#patched petal

[majimasleftasscheek]

patch art finished 🙏

[voiddesigns-wc]

I drew these a few months back and forgot to post them! Only remembered them when the shyheart ask popped up.

[itsamepatches]

"Today was a special day to watch the blooming of cherry blossoms, but things were slowly going downhill with an unusual breed of flowers bursting in place of the anticipated cherry blossoms - and these flowers aren't friendly to anypony; in fact, they infect ponies! This is definitely a Ponyville Petal Pandemic..."

Oh boy, I'm finally drawing ponies and baby dragons (can you tell I've never drawn them before?)

The stages of the (currently) unnamed "petal infection" will be posted in a separate post at a later date :B

Under the cut, I'll share some info about this infection AU of mine:

The mane six (6) are immune, thanks to the Elements of Harmony - Spike is also immune

The group is split into two: Twilight, Spike, Rainbow Dash, and Pinkie Pie -- Applejack, Rarity, and Fluttershy. The reason they're split into mentioned groups isn't random, but rather how much (or how little) luck the characters have in most other infection au(s).

There are 2 different outcomes: Ending 1) happy (a cure is found; however, folks are/will be infected but won't die) Ending 2) bittersweet (a cure is found but there are deaths)

Discord's illness is related to the flowers

[swordmaid]

i love having ocs wdym my own brain is thinking up of scenarios thats leaving me feeling deranged with the context that only i know about

[lillesfavouritecubes]

I am absolutely in love with Cleo's Pogt in the Post office, so I had to have one for my me. Cross stitch style!

[yappacadaver]

i should get back into streaming dragon age x1000

[thatsadguymochi]

A pretty neat daffodil growing in my grandma's yard :D

[aphrodite-made-me-write-it]

R u still writing?

yes, sorry to say it's slow and not for imagines though

i might come back to here one day, idk, it's a nice writing exercise

at the moment, though, i'm writing one (erm, three) long ass bishova au, but i do have plenty of authors to recommend if u wouldl ike some!

i do enjoy refreshing y'all on who's somehwat active on the kate/yelena x reader tag, just to keep 'em alive and to encourage authors to keep writing

[thepaleowl]

@patchwork-crow-writes Dunno if you already saw this, but this kicks... for me, at least!

Happy Ace Week!!! 🖤🤍💜

[craftystampin]

Stampin Scoop Storybook Moments Suite Episode 176

*** I apologize if you are receiving this post as an email for a second time.  My blog crashed on Saturday morning and needed to be rebuilt. When it was rebuilt from back-ups, this post & the post about the Scrapbooking Haul were missing so I am recreating them  😜.  I have no ability to have a post NOT forward an email.  Again I apologize for any inconvenience. Stampin Scoop Storybook Moments…

[the-most-humble-blog]

Taint Misbehavin’: The Gender-Neutral Tragedy of the Human Gooch

You’ve been lied to your entire life.

Not about taxes. Not about calories. Not even about the clitoris.

No — I’m talking about the taint.

That glorious, forgotten slab of flesh. That unclaimed demilitarized zone between the promised land and the chocolate factory. That thin, sweaty strip separating birth from exile.

Let’s set the record straight:

Women. Have. Taints.

And the fact that society pretends otherwise is the greatest act of anatomical erasure since we collectively agreed that “muffin top” was a nice term.

🧠 What Is a Taint?

Also known as:

The perineum (if you’re a doctor)

The gooch (if you’ve owned a PS2 and body odor)

The grundle (if you’ve ever dated a drummer)

The Devil’s Slip-N-Slide (if your festival record is sealed)

Technically: “The perineum is the area between the genitals and the anus.”

But spiritually?

It’s the unspoken pause in God’s sentence. The hallway between the temple and the abyss. The place where gender, shame, and chafing meet.

🔍 Who Gets One?

Let me be clear:

Whether you’re packing heat or holding space, Slanging meat or curating petals, Carrying a baby cannon or a soft serve dispenser—

You. Have. A. Taint.

And if you’ve gone your entire life without realizing that, Congrats: society’s gendered body-shame campaign worked.

😤 But Isn’t “Taint” a Male Word?

Historically? Sure.

“Taint” was born in locker rooms. Raised by Xbox parties. Educated in Reddit threads. And baptized in the sweat of men who didn’t understand the purpose of a washcloth.

It was linguistically colonized by testosterone.

But anatomically?

It was always co-ed.

🚺 The Untold History of the Female Taint

You think the patriarchy invented oppression?

No. The real villain is linguistic erasure.

Because while men gave their taints nicknames, stories, and occasional bar soap— Women got radio silence.

Your undercarriage has been:

Ignored

Unlabeled

Uncelebrated

Unclaimed

You’ve spent years exfoliating your thighs and waxing your peach… …but no one told you there’s a full-blown diplomatic zone beneath it.

A biological Bermuda Triangle. A tactile twilight zone.

Your taint.

📉 Let’s Break Down the Cultural Bias

Body Part Coverage:

Boobs – Over-celebrated

Butts – Literally worshiped

Clitoris – Found in 1998

Labia – Misunderstood poetry

Taint – Ghosted

Why?

Because it’s funny. And neutral. And sweaty.

You can’t put the taint in a perfume ad. You can’t put it on a billboard.

So they buried it.

💀 What Makes the Taint Powerful?

Because it’s:

Genderless

Timeless

Politically neutral

Sensually charged

Biologically disrespected

It’s the only body part that:

Isn’t sexualized

Isn’t sacred

Isn’t politicized

Isn’t aestheticized

Isn’t protected

It just is.

Unbothered. Unbranded. Unapologetically indifferent.

And that makes it sacred.

📚 Linguistic Justice: Let’s Rename It Properly

Unisex taint aliases, rebranded for the equality era:

The Fleshbridge

The Forbidden Fajita™

Undercooch

The Sin Tundra

Devil’s Hallway

The Emotionless Alley

The Oathbreaker’s Strip

The Nether Yawn

Purgatory Patch

The Biblical Buffer Zone™

Choose your fighter. Reclaim your stripe. We’re not asking anymore.

🧼 Taint Hygiene: No Gender Exemptions

Let’s get raw.

Your taint:

Sweats like a liar in court

Collects funk like it’s in a blues band

Suffocates in yoga pants

Smells like the ghost of mistakes past if ignored too long

Male or female — it don’t matter.

Your taint will betray you unless:

You lather.

You exfoliate.

You show it the respect you pretend to give your “self-care routine.”

The taint is the final frontier of bodily respect.

Ignore it, and it will out you in summer.

🧪 The Psychological Impact of Owning Your Gooch

Let me be dead serious.

When you finally accept your taint:

Your shame collapses

Your ego softens

Your sex becomes better

Your humor becomes darker

Your subconscious literally trusts you more

Women who accept their taint become dangerous. Not because they’re wild — but because they’re free.

💥 The Taint Test: Feminist Edition

Ask your friend with the “Divine Feminine Energy” tattoo:

“Do women have a taint?”

“Can I call mine a gooch and still be empowered?”

“If you ignore your perineum, are you really body positive?”

Watch her hesitate. Watch her blink. Watch her glitch.

Because the truth is hilarious. And hilarity burns the shame right out of you.

🧘‍♀️ If You’re a Woman Reading This…

You now have no excuse.

That strip of skin between the peach and the abyss? That subtle runway between entrance and exit?

That’s your taint.

And it deserves:

A name

A scrub

A shrine

A Wikipedia page

You don’t need to gender it. You just need to own it.

🤯 TL;DR

The taint is real

The taint is universal

Women have taints

The patriarchy ignored it

But your loofah doesn’t have to

This isn’t just anatomy. It’s resistance.

💣 CALL TO ACTION

🔁 Reblog this before someone calls it “cisnormative perineum propaganda” 🧽 Send to the friend who forgot to wash hers today 🍑 Share if you’ve ever worn tight leggings with no idea what’s happening underneath 🫧 Save this if your taint is a neglected spiritual quest waiting to happen

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

This post is satire, anatomy education, performance art, cultural rebranding, locker room theology, and biological diplomacy.

It is protected by the U.S. Constitution, the Geneva Convention of Postmodern Memes, and the sacred covenant of shower-based self-respect.

If you’re offended: Wash deeper. Laugh louder. Reclaim your gooch.

Because if you can’t name it — the patriarchy still owns it.

And that is the real tragedy.

[trauma-trove]

🐅: If it turns out to not be as bad as I expected it to be, I'll feel ridiculous.

🌸: You have a right to be ridiculous. The way they're treating you is ridiculous. You're allowed to be upset.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

could you do alex albon’s 4 year old daughter getting lost in the paddock and having everyone panicking trying to find her?

Little Explorer

The Suzuka sun was already peeking over the horizon when Alex arrived at the paddock, his hand securely holding that of his four-year-old daughter, Yn. Her little pink cap was nearly too big for her head, threatening to slip down over her eyes every time she looked up at her dad. She wore a tiny Williams team shirt, complete with her name embroidered above the heart, and her backpack bounced with every excited step she took.

"Papa, is this where the race cars sleep?" Yn asked, eyes wide as she gazed around the bustling paddock.

Alex chuckled, crouching down to her level. "Not exactly, sweet pea. But it's where they get ready. Like a pit stop bedroom."

She giggled. “Do they have pillows?”

“If they do, they probably smell like engine oil.”

Yn made a face, scrunching her little nose, and Alex laughed. He stood up just in time to see Carlos approach them from across the garage.

"Good morning!" Carlos greeted with a big smile. He bent down slightly, holding out a fist for Yn, who bumped it without hesitation.

"Hola, Carlitos!" she chirped, her eyes sparkling.

"Already using the nickname, huh?" Alex grinned.

"She’s got good taste," Carlos teased. "How are you, princesa?"

“I saw a big tire! It was taller than me!” Yn said, stretching her arms to demonstrate the size.

Carlos gasped dramatically. “Wow! Did you try to lift it?”

“I did! But it was super heavy.”

“Well, we’ll work on your muscles later, okay?” Carlos winked at her, and Yn nodded very seriously.

Alex watched the exchange with a soft smile. It always warmed him how easily Carlos got along with his daughter. Though they kept Yn out of the spotlight, she had a way of making herself at home wherever she went.

"Hey," Carlos said quietly to Alex, "we have that strategy meeting in ten minutes."

Alex sighed. "Right. I almost forgot."

Carlos gestured toward a young Williams intern who was standing nearby. "She’ll be in good hands. We’ll be back before she can finish her juice box."

"Okay, sweetie," Alex crouched down to talk to Yn, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I need to go talk about grown-up stuff with Uncle Carlos. Can you be a good girl and hang out here with Miss Sophie for a little bit?"

Yn nodded solemnly. “I’ll be the best girl.”

“That’s my girl.” He kissed her forehead before standing up, exchanging one last glance with the intern. “Thank you. We'll be quick.”

With that, he and Carlos disappeared into the meeting room, leaving Sophie to keep an eye on Yn, who had now sat on a small bench, swinging her legs and sipping from her juice pouch.

But it only took a moment.

One glance away to check a message on her phone.

And when Sophie looked up again—Yn was gone.

Yn wandered along the paddock path, her eyes filled with wonder at the noise, the smells, the shimmer of the mechanics' uniforms and the laughter echoing from various corners. She clutched her little cap in one hand as she meandered away, drawn by the colorful banners and a sudden patch of green at the far end.

Flowers.

Tucked beside a hospitality suite, a narrow planter overflowed with bright blossoms—petunias, daisies, and tiny pink and white buds.

Yn gasped. “Whoa!”

She skipped over and crouched next to the flowers, reaching out to gently touch a petal. She giggled as a bee buzzed past her, and that’s when she noticed a man watering the plants.

Fernando.

He was pouring water over the soil with a plastic jug, humming to himself. He blinked when he noticed the tiny figure crouched beside him.

“Well, hello there,” he said in surprise, straightening up. “Where did you come from?”

Yn smiled up at him, not afraid at all. “Hi! I like flowers.”

“Do you?” he smiled warmly, crouching beside her. “These are petunias. They’re thirsty today.”

“I like that one!” she pointed to a pink one. “It looks like my blanket at home.”

“That’s a very good choice. Petunias are very friendly flowers.”

Yn tilted her head. “Do flowers talk?”

Fernando chuckled. “Only if you listen really carefully.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do they say?”

“They say, ‘thank you for the water, kind girl!’”

Yn burst into a giggle fit. “That’s silly!”

He smiled. “Not as silly as finding a flower princess all alone in the paddock. Where’s your papa?”

“My papa is with Carlitos. He’s talking about grown-up stuff.”

Fernando’s brow furrowed slightly. “And what’s your papa’s name?”

“Alex!”

That made Fernando’s eyes widen. “You’re Alex’s little girl?”

“Uh-huh! And George is my goddaddy.”

Fernando let out a low whistle. “You’re F1 royalty then. Come on, let’s get you back to your garage before everyone starts looking under the race cars for you.”

She reached for his hand, trusting and joyful. “Okay! But can we say bye to the flowers?”

He smiled softly. “Of course.”

Back in the Williams garage, chaos was brewing.

“She’s not here?” Alex’s voice cracked, already halfway through panic. “How is she not here?!”

Sophie looked like she was about to cry. “I—I just looked away for a second—I swear—”

Carlos rubbed a hand down his face. “She couldn’t have gone far. Let’s split up.”

George had already heard the commotion and appeared at Alex’s side. “You lost Yn?” he asked, voice tight with concern.

Alex could barely breathe. “I should’ve never left her. What was I thinking?”

“Alex,” George said firmly. “We’ll find her. Let’s go.”

Within minutes, it felt like the whole paddock was mobilized. Charles jogged off toward the hospitality area, Max checked around the back of the garages, even media members paused to ask what was happening. Word spread fast when it came to the drivers' kids.

Then—Alex heard a familiar laugh.

His head snapped toward the far end of the paddock, where a small figure in a Williams shirt was skipping along beside Fernando.

“Yn!” he called out, his voice trembling.

She looked up and grinned. “PAPA!”

Alex ran to her, scooping her into his arms and holding her close, her tiny arms wrapping tightly around his neck.

“I was so scared,” he whispered into her hair. “Don’t ever wander off like that again, baby. Please.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I just wanted to see the flowers.”

He pulled back enough to kiss her cheeks, again and again. “You scared me to death.”

“She was perfectly fine,” Fernando said gently. “We were talking about petals and bees.”

Alex looked at him with teary eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Fernando raised his hands. “She’s a lovely little girl. Very brave. Very curious. Just like someone I know.”

Alex turned to Yn. “From now on, flowers only when I’m with you, okay?”

“Okay, Papa,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. “But can I say bye to Fernandito next time too?”

Fernando laughed. “Any time, little flower princess.”

Alex held her tight, grateful beyond words as the panic finally ebbed from his chest.

And for the rest of the weekend, Yn stayed by her papa’s side—though she did convince him to visit the flower patch together before they left Suzuka.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

Also, thank you for 1K followers. You guys are the best. 🥰😘

-🩷🎀

[mr-electr1c]

stages of the skitten

(some notes under the cut)

week 1

- just an 'itty', according to experts

- blind, deaf, and immobile; some can roll

- tail is just a nub

week 2

- eyes and ears open

- can crawl

- starting to mew

week 3

- strong enough to toddle and get lost

- whiskers are visible

- may become more vocal

week 4

- should be walking steadily

- ready to play and cause mischief

- tail tuft has finished growing

- last stage to be considered 'itty'

week 5

- can eat wet food

- slimmer part of tail is developing along with fronds

- whiskers have grown 'petals' at ends

- should exhibit all lv1 moves by now

- has discovered full vocal range

week 6

- tail grows longer, tuft shows longer fronds and petals start to show

- purple patches should start showing up on back

week 7

- fully grown physically

- will start 'filling out' slightly

- tail has reached full length

- tuff base has turned purple

[puck-luck]

jack hughes comes back from a long roadie and his gf (of only like a few months) is all over him, wearing his jersey on top of some lingerie, and just saying the dirtiest most filthy shit because she missed him so much and needs him immediately, and he is like in a state of shock (the good kind) bc he’s never really seen her like this before and it turns into like the hottest sex they’ve ever had ☝🏻

(this is my last one!! sorry, i am not a dawson mercer girly so i don’t really have any ideas for him, hopefully some other nons can pick up the DM slack for me 🫶🏻)

in memoriam of one of the original asks cappy sent me in a spree last april🥹 see, guys, i get to everything eventually...

warnings: unprotected p in v, **mentions of jack's shoulder injury**, mentions of handjobs, mentions of blowjobs, mentions of thigh riding, mentions of overstimulation, fingering, switch!jack and switch!reader (they do both! in this one, jack is... leaning more dom, but he's not like a DOM!dom), praise, mentions of pain play, squirting, that's all i remember. doing this from memory is hard!

pairing: jack hughes x fem!reader

wc: 3,995

The finishing touch for Jack’s big welcome home party– just you, since Luke and the rest of the team are on the road at the moment– is the vase of flowers in your hand. You can’t decide where exactly to put it.

You put the vase together on Jack’s kitchen counter. You cut the stems into his pull-out trashcan near the dishwasher and filled the vase with lukewarm water from his sink. You sprinkled some of that nutrient packet into the water, the packet that came with the flowers, even though you’re not sure if you used the right amount or if that’s what you were supposed to do anyway. You’re not a florist. You just wanted to do something nice for your boyfriend.

Your heart damn near stopped after he crashed into the boards in that game against Vegas. To see Jack’s opponent– and friend, since you’d met the other Jack at 4 Nations when they were on Team USA together– crouched over him and checking on him, making sure he was okay… it made you feel sick to your stomach. Obviously, he wasn’t okay.

And then he went to get surgery almost immediately. He went to Colorado, got patched up, and went back to Michigan for a couple of weeks to get his initial rehab and recovery out of the way with his old Team USA trainers and his parents closeby. 

You’d felt so useless when it happened. You and Jack only started dating a couple of months ago, right around the new year, and you had no idea how to help him with this injury. You have no idea what he needs now that he’s coming back.

So, you’re trying to make the apartment pretty for him.

You’ve strung up a banner in the living room, above the door of the balcony, which says “Welcome Home, Jack!” in big bubble letters. You painted it yourself last weekend, when he’d texted that he’d be coming home soon, and you’d artfully hidden your mistakes by turning the banner over and starting again. You hope that Jack doesn’t observe the back when he takes it down. You never claimed to be an artist, but it’s still embarrassing to be so bad at spacing out letters when you used a ruler and everything.

There are balloons in the corner and tied to Jack’s seat at the table. You’re wearing a party hat and you bought him a paper crown to wear when he arrives. 

The only question that remains is where to put these damn flowers. 

You want him to see them when he walks in, so you can’t put them on the kitchen counter, or the dining room table, or in his bedroom. You could put them on the table they have next to the door, where the guys put their keys and throw their coats, but Jack would knock them over with said coat or he’d throw his keys into them by accident and lose them forever among the petals. They’ll have to go on the coffee table near the couch, but even that seems imperfect.

When Jack tells you that he just made it to his building, not knowing that you’re upstairs waiting for him, you decide that the coffee table will have to do.

There’s one last thing to do before he walks in the door. Like you said, you and Jack have only been dating for a couple of months. You’d finally worked up the courage to wear his number to the two home games before his injury. At the first, you’d worn a little beaded bracelet with the number ‘86’ squeezed between a bunch of red, white, and black beads. At the second, you’d worn a jean jacket with an ‘8’ and a ‘6’ ironed onto the breast-pocket of the jacket, done by one of your more fabrically talented friends at your request. Jack had quirked a smile at both, but planted a kiss on your cheek after the jean jacket and murmured something about how you’d have to wear his jersey and cheer him on while he’s on the road. 

That was the plan, until he’d gotten injured. You hope that it doesn’t add insult to injury– no pun intended– to wear it now. After all, you’re still Jack’s biggest cheerleader. Now, you’re just… cheering him through his recovery instead. 

You tug off Jack’s big sweatshirt, which you totally hadn’t stolen when you’d been missing him after he’d left for Colorado, and toss it into the corner of his closet. He’s got a few random jerseys in here, which shouldn’t surprise you, even though you thought that the jerseys stayed at the rink. Aren’t they part of the equipment? Or does every player get to have a couple of jerseys to do with what they wish?

You choose his classic red, pulling it over your head. The sleeves reach your fingertips and the length falls past your hips. It’s a big garment. That makes sense, you guess, since they have to wear pads and stuff underneath it. It covers the pretty panties you’d chosen to wear for Jack in case he felt up for sex– when is he not, to be fair– and the matching bra that pushes your tits up and shows them off. You’ve also splurged on a pair of sheer, black stockings that only come up to your mid-thigh. There’s lace trim that accentuates the hem of the stockings and you tug it up to make sure they don’t slide down. You want them to be securely in place when Jack finds you in the apartment. 

You look at yourself in the mirror. The stockings are coquette in a vixen-like, sirenous way. There’s a sliver of your skin visible between the lace of the stockings and the hem of Jack’s jersey. You look dwarved in it and you know that Jack will like that. He’s got a thing for throwing you around and showing off how strong his training makes him. Unfortunately, he’s got that pesky shoulder injury, so he won’t be doing much of that anymore– not for a while. Your hair is messy from brushing it out of your face as you decorated the apartment, then eventually tying it up as best you could. Some strands escaped and the elastic you used is old and loose, but your hair looks effortlessly good. This is a hairstyle that you’ll never be able to recreate because it’s so messy and haphazard. You’re about to whip your phone out to take a picture when you hear the front door swing open and a suitcase roll into the atrium ahead of Jack. 

You hear his confused “What the–” and the two tentative steps he takes into the apartment before you grab the paper crown from atop your bag, exit the bedroom, and reveal yourself.

“Welcome home!” you exclaim, skipping forward towards Jack. 

His eyes light up when he sees you, which takes away from the sting of sympathy that nips at your heart when you see his slinged arm. He opens his other arm and wraps it around your waist once you’re close enough, pulling you into his body and pressing a kiss to your hair. “Baby,” Jack says, grin dancing across his face. “Did you do all this?”

You pull back and place the flimsy crown on his head. It falls crooked almost immediately, so you have to fix it again. You’re surprised Jack’s hair wasn’t already hidden beneath a hat of some kind after such a long day of travel. “Mhm,” you confirm. “Wanted to do something nice so you didn’t come home to an empty apartment.”

Jack leans forward and pecks your lips, his available hand splayed over the small of your back. He presses your torsos together. “You’re so thoughtful. I missed you.”

“I missed you more,” you chirp back. It’s still early in the relationship. You’re allowed to do the “I missed you more, I missed you most” bit without feeling like it’s too middle-school. 

Jack finds it silly, but in a fond way, so he rarely ever completes the superlative. He just cuts his eyes at you, then rolls them in faux-exasperation. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Whatever you say.” He loosens his grip around your waist. “Let me get a good look at you. Are you wearing my jersey?”

You step back and pop your hip, posing for Jack. “What do you think?”

“I think you wear it better than I do,” Jack replies. His mouth is crooked as he smirks at you. “The socks are a nice touch. You couldn’t find any tube ones to match mine? The ones that go over my leg pads?”

He’s just teasing, but you frown. That would’ve been fun. You could’ve basically worn his uniform, but a sexier version. “Boo,” you lament with a pout.

Jack tips his head back and laughs. “I’m messing with you, pretty girl. I love it. You know I’m going to have to take it off of you, right? It’s been too long since I’ve gotten my hands on you.”

“Don’t you mean ‘hand,’ singular?” you tease, narrowing your eyes at Jack. “You can’t use both your hands. You have to wear that sling.”

“I can take the sling off for twenty minutes,” Jack replies. When you make a face at him, he raises an eyebrow. He bargains, “I’ll put it back on right after.”

You sidle up close to him, tracing the velcro straps and the long belt that wraps around his neck. “What if I want you to keep it on?” you ask.

Jack smirks at you, eyes glimmering with playfulness. “Then I’d ask if you like seeing me in pain, sweetheart.”

“Seeing you in pain?” you repeat, making your eyes wide and innocent. You ignore the way your heartbeat speeds up as an image of Jack, squirming and whining and overstimulated but bucking his hips into your tight fist, pops into your brain. “I would never enjoy that.”

“Hm.” Jack looks over your face thoughtfully. He wraps his arm around your body again, placing his hand on your asscheek and squeezing before he prompts you. “Jump, baby.”

You wrap your arms around his neck for leverage. “You think you can carry me with one arm?”

“I know I can,” Jack insists, lifting you off the ground with his forearm pressed to the back of your thighs, then holds your behind again once you twine your legs around his waist. “I lift.”

His defensive tone has you laughing and kissing him, distracting him, as he walks down the hallway towards the bedroom. He kisses you back just as passionately, tracing his tongue against yours and nibbling on your lips when you pull back just enough. He pushes the door open with your back, then abruptly tosses you onto the bed.

You shriek and giggle when you fall through the air and land with a bounce, scoffing at Jack with an open mouth. “Oh my God!”

Jack laughs and sticks his tongue out at you, tugging at the straps of his sling until it’s loose enough to slip from his body. He carefully flexes his arm and gets the blood pumping through it again, tugging off his shirt and fumbling with his zipper. 

You lean back on your elbows and spread your legs, knees hooked over the edge of the bed. Jack’s jersey has ridden up, revealing the crotch of your panties but nothing more. 

Jack eyes you with his teeth digging into his bottom lip, shoving his pants and boxers down, leaving him bare before you. 

Your eyes almost immediately grow hooded, fixed on his cock. Jack makes it jump in place, grinning at you when your gaze comes up to his face. You smile back and spread your knees an extra inch, nodding at Jack. 

He takes his cock and fists the base, walking between your legs as he strokes himself slowly. He then drops to his knees and kisses the inside of your thigh, his free palm coming to your stocking-clad shins and tracing up the fabric until he reaches the lace around your thigh. Jack digs his fingers into the lace and begins to drag it down your legs. He kisses each inch of new skin that is revealed, gently removing the stocking before kissing back up your leg and repeating the process on the other side.

Your core has started aching with want, slick probably seeping through your panties. If Jack can tell, he ignores it. 

His movements are slow and measured, reverent. He treats you gently and takes his time with you, like you’re the one who’s injured and in pain. 

You whimper for Jack as his lips pass your knee on the way back up.

His eyes lift and regard you. His lips pause for just a second before he continues his path. His hands slide up your sides, under the jersey, and he pushes it up. His mouth creeps over your stomach and his head hides itself under the dangling fabric of the jersey. Jack is now crouching rather than kneeling, and you scoot back on the bed so he has a more comfortable position. He places a knee on the edge of the bed and inches up your body, still kissing, and finally removes the jersey.

“Can’t wait for you to wear that while I’m actually playing,” Jack tells you quietly before he tosses it away. His fingers tease your entrance, tracing it through your panties. “It’ll inspire me. Remind me of this night.”

“I will,” you promise breathlessly, your hands tracing up Jack’s biceps and digging into his hair, which has only gotten longer since he left. 

“You’d promise anything,” Jack chuckles. He slides his thumb over your clothed clit. “As long as I keep touching you.”

You detest that, but he’s probably right. In order to avoid admitting that, you pull his head forward until his lips mold against yours and his fingers pull your panties to the side. 

Jack’s muscles bend and flex as he pumps his fingers into your heat, starting with two because he just can’t wait to sink his cock into the wet space between your legs. 

You’re immediately reacting to the way his blunt fingertips curl into your walls and press into the gummy flesh, seeking out your sweet spot.

He has to draw back from you, resting his forehead against yours and gnawing on his bottom lip while he watches your face. 

You roll your hips and gasp wantonly when his middle finger prods the spot inside of you. Your eyelashes flutter and you shake, pupils fixing on Jack’s. 

His eyes glow with pride and his smile grows, breathing hard as he bullies his fingers against the spot, his other hand coming up from your waist to your chest and drawing one of your breasts from your bra. He gropes it, thumbs the peak, and pinches your nipple. He dips his head and seals his mouth over it, suckily audibly and flicking his tongue against the skin.

A plea spills from your lips, practically a squeal, and Jack giggles against your skin. He flattens his tongue against your nipple and looks up at you through his eyelashes, scissoring his fingers inside of you until your vision is tinged with black spots. “Take your tits out,” Jack commands softly. “Let me see them.”

You reach a hand behind your body awkwardly and unclasp your bra. 

Jack pulls it off and tosses it behind him. He fucks a third finger into your cunt, stretching you so that you can fit around his width comfortably, and sucks a bruise on your tits, the edge of his mouth overlapping with your areola. 

Your stomach jumps and twists, clenching and crumbling apart when Jack actually licks a stripe up your neck and takes your earlobe between his lips. Your breath stutters and your body writhes, fucking down on Jack’s fingers as you ride out the wave of your first orgasm.

“Good girl,” Jack coos in your ear. “So responsive for me, so ready to take my cock. You didn’t put fresh sheets on the bed, did you? I’d hate for this little wet spot to ruin all your hard work.”

Dazed from your climax, you shake your head.

Jack’s smile reveals his teeth. He kisses your lips, then whispers conspiratorially, “Let’s make it bigger.”

You moan at his tone. Jack’s hands slide down your legs, wrapping them around his waist, and then he flips your bodies so you’re on top. You make a noise of discontent against his mouth, wanting him to fuck you, but Jack shushes you. 

“Give my shoulder a rest, sweetheart,” he says. “I need you to take care of me for a couple of weeks before I’m doing better.”

It’s not possible to argue with that, especially once Jack’s engorged cock slides between your folds and the head bumps your clit. You make a soft ‘oh,’ which Jack drinks up. His tongue pets against yours and you suck on it when it fills your mouth. You feel Jack’s hand sneak between your bodies and circle his base, aligning his tip with your entrance so that you can sink down, still basking in the relaxation of your previous orgasm.

You hum, neck rolling back. You move your hips in a circle, then you change direction, then you start to rock back and forth. 

“That’s it,” Jack praises. His fingers dig into your waist. “My pretty girl.”

“I love how you feel,” you sigh, placing your hands on Jack’s abdomen for leverage. Your mouth is an inch from his, the breath that leaves your lungs mixing with his. Your eyes are closed, forehead resting against his, and Jack’s hands slide to your behind. He pulls you forward, aiding your movement. “Fuck, Jack, it’s nothing like I imagined while you were gone.”

“What did you think of while I was away?” Jack asks, only a hint of desperation in his voice. 

“I was thinking about things we can do that won’t hurt you,” you say. “Until you’re able to use your shoulder again. Then it’ll be like rehab.”

Jack snuffles out a little laugh, the shaky air displacing the hair that is falling from your updo. “Smart. Make me do something I like.”

“I fucked myself with my fingers, bent over my sink,” you tell him abruptly, the memory sparking in your mind when your clit brushes against Jack’s skin. “Imagining you were there, watching me in the mirror.”

“Oh,” Jack says dumbly, his voice thick.

“I thought about how you’d only be able to touch me with one hand and how you wouldn’t be able to decide what to do with me,” you continue. “I thought you’d– oh– hold onto me until I was bruised, just to try and keep me in place.”

“You want me to…” Jack trails off.

His tip brushes your cervix, sending a jolt through you, and you start to fuck yourself on his cock. Jack’s fingertips reflexively dig into your flesh, lifting you with the help of your momentum and slamming you back down on his member.

“Fuck,” Jack adds.

“I imagined you spanking me if I looked away from you,” you admit, your voice breaking off into a desperate ‘yes’ as his hips twitch and fuck up into you.

Jack plants his feet on the mattress and bucks up, matching your bounces in pace and intensity. 

“Thought you’d leave a mark there, too,” you finish. “And come inside me and leave me there, dripping all over the tile.”

Jack makes a choked noise, gasping. “Tell me another,” he requests. “Fuck, baby, we can do whatever you want. What else did you think about?”

“I thought about, shit, I thought about helping you masturbate,” you say. The image of Jack, panting and flushed and squirming as you overstimulate him, pops into your mind again. You whimper and clench down on him, feeling your orgasm build. Your lips come into contact with Jack’s and he kisses you desperately, breaking away only to encourage you to continue. “I thought I’d make you come and then I’d clean you up with my mouth.” You take a deep breath. “And then I’d make you come again on my tongue.”

Jack whimpers brokenly into your mouth. His fingernails dig into the skin of your behind, his hips pistoning into your body even faster. The bedframe is creaking beneath your bodies, shaking with your movements, but Jack just continues. He’s giving you everything he has and it makes your blood thrum through your veins, senses heightened and climax so close.

“I’d– I’d,” you cut yourself off with a silent moan, voice failing you. 

“What?” Jack gasps. His cheeks are pink and his forehead is beading with sweat. “What, baby, fuck, I’m so close, tell me what you’d do.”

“After I make you come in my mouth,” you rush out, trying not to bite your tongue as you speak. “I’d sit on your thighs and grind against them until I come and I’d keep my hand on your cock the whole time, even if you feel like it’s too much, because I know you’ll get hard again, J. Making me come without even touching me would drive you crazy and I’d have to serve you again to satisfy you, can’t leave my boy hanging–” 

You and Jack shudder at the same time. You can feel him losing his rhythm. You open your eyes and are met with the same glassy blue eyes that you’d imagined as you’d coaxed a third round of cum from his tip. Jack’s eyelashes are long and dark and capture your attention before his mouth clumsily collapses against yours, teeth colliding in an ugly, not-sexy way. 

Jack’s moan feels like a glass of cold water trickling down your throat, and the warm spurts of cum filling your insides juxtaposes it in a way that has your mind spinning. 

You’re unraveling atop Jack so intensely that you don’t even realize that your orgasm is washing over his abdomen and hips and joining the wet spot on the bed that Jack had wanted to grow. He succeeds, practically without even trying. All you can feel is the shaking of your thighs and the thumping of your heart in your chest, plus the desperate clutch of Jack’s hands on your skin. 

“Baby, oh my God,” Jack whines. His hips continue to work into you, his nails creating half-moons on your behind. “Keep– oh my God,” he repeats. 

You grind against him, trying to chase the high that is starting to slip from you, but as Jack’s cock softens, the feeling fades away. You let out a soft moan, somewhere between contentment and disappointment that you can’t keep coming forever and ever, and sink into Jack’s touch.

His arms come around your waist and he presses his face into your clavicle. “You’re so fucking sexy,” Jack pretends to complain. “Dirty talking like that, it’s not fair how hot you are.”

“Just being honest,” you quip back. “You asked.”

Jack groans. “I know.” He buries his face between your boobs, muffling his voice. “And we’re going to have to do all of those, I can’t believe there’s a bright side to this fucking injury.”

You smooth his hair back and laugh lightly. “Poor boy, I’m sorry you got hurt. I really wanted to see you in the playoffs this season.”

Jack reveals one stink eye at you, glinting with playfulness like before. “You just wanted the WAG jacket.”

You laugh louder. “I am not that shallow!”

“Are too,” Jack goads into the swell of your breasts.

“Now you’re just being mean,” you whine, pushing at Jack’s good shoulder.

He bites your boob, then peppers your sternum with kisses. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?”

He rests his chin between your breasts and grins up at you. “I had some ideas of my own while I was gone.”

[buckysleftbicep]

letters through time (2) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!reader

warnings: bucky being an absolute flirt, some angst

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.8k

author's note: chapter 2 is here!! i love this chapter so, so much and i hope you do too! thank you for stopping by my loves! i miss 40s!bucky so much.

series masterlist

It became a ritual.

Each morning, before brushing your teeth or even checking your phone, you opened the drawer.

Sometimes the letter was already waiting—tucked beneath the linen cloth like it had grown there overnight, the envelope still warm from some invisible warmth. Other times, you had to wait. Hours. A day. But it always came.

And with every letter, Bucky Barnes became less of a ghost and more of a person.

You learned the rhythm of his days. The sharp whistle that pulled him from his bunk before sunrise. The sound of boots slamming against pavement during drills. The warmth of the boys in his unit, the fear of the war hidden behind their jokes, the quiet way Steve carried the weight of the world on his shoulders without complaint.

You told him about your own days. The museum. The cataloging. How every box of artefacts made you feel like you were touching echoes of a time you now saw through his eyes.

You joked about your coffee addiction, the neighbour’s cat who acted like it owned the hallway, and the fact that you were talking to a man who was born before sliced bread became a thing.

He told you he found that hilarious.

March 19th, 1944 Sweetheart, You said people in the future are obsessed with their coffee, right? I’m starting to think I was born in the wrong era. But you wanna know the real reason I wake up smiling lately? It’s you. Your words. Your voice in my head when I read your letters. I never thought paper and ink could feel like a heartbeat. I asked Steve what he thinks about writing letters to a girl from the future. He laughed and told me if anyone could charm a girl, it’d be me. So. Here I am. Trying. Yours, Bucky

Somewhere between shared stories and inside jokes, your letters turned soft.

You told him about your favourite books. The first time you got your heart broken. That sometimes you felt a little lost, like you were floating through life without knowing where to land. You asked if he ever felt the same.

He did.

You asked what scared him most.

Not coming home. Forgetting who I am, maybe. Being forgotten. Losing people I love. Losing myself. Does that count?

You wrote back that of course it counts. That he wouldn’t be forgotten. Not by history. Not by you.

He sent a dried daisy once. Pressed between the pages of his letter. He picked it, he said, from a patch behind his barracks, just for you. It arrived crisp and pale, as if time hadn’t dared touch it.

You said you like soft things, doll. Thought you deserved something pretty. Hope the flower’s not too crushed, I’m better at shooting targets than pressing petals. I like thinking of you with something I held in my hands. Makes this whole crazy thing feel real. You feel real to me, (Y/N).

You read that line more times than you meant to.

And then one night, after a long shift at the museum and the kind of quiet that makes you feel a little too alone, you sat down at your desk with a pen in your hand and a question you weren’t sure you should ask.

You asked him for a photo.

It felt like you were crossing some invisible line. But the way your chest fluttered when you read his letters, the way your cheeks warmed at his teasing, it made you want to see him. Not the black-and-white image in a museum. Not the name in a textbook.

Him.

You folded the letter before you could change your mind and tucked in a polaroid, nothing dramatic. Just you in the corner of your room, soft light spilling across your face, your favourite sweater slipping off one shoulder as you smiled, small and uncertain, into the lens.

You slid it into the drawer and closed it gently. You didn’t expect anything to happen.

But the next morning, when you opened it again and there it was.

March 24th, 1944 Hey there, gorgeous. Is it allowed for a guy to be knocked breathless by a picture? ‘Cause I think I forgot how to breathe the second I saw you. You're beautiful, (Y/N). There’s this look in your eyes, like you already know me. Like you’ve been waiting for me. You asked for a photo, so I’m sending one. Just me, back behind base, jacket half-off because Steve said I look less like a “buttoned-up cadet” that way. Punk said I should look like the guy writing love letters to a girl in the future. He’s not wrong. Thought you should see the face that’s been stealing your time, sweetheart. Do I get another photo in return? Maybe one where you’re smiling that secret little smile you keep mentioning in your letters? Always yours, Bucky

You pressed the photo to your chest the moment you saw it.

He was handsome, of course, broad shoulders, a strong jaw, that soft curve of a smile. But it was his eyes that got you. Cerulean-blue and impossibly warm. Kind in a way photographs rarely captured. Like they weren’t just looking out, but looking at you. Through paper. Through time. Through everything.

You wrote back with shaking fingers and told him he wasn’t playing fair.

I don’t think you know what you’re doing to me, Bucky Barnes. Your letters make my heart race. And yes, I’ll send another picture. But only if you promise not to fall in love with me too fast. Kidding. (Sort of.) Yours always, (Y/N)

After that, the letters got flirtier.

You called him trouble. He called you trouble he’d gladly ruin himself for.

You teased him about the way he laced his boots after he sent a picture of himself leaning against a wall behind base, jacket slung over one shoulder, boots perfectly tied like he’d stepped out of a training manual.

You really lace them like that every day? you wrote back. No wonder Steve calls you a tightass. You joked after he had complained in the last letter about how Steve comments about his boots and how he laced them.

He replied that a man needed to be ready for anything. Especially if he was trying to impress a girl from the future.

He teased you in return about your obsession with peanut butter and how it came up in almost every letter, how he still couldn’t wrap his head around it being spread on toast.

Can’t wait to try it, he wrote, especially if you’re the one handing me the spoon.

You asked about his childhood.

He told you about Coney Island. Stealing candy from the corner store. Watching fireworks with Steve every Fourth of July. His first kiss at sixteen that made him laugh afterward because he sneezed mid-way through.

You told him about your favourite street vendor, how you always bought two hotdogs and left one for the homeless man at the subway entrance. You said it reminded you that kindness still existed in the world, even when everything felt overwhelming.

Bucky’s reply came back with a line that made your breath catch.

You're the kind of person I fought this war for. You make me believe there’s still good waiting for us on the other side.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

Just reread the letters under your covers like a lovesick teenager. Smiling into your pillow. Laughing softly at his dumb jokes. Heart aching at his soft words. And slowly, slowly, something bloomed.

You were falling for Bucky.

A man eighty years out of reach. A soldier caught in the pages of history. And yet, the way he wrote to you… the way his words wrapped around your heart like warmth in the cold.

It felt real.

And terrifying.

But you didn’t stop writing.

One night, you asked him a dangerous question.

If we could meet one day, if somehow the world let us, what would you want to do first?

His answer came in the next letter, scribbled quickly, like he couldn’t get the words down fast enough.

I’d want to touch your face. Just to make sure you're real. Then I’d probably kiss you. Slow. Like I’ve been waiting lifetimes. We could walk through Brooklyn, hand in hand. You could show me the future, and I’d show you the places where I left pieces of myself. I don’t know how this happened, doll. But I think I’m falling for you. Hell. I know I am.

You pressed your fingers to your lips as you read, like it might soften the ache building in your chest.

He was falling for you.

And god help you because you were falling too.

March 28th, 2020 Dear Bucky, I find myself thinking about you all the time. When I pass old brick buildings. When jazz plays from passing bars. You’ve become a part of my days without me even realising it. I fall asleep thinking about your words. I wake up hoping for another letter from you. And when everything around me feels too loud, it’s your voice in my head that quiets it. There’s something about the way you write, the way you talk to me like I matter, that stays with me through my day. It lingers and it reminds me of the warmth left behind after a fire. I keep your daisy tucked in my favourite book, it's delicate and a little crushed, but I love it because it came from you, because you thought of me. Maybe this is fragile and maybe it’s impossible too. But it feels real. And I don’t want to let it go. I don’t know what this is, not exactly. But I know how I feel when I read your letters. And Bucky… I think I’m falling for you too. Yours, (Y/N)

The reply didn’t come the next morning.

Nor the day after that.

Your heart twisted with worry. Every moment without a letter felt like a thread unraveling from your chest. But then—on the third day, you opened the drawer and found an envelope.

Thicker than usual.

And when you unfolded the pages, your heart nearly burst.

March 31st, 1944 Sweetheart, I’m being deployed. Steve and I are heading to Austria. Orders just came in. We leave in a week. I didn’t want to tell you at first. Didn’t want to break what we’ve built. But I can’t lie to you, I don't want to. You asked what I’d do if I could meet you? Well, I’ve started asking around, talking to Howard. He’s the smartest guy I know. He thinks that maybe there’s a way. A way for me to get to you. He said he’d help me, when we make it back. So, I’m writing this with hope, (Y/N). Hope that when this war ends, when I’ve done what I have to do, I’ll find you. Please wait for me. Yours, always, James

James.

You clutched the letter to your chest, tears stinging your eyes.

You whispered his name like a prayer.

And wrote back with your heart in your throat.

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