into a pale sweat and your eyes fill with tears. His trusts are ruthless.

“There is no pleasure as good as the feel of your pretty cunt wrapped around me” a dark edge creeps into his tone.

He says as he fills out pounds you, drawing a muffled scream from your throat as he starts to thrust more rapidly, setting a demanding rhythm.

Something strange starts to rage inside him, hearing you inhale sharply as he continues to kiss and bite your neck, leaving bruises deliberately and as he fucks you deeper, wanting to mark you in an entirely different way—he wants to breed you.

And you know you will wear the bruises of Bucky’s hands as you wear the scars of Soldat.

All extremes of the pollen are allied with madness, finally consuming his brain and body.

“You are so beautiful”

He says into your skin, tears welling, confused, mingling in his throat. Old wounds never truly heal, your past will never fully heal anyways. That one tear, that tiny, salty, droplet of moisture is a means of expression—joy, and torment. Although it's just a small tear, it is the heaviest thing in the world. And it doesn't do a damn thing to fix anything in this situation.

“James-” your whole body exhaled a lugubrious lament, your heart breaks for him.

His eyes are always soulful, in some way; they seem to say things that you know he's probably never say out loud.

“I know baby, I know,” he nibbles on the side of your neck “You are so beautiful, I am sorry-so sorry, I can’t stop” his growls erupt from his chest, the primal noise flooding your senses, making your insides clench around his length “I need this, I need you”

You’re powerless…utterly at his mercy and that’s what makes you cum—his voice sends shudders through your body, reacting in all the right ways to the words. The orgasm has gutted your vocal chords, and all you manage is a small gasp, tears slipping down the old salty trails as he doesn’t stop, his head lulling on your shoulder.

He leans down, nose brushing against yours as he pants, thrusts never faltering, his mouth hangs open with bliss, his cock plunging into you with skin-slapping speed and he finally reaches his orgasm, cock spurting a thick dollop of cum with each throb. He closes his eyes, because of the volcanic eruptions of fever still goes through his body—his orgasm is long, raw, reaching all his body senses.

Sex is unthinkable without roughness tonight—he is already thinking about his second orgasm—should he just cum in your mouth when he makes you fall to your knees… or if he should take you by the hair before he’s finished and fuck you into a sobbing heap before blowing his load. Of the few times Soldat has face fucked you—gagging you to near vomiting—you’ve never miss a drop of cum. He remembers it.

His hand closes around your throat and the grip tightens, slowly cutting into your skin while cutting off oxygen. It is more painful than lethal, but more erotic than painful. Your head is spinning, ears are ringing—suddenly, without warning, he withdraws completely, leaving you coughing and gasping for air. As you try to catch your breath, you feel him get up from the bed which urges you to come back to your senses faster.

In his temporary madness, an idea comes to his mind.

In seconds, he is back on top and when your vision finally clears—his lusty orbs descend to your cheeks, detailing your skin before leaning in to lick off your tears—some form of mercy which you don’t need.

He is now in that state of fire that excites you. You want to be burnt.

His eyes drift leisurely back up to your face and he smiles, nova-flare eyes blazing into your own—you look for love hiding in his eyes, in his face, and you find nothing but possessiveness.

But something is not right.

His eyes are cold and dark.And your heart stops.

He is taking you over. Staking a claim.

He slowly thrusts his hips forward, his cock pressing into your front, earning a squeal from you as he ruts back and forth dragging his length across your opening and then slowly plunges into you. You exhale, trembling as you feel the tip pressing against your opening and penetrating you. He is mesmerized by the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you, filling you up to the brim.

Bucky brings both of your wrists above your head and grips them in his metal arm, restraining you from moving them—and you tremble like a downy rabbit caught in the clutches of a wolf—he seizes you as boldly as Soldat used to capture his favorite prey—you—in the past.

A flash blinds you for a moment and you see him holding his phone—this feels surreal—leaving you breathless with an inexpressible delight of it. Bucky’s inner voice of lust speaks, it is so spontaneous and unannounced. Your mind searches for the logical thought of his action.

“Fuck, I can cum just by looking at it” He musters his primest tone, throwing the device to the side.

You whimper as your abdomen contracted painfully around his hard length at his words. He lets his fingers release your hands as his cold digits swipes back the hair from your face. Cursing, he grips the back of your neck and brings your lips to his while the metal ones grip your hip so tightly you are sure he’d leave a bruise. You whimper as he starts to fuck you, slamming you into the matress.

The usual warmth of his hands is not there. They chill your skin as they hold you close to his body, and you realize he is scared. The extreme joy mixes with the bone-crushing grief—what if you don’t want to be around him after this night? What if you condemn him, consider it with high and unjust resentment and leave him? It pierces his soul, but he can’t stop—he is half agony, half animal...the past beats inside like a second heart now.

Your soft fingers trail his face and continue to attempt a connection that he refuses to acknowledge at first—the past slips and vanishes like sand between the warm touch of your fingers, acquiring material weight, only in its recollection, because the more shared past there is in any relationship, the more present you need to be for each other.

“Let go," you whisper and he loosens the grips—he is ashamed of holding you so tightly "No, not of me," you say smiling.

You look right into his eyes, right into him as far as you can see, because you want him to hear you, you want him to hear you with everything you say—and his chest tightens as if some euphoric drug has gone straight to his nervous system—but it is not the pollen, it is you—reassuring him, leaving a psychic imprint in his mind.

It’s both a blessing and a curse to share the same trauma. And even though you are sometimes harsh, restless and despairing—he is your weak spot, you love him in your own way.

"You can hold on to me as long as you want. Let go of the past, let go of the pain" you say, giving him permission, taking him into your flesh, a clear invitation to madness.

Emotions clamp down on his heart, but he stays terribly silent. Bucky says nothing after that, only your name, as if your name is not a name but a question. He shakes his head and kisses you, long and quiet.

He grabs your jaw in one hand forcing you to look at him, tears coursing down your cheeks as he thrusts into you, making low, growling noises in his throat—a predator purring with pleasure while it devours its prey, picking up a brutal pace once again. Your legs tighten around his waist, hooking over his hip bones as he practically folds you in half, nails digging into his back, surely breaking his skin with your manicured fingers.

He groans at the pain and removes your hands, intertwines his fingers with yours, pins your wrists flat to the mattress on either side of your head. He holds himself up over your body as he fucks into you, supporting his weight on his forearms. His cock is slamming into you, balls bouncing against your clit just right, the sight of his well-muscled body, covered in a thin layer of sweat, invites you to utter depravity, it is what drives you over the edge.

“You look so good taking all of me” he pants against your throat “I will fill you again-so good”

Hard, long, deep trust that forces moans out of both of you.

You whimper and nod dumbly, screw your eyes tight as another wave of pleasure spread throughout your body in orgasmic tingles as he pulls his own climax with you. He presses his face against your neck as his hips lose any and all sense of tempo and when he finally stills, he holds himself deep inside as he leans back—with every breath, your bust heaves, sweat droplets running between them and attracting his gaze.

It pollutes his mind even more, it cripples his morality, because he is infatuated with fucking you like this again—is it the pollen at this point? 

''Bear with me'' He murmurs, gritting his teeth ''I need…more” his cock slowly sliding out of your tight pussy before sliding back inside with equal slowness, sliding through copious amounts of thin lubrication and cum. Your legs wrap around his waist and prevent him from pulling out even if he wants to—your understanding, your willingness is a kind of ecstasy to him.

The blue moons in his eyes are glimmering with an emotion you can’t put your finger on. What is he thinking about?

A part of him cares about you.

But there’s a depravity in his mind right now that enjoys seeing you like this—your hair is in disarray, several tendrils scattered across your face and constricting your view of him, sweat pricks at your hairline and down your back. There is something unmistakably exultant in turning you into a mess—such a mess of cum and tears. Gently, he brushes the tendrils out of your face, tenderness in his touch—that’s the part of him that cares.

“I need you on the floor, on all fours” —that's the part of him that's deprived tonight.

You can feel the desire. The thirst. The absolute beast threatening to tear from his skin.

Soldat loved to fuck you against solid ground. He never truly left, sometimes Bucky is on the verge of cracking and showing the color of the thing beneath, but you don’t mind, you are not scared, you never were. 

All he wants is for you to be filled, marked, bruised from staying up all night, taking his cock into your body until you are depleted of all your strength. Even then, he will fuck you. He doesn’t say more, but he groans as he gets up—what a sinful twist of his lips, watching you slowly get up, your legs are incapable of supporting your weight much longer.

Your cunt hurts, too—you feel his cum dripping down your thighs, making yourself position in doggy style, legs winched apart, everything exposed to his view and he goes to stand on knees behind you, eagerly holding up his cock then he lines up your hole. He twists your hair around his fist and yanks your head back, at the same time thrusting into you from behind as his fingers slide to dig into your ass. 

Bucky grunts as he slams into you “Я без ума от тебя” (I'm mad about you) his balls slapping against the sensitive nub. You choke on your words, this angle allowing him in far deeper than before. You arch your back more and dig your nails into the floor, clawing at the dirty ground as he relentlessly pounds into you. Sweat drips down his neck as he watches himself entering and exiting you.

He grips your hips tightly, slamming into your snatch with ferocity. A wave of pleasure suddenly overwhelms you, and the tingling is growing stronger once more.

“Я предан тебе…ты моя девочка”(im devoted to you)...(You are my girl)

You can only mewl and gasp as you are rocked back and forth on your knees, losing your breath every time his cock hammers into your cunt. You clench around him when you hear your full name spoken in his gravelly tenor.

He molds his front to your back, spearing through your tightening pussy. He grabs your hair and snaps your head back roughly before it travels down around your throat and squeezes tight while his other palm splays across your stomach.

His lips rests on the back of your shoulder, hissing

“Очевидно, что , нас чувства друк к други” (You can’t deny what's between us)

He carries on rutting you like an animal. Your skin slapping together, your pussy squirting around his cock as it invades your snatch repeatedly, making suction squelching noises with every thrust in of his length. It keeps on hitting your cervix, your nubile breasts swing with the force of your body rocking—you know that you will be sore later.

"You fill my heart, I fill your cunt"

But his words strike every inside your body and his honesty brings the euphoria of complete surrender.

“Enough, stop, it is too much”

You plea and nearly asphyxiate on the words as your orgasm bursts upwards from your abused cunt. A sob wracks your throat and he continues thrusting, riding your orgasm until your entire body is convulsing and you are desperately trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s arms with the last of your strength, but it's not enough compared to the strength of his arms holding your hips with renewed vigor, determined to breed you.

You catch sight of him from your peripheral vision, his eyes closed, his lips are silent, but he chatters with his fingertips, with the way his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, the way he fucks you. And you thought that he chose that position, because he was embarrassed, but he was not—he wanted to disguise from you how much he was enjoying himself.

You have the strength to kill him, but here you are—so obedient.

His little submissive.

His expression is dreamy, floating. Soaked in pleasure—breathless, possessed, lost in the volcanic eruptions of fever, lust and delight. Your pussy cradles around his dick as he pounds into you from behind.

“James” 

His name on your lips sooth a place deep inside him, and the urgent need to hear it in again pulses in his heart, making himself guilty of such a secret, he must perforce hold it—

—but he shamelessly let out a loud moan, he never felt so out of control. You are a disease worse than the pollen itself.

“Bucky” 

That makes him groan like an animal, noises coming out of him that you never heard before, he was never this vocal. The groans are desperate, endless, but the sound of his name is unspeakably erotic to him. He can’t get enough of this. He will die without it, without you.

“You look too pretty when you’re getting fucked like that” he blurts out, without even thinking.

There is already a fissure in his mind and madness just rushes through. Praising him puts him on edge, it’s something he never thought he wanted or needed. You wreak havoc on his life.

He squeezes his eyes shut—to utilize the entire spectrum of the other senses, moans of ecstasy crescendos and his breaths come in short instances, each with a slight pause in between as his body is rack with his orgasm, cum is flooding out of your cunt, dripping of you onto the hardwood floor and there is a charm about it that makes it unspeakably desirable for Bucky.

In this stillness, he finally finds serenity. 

All you want to do is crawl back beneath the mound blankets—he gently picks you up and you smile crookedly at him, something about your smile loosening a knot in his chest, because holding you in his arms is more natural to him than his own heartbeat.

Morning came in through the blinds cutting everything into ribbons, but the light can make the most vulgar things tolerable—you are aware of the aching hips, and your whole body hurts like hell as if you have been run over by a train.

Bucky steps out of the bathroom, freshly showered with a white towel around his lean hips. He takes a half step toward the bed, and his jaw works for a moment before he asks

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired, did you tell Sam what happened?”

“No, of course not. He is thankful that you helped us” He says and rakes his fingers through his damp hair, making it stand on end “He invited us to Louisiana”

You barely resists smiling at him “Okay”

He raises a brow “Just like that, okay?”

“If you give me my bracelet back”

You both look at the bracelet around his right hand. Then he bites his lip as he grins.

“Not happening” he says, his tone flattening and he can't help the smirk that tips up the corners of his mouth.

“Guess I need to buy a new one then” You peel back the covers, indicating for him to get in and you watch him climb next to you “With your name on it”

His palm reaches up to wrap around the back of your head, his fingers tangling in the depths of your hair, pulling you closer, his lips hovering over yours. Everything about him pleases you.

Not just his looks, but his patience and his kindness. He is an obsession waiting to happen. Kissing him is terrifying, breathing the same air makes your knees weak, a liquid sensation swooping throughout your stomach—but you've been betrayed, stabbed by every single person in your life, the body heals, but it injures the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime. You are scared of love, scared of these new feelings, scared of trusting anyone, but you are trying—that’s why you gently press a kiss to his mouth.

(Her kisses are deliberate and polished. When she kisses me—she doesn't want me. She has me and knows it.)

Bucky throws himself onto the couch next to Sam, slewing his eyes over to him.

"So you are sleeping and living together, but you are still not in a relationship?"

He takes a long sip of his drink when he hears the words, tips his head back against the couch, and decides he could…maybe live with that.

"Yeah"

Sam’s lips tighten to suppress a smile "That's a bit weird, Buck"

He chuckles, low under his breath "The part where I live with my ex-coworker or the part where we sleep together?"

James takes a deep breath, and Sam can see his blue eyes searching for his, like he is looking for an answer.

”Maybe it is what it's meant to be for now” A frown settles on Bucky’s face as he considers that “She has a lot to experience, too. If you pressure her with anything, you might lose her completely”

“I don't want to be in love, but she is making me, Sam” he sighs, a headache blooming right between his eyes. He rubs at the spot, stalling as he tries to figure out what he wants to say “But you are right, she needs to heal”

Several emotions swirl in Sam’s eyes. Worry, sadness, maybe even intrigue. But not judgment. Never. “Did she agree to go to Wakanda?”

He wets his dry lips and says the most basic truth:

“No, she is too untrustworthy, I can’t believe she even agreed to come here”

Sam sees it as hope—and he wants to put that light within his friend, too “But she did”

They can’t talk about it anymore, not when they hear you, Sarah and the kids coming back, and when your gazes meet, your soft smile and the look in your eyes, they are the best interpreter of your mind—you are truly happy, seeing you like that makes him feel like he can single-handedly vanquish an army.

He has outlasted all family, desires, dreams, his grief alone is left entire—sometimes visiting the lonely desolation of nightmares, they are gleamings of his empty heart—Bucky is a heap of ashes, but meeting you—kindled him back into fire.

Oh my goshhh thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed this project!

More of this ex!Asset AU? - MASTERLIST

[teleport-warning]

It’s MDZS RBB time! @neverwalka1one wrote a delightful fic to go along with my slightly unhinged art, and I hope you all enjoy it!

[thescholarlystrumpet]

Father Fell x Crowley in WW2

With SPECTACULAR new cover art by @quona!! (everyone go follow them!)

Father Fell has been living a quiet life in a small parish. Despite the looming fear of war, he thought he was content with his small pleasures. Until a mysterious stranger comes to town, turning that life on its head and awakening desires the Father thought he buried long, long ago...

READ ON AO3:

Chapter ten in which a gift is given and then another is shared—if only for the barest sliver of a moment.

Or read from the beginning!

tagging @goodomensafterdark as promised ;)

[norelationtoatticus]

A fic/art collaboration for MCU KinkBang 2024

Title: The Things That Unlocked Him

Creative Team:

Author - SquadOfCats / @norelationtoatticus

Artist - sadbi_hours / @sadbi-hours

Rating:

Fic - Explicit

Art - General

Pairing: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Summary: Steve has one magical night with his perfect dream man: a strong and silent beefcake who submits to him beautifully during a group scene at a local club. But the guy vanishes in a rush as soon as they're done. Wistful, Steve thinks he will never see him again.

It's less magical when the guy starts stalking him, following him around, lurking in weird places, and bringing him some truly strange gifts.

Turns out, the Winter Soldier is pretty bad at modern romance, and he’s in desperate need of another session with his new favorite dom.

Selection of Tags: Shrinkyclinks. Dom/sub. Dom Steve. Sub Bucky. Top Steve. Bottom Bucky. Artist Steve. Winter Soldier Bucky. Kink. Group Sex. Impact Play. Rope Bondage. Tickling. Orgasm Edging. Praise Kink. Humor. Violence. See AO3 page for full tags.

Length: 142,000 words

It was so much fun creating this completely deranged, kinky rom-com for @mcukinkbang! We hope you enjoy!

[erisenyo]

For @zukki-week and with the AMAZING work of @ash-and-starlight, the skinny dipping prompt! Featuring the return of erotic food eating, so many dating cliches, Zuko desperately trying not to third wheel, Sokka and Suki realizing they haven't had to pick someone up since they were 16, and one very eventful night swim.

[“…Xi’s Noodle House was good,” Zuko says again, slowly, inner flame slippery with uncertainty as he tries to figure out what it really feels like they’re both trying to signal him to do. He’d assume give them space, since they’re on a date, except— “So good,” Suki echoes, her hand on his bicep. “So great,” Sokka agrees, eyes fixed on his face. —it really doesn’t feel like that.] OR, Zuko doesn't understand how he suddenly got so bad at noticing when Sokka and Suki want some private time. Sokka and Suki don't understand why Zuko keeps sprinting away from their attempts at dates. (Five times Zuko thinks he's third wheeling and one time he really, really isn't.)

[faewrenbird]

First post! I suppose I’ll start by advertising a recent fic of mine!

I write all sorts of things. Made a name for myself with My Hero Academia fic, but have also written other anime and gaming fics, as well as an original monster-love piece. Recent hyperfixation has been Elden Ring. I love, love, love this fic and was inspired by beautiful art to write it. Please enjoy!

[thehylianidiot]

THIS FIC ISN'T DEAD!!!! :D

Also, who wants more magic circles?

No I'm serious this cover has been complete for like months. The words on the other hand...

I kid you not, I had the alternate chapter title be "Jellal Delivers The Mail," but I wanted Ultear to be the star.

Want More? Check out the Hub Post

[samodivaa]

“Because I’m tired of running from who I am. From who I was born to be” – Thanos Link

[sitp-recs]

HP Rec Fest, Day 4

As a big enthusiast of HP art I couldn’t be more excited about today’s prompt from @hprecfest. In my experience, the fic + art combo always feels like a special treat and makes the reading experience all the more immersive and magical. If you’re a Drarry fan make sure to check the HD Big Bang Fest which brings amazing collabs between writers and artists. I was hard pressed to rec my all-time fave A Sword Laid Aside by @korlaena with stunning artwork by @saulaie, but in the spirit of reccing new, lesser known works I’ve picked 2 Drarry fics and 1 rarepair. I’m so delighted to rec authors and artists I’ve admired for such a long time. Thank you all for sharing your talent with us!

Day 4) A fic with art:

Drarry

Memento Mori by @fantalfart and art by @crazybutgood (M, 24k)

Seven is the number on my door. It’s the amount of scars I bear on my chest. It’s the time I wake up every morning. Seven is how old I was when father beat me for the first time, and seven years later I felt the force of a Cruciatus by the same hands.

this is such a cool and creative case fic, I was hooked since the start and can’t believe how CBG’s origami art only enhanced the sense of mystery and the story’s creepy, dream-like quality. brilliantly well thought and executed, I promise this will haunt you for a while!

Waking Up Slow by @sweet-s0rr0w and art by @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm (E, 22k)

'Twas the night before Christmas, although it’s July / Draco’s a shopkeeper, no-one knows why / There’s hiking and witch caves, freak snowfalls and more / Bad Christmas jumpers, nosy neighbours galore / Narcissa’s here too, but… something’s amiss / And what’s in those chocolates that’s making them kiss?

WUS is one of my 2023 favorites but for some reason it remains criminally underrated so I’m here to invite you to embrace the Christmas spirit and go read this sweet story asap. I adore this charming and quirky shop owner Draco, watching Harry fall for him was such a treat. Just like the story, Joy’s art is rich, creative and tender, with layers of soft angst expertly woven underneath 🤌🏼

Rare pair

The NottPott Chronicles by @amarillis39 and @missmrah (E, 35k, ongoing) - Harry/Theo

A series of moments from Theo and Harry’s lives as they learn to navigate their relationship, deal with their demons or just simply revel in each other’s company. Every story can be read as a stand-alone.

this luxurious series is a feast to the eyes and an absolute rarepair classic in my opinion; a must read to all NottPott fans or those curious about the ship like myself. I was immediately sold on this hot tattooed power couple being sexy & tender across a series of deliciously intimate slice of life vignettes.

[petrichorvidae]

Mushy May Day 4: Wound tending/First aid + Bonus prompt "Shut up I'm taking care of you"

Rating: E for everyone! Word count: 679 Pairings: Alpha/Omega Additional: Minor injuries. Summary: Omega has always been the one to patch Alpha up, and this time will be no different. Here's a link to it on AO3 for those who prefer!

I'm almost fully caught up now with mushy may, and for day 4 we've got something a little shorter but it also comes with this sketch I did of Alpha and Omega for it!

Read below the cut!~

~~~~~~

“So, what happened this time?”

Omega got right to business as he gestured for the Fire ghoul to sit, patting at the edge of the old bed they had been provided with by the abbey for their shared room, an uncomfortable and rickety thing but still miles better than the two of them trying to squeeze into a single like they had to when first summoned whenever they wanted to be together for a night. Alpha kept quiet while taking the offered seat, chewing at a split lip and doing everything he could to act like he hadn’t heard Omega’s question. Omega was always too good at reading people for his own good, and that went tenfold when it came to the likes of Alpha. He had been cleaning up after Alpha’s messes for far too long for something like this to slip past him. He still knew not to push Alpha too much though, and so he gets up from the bed and disappeared into the small bathroom they share, leaving Alpha along for just a moment, and that was all the time it took for the Fire ghoul to hiss out in pain when his body finally started to catch up to just how much it hurt.

Omega came back out from the bathroom, perfect timing as always, and handed Alpha some tablets and a small glass of water. “Painkillers, for the pain.” Omega explained, like they hadn’t been through this song and dance countless times before over the years. His preference for human remedies over some much quicker and more reliable like Quintessence magick was always put into question by Terzo and the others in their pack, and he always had to make up some excuse to justify himself to them, but Omega was always understanding of his aversion. It made sense, after all, Omega was the only living being that he’d told about what he’d been through in the pit, including the reasonings for his strange aversion to Omega’s magick, but Alpha liked to think that it was because Omega just got him, understood him on some entirely different level from anyone else.

Omega disappeared again but returned seconds later with a first-aid kit in hand, another thing he made sure to always have on hand so he could better limit his need to use his Quintessence with Alpha. He placed it on the edge of the bed next to Alpha, before finally giving all of his focus to the injured ghoul before him. With one hand placed on Alpha’s thigh, Omega reaches up with the other, trying to get a good look at the cut on his lip and the bruise on his cheek, but is interrupted by Alpha grabbing at his wrist and holding it mere inches away from his face. “Just… you don’t have to do this y’know… I can handle myself.” Alpha grumbles and tries to dismiss him, but Omega has no plans of leaving his partner.

Omega shakes his head no. “I’m not leaving you, Alpha. How many times have I cleaned you up after a fight? I know you think I’m just doing this ‘because I have to’, but I’m not. I love you, okay? And that’s not going to change.” Before Omega is even finished with what he says Alpha is already sniffling and trying to fight back at the tears threatening to spill. His grasp around Omega’s wrist loosens progressively before just slipping away in its entirety, and Omega is quick in bringing it and his other hand up to cup Alpha’s face in his palms, tilting his head up to look him in the eye, purple and pink meeting with fiery orange.

Omega brings their foreheads together in a loving gesture, horns clacking together gently as they sit there for a moment, sharing their love for one another in simple silence before Omega inevitably breaks it, sitting up and speaking.

“Now, to put it in a way you would…” Alpha’s lip quirks up at that, already knowing what’s coming, “Shut up, I’m taking care of you.”.

~~~~~~

A huge thanks to @forlorn-crows for organizing Mushy May!

[nuagederose]

Dark Roots of Earth | Chapter Seventeen: Pig Charmer

ao3 link

“Hey, Marlene,” Christine greeted her, slightly out of breath. Her helmet of red hair shimmered in the sunlight while her two boys behind her seemed to be more interested in the stones on the ground than anything else; this gave Christine a chance to really talk to her without the school setting all around them. “What’s happening lately?”

“I was just going for a walk with my boys and I just happened to recognize you over here,” Marlene replied in a single breath, and she held her silvery water bottle closer to her body all the while. She lifted her sunglasses with her free hand and squinted her eyes at her against the late morning sunlight. “You feeling okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”

“Yeah, I just…” Christine shrugged her shoulders and tucked her hand into her pocket; she could feel the locket inside of there, the top part of the heart touching her like the Telltale Heart. All she could hope for was that it wouldn’t drive her insane. “Sometimes I’ll think of something and it’ll make me emotional. It tends to happen when I’m out in nature.”

But Marlene turned to her sons and gestured towards them.

“Hey, guys, go and play in the grass—Mom has to talk to her friend,” she told them, and the two red headed little boys scampered off to the big patch of grass dotted with the lush trees and brushes right behind them. Marlene then turned back to Christine with a thoughtful look on her face.

“I coaxed them off because… it’s something else, isn’t it,” she said in a low voice. “There’s a pain in your heart, isn’t there.”

Christine swallowed and turned away from her a bit.

“Don’t lie to me, Christine,” Marlene insisted, curt but gentle. “There’s something torturing you.”

Christine sighed through her nose, and she inched closer to her.

“I’m in love with Alex,” she confessed to her in a soft voice. “Our teacher.”

“In love? Like… really in love?”

Christine lifted her head for a rather coy look at her and the stunned look on her face. “Yeah. Really in love. I promise you that it isn’t limerence.”

Marlene shifted her weight.

“Well… if that’s how you feel, there should be nothing wrong with it.” She paused. “What’s wrong, there’s something else.”

“He’s engaged. He’s engaged to a woman who is slowly killing him. Just eating him alive. What’s worse is I don’t know what she’s doing to him: it’s like after he spends even a minute with her, he goes into autopilot. It’s like he glazes over and loses himself. I can tell he’s unhappy with her but he doesn’t seem to want to admit to it, though.”

Marlene gaped at her.

“So, that explains the kind of distant look he’s had on his face the whole last few months of school,” she muttered.

“And if I’m honest… I’m a little afraid of thinking about this, too,” Christine continued, and her body shuddered at the mere suggestion of it.

“You wanna break up the wedding,” Marlene finished for her. Christine nibbled on her bottom lip and bowed her head. Silence except for the two boys on the grass surrounded them.

“Well. Again. If that’s how you feel… Christine.” She lifted her head to see the mischievous look on Marlene’s face, much to her surprise.

“Let me help you,” Marlene mouthed to her, and Christine raised her eyebrows at her.

“You really want to help me?” she asked in a soft voice so the boys wouldn’t hear, and Marlene eagerly nodded her head.

“I mean, really. All of this is astounding—how have I never heard any of this before?”

Christine shook her head. “No idea. But Valentina, Colette, and Sabrina all know. So does Eric. And he himself knows, too.” She sighed again, and that time she relaxed every inch of her body. It was good to air that out and to someone so eager to do it, and someone who wasn’t just Nelly, either.

“So… what’s the scoop? When’s the big day?”

“It’s around Christmas and Hanukkah,” Christine replied. “As the time ticks away, he and I are both getting nervous. My main worry is I’ll never see him again.”

“Oh, yeah, a guy like that getting hitched to a woman who uses him like that… trust me, Chris. You might see him in the hallways at school, but that’s about it. I actually used to know a guy like that. He was the dream man in my eyes. We had good chemistry, a lot like what you and Alex have. The problem was he was completely wrapped around another woman’s finger and I didn’t know until way after they got married that she cheated on him often and he did nothing about it.”

Christine’s heart sank at the sound of that, and she tucked her hand into her pocket again. She once again brushed her fingers against the top of the locket. She thought of Chris right then, as well as the fact that she had to tell him about him. She had to uncover the secrets of her own past to help him understand.

The boys continued to play on the grass behind them, and thus, she was able to keep things going with Marlene. She gestured for her to come in closer.

“I wish there was a way I could better seduce him,” Christine confessed. “You know. Spice things up. Make things unforgettable… more.”

Marlene squinted her eyes at her.

“I’m also going to need you to do me a favor, if you don’t mind at all,” she continued in a low voice.

“Not at all. As long as it doesn’t involve money, because the boys and I are pretty strapped for cash right now.”

“We can also make this our first step into breaking up the wedding, too,” Christine added. She closed her eyes and sighed through her nose. She clutched onto it with nothing more than her fingers.

“I’m going to need you to hold this for me,” she requested, and she showed Marlene the locket. She gaped at the shape of it, and she cupped her hands together to better look at it.

“Christine, this is gorgeous. Where did you find this?”

“It’s a very, very long story, but… if you open it up…” Marlene clicked it open, to which her mouth fell agape.

“Is this you?”

“It is. And that’s my old best friend, Chris. He was kind of the love of my life when I was younger.”

Marlene lifted her head and squinted her eyes at her.

“He’s buried way out on Long Island,” Christine continued, and Marlene tilted her head to the side and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, my god. Does Alex know about him?”

“No, I keep meaning to tell him about him. It’s just…” She closed her eyes and pursed her lips together. “I went through a fairly dark period in my late teens and early twenties, so there are a lot of holes in my memory. And since Chris and I were kids at the time, it feels like ancient history at this point, like it feels so distant at this point.”

Marlene glanced back at the two boys on the grass once again, and then she returned to Christine. She closed the locket and cradled it in the palm of her hand.

“I just have one question,” she began.

“Go ahead,” Christine coaxed her in a small voice.

“Why me and not Nelly? Or Eric? Or Sabrina or Valentina?”

“Nelly’s been traveling… I guess, anyway.” She shrugged her shoulders at that. “I don’t always see Eric or Valentina, and Sabrina doesn’t have the best living quarters at the moment. I need you to hold it until I can sift my own thoughts and make things clear. It’s already a long story. It would just be easier for me to have a clear head about it all.”

Marlene curled her fingers around the locket, and then she looked on at her with a thoughtful expression on her face. Quietly, she moved her purse around before the front of her body and opened up the top part. Christine watched her tuck the locket into the inside pocket next to what looked like a small tin box of chocolate Altoids. Marlene then took out a piece of paper as well as a pen, and she scrawled down something.

“Here’s my number,” she told her. “I’m also going to give you my address—the boys and I just moved to a new apartment down in Staten Island because it’s cheaper, and we’re still trying to get to know the neighborhood, too, so don’t be afraid to knock on the door and ask if we’re there at all.” She handed her the piece of paper, and Christine sighed through her nose. She nodded her head at that, and she folded it up and tucked it into the small coin pocket so it could stay in place.

“Another thing I’m going to give you,” Marlene began again, and she took something long and thin out of the bottom of her purse. A long thin piece of black silk lined with lace. “This is just something to wet your whistle with him. As you unravel your memory bank, you’ll uncover some other things, too. Hopefully, you can reach into yourself enough and make him realize what he’s missing with you.” She flashed her a wink, and Christine curled the silk around her hand as if she was creating some makeshift boxing knuckles for herself, and then she tucked it into the safety of her other pocket.

“Seriously, this woman is like Pennywise,” she told her. “She’s one of those people who thinks she’s hilarious but she causes you to go absolutely crazy if you’re not careful. What’s worse is she’s a big shot, too. Her big flashy company is based in architecture so she knows this city from the ground up like a big carnivorous spider.”

“That’s unsettling,” Marlene confessed, and she peered up to the streetlights again, though Christine knew that they weren’t being watched. “Well, when her face starts warping and her voice distorts itself out, call me up and the boys and I’ll come for you.” She then put her arms around her and held her close. Christine closed her eyes and thought about Alex. She thought about Chris as well. She couldn’t believe that she now compared Captain Howdy to Pennywise, such that she couldn’t help but laugh to herself.

Marlene held back and lightly patted her on the shoulders.

“Go home and take care of yourself,” she advised her, and without another word, she put her sunglasses back on and turned back to her sons, who were now wrestling each other on the grass. “Hey, fellas—you want some lunch?”

Christine turned back towards the tree, and she wondered as to whom was guarding that locket this whole time. It was neither here nor there at that point, and thus, she walked on back to the entrance of the park.

It was almost like clockwork. She peered across the street to find Alex emerging out of the coffee house with a cup of iced coffee in hand and his hair nicely brushed to the point it looked as though it was floating over his shoulders. She glanced about the street and, once the last car passed by, she ducked over to him right as he sipped on his coffee.

She thought about what Nelly had said, and she thought about what she had said to herself. She ran up to him with her lips ready and her heart pounding in her chest.

Alex turned around in time to see her running towards him, and away from Marlene and her boys. His face lit up at the sight of her, but before he could even so much as put a word in, Christine threw her arms around his thick waist; she nearly leapt up to him, just to reach his lips. His skin was as soft as ever. His body was warm and tender, much like how it felt when the summer finally turned into fall.

He held his iced coffee to the side, out of the way, and much to the amusement of the rest of the people in the coffeehouse as well. She moved her hands up to his chest, and she pressed her hips against his body. Though she was on top, it felt as though she was cradling him. She cradled him with her hips. His body held her, like the feeling of home.

Even with her muddied memories, she still could not help but feel him.

It most definitely was not limerence. She held back so he could breathe and she could lower herself back down, flat on her feet.

“Whoa…” he breathed out, and he ran his fingers through his black hair: his gray streak flashed at her like a bolt of lightning. A light blush crossed his face, of which she cupped her hands around to better hold him. She gave him another deep kiss, and his knees nearly buckled from the feeling. Christine let go of him to look into his eyes.

“Where is this coming from?” he asked her with a clearing of his throat.

“From within, of course,” she replied, and she stood down before him with her hands pressed to his chest. She slid her hands down his chest to his belly, and she remembered the strip of black silk that Marlene had given her. Something for a bit of bondage when things lifted off between the two of them, nestled there in her back pocket. Indeed, she remembered that Marlene was back there behind her still.

“By the way, since when do you hang out with Marlene?” Alex asked her with a nudge of his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Today,” Christine retorted. “I hung out with her today.” He cracked her a mischievous little smile, and he glanced around the street before them.

“What say you and I go back to my place for a good time?” she asked him, and he raised his eyebrows at her.

“You’re asking me back to your place?” he sputtered.

“Yes.” She held onto his hand and guided him back down the sidewalk. All the while, she hoped that she could be able to impress him with that bit of silk in her pocket.

[space-blue]

@anczous and I are collaborating to bring you a Quaritch centric story with illustrations! Set after the second movie.

Miles is the only Recom to survive the SeaDragon battle. Back at Bridgehead and grounded pending court martial, he's left with a lot of time on his hands. He begins to notice something is wrong—with the RDA, and maybe with himself too.

The story is set to have 2 chapters (or 3, max) of story, but will get art chapters if Anczous has contributions in between them. We hope you enjoy it!

[artistic-connoisseur]

After the whirlwind of events that transpired in NC, V, now known as Arasaka Tsukiyo travels to Neo-Japan!

With new norms and rules set by becoming the newest family member of the world’s largest corporation, will the Moon Goddess be able to handle it all?

Follow Tsukuyomi as she tackles new trials and tribulations in Season 2!

[teleport-warning]

My MDZS RBB fic with @motherfuckingnazgul is live! Please enjoy some post-canon in-laws time.

[thehylianidiot]

I finally get to draw this goof (and figure out how to draw him) in a scene I've been looking forward to for the past year or so.

And no, I have no idea why anyone would think I have a favorite scene this chapter.

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