#this has been in my head for a while and i just had to sketch it out

[tj-dragonblade]

Seven Sentences Sunday Saturday

Tagged by @dragonnan and @the-apocrypha, thank you both! I have been poking at a couple of wips trying to find my momentum again, so here - have seven-ish sentences of mer-Hob:

Dream looks up at every little splash, at first, eager, hoping, but it's never his merman and pragmatism threatens to give way to disappointment so he makes himself stop. Soon enough he's engrossed in his drawing, less attuned to every little sound on the water, posture shrimping over the sketchbook in a way he's aware he'll regret later but can't currently be bothered to correct. At least an hour has passed since he settled in; the receding tide means the water level has dropped to maybe a hands-breadth below the floor of the cave when he looks up again and there, watching him soundlessly from beyond the opening, is the merman. His face is half underwater, only his eyes above the surface with his hair floating all about, and he is watching Dream intently. His gaze is arresting, and Dream swallows down the tumble of emotion rising in his chest. How long has he been there, silent and unnoticed, while Dream sketched and scribbled at his likeness from memory? "Hello," Dream says, and clears his throat when it comes out a bit hoarse. "I'm. Glad to see you?" He doesn't quite mean it to be a question but he's also afraid the merman might just be here to tell him he's not interested in Dream's proposal. Also, there are fins where he had ears, yesterday, bright yellow membrane stretching between the spread rays and the sight is incredibly distracting. He's truly, genuinely not a human, the proof irrefutable as he lifts his head fully out of the water and the flutter of gills closing tight along his neck catches Dream's eye.

Tagging, no obligation, point me at your existing post if you've already done it and don't wish to repeat: @five-and-dimes @pellaaearien @softest-punk @dsudis @teejaystumbles

[messybunsandarmor]

Blinded by the Light

Welcome to my first ever fanfiction!

It has been in the works for months. So, for months I've been overthinking absolutely everything about it, as is my custom.

I'll be posting the first 3 chapters this week in celebration of @elucienweekofficial! I really hope you enjoy!

Please keep an eye on TWs and tags and stay safe lovelies 💚

You can read here on Ao3 or continue on!

Summary:

Elain Archeron's avoidance of Lucien had nothing to do with the kind of male he was. She didn’t know enough about him to form an opinion on the matter, and that was how she liked things to be.

But when Lucien's well-being takes a drastic, unexpected turn, will she be able to maintain such distance? Can she help him see the beauty of life on his journey to recovery without the influence of their mating bond? Can Lucien accept her help simply as that of a friend?

TW: Implied/Reference of Sexual Assault, Eventual Implied/Reference of Suicide Attempt

Chapter 1

The former Spring Court emissary strode into the stable area on his trusty mare Stormy. The beautiful dapple-gray horse had been his for years while living in Spring. Upon his return, he was glad to see she was still in one piece. Other horses had not been so lucky. 

This—the forests at his back, the wilds of Spring—had been the easy part of his job these months since his permanent stationing in Spring. Should he be making Tamlin get up off his ass and do it himself? Probably. 

But it gave him a bit of a break from the chaos of the Spring Court as it stood today. Lucien had always found nature to be a steadfast companion. Yes, the hunting and patrolling he could do. It was what waited for him at the manor— who waited for him—that made his stomach flip as he set Stormy to rights in the stables. Lucien had worked for centuries as an emissary and attended many an unpleasant meeting. He used to do so on Tamlin's behalf. Now, the unpleasantness was between him and Tamlin. 

The whole situation was disorienting. Lucien knew that his life would not have amounted to much of anything after he left Autumn had it not been for Tamlin. So, he stood beside him and supported him even when they did not see eye to eye. 

They had been friends. 

Lucien sometimes spent entire sleepless nights contemplating it. Leaving Spring felt like some cycle had been broken, and now he was wading in uncharted waters, uncertain what his next move should be. Where was he meant to go? What could he do with his life?

One step at a time. He took a beat and strode into the Spring Court manor, walking through the deteriorated foyer to the even more deteriorated dining room. It would be pointless to prioritize fixing up the place if Tamlin showed no signs of improvement—he could just as easily wreck it again. It made no difference to Lucien; he could always sleep under the stars.

He thought the dining room to be a good spot to maintain a sense of routine and compel Tamlin to conduct himself more formally. Lucien hoped to get him out of his beast form for their meetings, which had not happened for months. In previous meetings, Tamlin had made it a point to curl up in the corner of the room and wait. Then, when Lucien arrived, he spent the duration of their time together prowling back and forth on the opposite end of the table. 

So, Lucien was surprised to find Tamlin waiting for him, seated in his Fae form on the opposite end of the long dining table. He would need a bath, of course. In that regard, he looked more beast than anything. His once golden hair was dingy and muted, a matted mess atop his head. There was an oily sheen to his skin, and Lucien could smell the weeks of dirt and grime on him.

But progress was progress.

"The High Lord lives!" Lucien sketched a bow, unsure that anything he said would keep the glower off Tamlin's face. 

"And Night's emissary returns," A gruff voice countered.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, High Lord?" 

Tamlin gave Lucien an assessing look. "I did have something I wanted to discuss.”

"What is that?"

"Calanmai."

At the word, the world became dark and cold. Lucien’s vision lost focus. He faintly registered a powerful whirring. It generated a shrill sound, berating him, bouncing off the walls of his skull from the inside. Everything was blurry, and streaks of light flew past his vision. He had no control over any of his movements. Was his eye malfunctioning? He was beginning to feel nauseous. Then he heard it. Heard her. 

Mother, bless me with a child of Calanmai.

Shut up! 

Had he said it out loud? The words crashed against the walls of his skull like a relentless drum. He wished she would just shut up. He just needed to get through this. Somehow. It all felt so terribly wrong. She was wrong.

Just as quickly, he refocused and found Tamlin staring at him.

He ground the heel of his palm into his eye socket, grumbling quietly. “Damn thing.”

“Look at the manor, Lucien. The magic is unwell.”

“So do something about it.”

“Lucien, I can’t. You—”

“I am not having this conversation with you. Those mangled vines started growing all over the manor after the first Calanmai you handed off. I don’t think stepping in for you would fix it.”

“Better you complete the rite than no one.”

His hands at his side stung, his fingers immobile. “How about you do your job? Then we don’t have to worry about no one completing the rite.” 

“Yes, because maidens will be lining up for a chance with the abominable High Lord.” Then, more softly, Lucien heard, “I did not ask for any of this. It’s not the kind of thing someone should be forced to do.”

A bit of Lucien’s outrage dwindled at that. He did not envy Tamlin this responsibility, but that didn't mean Lucien should have to complete the rite in his stead.

"I am a mated male now—a fact that you love to ignore at every opportunity—"

“Not as much as your mate.” 

Lucien had no idea how Tamlin would even know to make such a jab. Perhaps just an excellent guess. He straightened, placing his hands behind his back and fighting to bank the fire he felt rushing to his face. "If you want to continue passing off your responsibilities, you will have to look elsewhere." Then he winnowed out. 

~

There was a spot—miles and miles away from the manor—that Lucien liked. It was an old logging site. An ancient tree still stood amid the sea of stumps. It did not look like it belonged here in Spring. It was thicker than the oak trees that once surrounded it. So much so that it looked like many—maybe as many as ten—thick tree trunks were conjoined. It stood like a lonely fortress in the center of the deforested area. 

When he first came to Spring, he couldn't last a day without coming here, usually at night, when his thoughts were the loneliest. He would unleash himself on the tree, flames erupting from him. Decades passed. Still, he came here when he needed it. The flames grew so hot and bright that someone nearby might be fooled into thinking the night hadn't come. The tree took it all—the flames, anger, pain, and guilt—and never faltered. The tree had become a steadfast friend. Lucien liked having a place where he could come and lose a bit of composure without fear of spreading a fire.

So, late into the night, Lucien found himself there. He faced the old tree for the first time since leaving the Spring Court. 

And Lucien burned.

~

Let me know your thoughts! Like I said, I'm new, so I'm open to suggestions and feedback.

[sonicboomrevisited]

Hii! I had a few questions (I have no idea if they’ve already been answered) about the production of the comic:

How long does it typically take to make one full page with the production team?

Are the pages already mapped out or do you start once the previous ones are posted?

What is most complicated thing to do?

Is it hard to work with a weekly deadline?

Are the dialogues written like a script and if so, could you post how you write them?

(I might be back with more questions because I’ve been wanting to start my own fan-comic for a few years now)

Hello, Ani! Great questions! I'm going to answer these in reverse order so I don't end up repeating myself. This will be a long one so bare with me. I'm putting this under the break:

Are the dialogues written like a script and if so, could you post how you write them?

First a foremost, before any drawing starts, a script is written out for the entire story-arc. Meaning Issues 1-4 have been written for a good year now with subtle adjustment and improvements being made overtime as the drawings are worked on. Multi (that's me!) does most of the principle writing with @mama-qwerty assisting. She makes sure my ideas run smoothly and also helps me avoid writer's block.

This is the script for the latest page released. Every script is divided up by page and labelled with the appropriate panel estimate. What is detailed in the script may not necessarily end up on the page. Sometimes things you see in your head might not make any sense when you put them on paper, so its important to let yourself be flexible.

Is it hard to work with a weekly deadline? / Are the pages already mapped out or do you start once the previous ones are posted?

We DO NOT work within a weekly deadline. Everything is mapped out and planned MONTHS before posting. By the time you're seeing page one of an issue that page has been sitting, finished, on my computer for about three months in advance.

The basic process is.

Myself and Qwerty script.

I map out all the pages for an issue in 2 to 3 days.

I toil away at penciling for a month or more.

I toil away at inking for a month or more.

@star-stages colors while I'm toiling away at inking.

I letter the pages Star has colored.

Once all 20 or more pages are finished, we announce a release date.

Why don't we just post all the pages at once, you ask? Because then the wait between issues would be longer and I would feel bad. Spreading them out over a few months gives me time to work on other projects or the next issue of Revisited without stress.

What is most complicated thing to do?

Paneling. This is the, "taking what's in the script and figuring out how to get it onto a page" stage. It's stressful and frustrating because, as an artist, you second guess your skills a lot during the process. You've all seen how horrid my first sketches are. The results are always worth it, though.

How long does it typically take to make one full page with the production team?

Sorta... difficult to measure since certain steps are done in bulk, but the most important steps--penciling, inking, and coloring--take about a day or two each if Star (colorist) and I (penciller and Inker) aren't interrupted by normal life stuff!

I would guess, if you compressed the time we spend on one page, you'd end up with a little under a weeks time spent on a single page.

Thank you for your questions, Ani. I hope this all made sense. If it didn't or you have any more questions, don't be afraid to shoot us another ask!

[skrunksthatwunk]

two trucks

[ribs02]

they had beef but its okay bc now their one big polycule :3

[thats-a-lot-of-cortisol]

Corentin discovers the joy of fashion after being re-introduced to clothes that aren't saturated with blood and gore for the first time in over a decade

Bonus:

[bumpscosity]

I don’t think they’d ever meet canonically but I wanted to draw and angel and a demon side by side and I already had the vincent drawing so i just threw poppy in there

[fawniswriting]

After I Was Too Late

This fic can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to Before I Could Say It.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.

Word Count: 10.1k (I got carried away)

Warning(s): gn!reader (pls advise me if there's any gender-specific detail in the fic), canon typical violence, angst, fluff, near death experience(s), hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, physical injuries, it's a kinder ending this time I promise 🥺❤️ (lmk if I missed anything!!)

Author's Note: PT 2 IS FINALLY HERE Y'ALL!! I'm so sorryy for the delay, my work has been out of control lately (I legit had to go home at 9.30 PM last week 😭🙏🏼). But I've finally finished this piece, and I hope you guys like it!! I'm tagging everyone who left a comment/reblog-comment on the first part but if you prefer to keep the ending to the fic as it was, then you can just skip reading this. And if any of you want to be removed from the taglist, please just let me know!! As always, don't forget to comment, like, and reblog 💖

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time. 

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become. 

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action. 

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand. 

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on. 

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent. 

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth. 

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs. 

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin. 

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard. 

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground. 

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.” 

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation. 

However, between every swift kick and  precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red. 

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle. 

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.” 

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly. 

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe. 

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.” 

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

 “It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind. 

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes. 

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that. 

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat. 

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips. 

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets. 

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…” 

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here?  Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice. 

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend. 

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it? 

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered. 

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.” 

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.

Taglist: @steph88x @athenabarnes @sugarmummystuff6 @wintercrows @jay-jaystevebuckyloki @spideysimpossiblegirl @vainillacookie @mazzaroni-cheese @killerwendigo @s-r-reads @nydubs @rafeskai @unpeellievable @thisismyacc11 @rimunagenius @buckygirls @buckyslove1917 @defn0tonyourleft @buhangini @infinitymitten @lemonhead456 @thescooponsof @buckytheloveofmylife95 @mizukiqr @littlegreenjellybean @p3nis-parker @shortlikerdj @onlyheluvsme @theschoolbasketcase @jjulesii @jvanilly @seaskysunrise @minminswag04 @dameronspector @buckybarnesfic @nameless-ken @marie-sworld @silverwolfeyes @idkitsem @waiting-so-long @redtabularasa @buckyinluv @ghostytoasty17 @moreadsfic @chlovocaine @mcira @personal-fanfic-storage @spookyreads @eternalsams @the-sunflower-room

[chiasaaa]

— anything for you

itoshi sae x f! reader

summary: sae finds himself doing things he wouldn’t normally do. all for you.

warning: english is not my first language. apologies for any grammatical or spelling errors.

— itoshi sae knew he was beyond saving the moment he set his phone against his pillow and clicked the record button, holding up three boxes of what seemed to be pr boxes for the brands he’s sponsoring.

no, said brands did not require him to film the pr boxes. they only wished for him to use and test it out in an attempt to gain his brutally honest feedback. so why is it that he has his camera open to do a little review?

it’s because he’s deeply and undeniably in love with a so-called idiot named you. you have him wrapped around your finger, and sae was the one to curl your fingers around him for you. a little while ago—right after emerging from the shower of his hotel room—he sent a photo of the three pr boxes that laid on his bed. his manager did tell him he’ll drop it off around the night.

itoshi sae: they’re here.

itoshi sae: [sent an attachment]

you: ohhh! unboxing vid, pls!

itoshi sae: not my thing

you: aww :PP

you: anyhoo, don’t forget to eat dinner!

you: i’m just pinning my sketches in the new mood board, then i’ll head back home.

he knew there was nothing else to your response. sure, you were a bit dampened by how he flat out rejected your request, but you’re not one to dwell in such silly things either. sae knew that you would be the last person on earth forcing him to do something he doesn’t want to do, and video reviews might as well be nonexistent in his vocabulary.

even so, he decided to give it to you. reviews of the products he’s sponsoring.

oh, may god save his soul.

“we’ll start with this one.” he holds up a pastel yellow box displaying the name of his favorite skincare brand. “i heard they’re releasing a new formula for my moisturizer that’s less sticky. if it works well, then i’ll be using that for my games.”

he takes out a tube from the box and showed it to the camera, plucking the lid open. “the bottle’s bigger than the previous one too, and the design’s more minimal. i like it.”

for the next hour, itoshi sae filmed each and every reaction he had for every product he tested, telling you his brutally honest reviews and picking out which ones he considered purchasing upon launch.

sae didn’t even bother screening the videos before sending them to you, well-aware that you prefer his rawest form than anything else. it is a factor as to why he feels so lucky being with you. though, he’d never admit it right at your face, he simply hopes he shows it enough.

imagine the look on your face when you just finished locking up your office, fishing your phone out to let him know you’re about to head home. instead, you were met with three 15-minute long videos of each promotional box sent to him.

itoshi sae: [sent 3 attachments]

itoshi sae: i have to admit, i like the new sunscreen the most. i’ll contact the company and have another delivered to you.

itoshi sae: you should also try the lip glaze. i remember you’ve been complaining about how your lips dry up in the winter. i’ll give it to you next week when you fly over.

your heart swelled at the sight of him actually filming his reactions, nearly slamming into a lamp post if it wasn’t for your driver tugging you back lightly to prevent you from doing so.

you: you really filmed!

you: i’ll watch it on the way home!

you: i love you, querido <3

and your appreciative messages were enough for sae to know that leaving his heart to rest upon your care is the best thing he’s ever done. you have always been the most positive influence in his life, and you never shame him for anything he does out of his character.

itoshi sae: i love you. head home safe.

[vin-taege]

muse (m)

summary: Erik is having trouble sketching a design for a pin-up tattoo. No matter how many references he looked through, he just couldn't get the pose right. Luckily, his girlfriend is there to be his real-life model.

genre: fluff, smut

pairing: erik campbell x reader

CW: p in v, unprotected sex (stay safe irl!), spitting, choking, spanking, light degradation, light dumbification, pure filth, lowkey biting kink, erik is a bit of a sadist, aftercare!

words: ~4.4k

"I'm going to get carpal tunnel." Erik shook his wrist, the motion unable to contain the pain from his pinched veins. The house was empty, save for him and Bobby. The rest of the family went out for a grocery run, while the two of them were restricted either by college or by work.

"That's not good," Bobby grimaced, barely glancing up from his chemistry textbook. "You won't be able to jack off properly."

The blunt end of a rubber eraser hit the younger boy square in the head. Rubbing the sore spot, he shot a displeased look towards his 'attacker,' only to be met by a shit-eating grin. 

"Oops, it slipped."

Still feeling his brother's pointed glance, Erik let out an exaggerated sigh. "Okay, I'm sorry. I'm just stressed because Mark won't get off my ass for this project."

"Aren't you guys allowed to use reference sites?"

"Yeah, but I'd rather not slowly burn my eyes out of their sockets. Also, I think I’ve gone through every picture Pinterest has. The frat boy who wants this tattoo keeps asking for updates every thirty minutes and he’s busting my balls."

To say this specific tattoo design was kicking his ass was an understatement. Drawing was both the easiest and the hardest part. Erik was skilled enough to go from neo-traditional to realistic at the drop of a hat, but the amount of work it took—plus his shit working posture he swore he’d fix—was out to knock a few years off his life. The more he drew poses again and again, the sloppier they looked. He groaned in frustration, balling up another piece of paper.

"Why don't you ask ___ to model for you then?" Bobby picked up a highlighter, aggressively running it across what Erik estimated to be an entire paragraph. He almost didn't hear what Erik hastily mumbled under his breath. "What was that?"

"I don’t want her to feel conscious, okay?" Erik huffed. "Plus, I’d get a bit… distracted from drawing, and the whole point is to draw."

Bobby screwed his face in disgust. He shook the mental picture of whatever his brother and you do underneath bed covers and went back to focus on studying for his finals. What he didn’t know was that his off-handed suggestion truly stuck with Erik.

Erik tucked his pencil and graphite stick back into their case, carefully wrapping the latter in tissue to prevent it from making a mess. Even though he had an iPad, he still preferred to draw traditionally—one of his quirks you loved. He was so particular about small details like texture and shading control, loved the feel of wood rather than smooth metal.

He looked back at his phone, scrolling through his mess of a gallery. A mixture of personal pictures, pose references, playlist screenshots, and shitpost gathered under the “all photos” tab—not that he bothered to ever sort them into proper albums. He aimlessly scrolled, not exactly sure what he was looking for. Finally, he was hit with serendipity.

It was a picture from two weeks ago. He had been working late as the shop closer and texted you that he’d spend an extra hour over time. You had whined at him over a brief call, rightfully so, since he had planned for that night to be a movie night.

“Erik, I got all pretty just for you,” he could almost see your pout through the phone.

“You’re always pretty, baby.”

“That’s not my point!”

“I know,” he sighed. “I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you when I get there, okay?”

After a few more bouts of apologies and a reluctant “I love you,” that’s when he got the picture. You were kneeling in front of the mirror, your free arm planted on the ground. It pressed against your chest, making your cleavage more pronounced. In between your thighs, behind your hand, he could faintly see the shimmer of lace panties—the ones he picked out for you after you made him listen to the Brat album. The only thing covering you up was his favorite leather jacket, the thick fabric embracing your frame while still showing your silhouette.

And damn, all the memories of that night hit him once more. How he fucked you in his jacket, how breathy your voice got, pitching up when you were deep in subspace, how much you begged him to fill you up. He could feel his dick twitch in his pants.

“I need to go. You’d be fine here by yourself, right?” Erik hastily chucked his things in a ratty. leather satchel. You had gotten it for him three birthdays ago, and at this point, the leather’s got a bit of chafing, while the straps were filled with a row of button pins. Erik refused to use anything else to carry his things.

“Uh, where are you going? Mom and Dad are gonna come back soon for dinner. They texted, like, just ten minutes ago.” Bobby shifted from his position on the couch, moving to toss his textbook aside and catch up to Erik, but he had already gotten his boots on.

“I’m taking your advice.” Erik paused at the doorway, making eye contact with a confused Bobby. In a second, everything clicked for the younger sibling. He cringed, gritting his teeth together.

“Tell her I said hi, at least,” Bobby awkwardly waved at Erik, watching as he trudged off like a man on a mission.

────୨ৎ────

“Bobby says ‘hi,’” was the first thing Erik told you when you opened the door. You chuckled, both in confusion and surprise. Just this morning, Erik had texted you that he’d be preoccupied all day just trying to make a draft for that one client; some frat boy in an on-again-off-again relationship who wanted his girl as a pin-up on his thigh. Which is why you didn’t expect to see him at your door this evening.

He licked his lips at the sight of you. One of his old band tees hung around your frame, barely covering the top of your thighs. Black shorts peeked beneath the soft fabric. You moved to hug him, squeezing his body against yours.

“Kiki! I thought you forgot about me.”

You laughed as he rolled his eyes, the curve of a smile ghosting his lips. With one arm wrapped around you, he brought a hand to cup your face, leaning in to kiss you deeply. You could taste the faint menthol from the hard candies he substituted for cigarettes. He was trying to quit after promising you he’d take care of himself more.

He shifted to grip your jaw firmer, using your small gasp as an opportunity to slip his tongue in. You moaned quietly, feeling his jeans rub against your thighs. Just as you felt yourself getting wet, he pulled away, teasingly grinning at you.

“How could I ever forget my girl?”

Your cheeks heated up at the pet name. Shaking your head, you stepped aside to let him in and closed the front door.

Erik basically lived part-time at your apartment. He knew where you kept your cups and plates, memorized what brand of detergent you used, and knew just the right way to twist your shower knob so that the water was the perfect temperature. He plopped on his usual spot on your couch, with you following close by. He patted his lap, an invitation for you to take your favorite seat.

“How’s the pin-up job going?” you asked once you settled down. His hands automatically landed on your thighs. You took his satchel, digging around before you procured his sketchbook.

“It’s shit, babe. I’ve been getting artist’s block since that guy left the shop.” He watched quietly as your eyes scanned over his failed sketches. He never wanted to admit it, but a small part of him still felt nervous whenever you looked at his drawings. Subconsciously, his thumb traced small circles onto your skin. “I actually came here to ask you for help with something.”

“Mhmm?” you hummed, only half-listening to him. No matter how many times you viewed his sketchbook, you were always awe-struck. Erik’s shop was mainly known for piercings, but on the rare days he’s given a task of a tattoo job, he always kills it with his artistry. Strong shape language, vivid colors, fluid composition—he was such a ridiculously good artist.

“Baby?” Erik chuckled, bringing a hand up so he could swipe your lips with his thumb. You scrunched your face up in surprise, bringing your full attention back to him. “I said I wanted to ask if you could help me with this drawing.”

You smiled sheepishly. “And what exactly do you want me to do? Is this one of your brilliant plans?”

“It’s not a heist this time, I promise,” he snorted. He fell silent for a moment, an uncharacteristic beat of seriousness washing over him. He took a deep breath. “You can always say no to this, and I swear I wouldn’t mind. I just really need a burst of inspiration right now and I keep fucking up the poses. And then I figured… I have a smoking hot girlfriend…”

He trailed off, wiggling his eyebrows at you. You cocked your on brow, laughing in disbelief. “And what, you want to paint your ‘smoking hot girlfriend’ like a French girl?”

He chuckled, pulling you closer to him. He hooked his chin over your shoulder, craning his neck to plant a soft kiss beneath your ear. “Only if she lets me.”

“Hmm…” you pretended to mull it over. “Only if you ask politely.”

“Please, will you, the queen of my heart, model for me?” He widened his eyes slightly, working his charm through his baby blues. You could feel his fingers brush higher on your thigh, his nails catching the hem of your shorts. 

“Fine, pretty boy.”

“That’s my fucking girl.” He bit your shoulder lightly, making you yelp in surprise. You twisted your torso, smacking him lightly on his chest as he laughed. You got off his lap, moving to the smaller plush chair next to the sofa.

“How do you want me?”

“I’d normally say hands and knees.” You shot him a glare, met only by an unabashed grin. “But right now, just sit pretty on the edge there. Bring one leg in front of the other and bend it like—yeah, that’s perfect. Now put your… right hand on the couch and extend it.”

You let him pose your arms, making small tweaks in your position. His touches were light, though lingering. Your skin burned each time the pads of his fingers came into contact with you. When he was satisfied, he took a few steps back, cocking his head a little to the side to take you in. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered under his breath.

You giggled, eyes darting to your oversized shirt, then back to him. “Do you want me to take this off?”

Without waiting for an answer, you peeled the fabric off smoothly before returning to your static position. You shivered a little as the cold air hit your bare breasts. Erik’s jaw hung open, his eyes darkening. He closed his mouth, swallowing thickly. Going back to his spot on the couch, he leaned back, opening his thighs wide. He set the sketchbook on top of the leg, planted on the couch.

“Don’t move, doll. Can you handle that for a few minutes?”

“What if I accidentally squirmed a little?” you batted your eyelashes innocently.

He snickered. “I’ll make sure you’ll regret it then. Wouldn’t want me to bend you over for a spanking now, do you?”

You pressed your lips in a thin line, clenching around nothing. Wetness stuck to the fabric of your panties. You wanted to rub your thighs, grind on the couch, but Erik’s watchful eyes froze you to the spot. His gaze would flicker between you and the paper, silence taking over the living room except for the music he’s set in the background. 

Just from the first song, you recognized the playlist: Erik’s Witching Hour. Also belovedly known as his sex playlist.

Humming to the tune, you tried to distract yourself. Erik’s gaze was heavy on you, piercing into your soul. It wasn’t self-consciousness per se—it was yearning. The room felt hot, despite your nipples hardening from the cool air. Your clit throbbed, demanding to be touched underneath your slick-ruined underwear. You could faintly hear Erik’s pencil scratch against the paper.

It was after whole minutes of silent concentration that you decided to play with him a little. Leaning your head backwards, you stared at the ceiling in faux boredom. “Wait so… you’re going to put a picture of me on another guy’s skin?”

“Bring your head back down, doll. And no, not exactly. I wouldn’t put you on that asshole. I just need a feel for the pose.”

You rolled your eyes, listening to his request. For now. For another moment, none of you spoke until you started swinging your legs back and forth. “Yeah… I was thinking of how this complete stranger was going to have my body on his for what—the rest of his life? Didn’t know you were into that.”

His expression hardened, jaw tensing. He called your name out quietly, an edge present in his voice. “Stop moving.”

You raked your gaze over him, stopping at the seam of his jeans. His sketchbook covered his crotch, but you could see his knuckles turning white from how hard he gripped it. You bit your lip, swaying lightly from side to side. “The idea of it is hot, no? Like, I’m branding someone almost.”

He said your name again, voice firmer this time. “I’m giving you three seconds to shut up, and if you don’t, I’m not going to be gentle with what I’m gonna do next.”

Your eyes lit up. You were really winding him up now. If there’s anything Erik loves, it's always a good chase. 

“One.”

You spread your legs slowly, angling your hips down to the chair.

“Two.”

Erik had already set his pencil on the table. He leaned forward, bringing both feet to the ground, eyes burning into yours. You could practically see the outline of his cock through his jeans now.

“Three?” you finished for him, rocking your hips slightly. Your thighs tensed as your clit finally met its sought-after friction. Without another word, Erik made his way to you with two big strides. You grinned at him as you felt a hand on your throat, fingers roughly pressing into the points of your jaw.

“Just can’t fucking help yourself, huh?” he whispered. He ran his thumb over your mouth, parting your lips. You suckled on his digit, twirling your tongue around him. He slipped his other hand underneath your shorts, tracing your slit through your panties. He groaned, feeling how soaked you were. “Have you been this wet since we started? Is that why you’re so fucking needy?”

You nodded, hips chasing after his touch when he brought his hand away. His thumb pressed down on your tongue, prying your jaw open. He leaned over, spitting into your mouth. He let your jaw go, watching with hunger as you immediately swallowed.

“I was just… curious about your work?” It came out more as a question. You bit your lip, trying to prevent the smile from spreading on your face. Erik narrowed his eyes at you.

Two firm hands gripped your waist, pulling you up and spinning you around. You felt pressure on the back of your knee, making it bend. Erik pressed a hand on your lower back, forcing an arch. You were kneeling on the sofa now, hands stabilizing yourself on the backrest. He grabbed the hem of your shorts, almost tearing the fabric as he yanked them down your thighs, alongside your panties. He took a moment to take in your wetness staining the black lace, before bringing his eyes to your dripping cunt.

“Are these the ones I got for you?” He ran a finger through your slit, collecting your fluids. He brought it to his lips, groaning deeply when he tasted you.

“My favorite,” you wiggled your ass. Immediately, you felt your left cheek sting, hearing the sharp smack first. Your mouth dropped in a silent moan—too shocked for any sound to come out.

“I’ll teach you a thing about branding,” Erik said, winding up his arm before bringing his palm down on your right ass. He watched the flesh jiggle, waiting for the redness to spread on your skin. He spanked you again, letting his fingers catch on your cunt. You squeezed your eyes shut, yelping in both pain and pleasure. “Since you seem to like it so much, I’ll make an example out of you.”

You bit your lip, too stubborn to let him hear you moan. Your nails dug into the couch as you took blow by blow. The skin was stinging, made worse when you felt the tip of Erik’s nail on the swell of your eyes. A whimper left your lips as he carved a crooked “E” on your flesh. The skin puffed slightly, making the letter even more visible. 

“You’re getting off this, you little freak,” he chuckled breathlessly. You panted, rocking back and forth as he wound circles around your clit. “You’re so fucking wet and I haven’t even gotten my cock out.”

“Fuck you,” you rasped out, trying to force more friction. His touch was light, teasing. You were about to turn your head back to spout more swears at him, when you felt a sharp smack against your cunt. You let out a strangled cry, bringing your thighs together.

“Oh, did that hurt? Poor baby,” he mocked you, forcing your thighs apart with his hands. Two fingers rubbed your slit up and down, barely dipping into you. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Erik.” His name came out as a breathy whine. “Stop teasing.”

“Only if you ask politely,” he mimicked your words from earlier.

You groaned, throwing your head back in frustration. “Erik, please just fucking put them in already! I need your fingers so bad, baby, please. Please—fuck!”

You inhaled sharply as Erik slipped his fingers knuckle-deep into your cunt. He brought them back and forth, angling his hand until he hit the spot that made you see stars. Your breath stuttered, arms almost giving out. Erik snaked his other hand onto your neck, fingers pressing lightly against your throat. He guided you forward, letting the backrest hit your collarbones, your arms bent on top of it.

“Yeah, that’s it.” His voice mixed with the playlist and the squelching noises your cunt made. Each push of his fingers made you tense more, a coil winding up in your stomach. Your mind was clouded, taken over only by his scent, his touch, his voice. Your eyelids fluttered, sinful moans loudly leaving your lips.

“You’re gonna be a good doll and fucking follow orders this time.” He was bent over you, whispering harshly into your ear. He caught the bottom of your lobe, grinding it in between his teeth. Tears sprang from the corners of your eyes, a broken moan wretching its way out of your throat. “I know you’re getting close. You’re gonna make a mess all over my fingers, then you’re gonna kneel all pretty there and take it like a good girl when I fuck you, okay?”

You nodded your head, too lost in the pleasure to think properly. He let go of your throat, grabbing a fistful of your hair instead to yank your head back. “Can you talk to me, or are you too fucking dumb right now?”

“Erik, p-please. Yes, please fuck me, please let me cum, p-please,” you stuttered out, yelling as your orgasm hit you. You ground back into his palm, shaking as more slick gushed out of you. He continued to pump his fingers, slowing his pace as you rode out your high.

Taking big gulps of air, you placed your head on the chair’s backrest, thighs still trembling. You could faintly hear the clinking of his belt, followed by heavy fabric falling down. Your breath caught in your throat when you felt the cool tip of his prince albert poke slip in between your folds. “W-wait, Erik—”

“What’s your color, doll?” he murmured against your back, pressing soft kisses up your spine. He stopped the trail at your shoulder, biting and suckling on the skin until it bruised. You can’t imagine how much more marks your hips and ass had. He waited patiently for your answer, rubbing your waist soothingly.

You finally managed to catch your breath. “G-green.”

“That’s a good girl,” you could feel him smirk. He pressed a kiss on the crook of your neck, then entered you in one fluid motion. You let out a broken cry, feeling his piercing brush against your cervix. He stayed buried to the hilt, grinding his cock impossibly deeper into you.

“P-please,” you begged him. His hand found its way place back on your neck, fingers carefully placed so that he wouldn’t be pressing down on your windpipe. He gripped your hips firmly. Once he was satisfied with his position, he thursted into you. Slowly, cruelly.

He pulled out, leaving only the tip in, before pressing flush against your ass. You gasped each time, his cock expertly nailing your g-spot. Erik grunted, breathing heavily each time he thrust into you. Your cunt clenched tightly around him, greedily taking in his thick cock. No matter how many times you fucked, the delicious stretch always surprised you.

Erik could feel you getting close again. Your uneven breathing, how tight you had curled your toes, the steady stream of moans spilling from your lips—half of them profanities while the rest was his name. “Does my doll want to cum again?”

“M-mhhmm,” you gasped in between moans.

“Gotta do better than that, doll.” He applied light pressure to your throat, starting to quicken his pace. 

“C-cum! Erik, w-wanna cum, fu-fuck—please!” you mewled, barely hearing him give you permission. For a second, you blacked out, cunt spasming around his cock. Your mouth opened in a silent yell, moans caught in the throat he held. Your body went slack, drained by the powerful orgasm he forced out of you. The only things holding you up were his hands on your neck and hips. He used your body as leverage, pulling you into him as he snapped his hips.

Erik kept thrusting into you, following an animalistic rhythm. He plowed on, making the sofa creak, lightly bumping your cheek into the upholstery each time he bottomed out. You were barely coherent—the only thing you knew was that you felt so fucking good. Small ungh, ungh, ungh’s, was the only thing you were capable of saying. 

“Look at you. See, you could listen for once. Staying still like a pretty doll while I use you. You’re such a good girl. You’re gonna let me fill you up, won’t you, doll?” He moaned, voice breaking towards the end. His thrusts were getting sloppier, shallower. He was getting off on his words as much as you were. It always turned him on how fast he could reduce you to a mindless mess, cock-drunk, eyes glazed over.

“Y-yes, please,” you squeaked, voice already raw. He snickered lightly, moaning wantonly behind you, already starting to lose control.

“That’s my good girl. Good fucking slut,” he growled, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. Hot spurts of cum painted your walls, Erik grinding slowly into you, coaxing more of his seed to spill out. You clamped down on him, cumming for the third time as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. After milking himself in your cunt, he stilled, draping his body over yours, pulling you close.

He hooked his chin over your shoulder, pressing soothing kisses on your cheek and neck. When your breathing went back to normal, he slowly pulled out. You sighed at the emptiness, clenching as his cum dripped out of your spent cunt. He stared for a moment, entranced by the mixture of fluids. His focused snapped back to you when you groaned, limbs already sore.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered. He took you into his arms, gently lying down on the larger couch with you on top of him. He ran his fingers through your hair, lightly scratching your scalp. You hummed in contentment, feeling so so tired but also so full.

“You did so well for me. You’re always so good to me, baby.” His voice took a softer lilt, always the polar opposite after rough sessions. His touch felt warmer, lighter, more afraid to break you. “You can go to sleep if you want, okay? I’ll be here.”

With his reassurance, you let your eyes flutter shut. It didn’t take long for you to doze off, cheek pressed against his chest. He kept on playing with your hair and drumming his fingers against the base of your spine. He only stopped once he was sure you were deep into your slumber. 

────୨ৎ────

You woke up in your bed, way past dinner.

Bleary-eyed, the first thing you saw was Erik sitting by your desk, his back turned to you. You glanced down at yourself, discovering that you’ve been dressed in fresh clothes—one of your sleep tees and the boxers you stole from him. You stretched your limbs, wincing at the slight soreness in your lower half. Erik turned to you, hearing the rustling of your covers.

“Hey,” he smiled softly. You patted the empty space next to you, pouting at him. Your stomach grumbled, but you could hardly care. You just needed him close.

He climbed into bed, taking his place next to you under the covers. “You gonna stop being an asshole now?”

You snorted loudly, laughter like tinkling bells in his ears. He watched fondly as your eyes scrunched up. “Hello to you, too.”

“Sit up and drink some water, okay?” He took the glass placed on your nightstand, bringing it to your lips. You gladly accepted, the water quenching your parched throat. “I’ll order some takeout for a late, late dinner.”

“Did I get to help with the tattoo?” you murmured, still drowsy.

“I think I got it down, baby,” he smirked, pecking your lips. He wasn’t going to tell you that he never got a proper sketch because he kept staring at your tits. To his merit, he did try, but just got so distracted. It was going to be a problem for future Erik. Presently, Erik just wants to eat takeout and be with you. 

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Ok, imagine this. Lewis being a father and when he is at Ferrari, his daughter is helping him with his Italian, because daughters mother is from Italy. Maybe Lewis and the Mom still being good friends and daughter always spending a few months in Italy since she has been small so that is why her Italian is so good.

Sorry, English is only my second language!

Rosso e Sole

When Lewis stepped into the Ferrari garage for the first time, clad in red from head to toe, there was a buzz in the air. Not just because of the legend now standing under the Prancing Horse emblem, but because standing beside him, a touch shorter than his shoulder, was a girl with wavy dark hair, sun-kissed skin, and greenish-brown eyes that sparkled like the Italian coast.

Her name was Yn. Sixteen, confident in her quiet way, and with an Italian lilt to her English that made the engineers smile every time she spoke.

“Papa,” she said that morning, standing just outside the hospitality suite, looking up at her dad who was clearly trying to memorize his morning briefing in Italian, “you just said the car is made of bread. You meant carbonio, not pane.”

Lewis blinked down at her. “Wait, really?”

“Veramente,” she smirked. “You said: ‘la macchina è fatta di pane.’ Which would make for a deliciously fragile car.”

He groaned. “Oh my god. Why is this language so hard?”

Yn shrugged, stepping up beside him and tapping on his tablet. “You’ve just got to stop trying to make everything so literal. Italian is a feeling, not a formula.”

Behind them, a few of the mechanics stifled chuckles. One even whispered to a colleague, “La ragazza di Hamilton è meglio di lui in italiano.”

And she was. Always had been.

Yn was born under a hot sun in Tuscany, in a small private hospital where her mother, Maria, had insisted on giving birth near her parents’ home.

Lewis had been there, holding Maria’s hand, tears falling on the baby’s blanket when Yn let out her first cry. They had been young, ambitious, wildly in love, but even then, they both knew that love alone wouldn’t be enough to build the life Yn deserved.

So when Yn was barely a year old, Maria and Lewis sat together on the terrace of Maria’s father’s home, drinking espresso while the baby slept inside, and made a decision that would shape the rest of their lives.

“We’re not going to make each other happy, not in the way we thought,” Maria had said softly.

Lewis nodded, fingers fidgeting with the sugar packet in his hand. “But we’re going to make her happy. That much, I know.”

And they did. They built something beautiful out of what they had. A friendship that turned into a lifelong alliance. Two worlds that somehow always made space for each other.

Yn grew up between two countries, two languages, two lives. When her parents had to be away—photo shoots in Paris, testing in Bahrain—she’d stay with her Nonno and Nonna in a house full of lemon trees, espresso machines, and old records of opera playing in the kitchen.

She never minded. She never resented it. Because her parents never made her feel like she came second. Every reunion was filled with joy, every phone call with love. They never missed a chance to tell her she was adored.

Now at sixteen, Yn was becoming her own person—curious, witty, always carrying a journal around to sketch or write little thoughts in Italian and English. And since Lewis joined Ferrari, she had become somewhat of a celebrity in the paddock.

“Hey, principessa,” called one of the engineers as she passed the garage entrance. “Did your papa learn how to say ‘rear wing’ yet?”

“Not unless he wants to tell you about his red wine again,” she quipped, without even turning around.

That afternoon, Lewis and Yn sat together under the canopy outside the Ferrari motorhome. She was scrolling through her notes app where she’d written down a few helpful phrases for her dad to memorize before his post-qualifying interview.

“Okay,” she said, handing him her phone, “repeat after me: La macchina ha avuto un ottimo bilanciamento oggi.”

Lewis furrowed his brows. “La macchina ha avuto un ottimo... bilanc... bilanciamento... oggi.”

“Perfetto!” she grinned.

“Wait. What did I just say?”

“That the car had great balance today.”

“Right. That’s... true, I guess. We can pretend it did.”

She laughed, and then leaned over to fix his collar.

“Fans love this, you know,” Lewis murmured. “Us talking like this. Teaching me Italian. You’re becoming more famous than me.”

“Impossible,” she teased. “But they do like it. Especially when you mess up.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Papa,” she said, her tone suddenly softer. “You know I love this, right? Being here. With you. Watching you race.”

He looked at her then, his expression warm, the lines around his eyes softening. “You don’t think it’s weird? That we missed so much time together when you were younger?”

“Not weird. Just… life,” she shrugged. “I never felt unloved. Not once. And I always had Nonna and Nonno. They taught me how to cook and yell at the TV during football.”

“I owe them everything,” he whispered.

“We all do,” Yn replied.

There was a beat of silence between them before Lewis spoke again.

“Do you ever wish we’d done it differently? Your mom and me, I mean?”

Yn tilted her head thoughtfully. “Maybe. But then I wouldn’t be me, would I? I wouldn’t have grown up between London and Florence. I wouldn’t have learned to be strong, or independent. I wouldn’t have learned to miss people and still love them just the same.”

Lewis stared at her for a long moment, then pulled her into a hug. “You’re too wise for your age.”

“I read a lot of Italian poetry,” she smiled into his chest.

That Sunday, after the race, Yn stood in the paddock, holding her dad’s race suit jacket while he did interviews. As usual, she corrected his phrasing gently when he slipped up.

“No, Papa, it’s soddisfatto, not soffritto. You just said you were ‘onion-fried’ with the car’s performance.”

Somewhere nearby, a fan held up a cardboard sign that read: Yn for Italian Teacher of the Year!

Maria arrived a bit later, fresh from a photoshoot in Milan, her heels clicking on the pavement. She waved at Yn, who ran into her arms, and then the two joined Lewis for a brief chat near the motorhome.

“We’re thinking of renting a place in Rome for the summer,” Maria said. “You should come.”

Lewis raised a brow. “You mean all three of us?”

“Why not?” she shrugged. “She’s growing up. We should enjoy the time we get.”

Yn beamed. “Can we? Please?”

Lewis smiled. “Only if you promise to keep teaching me Italian.”

Maria smirked. “And maybe some fashion, too. You still can’t dress without her help.”

“Rude,” he said, but laughed.

As the three of them stood there, blending the past and the present, the paddock moved around them, fast and loud. But in that moment, Yn didn’t feel like a girl caught between two worlds. She felt exactly where she was meant to be.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

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

-💚🐍

[covenofagatha]

A Helping Hand

You're helping your Professor gather ingredients for a potion she's brewing when you accidentally knock over a jar of sex pollen and need help.

Word count: ~3100

Warnings: smut, mommy kink, fingering, Top Agatha, magic cock, blowjob, magic cum, pure filth, teacher x student, age gap (everyone's legal)

Your brow furrows as you stare at the open spell book in front of you. You have a Potions test tomorrow for Professor Harkness, and evident by your lack of understanding of any of the words on the page, you are not going to do well. 

“What’s wrong?” your roommate, Wanda, asks you. The two of you are the top witches at the Academy of Dark Arts, and yet, neither of you has a strong suit in potions. 

And of course, the Potions teacher, Agatha Harkness, is the hardest teacher you have. 

“This is impossible. How am I supposed to remember that, for the Wolfsbane Potion, you have to stir three times counterclockwise, say this incantation, and then stir four times clockwise, all while making sure I’m continuously pouring in Dragon’s Blood?” Your head hurts just from reading it from the book. 

Wanda snorts. “Agatha doesn’t expect it to be perfect.”

You give her a look. You both know that’s a lie. Agatha is the teacher that makes you redo written homework assignments if you leave too much space between the words. 

The Academy of Dark Arts was a home for witches like you and Wanda: witches that did not have a coven, or even a family. The Academy was supposed to teach girls to harness and understand their powers. 

You have been here the longest, ever since you were twelve. You are almost twenty now. You had always put off taking Potions until you could no longer avoid it, mainly just because of how hard everyone else said it was. You had briefly interacted with Professor Harkness before the class, passing her in the corridors or making eye contact at meals. 

And maybe, just maybe, you had developed a bit of a crush on her once you were in her class. 

Who could blame you, though? She was the definition of perfection, with the way power just exuded from her, and the way her long, dark hair tumbled down to her lower back, and her piercing blue eyes that you suspected could see right into your soul. 

But your little infatuation was not what you needed right now – no, right now, you need to study. 

“I just don’t know anything,” you groan, dropping your head into your hands. “I can’t even read my notes.” Agatha often went so fast in class that you had no other option than to just scribble down everything you thought she said as quickly as you could. 

And now you just had pages of illegible chicken scratch. 

“She’s probably still in the green house, why not just go ask her for help,” Wanda says noncommittally, too engrossed in sketching a picture. How she is so calm with this test hanging over the both of you, you have no idea. 

But you nod. That’s a good idea. You can go see Agatha, ask her to clarify a few things, and then stay up all night cramming ingredients and directions into your brain. 

“I’ll be right back,” you promise, and then scoop up your book and your notes. 

You pass by some younger witches in the hallway and you give them a tight-lipped smile. Wanda was really your only friend at the Academy, the other girls too boy-crazy or too self-absorbed for you to really connect with them. 

Other than those girls, though, the Academy is quiet. No sign of any of your other teachers, and you’re sure they’re either in their private quarters or still grading papers in their classrooms. 

You have to leave the main house of the Academy to get to the greenhouse, where Potions takes place. The cold November air stings your cheeks and makes your eyes water, but luckily, it’s a short walk. 

“Hello, Professor Harkness?” you say timidly, knocking on the door as you push it open. She’s sitting at a stool, cutting plants with a sharp knife. Her hair flowing down her back and she's wearing a tight white button-down shirt on that’s tucked into high-waisted purple pants, and a long, navy coat.

She glances up and smiles when she sees it’s you. “Y/n, what can I do for you?” 

“Oh, I just wanted to come see if you could help me clear some things up for the test tomorrow,” you say, a little flustered by how good she looks. 

“Sure thing, hon. First, I need your help. Hand me those powders from over there?” She points the knife over to the counter by the sink and you oblige, grabbing the four vials and putting them down next to her. She picks each one up and examines the label closely. “Ah, shoot. Sorry, dear, could you find the jar with the powdered root of asphodel? It should be in the pantry somewhere. I thought I took it out, but I guess I forgot.” 

“Yeah, of course.” You repeat the powder name in your head a few times so you don’t forget it and then go search for it. 

You finally spot it on the fourth shelf, sitting in the middle of some other jars, and you reach up on your tip-toes to grab it. As you’re pulling down the correct jar, you accidentally knock it into another and it falls to the floor next to you. 

“Shit!” you mutter, immediately crouching down to assess the damage. The jar of some unknown powder has broken and its contents are spilled everywhere. Without even thinking, you start to sweep the powder into your hands so you can try to put it back in the bottom half of the jar that’s still intact. 

You didn’t even notice Agatha coming over after she heard the noise. “Everything okay – don’t touch any of that!” she exclaims, seeing the bottle that broke on the floor.

You drop the mound of powder in your hands and whirl around, eyes wide open. 

“What is it?” you ask, afraid of the answer, but she doesn’t give you one, instead opting to pull you by the sleeve over to the sink. 

“Wash your hands now,” she demands and stands there watching you scrub your skin until it’s red. “How do you feel?” 

“I feel fine,” you say, but as you say that, you notice something. There’s an unmistakable heat growing in your stomach. And it only gets worse when Agatha places a hand against your forehead. You lean into the touch and have to forcibly bite your tongue so you don’t moan. 

She looks you up and down and you can feel yourself getting hotter. You’re sure your cheeks are flushed. 

You’ve never felt this way before. 

“Um, just out of curiosity, what was that powder?” you ask, wetness pooling between your thighs. The ache between your legs is becoming hard to ignore. 

Agatha meets your eyes. “It’s called sex pollen.” Your heart skips a beat. “I honestly forgot it was back there. I came across some a few decades ago and wanted to study it.”

You swallow hard. “So if someone gets some of it in their system, do they just need to touch…” You feel yourself blushing, not quite believing you’re asking Agatha Harkness if masturbation is the key to get this heat inside you to die down. 

She smirks. “You can’t get it out of your system by yourself.”

Well, fuck. “There’s no other way?” 

“Where would the fun in that be?” She winks playfully, and you wonder if she’s ever used it, or used it on someone else. “But you said you feel fine so you shouldn’t have to worry about it.”

“Right,” you reply shakily. Her fingers brush a strand of hair out of her face and you literally clench at the sight of them. You feel so empty, so needy, so desperate for her. 

“You said you had some questions for the test tomorrow?” She takes the root of asphodel that you had forgotten you were holding and beckons you back over to where she’s working. She pats the stool next to you and you sit, the pressure on your clit making you jump. 

You just have to make it through this, go back to your room, and then drag Wanda out with you to a club or something so you can get fucked. 

The only problem is, you’re not sure you can wait that long. Your hips have started squirming on the stool beneath you and you can’t control it. 

“Um, so,” you start, opening up the textbook to the Wolfsbane Potion you were studying earlier. “The directions for this potion are–”

You’re cut off by her putting her hand on top of yours and you literally whimper at the contact. You stiffen and see her turn her full body towards you, taking in the slight sheen of sweat on your forehead, your darkened eyes, the way your hips are moving on the seat. 

“Oh, you poor baby,” she taunts. 

You give up the pretense of being unaffected by the pollen. “Professor, I’m so…I need…please…I think the pollen...” 

She laughs. “Yes, dear, I think the pollen got into your system. Do you have anyone who can take care of you?” 

You blush at the implication of Agatha asking if you have a fuck buddy and then shake your head pathetically. “I was gonna go out with Wanda and try to find someone,” you mumble. “I’ve never…” You trail off, not wanting your incredibly hot professor to hear you say out loud that you’re a virgin. 

“Honey, you can’t have your first time with a random person from a bar,” she tuts. “Plus, sex pollen amplifies feelings you already have. Getting fucked by a random person won’t help as much as by a person you already want.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” you whine. “Can you…will you…please?” You can tell the pollen is affecting your ability to think straight because there is no way you just asked your centuries-old professor to fuck you. You’re about ready to run out of the room and die of embarrassment when she grins. 

“You want me to help you?” 

Your breath catches. “Professor, please, please, I need it. I need you. I just feel so…hot.” 

“I’ll say,” she says appreciatively, this time letting her eyes wander over you slowly. “Are you sure? I don’t want you regretting this when the pollen wears off.” 

You shake your head. “I won’t. I’m sure. I want you so bad. I have for a while. And you said it has to be someone you already want.” 

Her eyes darken. “Get on the table.” 

You’ve never moved so fast in your life. She takes your shirt off and throws it somewhere else in the room, and then her hands are cupping your breasts and her mouth is on yours. 

You moan hungrily into her hot mouth, feeling her tongue against yours. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling it gently, and she groans into your mouth. Agatha quickly undoes the clasp of your bra and finds your nipples, tugging at them. She kisses down your neck and your fingers leave her hair to hike up your skirt. 

“So eager for me,” she whispers against your clavicle. You gasp when she bites down. 

“Please, professor, touch me.” 

“I am touching you,” she teases, fingertips lightly skimming down your stomach. You tense at the touch as she gets lower. 

Your moan is downright pornographic when she first slides her hand into your underwear, sliding through your folds. She makes a sound as well. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” she says. 

“All for you,” you say weakly, hips grinding up and down against her fingers. She’s yet to touch your clit, but you fear the second she does, you’ll cum. 

“My dirty girl.” Agatha finally pushes her middle finger into you and you clench down immediately, needing more. She easily finds the spot that makes you squeal, and her thumb brushes against your clit. “Do you think you can take another finger?” 

“Oh my god, yes,” you enthusiastically agree and she slides in her ring finger as well. It’s a bit of a stretch but you’ve never felt better. 

“Your cunt feels so good around me,” Agatha says, grabbing your chin with her other hand so you meet her eyes. “So wet, so warm. I want to stay here forever. You can’t get enough of my fingers, can you?” 

“No, Professor, I love your fingers,” you babble, right on the edge. She knows it too. 

“Be a good girl and come for mommy,” she whispers right into your ear, her hot breath warm, and the name, coupled with the way she twists her fingers and roughly strokes your clit, sends you climaxing. 

“Fuckkkk,” you moan, your nails digging into her shoulders. She fucks you through the aftershocks of your orgasm and then slowly pulls her fingers, which are drenched, out of you. You can’t help but feel empty and the heat inside you isn’t completely gone. 

Before you can say anything, she slides her wet fingers into your mouth and you lazily lap at your juices. She bites her lip at the feeling. 

“How are you feeling now, baby girl?” 

Her fingers leave your mouth with a pop. “Better but I still think I need more.” 

Her eyebrow raises playfully. “My fingers weren’t enough to quell your thirst?” 

You shake your head, feeling a little embarrassed. 

“I think I know something that might help.” She waves her hand and a poof of purple smoke appears. You’re not quite sure what she did, but she gives you a wicked grin and unzips her pants, pulling out a purple strap-on. 

Your mouth falls open. 

She grabs a hold of the base and starts to stroke herself, groaning. 

“Wait, can you-” 

She looks up at you. “Feel it?” She nods. “I wanna feel you clench around my cock. Wanna fill you up.” 

You let out a small gasp. “Mommy, please, I need your cock.” 

She steps back over to you and runs a hand up your slit, collecting your wetness, which she then rubs on her cock. “You’re plenty wet already, but why don’t you get on your knees and show me how much of a good girl you can be.” 

She doesn’t have to tell you twice. You practically fall to the ground in front of her, ignoring the sharp pain in your knees. You look up at her, awaiting instruction, and she bites her lip softly at the sight of you. 

She puts a hand on your head and pushes you closer. “Put a hand around the base and then run your tongue up and down the length.” 

You do as you’re told and you delight in the loud moan that tears from her mouth. Her hand just rests on your head as you then experimentally suck the tip of her cock between your lips. 

“Good girl,” she says gruffly, and her praise drives you to test the waters and go down further. You bob your head on her dick, never breaking eye contact. “Fuck, baby, your mouth is so hot.” 

Meanwhile, the need inside you is growing so much you can barely fight the urge to slip a hand up your skirt. But you don’t. You figure Agatha won’t like that, and also, you want to focus all your attention on making her feel good. 

“Such a dirty slut on her knees for mommy. So desperate for this cock,” she says and you groan around the strap-on, making her hands tighten in your hair. She pulls you back and a string of saliva connects your lips to her. “Get up.” 

Once you’re standing in front of her, she flips you around and bends your front over the table so she’s standing behind you. She pushes your skirt up and traces your pussy with her cock, sliding it up your slit to your clit and then back. You’re grinding against her, trying to get some stimulation. 

“Are you ready?” Agatha asks. 

“Yes,” you answer, voice hoarse with anticipation. You feel her line the tip up with your hole and then slowly start to push in. 

Both of you moan. She is so big but the stretch is exactly what you need. Once she bottoms out, she holds still for a second, letting you adjust to her size. 

“You take my cock so well.” And then she’s pulling out and thrusting back in, picking up speed and intensity. You lift a leg up so she’s able to get deeper and you can feel her hips stutter. “You pretend to be so innocent but look at how desperate you are for me. Just a little slut, needing me to fill her up.” 

“Yes, just a slut for you, mommy.” 

Her nails dig into your hip and her other hand comes down to rub your clit. You clench around her. 

“You’re so tight, so hot, you feel so good squeezing my dick,” Agatha murmurs, saying the filthiest things right into your ear. You’re so close and it’s only been a few minutes of her pounding into you. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper. Her hand leaves your clit and you gasp. 

“Not yet, baby, wait for mommy. Do you want me to fill you up?” 

“Want you to fill me up, mommy, wanna feel you dripping out of me,” you babble. 

“Oh shit, baby, gonna cum in you. Cum for me,” she says, and you do. This orgasm is even more intense than the one before and you feel her give you one last hard thrust before warmth spreads through your cunt. She stills for just a second and then gingerly pulls out. You can feel her cum dripping out of your hole and down your leg and it almost makes you cum again. 

Agatha turns you around and spreads your legs so she can watch it better. She takes two fingers and lazily smears her cum mixed with yours all over your pussy lips. She raises her fingers to your lips and you eagerly taste both of your juices, moaning around them. 

“Do you feel better now?” she asks, a playful glint in her eyes. 

You sigh dramatically. “For now. But who’s to say I won’t get into more sex pollen some other time?”

She chuckles and matches your smirk with one of her own. “Well, I guess I better keep a careful eye on you then.” 

[kill4luvina]

"Fucked Around and Found out"

Vampire!Ony x Nerd!Reader (Fem)

Onyakapon ain't the type to get caught up in relationships—he's always been about casual hookups, bouncing from girl to girl, never sticking around long enough for anything real. But that all changes when he meets you. Over the years at Oak Ridge High, he’s never met anyone quite like you—to the public eye your the sweet, innocent & quiet girl nobody pays any mind to. He believed it too, Until one night at a wild house party, he sees a whole different side of you.

Warnings : SMUT, Ony & Reader are both drunk, Unprotected Sex, Choking, fingering, manhandling, biting & death (reader turns into a vampire at the end), reader has nipple piercing, spit kink, Oral (m receiving), mating press, reader is a slut for ony, breeding, creampie, Telepathy, cockdrunk reader, ooh girll, and so much more.

Onyakapon only sees you during Art Studio on Fridays, the one time he decided to stop by on a sunny day instead of going home after his last lecture. He sat next to you, and charmed his way into becoming your friend—complimenting your art and literally just talking to you about anything.

Today was like any other Friday, he walked into the studio with McDonald's. Catching your attention as you greeted him. "Why’d you get McDonald's?" you tilted your head, addressing the elephant in the room.

"So, you don’t want some?" he asked, making you laugh and shake your head. While eating, he couldn’t help but notice you got your hair and nails done.

You adjusted your glasses on your face as you picked up your phone, realizing you were running a little late. "I gotta go, me and my friend are going out tonight. I’ll see you next week?" you smiled, your braces making you even cuter to him.

"Mmhmm, be safe," he said, and you nodded before leaving.

He sat there for a minute, looking to the side, and noticed you left your drawing. He pulled it closer and realized it was a few different sketches of him, with his name drawn in the middle. There was a cute note at the bottom with your number & Instagram.

Ony’s homeboys had noticed the change in him since he met you. He didn’t really talk to or about any other girl but you. It was like his brain didn’t even register that today was his 3rd time seeing you, but he felt so comfortable around you. The weekdays were now just him, doing his schoolwork and making art.

A shocking change, due to his history of hooking up with girls every other day. Once in a while using them as a snack when they didn’t meet his standards.

This new change made being a vampire difficult, rather then killing girls he found peace in buying extra rats for his snake and him as well. Which wasn’t enough but would get him through the day.

But today, after what you said, he felt like he needed to get back in the game. And what better way than hitting up a house party? One hosted by his homeboys, Eren and Connie. Being asked to help set up Ony was there hours before the party even started.

His homeboys pressured him into drinking, three shots in and the three of them killed six girls. Two girls each boy, Eren and Connie leaving Ony to take care of the party as they rid the girls bodies.

Around 10:30, that's when you walked into the living room, completely catching his attention. You made your way over to one of your friends as she poured some Don into your mouth, both of you giggling, already tipsy from earlier.

"Y/n?" you heard Onyakapon’s voice as you turned around, slightly startled. You walked over to him, and he chuckled. "I never knew I'd see you at something like this." “fr? i go out a lot actually.”

Smiling you quickly turned to get the bottle of Don. He’d let out a light huff as he felt you get comfortable on his lap pressing your pussy against his lil big friend through the fabric of his sweats. “y/n?..” “yess??” you’d giggle before looking for something on you.

You’d pull your phone out and start recording. “say aahh.” he’d hesitate before opening his mouth as you pour some down his throat. You’d giggle more as you pressed your head against his, triggering his telepathy ‘he smells too good.’ hed hear making his eyes flashing a glint of red.

You looked so different, your deep side part sleeked to the side framing your face as the straight hair fell a little past your waist. Your pink and cheetah prink nails, matching with the very short pink crop top that barely covered your tits. Your jean skirt that barely cover your ass didn’t help the fact you had no panties on. 

‘when is he gonna touch me…’

All with cute Jordans that matched the pink of your outfit. You play with his chain will in his lap, as he finds himself playing with your pierced nipples through the thin fabric of your tight top. Picking you up in the same position, he’d walk you upstairs to the second floor where no one else was allowed.

“No panties?” He’d almost choke on his words, spreading your thighs open, noticing you were already soaked. About to go down on you,  he found himself watching your head bop up and down his dick slowly, swallowing as much of him as you could at a time. “fuckk— “ 

His eyes rolling back the moment you locked eyes with him for a second, head falling back as his hands quickly reached for your head. “Mamas—sloooo uw! the fuck down!” he’d almost whine. You had him in a vulnerable state nobody had ever, in his years of living. 

This only encouraged you to take him deeper, and faster drooling all over his dick. Your eyes watering as you messed up your make up with saliva. You’d pop him out of your mouth for a moment stroking his full length. Mentally trying to process how you were gonna handle all 9 ½ inches. 

Without hesitation you went back to work, hands moving in the opposite direction of eachother as your sucked at his tip. Something about the way his dick touched the back of your throat left the poor boy completely overfilling your mouth with cum. 

‘s’muchhh… n he looks so good all fucked out.’ 

Not even a second after you pulled away he was completely hard again. The way you looked up at him making his dick twitch and pupils turn red. The alochol in his system not helping, as he watched you pull your shirt off.

The eye-contact for a moment giving him complete control of your mind. “C’mere, mamas,” he'd smirk. Watching your eyes flicker a pretty pink, with cute heart in your eyes as your crawled towards him. Your mind completely blank as you followed instructions you could only hear through your thoughts.

‘i want a kiss..’ you’d find yourself thinking.

Eyes flickering back to normal as you now found yourself in his lap, kissing him. His right hand completely wrapped around your neck, that looked so small compared to his hand. The kiss getting deeper and hotter by the second has he started to grip you neck a little tighter, your eyes rolling back as you felt his left hand finds its way from your ass to your fat wet pussy.

The sloppy kiss getting messier as you whined and moaned trying to catch your breath, your head spinning as you got dizzy. “Wanna be a slut right?” he’d pull away to say, sliding to fingers deep in your pussy as tried everything to kiss him again. “Onyy” you’d whine feeling his grip loosen, but his fingers get deeper. 

‘too, gooodddd!’

The sloppy sound of pussy filling the room as his fingered you, with your pretty moans to harmonize with it. He’d watch you cum, your legs shaking as you let out a cry quickly resting your head against his shoulder. 

Before you knew it, you were in arched up in doggy a quick slap to the ass bringing you back to reailty. “What are you?!” you’d panic feeling him push agains’t your wet entrance making you wonder why you even cared anymore. 

‘i just wanna get fuckedd by himm’ you’re brain would spin trying to pull if even just an ounce of concern, but it what no where to be found. You felt completely safe in his hands, his dick slamming into your sloppy cunt. Your eyes rolling back, as your completely forgot your question and worries. 

“I’m- a vampire.” he’d answer, making your quickly turn to face him as smiled showing off his fangs as he watched confused reaction. Fear wanted to consume you, but you were too fucked out and drunk to care. To be honest, you found it hot making your pussy clench and swallow him deeper. 

“fuuckkk, you like that ma?” he’d asked, slowly starting to move as your pussy gripped him tighter making him lightheaded. “pussy too good, you not going anywhere.” he’d think aloud as he sped up the pace. The sloppy slaps and wet sounds mixed with both your moans and his groans.

“Right! THERE!!” you’d cry out, arching deeper and fucking back into him as you felt him hit a spot you never knew existed. Your brain going completely blank, the only thoughts remaining being how well he was fucking you. Eyes rolling back as your pull at the bedsheet trying not to run from it. 

To your rescue, Onyakapon notice his red eyes only glowing brighter and in three seconds you were in mating press. Too fucked out to even question how that was humanily possible, because it wasn’t. His strokes speeding up not helping matter as your started to cry, tears filling your cheeks out of pure bliss.

‘Sooo, close!’

“You about to cum mamas?? Mm?” he’d say, almost making you realize he had been reading your mind all along. Until he pulled back for a moment, slapping your pussy earning a yelp from you. Before going right back to fucking every braincell out of you. “Say aahhh!” he’d smile his heavy lustfilled eyes meeting yours. 

Not even being able to control yourself your mouth opened. “aahhhhhh” you’d obey as he spit in your mouth. “Swallow.” he’d command, no longer being controlled you did and you enjoyed it. Your final straw was when he quietly whispered “good girl” in your ear and started kissing you. 

You squirted, harder then you’ve ever in your life crying into the kiss as he quickly pulled away biting your neck hard making you physically cry even harder. Trying to push him away as you felt blood pouring down your neck. The mixed pleasure and pain not even allowing you to realize he came in you. 

His cum completely painting your walls white, as your lifeless body fell to the bed when he removed his fangs. Ony  hovered above you, admirring his masterpiece as he whispered loving affirmations. Cooing as he watched you open your pretty eyes, pink pupils staring up at him as you batted your lashes. 

Little did you know, you were his no matter what and he has just marked his territory on your whether you liked it or not. But, he had a feeling you wouldn’t mind especially now you could keep up with him.  

"And our happiest days would be spent Picking off all your friends And they'd see A love this deep Won't stay buried"

[veryfruitywriting]

You’re asking for Mac scenarios?! I’m your girl!!! How about one where all that training with Dunk finally pays off and we carry Mac up the stairs so they can cuddle with us because I don’t think they have the strength or ability to get up there like everybody else.

Dunk can act as our bestie wingman and carry up Mac’s wheelchair while we carry the real goods because I don’t think we’re strong enough to carry that wheelchair only the Mac. ❤️🫶🏻

ohhh i absolutely love this. — been gushing over this last night trying to brainstorm 😼 — thank you for sliding in my asks 🫶

ANYTHING FOR YOU

— a mac ( date everything! ) x reader oneshot

word count : 1k

(new to this… don’t throw tomatoes at me pls)

After seeing Dunk for the first time (again), he wasted no time to bring you back into your fitness era! You were hesitant at first, not sure if you were willing—or even had the motivation— to bring yourself back into it. But as you slept on it, you decided it would be nice to try and find a schedule again.

After receiving these glasses and working at home most of the time, there was going to be a point where you were gonna lose your mind being in this house. Might as well become a better you with this much free time. You were a bit slow paced with these workouts but after you met Mac, there was a bit of determination now. Not that you noticed at first but the more you chatted with them, the more you think about them as Dunk counts your reps.

Mac doesn’t really think much of your appearance but focuses more on your technical mannerisms and skills. Doesn’t mean they don’t notice the difference in your body tone and boost of energy. The deeper the relationship between you two has gotten, the more you strive to look better for them.

It only seemed fair since they mentioned they wanted to be good enough for you. Which absolutely broke your heart once they admitted their reasonings for the necessary update—along with other important things. You knew they meant well by it, by showing no hard nor sad feelings when they said it but you decided it was your turn to be good enough for them.

You tease Mac saying one day you’ll lift them up with ease one day. They reply saying they can’t wait for when the day comes.

There are moments where you genuinely want to sweep them off their feet but you still have a fear lingering in the back of your mind that you’ll drop them. That you’re not strong enough for them. It only fuels your determination more. It doesn’t go unnoticed during the workouts. Dunk takes note of your firecracker attitude when it comes to the workout he has plans for the day. His smile gets bigger and his adrenaline skyrockets when you ask for heavier weights or challenging exercises.

Night was arriving soon and you could feel your eyes grow heavier. “You should really get to bed,” Mac gently grabbed your shoulder with their hand, the little mouse on their shoulder moving in agreement. “You spent well over our usual 14 hours today.” “You really have to be a bit more careful when it comes to indulging yourself with the screen.”

“Sometimes I can’t tell if you remember that you have the ability to blink or not.” You laugh softly and reassure them that you do blink—sometimes—. “You should invest in blue light lenses.” You tilt your head to the side, it sounded familiar then it came to you. You’ve been seeing ads for them a lot lately… and have seen them in your cart for some unknown reason.

Mac looks off to the side as you click the pieces together, “It’s hard not to try and do these things. It runs through my veins being your computer and all.” As they face you again, you’re already leaning over from your chair and to their direction. Planting a soft kiss onto their cheek before they could say anymore.

You reassure them that you’ll buy the glasses, their shoulders visibly relax. “It’s getting to your usual bedtime, I’ll just finish scanning over any potential viruses —as I think the website you used earlier seemed a little sketch..— and sleep for the night.” They wheel over and soon extend their hand out to shoo you away but you gracefully grab it. Squeezing their hand in a heart-warming manner.

“Join me tonight.”

The blush on Mac’s face faintly paints their face. You’ve asked many times before but the expression on your face tonight said you weren’t going to listen to their excuses anymore. It wasn’t that they weren’t uncomfortable. The amount of times the both of you have fallen asleep on the couch were too many to count. It was the worst thing in the house for them: the stairs. Not Stella personally, she was a nice woman but the structure of the stairs… damn you architects.

“Join you?” Mac responded quickly, a bit surprised by your question. “Yes, upstairs.” You respond confidently. They shuddered excitedly at your changed demeanor, the blush on their face getting more visible by the second. “As much as I would love to, you know that it’s going to be a hassle to—“

You let go of their hand, soon standing up from your desk chair and finding yourself beside Mac. You lean over slightly, your fragrance overtaking their senses before they realize that your hand is slithering down to their lower back. “May I?” You ask softly. Mac’s face turns to your direction, your noses barely touching. “Are you sure?”

“Trust me.”

With that, Mac gives you a sure nod. You can’t lie to yourself and say you weren’t sweating nervously. You could feel the clothes clinging onto your back. Mac threw their arm over your shoulder and in a second, you lifted them up effortlessly.

You both had a shocked look plastered onto your faces. The office was still and quiet, only the sound you can hear was the sound of your heartbeat pounding against your own ears. “Woah. Dunk really had you training.” Mac broke the silence. You look down at them and excitedly plant a kiss on their forehead.

“You were my motivation.”

Being a romantic for a minute only took you so far. You carried Mac effortlessly through the room but that wheelchair was a pain in the ass. One minute it was stuck in the doorway, the next its wheel wasn’t turning and was dragging on the floor. Your arms flexed underneath Mac as you readjusted them on your chest. Their flustered face wasn’t determined if they enjoyed being in your arms or were embarrassed by their wheelchair not cooperating with you.

“Hey!” A familiar voice echoed through the dimmed hallway. You turn your head over your shoulders and find yourself looking at Dunk. “Glad I caught you in time. Just wanted to go over tomorrow’s workout, I have BIG things planned.”

As Dunk reached the two, his smile grew wider and the light of his eyes shined. He was so happy for you. He was so happy that you GAINED STRENGTH. “Woo!” His hand slapped on your back as he examined you, “I saw the progress but this really solidified the killer sets we’ve been doing. We knew not to say no to your inner athlete.”

Of course, he was glad you were doing this for your partner but he really was more into the fact that you looked at your prime. Dunk’s eyes found themselves on Mac, they both exchanged glances and quick waves. “These look great on you.” Dunk boosted happily, grabbing your flexed bicep and squeezing it with glee.

“I have to ask for more weights tomorrow.” You responded quickly, “Oh? I can’t say no to that. But, can I ask why?” Dunk tilted his head slightly. You quickly turned around and pointed at the wheelchair with your feet. “Noted. But lemme help you out, love to get a quick workout in before I sleep for the night.”

Before you and Mac could reassure him that there was no need, he lifted it above his head and adjusted it on his back. He did a quick squat with its weight with ease before letting out a quick ‘woo!’ “Oh, this has to be over 60 pounds. Let me get a feel for it and I’ll find out the exact weight for tomorrow.” “Be careful with it.” You bit your lip nervously. “I won’t drop it.” He responded, racing upstairs. You look at Mac and they seem completely fine with Dunk handling it.

Finally arriving at your bedroom, you thanked Dunk for his helping hand. “5am treadmill run?” He raised his eyebrow as you both fist bumped. You felt Mac’s arms clench more forcefully around your neck as you lifted them slightly to meet fists. Your eyes flickered down at them before at him once you readjusted, “I’d like to sleep in tomorrow.”

“Ah, gotcha.” He noticed your priorities and nodded understandably. “Goodnight you two.”

You turned on your heels and closed the door with your hip. Gently, you placed Mac on the edge of the bed, allowing their feet to feel the floor. You pressed a kiss against their cheek before departing so the two of you could get ready for bed. You placed comfortable clothing for them to choose beside them as you did your nightly routine.

You changed and once you returned, they were wearing that band t-shirt you loved. They looked much more relaxed than before. Especially in your clothes. Your heart swelled in happiness and love. You could get used to this view.

The lights were off, all but one. Your nightstand lamp on Mac’s side. You crawled on the side of your bed, leaning over them with dilated eyes. Their hand slithers up the side of your face, “As much as I miss you during your workouts, I have to say I love this look on you.” They grinned. You move your head slightly, kissing the palm of their hand. “With the numerous fanfic posted on the internet, I’m glad we finally get to experience what people usually read about.”

With quick motion, you grab their waist and bring them close to you. Chests touching and a gentle squeeze on their hip, you two basked in each other’s presences. Your eyes flicker down to their lips and Mac notices your soft plea. The softness of their lips against yours makes your body tense. You hold them carefully but firmly. You’re overjoyed by the new opportunities that you worked hard for. All that you’ve done was for them.

Mac broke the kiss and turned off the last light. Finding themselves in your arms once more. Normally, they would’ve popped up a screen and finish doing their usual task for the night but they felt so comfortable in this position with you. They wouldn’t dare ruin this moment.

You had already fallen asleep, mouth agape and your hand grasping onto the fabric of the shirt they wore. Mac sighed softly and placed their glasses on the stand before wrapping their arm around your shoulder. They planted a quick kiss on your chin before allowing themselves to dream for the night.

WHEWWW i’ve been through so much while writing this. hopped on grow a garden when i was finishing it up and just in time before i have dnd!

hope you enjoy and did your prompt justice ♥️ first time writing (serious) fanfic KINDA NERVOUS

will be doing the asks later this week!! trust!!!

[callalillywrites]

Allergies and Cuddles

Allergies have been kicking my butt lately. Height of that came a couple days ago when high winds really pushed around a lot of dirt and pollen. All I wanted was a nap and someone to cuddle with. Hence, the creation of this story.

Who better to cuddle up with than two super soldiers?

Relationship: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes (Stucky) x Female Reader

Word Count: ~1800

Summary: Steve comes home to find you curled up on the couch with Bucky, napping to reduce the affects of your allergies. Fluff and more cuddles ensue in this slice of life piece.

Warnings: Slightly worried Steve and Bucky; (over)protectiveness activated; comforting each other; teasing; established relationship; lots of fluff; Steve POV

A/N: As stated above, this story was wholly inspired and written quite quickly, so any and all mistakes are my own. Just wanted a bit of fluff to make myself feel better and this is what came out of that.

Stucky Masterlist | Main Masterlist

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

****

A too-quiet apartment greeted Steve when he came home that evening.

When he would've called out, his enhanced hearing picked up the faintest of hums. Following it, he soon found himself upon a scene that tugged at his heartstrings.

Bucky lounged across their over-sized sofa with you laying across him, completely dead to the world. If he squinted, Steve could almost imagine the thinnest, cutest line of drool seeping from your slightly parted lips onto Bucky's shirt. One of your arms rested somewhere between yours and Bucky's body, but the one Steve could see had sneaked its way under Bucky's shirt, caging Bucky under you. No doubt you sought the warmth of his skin, something you often did when you weren't feeling well.

While you slept, Bucky had one arm draped protectively across you while the other held one of his favorite books. The book had pages threatening to leave what little binding kept them in the right place, but that never stopped Bucky from picking it up again and again. From the looks of this one, Steve would be searching out a replacement soon enough. Bucky's gaze would drift over to you every other line or so, just because he could.

The TV played some show that you'd gotten into recently, replaying one of the older episodes. The volume turned down low so it wouldn't bother your rest. Knowing you as he did, you probably had it up while you fought to stay awake, leaving Bucky to lower it once you were completely out.

Leaning against the wide opening from the hallway, Steve crossed his arms and just enjoyed the scene before him. If he had his sketchpad, he might've taken up residence in the nearby chair and sketched until he had both of you permanently down on paper, a memory no one could take from any of you. But, he didn't so he settled for mentally drawing this moment to revisit later.

"You gonna keep staring at us, or you actually gonna say something, punk?"

"Admiring the view." Steve pushed off the wall and crept closer, taking care not to disturb your slumber. "How long has she been out?"

Bucky closed his book though his attention focused solely on you for a moment. The arm holding you drew soothing patterns on your back as he mumbled, "About an hour or so. Found her trying to fall asleep at her desk in the office."

Sinking into a squat, Steve dropped a quick kiss on Bucky's forehead before turning his full attention on you. He could make out your red, slightly swollen nose as well as the puffiness that lingered around your eyes. The softest snores left you, telling him that your allergies had truly gotten the best of you.

"Her meds not working?"

Bucky shook his head. "I don't think she's been keeping up with them like she should. Her bottle's almost full, and it's almost a month old."

Steve's brows drew together. It wasn't a secret that your allergies could get bad, and you were usually on top of taking your medication to keep them from overwhelming you. Plus, you knew they worried about you whenever you weren't feeling up to your usual self.

"She took some before I made her lay down with me." Bucky's voice broke through Steve's thoughts. His own worry peeked through despite usually being the more level-headed of the group when it came to these matters. "Maybe it wouldn't be the worst to take her in and see if there's something a bit stronger out there. Nothing over the counter seems to help her anymore."

"I'll call Dr. Cho." Steve pushed to his feet, pulling his phone from his back pocket. "If she can't help, then she'll know who we can talk to."

"Tell her our girl didn't sleep well last night either. She tossed and turned pretty good. I'm that didn't help."

"Or you two can stop worrying and just let me sleep for a little longer," you groused, having been roused by your bladder to hear your boyfriends fretting. "It's the wind. Once it stops blasting away and blowing pollen around, I'll be back to normal."

"Sweetheart," Steve started.

Having had this conversation before, you lifted your head until your gaze could meet his. A steely determination stole over your features that had Steve stopping in his tracks.

"I'm going to be fine," your tone softened as you moved to capture Bucky's eye as well, "I promise."

"One week," Steve vowed.

You nodded, knowing he meant it. One week to get better, or they'd be taking you to the doctor. The last thing they wanted was to lose you when they'd worked so hard to rebuild their lives after having their old ones ripped away from them.

"Now, that's settled," you pushed up from your position against Bucky, "I'm going to the bathroom. Then, we're going to discuss dinner. I'm too gross to be touching food, so I'll let you two roshambo to see who's got kitchen duty tonight."

The bedroom door had barely closed behind you when Bucky turned towards Steve. His expression morphed into one of the softest looks he kept solely for his two loves. "Don't worry about it. It's my turn to cook anyway. Besides, you look like you could use some of her cuddles."

"You sure?" Steve couldn't help asking.

While the day hadn't been bad per se, it hadn't been a great one, either. So many reports had been perched on his desk first thing. All needed his immediate approval before missions could move forward. Sure, that was typically either Fury's or Hill's job, but they'd both gone on some mysterious vacation, leaving him to handle it.

Then, there'd been a small crisis or two where Tony's latest invention had gone a bit awry. It wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't set Banner off, transforming him into the Hulk. A quick call in to Nat had helped, but it'd taken some time for Hulk to fully retreat and allow Banner the chance to return.

To say Steve was a bit wired would be an understatement.

Bucky tapped his shoulder, pulling Steve from his thoughts. "Yeah, I'm sure. Let her help you."

As if summoned, you stepped out of the bedroom. Your appearance looked a bit more put-together than it had when Steve first arrived home. Hair dampened and your face scrubbed. While your eyes still retained a bit of puffiness, they remained bright and alert as you closed the distance between you and Steve.

A cheeky smile flitted over your features as you asked, "Bucky lose, or did you pull rank on him?"

"He offered actually," Steve huffed, shooting you his best glare.

It had little effect as usual, but that didn't mean he didn't try now and then.

Your fingers slid between his and gently tugged him closer.

He went willingly.

His free hand dropped to your waist when you rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his jaw. Your gaze roved over his features. A soft frown formed as you murmured, "You're looking a little piqued yourself. Off day?"

"Something like that, sweetheart."

A soft noise escaped you. Your hand tightened around his as you tugged him toward the couch.

"Koala or weighted blanket?"

Steve's entire being sagged at the way you so easily read him. He honestly had no clue what he'd do without you and Bucky in his life, and he really didn't want to find out.

Bending slightly, he pulled his hand out of yours so he could grip you around the waist and lift. Your arms and legs wrapped around him without hesitation, allowing him to do what he wanted most. He dropped onto the couch, his legs stretching out on the floor. His arms snuck around you to hold you as close as he possibly get you while his head sank to your shoulder.

Your fingers inched their way up his neck until they scraped against and through his hair. Soft kisses pressed into his shoulder and neck where you could reach within the cocoon of his arms.

"I'm sorry," you whispered at some point, breaking the silence that had settled between you. "I'll do better about taking my allergy meds. It's just been a crazy week, and I hadn't meant to forget. It honestly didn't hit me that I had until the winds kicked up a few days ago. Please, don't worry about me."

Steve tightened his hold. "Always gonna worry about you, sweetheart. That's what you do when it's the people you love."

"Okay, that's a fair point, but I'm still going to do better. I don't want you to worry unnecessarily." You pulled back enough to meet his gaze. In the same cheeky tone as earlier, you added, "How's that?"

"Better," he murmured, shaking his head and huffing with pure affection.

You must've been satisfied because your cheekiness turned impish. "You are quite tense, Captain, and Bucky missed his workout because of me. It seems only fair after dinner that we have a special training session. Get all these kinks worked out and make sure you both stay in top physical form. What do you say?"

As if to further your suggestion, you wiggled in his lap until Steve moved his hands to grip your hips. A groan slipped past his lips when you managed to wriggle once more before he could fully keep you still.

Stealing a quick but searing kiss, Steve's grin grew. "I'd say I hope you've kept up your stretching routine, sweetheart, because it's going to be a long training session tonight. May even last until the early morning before I'm fully relaxed."

"Oh, my poor Captain," you crooned sweetly, pressing a kiss to his lips. "We won't stop until you and Bucky are fully satisfied."

"And what about you, sweetheart?"

"Oh, don't worry about me," you pressed another quick kiss to his lips before trailing down his jaw towards his neck, "I know I'll be properly taken care of in more ways than one tonight. My two super soldiers never let me down."

"Damn right, we don't," Bucky said from the doorway. "Dinner's ready. Better eat up fast because that special training starts in an hour."

Steve let you scoot out of his lap after claiming one last kiss, patting your butt as you moved towards the kitchen.

You tossed Bucky a salute, saying, "Yes, sir, Sergeant."

Steve's heart had never felt so full as he watched Bucky sweep you up, your giggles spilling out as you traded kisses with him before he sat you like the precious being you were in your spot. All three places had been set while he'd held you with the small candelabra his mother had left him burned brightly with the new candles you'd chosen a few weeks ago.

Home.

He was home.

[mercvry-glow]

Busy bee was so cute - just picturing Lucas drawing a picture for Mel as a thank you and Jack’s like ‘he really liked you - thanks for taking care of my kid’ It just has Mel beaming looking at the kids drawing

little continuation of busy bee

“He really liked you,” Jack said softly as he stood next to Dr. King while finishing some charting.

Mel looked over to him a bit confused, before realizing Dr. Abbot was talking about his son. “Oh yeah- uh… he was very sweet.” the blonde gave him a meek smile, now thinking of the young boy she had spent time with a few days prior.

Slipping a hand into the pocket of his cargos, Jack pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to the younger woman.

"It's supposed to be a thank you, I think. Lucas drew it for you and told me "I had to give it to Dr. King" so... there. He put a lot of work into it supposedly, no idea how it came out. though" He gave her a flat smile, his way of showing her respect for helping out with the incident that had occurred.

"Thank you for being him," and with that said, the two fell into a comfortable enough silence.

Mel walked away, feeling the urge to open the little piece of paper right away—though not in front of Dr. Abbot.

That felt too personal.

Stepping into the bathroom she took a moment before unfolding the parchment. Inside was a smattering of little colorful doodles, many of which were purple.

Flowers, the sun, a dog, and in the middle a drawing of a woman with a blonde braid and glasses.

It made her smile.

The lines were messy, as expected from a five-year-old, but the details were unmistakable—Lucas had really tried to capture her. The figure had a stethoscope around its neck and was standing beside a smaller stick-figure with curly hair, both of them holding hands. Above them, in all capital letters and some backward ones too, reading

"THANK YOU DR. KING 💜"

Mel’s throat tightened just a little. Not realizing how much the moment in the family room had affected her until now—how quiet and scared he had been, how tightly he held her hand.

And now, this.

She blinked a few times, pressing her lips together to keep the emotions at bay, then carefully refolded the picture and tucked it into the chest pocket of her scrubs.

She splashed a little cold water on her face, gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, and left the restroom with a clearer head.

Out on the floor again, things were picking up—alarms chiming, stretchers rolling past, voices rising in coordinated urgency. It was never still for long in the Pitt. But amid the chaos, Mel caught sight of Dr. Abbot at the end of the hall, already with a new patient, eyes locked in as he gave orders.

He hadn’t looked her way again. He didn’t need to.

She was starting to understand Jack Abbot now—how his gratitude was quiet but honest, how fiercely he cared beneath all that defensive sarcasm and night shift wit.

And somewhere in her pocket, a crayon-sketched thank-you from his son warmed her chest.

your honor I love them all