#slowly easing back into drawing with something simple

[silkquake]

I love them.

The follow-up

[st7rnioioss]

꣑ৎ BUNNY!READER x SHY!MATT STURNIOLO

shy!matt giving bunny!reader hickeys for the first time

˚𝜗𝜚 warnings... fluff, kissing, hickeys, nibbling and biting into skin

you were close to doze off in bed with matt, the both of you lying on your back while holding hands. you were looking at how his fingers interlaced with yours, him doing the same. it was a small gesture, but you were both tinted a little pink on the cheeks.

“can i ask you something?” matt whispered with a soft tone, his gaze still locked on your fingers. with a slow nod and hum from you, he cleared his throat. “umm.. i just- i wanna try something. you can stop me if you don’t like it.. is it okay?” he mumbled nervously, his heart almost pounding out of his chest from the “super” difficult question.

you turned to look at him, meeting those beautiful eyes you’d fallen so deeply in love with behind the glass frames resting on the bridge of his nose. “okay,” you whispered back, while he slowly sat back up, to gently spread your legs apart. for a second, you grew hot in the face, all the way down to your neck. you were sure he was gonna try something far more dirty and bold than he usually would.

but you relaxed a little again when he came to rest his knees between your thighs, super, super careful and gentle with all his movements, finally hovering his face above yours with a hand on each side of your head.

“umm.. jus’ tell me if it’s uncomfortable. i just- i just wanna try something out.” his voice was trembling, and you could tell he was nervous. you were just as tense as he was, but you nodded slowly with a faint smile—after all, you trusted him more than anyone else.

gently, the fingertips of his hand stroked across your cheek, tugging a piece of hair behind your eat, his face turning pink when he met your eyes. it was something as simple as the eye contact that made him flush, the reality of you actually experiencing his touch and the intimacy, being this close.

but he kept his eyes on yours, that same hand cupping your face while he swallowed hard. he then slowly leaned closer to you, his eyes fluttering shut when his lips pecked yours, leaving a slow and gentle kiss. you closed your eyes as well, gradually melting into the softness and gentleness of the kiss.

he was so, so gentle with you, almost scared that you’d break into a thousand pieces if he went too quick or was too rapid with his movements. he was basically always treating you like a little, fragile porcelain doll. he broke the kiss but was quick to return his lips to yours in another kiss that was just as feather-light as the other.

your tummy was fluttering wildly with butterflies—it always did when matt kissed you. the kiss felt like when you’d draw hearts about a crush’s name, and whenever they’d already be looking at you before you looked at them. that silly, giddy feeling that fluttered.

you were lost in the sensation until it stopped abruptly. your eyes fluttered back open, intently watching the way he slowly slipped his glasses off because they were in the way, messily leaving them on the soft duvet beneath you. the whole thing had your cheeks brightening, watching his lips curve into a soft smile at the sigh.

“you’re so pretty.. okay- i’ll, um, i’ll try.. just relax.” he muttered, the little compliment making you return the smile with a soft ‘thank you’, nodding when he told you to ease up a little. you basically melted further into the soft mattress under you, feeling his fingertips again graze your skin, this time over your neck to brush some hair out of the way.

carefully, and almost hesitantly, he ducked down to inhale the sweetness of your perfume, the scent he’d grown familiar with. softly, he pressed his lips to the skin of your neck, making the smile on your lips falter, falling into an o-shape. almost on instinct, you lightly wrapped your hands around the back of his neck, fingers grazing the soft ends of his short hair. he kept his hand beside your head, keeping him upright while the other one was running up and down your sides in a careful manner.

you’d never have anyone kiss you, let alone touch you, like this. the feeling was new, foreign almost—but it felt so good. matt was enjoying this far more than he thought he would. he’d never done this to anyone before as well, but he had an idea of how to do it correctly.

and shit, did he do it right. your head was fogging up into a big cloud, just from the simple kiss? your fingers traced up the back of his head, entangling with his soft locks of hair.

“oh- oh my gosh,” you whimpered when you suddenly felt his teeth gently nibble on your skin, sucking faintly into your skin. he was out of this world, desperate to hear more of those sweet noises from your lips. “is it okay?” his voice was quiet, lips never leaving your neck when he mumbled those words, gently prodding his tongue at the now red mark.

“y-yes.. i like it.” you breathlessly muttered, feeling his lips drag along your skin to a new spot, beginning to more confidently kiss and lick at the softness.

your words of confirmation only made him bolder, starting to lick and sink his teeth into your skin in a sloppy but gentle way. he didn’t want to hurt you at all, making sure to be thoughtful with his kisses.

more bunny!reader here!

۶ৎ taglist: @jetaimevous @missmimii @mattscoquette @pearlzier @witchofthehour @elizasturn @loveparqdise @delilahsturniolo @phone4pills @sturnsmia @hearts4werka @cayleeuhithinknott @strnilolover @sturnvxz @lovergirl4gracieabrams @ifwdominicfike @urmomlovesme12

© ST7RNIOIOSS est. 2023

[ssentimentals]

prompt: this is reader’s first relationship & she’s just a little unsure of herself & how to be in a relationship?

seungcheol + inexperienced!reader

it's not a big deal. thats what you've been trying to tell yourself since seungcheol became your boyfriend. your very first boyfriend in your very first relationship. it's great, amazing and it's not.a.big.deal. if only your mind was so easy to trick.

'baby?' seungcheol calls over and you turn so quickly, you give yourself a whiplash. he raises one eyebrow at you, frozen with a big bowl full of popcorn in his hands. 'is everything okay?'

you gulp. you're doing a horrible job of not showing your insecurities if seungcheol can tell that something is wrong by standing five feet away. 'everything is fine,' you lie and it sounds so fake that you can't stop yourself from grimacing.

that, of course, only worries seungcheol even more. your boyfriend comes over, carefully placing full bowl on the floor before climbing on the sofa next to you. he doesn't get anywhere in your personal space and instead reaches out to take your hands in his. 'what's wrong?' he asks in such an earnest tone that you feel bad.

you almost want to tell the truth. your mouth almost opens, your tongue almost curves and forms the words that haunt your mind. almost. you draw back, swallowing hard. how can you tell the truth to someone like seungcheol? someone so confident and sure in himself, someone for who this relationship is not anything new; how can he understand you? you know that you're overthinking it. so many people told you that it's not a big deal and you agree, but what can you do if your mind always comes up with hundred and one ways to make you unsure in this whole thing? seungcheol's thumbs caress your skin gently and he waits so patiently for your answer that it makes your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. it also serves a good reminder - this is seungcheol. same seungcheol who held your bag and chaperoned you to every single class. same seungcheol who memorized your food allergies and favorite snacks, always checking labels of everything for any allergens and surprising you with sweets whenever you're least expected them. same seungcheol who took his time to know you, kept respectable distance till you got comfortable, waited for you to develop feelings for him as well. same seungcheol who looked the happiest when you agreed to be his girlfriend. it's the same seungcheol and you breathe out, willing your whole body to release the tension you've been holding.

'it might be a bit stupid, you warn, biting your lower lip.

seungcheol shakes his head. 'it's not, it won't be. share with me, baby. i can help, i promise. and if not then it at least will feel good to get this thing out of your chest.'

you smile. somehow he always knows what to say to make you at ease. 'i'm just worried, i guess.' you let out slowly, being careful with words. seungcheol nods, urging you to continue. 'like- ugh.'

it's unexpectedly hard. how do you tell him that being in relationship for the first time makes you nervous? that even during simple movie night you feel unsure on how to act? that your mind is clouded with 'what should i do' and 'am i suppose to do this' more often than you'd like to admit it? in the end, what ends up coming out of your mouth is: 'you're my first boyfriend and i'm just worried about... this.'

seungcheol waits for a little but when it becomes clear that you're not going to elaborate, he carefully asks: 'i'm not making you uncomfortable, am i?'

you shake your head, gripping his hands. 'no-no, cheollie. you don't.'

'alright,' seungcheol sighs in relief. 'but if i do - please tell me, okay? this is new for me too, i need to know if my actions somehow upset you. it's not going to work without a good communication.'

you blink. this is new for me too leaves you breathless. god. of course it's new for seungcheol too - he never dated you. you are a new person and it's new for him too, he doesn't know everything about you. he is also in this for the first time with you and this realisation makes you want to laugh. 'i had the most ridicilous thoughts,' you confess, chuckling a little. 'like- like how i can be good girlfriend.'

seungcheol looks so confused and baffled that this time you laugh for real, letting your head fall forward on his shoulder. 'are you serious? babe, look at me. c'mon, show me your pretty face.' he makes you look up, cradling your face in his hands. 'are you serious?' when you nod shyly, he groans. 'oh my god. what on earth- baby. i am with you. i am dating you. we are together. i am so happy, why are you even thinking about this?'

you blush under his stare. 'cause you know that this is very new for me, i don't want to fuck up or something like that.'

'just be yourself.' seungcheol says it with so much conviction that you don't doubt his sincerity. 'just be you, i fell for you, i don't need anything else. we will move on your pace, don't worry about it. you can do whatever you want to do, act however you like - just be you.'

it takes a gigantic effort from you to not cry. you hug him tight and seungcheol hugs you even tighter right back, plastering himself all over you and leaving tiny kisses on your shoulder and head. his words fill you with so much warmth and relief, you sag in his arms. 'thank you,' you mumble.

'you don't have to thank me,' seungcheol whispers. 'just be you and you'll be the best girlfriend on this planet.'

it's cheesy and it makes you giggle and feel all of the butterflies in your stomach. you kiss his cheeks, sighing happily. 'okay.'

seungcheol smiles, caressing your back lovingly. he lets you two enjoy this moment, only pulling back when you move. 'now let's go back to our movie night, yeah?'

you nod. 'cuddle?' you ask shyly.

seungcheol's answering grin is blinding. 'of course, princess.'

a/n: is it very obvious that seungcheol is in my top3 of the members to write for? :') hope you enjoyed this one! - nini

my other seventeen works are HERE

[firelilyfox]

Summer Love

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: You and Bucky got invited to stay for a weekend with Sam and his family. When the two of you get some alone time on the boat, the summer heat brings out some confessions and butterflies.

Warnings: just very much fluff and a heart-eyed Bucky

Wordcount: 1k~ish

—————————————————-

„You know what is a great movie?“ Sam asked. „Jurassic Park.“ 

His nephews nodding heavily and their eyes were wide with excitement. Jumping up from the couch and started pretending to roar like dinosaurs. 

Their mother Sarah cringed. „You can’t be serious. That’s not a movie a grown man should choose as his favorite.“ 

„I never said it was my favorite. I said it is a great movie“, Sam replied. 

„And what is your favorite movie?“ You asked him. 

Sam hesitated. A crooked smile crossed his face. „Jurassic World.“ 

Let the bickering begin. Sam and Sarah started to argue about movies and the two young boys continued to play fight as dinosaurs. 

Just Bucky stayed quiet. He had a peaceful smirk on his lips, watching his found family laughing and talking about giant lizards. You and Bucky were dating for a couple of weeks now and it was the first time he introduced you to one of his best friends. Well, Bucky would never admit that him and Sam were close friends - only coworkers - but you knew him better. He truly cared about these people. 

And he truly cared about you. 

„We should get outside. The heat seems to cook your brain, or what is left of it.“ Sarah jokes. 

„Very funny. But actually I wanted to suggest the same. The boat still needs some cleaning and I really have to get some things done in the city.“ 

„Well I don’t have time for the boat. Me and the boys have an appointment with their dentist.“ Sarah said frowning. 

That’s when you quickly exchanged a look with Bucky. He shrugged in approval. „We could do the cleaning.“ 

Sam looked at his absolutely-not-bestfriend. „Nah, we can’t expect you to do that. You two are our guests and on vacation!“ 

„Ah it will be fun.“ Bucky replied while walking over to you. His hands landed on your hips, gently tugging you in a hug from behind. You sunk into his arms, leaning against his strong chest and let your body relax a bit. 

Sam raised a eyebrow. „Yeah fun … remember to not make the boat dirtier as it is now. Or at least clean it up after you’re done.“ 

A pillow hit him on the back of his head, followed with a meaningful look from his sister with raised eyebrows.

You didn’t mind the joke. Because the only thing that was on your mind, was the way Bucky was holding you. His arms wrapped around your frame, his hands pressed against your stomach, while his thumb drawing little circles. The way he brushes a soft kiss on your temple. 

The ease you felt made you look forward to spend the rest of the day with Bucky. Even if you have to clean a boat. And oh lord there was much to do. You two spend the entire day and evening with polishing the walls and scrub the floor. 

The heat was merciless but had some good features that came with it. Because it didn’t took long until Bucky got rid of his longsleeve, leaving him with a simple black T-Shirt. It was hard not to look at him. Risking a glance every other minute, admiring his frame and his strength. Bucky noticed how you reacted and smirked every time he caught you looking at him for a bit too long. 

When the sun was setting and the air cooled off a little, the docks slowly went silent. Just some fisherman getting the last things done, before returning to their homes. Gentle waves rocked the boat in a peaceful rhythm. 

„Did anyone ever tell you that you look beautiful in the moonlight, love?“ Bucky sat down beside you on the wooden bench, that was directed at the ocean. 

You chuckle. „I doubt that someone other than you would say something so old school and so romantic.“ 

His blue eyes crinkled at the outer corners, as a smitten smile parted his lips. „I’ve heard being old school is a good thing.“ 

„It is indeed a good thing.“ You raise your hand to cup his cheek. His stubbled chin felt rough under your fingertips and you felt him lean into your touch. 

His eyes close for a second as he took a deep breath, like he wanted to suck up every ounce of you scent. Of the sizzling feeling on his skin under your touch. When he opened his eyes again, the blue shone like the sea itself. Making your heart skip a beat. He was just so beautiful. 

„You have no idea what you do to me“, Bucky mumbled looking at your lips. „The only thing that I can think about all day and all night, is you.“ 

Your throat tightened. And that treacherous eyes of yours started to tear up a little. 

„You are just too perfect to be true.“ Bucky cupped your face with his palms, his fingers gently touching the soft skin beneath your ear. „And I know you want to protest against that … I can see it in your eyes“, he chuckles softly. 

He caught you red handed. You’re closing your mouth again, the protest of not being perfect in any way dying on your lips. 

„You are perfect to me.“ Bucky adds. His eyes darting to your lips again and back up to keep your gaze. „I think I'm in love with you, doll.“ 

A soft gasp broke out of your throat, as Bucky pulled you into a kiss. His lips touching yours with softness and desperation, mixed with passion and … love. He admired you with his mouth and his hands. 

You melted into his touch, desperate to getting closer. „I love you too, Bucky.“ You whispered between two kisses. 

Suddenly you lost contact from the bench beneath you and find yourself sitting on his lap. Each leg on one side beside his. Bucky holding you with care, like something more than precious. His fingers stretched on your back, digging into your skin, just a little bit to show you how much he desires you. The way your hands get lost in his hair made him groan. You tugged it slightly, just to mess with him. 

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Thanks for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated 💙 (but please don’t copy my work)

Bucky Barnes Masterlist 🦾

[anantaru]

・✶ ｡ warnings — dry humping and neck kissing with childe, he's very needy, fem! reader <3

receiving neck kisses was such a big turn on for you and your boyfriend childe was gravely aware of that fact.

it was something you had discovered quite unexpectedly, a simple touch that ignited fires deep within you when for the first time, a sensation of soft lips brushed against your skin, a whisper of warmth intoxicating your mind— and with childe? well, those moments were especially electrifying.

you tilt your head back, giving him access to the most sensitive parts of her neck as you grant him an unspoken invitation to take control. with ease, he explores the elegant curve of your throat as he leans closer, sloppily lapping at your flesh with enough spit to cover it wholly, his breath ghosting over your wet skin before his lips made deeper contact to feel your pulse.

in the beginning, childe always starts gently, never overdoing it and testing the waters— placing feather-light kisses along your jawline and nibbling at the skin before slowly working his way down to the more sensitive parts with drool sticking on his chin.

without dissembling, it really doesn't matter where he kissed you because each touch was enough to get your knees buckling— it was futile, really, and you couldn't help the soft gasp that escaped your lips and the start of your hips beginning to grind into his thigh.

in an instant, the harbinger smirks against your skin and welcomes your neediness— and for some reason it feels like he was playfully mocking your sensitive state or the fact that it didn't need a whole lot to get you to this point.

regardless, he was utterly pleased with your reaction as he knew exactly how to play you, how to draw out every ounce of pleasure from your body.

although that's not all because you see, after a while childe decides to put his knee between your legs, knowing full on well you cannot resist rubbing against it, cannot resist messing him up.

he quickly adjusts his position, keeping his knee pressed against your clothed cunt as you let out a whiny moan in response, your hips instinctively grinding into him, seeking more friction, more touch.

he intensifies his kisses and laps of tongue before sucking harshly on your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of your heart against his lips as he continued to brand you in a swivel of messy, drooled kisses all over your collarbones.

the taste of your skin and the way you writhed beneath him was almost too much to bear and childe could feel his own desire building on his growing bulge— making it out to be a mirrored response to the fire he was stoking deep inside of you.

by the way he was flicking and dragging his wet muscle along your skin, you could tell that his twitching erection was beginning to pain him as he greedily squeezes at your hips to grind your cunt against his knee himself.

a wave of tears slips through your lashes as you look at him, "feels good, hm?" he murmurs against your skin, his forehead glowing of sweat.

luckily, your desperate little nod was enough of an answer to get childe really hungry now as he melted his touch right there, on your swollen pussy and bitten neck, imprinting his voice and grunts into your flesh so you could forever remember how well he was treating you tonight.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[snowballseal]

hihiiii I adoreee your writing, it’s so good! genuinely so fun to read. if it’s not too much trouble, could I possibly request some sylus fluff?

maybe something along the lines of MC craving lots of affection/being a bit clingy towards him and just wanting to be near him after a while of being apart?

absolutely no rush or obligations if this doesn’t exactly pique your interest!! have a lovely day ❤️

Soft

Sylus X Reader (LaDS)

Summary: Just a little fic of you and Sylus reuniting after a while apart. You doesn't want to be apart from him and he obliges.

Word Count: 818

Note: Hi anon! I know this isn't super long, but I hope you like it! I love describing how soft Sylus can be for MC, and it felt like a cute, simple piece. I can write something longer if you'd like, just let me know!

---

“Sylus!”

The man lets out a low chuckle as you practically throw yourself at him. He catches you with practiced ease, arms wrapping securely around your waist as he spins you around. It’s like one of those cheesy romance flicks, other travelers rushing around you to greet their own waiting families, a bubbly yet tired kind of mirth warming the frigid, fall air.

It had been a month since you’d seen Sylus. A long, grueling, horrible month. While you love your job, you hate the extended training camps you have to attend every few years. Always in the middle of nowhere. Always with limited contact with the outside world. Limited contact with Sylus.

You don’t know how many nights you spent staring at the blank walls of your tiny dorm room, sleep nowhere to be found when all you could think about was how much you missed his touch, his warmth, him. It was like being terribly homesick, and all you wanted was to be back in his arms.

And now you are.

Even when your feet touch the ground again, you don’t want to let go. And neither does Sylus. His arms stay curled around your waist, face tucked against your hair as he pulls you impossibly closer, just breathing you in. You all but melt into his warmth, nuzzling against his chest with a happy, content noise.

“My, my, it seems my little kitten missed me,” he murmurs, low and teasing against your ear. You can practically hear the smirk curling his lips.

“Can you blame me?” You draw back a fraction to pout up at him. Those vermillion eyes glint down at you with a smug amusement, but you don’t mind fanning his ego a little right now. “We barely even got the chance to talk on the phone. It was awful and cold and exhausting. I don’t know why they wanted us training in the north, we were all just a bunch of sad popsicles.”

“Mm, sounds quite tragic,” Sylus hums, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. Your theatrics are endearing, and who is he to not play along? Hands tracing slowly up and down your waist, Sylus gives you a look of teasing sympathy, “Poor kitten. Perhaps I should take you home and find a way to warm you up, hm?”

Home. God, you love the sound of that. You’re home. With him. The thought fills your chest with a fluttering sort of excitement.

“Home sounds perfect,” you sigh, nuzzling back into him with an absolutely giddy smile. “Just, don’t let me go, mkay?”

The man softens and for a moment, he’s not Sylus the leader of Onychinus. He’s just Sylus. Your Sylus.

You make him different. You turn him into something soft, something tender, with your love. Like a balm soothing his sharp edges, his harsh nature. He never thought himself capable of such gentleness until he held you, until he felt the plushness of your body in his hands. Even though you are one of Linkon’s most capable hunters, something in him desires to treat you like porcelain, something otherwise vicious and bloody. Like a feral dog, licking your chin, body curved to be small and nonthreatening despite the sharpness of its fangs pressed against your skin.

And you never once flinched. Never once pulled away from his hands, even when his grip would edge on painful, even when his teeth would sink into your skin with a sinful need to possess something so soft, so sweet.

Though, he’ll play nice tonight, seeing as your body curls so tiredly into his, practically all your weight in his arms.

“Alright, sweetie,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, “I accept your conditions. You won’t have to worry about anything tonight, I’ll take good care of you.”

You hum your approval, though it sounds more like a purr. A smirk dancing across his lips, Sylus leans down and curls an arm under you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. He grabs your bag with his other hand, and starts back towards his motorcycle.

You forget all about the cold that night. Even the soreness in your muscles seems to fade away as you lay curled against Sylus’ side on his couch, a large, fluffy blanket thrown over the both of you, some movie humming quietly in the background.

And Sylus keeps his word. Not once does he let you go. Even when you start to yawn, eyelids heavy with sleep, Sylus simply lays out across the couch and drags you over his body, until you can stretch out like a cat over his chest. He keeps an arm locked around your waist, making sure you won’t fall as you finally, finally give in to the sleep your body so desperately needs.

It’s perfect.

He’s perfect.

And you hope you never have to go on another blasted training mission again.

---

I'll be real, I think my personal headcannon is that Sylus is like a feral yet loyal dog. I use the comparison a lot, I feel. Like, he can be vicious and wild, but he'd bow for you, he'd get himself killed for you (if he could lol). He would have a loyalty so unwavering, and that's terrifying in a way. But also? Kinda sexy 👀

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: cussing, descriptions of torture, angst,

Part 3

Words of Command - Part 4

Your room in Stark Tower is the closest thing to quiet you’ve had all day. The windows overlook the city street, shop lights flickering far below like soft embers in the afternoon glow.

The curtains are half-drawn, bathing everything in a dusty orange hue. It smells like chamomile from the tea you forgot to drink earlier.

You’re curled cross-legged on your bed, Stark-issued tablet balanced in your lap.

Bucky stands awkwardly beside the desk.

He’s not pacing, but his posture makes it clear he’s not at ease. His back is straight—too straight—arms tense at his sides like he’s awaiting orders, his metal hand twitching every so often as if testing the weight of the silence.

He's wearing the borrowed clothes from Steve still, a faded gray henley stretched a little too tightly across his shoulders, and soft cotton sweats. He looks strange in them—domestic. But they fit better than the blood-stiff rags he wore when he stumbled in yesterday.

You pat the space beside you gently. “You can sit down, you know.”

He hesitates.

Then, slowly—like a machine winding down—he obeys. The mattress dips under his weight as he lowers himself beside you.

One arm remains stiff at his side, but his eyes flicker to the screen.

“Doll,” he murmurs. The word is still uncertain in his mouth. Like it’s foreign and sacred all at once. “What… is this?”

“A website,” you say gently. “Think of it like… a store. For clothes. You get to pick what you want.”

He blinks. “Permission?”

“You don’t need it,” you say. “But ... Yea, you have permission”

There’s something that looks almost like relief in his features. Almost.

You start scrolling slowly. The website flickers through pages of jeans, hoodies, boots, jackets.

He watches. Intently.

Every so often, he points. “That one.”

You add it to the cart, careful not to overwhelm him with choices. “Why that?”

He shrugs, uncertain. “Not torn.”

The statement is so simple. So haunting.

“Okay,” you say softly. “We’ll get that.”

You move on to jackets. When you pause on a military-style field coat, his eyes narrow.

“No.”

You glance at him. “Too familiar?”

A beat. Then he nods, once.

You skip it and choose something soft instead. A wool-lined hoodie.

“Doll…” he says after a moment, voice quieter. “This… is strange.”

You look up.

“Strange doesn’t mean bad.”

You demonstrate how to tap the items into the cart of the tablet and offer it to Bucky.

He’s cautious. Delicate, even, as if his touch might break the  tablet—or worse, be the wrong command.

“Here,” you whisper. “Tap that.”

A beat.

Tap. Tap. Bucky's brows furrow.

Tap.

"Uh, sorry try the other hand ... it's sensitive" you attempt to lie releasing the touch screen won't responding to his vibranium digits.

Tap.

A small smile tugs at your lips as the item adds to cart, "perfect" You mumble.

The screen shifts. More shirts. Hoodies. Soft cottons. Burnt oranges. Deep blues. Flannel.

His brow furrows. “What are these?”

“They’re... just clothes. Casual. Comfortable.”

He scrolls. The motion is jerky at first, but steadies. He lingers over greys. Earth tones. Things that don’t draw attention.

But when he hovers over a faded navy blue henley with wooden buttons, you see it, a spark of curiosity.

You lean in. “You like that one?”

He doesn’t answer.

You don’t push.

But he taps it again. Adds to cart.

Like it’s a mission complete.

“Why do you help?” he asks, not looking up. His voice is flat. Mechanical.

“Because you needed someone,” you say. “And because I wanted to.”

“Others… don’t want.”

“They’re scared.”

He considers this. Slowly. Like the concept of fear from others directed at him is a theory he’s never explored.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says at last.

You smile a little, sad and honest. “I know you wouldn’t mean to.”

He doesn’t respond to that. But after a beat, he says—quietly

“Doll ?”

You look up.

His brow is creased. His voice slower. “I do not remember. But this feels… less wrong. Here.”

Your chest tightens. “What does?”

He looks down at your bed. The blanket. The hum of the screen. Your bare feet. The quiet.

“This.”

The website session ended quietly. You closed the tablet and set it aside. Now, afternoon light filters through your curtains, which you'd taken the time to open, catching flecks of dust in the air.

Your room is quiet—soothing. Stark Tower’s sounds are distant here, softened by thick walls and the hum of your own breathing.

He hasn’t spoken in a while.

You’re seated at the edge of your bed again, legs tucked beneath you, sipping the lukewarm tea from earlier. The Soldier stands not far from the dresser, eyes scanning the space like there are invisible threats tucked into corners.

But it’s his arm that holds your attention.

His left one.

The vibranium arm is quiet as it moves, the panels shifting with precision. Sure there some whirring but it's actually pleasant if you listen for it. Just… grace. Lethal grace.

You’re not staring—but you are watching. Your eyes trace the way it flexes when his fingers curl slightly, the faint shimmer along the metal when light hits the edge of the plates.

There's something heartbreakingly human in the contrast—his flesh arm hanging loose, awkward, while the metal one seems almost… alive.

He notices.

Sharp eyes flick to you, jaw tightening just a little. Not angry. Not suspicious. Just… alert.

“Doll,” he says, voice quieter than usual, and without accusation. “Why look?”

You blink, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to— I just… it moves differently than I thought.”

A beat. He tilts his head. The muscle in his jaw jumps, then relaxes again.

“It’s not… mine,” he says. Flat. But there’s a note of dissonance there, something uneasy buried under the robotic delivery. “I don’t remember how.”

You nod softly. “It doesn’t look wrong on you.”

That seems to throw him for a second. He blinks. Then, strangely, his left hand twitches—just once—like the metal is confused too.

You think he’ll go back to standing guard. But instead, he surprises you again.

He looks at the bed. Then at you.

“Doll… Can I try sleep?”

It’s barely a whisper. Not broken, not pained—but hesitant. As if he’s not entirely sure sleep is something he’s allowed.

“It’s the middle of the day,” you say gently.

He frowns, confused.

“But yea. You can sleep if you want to.”

He nods once and steps slowly around to the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to protest. When you don’t, he lowers himself down—not under the covers, but on them, laying flat and still. His hands rest over his chest, metal arm on top, as though bracing for an attack.

You don’t know how long it takes before his breathing evens out. But it does.

And when it does, you stand carefully.

Your footsteps are near-silent as you cross the room, bare feet brushing the carpet. You pause at the doorway, hand hovering over the handle. Glancing back, you take in the sight.

The Soldier—this ghost of a man—laying in soft light with his brow finally unfurrowed. His body still taut, but no longer locked like it’s ready to spring. His expression—if not peaceful—at least quiet.

You slip out into the hall without a sound.

You find Tony hunched over a workbench, humming ACDC at tech in sharp edges of light. The lab is a patchwork of brilliance—mechanical arms frozen mid-reach, holograms still flickering in the air.

He doesn’t turn when you come in. Just sips his coffee and keeps tinkering.

“You’re either here to tell me you adopted Terminator or to ask for something that’s gonna make me yell,” he says dryly.

“I want access to the S.H.I.E.L.D. files,” you say, voice calm but firm. “On the Winter Soldier.”

He turns slowly.

"Please" you add.

Tony doesn’t raise his voice, but his expression tightens behind the glow of the interface. “And why exactly does my receptionist want that bedtime story ? Looking for tips on how to get choked less while sleeping?”

You flinch—just a little—but you don’t look away.

“I need to understand,” you whisper. “He only listens to me. If there’s anything in there… that helps me help him…”

Tony sighs. He scrubs a hand down his face and looks at you, really looks. His gaze drops briefly to the makeup at your throat—too thick over the bruising. His jaw clenches.

“You’re a civilian,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Civilians aren't meant to survive long in the middle of nightmares.”

“But maybe I can keep one from getting worse.”

That wins you a reluctant scoff and a resigned wave toward his console.

“You’re lucky I’m a sucker for you, Thumbelina” he mutters, typing with a few aggressive taps. “Temporary access. You’re not allowed to start a revolution with what you read.”

The screen lights up. A file folder labeled

S.H.I.E.L.D. Secure Archive: W.SOLDIER — 32557-W

blinks into view.

"What you're about to see isn't PG-13," Tony warned.

His voice uncharacteristically solemn beneath the usual Tony drawl.

"HYDRA makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a day spa. And—well, let's just say he wasn't there voluntarily."

"I understand," you said quietly.

"No, you really don't," Tony replied, and for a moment, real concern showed through his cavalier facade.

"But you will. JARVIS will monitor your access. You've got six hours before the clearance expires. The command words are redacted—we can't risk those getting out—but what is there is conditioning protocols and medical procedures." He paused.

"And by medical procedures, I mean torture."

He turned toward the door, then stopped. "Oh, and I'm giving Capsicle a heads up about your little research project. Since you're Terminator's emotional support cupcake, someone needs to make sure you don't end up as a statistic."

As he reached the doorway, he added, "And for the record, this was a terrible idea. But then again, most of my best ideas started as terrible ones, so... good luck, I guess."

With a mock salute, he disappeared.

You turned to the screen, fingers hovering over the interface. With a deep breath, you opened the first file.

What you saw made your stomach lurch.

Clinical photographs of a cryogenic chamber, designed not for medical purposes but for storage—human storage.

The notes beside it detailed the freezing process in cold, methodical language, addressing the "asset" as nothing more than equipment to be maintained.

There were annotations about.

"acceptable tissue damage"

"cognitive reset advantages."

"Holy Fuck" you muttered.

You forced yourself to continue, opening records that spanned decades.

The same man—sometimes bearded, sometimes clean-shaven, but always with those haunted blue eyes—documented in photographs as he was prepped for assassinations that had shaped international history.

Each report ended with the same procedure.

Wiping his memory, erasing whatever fragments of humanity might have resurfaced during the mission.

Tears stung your eyes as you read about the "chair"—the device used to scramble his brain with electricity until his memories fractured and dissolved.

The reports noted how many sessions were required each time before the asset stopped asking questions.

Stopped remembering.

Stopped being human.

You felt bile climb from your gut, and crawl at your throat.

There were medical charts showing where his left arm connected to his body—not just the shoulder but deep into his chest and spine, fused to his skeleton with brutal efficiency.

Notes detailed how often the connection needed to be "adjusted" without anesthesia, citing that pain responses provided useful data on neural connectivity.

Your hands were shaking, you didn't realize you where crying until the tears dripped off your cheeks.

You'd moved from horror to rage to a deep, aching sadness.

The man who had stood before you, dangerous but somehow vulnerable, had endured seven decades of systematic dehumanization.

They hadn't just used him, they had methodically stripped away everything that made him a person.

Over and over again.

Leaving only a weapon in the shape of a man.

And yet, despite it all, something in him had fought back. The reports showed increasing "cognitive recalibration" sessions needed over time.

Notes expressing frustration that the asset occasionally became "non-compliant" between wipes.

His humanity, it seemed, was stubborn—damaged but never fully destroyed.

You closed the last file, wiping tears from your face.

As you stood to leave, determination replaced your horror. You would need to be careful, patient, and incredibly gentle with a man who had known nothing but cruelty for longer than you'd been alive.

And HYDRA didn't deserve to win

[missmimii]

୨ৎ－𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐄 | 𝐂 －𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐎

୨ৎ － 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | In which Chris leaves the reader craving more than the usual nods of approval, the girl begins to wonder—how far is she willing to go to hear the words she so desperately needs?

୨ৎ — 𝐂𝐖. 18+, Voyeur!Chris/Dom!Chris, praising, pet names, detailed sexual encounter, light degradation, face grabbing, fingering, dom + sub dynamics (and probably more but I’m tired.)

Chris knew Y/n.

The boy had liked watching her more than he’d ever care to admit. Almost as if she were his prey. Through their 8 gruelling years of friendship, Chris had chalked the girl down into one word. Perfect. She didn’t get angry, maybe frustrated, but never angry. He knew the way she blew her hair away from her nose when she was drawing, the way her hands wrung together when she was nervous－he even knew her favourite brand of lingerie to buy from. She was such a sweet little thing, timid and loving toward the boy since the day they’d met in middle school.

Chris had always been good at reading people, and with her, it hadn’t taken him long to figure out the girl’s little secret. It was in the way the girls’s eyes lit up whenever he tossed her a casual “Good job,” or how her cheeks flushed when he complimented her outfit, even if it was something simple. She tried to hide it—laughing off his words like they meant nothing—but the soft smile she couldn’t quite suppress always gave her away. It was subtle at first, but once he noticed, he couldn’t stop. And honestly? Watching her glow under his praise was something he didn’t mind one bit.

And use it to his advantage occasionally.

“Chris,” she sobbed out softly, tears gathering along her water-line as she started at him with a pitiful expression. The boy almost cooed at the sorrowful sight of the girl, sprawled out weakly, a hand between her thighs as she gently swirled her fingers around her fluttering hole.

She watched as Chris’s hooded eyes roamed her face along with the exceptional fleeting gaze to her glistening cunt, a hand running down his clenched jaw as he leaned back in the chair he used as a throne. If it weren’t for his raging, visible hard on, the girl would’ve almost thought he was bored.

His expression lacked any emotion, and she couldn’t decipher whether or not her body loved it－or hated it. “Please . . Please－” her head fell back onto his pillows, the tears that pleaded to fall finally descending down her flushed cheeks. She shakily ran the tips of her fingers down her soaked slit, pressing down gently－clueless on what to do.

The worst part was she could feel his eyes on her. Not only was she shy, but he was watching her suffer, and refused to help. “Keep going.” She sniffed at his words, almost wanting to shake her head as her hand shook. It didn’t feel like him. “You don’t want me to come the fuck over there.” He threatened. I kindaaa do, she thought to herself.

Holding the snarky remark, she slowly began to ease her middle finger inside of her pulsing heat, moaning gently. “Mm . . . That’s a good girl.” Fuck. A broken whine tore from her throat, making Chris chuckle as she worked her finger faster. It hurts so good, Chris thought to himself.

As much as he’d like to stalk over there and get on top of her －give it to her like no other, he felt an odd sense of pleasure in seeing her writhe, struggle. Chris’s throat bobbed as he palmed over his strained jeans, grunting under his breath as his eyes fluttered. God, he needed to fuck her.

Lost in her own pleasure, she didn’t even pick up on the sound of his steps getting closer to her sprawled out body, or the warmth of his larger stature beginning to melt atop hers. Chris chuckled softly to himself, seeing her parted lips, drool slipping from her beautiful mouth as she panted.

Her eyes shot open as a palm pressed over her mouth, gasp eliciting her lips as she met eyes with the brown haired boy. “Shhhhh . . .” Strands of his slightly－yet perfectly outgrown hair fell above his eyebrows. A dark look, sheer over his pupils as he deepened his gaze into her, boring into her shy ones with intensity.

“Look at me,” he demanded gently as her gaze faltered from his nervously. “Be a good girl and look at me, hm?” Chris hummed as her pupils dilated, automatically attached to his as the soft praise left his bitten lips. “Thasss’ a good baby,” she blinked slowly at his words her smaller hand coming up to grip onto his wrist for security. “Yeah, just like that.” Her eyes widened as she felt his other hand mold atop hers, guiding two of her fingers into her pussy slowly. “Hold on f’me.” Fuck.

Chris smirked sadistically, watching her eyes flutter and roll back, her teeth biting into his palm. “How’s that?” He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, hooded eyes glued to hers as his thumb rolled over her clit. “Better?” Chris mocked gently, leaning down and placing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Hm?” She attempted to get her words out, but they ended up a jumbled mess of incoherent sentences.

“Just shut up.”

A moan left her muffled lips, making Chris scoff. “You like that?” He ran his thumb across his cheek, before it met the supple skin of her bottom lip. Her chest heaved, no response leaving her mouth as he gazed into his eyes heavily.

Chris tilted his head, cooing ever so softly, as he felt the walls of her tight cunt squeezing around his long fingers. “Oh, baby.” A broken whine came from her lips, more tears falling as he lowered his lips to her ear. Chris’s jaw brushed against her’s, the curve of his perfect nose running down the angle of her pulse. “I almost would’ve felt bad if this wasn’t so pathetic.” He uttered gently, nipping at her neck.

Lost in a haze of pleasure, she barely even noticed how Chris’s fingers slowly released from her sopping heat. Right before she came. “Wait－wait－wait－please,” Her eyes batted open, hand fumbling to grab his wrist. Chris tutted softly, grabbing the hand and holding it above her head. “Ah, ah.” Chris practically pried her hands off of him. “I helped, now it’s your turn.”

He watched as a perplexed expression crossed her features. My turn? He was helping me, she thought. “Don’t argue.” He interjected before she could even utter a word. Chris stalked back to his seat, adjusting himself as he began to undo his belt. “What’re you waiting for, hm?” Chris tilted his head, jaw ticking with a smirk as he toyed with the buckle.

“Be a good girl and touch yourself.”

🏷️－୨ৎ－ @fratbrochrisgf @jetaimevous @sturniolosarethebest @stonermattsgf @st7rnioioss @endereies @pkfferoo @mqttittude @mattsbrowser @conspiracy-ash @sturnshood

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (7)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, blood, loss of parents, fever, betrayal; injuries; grief; self-loathing; crying; heavy revelations; tension

Author’s Note: Omg I'm over 50k into this story, I can’t believe it lol. I'm actually proud of myself. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The collections of brilliant greens and golden blossoms are spread out before you. The merge of all the wildflowers and herbs is sharp with pine and earth and mint and honey-like. Invigorating.

You kneel on a patch of mossy ground near the campfire. Bucky had lit it the second you got back. The fire is crackling.

Pine needles shimmer faintly with dew, their resinous tang sharp in your nose. Feverfew with its delicate flowers nestle beside clusters of clover blooms, their soft pink petals almost luminous in the flecked sunlight.

Contemplating with what you are going to begin, you run your fingers across goldenrod stems, their tiny mustard-colored buds crumbling slightly under your touch. The medicinal scent of yarrow stands proud among the rest.

The familiar smells and colors again bring echoes of your mother’s voice from the palace gardens. Patient and gentle as she taught you the properties of each plant.

The pale leaves of Lily’s Balm feel waxy on your fingers. They are good for soothing inflamed wounds and drawing out heat from infection. Feverfew against his overheated skin, lowering the fever, its green frilled edges so delicate and lace-like. Wild mint will ease his breathing and calm his body. Clover blooms for their gentle healing abilities. Yarrow and Goldenrod, both strong bases, to slow his bleeding. Wild thyme to cleanse, and pine, sticky with resin, pungent and purifying.

You exhale slowly, deliberately dragging air through your lungs. This is your time to be useful. To actually do something other than dwell in your sorrows and the losses you had to endure.

Bucky is slightly hovering in your line of vision. He is silent. But you don’t like him walking and shuffling around the way he does while the fever sweat hangs onto his brows and the freshly stained blood lingers on his shirt. It makes you queasy. You don’t know if he hid his injury due to oversight or simple stubbornness, but either way, he should not walk around like that.

“You should sit down,” you tell him while beginning to strip the yarrow leaves from their stems.

He doesn’t answer right away, so you glance up. He stands there stubbornly arms crossed over his chest, looking right back at you with a guarded expression. Though he definitely looks paler than he should be. And you avoid looking at the blood stain on purpose.

“M’ fine,” he grumbles, brushing you off. And before you get to an answer, he continues. “Your side,” he counters, voice gravelly. “Let me check it first.”

“I am not the one bleeding.”

His lips purse. “You callin’ me color blind, darlin’? I know what I'm seein’. That’s definitely red there.”

Well, maybe you did bleed through Bucky’s bandage, but that will have to wait.

“We can get to that later.”

Bucky takes a step closer, shadows flickering across his face from the low fire. “Princess-”

“No. Now sit,” you instruct, cutting him off and surprising even yourself with your tone.

Bucky is silent for a beat. You hear him shifting but stay focused on your herbs. “You tellin’ me what to do now, princess?” There is a sparkle of amusement in his voice and in the tug of the corner of his mouth.

Briefly glancing back at him, you meet his eyes with a steadiness you don’t quite feel. “No,” you tell him. “I am telling you I would not know what to do if you passed out.”

He scoffs, clearly offended by the suggestion. “Gonna take more than that to knock me out, darlin’.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “Humor me?”

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing, trying to decide whether to argue further. But then he relents with a low huff, lowering himself onto a flat rock by the fire basically in front of you. The movement is slow and you catch the wince he tries to hide. But he looks more relaxed sitting down.

Satisfied, you turn back to your work. The yarrow leaves are crunched between your fingers. Their pungent smell rises while you release the healing oils from the leaves and add them to a small tin cup filled with clean water from the stream.

The goldenrod comes next. The yellow of the flowers vivid against the darker-turning liquid.

Furrowing your brow slightly, you swirl your head around to look for something that might help you prepare and stir the herbs. And then you remember. Hurriedly, you get up and walk over to the discarded cloak, the one you had laid over Bucky in his sleep. There’s something safely tucked inside that you can use at the moment.

It’s a dagger. It’s not as lengthy as Bucky’s, but it is enough. You took it from the fight. Obviously, it is not the very same one you picked up to throw at Rumlow, because that one is likely still buried in his body, but you found it lying on the ground and picked it up.

You just did not find something useful to do with it. Until now.

You walk back to the herbs and Bucky at the fire.

Since Bucky’s gaze followed you, he catches sight of the blade immediately and looks up at you in surprise. “You kept that?”

Not looking back at him, you settle down and focus on slicing the leaves of Lily’s Balm into thin ribbons. “Didn’t know whether I would have to save your life again,” you quip.

You don’t know where that came from. Perhaps having a real purpose for once is making you regain something akin to confidence.

The sound that follows though, startles you. It’s a laugh. Bucky’s laugh. Sudden and loud and gruff, lifting somewhere far within his chest. It’s so unbridled, stemming from surprise. And it is utterly captivating. It makes your hands halt. Never have you heard him laugh before. Really laugh. Not like this. You are entranced. The sound floats for a while and you never want it to stop. It makes his voice to a soft glow of mirth.

You stare at him, half amazed, half in disbelief.

But he isn’t even looking at you. His head is tilted to the ground, shaking. He’s still chuckling to himself. Lips pulled into a wide grin. “Aren’t you full of surprises, darlin’.”

You watch him for a few seconds longer. The corners of your mouth lift and there is nothing you can do to stop them. “I am glad that this is entertaining for you.”

Turning back to the leaves, you try to calm the fast pace of your heart. The blade slices cleanly through the stems and leaves. But you can’t really focus on that. The shake of Bucky’s shoulders in a silent laugh catches your vision. His laughter keeps ringing in your mind. And you still want to hear it again.

Pine resin is sticky on your skin, the sap gleaming amber in the sunlight. You crush the prepared leaves into the dark liquor and mix it into a fine paste, adding the pine resin to create a thick, fragrant balm. The yarrow adds a cooling element, its sharp scent cutting through the heavier tones. It is perfect to stop the bleeding and prevent infection.

You take a quick glance over at Bucky. His head is bowed, forearms resting on his knees, but his eyes are fixed on you, sharp despite his fever. There is something quiet in the way he watches you. Astonishment. Curiosity.

“Where did you learn that?” he speaks up quietly, as if using a normal voice would disturb something intimate. There is something about the way he uses his voice and winds his tone, that almost makes you believe he is admiring what you are doing. As if this is a wonder.

You don’t look up at him, hoping he won’t notice the slight flinch in your fingers. Or the pang in your chest. “My mother taught me.” Your voice is even quieter than his has been.

He doesn’t say more. Perhaps he doesn’t even have to see the pang in your chest. He heard it in your voice.

You start the second tincture, the one for him to drink. Feverfew, wild thyme, clover blooms, and wild mint. Combined they will help ease his fever and cleanse his body.

Your hands almost move on their own, preparing the leaves. On instinct. It feels unexpected. But it makes you realize just how important those moments with your mother really were to you. And now they turn so monumental, it makes your chest close in on itself. You carry this from your old world. Something useful. Something that has survived of her even if everything else now lays in ruins.

Your breath trembles on the cusp of grief. But you get a hold of it.

Another glance over at Bucky makes something cold skate down your back, leaving a trail of tension.

Sweat accumulates again on his forehead despite the coolness of the forest. His lips are pressed together. The bloodstain on his right shoulder has again spread further than you hoped, darkening the brown leather of his armor. His fever is climbing. That’s not good.

You rush through the second tincture, mixing everything in water again and heating it over the fire at the same time. The liquor is thick and green with a sharp scent. Carefully, you pour it into another small tin cup, making sure it’s not too hot for him to drink.

Rising, you cross the short distance to him and crouch down again.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks immediately, eying it warily.

“It will help you relax and lower the fever,” you assure him gently. “Drink it.”

He leans forward slightly, skepticism written all over his face. He grimaces faintly at the smell and you have to hold back an amused smile. For a man like him, he surely acts like a diva.

“You sure you’re not tryin’a poison me, darlin’?” he drawls, humor winding through his words. However, if you’re not wrong, you can detect a hint of nervousness.

It makes your heart sink but you manage to play lightly, rolling your eyes. “You are the reason I am alive, so I am pretty sure poisoning you would be counterproductive.”

His brows inch upward as he looks at you with an unreadable, but intense expression. With a deep sigh, he then takes the cup from your hands and downs it in one swift motion. His face twists with disgust and he swipes the back of his hand against his lips, releasing a cough. “Tastes like dirt,” he rasps.

Biting back a smile, you get up to retrieve the balm for his wound. “I think you will live.”

You watch him set down the cup with a heavy sigh, the lines of his face softening.

“You don’t gotta do this, darlin’.”

“You have done it for me,” you retort, walking back over to him and kneeling down. This time with the tin cup holding the balm for his wound.

Bucky lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. He watches you with intrigued eyes. But there still is that nervousness surrounding him.

“Let me see,” you request, almost timidly, but willing strength into your voice.

He shifts where he sits on the rock, clearly uncomfortable with the request. His jaw is hard. Muscles are tense beneath the bloodied remains of his shirt.

“You are still bleeding,” you acknowledge more firmly. “Take it off.”

His brows rise at your sudden authority, but there is amusement in the motion. A smirk curves his lips despite himself. He doesn’t make a move to do what you say though.

“Gettin’ a little too bossy there, for my likin’, princess,” he teases, each word dripping with sly delight.

“Bucky.” Your tone turns soft again, but your resolve remains firm. His shoulder is worrying you. “Please.”

After a tense moment of quiet, he drags out a long and sharp breath through his nose and straightens up. With a grimace, he slowly shrugs off his brown armor. His shirt underneath is sticking to his torso, dark with sweat and dried but also fresh blood.

You swallow hard as he peels the fabric away from his shoulder, revealing a part of the wound he’s been keeping to himself.

The gash extends out from his shoulder and dips slightly towards his upper chest. It’s an arc of torn and angry flesh. A mass of swelling blood crusts around the edges under a layer of sweat, laying a dreary tapestry of red and brown on the skin below. It looks puckered and bumpy, suggesting that the blade that pierced him must have been of serrated or distorted nature upon impact.

You might have stared at it a second too long because Bucky lets out an uncomfortable cough.

“Lucky swing,” he says tersely, to make this a little less awkward. It does not quite work out, because now you are staring at his face oddly. To you, this does not look like someone got lucky, considering the fact that the man responsible for this is dead now and Bucky has to carry this around.

But what snaps your attention back to the wound is the heat you feel radiating off it. And it confirms what you already suspected - infection is setting in. The skin around the wound is inflamed, making it glisten ominously.

However, what makes your hands tremble lightly in discomfort is the fact that you won’t be able to access every part of that gash with his shirt on.

“You, uhm-” you start nervously, unsure of how he will react. “I am going to need you to take your shirt off as well.”

He stares at you.

“I will not be able to reach everything like this,” you explain, still timid.

He sighs, dropping his head a fraction, before slowly starting to peel his shirt off. He winces with the movements of his arms, fabric tugging against drying blood.

The full extent of his wound looks even uglier. You try your best to ignore the pale lines of violence scattered across his skin, especially his other shoulder - the scars you caught glimpses of at the river. Your gaze quickly moves to the flesh injury.

You don’t want him to feel uncomfortable. Well, not more than he already seems to be.

“Lean back for me,” you instruct, not wanting to waste more time, but keeping your voice kind.

There definitely is something surreal about telling Bucky what to do. You’ve been doing that basically your whole life - giving instructions and following the ones you’ve been told by people higher than you - but with Bucky, it feels different. The words taste odd in your mouth.

Bucky hesitates. His lips press into a thin line and he eyes the tin cup gloomily. He looks as though he might argue but then he thinks better of it. Reluctantly, he shifts his weight and braces himself against a tree behind him.

You dip your fingers into the balm, the cool, thick paste sticking to your skin. Bucky watches you, his whole body full of tension. A tremor passes through his throat as he forces a breath past the lump there.

He is not used to this. To being cared for in this way, to having someone’s full attention on his pain. That much is clear.

“This might sting,” you warn, voice quiet.

He grunts.

Steeling yourself, you let your hand hover over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

He grunts again, giving you a tight nod. You try to ignore the way he watches you. He seems to be bracing for more than the sting of the tincture.

Warming the balm between your fingers, you press it gently against the torn flesh. The scent of the wild herbs is strong in the air.

Bucky goes incredibly rigid. His breath hitches sharply. His eyes flash for a fraction of a second before settling into a void you can’t decode.

Even the forest around you seems quieter while you spread the self-made lotion on his shoulder. You are precise in your sweeps, careful not to meet any of his skin that doesn’t need your touch.

The more you work, the steadier he gets. He doesn’t make a sound, but the discomfort doesn’t entirely leave his body. Discomfort of pain or vulnerability, you can’t tell. Probably both. His hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides. But you do notice the few relieved sighs he lets slip unintentionally after a few swipes over his skin.

The wound resists at first, but you move your fingers with patience and caution, in even strokes. Quickly, the ointment begins to calm the irritated areas, drawing out some of the heat.

Bucky’s chest rises in a deep inhale against your fingers and you avoid the almost magnetic pull his piercing eyes have on you. He watches you so intently, all you can do is to keep your gaze on your task and resist whatever heat simmers in his stare.

The herbs already seem to ease the swelling a little bit and you are confident that they will stave off the infection. It makes you breathe easier, despite the intimacy of your current situation. You’re so close to him, asking so much of him, and with every careful sweep across his torn skin, you are getting more aware of it.

Then, without warning, one of his hands reaches up and wraps around your wrist gently. Making you still mid-motion.

“Stop,” he says quietly, his voice rough but not unkind.

You freeze startled, blinking at him. “What?”

“Keep some of that for yourself,” he insists, slowly pulling your hand away from his shoulder. “You need it.”

You take a moment to consider what he even means. Then, you shake your head. “I do not-”

“You don’t wanna argue with me, darlin’. Keep the rest for yourself,” he repeats, more sternly this time. His eyes darken into something bordering on concern.

You stare at him. And then you don’t. Eyes going to his now-covered wound, and the tin cup in your hand that still holds some of the paste you made.

Biting pressure makes your heart seem to seize.

You didn’t even consider using the balm for yourself. Your side is still stinging. The bandage is still red with blood. But you did not spare it a single thought. Did not think about caring for it in the way you did for Bucky’s wound.

Every leaf, every petal, every drop of resin has been meant for him. The idea of keeping any for your own wound has never so much as crossed your mind. You haven’t thought about it consciously, but now it is glaringly obvious. You would use every last drop of the balm for him without hesitation. There’s something wrong about that, something you dislike confessing even to yourself.

Bucky is still watching you with his brows drawn together. He nods toward the tin cup in your hand but keeps his eyes on you. “If you knew how to do that the whole time, then why don’t do it earlier? For yourself?”

You take a pause. His hand is still warm around your wrist, basically lying on his lap. Sharp eyes are gauging your reaction.

“I just- It did not come to my mind,” you admit, shaking your head dismissively. “But it is of little consequence now.”

His expression is hard. Not the kind of hard you knew his features to hold when you met him. It’s not meant for you directly. But it still is there because of you, because of the way you think. His jaw shifts, muscles moving in tense vibrations, grappling with words he isn’t sure he should say. “That’s bullshit,” he voices with a stiffness in his tone.

The blunt language of this man is an insult on its own. But the meaning of his words still hit you.

A shaky breath falls from your lips.

Never once have you thought of soothing the pain of your own conscience or making a balm for yourself.

Your side has ached, the wound pulsing and throbbing and hurting, but it faded to insignificance as soon as you saw the streaks of sweat trickling from him and the blood blooming across his shirt. Every instinct has driven you to help him.

And why? Because you somehow deserve the agony, don’t you? The thought is bitter in your chest. You don’t believe you deserve the care, the relief of healing herbs, the preservation of your own body.

You haven’t been of use to him, needing his protection at every waking moment. You killed a man. You failed to stay out of harm’s way like Bucky had told you to. That’s what got you injured in the first place. Stupid girl.

It is shameful to think of how invulnerable you have thought him to be. You relied on him so utterly, so selfishly, leaned on him without a care in the world, and laid all your troubles upon his already burdened shoulders. How many times did you assume he is untouchable, indestructible? And now here he is, bleeding, just like everybody else, and keeping it to himself. Because you haven’t been enough.

This is your fault. You relied on him too much, demanded too much, not even considering the toll.

Darkness engulfs those thoughts.

Your throat feels bound. Your heart works in stuttered pauses. Breathing doesn’t feel like relief. Swallowing doesn’t drag down the tide of self-loathing making its way up your spine.

Bucky’s thumb brushes against your pulse and it snaps your attention right back to him. You pull away from his hold and he releases your wrist immediately. Though his hand retreats to his side rather slowly.

“Whatever you’re thinkin’, don’t” he states rather calmly but somehow still so intensely. His voice is so low it seems to be scraping against something hard.

You meet his eyes then. They are insistent. Resolved. Sharp. They make you attempt another try to gulp down the knot in your throat but it doesn’t work.

“What?” you ask weakly.

His persistent eyes remain fixed on you. “I know that look. Stop it.”

A choking sensation cinches tight around your throat. It is strangling and stifling and makes you want to turn away. But he somehow manages to keep you on the spot.

“I-”

“Don’t,” repeats, softer this time. His hand twitches at his side and he takes a quick glance at the quiver in your own fingers. “This isn’t on you, got it?” His voice is rough with conviction, so fierce.

His gaze still is so relentlessly focused on you to get his point across.

It makes you want to vomit. His words push against the very flimsy barrier of defenses that you have constructed around your guilt. He sees right through it. His gaze makes it see-through. Ineffective. Worthless. Fruitless. Just like how you feel.

“It is not about that,” you try to defend yourself, but it comes out with a frail voice.

“Yeah, it is,” he maintains. “Whatever you’re punishin’ yourself for. Stop. It ain’t gonna get you nowhere.”

The tension in your shoulders doesn’t fully ebb, but something grows warmer around you.

Letting out a long, reluctant sigh, you let your shoulders slump with surrender. Bucky’s gaze softens, something like gratitude crossing his face.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he says quietly, his voice sincere and grounding. “For this.” There is no bravado, just a genuine gratefulness.

You shake your head, heat flooding your features. Your knees ache when you shift and the pain in your side kicks in again.

Bucky stands up slowly and his expression shifts, something resolute settling in his features. “Now,” he announces. “Let me help you with that.”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden change in his tone.

“You don’t-”

He cuts you off with a raised brow and a gesture that brings back his commanding nature. “Sit down,” he orders, pointing you to the stone he sat on moments before. “And better do it now. Because that’s not lookin’ too good.” He throws a concerned look at the tear in your dress that reveals the bloodied dressing he put on.

You open your mouth but his eyes are authoritative enough. You stand up, only to reluctantly sit down again on the very same rock he’s been sitting on. You calculate your movements, to not show him how painful it actually is.

“You always interrupt me. That is not very nice,” you exclaime, perhaps to make his attention on you waver, or just to throw him off with another topic and distract you or him from what he is going to do. Or maybe you should really be annoyed at the way he doesn’t let you finish speaking. But somehow him constantly interrupting you even feels endearing in some kind of way you can’t explain, considering the fact that he only ever does it when he knows he won’t like the words coming from your mouth. Maybe because you tend to talk yourself small.

Bucky’s lips quirk into that maddeningly amused smirk as he takes the tin cup out of your hands. “Not used to people interruptin’ you, princess?” The title carries no cruelty, only an enjoyable warmth that causes a tingling sensation on your skin.

You huff. “Well, I am getting used to it now,” you grumble.

And there it is again. The sound that has caught you off guard before. That laugh. Full-bodied, sonorous, and so utterly disarming in its power over you. It makes its way into your chest. His head is tipped slightly backward, exposing faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.

You find yourself staring breathlessly. It’s a sound so human, so rare, so special, that you wish you could bottle it up and keep it safe.

You’re mesmerized by the perfect way his teeth are gleaming at his wide grin.

He catches your gaze and you quickly avert your own, neck turning hot.

Bucky shakes his head, an amused look on his face he obviously tries to stifle. “Come on. You made me listen. Now it’s your turn.”

You sigh, while Bucky moves closer to you in a crouched position. His eyes move to your side and his expression shifts to something far more serious.

“Let me see,” he orders, tone gentle, but somehow not meant to go against it.

The weariness in your body wins out. Or rather, his voice wins out. You pull apart the torn pieces of your dress to give him enough access to the makeshift bandage wrapped around your side. His brow furrows as he takes it in.

“You should’ve said somethin’,” he mutters, seemingly more to himself somehow.

“I was otherwise occupied.”

He snorts, clearly unimpressed with your lame excuse. “Bein’ the stubborn girl you are.”

“Do you feel a change yet? Is the fever going down?”you inquire after a beat.

“You tryin’a distract me, princess?” he hums with amusement. His lip tugs upward lightly.

“I might.” You guess, you can't directly tell him you're genuinely concerned about whether he's feeling any better yet. He certainly appears better, however. He ceased sweating, his eyes are focused and his actions are more precise than before. It causes you to inhale deeply. A sigh that is full of relief.

Bucky breathes out a small laugh. “Don’t know what it is that you did there exactly, but it worked,” he acknowledges with a lighter voice. There is something like disbelief in his tone. Delight. Appreciation. That tiny hint of admiration that seems grow an inch or two.

You watch him carefully remove the fabric around your wound, to look at the injury beneath it. His brows immediately cease together tightly. Tension draws along the lines of his face, knotting his jaw. His face is hard again.

He doesn’t waste time, dipping his fingers into the salve you prepared, the thick paste now covering his calloused fingertips. His other hand brushes against your soft skin as he rather unnecessarily helps you peel back the fabric of your dress on your side.

His other hand moves to your gash so slowly, reverent almost. The first touch to your wound makes you hiss through your teeth and he lets you adjust to the feeling before spreading it around gingerly.

Blue eyes glance up to your face, watching closely for any sign of discomfort as his fingers move over your side, slowing his pace, when he sees your brows twitch, and your breath hitch.

The light of the day shimmers faintly against the angry red margins of your wound getting deliberately covered by the dark paste.

The trail of the many intertwined scents goes for your nose, mingling with faint metallic tangs of blood.

The mixture tingles against your skin, cooling and soothing the angry redness.

It’s a distraction from the fact that he hasn’t bothered to put his shirt back on.

He’s still shirtless.

The forest air kisses bare flesh. The light brings a glimmer of sweat to stand out like bronze, bringing to life the scars and distortions of his muscles. You try and tear your gaze away, dizzy with heat as it spreads over your neck and cheeks, but curiosity is what pulls your eyes back.

He is so very close in front of you. You basically see everything. Each of those lines across his naked chest and shoulders has its own tale you are sure you will never be told. You look away again, but your gaze goes hopping back.

He’s so mesmerizing in every way. He was bleeding in front of you just a moment before, but he still looks so strong. So bulky, despite the fact that he can’t eat much out here and keep his muscles trained because he has to keep an eye on you.

“You’re starin’,” he remarks quietly, not looking up. Fixed on applying the ointment.

The next beat of your heart skips. “I was not-”

“You were,” he confirms, though his tone isn’t accusing. It’s rather light. Lighter than you would have imagined. Amusement underlines his statement.

You bite your cheek, seeking to say something. “I was just thinking,” you mumble, half-heartedly attempting a defense.

“That right?” Soft and subtle humor winds around his tone. He doesn’t glance up, still thoroughly smearing more of the balm over your skin, respecting your reactions. Concentration on his features.

Silence hangs in the air, only interrupted by the rustle of clumps of leaves and a softly wafting breeze.

You hesitate. Your heart gallops in your ears. You tentatively nod at the tin cup in his hand. “Maybe this might help with your scars?” you ask, voice so soft, they almost turn into a whisper. Your fingers are clammy. It’s a feeble question.

Bucky’s hand stills. For a moment, you think he might pull away, but he does not. His finger continues to sweep but a shadow of thought passes over his face. It is not hostile. Not repelling. Just contemplative. Maybe a little surprised.

Then, there is a faint shake of his head. “They don’t hurt anymore,” he says finally. There is a subtle thickness to his voice. But he seems to have control over it.

“We could try,” you say quietly, almost in a hopeful way. So full of good intention, it makes Bucky freeze again.

He huffs out a tiny and gasping laugh. It reaches your collarbone, grazing it faintly. His head drops as though it has become too heavy for him momentarily.

“It won’t work, darlin’.” He says it so softly. Carrying an almost apologetic tone, sympathy wringing his voice dry. His thumb lightly swipes over your skin right above where the wound sits as if it is you who needs the grounding.

Your eyes move to the forest floor. There is a stillness in the air between you, unsaid things hovering in the void. The only sound is the fire crackling undisturbed.

The balm is starting to cover your wound, fragrant with mint and resin, its healing properties also somehow meant for wounds deeper than skin.

The firelight dances across his scars, making them look almost alive. Like memories etched too deep to fade.

Timidly, your quiet voice breaks the silence. “How long?”

Bucky’s brows twitch further together, lips pressing into a thin line. He watches his fingers move over your skin. You see the glimmer of reluctance in his eyes, the internal debate waging behind them.

You immediately regret asking. “You do not have to answer that,” you rush to say. “I apologize for asking.”

He exhales slowly, a sigh heavy with something unnamable rising and falling with his chest. After a long, deliberate pause, his voice is almost indifferent. “Five years.”

The simple answer hits you harder than expected. Five years. A timeline begins forming in your mind, grim shadows stretching across those years - the kind of scars that can’t always be seen.

Your back tightens as a cold shiver winds through you.

Five years. You find it hard to process. Five years of carrying whatever - whoever - has carved those scars into his body.

“You were a soldier,” you express quietly, voice so small, almost fragile.

His eyes are detached when he nods once. It’s a simple gesture and yet so complex. “I was.” His voice is clipped, but not harsh. He lets out a sound resembling a cough.

You needed the confirmation. Needed to hear it from his own lips. It solidified something inside you.

You feel your breath grow shallow, thoughts going into a haze. You have heard the bitterness in his voice whenever your father was mentioned, words tinged with disdain. He didn’t hide his contempt. He even let it out on you. But it begins to take shape. Those scars. The way he no longer claims the title of soldier as if that privilege was taken from him along with something far more precious.

He still carries himself with that form of discipline, even when standing still. Always ready for the next hit to strike. But he tried to shrug off the remnants of that past as a soldier - a soldier in your father’s army, no less.

Something has happened. Something shattering. Something traumatic.

A shiver of unease crawls along your spine, prickling every nerve.

Your father always held you to impossible standards. His love was a conditional thing that you were forever grasping to earn. He has always been a man of authority, his word was a law, and his decisions were never questioned. But there were cracks in that facade, fractures that you have chosen to ignore a long time ago. And now, those cracks are gaping, yawning wide, and you are meant to fall into them.

Your gaze falls back to the marks on his shoulder. Throat feeling constricted.

“Did my father have a hand in that?” Your voice is wavering. Anxiety gnaws at your chest, each heartbeat heavy with dread.

Bucky’s gaze lifts to you. He looks you in the eyes so intensely. Whatever he’s thinking remains locked behind his gaze, hidden from reach. But he seems to be contemplating whether to shield you from the truth.

“Yes,” he admits then, the single word falling like a stone into the silence.

It struck you with breathtaking force. The earth seems to have slipped beneath your feet and the world tilts, causing a sudden strain in your chest with the awareness that came.

You want to deny it. You want to argue that your father wasn’t capable of such treachery. But deep down, you know better. The cracks have always been there. Carefully tucked behind his walls.

Your throat is a clenched fist, made of muscle, gripping hard against the swell of emotion threatening to rise. Every breath that tries making it up your throat is only getting squeezed out by that fist.

Tears are gathering behind your eyes, the sting of them uncomfortable.

Bucky watches you. He is gauging your reaction with a poignant gentleness - not cruel, not gloating. Just honest. His expression softens, guilt shadowing his features as he takes in your reaction. He clearly does not revel in your heartbreak. It’s clear he regrets having to say it.

You fidget with your fingers. It takes Bucky finishing attending to your wound - smearing the last bit of the balm onto it and dressing it again - until you get a hold of your voice again.

“What happened?” Your voice cracks. Part of you wants to withdraw the question, fearing what he might answer. Or if he even will.

He sighs again. A hand moves to slide over his face as he sits back down, keeping the tin cup in his hand. His forearms lean on his knees, head tilted to the ground. He stays like that for a little while.

He only lifts his head for a second to see the shake in your hands.

“We were in battle. Rumlow and his men went behind our backs. Slaughtered every standin’ soldier. Got me real good, but I wasn’t quite dead. Learned to stay real quiet. Lyin’ on the ground, and all.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. He can’t meet your eyes.

You don’t know if you’re still breathing. It feels like you aren’t.

Your hands clench instinctively, grasping for something that might steady you, but the air only offers shifting shadows.

“And my father-” you choke on a swallow. “He-”

Bucky nods once, sharp and terse. His jaw locks, bracing for words he’d rather not say. “He covered it up.”

An intense pain builds in your heart, burning through the last traces of your faith in the man who has raised you.

The muscles in your face are trembling and there is that stubborn pulse inside your chest where that sob you won’t release tries to carve its way free.

Your father had a hand in Bucky’s pain.

Not just the scars on Bucky’s body, but the ones that run far deeper, the ones so deeply embedded into his very being. A soldier, abandoned by the kingdom he served, betrayed by the very man who should have protected him. Betrayed by the very man whose daughter he’s now been forced to protect. It is such a cruel irony, you can’t breath.

You feel like the air is trying to choke you. Gravity itself seems to conspire against you, pulling you down into the earth’s depths where the air is thin and hope does not exist. It slips between your lungs before it can soothe you.

A picture forms you haven’t dared to assemble until now.

And it makes tears well in your eyes. Pain stabbing and stabbing and stabbing your heart to death. You blink furiously, unwilling to let them fall. You can’t look at him. Not even closely.

Bucky told you about his mother and sister. He told you that your mother sent them away for their own safety. But he didn’t tell you why they were in danger in the first place.

Now you understand.

Your heart races, seeming to try and outrun the collapse of your world. It hammers against your ribs like fists on a locked door. The more it hammers, the more chaotic it gets, beating to the tempo of misery.

“No,” you whisper, lips wobbling. Tears cling to your lashes. Your chest heaves with the effort to breathe through the pain.

Bucky’s brows are deeply furrowed. His eyes never left you, teeth grinding together. His features are full of a struggle he tries to break out of.

Bucky Barnes was a soldier, abandoned by the kingdom he served, betrayed by the very man who should have protected him. And worse, threatened into silence by the safety of his family.

“No,” you repeat, the word a single quiver. “Your mother, and- and your sister-”

Bucky’s head drops. His hand moves over his hair. His breath leaves him with a harsh, strained sound.

Your father has threatened them, using their lives as leverage to keep Bucky silent about whatever horrors he had endured. Because exposing the truth would have cost Bucky everything he held dear.

Bucky’s eyes are the confirmation of what you are already puzzling together.

And you can’t look at him any longer. A choking sound leaves you. Your gaze moves to the flames of the fire lazily flickering upwards into the sky. The heat sears in your eyes but you don’t look away.

If you weren’t sitting already, you’d be lying on the ground by now. Your muscles are unsure whether to hold firm or buckle under the pressure. A tremor starts in your knees, making its way upward like a warning your body already understands.

How could the man you once idolized be capable of such cruelty? And how has Bucky borne it all, carrying all of this silently, without breaking?

Shame prickles under your ribs, seeping through every breath. It’s like a slow erosion happening inside you. A sense that you are both too much and never enough. You burn, consumed by something that leaves no smoke but scars all the same. Each breath fans the flames. No matter how full or brittle.

Bucky’s eyes burn you down and you can’t help but meet them again.

His face is softened in a way you’ve never seen before - not even in those rare moments when his walls seemed to crumble just enough for something warmer. There are shadows in those blues but they lock onto yours with a gentleness that has your muscles trembling.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye and you swipe at it hurriedly. You try desperately to pull your thoughts together, but there is nothing left to be done. The dam has already burst. A sob leaves you.

Another tear follows, streaking down your cheek, hot and bitter, filled with all the hurt that has just been released between you.

“Hey,” Bucky says quietly, a gritted note in his voice full of kindness. “No.”

A large, calloused hand cups your face, his thumb swiping the damp trail across your cheekbone.

The unexpected tenderness makes your breath quake, and more shame creeps onto your skin for having allowed yourself to shatter in the open.

“C’mon don’t do that,” he murmurs under his breath. He sounds pained by the sight of you. The sight of your tears. Again. Like something in him is crying out for an answer to your broken heart.

He leans closer, shifting on the dirty ground, to brush his other hand gently against the side of your jaw, framing your face between rough palms. His palms feel warm in contrast to the hot current running through your body, but he holds on steadily.

Bucky tilts your chin enough for you to meet his gaze, blue irises that grapple with guilt, but also something more subdued. Something soft and real you aren’t sure you even earned from him.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. Please,” he pleads near a whisper and it rips something off inside you.

The pain in your heart only seems to get stronger. You want to claim him wrong, that if anyone should rightfully feel grief or tears for the pain they carry, it is him. But the words refuse to leave your throat. All that comes is a strangled sound, a whimper, a sob, followed by a few more sweltering tears.

His thumbs continue to diligently brush your cheeks once more, painstakingly slow as if erasing the evidence of your hurt could undo it altogether.

“I mean it, darlin’,” he implores quietly. His voice is still rough. “Don’t.”

It does not feel easy though. You just found out how much has been robbed from him, how your father has contributed to it all, the man who has loomed over your life like a shadow not easily warded off with a single light. The personification of cold judgment.

And still, Bucky is softhearted and steady-eyed against your breaking moment, offering kindness and comfort.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper thickly. “I am so sorry.” Your voice is fractured. It feels inadequate. Hollow. Not enough.

Bucky’s thumbs rest against your temples as if trying to reground you.

He bites down hard on a slightly trembling lip, the muscle in his cheek standing out sharply. For a moment, his eyes seem to look for a distraction somewhere far away, somewhere only he can see.

When they return to you, there is a pool of his own apology shimmering within them, deep enough to drown in.

He releases a gruff breath. “Not on you. This is not your fault, Y/n.” His voice is firm but also breaking with a sorrow he can’t fully express. “Wasn’t exactly easy on you,” he says lowly, gravelly. He clears his throat. “I was wrong. About you.”

You shake your head, still wedged between his hands. Your lips are wobbling, your voice in cracks. “You had every right.”

“No.” His voice is resolute. Tension pulls at his jaw. His brows almost meet each other. He shakes his head, letting his hands slide into your hair. “I didn’t.”

You sniffle. A harsh, wavering breath falls from your lips. A sob crawls up your spine. “I do not blame you for hating me.”

Bucky’s hands against your face go still. They stiffen. He even seems to flinch ever so faintly and it makes you look at him briefly. He bites back a dry swallow as if something wedged there might never leave. Something urgent pulls at his jaw, making it tick.

“I don’t hate you,” he leans his head in, looking you directly in the eyes. “Don’t hate you, princess. Alright? Don’t think that. God, please don’t think that.”

Your hands are still shaking in your lap and Bucky’s own hands fall from your face for an instant so he can trail the pads of his fingers along your wrist.

“I’m the one bein’ sorry, sweetheart.” His voice falters, a huskiness catching in his tone.

Your chest is swollen from the hard work of breathing against its pressure, while new tears still threaten to slip out of the corners of your eyes. But Bucky stays close. Still kneeling right in front of you.

“Look at me, please.”

You do, although your tears blur your vision.

“I’ll say it again,” he murmurs, swallowing dryly. “Please don’t cry, darlin’. Don’t cry.”

His eyes hold the pain he is too broken to voice.

“Yes, you will rise from the ashes, but the burning comes first. For this part, darling, you must be brave.”

- Kalen Dion

Part eight

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd

[er1nne]

dr robby helps you in a time of crisis ♡

author's note : throwback to when john carter needed help putting in a IV, more john carter specific fics to come! enjoy

(do not copy or plagiarize, original work)

The Pitt is wrecked.

Not in the literal, structural sense—but in that raw, unspoken way that lingers after everything goes wrong all at once. The adrenaline’s drained, but the chaos hasn’t cleared. It hangs in the air like smoke—thick, invisible, choking. Voices bounce down the corridor, overlapping—code calls, short tempers, the dull whir of overworked machines. Someone’s arguing about intubation two beds down. Someone else is crying, quietly, behind a curtain.

Your scrubs are streaked with blood and iodine—not yours. You don’t know whose anymore. You stopped keeping track two hours ago. The sleeves are damp, the collar stretched, and you can still feel the ghost of someone’s pulse under your fingertips from the last room you left.

You push into a curtained trauma bay, closing the partition behind you with a soft swish—just to shut the noise out for thirty seconds. The patient on the bed is sedated, intubated, and still. Chart says stable, but barely. You’ve been told to place a second IV. Routine. Simple.

But your hands are trembling.

You breathe in slow through your nose, eyes on the tray. Alcohol swab. IV needle. Tape. You know this. You’ve done it a hundred times. Your fingers twitch slightly as you glove up.

You’ve done this before. It’s fine.

You find the vein. Clean the site. Draw back.

Then hesitate.

Your angle’s off. You know it is. But your body won’t move right. The hum of The Pitt is still in your head, buzzing like static, and your chest feels just tight enough to throw you off.

“Too shallow.”

The voice cuts through the fog before you hear the curtain open.

You flinch—not from the words, but from the timing.

He says nothing else at first—just stands beside you, his presence like an anchor dropped in the middle of the storm. Steady. Centered. The air around him seems quieter somehow, like the chaos of The Pitt can’t quite touch him here. Like it doesn’t dare.

You swallow hard. Your fingers twitch on the catheter, your grip not as solid as it should be. The room feels too warm and too cold all at once, the hum of the vitals monitor sinking into the ringing in your ears.

“I’ve got it,” you manage, voice stiff, barely hiding the shake. Not defensive—just too tired to pretend. You don’t even believe yourself.

“I know.”

He says it like fact. No judgment. No pressure. Just something still, quiet, and sure. Like he does know. Like he’s seen it before.

He steps closer—not crowding, not performing. Just there. And somehow, that’s more grounding than if he’d grabbed the needle himself.

His hand lifts, slow and precise, and his fingers brush the back of your wrist. Barely a touch. Just enough contact to steady the axis of your grip.

“Anchor deeper,” he says quietly. “Let the vein come to you.”

You blink, nod, reposition. Your body listens to him faster than your mind can keep up.

The needle slides in—clean. Smooth. Blood return.

You exhale like you’ve been underwater. Your shoulders ease down from where they’d been locked near your ears. You press the tape over the IV, gentle now, almost reverent with how deliberate your movements are. Like the whole thing could fall apart if you breathe too loud. You peel off your gloves slowly this time, not in frustration or embarrassment—but with care. Like you’re coming back into your body.

Robby doesn’t say told you so. He doesn’t step away. He just stays there. Standing beside you. Watching the monitor with that same unreadable calm—the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

You glance up at him, eyes flicking sideways.

“Thank you,” you say, softer now. Real.

“Good stick,” he says. Low. Almost too low to catch over the beeping monitor.

It lands soft—like a compliment passed between breaths. Like something he didn’t mean to say out loud, but did anyway.

Your chest eases. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them—steady, quiet, like he meant it. Like it was okay to take a moment and acknowledge something done right.

You glance at him, just long enough to check for judgment, critique—something. But it’s not there. He’s composed, calm. Just watching with the same quiet focus he brings to everything else. Not clinical exactly, but measured. Level. Like he sees you—not just the task.

You hesitate, pulse steady now but your throat tight. “Thank you, Dr. Robinavitch.”

The name hangs awkwardly in the air between you. Formal. Too formal. You know it the second you say it.

But he doesn’t correct you right away.

He just holds your gaze a second longer than necessary, head tilted slightly—like he’s deciding something.

Then, finally—voice low, deliberate, just above a whisper: “Robby is fine.”

You barely have time to process it before someone calls his name from outside the curtain—sharp, urgent.

He turns toward the voice, already moving, already slipping back into motion. But right before he pulls the curtain aside, he glances back at you with a tight lipped smile—quick, unreadable, and gone in a breath.

And just like that, he disappears down the hall. You let out the air you didn’t realize you were holding.

Just enough to breathe again. Just enough to feel yourself settle. Then you turn back to the patient—heart steady, hands quiet.

But the space beside you still feels occupied.

[anything-pov]

can you write a fic where reader is deaf and Emily learn sign language for them??

Enjoy!!

Prentiss Signs

Truthfully? You never expected her to try. You couldn't just expect something like that from someone, or at least you'd come to learn that.

Emily was already so busy, with jetting off to cases, working long nights, leading the team, carrying the weight of so many lives. You'd told her more than once, "It's okay... you don't have to."

And you meant it.

But Emily Prentiss has a stubborn streak, and she doesn't do anything halfway. So when she showed up one evening with a stack of notecards, her hair a mess and her jacket over one arm, you just stared.

She dropped her keys, and her bag, and signed (clumsily, but surprisingly clearly), "Hi. I want to learn." You blinked, then blinked again.

She smiled, nervous and unsure, and added aloud, slow enough for you to read her lips, "I know I got that wrong. But... I want to do this. For you."

And so it began.

At first, Emily struggled. Her slim fingers didn't want to cooperate, she'd blame it on her years of holding stiff guns, her brow would furrow constantly.

And more than once she muttered, "This shouldn't be harder than hostage negotiations," which you couldn't help but giggle at, though you'd quickly hide it under a cough when her arms would cross with a sigh.

But you were patient, as patient as she'd allow. You signed things slowly, sometimes repeating them two, three even four times till she got it.

When she fumbled through something as simple as "coffee" or "work", she'd huff and sign something vaguely chaotic that made you burst out with silent laughter.

Still, she persevered, kept going.

She even enrolled in ASL class on Thursday nights, juggling it between her BAU schedule and mountains of Chief worthy paperwork.

You'd catch her practicing in the mirror, mouthing the words while signing them slowly, her fingers dancing shakily until they learned the easing rhythm.

You'd fall asleep sometimes with her arm wrapped around your waist, her free hand unconsciously tracing the alphabet against your back. And slowly, oh so slowly, she got better.

You taught her curse words when she needed to vent, and jokes when she needed to smile. She learned "I love you" early, she practiced it more than once.

One night, without warning, she looked at you, no stumble or hesitation, and signed it. Perfectly. "I love you". You forgot how to breath for a second.

- - -

A few months later...

You, something you don't usually do, join the BAU team for dinner. Garcia picked the restaurant, somewhere trendy and loud, all laughter and clinking glasses.

The team has taken over a long table in the back. Emily rests her hand on your lower back as you slide into the seat beside her. And just like that, it starts.

Morgan is already in story mode, laughing at something Spencer had mistakenly done last week, talking a mile a minute. JJ is trying to keep up, and Garcia's hand gestures alone could tell a full story.

You lean back, a little overwhelmed, your brows furrowing as you slowly get left behind...

But then Emily taps your thigh gently, her fingers drawing your attention. She signs slowly, "Morgan said Reid spilled coffee on Hotch's files. Again."

You snort. Emily smiles.

Every few minutes, she checks in, translating certain bits of fast conversation, shortening some, skipping others, but making sure you're never left out of the loop.

She signs across your lap, under the table, casually but clearly, pausing sometimes to double check her signs. Once, when she fumbles over a complex phrase Garcia throws out, she huffs, rolls ger eyes and signs, "I'm trying, okay?"

You kiss her cheek. Knowing Garcia was one to make up her own words and phrases to emphasise her misfortune.

- - -

Later that night, when everyone was full and winding down, you notice the others looking at her a little differently. Not unkindly. Just... moved.

Emily, who once struggled to remember the difference between "want" and "need", is now translating full conversations without missing a beat or made up word.

And she learned it all, just for you.

You squeeze her hand under the table, signing a slow, heartfelt, "Thank you. I see you." She squeezes back, "Always, love."

[nina-ya]

Synopsis: You can't help but tease Ace and rile up this hothead. Pairing: Ace x afab reader CW: SMUT MINORS DNI, Ace is a little shit, fingering • ficmas masterlist • ko-fi • discord server •

You didn’t think much about putting on the sweater. It wasn’t supposed to be provocative- not at first. It was a simple, oversized thing of his that you slipped on after your shower. But the way it draped over your bare thighs, paired with your panties peeking out just beneath the hem if you bent the right way, had Ace’s attention locked onto you the moment you walked into the room. 

You could feel his gaze, heavy and burning, tracing your legs as you reached up to adjust the star on the tree that had fallen lopsided. The motion caused the sweater to ride up just enough to see the plush of your ass and the barely-there fabric hugging them.

“You’re gonna kill me wearing that,” he said, voice rough around the edges, a telltale rasp slipping through that betrayed how tightly wound up he was. 

You glanced over your shoulder, feigning innocence as you tugged the sweater down with a small shrug. “What, this? I just picked out something comfortable.”

You walked toward him slowly, drawing him in like a moth to a flame with each sway of your hips. When you reached the couch, you placed one knee beside his thigh, leaning in just enough to hover over him. His breath hitched, and his jet-black eyes narrowed with desire. 

His hands inched up, aching to grab you as you kept him on edge. Your lips hovered over his, so, so close that he could almost taste you, and just as he leaned forward to close the gap, you shifted. Reaching past him, you grabbed the remote sitting on the cushion beside him. 

“Oh here it is,” you said, leaning back with a triumphant smile. 

Ace blinked in an almost comical way, dumbfounded by the last second, before realizing what you had done. An incredulous laugh escaped him, but the glint in his eyes turned sharper, hungrier. 

“You think that’s funny?”  he asked, tone dangerous in the best of ways. 

You barely got your footing on the ground before his hands shot out, gripping your waist and pulling you down onto his lap. You let out a half gasp half laugh as you straddled him, your knees pressed into the couch on either side of him. His grip was firm, fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure to remind you exactly who was in charge now.

“If you keep doing that,” he murmured, lips brushing against your ear, “you’re going to make me end up on the naughty list tonight.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your belly as his cocky smirk spread even wider. His hands roamed, sliding to grip the curve of your hips and guide you more flush against him. 

“But you knew that already, didn’t you?” he added, tilting his head to meet your gaze. Ace’s grip on your hips tightened as he shifted beneath you, his voice low and teasing, but his actions were anything but playful. He flipped you over with ease and you yelped as the world tilted and the cushions of the couch suddenly cradled your back, Ace’s body now hovering over yours like a predator who has finally caught his prey. 

His calloused fingers danced teasingly slow over the hem of your sweater, skimming your thighs before slipping underneath it. The sweater bunched higher as his hands roamed, skimming over every curve and dip, each touch unhurried as he savored the way your body reacted to him. The cool air kissed your skin as he pushed the fabric up further, his gaze dripping with desire as the last remnants of your modesty slipped away. 

“You’re stunning like this,” he said, the growl in his voice making your pulse quicken. His thumb traced the edge of your panties, teasing but never quite giving in, absolutely tormenting you with each passing second. 

His fingers traced the lace for a moment longer before you bucked your hips upward, guiding his hand to where you needed him most. He glanced at you with a smirk, chuckling as he muttered something about how needy you were, but he was not one to leave you hanging for too long. The first touch was electrifying, sending a sharp gasp tumbling from your lips. His thumb circled your clit lazily, testing the waters, while his other hand gripped your thigh and grounded you beneath him.

The pace of his thumb on you was maddening, each movement meant to draw out every pretty noise and expression you had to offer. He watched you with a hunger that made your cheeks burn, his gaze drinking in the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted with each moan, the way your hips moved of their own accord, chasing the high you so desperately needed.

He paused just for the briefest of seconds to slip a finger inside, following right after with another, pulling a mewl from your lips. He slowly pumped his fingers, resuming the circling of your clit until he had your breath hitching and your vision hazy with pleasure. Every sound you made spurred him on, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that almost felt like it could swallow you whole. 

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice barely reaching you through the haze of pleasure clouding your mind. “So beautiful. So… perfect for me.”

The utter awe in his voice seemed to have your hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more. “I can feel the way you just squeeze around my fingers more when I do… that,” he punctuated his words with a particularly well-aimed thrust that had you crying out. 

He trailed off, continuing to angle his wrist so his fingers would continue to hammer against that perfect spot inside of you. Your body arched into his touch as the pleasure crescendoed rapidly. 

Ace leaned forward and pressed his lips against your sweat-dampened jaw, leaving a trail of kisses as he murmured just how good you were doing for him. A broken moan escaped you, your hands grasping at the cushions, his arms, anything, as your body tensed, right at the precipice of bliss. Ace knew your body all too well, and you could feel his smirk against you, the confidence just radiating off of him as he pushed you just a little more until you--!

The coil in your belly snapped, the pleasure busting through your veins, consuming each and every cell of your body. Your hole clenched rapidly around his fingers and your thighs tightened around his waist as tremors rippled through you head to toe. He didn’t stop, even after you wailed out his name along with a string of profanities that you didn’t know was in your vocabulary. He just guided you through every pulse of your high, his fingers never faltering as he milked every ounce of pleasure from your trembling form. 

When you finally came down, your breaths were ragged, your body pliant beneath his hands. Ace eased his fingers out slowly, a string of your essence still connecting you to him before it snapped.

Ace didn’t give you a chance to recover before his hands were already sliding under your thighs, hiking you up so now your core was a breath away from his mouth. A teasing smirk pulled at his lips as he leaned in and kissed right where you had just soaked the fabric of your panties. His tongue traced your swollen clit, drawing a high-pitched whimper from you. He pulled back slightly, chuckling as you squirmed, your hands flying up to push him away from your over-sensitive core.

“Calm down, that’s not what this is for,” he chided. “Just need to get these out of the way.” 

His teeth grazed the edge of your panties, and he bit down gently, catching the fabric between his teeth before pulling back, the fabric slipping down your legs. He tossed the undergarment aside as he guided your hips back down to his lap. Though, now there was something warm and very hard lying against your thigh. You didn’t even need to glance down to realize that he had freed himself from his pants while your hips were busy hiked up in the air just a moment ago.

Your eyes darted down just in time to witness him grabbing the base of his cock and tapping it against your thigh, his smirk smug as ever as he made eye contact with you. “There,” he said, settling into a more comfortable position between your legs. “Now that you’ve been taken care of, it’s only fair you return the favor, don’t you think?”

[moongirlcleo]

Where the Willows Weep

❤︎  tags and content: spring vibes, public sex, first time, soft caleb x f! reader ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/omi.resources ©2025 moongirlcleo do not repost, copy, translate, or modify

A picnic in a flower-drenched meadow was supposed to be a break from your duties. Caleb had other ideas. It starts with sandwiches and sun-warmed teasing. It ends with whispered promises and blossoms tangled in your hair.

Somewhere between the two, you fall in love. Or maybe… you already were.

The knock came just as you were brushing the sleep from your eyes, sharp enough to draw you from the haze of half-formed thoughts, but not urgent, not the kind of knock that meant danger waited on the other side. It was familiar, steady—a rhythm you’d known for years.

Caleb didn’t wait for permission. He never really did, not when it came to you. The door eased open on quiet hinges, and there he was, filling the frame like he’d always belonged there, like time and distance hadn’t carved a hollow between your lives for far too long. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, dark hair still tousled from the morning, and those eyes—violet, bright, impossibly warm—were already scanning you, lingering at the way you stood still in the dim light, bare feet cold against the floor.

“Mornin' pipsqueak,” he said, and his voice was low, but touched with that easy lilt, the one he always used when he was about to push your buttons just enough to get a rise out of you. “Thought you’d be ready by now.”

You blinked at him, still caught somewhere between dreams and waking. “Ready for what?”

Caleb stepped inside, setting his jacket down on the chair like he owned the place, like this moment had been waiting for him. His eyes never left yours, and when he crossed the room, it wasn’t rushed—it was deliberate, each step pulling you a little more awake, a little more aware of just how close he was.

“For your day off,” he said, like it was something simple, something normal. But the way he looked at you, like he’d been carrying this plan in his back pocket for weeks, told you otherwise.

“I don’t have a day off,” you muttered, half-reaching for your datapad on the table, where messages from command still blinked, waiting for you.

Caleb was faster. He plucked the device from your grasp, setting it face-down with a finality that made your pulse skip.

“You do now.”

There was no room for argument in his voice, but it wasn’t sharp, wasn’t harsh. It was… certain. Solid. Like he’d already made peace with whatever trouble might come from pulling you away.

“I’ve got things to—”

“You’ve been working non-stop, barely sleeping, running on fumes, and don’t even try to tell me otherwise,” he cut in, softer now, but with that edge of something deeper—concern, maybe. Or something that looked too much like care for this early in the morning. “So yeah, pipsqueak, today? You’re mine.”

Your breath caught, not from the words, but from the way he said them—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“And what exactly does ‘being yours’ entail?” you asked, raising a brow, trying to find footing in the familiar rhythm of banter.

Caleb’s grin returned, brighter this time, laced with mischief. He leaned in, close enough that you could smell the fresh air still clinging to him, the faint trace of oil and leather that always lingered no matter where he went.

“You’ll see.”

The hum of the city still echoed faintly in your ears as Caleb guided the car through Linkon’s towering maze, the skyline slowly giving way to something less rigid, less defined. Buildings softened into silhouettes, steel and glass receding in the rearview mirror, replaced by stretches of road that felt untouched, forgotten by the pulse of Hunter life.

You sat quietly, one leg tucked beneath you, watching the way the morning light shifted through the windshield—goldening as the shadows of Linkon thinned, warmth creeping in with every mile he put between you and the place that had held you captive in routine for far too long.

Caleb’s hand was steady on the wheel, his other resting lazily on the console between you, fingers close enough that you could feel the heat of him, even when he wasn’t quite touching. He wasn’t in uniform today—just that old flight jacket you remembered from years ago, the one worn soft at the edges, stitched with memories he never spoke of but never seemed to leave behind.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy, though. It stretched comfortably, filled with the low hum of the engine and the occasional flick of his eyes toward you, quick glances that he didn’t bother to hide.

“Still trying to figure it out?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet as the city finally slipped out of view behind a rise in the road.

You turned to him, arching a brow. “Figure what out?”

He smirked, that familiar spark catching in his eyes. “Where we’re headed.”

“I thought I wasn’t getting any hints.”

“Not giving you one.” His fingers drummed lightly against the wheel, the only sign of the energy simmering just beneath his calm exterior. “Just wondering how long it’ll take you to stop thinking about where we’re going, and just enjoy the ride.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes, but there was no bite to it. He had a point—not that you’d admit it.

The landscape beyond Linkon was already changing, the roads narrowing, framed now by tall grasses and bursts of color as spring took root in the countryside. Wildflowers crept along the edges of the pavement, swaying lazily in the breeze, and the air seemed different somehow—less filtered, less artificial. It smelled like sunlight and new beginnings, and you found yourself leaning back into the seat, tension you hadn’t even noticed beginning to slip away.

Caleb noticed. Of course, he did.

“You ever wonder what it’d be like,” he said after a while, his tone lighter now, like he was just thinking aloud, “if we didn’t have to go back?”

You glanced over at him, but his eyes were on the road, the question hanging there, unhurried.

“Go back to what?”

He shrugged, one hand lifting from the wheel to push through his hair, the motion easy, unguarded. “All of it. Linkon. The fleet. Everything waiting for us on the other side of today.”

You didn’t answer right away. The idea was tempting, but impossible—wasn’t it?

Caleb glanced at you again, catching the flicker of doubt in your eyes, and for a moment, he looked like he might say something else. But instead, he just reached across the console, his hand finding yours, fingers curling in a way that felt like a promise.

“Not saying we have to,” he said, softer now, “but for today? Let’s pretend we don’t.”

The road narrowed until it wasn’t a road at all, just a winding dirt path flanked by new grass and the beginnings of wild violet and golden blossoms breaking through the soil. Caleb slowed the vehicle to a crawl, the hum of the engine giving way to birdsong and the whisper of the wind moving through branches overhead. The air shifted- greener, softer, sweet with blooming things, and you felt it immediately in your chest, that ache that had nothing to do with fatigue and everything to do with remembering what peace felt like.

Without a word, he parked at the edge of a rise and stepped out first, the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots the only sound for a moment. When he came around to open your door, there was no smirk, no teasing glint in his eyes. Just that quiet, familiar warmth as he offered his hand. 

“C’mon, pipsqueak,” he said gently, voice laced with something almost reverent. “You’ve got to see this from the ground.”

You took his hand, and as soon as your boots met earth, you understood.

The meadow stretched wide below, blanketed in flowers that swayed with the rhythm of the breeze. Clusters of soft purples and whites near the tree line, buttery yellow blossoms rippling like sunlight across the grass. In the center of it all, a still pond caught the sky in its mirrored surface, ringed with delicate pink petals that floated lazily across the water. Willow trees leaned protectively overhead, their branches trailing like veils, filtering the sunlight into soft shafts of gold that painted everything in glow.

It didn’t feel real.

“Caleb…” you breathed, unable to finish the thought.

He was already watching you, his hand still loosely cradling yours.

“Knew it was still here,” he said, glancing at the pond like it was a memory he’d kept folded in his back pocket. “Used to sneak off here after drills back when I was stationed closer to Linkon. Figured if anyone deserved to see it, it’d be you.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The tightness in your throat had nothing to do with words.

Caleb stepped ahead, pulling you down a soft incline until the blooms brushed your legs. He moved through the flowers like he belonged to them, like the field had been waiting all along for this moment. A quilt was tucked under his arm, faded navy and gold, like a sky full of stars and he spread it out near the water’s edge with practiced ease, anchoring it in place with a basket he’d pulled from the back of the car.

He flopped down onto it with a sigh, arms braced behind him as he leaned back to look up at the sky through the willows.

“Well?” he called, tipping his head toward you, the sunlight catching in his eyes. “You gonna keep standing there or are you gonna let me impress you with my top-tier sandwich-making skills?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just watched him- this man with a metal arm who had walked through hell and still chose to bring beauty with him wherever he went.

And then, smiling and breathless, you ran to him.

The quilt was soft beneath your fingers, sun-warmed and familiar, and you barely had time to sit down before Caleb was already halfway through the picnic basket, mumbling to himself as he unearthed neatly wrapped bundles of food and a thermos or two. He tossed you a grin over his shoulder when he caught your stare.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, unwrapping what looked suspiciously like a sandwich shaped by someone with very large hands and very little patience. “I’m a Colonel, pipsqueak. That means I’ve mastered the art of strategic supply raids… including Zayne’s kitchen.”

You snorted, catching a faint whiff of balsamic and something herbaceous as he handed you one of the wraps. “So what I’m hearing is this was a joint operation.”

Caleb grinned, one knee bent, forearm slung lazily across it as he took a bite of his own food. “Technically, I informed him after I’d already borrowed his ingredients. That counts as communication.”

“Uh huh.”

But your lips were already curving into a smile, and he saw it. Of course he did. He watched you as if your happiness was the only thing that mattered. As if that had always been the point.

The breeze picked up, tugging lightly at your hair, and a few stray petals caught on the edge of the quilt, trailing across your wrist. Caleb reached over, brushing one away with a soft flick of his fingers. The tips were calloused, his touch feather-light, but there was something else behind it too- something reverent.

“Got one,” he murmured, and instead of letting it fall away, he held the blossom between two fingers, then tucked it carefully behind your ear.

Your breath caught. Just a fraction, just enough.

He tilted his head, that grin softening. “There. Better.”

You stared at him, lips parted, and the sunlight broke through the willow branches behind him, catching in the flecks of violet in his eyes.

“You’re being really sweet today,” you said softly, fingers brushing instinctively at the petal in your hair.

Caleb gave a one-shouldered shrug, then leaned back on his elbows, stretching out across the quilt like he had all the time in the world. “That’s ‘cause I’ve got the best view in the galaxy right now. And I don’t mean the pond.”

You threw a half-hearted piece of crust at his chest, laughing, and he caught it with one hand without even looking, smirking like the little shit he always was. But the blush on your cheeks didn’t fade, and neither did the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing blooming in that entire field.

You lay back beside him, shoulder brushing his as you stared up through the cascading willows, petals falling slow as snow. His fingers found yours between the folds of the quilt, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your knuckles. There was no pressure, no rush.

Just the steadiness of his presence, and the warmth of his touch.

The breeze ruffled the willow branches above, casting shadows that danced across your arms and his chest. From this angle, the petals looked like stars drifting across daylight, slow and aimless, like even time had given in to the softness of this place.

Caleb’s thumb was still moving in lazy circles over the back of your hand, your fingers loosely tangled. It wasn’t the kind of touch meant to lead anywhere, but it lingered. Grew slower. More deliberate.

“So,” you murmured, shifting just enough that your shoulder pressed against his, “what other top-secret missions have you been running behind my back?”

He huffed a laugh, the sound low in his throat. “Wouldn’t be top-secret if I told you, pipsqueak.”

You turned your head to look at him, nose scrunching. “That’s not how trust works.”

“Oh?” Caleb tilted his head to meet your gaze, lips curved in that lazy half-smile that always meant trouble. “Is this an interrogation now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Maybe.”

He leaned in, barely closing the space between your faces, just enough for his breath to kiss your cheek. “You gonna make me talk, then?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he moved faster- his hand suddenly pressing lightly to your ribs as he rolled, pinning you gently into the blanket with the weight of his body angled above yours, his knee slipping between your legs in a way that was definitely still playful, but bordering on something else.

“Caleb!” you laughed, half squirming, but he just grinned wider, clearly pleased with himself.

“Gotta defend myself from aggressive reporters,” he said, mock-serious, even as he ducked low enough to brush his nose against your temple.

“I didn’t even do anything,” you protested, breathless.

“Lies,” he said, voice soft now, close enough that the word sent a shiver right through you. “You looked at me like that.”

You blinked up at him, heart stuttering. “Like what?”

His smile faltered for a beat. His eyes searched yours, the humor still there but dimmed under something gentler.

“Like you forgot there’s a world outside this moment,” he said quietly. “And that’s dangerous, sweetheart. Makes a guy think he’s doing somethin' right.”

You didn’t speak. Just stared up at him, at the sunlight caught in the strands of his hair, the way his weight pressed so solidly against you, grounding you like nothing else ever could.

Your fingers slid up, slow, curling into the fabric of his flight jacket where it bunched near his shoulder.

“You are,” you whispered.

That flicker behind his eyes- relief, maybe, or maybe something closer to ache, was gone as quickly as it came. But his smile returned, softer now.

“Well,” he said, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, so light it barely counted, “we can’t have you thinking I’m too perfect.”

You arched a brow, heart skipping. “That was a kiss?”

He smirked. “You want a real one?”

Your mouth opened to answer, but he was already moving, brushing his lips against yours, slow and warm and sweet with the taste of springtime and laughter. And even as the kiss deepened, even as his hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt to rest warm against your waist, the field around you bloomed brighter, the sky spun soft, and everything stayed light.

The kiss deepened slowly, like neither of you wanted to startle it—like it was something delicate, something that had bloomed here between the wildflowers and the hush of willow leaves. His lips were soft but sure, moving against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. Like he’d wanted this for a long time. Like he wasn’t about to waste a second of it.

Caleb pulled back just a breath, resting his forehead against yours. His hand was still beneath your shirt, warm against the small of your back, the calloused pads of his fingers grazing skin he hadn’t touched before.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low, his breath brushing your lips.

You nodded, dazed, heart fluttering.

He smiled at that- something crooked and boyish, but full of awe. Like you’d just handed him the stars.

“I’ve wanted to do that since forever,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek now, trailing lower, catching the line of your jaw. “But I didn’t wanna get it wrong.”

“You didn’t,” you breathed.

His chuckle rumbled low against your skin as he kissed down the curve of your throat, slow and reverent, his hands skimming under your shirt now in a slow caress. No urgency, just exploration. Just memorization.

“Good,” he murmured, one hand sliding up your ribs, not quite to your chest yet, but close enough that you felt the anticipation tighten beneath your skin. “Because I’m not in a rush. Not with you.”

The words rooted deep, low in your belly.

His touch grew bolder then, still soft but more assured. His fingers slipped higher, thumbs brushing the edge of your bra, and when you didn’t stop him, he eased the fabric upward, mouth never leaving your skin. He kissed the space just above your heart, slow and steady, like he was grounding himself in the moment, in you.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said against your skin, voice a quiet vow.

“I don’t,” you whispered.

And that was all it took.

He pulled your shirt off slowly, dragging his palms over your arms as he sat up just enough to tug it over your head, letting it fall beside the blanket in a whisper of cotton. His eyes roamed your body, like you were something sacred. Something he didn’t think he’d ever deserve to see like this.

“Beautiful,” he said, more to himself than to you, his gaze landing on your flushed skin and the way the light painted you in gold and petal pink. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

You pulled him back down, your legs slipping to cradle him closer, and the kiss this time was heavier, slower but edged with something deeper, need curling like smoke beneath every breath. You felt his weight settle between your thighs, the pressure of him through his jeans making your hips shift without thinking, and Caleb groaned against your mouth.

His hand slid down, over your hip, down to the back of your thigh, guiding your leg around his waist.

“You sure?” he asked again, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

You nodded, fingers tracing the back of his neck, voice a whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

His smile this time was slower, almost shy but when he kissed you again, it was deeper. More sure.

Caleb had always held back. Always waited. But not anymore.

And beneath the willow branches, with petals falling like soft rain and the scent of spring all around you, the line between friends and lovers blurred for the first time- not in fire, but in warmth. In the kind of closeness that felt like coming home.

His kisses drifted lower, unhurried, trailing warmth along your collarbone, down the slope of your chest as his hands followed, steady and anchoring like he needed to feel you unfold beneath him in real time. When he finally eased your bra aside, there was no teasing smirk, no cocky one-liner.

“God,” he murmured, reverent, his thumb brushing along the curve of your breast, the pad catching on skin already taut with anticipation. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

You arched beneath him without thinking, chasing the heat of his palm, your fingers sliding into his hair and curling as he lowered his mouth to your skin. The first kiss he pressed to your breast was slow, almost hesitant, like he was still afraid to rush this, to break the spell between you. But then his tongue flicked over your nipple, and you gasped, hips shifting, breath catching, and that was what made him groan low in his throat.

“Caleb—”

He met your gaze then, propped above you, one hand tracing the waistband of your jeans, the other bracing himself beside your head. “If we do this,” he said, voice thick with restraint, “I’m not going to be able to pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

You reached up, cradling his cheek in your palm, your thumb brushing the soft stubble there. “Me either.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you again, rougher now, needier, his hands fumbling just slightly as he undid your jeans and dragged them down your legs, his mouth never leaving yours for long. And when he knelt between your thighs, tossing his jacket and shirt aside with a looseness that came from long-restrained desire, you drank in the sight of him. All lean muscle and warm skin and careful strength, the necklace you gave him glinting softly against his chest.

His hand slid between your thighs again, knuckles brushing over the thin cotton of your underwear, and when he found you soaked through, his jaw clenched visibly.

“Shit,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re already shaking."

“Then do something about it,” you whispered, breathless.

He didn’t need more coaxing. He dragged the last barrier down your legs slowly, his fingers grazing the inside of your thighs like he was mapping them to memory. And when he dipped his head, placing a kiss right above where you ached, you thought your heart might stop.

Caleb was gentle and thorough, his mouth hot and slow as he devoured you like a man starved and savoring every second. He learned you fast, adjusted with each gasp, every trembling sigh that left your lips. One hand held you steady, fingers pressing into your hip, while the other slid up your body to cup your breast, rolling the sensitive peak between his fingers until your head dropped back, moaning his name.

“That’s it,” he murmured between kisses, voice a ragged whisper against your heat. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me hear you.”

And you did.

Your climax hit with a full-body tremble, soft but sharp, pulling through you like a wave that left you wrecked and gasping, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. Caleb kissed his way back up your body, tasting your skin, your pulse, your mouth, settling back over you like he never wanted to be anywhere else.

You didn’t even realize he’d shed the rest of his clothes until you felt him pressed fully against you hard, thick, the weight of him pressing right where you were still pulsing with aftershock.

“My bag,” he said hoarsely, searching around with one hand.

You grabbed a small knapsack and handed it to him.

He hastily pulled a condom out and the brief rustle of foil was followed by a low groan as he rolled it on, breath catching as he settled between your legs once more. His cybernetic arm braced beside your head, gleaming faintly in the dappled light, while the warmth of his real hand cradled your thigh as he lined himself up and paused.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

He pressed forward slowly, inch by careful inch, and the stretch was slow, thick, deep- intimate in a way that made your throat tighten. His eyes stayed locked on yours, watching every shift in your expression like a tether.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead dropping to yours as he bottomed out, buried deep, unmoving. “You feel… you feel like everything I've always wanted.”

You didn’t answer... you couldn’t. You just wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, kissing him with everything you couldn’t say as he began to move. 

He moved slowly at first, rocking into you with a rhythm so careful, it felt like he was memorizing every sigh, every tremble. His forehead pressed to yours, damp strands of hair brushing your temples, and the only sounds were the soft hitch of your breath, the low rustle of the quilt beneath you, and the quiet, living world around you—the distant ripple of the pond, the whisper of willows sighing overhead, the lazy hum of bees drifting from bloom to bloom.

Caleb’s hand slid along your thigh, coaxing your leg higher around his waist, deepening the angle, pulling a broken gasp from your throat that had him groaning low against your skin.

“You’re killing me, beautiful,” he whispered, voice raw at the edges. His cybernetic arm braced against the blanket, glinting silver where the sunlight caught it, but the hand cupping your hip was warm, grounding, and achingly human.

Blossoms rained down around you with the breeze, pale pink and white, catching in the messy tangle of your hair, dusting his bare shoulders. The world smelled of fresh grass and warmed petals, heady and alive, and the feeling of him was overwhelming in the most beautiful way.

Every slow thrust sent tiny tremors through your limbs, your skin flushed and slick where you pressed together. He didn’t rush, he worshipped- every roll of his hips, every kiss dragged along your throat, every whispered curse breathed like a prayer into the hollow of your collarbone.

“You feel-” he gasped, breaking off with a rough sound as you clenched around him, your nails digging faint crescents into his back. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs stroking over sensitive ribs, his whole body trembling as he fought to keep the pace slow, reverent. “God, pipsqueak... you feel like heaven.”

Your hands slid into his hair, pulling him down into a kiss that was less polished now. It was messy, desperate, sweet. You could feel him losing himself in you, the way his rhythm faltered every time you moaned against his lips, the way he shuddered when you whispered his name like it was the only word you knew.

The quilt had half-slipped beneath you both, the soft spring grass cool and ticklish against your overheated skin. Petals clung to your back, to your thighs, dusted across Caleb’s shoulders and hair like the meadow itself had claimed you, crowned you. You could feel the earth under your palms, the give of the ground, the heartbeat of the living world matching the stuttered rhythm of your own.

He thrust deeper, slower, grinding against you until the pleasure built sharp and aching at the base of your spine, threatening to snap. Caleb's hand slid down between you, fingers finding where you needed him most, circling slow, perfect patterns that pushed you closer, pushed you over.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your mouth, voice wrecked, almost pleading. “Come on, baby, come for me.”

Your body arched against him, every nerve lit up with pleasure so pure it was almost too much, your cry muffled against his shoulder. Caleb cursed low, brokenly, his own release chasing yours as he ground deep, hips stuttering, burying himself fully as he lost himself in the feel of you, with you.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the two of you and the world holding its breath. Nothing but the slow shudder of your limbs tangled with his, the warmth of the sun on your skin, the petals drifting lazily through the golden light.

Caleb didn’t move. He stayed pressed against you, forehead resting against your temple, his hand smoothing slow, almost absent circles along your hip as he caught his breath. His whole body was trembling with the effort to stay, to savor it, to not let the world intrude just yet.

“Pipsqueak,” he whispered after a moment, his voice thick and too soft for anything but you. “I’m pretty sure I’m never gonna survive you.”

You turned your head slightly, nuzzling into the mess of his hair, still breathless, still trembling, but so full you thought your chest might break with it.

“Good,” you murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

A slow, broken laugh rumbled out of him, pure and raw and full of every promise he hadn’t needed to say.

Caleb's body was a steady weight over yours, warm and unshakable, the muscles of his back still trembling faintly as he caught his breath. Petals clung to his bare shoulders, caught in the messy sweep of his dark hair, and the breeze stirred the willow branches above, sending new blossoms drifting down around you like soft rain.

He shifted slightly, bracing himself on an elbow to look at you, and his hand came up almost unconsciously, brushing petals from your cheeks, your throat, your chest. His fingers lingered longer than necessary, tracing the curve of your jaw, the bow of your lips, like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.

"You’ve got flowers everywhere," he murmured, his voice low, thick with the kind of wonder he didn’t bother to hide anymore.

You smiled up at him, your body loose and boneless against the quilt, skin still buzzing from where he had touched you, kissed you, claimed you in the gentlest ways.

"So do you," you whispered back, your hand sliding up to comb through his tousled hair, feeling the warmth of him, the life of him, the way he leaned into your touch like he couldn’t help it.

He let out a soft, breathless chuckle and dropped a kiss onto your forehead, then another at the bridge of your nose, then one more against the corner of your mouth, each slower, sweeter than the last, until he was just resting his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

You let your eyes flutter closed, letting the sunlight and the quiet and the slow, steady beat of his heart lull you toward sleep. The blanket beneath you was tangled and wrinkled, the grass cool against your bare legs, the scent of blossoms thick in the warm spring air. Everything felt lighter here- like the gravity that held you both had loosened its grip, just enough to let you float together in the golden hush of the afternoon.

You heard him shift again, felt the way his arm curled more firmly around your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies fit perfectly, breath to breath. His thumb brushed slow circles along the bare skin of your hip, grounding you in the gentlest way.

You thought he might say something else, but he stayed quiet for a long while, the breeze whispering around you, the pond nearby glinting like spilled silver.

And then, just when you thought he might have drifted off to sleep, you heard it.

A whisper, so soft it barely reached your ears.

"I love you."

Your heart squeezed so hard you thought it might break.

You stayed still, half because you didn’t trust your voice to work, half because some part of you knew he hadn’t meant for you to hear it. Or maybe he had. Maybe he just needed to say it without expecting anything back.

His arm tightened just a little around you after he said it, a silent promise stitched into the touch.

You tucked your face into the curve of his neck, nuzzling closer, and heard his breath hitch, just slightly- as if he knew you’d heard after all.

Neither of you spoke again. The willows swayed, the blossoms fell, and the two of you stayed tangled together, heart to heart, as the sun melted lower toward the horizon, turning the world to gold.

And for the first time in too long, everything was exactly as it was always meant to be.

[carlosainzgf]

Daeho x foreignerfem!reader and he teaches her a bit of Korean

I want this man to teach me everything he knowsss omg he's so beautiful

teach me

kang dae ho x foreigner!reader (fluff)

the first morning in the dorms was a cacophony of confusion and dread. rows of beds lined the stark room, and contestants murmured in hushed voices, trying to make sense of the situation. dae ho sat on his bed, his hands fidgeting nervously as his eyes darted around the room, assessing the other players. his gaze landed on you- a girl sitting alone, your eyes scanning the chaos. a foreigner, probably.

you were clearly out of place, not just because of your appearance but because of how lost you seemed. when a guard told them instructions earlier, you didn’t reacted like the others. instead, your face twisted in confusion.

dae ho hesitated, chewing his bottom lip, before finally working up the courage to approach you. standing in front of yout bed, he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. "uh… 안녕하세요?" he tried, his voice soft but shaky.

you blinked up at him, tilting your head slightly. "sorry, what?"

his heart sank. "ah… uh…" he searched his brain desperately for the right words. english wasn’t his strength, but he had to try. "you… okay?" he stammered, his accent thick.

your face lit up slightly with understanding. "oh- yeah. do you know what’s going on? where are we?"

he only understood "know" and "where," but the rest was too fast for him to catch. dae ho panicked for a moment, running a hand through his hair before trying to answer. "uh… we sleep. now wake…game?" his hands flailing to fill in what words couldn’t.

she squinted, trying to understand him. "game? what kind of game?"

"uh…" the words slipping through his mental grasp. "fun… maybe?" he winced at his own answer, knowing how unconvincing it sounded. “i no know," he admitted.

you gave a short laugh, her tension easing slightly. "you’re not very helpful, are you?"

he caught her tone and smiled nervously. "sorry… bad english," he said, tapping his chest. he straightens up, determined. he pointed at himself. "dae ho. you?"

you told him your name, he repeated, trying to commit your name to memory. it sounded nice to him. foreign to him but nice, making his lips twitched upward in a small smile.

"nice name. 예쁜(yeppeun)," he said.

you tried to repeat what he said but failed miserably. with a smile still lingering on his face, dae ho noticed your struggle with the pronunciation. "예쁜," he says slowly, his words clear and distinct.

your attempt was adorable to him, her efforts drawing a softer, more genuine smile from him. he gently corrected her, his voice patient, "예쁜. try.”

you repeated the word slowly, your tongue stumbling but improving with each try.

dae ho raised a brow, surprised at her quick learning. "good job," he praised, a hint of laughter in his voice. his smile grew as he held up a thumbs up.

“maybe you can teach me some korean?” you tried to speak slowly and clearly for him to understand. his eyes lit up at your suggestion. he nodded enthusiastically. "korean. yes, yes," he said, his voice excited. he thought for a moment, trying to find the simplest word to start with. “hello," he said with a confident grin. "안녕하세요.(annyeonghaseyo)”

your accent was thick, pronunciation shaky, but you had the essence right. he smiled. “good!" he praised, genuinely happy.

with a gentle smile, dae ho considered what simple phrase to teach you next. "ah!" he exclaimed, a thought occurring to him. he pointed at you. "어떻게 지내세요(eotteohge jinaeseyo). it mean ‘how are you’.”

he taught you enough korean to at least somewhat fit in throughout the games. he introduced you to his group and tried to translate what they were talking about if you didn’t understand it.

after the games had ended, your little bond didn’t. it grew into something else. something that led you both to rent an apartment together and build a life with the money you won. you helped each other to learn one another language to communicate easier. and dae ho had found an amazing way of teaching you.

you were sat on his lap as he asked you to translate the korean sentences to english and every true answer you gave, earned you a kiss. “what about…사랑해요(salanghaeyo)?”

“it means ‘i love you’.” you were quick to get pulled into a kiss. his soft lips meeting yours, kissing you slowly.

“you’re asking easy ones just to kiss me, aren’t you?” you asked teasingly. “maybe…and you love it.” and you really did love it.

[heytheredelulu]

Simple

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Imagine

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+

Word Count: 1k (It’s a quickie)

C/W: It’s all smut. It’s literally nothing but cock sucking, okay?

Bucky Barnes enjoyed the simple pleasures in life.

A heaping stack of warm, buttery pancakes drizzled in maple syrup.

A glass of oaky, barrel aged bourbon, neat.

The sultry, nostalgic, slow jazz of the 40’s playing over the speakers he still couldn’t quite figure out how to connect his Bluetooth to.

His copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit”, worn and weathered from all the times he’d read it cover to cover while lounged lazily in his oversized armchair.

But perhaps the greatest pleasure he enjoyed was the feeling of his pretty baby’s pink, swollen lips wrapped around his thick and needy cock.

He’d had plenty of blowjobs before, many hot, wet mouths gagging on the impressive length of him but none, none of those encounters could ever compare to your ministrations.

He was smitten with you long before you’d knelt before him but it wasn’t until the first time you sucked the very soul from his body through his throbbing cock that he was fucking done for.

You were his, forever.

There was just something so beautiful about the way your soft hums of contentment vibrated through his shaft like you were singing him the chorus to the sweetest song ever composed.

The way your eyes fixed on him half lidded, attentive and responsive to his every twitch and pulse against your tongue. It wasn’t just the sheer skill of pleasing him that you possessed but the level at which you so clearly enjoyed the act itself.

Your eager wiggle on your knees while you suckled at his frenulum, your hand wrapped firmly around the girth of him as you traced the sensitive, velvet flesh of his cockhead against your soft, plump lips.

Oh God, the wanton groan that rose from your throat when you teased the tip of your tongue to his slit, lavishing the salty flavor of his precum on your taste buds.

And you hadn’t even put him in your slutty little mouth yet.

He’d always let you lead, slowly descending on him with your hands splayed on his muscular thighs, batting your lashes at him once he brushed the back of your throat as if waiting for him to cup your jaw and stroke your cheek affectionately with the calloused pad of his thumb like he always did while you ‘took a moment’ to adjust to his size. Part of him wondered if you really needed to adjust or if you just wanted to savor the look in his eyes as he committed the lewd image of you to memory.

You’d breathe heavily through your nostrils- the exhale blowing gently against the soft, dark curls at the base of his cock and the inhale shuddering like you were basking in the scent of him.

The first time you’d lapped at the seam of his sack with your tongue while he was seated to the hilt down your throat his toes curled as he gripped the arm of the chair with white knuckles, hissing out a string of curses.

Always so responsive to his body, you slowly eased off him, your hand stroking languidly along his thick shaft, applying firm pressure to the tip as you dipped down to gently draw his heavy balls into your mouth. The whine that erupted from his chest was a sound he’d never made before but then again, he’d never had a woman show much- if any attention to his sack during a blowjob, let alone roll them around in her mouth like they were a goddamn delicacy.

Lord have mercy when you descended on him again, your cheeks hollowed, your tongue flicking and swirling along his length, one of your dainty hands holding him firm at the base as you cupped and fondled his saliva-slicked balls with the other.

Somehow you even made gagging look seductive, inhaling sharply through your nose while your eyes watered and drool dripped down your chin, trailing across the hollow of your throat and leaving a wet sheen across your pretty tits.

Oh yeah, you absolutely had your tits out. Hell, you loved to be naked on your knees for him. It only made it that much easier for you to snake a free hand between your thighs, rubbing slow, gentle circles over your aching clit with the sweet arousal that wept from your cunt with how utterly turned on you were by sucking his cock.

You’d lose your fucking mind when he twisted your hair around his fist, shameless moans bubbling up from your chest as he bucked his hips, fucking himself down your throat. As soon as he’d pick up that merciless rhythm you’d slip two, sometimes three fingers into yourself, frantically pumping them to mirror his tempo until you came with a strangled cry, tears pricking at the corners of your lust-hazed eyes.

Holy hell that’d be his tipping point.

He’d hold your head firmly in place, his massive hand flexing against the back of your skull, his cock pulsing as he throws his head back, a deep and primal moan ripping through his chest as he comes hard enough to make his fucking ears ring.

Words of praise would fall from his lips in a breathless whisper as he caressed your cheek, lazily rutting his hips forward while you greedily swallowed down every last drop like it was your well deserved reward for your tantalizing efforts.

“Such a good girl.”

“So fucking pretty when you choke on my dick.”

“Oh baby, yes. Fuck, swallow it.”

“Shit, you’re so goddamn perfect.”

Sometimes when you were feeling extra submissive you’d sit back on your heels and open your mouth, proudly showing him the pearlescent fruits of your labors, pooled on your tongue.

You’d wait patiently, drooling unabashedly with a slack jaw as he tucked his spent cock away, zipping up his jeans and slowly buckling his belt while he kept you naked on your knees awaiting his order.

He’d pinch your cheeks in his large hand and dip down to press a kiss to your forehead, his chest swelling with pride at the power you allowed him to hold over you.

All the while, you’d stare up at him obediently with smoldering eyes until he’d nod, his lips twitching up into a crooked smirk before he’d finally speak his command in a low, gruff voice.

“Swallow.”

Taglist (Taglist is open):

@badbunnybabygirl01 @suz7days @truthfulliarr @lilacka @writtingrose @samsgoddess @loveisallyouneed1125 @vicmc624 @millercontracting @wildernessflora @mydorkyboys @blackhawkfanatic @honestlywork @ladyvenera @cavity-exe @ihavetwoholesforareason @km-ffluv @shortnloud @mrs-katelyn-barnes @somnorvos @22rhianna2006 @misshale21 @angelbaby99 @deans-spinster-witch @kezibear @acornacreacure @buckys-wintersoldier @terry2227 @wintrsoldrluvr

A/N: Yeah, idk where this came from-

I was feeling feral again.😅

💋Sj

[inknopewetrust]

𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐞𝐰

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧. 𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝟐𝟓𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 [𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐌𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫] [𝐰𝐜: 547]

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝟏𝟖+, 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐃𝐍𝐈, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐯, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 [𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠], 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝.

𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

He didn’t make you feel embarrassed about it.

And when he offered to take you to bed with the knowledge that you weren’t as experienced as the other girls, he said a simple “ok.”

Eddie Munson worshiped you in ways you couldn’t have known had you not laid it bare before him. He eased you into it, feeling you with his fingers before slowly working you open and explaining that what you were feeling, the good and the bad, were normal and it wasn’t something to be afraid of.

His fingers prodded and probed. They searched and scoured and when they found the untouched plush of you, they found purchase in the reward.

You groaned into him, leaning your head on his shoulder in a strain as he pressed into you further—his own erection straining his jeans as he relished the memories dripping onto your mattress. It wasn’t much, but it was unlike anything he had ever had the fortune of experiencing.

Eddie whispered sweet nothings. Egging you on to reach a precipice, he didn’t bother to push that he wanted your first orgasm to be on his dick but one that you had control over. He let his thumb draw circles on your clit—the wetness gathering easy the longer you proved to him that you could indeed last longer than he assumed you’d be able to.

So, when you arrived at that end, Eddie felt the earnings of his actions in the smile and giggle that fell from your lips. But if he knew you as he did, you were determined to see this through—twenty-five and inexperienced was not something you wished to say anymore.

You palmed him through his jeans boldly. His skin erupted in goosebumps the longer he let you caress him and eventually, he stripped you and himself of the clothes you wore and shushed you when he entered your pussy.

You’d never felt such pain and pleasure at the same time. He said it would pass—and it did after awhile—yet it was far from romantic. You were stuttering, shaking, and a mess of emotions as the man who you’d grown to call a friend helped you beyond what friendship offered.

Eddie treated you with gentleness. Feeling your body give in to his touch, feeding off of your sounds and the new type of juices that spilled out of you.

He breathed you in and you let him guide you along a new path. He felt so different, so decedent pulsing inside of you. Thrusting in slow, agonizingly soft motions that made you think he was treating you like glass.

But if this was glass unloved, you wondered what glass would be loved.

Then he begged you. He begged you to finish for him, asking you to coat his cock in you. Flexing and focusing yourself on him was calculated and unnatural but you tried; grinding your hips against his wasn’t enough. You were so tight and new—he didn’t want to overstep but the fact he was the first to do this to you had given him hope, a lust so unlike what he knew he wanted.

It was enough, however, to get him there too.

When you finished, you clamped down on him so tightly that he had spurred himself to come too. You clung to his shoulders, a shuddered relief washed over you and then him, who pulled back to gaze into your eyes and settle on the fact that he’d offered for a reason.

And Eddie Munson was so glad you said yes.

As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read my fic and any other fics that you choose to read of mine. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always very much appreciated. It keeps writers like me motivated—we all love to hear from you.