sweeter-than-strawberries

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

dr. barnes

pair: fbi instructor!professor!bucky barnes x fem!student!reader

word count: ~6.5k

summary: you ask for some advice from your reclusive and very attractive professor.

warnings: teacher student relationship so slight age gap but i had pictured it being less than 10 years, super soft bucky, smut at the end (~1.3k), fingering (f rec) but not super descriptive, crime scene descriptions, descriptions of blood, some christian/religious references at the crime scenes, (let me know if i missed any !!)

a/n: this one held me hostage for weeks. i literally could not stop thinking about it. do i have uni exams this week? yes. but did i spend my time writing this? also yes. i hope you guys like it !!

“Explain the killer. What does he do? What motivates him? How would you catch him? A thousand words printed by the next class. Have a good weekend,” your professor, Dr. Barnes, announces with a nod, cueing the shuffling of laptops and bags belonging to FBI trainees eager to get home on a Friday afternoon.

You load up your things, your mind still thinking about the brutal crime scene photos shown on the slides of the lecture today that made your stomach turn over. While you know you have chosen to be at the FBI, you can’t help but wonder sometimes what you are doing there. Your degree in psychology and doctorate in criminology has led you to the FBI Academy, but your mind still swirls when the most horrible acts of violence are placed in front of you. You chalk it up to you retaining your humanity and sanity, so you are not exactly upset over the fact. It just makes your job more difficult.

Dr. Barnes’ class is always the most brutal, but it is by far the most fascinating class you have. It does help that your professor is the most fascinating part, being very good looking and extremely private. He shares very little personal information, telling you only that he used to work homicide at the police department before beginning teaching. You notice that he does not talk to students often, simply giving his lectures, packing up and leaving after the sea of students flood into the hallways.

You are curious about him, about what he is like when he is not lecturing, and figuring that you have little to lose, you decide to come back after your classes to ask for some help. 

…

“Dr. Barnes?” you call out as you step into the lecture hall that is still lit, leaving you to believe that someone is there. You take a few more steps and find your professor sitting at his desk, photos piled around, staring intently at the laptop in front of him. He makes no movement to acknowledge you, his focus completely locked onto his work.

You walk all the way up to his desk, repeating his name which does little to deter him. You reach a hand out and give his shoulder a slight squeeze, causing him to jump in his seat and look up at you, eyes wide. 

“Sorry, Dr. Barnes. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

At your words, he scans your face, recognition dawning on his features. 

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he says quietly, his eyes focusing on the books you are holding in your hands. 

“It’s okay, Dr. Barnes,” you assure him.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he trails off a bit at the end of his question, asking for your name in its absence.

You fill in your name and explain, “I just have a question. I’m writing a paper for another class and was hoping that you could give me some insight on the topic. I’m really just looking for another perspective.”

“Of course,” he says as he leans back in his chair. There is not another chair, so you take to sitting on the edge of his desk.

“The paper is about female serial killers, and I was wondering what you think the most common traits and motives are. We have discussed some examples in class, but I wanted to ask what your experience has been.”

He thinks for a moment, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. “They usually work in health care professions. They’ll, um, they will be married or have been married before. They usually kill to improve their situation, so they’ll target people they know, usually men. But not all women,” he stops and looks up at you before continuing to explain a case he had while working homicide where they investigated a series of killings that followed the signs of a male killer but ended up being a woman. 

Dr. Barnes runs a hand through his hair when he finishes, leaning back in his chair. You can’t help but notice how good he looks in this position and at this angle. His dark hair tousled and glasses twirling between his thumbs, you think about how it would feel to reach out and feel his hair between your fingers. You school yourself, your face becoming hot at the idea. He is your professor, and you would do well to remember that. 

You continue the conversation, asking him questions and prodding for more insight. When you figure you have taken up enough of his time, you bow your head a bit and begin getting up from your place on the desk.

“Thank you for your help, Dr. Barnes. I really appreciate you taking the time.”

He nods in acknowledgment, a small smile adorning his lips which you watch perhaps a little too intently as he says. “It was nothing. I’m glad I could help.”

You begin walking toward the door of the lecture hall but are stopped by your name being called out.

“Would you actually mind taking a look at these pictures? I’d like to know what you see.”

You turn back around. The look on his face is one of curiosity. You wonder why he would want to ask you, and part of you wants to believe that it is because he wants you to stay, but you know better. 

“Sure,” you shrug, making your way back to his desk. “I’m not sure I’ll be of much help, though”

“Just take a look. It’s not a test, if that’s what you’re worried about,” your professor says, standing up to hand you the crime scene photos.

They are gruesome, but you don’t know what else you could have expected with Dr. Barnes. You examine them all the while trying to ignore the way he leans over your shoulder as you fail to concentrate. You are so close that if you took a single step back, you would be flush to him. 

Pushing those thoughts away, you focus your attention on the photos, flipping through them, noticing the odd blood splatter near the baseboard that doesn’t have a body laying anywhere near it. 

“What would make the killer climb on top of the counter to shoot someone, get down, and move the body?” you think out loud as you turn your head to look at Dr. Barnes. You notice how close your faces are and let out a breath at the discovery. “Dominance?” your voice is more shaky than you wanted it to sound.

“I was hoping you could tell me. My guess is they were waiting there, but it still doesn’t make sense,” he says, looking past you and to the picture you are holding. You look back down as well, grateful you did not make eye contact, the idea of the intimacy of it alarming.

“If they were standing on it, that would make sense, but the angle doesn’t really fit. It seems as if they were waiting for them to get home, and they sat, swinging their legs, completely calm and casual about shooting this person,” you pause, mulling over your words before saying, “Maybe they even knew this person. The proximity to the counter could mean that the victim was comfortable enough to approach them, and that the victim was unaware of what was going to happen.”

He hums in agreement in your ear, and a feeling of satisfaction washes over you. Turning back around, you hand the photos to your professor and take a step back. 

“I think you may be right,” he says with a nod, a small smile again creeping onto his features. You make eye contact and keep it, somewhat entranced by it.

“I’m glad I was able to help,” you smile. “Thanks again, Dr. Barnes. Have a good night.”

…

You anticipate going back to classes on Monday, knowing that you have to attend Dr. Barnes’ lecture. You don’t know if anything will be different after the night you spent talking to your professor. Part of you knows that nothing should be different. While there are only a few years between you, you are still his student.

But part of you wants things to be different. The entire weekend, you could not get out of your head the image of his face so close to yours or the sight of him as he leaned back in his chair, legs casually falling open. 

Dr. Barnes is not in the lecture hall when you arrive for which you are grateful. You settle into your seat and wait for the lecture to begin by fiddling with your laptop. When your professor does come in, you notice that he combed his hair today, letting it fall neatly over his forehead. The plaid shirt he wears still doesn’t match his suit, but you find it charming. He slips his glasses on and begins teaching.

The whole lecture you try valiantly to focus on the subject, but you fail rather miserably, unable to think of anything but how you stood right where he is, your back a foot away from his chest with him humming in your ear. It is going to be a long term if this is how every lecture is going to go.

You are brought back to reality when Dr. Barnes makes eye contact with you. He smiles which you quickly reciprocate, then he turns around, gesturing to the screen before anyone notices.

It is definitely going to be a long semester.

…

Weeks go on with you and Dr. Barnes smiling at each other from afar, both of you knowing that you would be playing with fire if you do anything more than smile. But the longer you go simply smiling, the more you want to do something about it.

And one day, he does something about it. On your way out of the lecture hall, Dr. Barnes stops you, calling out your name. You walk over, anticipation coiling in your stomach.

“I’ve another case I’d like your opinion on. Do you have time tonight to take a look?” he asks you quietly so as to not draw the attention of the students still exiting the room.

“Yes. Here at 7:30?”

He nods, making a flash of eye contact which you return with a smile. 

…

You make your way to Dr. Barnes’ lecture hall, your stomach roiling with nerves. You have thought too much about him, fantasized a little often for you to not think about it when you talk to him. The soles of your shoes click on the tile as you walk the hallway. You take a deep breath and open the door.

Dr. Barnes is reclined behind his desk, crime scene photos in his hand as he flips through them intently. At your entrance, his head flicks up to find your figure approaching his desk.

“Hey, thanks for coming,” he says as he stands up. 

“Hi, yeah. It’s – yeah it’s no problem, Dr. Barnes,” you manage to get out, tripping over your words more than you would have liked. Another deep breath to collect yourself. “What can I do to help?”

He leans against the front of his desk and reaches behind him to grab the photos he was examining before. You take a few steps closer to grab them from his outstretched hand.

“A recent set of murders. It’s odd to say the least,” he starts, watching you intently as you study the photos. 

The scene is horrifying, blood smeared across the walls, not as blood spray or splatter, but in an image. A lamb. Your mind spins as you look through more of the pictures, each of them showing blood splashed on the walls. You wonder what the killer did in order to get that much blood. There is too much for it to have come from just one body.

“How many people were found dead?”

“Only one,” he answers, leaning in to help you find the image of the body heaped over the table. You can’t help but notice everywhere his body touches yours, how his breath flutters against your neck, but you cast those thoughts away to focus on the case at hand.

“There had to have been more. There’s too much blood,” you mumble as you cart through the images again, counting as you go. A beat passes as you take in the scene, contemplating before constructing ideas.

“What do you see?”

“In ancient religious practices, a lamb would be sacrificed and the blood would be sprinkled around seven times. There are seven places where the blood was thrown on the wall,” you pause to show him each one. You glance up at your professor who is looking on intently, urging you to continue. “Then you have the body placed on the table. It could be sacrificial. The lamb was supposed to be perfect. Without blemish. Maybe – maybe the killer saw this person as their perfect – their perfect lamb, as someone who would put them in favor with God. The sacrificial lamb is sacramental. Symbolic. Messianic. It’s an act of repentance. So what was the killer repenting from?”

A hum from Dr. Barnes pulls you out of your reverie and breaks your focus from the crime scene photos. You lean around his form to place the pictures back on his desk, your shoulder brushing against his arm. His eyes follow you before he brings a hand up to rub his eyes, almost like he is physically rubbing away the images.

“Do you think the killer knew the victim?” he asks quietly, bringing his hands down to meet your eyes.

“I think they could be family. Family or close friends. They were their savior,” you answer, matching his tone.

Dr. Barnes nods in agreement and in that moment, you can see that he looks like a man who is carrying the world on his shoulders. He slouches forward slightly, his hair strewn around his ears with bags under his eyes. It takes everything in you to not reach out a hand to touch his cheek, to rub a thumb across his lips as you have in your dreams.

Appalled by your own thoughts, you take a step back to give yourself space to halt that train of thought. The movement makes him stand, subconsciously trying to keep the close proximity between you. You don’t break eye contact, making the moment intimate. Intense.

“This case has been keeping me up at night,” he confesses as he brings a hand to run through his hair with a sigh, breaking eye contact. “I wonder where the other bodies are. I can’t seem to get my mind around it.” 

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” you say in nearly a whisper. “You’re good at what you do.”

“Thank you for your help. It’s some really great insight you had.”

“It’s no problem, Dr. Barnes.”

“Bucky,” he says quickly, rushing it out like he knows he shouldn’t let it pass his lips.

“Bucky,” you repeat, trying the name out on your tongue. 

You then fall into easy conversation, learning more about each other. You discover that Bucky has a PhD in criminology as well, and that he used to be a field agent but decided to leave it to become a teacher at the academy. Part of you wants to ask why, but you figure that it isn’t a conversation he wants to have while still getting to know you. He asks about your life, your family, your education. He is interested in why and how you landed at the academy. You answer him honestly, not inclined to hide away as you normally do when people ask those questions.

Bucky is surprisingly sociable. Based on his reclusiveness when it comes to students, you were not expecting to hold such easy and fun conversation. It makes you want to spend the whole night chatting, joking, exploring. But you know you should not stay. 

When the conversation lulls, you glance at your watch and ask, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Bucky? I think I might head home.”

Before you can even register what is happening, he takes a singular step forward and leans in to meet his lips to yours. In shock, you stand limply, not sure how to respond. You can’t deny that you have thought about this moment for weeks, dreaming about it, imagining what it would be like to kiss him. Bucky. But you hadn’t expected it to happen tonight.

And before you have time to respond, he pulls away, opening his eyes to look at you with wide ones of his own.

“I’m sorry, I–”

You don’t acknowledge his apology, instead leaning in to kiss him again, only you are prepared for it this time. He responds immediately as his lips move slowly over yours, testing the waters. Your hands are still by your sides, but his come to settle in your hair and over your arm. His kisses are controlled and soft, not pressing for more than what you are willing to give. A sigh flutters from your nose which ghosts over his cheeks.

Breaking away for a second, you open your eyes and find his already looking at you. The both of you know that you are playing with fire. You are still his student, and he is your professor, but the feeling of his lips on yours overrules any rational thought at the moment.

You give a slight nod and he takes that as a green light to kiss you again. Bucky pulls you closer, and your hands find their way around his torso, snaking up into his hair. It is his turn to sigh at the action which causes satisfaction to roll down your back in waves that has you leaning further into the kiss, opening your mouth ever so slightly. He takes advantage and kisses you deeper. A soft moan escapes you at the feeling, followed by a shaky breath.

He pulls away, a triumphant smile playing at his mouth. 

“I’m not sorry,” he whispers.

“Me neither.”

He kisses you once more, chaste and short, but it carries more meaning than any of the other kisses. It tells you that he has thought about this, too. It wasn’t a spur of the moment, impulsive decision. And it tells you that he plans on doing it again.

…

You settle into a routine with Bucky. After class on Fridays, he stops you on your way out and quietly asks you to come back to look over a case or his lectures. You always nod and come back at 7:30. 

The unspoken truth of the need for secrecy looms over your blooming relationship, but you are almost spurred on by the illicitness of it all. You haven’t done anything more than kiss. You haven’t even interacted beyond the walls of the lecture hall. You both know that it is safest that way. 

The more time you spend together, the more you find yourself falling in love with Bucky. His quirks make you smile. The way he perks up when you walk through the door makes your heart flutter in your chest. You have never felt so valued by anyone before. He trusts your opinions. He respects your honesty. You admire his dedication to what he does. You find his quiet nature calming. 

The list of things you love about Bucky keeps you up at night as you replay scenes of kissing at his desk behind your eyes as you fall asleep. Bucky kisses you like you are ice cream on a sunny day, slow and hungry like he savors every second of your mouth on his. He never presses you for more, only going so far as to set you up on his desk, pulling your hips to his, allowing you to wrap your legs around him as you wind your fingers in his hair. He always sighs when you tug at it which gives you the opportunity to kiss at his neck, your chin always getting scratched by his stubble. 

You love the routine. However, it makes it hard to concentrate during the lectures since all you can think about when you look at his desk is how good his hands felt on your hips and how his lips were pressed to yours when you were propped up on the wood yourself.

The semester continues on following your routine. If anyone suspects anything, they don’t say. You can’t imagine that someone hasn’t picked up on the soft smiles he sends your direction during lectures, and stragglers leaving class late on Fridays must hear his whispers for you to come back. 

Steadily approaching the end of the term, you begin to question how long your routine will continue. You will no longer be Bucky’s student. Could you actually date? Would he want to? Is that what you want?

…

The familiar tug of nerves settles in the pit of your stomach as you walk to class with Bucky — Dr. Barnes if you were still professional, but you figure that his lips have kissed you a few too many times and in a few too many places for you to call him that. It is your last class in his lecture hall, meaning that beyond today, you are free to make a decision as to whether this is serious or not.

In your heart of hearts, you want this to keep going. You love how you feel around Bucky. While you have not said it out loud, you love him. You feel yourself aching to hear him say it, too. 

When you arrive in the room, Bucky is already there, nervously flipping through crime scene photos while running his hands through his hair, creating a rather haphazard mess on his head. He looks more anxious than usual, and it takes everything in you to not to stride to his desk and ask him what’s wrong. 

Instead, you brush past him, trailing a quick hand over his arm, hoping that it has a calming effect over him. His eyes flash to yours as you cast a look over your shoulder, smiling at him. He sends you a tight lipped smile back as his shoulders shrug down from their place beside his ears. 

From your seat, you watch Bucky pace around a bit, obviously concerned about something. You rub your palms over your thighs when you discover them clenched in worry. You wonder if his stress has anything to do with the reason you were nervous coming to class today — the talk you know is coming tonight. You figure it does when his eyes glance over at you every few minutes before beginning the lecture.

You find yourself becoming sentimental about the semester as you look around the room, taking in the feeling for the last time. If you and Bucky do decide to continue your relationship, you can never take one of his classes again. If you don’t continue to see Bucky, you doubt you will want to take one of his classes again. You will miss his funny side comments that come out of left field. You will miss his mismatched suits and disheveled hair. 

The sound of Bucky announcing the end of class breaks you out of your thoughts, and the shuffling of backpacks and feet brings you back to reality. A stream of students thank Bucky as they flow out of the classroom for the final time. You stall a minute, waiting for the throng to exit out the doors before approaching your professor.

“Hey, Bucky,” you say quietly, clutching your laptop to your chest. 

“Hey.”

You watch him lean against his desk, hands pressed to the edge of the wood. 

“How are you doing?” you ask the question that has been waiting to erupt since you entered the lecture hall an hour previous. “You seem nervous.”

A chuckle that comes out more as a sigh escapes him. “Yeah. I’m fine. I, uh, I just didn’t get much sleep last night. How are…how are you?”

“Wistfully contemplating the end of my time in your class,” you reply playfully, hoping that the happy tone will hide the melancholy you really feel about the idea.

This elicits a laugh from Bucky as he looks at you through his lashes — a look that always has your knees threatening to come out from under you. You take steps closer and set your laptop down on his desk, then place your hands on his shoulders, running them down his arms to settle in his hands.

“Do you want to get dinner with me tonight?” you ask, the words barely more than a whisper. You want to catch them in the air, afraid that your proposal to disrupt the routine will be rejected.

But Bucky smiles immediately, thinking for a moment before saying, “Why don’t I cook dinner?”

Your stomach flutters at the thought of watching him in the kitchen. You nod in response.

“7:30?”

“7:30,” you repeat before letting go of his hands to walk out the doors, throwing a smile over your shoulder as you go.

…

The drive to Bucky’s house is quiet but comfortable. About halfway through the trip, your hands link together, resting on your thigh. You talk lazily, asking questions about each others’ days since your morning lecture. There is something so calming about Bucky. You trust him. You love him.

Every once in a while, your eyes flick over to watch him drive, eyes intently focused on the road ahead. He can feel your gaze, so he sends a glance over to you with a soft smile playing on his lips. 

“What?” he asks when you don’t shy away from his eyes.

“Nothing, Buck. I just like being with you.”

“I do, too.”

The sweetness of his simple confession does more to your confidence than you ever thought possible. You feel comfortable around Bucky. You need only be yourself when you are with him, and hearing that same sentiment from him gives you hope that he wants this to continue just as much as you do.

You squeeze his hand, at which he laughs softly, squeezing yours back, brushing his thumb over the knuckles on the back of your hand.

Gravel crunching under tires and the faint sound of dogs barking indicates that you have arrived at your destination. You open the car door and follow Bucky to the front steps of a small house on the edge of town. A large open field is situated behind his house, neighbors nonexistent. Given Bucky’s personality, you are not surprised to discover that he lives alone, away from people, away from the city. 

A flash of nervousness pricks at your mind, as no one would be around if Bucky shows you that isn’t the guy you think he is. But you trust him, and you trust him enough to accept your fate if it does prove to be your downfall.

The door creaks open, and Bucky flicks on the light. Two big dogs come bounding to greet you both, circling his feet until he crouches down to give them the attention they are begging for. To see Bucky with his dogs makes your mind go fuzzy and warm, the tenderness of the scene eradicating your doubts from before.

“Charlie and Duke,” Bucky says, showing you which dog belongs to which name, rubbing each of them affectionately before standing and grabbing your hand.

“They’re adorable.”

“They’re good dogs.”

He leans in for a quick kiss, the domesticity of it causing your breath to catch in your throat. He pulls away smiling, then tugs you into the kitchen where he drags a chair out from the table for you to sit on.

“Sit,” Bucky says with mirth in his voice.

You laugh but do as you are told. 

“I was thinking of making steaks. Is that okay with you?”

“Sounds great.”

You watch Bucky make his way around the kitchen, obviously having done this a lot. He looks comfortable. He catches you staring, meeting your gaze head on, an easy smile adorning his mouth before asking, “What are you smiling at?”

“You. I like seeing you here,” you say quietly. 

“Not as much as I like seeing you sit at my table. I’ve thought about this a lot,” he admits with his back to you as he throws the steaks in the pan. “I like being around you. I’m more comfortable with you than anyone else. You make me feel — you make me feel normal. Most people don’t do that. They don’t — they don’t want to understand me. My old friends can only think about who I was before I quit the force. They don’t — they don’t want to like who I am now.”

The words spill out of Bucky before he can stop them, opening up to you in a way that he has not before. He has let you in here and there over the months you have been spending together in the lecture hall, but he has stayed rather private even then. Not sure what to say in response, you simply move from your place at the table to stand behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso, resting your cheek on his back. You can feel him relax into your touch, and it is a comfort to you both.

“Bucky, I think I am in love with you,” you whisper into his shirt. His body tenses, the sizzling of the meat in the pan filling the silence. Your heart pounds in your chest as you wait for him to say something. Burying your face further into him, disappointment and embarrassment creeping in your stomach, settling heavily when he doesn’t say anything. When a minute that feels like an eternity passes in silence, you mutter a quiet, “I’m sorry.” 

You let go of Bucky and take a step back. He quickly takes the pan off the heat and whips around to face you, pulling you back to him, whispering your name. 

“I love you,” the words are sure and confident coming from his lips. “I know I do.”

He looks at you intently, not shying away from your eyes before leaning in and kissing you softly. You get lost in his kisses, the pounding of your heart racing at a steady quick beat. Bucky backs you into the counter where he cages you with his hands as you weave one of your hands into his hair, the other running up his spine.

“Stay the night,” he mumbles between kisses.

You pull away and nod, meeting his eyes again, kissing him once without breaking the contact.

…

Settling on his couch after laughing yourselves silly over the dinner table, Bucky is close behind you with bowls of ice cream in hand. He hands you a spoon before sitting down right beside you, pulling your legs to stretch over his lap. He runs a hand absentmindedly over your shins as the two of you eat your ice cream. 

“Why did you come talk to me that night?,” he asks between spoonfuls. “You didn’t really need my help. You knew everything I was telling you.”

You smile like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “I did need your help,” you assert before admitting, “but I also just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

The sound of his laugh makes your heart flutter the same way it does when he looks up at you from behind his desk. 

“Hey, not all my professors are attractive recluses who deserve a starring role in my nightly fantasies.”

“Oh, so you fantasize about me,” he presses, the smirk on his face unlike any expression you have ever seen on him. He looks smug, proud, teasing. It makes heat flash to your core.

You hum but it comes out more as a squeak, your focus turning intently on the ice cream melting in your bowl.

“Do you want to know what I’ve fantasized about you?” Bucky asks lowly, grabbing the bowl from your hands, causing your eyes to lift to his. You watch him set it on the floor. Your heart begins pounding again as he moves to climb over you, settling between your open legs.

“What have you fantasized about, Bucky?” you ask quietly, voice shaky.

You take a breath when he leans in, capturing your lips in a soft kiss. You open your mouth to deepen it, and he takes advantage, his tongue pressing to your upper lip. The feeling has your hips rolling and sighs falling from your throat.

He pulls away to murmur into your neck, “Every time I would sit on my couch, I thought about laying you down and kissing you until you can’t remember your own name.”

Your eyes are screwed shut as you tug at his hair, his words forming pools of heat between your hips where his own apply pressure. Your words fail you, only a whimper escaping you. His lips move along your neck, working their way back to your mouth, giving due attention to the places on the way that have you squirming beneath him. You hands tug at his shirt to slip your fingers beneath the fabric, skimming up his back, scratching lightly.

His kisses become feverish at the feeling of your nails down his back. One hand hooks your knee to pull your form even closer to his, hips slipping into place. You can feel yourself becoming wetter by the second, the slow circling of his hips against yours creating friction that has you moaning.

In one swift motion, his hands are gliding up your sides, taking your shirt with you. You lean up to help him before settling back down against the pillows. He sits on his heels to take his own shirt off which allows you to see him in the faint light casted by the lamp in the corner.

You notice a shining scar that extends from one hip to the other below his navel. Fingertips reach out to touch it, barely making contact before his own hand stills your movements. 

“Is this why you quit the force?” you ask barely above a whisper.

He only nods, his feelings of vulnerability silencing him. You aren’t disgusted by it. It doesn’t change how you see him. You don’t pity him. You are simply curious. And amazed at his strength. He survived whatever left him this scar.

“Can I see it?”

Bucky takes a fluttering breath through his nose then nods again. You climb to the floor, resting on your knees between his legs. You glance up at him and see his head lolling to the side as he looks down at you, eyes hazy and soft. His eyebrows are scrunched, letting you know that he is concentrated, but the dam of secrecy surrounding Bucky is breaking with every passing second.

Tentatively, you stretch a hand forward, your fingertips grazing the scar. His stomach flexes beneath your touch. 

No one has seen his scar since the doctor sewed him back up. He has a fear of pity. He knows that people won’t see him the same when they see the effects of what happened to him — of what was done to him. But he doesn’t see pity in your eyes. He sees awe and amazement. 

Without warning, you press your lips to his stomach, the intimacy of it rendering his mind blank. You hear him swear quietly which urges you to keep going. You kiss all along the scar, his hips, then upwards before you climb into his lap. You find his lips again and kiss slowly, surely, passionately.

“I love you, Bucky.”

“I love you, too.”

You share a few more kisses before he stands up, pulling you with him to his room. He fumbles through his dressers to find a shirt and pair of shorts for you to wear. He hands them to you, then rummages through the bathroom cabinets to find a new toothbrush for you to use.

You thank him after he says that he will meet you back at the bed. The calm and comfort of being with Bucky is undeniable. The domesticity of the night has your heart skipping beats. You quickly change and brush your teeth before making your way to his bed. Noticing books stacked on the nightstand on one side, you slip under the covers of the other, sighing contently when you settle in.

Bucky comes in a moment later with only sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He decided to not put a shirt back on, relishing in the freedom that being with you gives him. He doesn’t climb into bed immediately, but rather stands and looks at you for a moment, curled up in his sheets.

“What have you fantasized about here?” you ask teasingly, but your voice comes out thinner than you had intended. 

At your words, his tongue darts out to lick his lips. He approaches the bed slowly, kneeling down beside you. 

“I want to know yours,” he says, his voice husky and low. You bite your lip, your eyes widening. A shaky inhale.

Soft kisses line the inside of your knee, trailing a path up your thighs. You let out a hitched moan when he places a kiss to your clothed core, your hands winding themselves in his hair. You tug slightly, inviting him to come up to the bed with you.

When he climbs up, you lean back, your shirt riding up over your stomach. Wordlessly, you pull his hands to your body, his calloused palms caressing the exposed skin. He runs his thumbs under your breasts, causing you to arch into his touch. Bucky can’t believe that you respond to him so keenly. He barely touches you and you are curving beneath him, aching for more. 

His lips find your neck, behind your ear, sucking gently. Your hands pull his hips to yours, rocking steadily into him. You suck in a breath, gathering the courage to grab one of his hands to lead it to where you want to feel him the most.

Bucky follows your lead without resistance, kissing you softly in an expression of consent. He helps you pull your shorts off, then presses two fingers to the wet patch on your panties. The pressure has your hips jutting into his touch, overwhelmed by the sensation when his fingers push the fabric to the side.

Your hips move in circles with his movements, his lips kissing you through it all. Moans slip and tumble from your mouth, leaving you hiccupping in pleasure. The cords in your stomach begin snapping when he speeds up his ministrations, your body contracting through your release.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers to you as he helps you come down from your high. 

Your eyes are crimped shut, but after a moment’s respite and a few encouraging kisses from Bucky, you come back to yourself. You open your eyes to find him watching you intently. You smile lazily then breathe, “Your turn.”

a/n: yayayay !! thanks for reading this !! let me know if you want to be on my taglist :):) and here is my masterlist if you want to check out my other work !

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

can i join you?

pair: soft!loki x fem!reader

word count: 1.5k

summary: loki takes really good care of you on your period :')

warnings: nudity but nothing graphic! mentions of periods and period blood, ooc!loki honestly because i wanted him to be mega soft and sweet

a/n: hey guys! i wrote this a minute ago and am impulsively posting it because i am too tired to proofread it lol. it is just super self indulgent and everything i needed today so i hope it is what you need today :)

Your day had been plagued with one unfortunate event after the other, the crowning jewel of the ugly tiara you wore being the surprise arrival of your period. You didn’t expect it for another week, and it struck with a vengeance, worse than you have experienced in years. Wanting to simply crawl in bed with your favorite book, you manage to make it through the day and to the rest you ached for.

Curled up in a ball with the lights low and book in hand, you hear footsteps and a knock on the door. You call out, “Come in!” not wanting to remove yourself from the comfortable position you finally found. The door clicks open and you throw a glance over your shoulder when the footsteps near the bed.

“Hey, love,” Loki says softly, swiftly moving to lay on his side in the empty space beside you.

You hum and smile, happy that he decided to stop by your apartment. “Hey,” you whisper back, sighing as he reaches over to stroke your cheek, obviously sensing that you are not feeling well.

“How was your day?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Not the best, but that’s okay. There’s always tomorrow, right?”

You find yourself often trying to hide yourself from Loki, not wanting to burden him with your mortal trivialities. He has never given you a reason to think that he does not want to hear about them, but you can’t help but feel that he would not be interested. 

At your words, he eyes you suspiciously, sensing rather acutely that you are downplaying your struggles, and asks “What happened?”

“Things were just not going my way today, that’s all. And I don’t feel very good. I,” you paused, considering telling him why. You figure that he is thousands of years old, so he is not unaware of the condition, so you finish your sentence. “I started my period.”

He sighs in sympathy, reaching out again to stroke your side. 

“Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?” he asks, continuing to run soothing fingers over your hip, slipping his fingers under your shirt to skim over your stomach. “Have you showered yet? That might help.”

You shake your head as your eyes fall closed at the feeling of his cool knuckles brushing below your navel. He leans in to kiss you softly as he continues to massage your stomach gently before pulling away and grabbing the book from your hands. “Come on,” he says, linking his fingers in yours, tugging you off of the bed and into the bathroom. 

“Can I join you?” his voice comes out more tender than you have ever heard it. All the bite in his voice seeps away when he talks to you, a low and gentle tone replacing it.

You consider his words. It won’t be the first time he has seen you naked, but you feel gross and bloated. But, you think about his fingers in your hair, massaging your body as the warm water patters over your shoulders which outweighs your thoughts of apprehension.

“Please,” you nod.

Loki smiles at your response and begins helping you get undressed. Grabbing the hem of your shirt, he pulls it over your head, dropping it to the floor beside you. Nothing about this feels sexual, but everything about this feels intimate. He is not rushed at all, seemingly enjoying comforting you in the best way he knows how at the moment. He helps you unhook your bra as you start shimmying out of the pajama pants you had thrown on as soon as you stepped through the door of your apartment. 

You move to turn on the water in the shower, leaving your panties on until you are ready to hop in, not keen on having blood drip down your legs and over the floor in front of your boyfriend. You can hear him removing his own clothing behind you. When he finishes, he hugs you from behind, tucking his nose into the crook of your neck as you wait for the water to heat up. With every touch, he can feel you relax into him.

When you deem the water ready, you slip out of your panties and into the spray of the water, Loki trailing in behind you. You moan at the feeling of the warm water hitting your skin, and you can hear Loki chuckle at the sound. Cheeks heating, you turn to have your back to him, facing the shower of water. 

“Sorry, love. I’m not laughing at you,” Loki says as he reaches for the shampoo, “I love seeing you happy and feeling better.”

With shampoo lathered between his palms, he reaches into your hair, massaging his way over your scalp, fingernails scratching every so slightly. Another moan falls from your lips at the sensation. You whisper his name, almost reverently, your mind thinking of nothing but the feeling of his hands on you. He guides you to turn around and rinse out your hair under the water, his hands helping the suds rinse out. Your hands find his torso, your grasp on him rooting you to reality.

Loki continues to gently and carefully wash your hair before grabbing the bar of soap, lathering it between his hands. His hands glide over your back, tracing your spine to the small of your back, massaging there for a moment. You brace yourself against the wall of the shower, your head falling against the tile. His hands push their way over your shoulders and down your arms before tugging you to turn around. He lathers more soap in his palms and smooths his hands over your chest, thumbs flicking over your sensitive breasts, causing you to arch into him ever so slightly. 

At this, he leans in for a chaste kiss, pouring his tenderness into it, expressing how much he loves you in such a simple action. Loki breaks away to kneel in front of you, placing a soft kiss to your hip, skimming his palms over your stomach. He lathers more soap then sweeps his hands down your legs, rinsing away the pink trails on the inside of your thighs. 

You marvel at his willingness to take care of you so keenly, not bothered by the blood, by the way your body has changed because of your period, or your lack of desire for intimacy in the way you normally express it. He seems completely content in attending to you without any hint of want of anything in return.

When he is finished, he stands again, finding your lips, enjoying the sigh you let out when he does. You weave your hands into his hair, intending to do the same thing to him what he just did to you. Loki, suspecting this, stills your hands with his own, whispering, “It’s okay. This was just for you. Let’s get out and get you back in bed.”

His words cause tears to well in your eyes, his tenderness and your hormones getting the better of your emotions. He kisses your cheek then steps out of the shower, reaching for the towels in the cupboard. 

“Loki, I forgot to get a new set of underwear,” you say as he wraps you up in the towel. “I don’t want to drip on the carpet.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” he says before padding away to fetch you clean panties. He returns with your most comfortable pair and fresh pajamas, practically reading your mind.

“How did you know this is my period pair?” you ask with a laugh in your voice, holding up the underwear, too comfortable at this point to care about sounding ridiculous. He did just spend the last twenty minutes tenderly attending to you in the shower, so you think that you have unlocked a new level in your relationship.

“I pay attention, you know,” he replies slyly, “I’ll let you finish up.” With that he leaves the bathroom, closing the door. You sigh, already feeling leagues better than you did an hour ago. You wonder how you are so lucky as to be allowed to see this side of Loki which is so gentle, kind, and attentive. 

When you are ready, you go to lay back down in bed, finding Loki already dressed and waiting for you beneath the covers. You tuck yourself into his side and wrap around his torso, hooking a leg over his. 

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

“You’re welcome, love. Anything for you” Loki hums, pulling you closer while reaching to grab your favorite book from your nightstand. He flips it open to the bookmarked page, and begins reading aloud. You close your eyes, enjoying the sound of his voice, and before long, you are fast asleep in his arms. 

a/n: thanks so much for reading! let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!!

taglist: @buttercupcookies-blog, @kats72, @mischief-dream, @iamlokisgloriouspurpose

#loki x reader #loki #mcu

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

i'm ready

pair: soft!bucky x fem!reader

word count: ~2k.

summary: bucky proposes to you after realizing that he loves you a lot more than he realized.

warnings: mentions of nightmares, some light smut at the end but nothing crazy, soft bucky so he is just a shy mess.

a/n: this was all i could think about for a week straight lol. there isn't a specific time this was set in the mcu but i don't know if it matters. this was inspired by the song i'm ready by adam melchor. i hope you like it !!

A quick, jolted breath draws you out of your sleep. You roll over beneath the sheets to find Bucky, sweating and panting beside you, a nightmare startling him upright. Having become accustomed to the frequent nights of disturbed sleep, you don’t panic but rather try to be the lighthouse that calls him back from the storm. 

“Hey Buck,” you mumble, sleep making your words wispy. Your boyfriend’s back is to you, sweat dripping down his neck, darkening his gray t-shirt. With gentle hands, you help him pull his shirt up over his head. He doesn’t say anything, but you can hear his breaths beginning to even out, telling you that he is finding his way back to his own mind and into the real world.

You run your hands slowly over his flushed skin, up his spine, softly pulling him by the shoulders to lay down beside you. He settles down with the sheets pooling at his hips. His skin is hot to the touch, but you don’t mind, tucking your head into his neck, pressing a kiss to the skin there before resting your cheek on his chest. You curl up against his body, one hand reaching around to run a soothing palm over his side. He sighs quietly at the sensation, and before long, you are fast asleep with your whole body wrapped around him. 

Bucky looks down at you to take in the sight of the person who anchors him to the world pressed to him, pinning him to the sand. The feeling of your breath fluttering against his chest has his heart clenching, gratitude and love finding their place within him. He closes his eyes and lets the sound of your steady breathing lull him back to sleep.

...

The two of you settle into the back booth of the bar with your drinks in hand. You let Bucky take the seat that allows him to look out the door, knowing how anxious he can get when he feels trapped. 

“How was work?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink.

“As thrilling as ever,” he replies sarcastically with a little huff of laughter. You know that he enjoys teaching at the compound, but you also know that part of him misses doing field work. 

“What defense tactics did you talk about today?”

He clears his throat and scrunches his eyebrows the way he does when he’s uncomfortable, boring a hole in the table with his eyes.

“Nevermind,” you say gently, deciding to change the subject. Bucky glances up at you from beneath his eyelashes. That look from him always makes your breath catch and think about how lucky you are to have him. You link your hands together over the table and enjoy the feeling of his thumb brushing over your knuckles, drawing circles around them.

The conversation shifts and before long, you are discussing what movie you will watch tonight. You talk, letting topics flow together, not sure when one subject ends and the other begins. You always get lost when you talk to Bucky because his metaphors keep you deciphering his words until you are three sentences behind and unsure where he is going with his train of thought.

It doesn’t bother you. It is something you love about him. You love how smart he is but how unwilling he is to laud it over you. You love how much he cares for people. He is so perceptive and sees them in ways that only he can. And while it has caused him a great deal of grief, you love that he doesn’t keep that from stopping him helping others. You get lost in your own thoughts, thinking over all the things you admire about the man sitting in front of you.

“Where did you go?” Bucky asks with a squeeze of his hand, breaking you out of your romantic reverie.

You shake your head, breathing out a quiet, “Sorry. Just got lost in thought.”

He smiles at your words, understanding better than most what that is like. “That’s okay. I wasn’t talking about anything interesting anyway.”

The conversation lulls and you sit in a comfortable silence, listening to the soft music coming from the speakers and the conversations of the people at the bar behind you. Bucky stares at your interlocked hands, his ring finger rubbing intently over your own. You hear your name fall from his lips, and you look up at him and find his eyes.

In a sudden jolt of nervousness, Bucky pulls his hand away and knocks his drink over the table. You gasp quietly and reach for the napkins. The two of you start dabbing up the mess, laughing softly.

“Sorry,” he whispers, his demeanor becoming very shy and reserved.

“It’s fine, Bucky. You know how much of a klutz I am. Don’t act like I didn’t do this last week.”

“I love you,” he says quietly, the words tumbling almost clumsily out of his mouth, despite having said them to you a hundred times before.

“I love you, too, Bucky.”

“Will you marry me?” the question comes out so hushed that you are sure you didn’t hear him right. His eyes flash to yours, looking through his lashes. “I love you, and I,” he pauses, “I think that,” a deep breath, “I think that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You see me like no one else does.”

You nod, a grin breaking out on your face. “Bucky,” you breathe, “I would love to. I love you.”

You reach out to grab his hand, noticing that his drink is still dripping off the table into his lap. You stand up from your seat, and a confused look flashes across his eyes before understanding dawns on him. You slide in next to him, grabbing a few more napkins and press them onto his lap as you lean in to kiss him softly. 

“Let’s get you home and clean you up.”

A blush spreads across his cheeks as you tug him out of the corner booth with you and out of the bar into the cool night air.

...

“What made you want to ask me tonight?” you ask quietly as you set the keys in the bowl by the door, having thought about the question the whole ride home from the bar.

“I realized that I was ready. I had played out the conversation hundreds of times in my mind, and you said yes in some of them. I decided that it would be worth asking,” he explained rather matter-of-factly, leaving little room for you to question his reasoning. Nor did you need to. You love Bucky Barnes, maybe a little too much for your own good. 

“I’m glad you asked,” you whisper, taking a step towards him as he sheds his jacket from his shoulders. “I have been doodling Mrs. Barnes in my notebooks for months.”

At this he laughs and reaches to cradle your head in his hand, whispering your name with his last name behind it. He smiles, not breaking eye contact before leaning in to kiss you. Your eyes flutter closed as his other hand snakes around you, pressing into your lower back, pulling your hips to his. His fingers skim the skin underneath your sweater, eliciting a sigh to fall from your lips which he swallows in a deep kiss.

Your hands make their way to his hair, tugging gently, enjoying the heave of his chest as you do so. Licking into his mouth, your kisses are languid and slow. He kisses you back, just as sweetly, but there is an edge of urgency you can feel bursting at his seams. You pull away to look at him, relishing in the fact that kissing you leaves him panting like a puppy, eyes half-lidded with want for more.

Linking your fingers in his, you pull him to your bedroom, and he quietly follows you, self-control waning in every footstep. When you turn back to him, his hands are tugging at the hem of your sweater, pulling it up over your head. Bucky finds your lips again, pressing his palms to your sides, gripping your hips. You feel him guiding you to the bed, urging you to lie down before breaking away to undo the buttons of his own shirt.

“That’s my job,” you whisper, not wanting to break the spell he has you under, but you are too desperate to touch him to care. 

He smirks, stopping his efforts in order to crawl to you. Bracing himself above you, he watches as you carefully unbutton his shirt, his anticipation growing with every brush of your fingers down his chest. When you’re finished, he sits back on his heels between your legs to remove his shirt entirely, and you feel his eyes raking up and down your body, almost like he is doing in his mind what he is restraining himself from doing to you in reality.

“Bucky?” you breathe, bringing him out of his thoughts. He hums and finds your eyes. “I love you. I trust you. You don’t have to be gentle.”

You can see his mind spinning, deciphering through a fog of lust what you mean.

“Because I love you, I want to be,” he says, his eyebrows knitting together, his head cocked to the side in thought.

You just nod in recognition, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth at the thought of Bucky treating you like you are fine china, easily broken if clutched too tightly.

Watching his hands slowly glide up your thighs, pushing their way under your skirt has your breath coming in shakey gasps. He leans down and kisses you carefully, his hands pinning your hips to the bed, fingers brushing underneath the fabric of your panties. Your hands trail up his arms, one weaving its way through his curls as the other scratches down his back, urging his hips to yours.

You can feel the restraint in his kisses as he keeps them soft and much too chaste for your liking. Rolling your hips against him causes him to pull away, his mouth dropping open at the feeling. You kiss him again with more intensity, hoping to draw Bucky out of his shell.

It works. A hand slides under your leg to hook your knee and push it towards your chest as his hips rock into yours. You moan at the action, but his mouth hushes you with a deep kiss. Breaking away for air, he takes the opportunity to kiss all the way down your neck to the edge of your bra, paying due attention to the spots that have you whimpering beneath him. Your whole body shudders as his fingers press to your core, your hips jutting into his touch.

He hums into your skin before pulling away to look at you. Your eyes are screwed shut, not able to think of much else than what his hands are doing skimming below your breast and stroking between your legs. The quick escalation has you groaning, the sudden onset of sensation overwhelming you. Bucky notices and stops his ministrations, but this just leaves you begging for more.

You grab his wrist that pulled away and guide it back, your eyes never leaving his. “Don’t be gentle, Buck,” you whisper, “please.”

“I won’t be.”

a/n: thanks so so much for reading !! let me know if you want to be added to my taglist !!

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #mcu #marvel

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

a healing touch.

pair: loki x fem!healer!reader

word count: ~1.8k

summary: your magic is requested to help a certain prince.

warnings: nothing graphic! but injuries (bruises) and mentions of throwing up (which never actually happens); light kissing and unrealistic escalation at the end, i acknowledge but this was a completely self-indulgent fic.

a/n: i hope you guys like it !! i am such a SUCKER^tm for hurt/comfort and healing fics, so i think that you'll discover a reoccurring trope in a lot of my work lol.

Finally settling in for the night, you slip out of your dress and into your nightgown, the cool breeze from your open window acting as a balm brushing against your aching temples. You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. The events of the day play through your mind as you recall the various patients you helped to soothe their aches and pains.

You make your way to your bed and throw the covers back, ready for a night of pleasant dreams. While you know you should not, you indulge yourself in thoughts of the prince who keeps your secret attention. Loki hardly knows that you exist, but you are content in keeping your interest from afar. He has come to your nursing station a few times, seeking out your particular skill set as a healer, but his mother is practiced enough so he rarely calls for your help.

Laying back and resting your head on your pillows, your thoughts are interrupted by an urgent knock at the door. You shuffle out from under your sheets and pad your way to the door. Frigga Allmother stands on the other side of the wood, her eyes filled with concern.

“Your Highness,” you say as you bow slightly, surprised by the visit. You open your mouth to ask her why she has come, but you are interrupted before the words pass your lips.

“Your healing is requested,” she responds, sounding almost rushed, but she does not let on more concern than what you can see in her eyes. “Would you come with me?”

You find a pair of slippers and a robe at the end of your bed before you follow the queen through the hallways of the palace. She leads you silently to a green wooden door ornamented with a gold door knob.

She turns to you, finally explaining why you are needed. “Loki has been hurt. It is of his own making, and it is beyond my abilities to help. He is laying in his bed. Please do what you can.” And with that, she leaves you in front of the door, heart racing with nerves and confusion. You take a deep breath, then turn the knob.

Your heart leaps into your throat at the sight of the prince, curled up on his bed. His face is ghostly, his body having obviously gone into shock at the injuries he has suffered. Yet his injuries are what confuse you the most. There is no blood, no gashes, no obvious wounds except for the dark bruises that litter his pale skin. But they are everywhere. From his neck, all the way to the waistline of his pants, purple and black bruises mottle his skin.

Loki is so out of it that he does not even bother raising his head at the sound of your entrance. He simply stays curled up, the pain plain on his face. You glance around the room, then to his bathroom, looking for a bowl. You spot one made of gold and grab it before making your way to the prince in his bed. 

Crouching down beside him, you whisper, “Your Highness?”

At his title he stirs, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet yours.

 “I have been called in to help you. Is it alright that I touch you?”

He nods slightly as a shuddered breath escapes his lips. Your fingers skim over the bruises, prodding ever so slightly to see how severe they are and if there are any bones broken beneath them. You can see the swelling in some areas, and he sucks in a sharp breath when you touch a particularly swollen spot on his side. You can’t help but let out a sympathetic sigh.

“Your Highness, I will be using magic to help you. This does require me to press the injuries which can be very painful,” you pause, allowing him to process your words before continuing, “I have this bowl that I want you to hold, so if the pain is too much you can throw up in it, okay?”

He grimaces at the thought of the pain he will endure for the next hour as you use your magic, but he nods in recognition. 

“I am so sorry,” you whisper before beginning your work, the familiar tug of magic pulling at your fingers. 

You press a hand to his side to the area that is swollen the most, letting your magic seep beneath his skin. Loki lets out a groan and grips the sides of the bowl you offered him. You can see his teeth clench and grind as you continue to press, your magic mending the ribs broken beneath. 

Humming softly to yourself, you concentrate on your work, trying to not let yourself get distracted by the fact that you are touching the object of your affections as he lays shirtless in bed. But professionalism keeps your eyes in check, but it does not keep your cheeks from prickling with heat.

You continue your ministrations, taking a break after every few bruises that you quell to yellow. Loki has yet to do more than groan. He keeps his eyes screwed shut as you work which you are grateful for, as you do not think that you could bear being under the scrutinizing gaze of your patient.

You work your way over his body, walking around his bed and climbing to your knees behind him to touch his back. Strength is clear in his muscles, but he is not pure brawn as is his brother, Thor. Rather, Loki is lean and lithe yet coiled with power in more ways than one. After healing the bruises on his back, you run your fingers lightly over his spine, ghosting over his shoulder blades before you bridle your fingers and get back to your healing efforts.

The movement does not go unnoticed by Loki, and he has his wits about him enough to comment, “If only every touch of yours was as sweet as that.”

At his words, your body prickles with heat and embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” you breathe, grateful that he cannot see your face as you curse yourself for falling into temptation.

“It was a pleasant relief from the pain,” he sighs, turning over to lay on his back, carefully stretching and twisting. His face pulls into a grimace as he is not yet healed completely. You duck your head, avoiding his eyes and leaving the comment hanging in the air. 

Still situated on your knees beside him, you move your hands to his lower stomach, pressing and prodding. You can hear his breath hitch and become ragged, but you push your face closer to him in an effort to ignore how his body reacts to your touch. This only makes the situation worse, so you close your eyes entirely, concentrating your magic on healing the injuries that lie below his skin.

You slide your palm over his torso to his side that had been previously hidden to you when he was laying on it. The bruises there are not nearly as dark as the ones you have already treated, so they do not take long to ease into shades of green. At this point, you are leaning over him entirely, your breath hitting his exposed skin, and you can hear him throw his head back on his pillows, sighing softly.

“Your Highness, I am nearly finished,” you say, more for your own sake than his, knowing that you need to get as far away from him as possible as soon as possible. 

Your hand lifts from its place on his side, your fingertips ghosting over his chest to find the bruise on his collarbone. Before you can make it there, Loki’s hand grips your wrist, halting all movement in you. Your eyes flash to his that are stricken with pain but mixed with gratitude. 

He breathes your name as he guides your hand to his neck, fingers skimming down your arm as he watches your face. His other hand comes to guide yours to his stomach, his palm pressing yours flat against him. 

“Loki,” you whisper, sure that he is confused and letting his pain govern his emotions. “There are more.”

He shakes his head, and says, “Leave them. You have done more than enough.”

You nod and shift to slide off the bed, but his hands flash to your thighs, dragging one over his hips. You know that you should stop him, stop touching him, and leave. But you are drawn to him, craving the feeling of touching his skin to do more than heal but to please.

“Loki,” you say again, a hint of warning in your tone, but he reads through it, finding the desperation in your breath.

“Touch me again,” he says, guiding your hands again to skim over his skin, feeling over every faded scar and groove of muscle.

“I shouldn’t,” you whisper, but he just shakes his head, dismissing you, leaning into your touch.

“I’m asking you to.”

You let out a shaky breath as you curl your fingers to drag your nails over his chest. This elicits a groan from the prince beneath you, and you can’t help but feel triumphant that your touch has an effect on him. You dare to lean down and touch him with more than your hands, your lips skimming over the skin of his neck.

Loki sucks in a sharp breath at this and turns his head to give you more access, encouraging you to keep going. Your lips find purchase on his collarbones, and you feel your magic tugging at you as your lips press into his bruise. You take a breath and pull away, noticing that the bruise he didn’t let you finish with your hands begins healing itself under your lips. You chuckle, discovering that your magic works through more ways than you knew.

Watching you carefully, Loki smiles at the discovery you make, his hands coming to wrap around you to urge you closer to him. You look up at him, matching his smile before tentatively placing your lips on his jaw, then his cheek, making your way closer to where you would like to touch him the most.

With a breath, Loki meets your lips with his own, sliding his mouth over yours. His hands are all over you as you kiss deeply into his mouth. You feel everywhere that he touches you, and he burns hot beneath your touch. 

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Your Highness?” you ask between kisses. He hums into your mouth, then nods, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“I do believe there is.”

a/n: yayayay !! thanks for reading !! let me know if you want to be on my taglist :)

#loki x reader #:)

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

Don't Stop

pair: the Darkling x fem!reader

word count: ~3k

summary: general kirigan discovers just how touch starved you are in a sparring session.

warnings: lite semi smut, essentially a thigh kink...., a touch of self-conscious reader with moments of poor self-esteem, kind of ooc!darkling at the end, but i'm not mad about it.

a/n: hej guys !! this is the first fic that i'm posting on this blog, so i hope you like it !!

You know you are not alone in your fascination with the Darkling, making the fact that you watch him more than you should more of a problem than it should be. You hear the whispers among the other Grisha about his appearance, his power, his mystery, and you can’t help but to fall into the trap. He never pays you any attention, and why should he? You never considered yourself the prettiest, the strongest, or the best, especially when it comes to the Small Science. Grisha you are, but exceptional you are not.

...

“Again,” Botkin calls to you, instructing you to run the training course around the courtyard and into the forest for the third time today. With only a nod, you obey and take off running, praying that this will be the final time. 

You concentrate on your breathing, keeping it at a steady rhythm as you pass through the courtyard, glancing quickly at Botkin watching the other Grisha spar in the middle. The path into the forest is all too familiar, the ground becoming uneven with unearthed roots and rocks. You quickly slip into the world of your thoughts which is dangerously full of General Kirigan. 

Lost in yourself, you fail to notice the ground becoming stone under your feet. You skim the shoulder of someone as you round the corner of the last hall before you return to Botkin at the start, sprinting the final stretch. Your combat instructor is waiting for you, his arms crossed before him, standing beside the Darkling himself. 

Your heart seemingly beats faster; not due to the three mile run you just completed, but for fear and anticipation of what these men have in store for you. Halting before them, you quiet your breathing, willing your heart to slow down enough so you can get a word out without panting. 

“This is her?” General Kirigan asks in a tone that can only be described as nonplussed, his eyes surveying you carefully. 

“Yes, sir,” Botkin nods.

A hum, then a reply that makes you even more apprehensive than before, “She’ll do.”

“Do what?” you blurt, then recover yourself by finishing, “If I may ask.” You know you should hold your tongue, but the words are spoken before you can tie them down. Eyes expectantly watch the General as the corners of his lips twitch up slightly at your question. 

“Fight.”

Before you can register the word, you are grabbed by the arm and led by General Kirigan to the sparring circle in the middle of the courtyard. Every sense you have is trained on the General’s hand on your body, on the grip he has around your arm. As quickly as you were snatched, you are released and left alone in the middle of the ring.

Luckily, many of the Grisha have already completed their training, so you are unhindered by too many eyes watching the commotion. Still, enough gather around to get your blood to sound in your ears. You stand, eyes darting around in an attempt to puzzle together what is happening to you. 

“Who am I fighting, sir?” you ask tentatively. 

A smirk pulls at the General’s mouth before he simply says, “Me.”

Your brain comes to a halt. Then goes into overdrive. You cannot possibly fight the Darkling, the most feared man in the country. You are a mediocre fighter at best who can barely fight Grisha of her own level. The Darkling is going to beat you to a pulp if he shows any self control.

General Kirigan humorously watches your panic as he shrugs off his kefta, seemingly enjoying the terrified look on your face. You take short breaths in an attempt to get your adrenaline pumping enough so the pain will be less intense. You have no doubt that the Darkling will land every harrowing jab he throws.

“Are you ready?” he asks with more intensity than you think necessary. A simple nod from you is enough for him to begin. 

He approaches you quickly, immediately on the offense. A few quick lunges and carefully placed hits graze off of your defensive positions until the last blow of the round finds its place under your rib cage. Your heart hammers against your chest, your focus completely intent on shielding yourself from his attacks that come too swiftly to keep up. 

General Kirigan begins stepping around you, his feet becoming involved with the spar, leaving you with another source of attacks to defend. You are successful at first but within three steps, you are grabbed by the waist and pinned to the ground, the Darkling holding you down with his thigh locked through yours. Your nose is pressed to his chest, breaths heaving in and out of your mouth.

You feel every place the Darkling touches you. The cool metal of his belt buckle brushes against the exposed strip of skin above your pants. One of his hands grips your wrists that scratch against the dirt above your head. His thigh presses the inside of yours, dangerously close to your core as his hips shift ever so slightly against your stomach. Your body responds involuntarily to the position, moving closer to his thigh before you regain control over yourself.

A small chuckle sounds from General Kirigan who stares at you from above. 

“How long has it been since someone touched you like this?” he whispers before abruptly standing up, his knee grazing your core as he moves. 

He reaches out a hand to assist you, and you take it, nerves igniting in your stomach as his hand grasps yours and pulls you off of the ground.

“Thank you,” you say quietly once you are on your feet. 

“Thank you,” the General replies before bowing, whispering your name as he gathers his kefta and waves to Botkin.

You watch him leave in complete disbelief. He took you down with ease, so you should be much more embarrassed by that, but you are too possessed by the feeling of him to care.

...

You thought little of anything other than the moment you had had with General Kirigan. The reason Botkin had chosen you to spar with the Darkling when there were other, more impressive Grisha training at the same time you were has escaped you, and you doubt that you will ever understand. A repeat performance has not happened, and you don’t expect it to. Your life continues as usual, other than the occasional whisper about the fight muttered between Grisha over dinner plates. 

...

Picking at the herring in front of you, you feel the hair at the back of your neck prickle, followed by goosebumps rippling over skin under your kefta. Your eyes dart from one face at the table to another, attempting to find the eyes that watch you. The effort is fruitless, and the feeling fades as quickly as you noticed it. 

Subconsciously, you glance at the Darkling sitting at the head of the table. It is a luxury to see him at dinner as he is always far too busy to dine with the other Grisha. He sits tall, his features sharp yet bleary with disinterest. You wonder if he has always looked as he does now: a man who knows the world’s cruelty and the bitterness of time. His hand wrapped around his fork holds your stare as you recall the feeling of those same fingers around your wrists, imagining what they would feel like in other places. You catch yourself falling down the rabbit hole of General Kirigan, so you force the last few bites of fish down before sneaking away from the dinner table to bury your thoughts in the shelves of the library.

...

The Darkling watches you quietly excuse yourself from the table and slip into the hallway. He had been watching you during dinner, taking in the way you scrunch your nose at every forkful of herring and smile pleasantly after each bite. He felt your eyes find him as he sat, listening to his Grisha argue. You look at him a lot, no more than the other girls, surely, but the General has started to take notice of you everywhere. He finds you in the hallways, always bowing to him respectfully. 

At night, for reasons unknown to him, he thinks of the way your body responded to his, how your hips sought out his thigh and the feeling of your breath erratically hitting his chest. No one has responded to him the way you have in a long time, and he thinks he wants to feel it again. 

After dinner is through, he strides through the Little Palace, intent on escaping his duties for the night. He has had enough of the country’s and his Grishas’ troubles, so he heads to the stables for a late night ride alone. Swiftly moving down the hallway, he notices a thin stream of light spilling out from under a library door. Rarely do the Grisha study at this time of night, as they are usually causing trouble in efforts to impress their classmates. And if they are studying, it is never in this library - the small one that often smells of spores due to the age of the books that are somehow always damp. 

He pauses for a moment, considering entering the room to find who is in there, but decides against it. He begins to walk away, only to stop after a few steps to satisfy his curiosity. Opening the door, he finds a form laying on the couch with the light dimly glowing from the candle in the corner. Whoever it is doesn't notice him as they do not move from their place.

General Kirigan walks further into the library and finds that it is you on the couch. The book you were reading is on the floor with its pages bent at awkward angles. You have your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, almost as if you were comforting yourself, providing yourself with the touch you crave from others.

The jab he made about being touched while you were pinned under him begins to echo in his mind, coming to realize that his question was a legitimate one. 

Silently, General Kirigan strides to you, crouching in front of your sleeping form. A hand comes to ghost over the side of your face before he can stop himself. Your eyes flutter open, blinking blearily. When the sight before you comes into focus, you sit upright quickly, causing the Darkling to retract his hand from your face.

“Sir,” you start, but he waves his hand to cut you off.

“Follow me,” he says, standing from his crouched position and striding to the door with only a single glance behind him. Wordlessly, you get up and walk behind the general, wondering what he could possibly want. 

Your nerves tingle with anxiety and surprisingly with excitement. You have wanted his attention, and here he is, finally giving it to you. Whether this is a good thing or not, you haven’t decided. 

Suddenly, General Kirigan comes to an abrupt halt before turning sharply and opening the door to your right. He slips in quietly, and you follow him into the room, discovering that it is a bedroom. A large four poster bed with black satin sheets stands in the middle of the room, clouding your mind with the images of the fantasies you have dreamed up at night, and your neck heats at the indecency of your thoughts. 

“I am going to be honest with you, and I ask that you do the same,” the general says as he stands in front of the bed, his focus completely on you. 

You nod in agreement, nervousness forming a pit in your stomach.

“You have monopolized my thoughts. I have seen the way you look at me, and it has led me to believe that you will not object to what I have in mind. Now, I want to ask you again. When was the last time,” he takes a step in your direction, leaving no more than a meter between you, “someone,” another step, “touched you like I did?”

By the end of his question, he is standing directly in front of you, his eyes locked with yours. You want to tear your eyes away, but you find yourself unable to do so. Your body is hot, embarrassment flooding your veins, but somehow, you are not bothered by it. He prefaced his question with candor, and you want to do the same.

“Never, sir,” you whisper, providing him the honesty you promised.

A small smile pushes his lips up as he reaches a hand to tilt your chin. His hand drops slowly to your throat when he whispers, “Would you like me to do it again?”

“Yes, sir.”

The general makes no sudden movements and without any urgency, puts his hands on your waist and pulls you to his body. You take the necessary step forward to have your stomach flush to his. His hand finds its place at the small of your back, the other pushing a strand of your hair out of your face. 

Your hands stay by your sides, unsure as to where to put them. He notices and moves to grab them, bringing them around his neck. His hands slide down your arms as they come around your waist, his fingertips pressing into your hips.

His eyes never leave yours as he leans down to whisper into your mouth, “Tell me when to stop.”

You nod, almost imperceptibly, but it is enough confirmation for him to close the gap between your lips. A breath flutters in through your nose, the sound of your nerves causing him to smile against your lips. He kisses you slowly and surely. He does not rush into your mouth, keeping his kisses languid and smooth, each one flowing into the next.

Slotting his thigh between yours, he pushes himself closer to you, the feeling of his leg pressed to the inside of yours inciting warmth to seep into your core. Your hips move upon their own accord, rocking to find his thigh like they did when you sparred. Your breath hitches, and you pull away to look at him, embarrassment creeping up your neck as every part of you starts prickling with heat.

The almost triumphant look on his face leaves you breathless and sweeps away your embarrassment. “Does it feel just as good this time?”

“Yes,” you breathe, closing your eyes as he meets your lips again.

The kisses come a little quicker now as his hands remove your kefta from your shoulders. You help him push off his own, unbuckling and untying shirts as you go.

“Will you lay down for me?” he asks as he gently guides you to the bed behind him, kissing you once along the way. “That’s a good girl.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest, your mind unsure, but your body craves the feeling of everything he is so willingly offering. Black sheets engulf you as you lay back on his bed, your dress falling up your thighs. He removes the shoes from your feet and kisses a trail up your calves. You can’t help the sighs that escape your lips as your eyes slip closed. 

“Look at me,” General Kirigan says, breathing your name against your knees. You watch him slide his hands up your legs, your sides, skimming your chest before resting them beside your head. “When was the last time someone touched you like this?”

You look right into his eyes and whisper, “Never.”

Your response elicits a smile from him before he captures your lips again, moving his thigh to press into your core. You gasp and keen into him, your chests pressing together. The feeling of him between your thighs has pressure building in your stomach, the muscles below your navel tight with anticipation. One of his hands comes to rest on your stomach, teasing you and causing you to jolt beneath him, your hips pressing further into him in response.

His thumb begins to caress the skin just above your panty line, and this causes the fire in your core to burn hotter than you have ever felt. He begins to help you rock into him, finding a rhythm that makes you whimper and kiss him harder.

Suddenly and without warning, his hand is out from under your dress and his thigh is absent from between yours. Your eyes fly open, thinking that he has had enough, and your heart leaps into your throat. 

What you see leaves your heart pounding in your ears but not out of concern. He is sitting on his heels, looking down at you in what could only be interpreted as awe.

His eyebrows are high and his lips are slightly parted as he leans back down, not touching any part of you but with his lips. He kisses your neck, your throat, your collarbones with his hands bracing him beside you. The lack of contact anywhere else on your body has you reaching out and pulling his hips to yours, the feeling of his pants on the inside of your thighs making you tingle and clench your legs around his.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers again against the column of your throat, reminding you that you are in control. Everything is a new land yet to be discovered, and you are enjoying every moment of exploration.

“Please,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

a/n: yay !! thanks for making it through !! let me know if you want to be on my taglist :)

#shadow and bone #the darkling x reader #aleksander morozova x reader #ben barnes #:)

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

witchywithwhiskey's horror movie hoe-a-thon

happy spooky season, y'all! now that summer is ending and spirit halloweens are re-opening, i wanted to celebrate my favorite season by hosting a writing/moodboard challenge (my first!) around one of my favorite things: horror movies. i've selected 31 horror movies/franchises and 31 horror movie quotes to inspire folks with some spooky, scary cinema!

how it works:

select a movie and/or quote from the lists below to base a fic or moodboard around. (i've also included picker wheels if you want to choose at random.) if you choose a movie, you can use any aspect of that movie as inspiration—the story, an image, a scene, a song, a line, whatever you want! if you use a quote, please incorporate it into your work in some way!

there are no limits on how many people can use each movie/quote

the challenge will start september 1 and end october 30 (at 11:59pm ET)

all works will be put into a masterlist to be published on october 31

you don't need to follow me to participate

tag me and #horrormoviehoeathon in your entry so i can read/reblog your work!

the rules:

you must be 18+ to participate in this challenge!

chris evans, sebastian stan, henry cavill characters and marvel characters are welcome - but NO RPF

works can be dark, fluff, smut, angst but make sure to use appropriate warnings. works don't need to be horror even though we're using horror movies as our inspiration!

no grooming, underage, watersports/scat, incest, necrophilia or bestiality

dubcon, noncon and monsterfucking are ok!

reader-inserts only, and all works (fics and moodboards) should be inclusive. works with poc, gender neutral, plus size/curvy readers are encouraged!

there are no word limits but please use a read more after 300 words

limit of three entries per person (including both fics and moodboards)

works can be part of an existing series but must be able to stand on their own

have fun!!

if you have any questions or want to enter with a movie/quote not included in my lists, please send me an ask or DM. otherwise, horror movies and quotes are below the cut!

horror movies (picker wheel)

A Nightmare on Elm Street (franchise)

Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992)

Candyman (franchise)

Cursed (2004)

Don’t Breathe (2016)

Fresh (2022)

Friday the 13th (franchise)

Ghost Ship (2002)

Halloween (franchise)

House of Wax (2005)

I Know What You Did Last Summer (franchise)

Jeepers Creepers (2001)

Jennifer’s Body (2009)

Joy Ride (2001)

Knock Knock (2015)

Ready or Not (2019)

Saw (franchise)

Scream (franchise)

Stay Alive (2006)

The Boy (2016)

The Cabin in the Woods (2011)

The Craft (1996)

The Invisible Man (2020)

The Invitation (2022)

The Purge (franchise)

The Strangers (2008)

Trick 'r Treat (2007)

Urban Legend (1998)

Van Helsing (2004)

When A Stranger Calls (2006)

You’re Next (2011)

horror movie quotes (picker wheel)

What’s your favorite scary movie?

Trust is a tough thing to come by these days.

There's evil in the wood.

I'm sure it's a lot scarier at night.

Save your breath for screaming.

No. I'm killing boys.

Don't you want to be an urban legend?

I want to play a game.

Do not read the Latin.

Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.

I know what you did last summer.

We all go a little mad sometimes.

It's Halloween. I guess everyone's entitled to one good scare.

I’m your number one fan.

We are the weirdos, mister.

I’m your god now.

Do you think this is a fucking game?

I love you too much to condemn you.

Even Hell has its heroes.

There is much to be learned from beasts.

Why does it smell like wet dog in here?

Women just taste better.

Do I look like some kind of monster?

Oh you wanna play psycho killer? Can I be the helpless victim?

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I'm your boyfriend now.

It's about giving. Giving yourself over to somebody.

No, please don’t kill me Mr. Ghostface, I wanna be in the sequel.

He said that wherever I went, he would find me.

I've met my demons and they are many. I've seen the devil, and he is me.

You were one of my favorites.

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

franz kafka. 1912.

#franz kafka #the diaries of franz kafka #writing #writing inspiration

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

the sheer offensiveness of rereading something you wrote, discovering that, hey, it’s actually pretty good, and then reaching the end, wherein you realize that if you want more you actually have to write it

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

Masterlist

updated 1/14/22

§ most recent §

*lite smut

Sirius Black Masterlist

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Geralt of Rivia

Benevolence: Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3

Amity (Series Complete)

Period Headcannon

the Darkling

porcelain and gold *

being left in his care drabble 

§ safe with him §

Billy Russo

Garden City Flowers: Part 1 , Part 2 (ongoing)

Other Works

Pie and a Promise - Leonard McCoy

My Mess - Leonard McCoy

One Year - George Weasley

Imperfect  - Legolas

Pointed Ears in Dreams - Legolas

His Housekeeper - Kylo Ren

Thoughts, Images, and Dreams - Kylo Ren

join my taglist!

rachel’s reading recs!

prompt list

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

Deserving

Summary: Bucky comes to visit you in medbay.

Pair: Bucky x healer!reader

Word Count: ~1.4k

Warnings: injuries, but nothing graphic, fluff, enhanced!reader

You sit in the medbay, waiting for the team to return from the most recent mission. It was supposed to be a simple in and out, but you had received word that more than one member was seriously injured. So here you are, anxiously getting the room set up and drinking lots of water in preparation.

Keep reading

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

potentially romantic prompts.

u know the pining content? yearning stuff, stuff that you see on the television or in a book that gets you shipping things like crazy?? yeah. here u go buddies. as always, feel free to reverse the circumstances! sender is the person sending the meme, receiver is the person receiving the meme, and specify muses if you're sending it as or to a multi!!!

[ JACKET ] : sender gives receiver their jacket after seeing them shiver in the cold.

[ EXTRA ] : sender buys an extra coffee/snack/etc. to give to receiver.

[ GAZE ] : sender stares longingly at receiver when they think they aren't looking.

[ HOLD ] : sender holds receiver in their arms in order to comfort or protect them.

[ CATCH ] : sender catches receiver's hand instinctively out of surprise or concern, and holds it.

[ WAIT ] : sender, out of concern, waits for receiver to make sure they're okay after noticing them act strangely.

[ ESCORT ] : sender accompanies the receiver home late at night, in order to ensure they're safe.

[ RESCUE ] : sender goes out of their way to help the receiver after they call for help. ( aka: 'stay right there, i'm on my way' )

[ TACKLE ] : sender instinctively tackles or shields receiver from harm's way.

[ LISTEN ] : sender attentively listens to receiver as they speak. ( i.e., eye contact, leaning forward, nodding etc. )

[ NOTICE ] : sender verbally acknowledges a recent change in the receiver, either physical or in their personality.

[ TEND ] : sender gently tends to a wound the receiver recently got. ( 'you're such an idiot' but lovingly??? yeah i'm weak-- )

[ CUP ] : sender cups or caresses receiver's face.

[ CHECK ] : sender checks in on receiver following an emotionally distressing incident to make sure they're okay.

[ ADJUST ] : sender adjusts an item of clothing or jewellery that the receiver is wearing, resulting in them being very close together.

[ SMILE ] : sender lights up with a bright smile upon seeing the receiver enter the room.

[ OPEN ] : sender is openly emotionally vulnerable in front of the receiver, trusting them with this moment of vulnerability.

[ FAVOR ] : sender does a favor for receiver without being asked to, or expecting a reward in return.

[ TALK ] : sender initiates conversation with the receiver to comfort them. ( BONUS: ADD A QUESTION THAT THEY MIGHT ASK THE RECEIVER! )

[ BEDSIDE ] : sender waits by receiver's bedside as they recover from an illness or an injury.

[ LOOK ] : sender engages in focused eye contact with the receiver.

[ CONFESS ] : sender confesses their feelings for receiver.

[ CLOSE ] : sender and receiver find themselves unexpectedly close to one another.

[ KISS ] : sender kisses receiver in order to protect their identities, but is the kiss completely professional? or is there something else...?

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

SNIPPETS REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

So, were going to do this! We're doing snippets again because I miss writing and posting!!

I will be reblogging an already made prompt list shortly that you can choose a prompt from or you can send in your own idea/prompt.

As always, please specify the character you want the snippet to be with and if you want something extra or specific in the snippet, go ahead and add it into your request.

Just a reminder that I write for (or attempt to write for) any and all characters from; The Witcher, Vikings, MCU (including characters from recent movies such as The Eternals).

Also, because I cannot remember where I put my taglist, please let me know if you would like to be tagged in these snippets.

You can start sending snippet requests in and I will start working on them tonight and all through the weekend.

Have fun, and I look forwards to seeing and working on your requests!!

Edit: Please specify if your prompt for the list is from the fluff or the angst section

- Jess xx

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

The Sweetness on Our Lips

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes have been going out for quite some time, and you finally get some alone time at your place. 

Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x female!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: Smut (+18 ONLY, minors DNI), hot and heavy make out session, dry humping, lots of kissing, Bucky being a gentleman, kinda sub!Bucky but not really but kinda but not really but kinda but mostly no, sweethearts in love, I managed to leave out the pet name “Doll” (YOU’RE WELCOME), 40s Bucky. He is a warning. 

A/N: I love 40s Bucky and I love kissing. The inspo for this just randomly struck and I had to write it. I hope you like it! Leave a comment, reblog to let me know you love me, or that you love Bucky. Ok, I love you! 

Kisses 💋

—K

~~~~~~

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, where’d you learn how ta kiss like that?” Bucky sighed out incredulously against your kiss-swollen lips, his own were plump and slick with spit. You giggled and lured him in for another breath-stealing kiss that had his mind reeling and his hands pawing at your hips. Your apartment was empty, and Bucky was grateful for that. He didn’t want your roommates Clara or Margaret to hear the moans you were pulling from the base of his throat; those were only meant for you.

Keep reading

#bucky barnes x reader #yes #i truly needed this today

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

fanfiction really messed up my expectations of men. i deserve to be kissed tenderly while baking cookies on rainy days, but that’s for sure not what i’m getting. so thanks to all the fanfic writers who have set all my relationships up for failure. u guys deserve all the happiness that i’m missing because of u.

#fanfiction #thank you #my thoughts #bucky barnes x reader #sirius black x reader #the darkling x reader #geralt x reader #loki x reader

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

We all have that one character we’re in too deep for.

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

The Many Love Languages of Frank Castle

Word count: 3.2k

A/n: Just some thoughts on how Frank Castle shows his love in all the different ways he can. You can totally tell what my love languages are through this and I am not even sorry for it. hehe. But I hope you all enjoy becuase writing this just made me love him even harder. 

Summary: He’s stoic and dangerous, carefully picking words and actions. To anyone else it would seem he is unable to love, unable to feel anymore, unable to be anything besides a cruel murderer. Yet, every single thing he does shows you the warmth in his heart. 

Warnings: f! reader, language, blood, mentions of gore, guns, nudity, mentions of sexy times

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Words of Affirmation:

He’s a man of few words. But the words that he does say, you know he means completely.

His praise comes randomly throughout the day. When you hand him a cup of coffee he sometimes doesn’t say anything, sometimes he says thank you, but sometimes he says wholeheartedly, “you make the best coffee.”

It causes you to fluster and look away, happy to hear his praise and yet shy from it. He chuckles and presses a kiss to your temple. Then he cheekily adds, “and you’re one cute barista.” His smile wide as you nearly melt from his words.

It’s the little names he calls you, “sweetheart” and “baby” flowing from his lips like they were made to be said from him. Like you were made to be called by him. Each holding their own weight and underlying message of affection.

Once you wiggled your way into his circle of trust, he started to come to you all bloodied and half dead. You nearly have a heart attack each time. But it was worse in the beginning.

Keep reading

#frank castle x reader #these r all so amazing #oh my gosh #i really needed this today

[sweeter-than-strawberries]

oh my gosh thank you dev!!!!! i am so so happy you liked it!! ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

hii darling, your mini sleepover is so much fun!

do you think you can write something for the darkling with the prompts 17. An empty library and 22. “We’re safe here.”?? idk if it makes sense but it's giving me vibes :o

pair: the darkling x gn!reader

word count: ~260

warnings: some briefly described kissing

a/n: thanks so much for the ask dev!!! i hope you like it :) [this was written for my mini fic sleepover]

Your heart thrums as you race through the hallways of the little palace, dodging patrolling guards. The dress shoes you wear click quickly against the hardwood floors, but you pay no mind to the echoing sound. You throw a glance over your shoulder and find General Kirigan still trailing behind you. He smiles at the wild look in your eyes before taking a few long strides to catch your hand and pull you through the closest door.

The room you enter is dark and a little damp. Moonlight peeks through the glass windows, casting faint shadows onto the floor. Your eyes follow a path across the room, taking in the few rows of shelves and statues that line the walls. You thought you knew of all the libraries in the palace, but this one is new to you.

“We’re safe here,” Alexander whispers in your ear, coming from behind to pull your hips to his. You can feel his nose in your hair, his chest pressed to your shoulder blades. The amount of contact has you sighing in relief.

“From what?” you ask, leaning into his body even more.

“Everything,” he replies as he turns you around and finds your lips with his.

Your hand weaves into his hair to pull him closer as he backs you into one of the shelves. Your lips mold to each other’s, deep sighs emitting from the two of you. There are no expectations, no prying eyes, nothing keeping you apart in that empty library.

Safe is here because safe is with him.

a/n: thanks so much for reading! PLS go request for my mini sleepover happening right now!!!!

taglist: @msmimimerton @misselsbells06 @savannah-elliott @blackst0nes7077 @aleksanderwh0r3 @tranquilitymoon @sesamepancakes @secretsthathauntus @sassybadqueen