#dont even get me started on run from me again

[arsenicflame]

sometimes i remember "I have love for you" & "I loved you, best i could" is canon and i have to chew glass about it

[blushingbubbles]

last-orgasm storytime -- sorry it took me a bit to write but it is...long

Sooo last night (1/31) was the last orgasm i’ll have for likely all of 2025, and i’m still fuzzy from it.

Still. It’s *checks clock* 6pm as im writing this. Still fuzzy. It happened like 18 hours ago.

The last free orgasm I had was on January 10th, and I didn’t even like it. It was rushed and short and unearned.

On February 1st, I entered long-term denial, and I wanted to cum one last time before it started.

In fact, I wanted to cum so badly that in exchange, I added 180 days to my denial. But because I added those 180 days, I started to fear that the orgasm wasn’t going to be worth it.

The last free orgasm i had sucked. I panicked that this next one would suck too, that I’d traded 180 days of denial just to regret it.

and hahahaha

i would trade 1800 days of denial for what i got on 1/31.

wc: 2600 (lol) | *exempt from forbidden words rules, and if u try to punish me for this post that i worked very hard on i will block you*

⊹₊⟡⋆ leading up ⊹₊⟡⋆

Sir & I talked on the phone for two days prior to the 31st. The first night we just talked, which got me used to his voice in my ear. The second night we talked a bit and played a bit, which made me more comfortable with his instructions & flow in a scene, which was wonderful. I would’ve had a difficult time relaxing with him if it’d been our first time speaking. But it wasn’t. It was our third, so I felt really safe & comfortable going into our call. 

The morning of the 31st I told him about my dream that centered around worshipping his cock. I told him how needy it’d made me. Sent him a picture of how wet I was. He praised me for it...and then told me I wasn’t allowed to touch until he called that night. At all.

Rude. (i kid)

To make matters worse, he sent some incredible nudes with an instruction to look at them once an hour every hour. This left my imaginative mind with some wild running fantasies. Excerpts from our messages started with “god im like whining” /  “you look so soft” end devolved to “it’d be so fuckimg easy for you to breed me” / “wanna be so full of ur cock i struggle breathing Sir” 

Believe it or not, I actually had no problem with not touching – it was like a given. He told me to not touch so even though I was feverishly horny, touching was out of the question.

The thing I had a problem with was the anxiety. It kept trying to convince me that he was going to forget or get distracted or cancel (he touched base about once every other hour to humor my feral messages, which curbed that anxiety well).

When I was making dinner though, the fact i was going to cum for the last time in 2025 that night started to get to me.

The anticipation became too much to sweep under the rug and I decided to tell him. The convo looked like this:

hi | my heart's beating really really fast In a good way I hope! i think im just excited but it does feel like anxiety It's a lot of anticipation. i dont knowwwwni dont know | It's a lot of anticipation Don't worry bubbles, I'm going take good care of you. | I'm adaptable | We'll get you what you need | You needn't worry about it, I'll be there with you and for you

 (i totally cried happy tears)

⊹₊⟡⋆ the beginning ⊹₊⟡⋆

im all fuzzy again lol. Sir called. We chatted about our days and how I was feeling. He asked what I’d laid out (a vibrating egg, a dildo, a clit suction toy). I made a joke about having a hairbrush on my bed, but it was strictly for brushing my hair before he called. He laughed and agreed there was no need for the hairbrush because we’re not in high school anymore.

First, he asked me to spread my legs to the corners of the mattress. Because of my anxiety, he knew without me asking to go really really slowly, and I'm grateful for it. He took time warming me up and talking to me in the first minutes.

He told me to repeat lines back to him -- repeating lines makes me very pliable, and that night was no exception. I might've repeated I like to show off for Sir 20 times. Afterward, Sir wanted me to spread my pussy for him too, so I did.

But then he said, "little more," which made me think he had cameras in my room. I told him this and he reassured me that he didn't. Instead, he's just inside my head. <3

The night is very hazy. I wrote this with a lot of assistance from him, but this is one thing I remember clearly: everything Sir said was a specific instruction.

He didn’t say “I want you to tease yourself�� and then wait for me to explain how I teased myself. He said “take your left hand and drag it up the inside of your left thigh. Slower. I’ll give you the rhythm.”

There’s a time and subject for the “I want you to tease yourself.”

I am not the subject. So it's never the time. I’m always afraid I’m doing something wrong, so I ask clarifying questions – “like ___? Or should I _____?”

But each of Sir's instructions were to-the-letter. Because of that, I never had to worry about doing something right or wrong. There was no ambiguity, there was just the instruction.

I'd already surrendered to his dominance, but that wasn't enough. He wanted to turn my brain off entirely.

At first, he didn’t incorporate the toys. It was nails on thighs and fingers spreading wetness around.

In his words, he was playing with his food.

Eventually, eventually, I was allowed to focus on my clit. Even longer after that, I was permitted to insert my fingers. By this point, with the lengths to which he was dragging it out, I started to whine (which was exactly where he wanted me).

After that, the vibrating egg came into play.

⊹₊⟡⋆ the middle ⊹₊⟡⋆

I’d told him the day prior what countdowns do to me and why, and he incorporated them at every milestone of the night.

With the toy still off, Sir told me to run it up and down my slit. Then I had to hold it at my entrance, adding pressure without allowing it inside. He counted me down and allowed me to insert the toy, then counted me down again to turn it on.

I don’t know how it happened. I sincerely – I don’t know. After a while he gave me a break, and I checked my phone to make sure its battery was still alright and found that an hour and a half had passed. He thought my surprise was cute.

In his words: “I'm glad you're having such a good time, but this night is FAR from over."

Sir told me to get my clit suction toy out and lay it on the bed in front of me, as if to tease me. Keeping the toy turned off, he told me to press it where I usually liked it the most. Then he told me to lift it off. Then place it back on.

Once I had a grasp on exactly how to move, he told me once the toy was turned on, he would give me a number, and I'd have to hold the toy on my clit for that many seconds--but he had me do the counting.

We started on low -- the toy has like 8 settings, so the first setting is usually never enough for me to even really feel? But after all the teasing and build up, I thought for a while I might've been able to hit an edge with it.

He made me hold it on for 3 seconds. 7. 15. Between every number, the toy hovered over my clit so I could hear it and feel a whisper of it, but it wasn't enough to give me any sensation or pleasure.

According to him: I demonstrated incredible self control. Despite how good the toy felt, I always put it down when he told me to, and only when he told me to.

He had me turn it up 2 notches, and I'm pretty sure this is where the last of my comprehensive thought left me.

I literally -- it's so hazy after this, I have no idea. I know he toyed with me just like that -- making me count up to 5, 12, then 7, then 3. He continually reminded me that I wasn't allowed to cum. He also reassured me I absolutely wouldn't be punished for pulling the toy off before reaching the requested number.

The most important rule was to wait for him to give me the orgasm--everything else came second.

There was a stretch of time that I was hitting an edge by 1 -- like the moment the vibrator got too close I was chanting I can't, I can't, I can't.

It felt like an eternity of me going absolutely stupid while teetering on the edge of orgasm.

He gave me a water break after the "I can't," chanting, and this was approximately our conversation:

"You can't?" no Sir, I can't "Why can't you?" bc i don't have permission "And you need permission, don't you?" yes Sir i do i need it "You need it because you don't have a choice, isn't that right?" yes Sir that's right, I don't have a choice "Say that again." i don't have a choice, Sir

That last line was repeated 10+ times

It was incredible. He had me edge myself for him. over. and over. and over.

and over.

and over again.

In his words: It was about 38 edges in just as many minutes.

I remember going nonverbal. I remember him telling me to be clear with the numbers, and I recall that being the hardest part -- because my lips and tongue no longer wanted to work. 

Babygirl, you're mumbling again! I need you to speak very clearly into your mic.Yes Sir, i understand

I started to get fuzzy. If you remember the old-school televisions -- whenever you would turn them off, that collection of static hovered across the screen. You could collect the static in your hands?

I felt like I'd swallowed it. That static blanketed my mind. My tongue was numb. My mind was buzzing. I was incoherent. I've never felt anything like it.

⊹₊⟡⋆ the end ⊹₊⟡⋆

From beginning of the call to the orgasm was over 2 hours. 2 hours he teased me. Denied me. Played with me until I was on the edge and made me wait there. I felt what was left of my brain disintegrate. turn to mush. slip out between my thighs.

(thank you Sir for helping me to recall this part)

Babygirl, you've been perfectly obedient for me tonight. (a long drawn-out whine) I'm very proud of you, of your self control. Are you sufficiently fucked out? Is your head all fuzzy now sweet girl? Can you even understand what i'm saying or are you too much of a brainless whore? (generally affirmative and giggly slut noises) I think you've earned your orgasm. *voice cracking* really? You have my permission to cum. We are going to change the rules of play now. Do you understand?  Yes Sir, I understand, thank you.

There was more in there, but I can't remember when -- he asked me if I still wanted it, and i didn't know the answer anymore. I wanted to say yes -- i wanted it so badly, but I was so fuzzy all i could think was only if you want me to.

Like I was no longer in a space that needed the orgasm - i only needed to make him happy.

it was the same game. hold the vibrator on the clit for the number of seconds he wanted. But the rules had changed. This time he would do the counting ( i loved the counting )

and this time, I was allowed to cum.

however -- the count didn't end when I orgasmed. the count ended when the count ended, and I had to keep the vibrator on until then.

he started with 3 seconds. Before this, I'd been hitting the edge in 3 seconds. But knowing I had permission to cum it felt different -- stronger of an edge almost?

The count ended.

Sir stressed again that I was allowed to cum. Then he counted down from 5 seconds? Or maybe it was 10?

The edge was right there, but the orgasm still felt so far away. The release was being stubborn. Maybe my body didn't feel like it was real?

He said again

Babygirl, you're allowed to cum. Sincerely.

Then he counted down from 20, dragging each number out to his liking.

Maybe I was scared of cumming too soon and overstimulating myself? I'm not sure. But my orgasm held and held and held. It did not want to release.

It sat like a boulder on a cliff, just one breath from falling off and giving me what he ordered. But it didn't budge, and there wasn't anything I could do. I was getting upset with myself by the time he hit 12.

When he hit 10, I discovered the issue.

It wasn't enough for him to give me permission to cum beforehand. I needed it while I was on the edge. The realization hit me so hard I would've fallen over had I been standing. With the time counting down, the pleading spilled from me. I don't even remember what came out of my mouth. He told me it was very very pretty though.

He had reached 6.

Please Sir i need your permission, I need you to give me permission again. I need it I need it.

Cum for me babygirl.

Relief was simultaneously like lightning and a flood through me, and it shoved the stubborn boulder right off the cliff.

There were 2 waves to the orgasm. The first wave was on the "5," the second was when he said "2."

After the second one I kind of blacked out a bit.

But I sincerely don't.....recall...all I know was it was (bar none) the most powerful and most perfect orgasm I've ever had <3

⊹₊⟡⋆ after/care ⊹₊⟡⋆

I cried. i had a feeling i would -- the anticipation + my anxiety + the orgasm was a huge release. my tears slipped into my headphones and they started to fizzle and crack out on me. He told me to stay in bed, but I wanted to find my other pair.

He was right to tell me to stay lying down -- I got dizzy when I stood up.  

He praised me for how good of a job I did which made me want to cry even more. I thanked him like a million times. He thanked me a million times, and he told me to drink my juice.

We talked about all 2 hours of the call. From the teasing to the egg to the counting to the vibrator to the permission to the begging. He filled in some hazy spots I'd already forgotten in my edged-out state.

I stressed that I wouldn't have changed a single thing about it. I had a lollipop, and i fell asleep talking to him on the phone. IT WAS PERFECT AND IM SO GLAD I TRADED 180 DAYS OF DENIAL FOR IT I'D DO IT AGAIN IN A HEARTBEAT.

[bisexualmcqueen]

may i offer this thought for the feral racers hc

racecars are like loyal little guard dogs (not little at all. those are metal beasts) with the people they love. they just kinda like. imprint on people and its like an immediate switch to feral mode when they perceive threat and danger to loved one. and they do that thing where they try and make themselves bigger to intimidate enemies.

idk if its something similar like this has posted about or discussed before but uh yeah. the feral racers hc just kinda read to me as racecars being like dogs. wolves. instinctually wild animals. i like how strip and doc being particularly old veterans translates into them being Extra Dangerous or Extra Feral, something like that. though i dont even think racecars get normaller the newer/younger. i think the next gens are just a different flavor of freak (i.e. chewing, zoomies) like they're domesticated sort of in a way

YES YES exactly

ok many thoughts. lets see here

so ive been thinking about this and. the thing is. that part of what makes this headcanon so fun is that theres actually canon precedent, in a way.

Lightning for example. is crazy protective. like instantaneously. zero forethought, action only, putting himself between the Danger and the Friend.

some examples:

in cars TVG, Chick hires the DRH to rob Mack so Lightning will be without supplies for the upcoming race. when Lightning hears that Mack was very upset about it from Sheriff, he gets so pissed off he takes to the streets, tracks the DRH down, and proceeds to spend all night chasing and beating the shit out of them until they drop his stuff. not because he was Robbed, but because they Upset Mack.

i think its funny that Sheriff doesnt say Anything. he just nods in agreement. ...not that i think Sheriff could have stopped him though. Lightning is sort of Insane about Mack. Mack is the greatest. [two quality versions. one oldschool for nostalgia and one more HD]

in the comics (admittedly ive only read in sections), Mater was beefing with Bubba, Lightning also started to get pissed off at Bubba being rude + protective of Mater:

i dont know if Lightning would be good at fighting or get his ass beat terribly. either way, i want to watch.

next up is my favorite example: the thunder hollow crazy 8 race. Lightning LEAPS in to help Cruz several times. it is my fucking Favorite.

HERDS HER BACK OUT ONTO THE TRACK

and then he jumps in front of a speeding attack-bus and takes a metal sawblade to the drivewheel for her. NO thoughts, head empty, protect Cruz. love this man. apparently, type-c school busses can be between 10-20,000 pounds. crunch.

and my last example on this topic: the radiator springs 500 1/2:

these racers show up in town looking for trouble. its supposed to be a silly little western parody, but in terms of this headcanon it comes off as territorial as hell imo. wdym other racecars show up at his house to fight him. hello. and then they insult Stanley, which deeply upsets Lizzie:

cue getting their asses kicked by mcqueen. that is HIS freaky old woman.

[i love this short]

so yeah. my terrible guard-dog-horse-thing-car.

Doc is largely The Same:

14 billion KEEP OUT signs. shooing Lightning away from his friends family because he is A Perceived Danger. another racecar standing in his lawn barking. yeah. you territorial old wet rag.

I agree with what you said its very in line with the vibes of the headcanon yes. true and real. def like dogs/wolves, and i personally try to throw some cat/horse stuff in there too. again, i blame being an x-men/wolverine fan.

a few other tidbits from source material for funsies:

^that ones wallpaper, apparently. for like a Room. in a house. my cars wallpaper merch thats 2018 xrs drag racing diecast merchandise.

Doc was so amped to do racecar stuff again he wakes Lightning up in the middle of the fucking night to run around in circles with him the moment he shows back up in town.

they lost Guido in the fucking sand.

Cars Origins: Struck By Lightning quick aside: "everyone's going to think something is wrong with me" Lightning these are not mentally stable thoughts im so sorry.

second topic: generational/evolutionary differences.

first of all i would like to point out that my basis for strip especially being some sort of craazzy toothy freak is entirely the headcanon of @youhavehitawall that i adopted out of coolness. non has some lore about the weathers that explains it, but basically it boils down to a repeated expression of racecar genes getting more pronounced the more generations it travels down (so long as its an expressed gene).

now for the nextgens (funny calling them that in 2025. theyre all in their 30's lmfao. not saying thats 'old', but they arent rookies anymore, damn does time fly). [disclaimer: dont quote me on this, my knowledge is an approximation] in real life NASCAR, they used very old technologies right up until about 2012. carburetors, leaded gasoline, 4-gear h-box frontend transaxles, reticulating ball steering, etc. most of these things vanished from the dealership road cars between the 60's and the 90's. Meanwhile cars like Lightning and Cal are still running this stuff in the mid-aughts. so when the nextgens came along, they showed up with fuel injection, e85 15% ethanol fuel, 5-speed sequential rear-mounted transaxels, rack-and-pinion steering, bigger aluminum wheels, bigger calipers, and less ground clearance/more areo, there was a very sudden and massive shift in what sort of technology was being run in the piston cup. tech-wise, Lightning +co were very similar to cars like Chick and even Strip. the change in tech could be a good marker for other genetic shifts too. cars change much, muuuch faster generation-to-generation than mammals. its Moore's Law in a way: theyre machines. add that to the incredible 12-week turnaround in which every team booted their driver and replaced them with a 'nextgen', and ive had to spend some time wondering Why? why??? thats brutal! Doc certainly warned us, but goddamn. imagine if that happened mid-season in any real sport! holy shit! (i still want to know more about the fan's reactions to this...) in the context of this headcanon, i Also wonder about what you said, the nextgens being feral in a little bit of a 'different' way. maybe theyve got easier-to-handle temperaments; an added bonus to their overall higher speeds+better track times. uhm. Jackson being the temperament-outlier here, maybe.

to be fair, he did get fired after throwing too many fits.

Cars Origins: Storm Chasing

But yes... racecars!! they are a lottt to handle. the driver AND the incredibly powerful machine mashed into one?? hooo boy. honestly i am a bit fearful of racecars irl. very loud, very fast, smell bad, they breathe fire, etc. why not reconcile that by making the talking ones into Beasts. theyre already crazy, already quadruped, my brain just starts assigning horse/wolf to them. and some of it comes down to me loving logan-wolverine tropes. protective growly little guy with pointy teeth. yeah can i get 5 more of these little fanged bitches.

ok i have to stop yapping now this turned out quite long, but i still have Things to Say about this headcanon/worldbuilding. i didnt even get into the amazing bonds racecars seem to have with their teams/families (the 'imprinting' thing you mentioned!). very fun!!

thanks for the ask!!

[tteotlma]

Sugar and Skin

4. Fractured Focus || Previous - Next

A late-night encounter lingers in the quiet hum of the shop, a step too close and a touch nearly made, leaving behind something unspoken—something that refuses to fade.

TattooArtist!Bucky x Baker!Reader (4.6kwc)

tw: 18+ MDNI; mild language, subtle tension, implied attraction, slow-burn, strangers to friends to lovers, mentions of smoking, lingering touches, close proximity, unspoken intentions a/n: pls forgive me if some of the phrases are repetitive... i dont know how else to word and reword the same motions sometimes ((babes im so sorry for the wait.. it's been crazy... I started training at my new job.. i quit that job.. I saw hugh jackman in new york city, fell behind in school work so i had to catch up and then i got a new internet crush... so it's been CRAZY anyway..)) enjoy!!

The shop was unusually quiet for an early afternoon, the faint hum of the fridge muffled through the walls of the back room. Bucky sat in his station chair, feet propped on the black recliner stretched across from him as he leaned back, a sketchbook balanced on his lap. The pen in his hand moved slowly, purposefully, trailing delicate lines across the page. 

He wasn’t even sure what had drawn him to this particular image. At first, it had been a simple twig, then small berries began to take shape, clustered tightly together. His usual sketches were bold and heavy—intimidating designs for ink that would sit on someone’s skin forever. But this? This was… different. 

The soft red ink shaded each berry into a round plump form, almost glistening on the page. Leaves sprouted from the stems, broad and delicate, with the faintest etchings of veins running through them. Thorns lined the thin branches, sharp and deliberate, giving the otherwise soft drawing a quiet angst. 

Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly as he added detail to the sketch, his focus sharp yet relaxed. The raspberries, though he never called them that in his mind, seemed to grow beneath his hand, as if they were waiting to spill from the page. His hand lingered over the image, caught up in the small folds of a leaf and the way the weight of the fruit bent the stem. 

“You know,” Steve’s voice broke through the stillness, startling Bucky just enough for his boot to slip from the bench. He straightened, quickly closing the sketchbook with one hand as his sharp blue eyes flicked up toward his friend.

Steve stood at the counter, arms crossed, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to grin. “I’ve been reading up on insubordination,” he began, feigning seriousness as he leaned casually against the counter. “And technically, I’m your boss, which means when I send you to get my stuff and the stuff is given to you, I expect you to bring everything to me.”

Bucky sat up straighter, his boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. “I do,” he said defensively, his tone clipped. “I did.”

Steve’s grin broke free, his feigned seriousness dissolving. “Relax, Buck. I’m kidding.” He waved a hand, stepping away from the counter. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about yet and you’re already giving yourself away.”

Bucky gave him a sharp look, his brows pulling together in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Steve replied with a laugh, shaking his head as he approached. His eyes flicked to the sketchbook still tucked under Bucky’s hand. “What’ve you been working on?”

“Nothing important,” Bucky said quickly, but Steve ignored him, leaning over to tug the book free.

Steve flipped it open before Bucky could protest, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the page. “Huh.”

“Huh?” Bucky repeated, annoyed.

Steve tilted the book toward him, tapping the edge of the page. “This isn’t your usual style.”

“No shit,” Bucky muttered, grabbing the sketchbook back and closing it with a snap.

“Relax,” Steve said again, his grin softening. “It’s good. Just… different. Almost delicate.” He raised a brow, but didn’t press further, stepping back toward the counter. “Anyway, don’t forget to grab my coffee tomorrow, thanks.”

Bucky scoffed, watching as Steve disappeared into the back room. When the shop fell silent again, he glanced down at his sketchbook, the edges of the raspberries still vivid in his mind. With a quiet sigh, he leaned back in the chair and flipped the book open again, his pen hovering over the page.

The raspberries stared back at him, vibrant against the soft cream of the paper. Bucky tapped his pen against the edge of the page once, twice, before letting it trail back to the delicate stem, adding another small thorn.

—-

The shop had emptied out hours ago, leaving only the quiet hum of the fridge and the soft scratching of Bucky’s pen against paper. The raspberries on yet another page had taken form in a way that felt almost absentminded, the delicate shading of each berry and the sharp, spiked edges of the leaves coming together without much thought.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking toward the clock. It was late. Too late to still be here, but something kept him rooted to the spot. He exhaled sharply through his nose, flipping the sketchbook shut with one hand before running the other through his hair.

He needed air, maybe a cigarette, probably both.

Pushing himself up from the chair, he grabbed his jacket, shrugging it on as he made his way toward the door. The air outside was crisp, the streets quiet save for the distant hum of a passing car.

And then—

The soft scuff of a shoe against pavement made him glance up.

She was standing a few steps away, caught mid-stride under the dim glow of the street lamp. 

Bucky froze.

For a moment, neither of them moved. 

The light above buzzed faintly, bathing her in warm hues against the dark backdrop of the street. She clutched the strap of her bag a little tighter, her fingers flexing against the worn leather as if she hadn’t quite expected to run into him either. 

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, the smoke from his lips curling faintly in the cool night air. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.” She said, voice quiet. 

“Neither did I.” He finally said, voice low and rough from hours of silence. 

A pause.

The silence stretched, thick and unyielding. It wasn’t the comfortable kind, but neither of them seemed to want to break it too soon.

Bucky shifted his weight slightly, exhaling another slow stream of smoke. His fingers twitched against the worn leather of his jacket, debating what to do with his hands. He could feel the way she was watching him—cautious, curious, like she was trying to decipher him.

His voice came quieter this time, more curious than anything. “Didn’t think this was your usual route.”

She took a slow step forward, fingers flexing against the strap of her bag. “Oh, I just wanted to run through some stuff with Steven if he was still here.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked toward the darkened tattoo shop behind him, then back to her. “You just missed him.”

A beat of silence passed, thick with something unspoken. She nodded, lips pressing together like she was weighing whether to say something else. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t press, instead he just watched, his empty hand sliding into the pocket of his jacket as the air between them stretched.

The distant sound of a car rumbled through the street, headlights sweeping past them for only a second before disappearing around the bend. The glow of the streetlamp flickered slightly, casting shifting shadows across the pavement.

Bucky’s gaze flickered down, catching the way she rubbed her fingers against the worn strap of her purse —a nervous habit, maybe. His own fingers curled inside his pockets.

The stillness felt heavier than it should’ve, settling in his chest like a weight. He exhaled through his nose, then brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a slow drag. The tip flared in the dark, smoke curling around his face as he held the breath for a moment before releasing it into the night air.

“You smoke a lot?” Her voice cut through the quiet, soft but pointed.

Bucky flicked his eyes down to the ember at the tip, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, considering. Smoke curled lazily in the space between them. “Depends on the day.”

She hummed, tilting her head slightly, like she was turning the answer over in her mind, weighing it.

Bucky brought the cigarette to his lips again, taking another long drag, letting the burn settle deep before exhaling slowly. The air between them clouded with it, thinning as it drifted up toward the streetlamp’s glow.

“One of those days, then?”

His fingers twitched.

Bucky looked at her—really looked at her—his gaze tracing the way the dim light softened her features. She wasn’t looking at him, not fully, just watching the ember flicker, waiting for an answer.

He inhaled again, slow, the nicotine further grounding him.

Then, he let out a short chuckle almost a scoff, low and almost to himself. “You could say that.”

She shifted on her feet, fingers tightening slightly around the strap of her bag. The words seemed to catch in her throat before she finally managed, “Actually, do you think maybe I could just… leave something inside for Steven?”

Bucky’s brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t move. “Yeah?”

She nodded quickly, a little too quickly, and gestured to the folder tucked in her bag. “It’s just—uh—it’s nothing urgent but—. Just some things I drafted for him for that thing you guys are doing.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered to the folder, then back to her face. She wasn’t looking at him—not directly. Her fingers fumbled slightly as she messed with the folder in her bag, like she was feeling the weight of the silence just as much as he was.

He exhaled through his nose, slowly, then shifted his stance. “Yeah, alright,” he murmured, reaching beside him to pull the door open. “Come on.” 

Bucky watched as she hesitated for only a fraction of a second before stepping toward him, her movements quick but deliberate.

She slowed just as she neared him, close enough that he could see the way her breath caught, the faintest hitch in her chest before she steadied herself. Her eyes dragged up his frame, lingering for just a beat too long before finally meeting his gaze.

As their eyes met, Bucky exhaled slowly, the cigarette perched between his lips, smoke curling between them in the narrow space. His free hand held the door open, fingers curling around the edge as he leaned into it, using the frame as lazy leverage. The glow of the tip cast flickering shadows across his face, the low light making his sharp features even sharper, the silver glint of his nose piercing catching faintly.

She hesitated for another second, her fingers twitching against her elbows as her arms crossed her chest. His gaze dipped slightly, just for a fraction of a breath, before flicking back to hers. He didn’t say anything, just watched her, the slow pull of smoke filling the space between them like something tangible.

Then, with an almost reluctant exhale, he reached up and plucked the cigarette from his lips, the barest hint of a smirk ghosting across his features as he dragged his tongue across his lower lip. The motion was slow, almost thoughtless, but she caught it—her eyes flicking to his mouth for just a second too long. His gaze met hers again, amusement glinting beneath the surface.

“You gonna go in,” he murmured, voice low, “or we just gonna stand here?”

Her breath hitched, just barely, before she shifted, stepping past him into the shop.

Bucky didn’t move from the doorway right away. He lingered just long enough to watch her falter in her steps before stepping further into the dim shop. The scent of her—something warm, something faintly sweet—brushed past him, but he didn’t let his gaze linger.

Instead, he sighed slowly, rolling the cigarette between his fingers before flicking it into the little tray by the window. His steps were unhurried as he followed her inside.

“You know where his desk is,” he muttered, nodding vaguely toward the back. The soft click of the door seemingly echoed in the vacant shop 

“Right. Yep.”She moved without another word, sneakers scuffing lightly against the hardwood as she disappeared past the main workstations. 

Bucky stood still for another second, fingers flexing slightly at his sides before he exhaled through his nose and trudged to where he sat earlier. Staring at the discarded papers strewn throughout his area, he sighed again shrugging off his jacket. The leather slid off his arms in one smooth motion, and he tossed it lazily onto the back of his chair.

Then, as if none of this was anything, he sat down. 

His eyes flicked to the sketchbook, still open to the crimson crops decorating the pageg. The red ink bled into the page in soft gradients, the delicate shading giving them weight, depth. He hadn’t planned on sketching them again, but somehow every time his mind came up empty, the shape of sweetness had come easy, his hand moving without thought, refining the curve of each berry he drew, the way stems wove together, thorns barely visible but always there.

His fingers hovered over the edge of the paper, the pen tapping idly against the margin. He wasn’t really thinking just tracing lines, smoothing out shadows, letting the motion guide him. The act itself was grounding, something to focus on, something to fill the quiet.

Bucky exhaled slowly, dragging the pen along the edge of a leaf, darkening the veins, sharpening the points where the thorns curled. The thorns had come later, after the berries, after the delicate lines and soft shadows. He didn’t know why, exactly—just that the drawing had always felt unfinished without them.

The shop was quiet. Too quiet.

The soft shuffle of footsteps barely registered until he felt a presence at his back.

"You've been busy."

The words were soft, spoken just behind him. Close.

Bucky stilled.

His fingers flexed against the pen, grip tightening slightly as the voice settled over him—quiet, but not uncertain.

He didn’t turn immediately.

Instead, he let the weight of her presence settle, let the space between them shrink just enough to be fully noticeable.

Then, slowly, he angled his head, catching her in his periphery.

She was standing closer than expected, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her gaze flickering between the scattered sketches on the desk before landing on the one beneath his hand.

Bucky stared at her, waiting.

She nodded toward the page. “Didn’t take you for the delicate type.”

His mouth twitched. “I’m not.” He spoke too quick for his liking.

“Mm.” The sound was quiet, skeptical.

But she didn’t step away. Instead, her attention slowly dropped, shifting away from the sketchbook. It was subtle, something no one would notice unless they were really looking at her. Unless they were paying attention.

His gaze tracked the way her eyes flickered downward, no longer fixed on the paper but on him.

Her eyes traced the ink along his forearm, the dark lines and sharp, angular designs shifting over his skin as he involuntarily flexed his fingers. His tattoos were nothing like the sketches that were strewn about the room. They instead were stark, intricate, built from jagged lines and interlocking symbols that looked almost mechanical in their precision. They sprawled up his arms in bold, geometric bands, twisting and branching in patterns that mimicked circuitry, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his shirt like a secret map etched into his skin.

And she was still looking.

Bucky felt the way her focus kept drifting back, like she was trying not to, like she was searching for something else to land on but every time, her eyes traced the same path. His fingers, then his hands, and then arms, the way the veins ran just beneath the surface of his skin.

She swallowed.

“So,” she said, her voice quieter than usual, like she was only speaking to fill the space. “You, uh… sketch a lot?”

Her eyes flicked up briefly to his then to the book beneath his hand, like she was forcing herself to focus on the book in front of him instead of the way his biceps flexed slightly when he shifted in his seat.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, not answering right away, just watching her.

“I mean, I guess that’s obvious,” she continued, fidgeting slightly where she stood, fingers twitching against her arm as she still had them crossed loosely against her chest. “Tattoo artist and all.” She quickly glanced at him. The motion was quick, barely there, but Bucky caught it.

He caught all of it.

His tongue flicked against his lower lip, slow, measured.

“Yeah,” he finally murmured, voice still hushed, and rough around the edges.

That should have been the end of it. She should have nodded, maybe said something about how it made sense, how he was good at what he did, then gone back to whatever excuse she had for still standing there.

But she didn’t.

Instead, her fingers flexed against her arm again, her weight shifting like she was debating something before finally nodding toward his sketchbook.

“This one’s…” she started, “not what I expected.”

Bucky’s brow twitched, his fingers tightening just slightly where they rested against his book.

She was still looking.

Still filling the silence.

Bucky dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. Her focus flickered between the sketchbook and his arms, like she was trying to settle on one or the other but couldn’t quite manage to stick the landing.

Instead of calling attention to it, Bucky let the silence stretch, watching the way she fidgeted slightly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Not nervous—just… preoccupied.

Her eyes flickered to the sketchbook again, as if reminding herself why she was standing there in the first place. “It’s just different from what I thought you’d draw.” Her voice was even, casual, but the way she kept her arms crossed tightly over her chest gave away that she wasn’t as relaxed as she sounded.

Bucky tapped his pen lightly against the edge of the book, watching her through half-lidded eyes. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her gaze darting across the page. “I guess I figured it’d be more like…” She hesitated, searching for the right word… before her eyes drifted again not toward the sketch, but to him. 

“You know,” her gaze traced the length of his fingers where they rested against the edge of the sketchbook, absentmindedly running his fingers against the edges of the paper. 

“Like the kind that…” her eyes then traced higher, following the veins that cut sharply along his forearm, disappearing beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. The intricate lines of his tattoos stretched over the muscle, shifting subtly with every small movement. 

“That…?” Bucky tucked his lower lip between his teeth, trying to hid his enjoyment in whatever was happening in front of him. 

Her attention lingered on his bicep a sec, then trailed upward again, sweeping over the broad plane of his chest, the way the fabric of his shirt stretched tight over it, dipping just slightly at the collar to reveal the edge of what seemed like the same tattoo.

Her lips parted slightly, eyes flitting up—finally—to meet his.

Bucky was still watching her.

She immediately cleared her throat, and stood straigh shifting her weight.

“I-I’m sorry it’s been a long day, I think I’m losing my train of thought.” 

Bucky didn’t miss the way her arms tightened against her chest, the huff of air she let out blowing a few stray strands of loose hair from her face. He watched, eyes tracking every small movement, as she reached up to push the hair back behind her ear, her fingers brushing lightly against her cheek.

Then she took a step back.

His gaze followed her as she leaned against the edge of the metal dresser behind her, shifting slightly until she was fully braced against it.

And then—

His jaw ticked.

He didn’t mean to look.

Didn’t mean to notice the way the hem of her jeans hugged the soft curve of her thighs, how the fabric subtly creased and pulled as she shifted her weight back against the dresser. It was brief—just a flicker of movement—but Bucky felt something twist in his chest.

His grip on the pen tightened, fingers flexing against the smooth barrel, accidentally leaving a violent mark across the page.

His brain felt like it stalled for half a second, before jolting back into motion, forcing him to drag his eyes away.

He shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders like it would shake off whatever strange pull had settled over him. The shop was too quiet, the air thick with something unspoken, and Bucky suddenly hated how aware he was of everything—the faint scent of sugar and vanilla clinging to her skin, the soft hum of her breathing, the way she had caught her bottom lip between her teeth for half a second before releasing it.

He needed to say something. Needed to break whatever this was.

“You figured what?” he asked, his voice coming out lower than he intended.

Her brows lifted slightly, like she had forgotten what they were talking about. “Huh?”

Bucky tapped his pen against the edge of the sketchbook. “You said you figured I’d draw something different.”

“Oh. Right.” She let out a quiet breath, eyes flicking back to the page—though her posture was a little stiffer now, like she had caught onto the shift in atmosphere. “I just meant… I guess I thought your style would be more bold. Darker, maybe.”

Bucky hummed, his grip relaxing just slightly on the pen. “Most of the time, it is.”

She tilted her head, considering that. “So what made you change?”

He hesitated, the pen stilling against the paper.

For a second, he thought about lying—thought about brushing it off as nothing, as a mindless sketch, as something without weight.

But the raspberries stared back at him, delicate and vivid, surrounded by the sharp twist of thorns.

“Dunno,” he murmured finally, voice quiet, unreadable. “Just happened.”

She hesitated just a moment longer, adjusting the strap of her bag again, fingers gripping it as if she needed something to ground herself. “Artists,” she finally said, the word a soft exhale, laced with something almost amused, almost fond.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to her hands, to the way she flexed her fingers against the strap, before dragging his eyes back to her face. He didn’t say anything, just watched as she shifted, as she took the first slow step toward the door.

“It’s getting late. I should go.”

Something about the way she said it made something in Bucky’s chest press tight—like it was the natural conclusion, the only logical ending to whatever this had been.

Still, before he could stop himself, before he could think about it, he was standing.

She noticed immediately.

He moved without hesitation—quicker, smoother—and as he straightened to his full height, the shift in his posture made her steps falter just slightly. Her head tilted up, her brows twitching in the faintest flicker of surprise.

His fingers flexed briefly, then curled into his palm.

"Um…" He cleared his throat, fidgeting just slightly. "Sh—should I take you home?"

Her breath caught, just a fraction. Her fingers twitched against the zipper of her sweater.

Bucky felt the words sit heavy in the air between them, waiting.

She blinked at him, like she wasn’t sure if she’d heard him correctly.

He forced himself to hold her gaze, suddenly wondering what had even prompted him to ask. The words had left his mouth before he’d fully thought them through, hanging between them, heavy and uncertain.

“I got my bike out back,” he added, quieter, as if that somehow explained everything.

She stared at him for half a second longer, her expression unreadable. For a fleeting moment, Bucky thought she might actually say yes.

But then her lips parted, and a dry, almost amused lilt colored her voice.

“Your bike?”

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, nodding once. “Yeah.”

Her fingers flexed again, then curled into her palm. “And you think I’m just gonna get on the back of it?”

His brow twitched, but he stayed still. “Why not?”

She held his gaze, something flickering behind her eyes before she let out a slow breath. “That’s not a good idea.”

Bucky’s fingers curled slightly at his sides. “Why not?”

Her lips parted like she had an answer, but whatever it was never made it past her tongue. Instead, she just exhaled again, her grip tightening around the strap of her bag. “It just isn’t.”

His jaw shifted, considering her for a moment, before he gave a slow, almost reluctant nod. “Alright.”

Something in her posture eased, but only just.

Still, neither of them moved.

“Really,” he opened the door for her, stepping halfway through, his frame filling the doorway. “It’s not an issue.”

“No, really–”

She moved, and suddenly, they were in the doorway, the narrow space between them forcing them chest to chest. Closer than either of them had prepared for. The narrow space between them barely existed, her breath catching as she realized just how little room there was to step past him.

“Oh, Um..” Her voice coming out rushed. “Sorry i didn’t mean… I wasn’t—” and then as if second nature, her hand lifted. Maybe to steady herself, maybe for something else. But the moment her fingers grazed the fabric of his shirt, just barely, she froze.

Bucky did too.

“Paying attention…” She drawled out, staring at the stretched fabric over his chest. The touch of her hand was fleeting, but it sent something sharp through the space between them, something tense, something neither of them knew how to speak on.

She pulled her hand away quickly, like she’d been burned, like she hadn’t meant to do it at all.

“U-um—thank you,” she murmured, quieter this time, a little breathless, a little uncertain as she cradled the hand that touched him to her chest. Like she had been hurt. She stepped fully through the doorway. 

Bucky’s eyes flickered down, watching the way her fingers curled slightly against her palm. Something about it made his chest tighten, made his jaw flex, but he didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

Not until she did.

“Maybe next time," she murmured, "Goodnight, Bucky.” She smiled at him softly before turning in the opposite direction, and heading back towards her store. 

Maybe next time.

Bucky’s fingers flexed at his sides, his pulse thrumming in a slow, steady beat against his ribs. He didn’t know why he was still standing there, watching her walk away, or why the sound of his name on her lips sent something sharp and unfamiliar through him.

His throat worked around the weight of whatever the hell this was.

He could have said goodnight. Could have given her a nod, a grunt—something easy, something that wouldn’t feel like stepping into whatever was settling between them, thick and unspoken. Instead, he just watched as she disappeared over the bend of the sidewalk.

The door groaned softly as it swung back into place, the brass bell giving one last muted chime.

Bucky stood there for a moment longer than he should have.

Then, with a slow exhale, he reached for the lock, twisting it into place before dragging a hand threw his hair and around his jaw.

His other hand tugged at the fabric of his shirt, the ghost of something warm against his chest making the material feel too tight all of a sudden. Like it had shrunk in the last thirty seconds.

Bucky rolled his shoulders, flexed his arms stretching them down his sides, but it didn’t shake the feeling.

With a quiet sigh, he turned back toward his station, eyes drifting over the scattered pages, the open sketchbook. The raspberries stared back at him, vivid and red, surrounded by sharp, curling thorns.

Bucky dragged his tongue over his molars, then reached for his pen, twirling it once between his fingers before setting it down.

He should go home.

He would.

Eventually.

But for now, he sat back down, flipping to a fresh page.

And, without thinking, he started to draw.

—

a/n: again thank you so much for your patience w/ this chapter huhuhu~ please reblog to support! I also love feedback, and comments :)

Literally your comments are hilarious

taglist (lmk if you want to be added!) : @cheezemanz @shirukitsune @miharuwrites @multifandomkid @violetpassionfruit @sapphirebarnes @grilledcheesewithjalapeno @angelbabyyy99 @theendofmaterialgworl @venuslovey @blackhawkfanatic @lazyneonrabbitt @singsosworld @danzer8705 @xamapolax @otterlycanadian @that1geek06

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Hi!! Your Cherik is so good and gorgeous 🤩🤩 If you don't mind wanna try to draw some Fall of X Cherik please?

thank you so much !!

i have a couple of ideas relating to the fall of x period specifically since theres. A Lot i wanna play with, so i hope this lil thing may be a satisfactory start :]]

and the obligatory bonus:

[startagainaprologue]

thought abt the idea of sasasap bonnie looping yet again and got upset

[themyscirah]

Reading shit comics kind of sucks but at least I get the satisfaction of proving my own point w this

[turnedpalefromlackofsun]

I cant show the whole thing cuz yeah

I think I drew this last year

It's not the most disproportionate thing I've drawn. I can and will draw worse

Its pretty bad I kinda agree with the "ew" part

[vampmilf]

hold on im still too mad at this one fucking guest to take a nap i need to be a hater for a minute

[pup-pee]

my father telling me how scared he was when i ran away from the house but i cant express how scared i was 2 b in the house

hey, whats up w/that?

[xycuro-illuminati]

See with Zdarsky's run it was so unbearable and awful and sucked ass but there were other dd runs going on like Daredevil & Echo. Not only that, Ahmed is trying his best to work with this shit with the fault legit being having to continue off of zdarsky, boring, and the cane depiction. I was v close to just dropping dd but I'm willing to give the new run a chance. I have a stronger attachment to dd and it's characters other than matt so maybe that's why but I was close to going full dc and dmc. Plus Zdarsky's run (at least on tumblr) had a majority poor reception anyway. I'm down to ignore it and move on.

Mckay with Moon Knight?? Absolutely not. The mk system is DEAD (as far as we know) and now it's just continuing off while also grabbing niche hero characters and writing them in xenophobic and ableist ways. Reading a few panels alone has me so uninterested esp when I mostly enjoyed the original mk comics. MK was a second fav but now I'm just dropping it completely and not looking forward to read another run again nor engage in any mk media. It's just a headache to think about at this point.

[ashmp3]

and by the way this was last nail in my coffin but they closed my gym. the one i have been going to for a decade yes i am so not okay

[rubiesintherough]

.

[unoisveimved-un-proffesional]

Smile Bomb

[sonknuxadow]

I'm not too big a Sonknux shipper (I don't really ship anyone with Sonic full stop) but for the sheer amount of Sonadow and rabid Sonadow shippers that popped up, I'm half tempted to create a 2:30 hour long Sonknux cinematic animation out of spite. It would be a quirky romcom with musical scenes which starts with Knuckles first meeting Sonic and ending with them kissing in front of the Master Emerald at their wedding.

i dont really have a problem with sonadow necessarily or people making jokes about them being gay in the new episode, i also went "🏳️‍🌈?" a few times while watching it. im mostly just annoyed that its everywhere at all times and so many people seem to have sonadow as their number one priority always and dont care about anything else.. like if you search sonic prime on here its just sonadow sonadow sonadow with not nearly as many posts about what actually happens in the episode or theorizing about what might happen next or even discussing sonic and shadows interactions beyond just going "omg sonadow!"... like is that really all you guys took from it? you dont care about anything else? just shipping? ok...

[gayspock]

i havent been to the gym since i moved out & i wanna get active again but fr -_- i feel like everything is too much faff, too expensive or something that will bore me to tearssssss