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vampsywrites · 9 months

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I — i remember her hands, and the way the mountains looked.

Synopsis: In which the Sullys approach the mountain clan for sanctuary. The Olo'eykte agrees but proposes one condition: Toruk Makto's eldest son must be promised to her daughter. Surprisingly, instead of the solemn response one would expect, Neteyam agrees almost instantaneously.

Tags: Female! Mountain Na'vi! Reader, Arranged Marriage, Sun & Moon couple, Strangers to Lovers, Neteyam is whipped

Word Count: 2.4k | AO3 LINK

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

"With the return of the sky people, our journey led us far, far up the horizon, where a towering mountain stood. Beyond the winding paths of its rocky terrain, nestled in the heart of nature's embrace, lay the village of the Iuva'ri clan—the ikran people of the mountains.

Iuva’ri was a beauty which both awed and intimidated those foreign to it. The village was tucked deep in a sheltered valley, bathed in the warm golden glow of the setting sun against the snow-capped peaks. A sanctuary hidden from the outside world. A perfect place for us to disappear without a trace.”

Flutters of the ikran's wings echoed loudly through the crisp air, alerting the people of their arrival. The once peaceful ambiance of the secluded village turned into a stir of commotion. Warriors sounded their horns, their urgent calls spreading like ripples through the village. The sight of the newcomers had ignited a sense of both curiosity and apprehension among the villagers, for rarely did travelers venture into their remote home.

As the crowd gathered at the center of the village, their gazes fixed on the newcomers, a mix of intrigue and wariness painted their expressions. Jake dismounted from his ikran gracefully, gesturing for his family to do the same. Neytiri's hand instinctively moved towards her bow, a hint of concern in her eyes. But before she could react, Jake rushed to stop her, his expression urging caution.

"Don't. Leave it," he murmured lowly, gently easing the weapon away from her grasp and tucking it back into the banshee's pouch. His mate sent him a disgruntled look in response but made no attempt to fight his decision.

"Alright. Come on," with a wave of his hand, Jake began to lead his family into the village, arms spread at his sides in an attempt to appear as docile as possible. "Let's be nice."

Neteyam followed in his father's footsteps, carefully observing his surroundings as he ascended the treacherous mountain slopes. His calculating eyes swept across the rugged terrain, taking in the awe-inspiring beauty of the snow-capped peaks and the vast expanse of the chalky landscape.

As they climbed higher, the air grew colder, and Neteyam shivered from the biting chill that enveloped them. The icy wind gnawed at his bones, and he pulled his shawl closer around him, seeking any respite from the relentless cold. This mountain was a stark contrast to the warm and humid forest he was accustomed to, and he felt the tingling sensation of numbness spreading across his exposed fingers.

As he navigated through unforgiving terrain, he found himself yearning for the comfort of home, longing for the lush green forest that offered a familiar warmth. Despite his reservations about this desolate place, he remained silent, his lips drawn into a tight line as he focused on the task at hand.

His attention was momentarily drawn away when a low whistle lanced through the air. Tilting his head up, Neteyam's gaze followed the sound, and he watched as a banshee glided gracefully through the skies.

With a thud, the beast landed before them, sending a thick cloud of dust into the air as its rider dismounted. The rider was a tall, elderly woman, her midnight black hair contrasting against her milk blue skin. Her frosty eyes scanned their features, taking in every detail with a sharp intensity. A thick coat of fur was draped over her shoulders, and a billowing cape trailed behind her as she sauntered towards them, her expression a mix of curiosity and caution.

“Olo’eykte Ìumayi,” Jake bowed his head low, fingers extending from his forehead in a gesture of welcome. “I see you.”

Neytiri too bowed her head, gaze drawn to the ground as she murmured out her greeting, “I see you, Ìumayi.”

The woman continued to remain silent, circling them like vultures. Neteyam stood firm in his spot, his eyes never leaving the chief’s stalking figure.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she broke the silence, her voice dripping with a leering caution, "Why do you come to us, Toruk Makto?"

Neteyam observed his father's reaction to the title, noting how he tensed up and his face contorted into an unsightly grimace. Given that the Iuva'ri clan's culture revolved around their sacred bond with Ikrans, it came as no surprise why his title held such immense significance to them.

In contrast to her husband's visible unease, Neytiri stood tall, her demeanor unyielding as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"We seek uturu," she declared.

In response to Neytiri's words, Ìumayi whipped around violently, her expression hardening as she directed a stern glower towards them. "Uturu?" she questioned sharply.

“Yes,” Jake affirmed. “Sanctuary. For my family.”

The people around them erupted into a hushed, agitated chatter, but the chief was quick to silence them all with a snap of her fingers.

“We have heard tales of your times at war, of your blood from the sky people, and of the victories that have earned you praise among many Na'vi," Ìumayi spoke with a measured tone, her voice heavy. "But my people are not at war. I apologize, but I cannot allow you to bring your bloodshed here."

Jake's response was immediate, a mix of desperation and determination evident in his voice as he hurriedly spoke, "I'm done with war," he asserted, lowering himself to scoop up Tuktirey into his arms. The little girl sought refuge in the safety of his embrace, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. "I just want to keep my family safe."

Observing the tender scene, Ìumayi's stern exterior softened slightly, her warm eyes studying the family before her. Bowing her head in contemplation, she took a moment to weigh the consequences of her decision, fully aware of the significance of this encounter. With a heavy sigh, she finally lifted her head and made her verdict, "I will allow it."

The relief that washed over Jake was palpable, but before he could express his gratitude, Ìumayi raised a bony finger, signifying there was more to be said.

"I will allow it. On one condition," she continued, her gaze now turning towards Neteyam, holding him with an inquisitive gaze. "I understand you are the eldest, correct?"

Neteyam acknowledged the chief's attention with a nod, his heart pounding with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

With a wave of her pale hand, Ìumayi turned to the crowd before her, calling out a name as she gestured for someone to come over. The crowd parted instinctively, revealing your figure. As you stepped closer and closer, Neteyam found his mouth growing dry once he fully took in your features.

Inky jets of midnight-black hair cascaded over your shoulders like a shimmering waterfall, adorned with an enchanting array of bioluminescent gems woven into each braid. Your skin, a mesmerizing hue of cool blue, appeared as though it were delicately bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. Jagged, milk-white stripes adorned your limbs and face in an intricate pattern, reminiscent of a celestial canvas. It was as if the very hand of Eywa herself had delicately painted them onto you.

“This is my eldest daughter, Y/N," Ìumayi spoke with pride, gently guiding you to stand by her side, a strong, protective arm enveloping your shoulders. "With the recent passing of my beloved mate, she has stepped forward, assuming the role of Tsahìk."

You took a moment to study their curious expressions, your eyes reflecting an understanding for their situation, “It is a pleasure to meet you all.”

Neteyam stood in awe, watching as you gracefully acknowledged and greeted his family members. The solemnity of your father's absence was palpable, but your calm welcome brought a glimmer of warmth to the otherwise tense atmosphere. And as you turned to face him, the warrior felt his heart leap to his throat.

“Neteyam,” you called out, his name dripping off your lips like a sweet, thick syrup. The Omatikayan watched intently as you curled your fingers, tracing your hand up from your chest up to your forehead before extending it out towards him, icy gaze piercing through his very being, “I see you.”

Fuck.

Neteyam feels his mouth go slack, skin breaking out into a cold sweat as a rich, deep warmth spreads through him. It was a simple greeting, no more. You were merely welcoming them into your village—Trying to be courteous. And yet, why is it that the way you were looking at him left a searing burn in his chest? Twisting at his heart and sending his pulse into a rapid thrum until he could barely breathe?

Both Lo’ak and Kiri observed his reaction with amused grins. To knock him out of his trance, Kiri roughly shoved at Neteyam’s side, gesturing towards your awaiting figure. Almost immediately, he grounds himself, cheeks burning into a dark indigo.

"Tsahìk Y/N," he uttered shakily, his fingers clumsily returning the respectful gesture. His heart pounded blaringly in his chest as he gazed at you, trying to steady himself in your presence. "I see you."

Your smile, gentle like a soft breeze, acknowledged his greeting before you turned your attention back to your mother.

"I have reason to believe that this meeting with Toruk Makto's family is fated," your mother spoke out, "Many nights ago, before his death, my mate was blessed with a vision from Eywa herself. In the sacred embrace of dreams, the spirits revealed to him a profound prophecy of two clans uniting as one—a woman and a man forging an unbreakable bond."

The words of their chief hung in the air, and a hushed silence fell over the gathering as the significance of her statement registered with everyone present.

"As you all know," she continued, her gaze sweeping across the crowd, "I am not getting any younger, and my time draws nearer to its end. And I remind you all that the weight of this responsibility was not one I bore alone; a Tsahìk needs an Olo’eyktan by their side."

A moment passed as the implications of her words settled into Neteyam's mind, and then realization dawned on him.

"This vision bestowed upon my mate," she began, "is not to be taken lightly. It is a direct call from Eywa herself, and as I stand before you today, I believe that the very individuals foreseen in that vision are here before us."

Ìumayi's gaze locked onto Neteyam, her eyes seeming to peer into his very soul. "With Eywa's guidance," she continued, "I propose a union between my daughter and Toruk Makto's eldest son."

The people around them erupted into chaos, their voices rising in a cacophony of opinions. Some had cried out in agreement while some were outraged at the idea of an outsider leading the clan. And as the concerns of his parents too filled the air; Neteyam felt a tumult of emotions within him. He knew their apprehensions were driven by love and care, yet there was an unexplainable energy surging through his veins, compelling him to step forward, to embrace the path laid out before him.

Before he could fully process the weight of his decision, his lips moved with a life of their own, the words escaping him faster than he could think, "I accept."

The crowd falls deathly silent at his declaration.

As the weight of his own words settled in, a storm consumed Neteyam. Accepting this union had been an unforeseen choice, one he had never anticipated making. It led him down a path he had never imagined walking, and uncertainty clawed at the very core of his being.

And yet, as he turned to look at you, he found these worries falling silent. The sight of you ignited a surge of emotions within him, an overwhelming rush that defied comprehension. It was as though an irresistible, magnetic force was drawing him closer to you, as if every beat of his heart called for your name.

The warrior heaved a sigh, lowering his gaze to the ground and bowing his head as a gesture of respect to your mother.

“I am willing to accept this union," Neteyam affirmed, his eyes flickering back to meet yours, "Only if she will have me.”

Lo’ak's lips twitched, a hint of a grin threatening to break free, but he bit down on his lips, holding back the laugh that threatened to escape. His gaze met Kiri's, and they exchanged a knowing look, both equally amused and astonished by their older brother's unexpected behavior. Neteyam had always been the pillar of stability and composure in their family, making his impulsive acceptance of the proposal all the more surprising.

Lo’ak turned to glance at their parents, noticing his mother's eyes which were wide with concern. It was evident that she wanted to say something, but their father subtly pulled her back, silently urging her to hold her words for the moment.

Neytiri took a moment to study Neteyam's face, the resolve and determination etched across his features. Their gazes locked, and she saw a depth of conviction in her son's eyes that she hadn't witnessed before—a fierce certainty that he had made the right choice, even if it was sudden.

In that moment of silent understanding, Neytiri nodded her head, her concerns momentarily quelled. "If that is what he wishes," she said, her voice softening with acceptance, "we will support him."

Ìumayi’s smile grew slightly wider, her eyes shimmering with approval as she turned her attention to you. "Good. Now, ma’ite, what say you?" she inquired, her tone gentle yet expectant.

The world around you seemed to blur for a moment as you locked eyes with Neteyam, the unspoken bond between you both intensifying.

From the days of your childhood, you had already accepted the prospect of a planned marriage, or at best, one founded on companionship. To you, as long as your partner proved amiable and undemanding, it would be enough. And yet, you could not have even begun to imagine that you would end up in a marriage with Toruk Makto's son.

In the face of the unexpected proposal, you responded with a firm nod, your voice steady with conviction, "If Eywa wills it, then I shall accept as well."

The sight of Neteyam's smile and the exuberant whip of his tail around his feet brought a surge of unforeseen warmth to your heart. The moment felt surreal, like a dance with destiny that had been set into motion long before this day. Perhaps, just maybe, it wouldn't be so bad after all.

Your mother nodded, her expression reflecting satisfaction and pride.

"Then it is settled," she declared firmly, "Toruk Makto and his family shall stay with us, and his son shall be promised to my daughter. We'll teach them our ways and treat them as our own."

“May Eywa bless their path."

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

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suppermariobroth · 23 days

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In Super Mario Sunshine, entering Noki Bay requires Mario to stand on a Shine mosaic in Delfino Plaza and look up into the sun in first-person view, the same way the Tower of the Wing Cap course is accessed in Super Mario 64.

However, interestingly, the way the access to Noki Bay is coded internally is not by requiring Mario to stand in that spot and then tilt the camera up a certain amount in first-person view (as it is coded in Super Mario 64), but rather requiring Mario to be anywhere directly above that spot and to look directly at the sun.

This allows the scenario in the footage to happen. If glitches are used to store several Rocket Nozzle activations, discharging them at once for a large boost, Mario can be so far up that he will be nearly level with the sun instead of needing to look up at it. If he is directly above the Shine mosaic at that moment, simply pressing Y at that moment will cause him to look at the sun and enter Noki Bay, without needing to angle the view upward.

Main Blog | Twitter | Patreon | Small Findings | Source

#super mario sunshine #nintendo

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k2ntoss · 4 months

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USING LIPSTICK

a/n ⭒ i saw this and i had to write it down, okay??? this first one with jason todd bc i can't help it, later i'll do one with dean (i'm insane, i know)

tw ⭒ minors dni, SMUT, jason todd x f!reader, dirty talk, fingering (f receiving), degradation, size kink, spitting, slapping, hair pulling, breeding kink, unprotected sex, p in v, mention of jason's scars, etc.

word count ⭒2.774 (this was supposed to be short 😭)

jason is almost begging for you to go as his date to another wayne gala since the week started, you like them but not enough to attend so often as he has to go; wearing nice dresses and pretty makeup, the jewerly you have to pick and everything that comes with putting effort in looking good to spend time on a fancy party.

it's early, you've been all evening getting ready and now the burgundy dress sits pretty on your body, fixing it so the slit on your right leg is straight, your hair is done too all tied up in a pretty half up hair style and you're just missing the final touch for your makeup when jason comes into your room "you look fucking amazing, love" you turn around to find his eyes running along your curves, taking in every detail as he walks up to you "is it okay? it's not too much?" you ask while turning around again to give yourself a look on the mirror, smiling softly when jason gets behind you, hands on your waist while he towers over you.

"mhm, it's just perfect" his voice is low, eyes fixed on your reflex while you start doing a small winged eyeliner, the cap of your liner between your lips is making him think a bit too much until he lets out a soft grunt "do you think i should wear lipstick?" you ask him, the question triggers something inside of him when he looks at your lips, slightly parted as you pick up a lipstick from your drawer "or maybe lipgloss, what do you think, jay?" and jason thinks, he does have an answer but he tries to remain calm "lipstick can be smudged, doesn't it?" he asks, there's a light hint of tease on his voice and it makes you reply with a soft hum.

"then lipgloss, but which one" you wonder as you look at the things scatered over the drawer while jason looks at you, a small smirk on his lips before he leans in to press a playful kiss on your neck "i think i know which one" his hands wander on your waist, lifting your dress a little bit before letting the fabric fall just for his hands to run to your back, pulling down the zipper until your dress falls, pooling at your feet "jay..." you warn with a soft chuckle when he growls, looking at your body on the mirror.

"no bra, is it because of the dress or for me to touch you?" he asks in a sultry tone, finger gently tracing the outline of your figure until his big hands are cupping your tits "mhm, mostly because of the dress" you answer in a soft sigh, eyes closed at his touch on your body until he pulls away, taking your hips to make you stand a little closer to your drawer, jason kneels down and picks up the dress and leaves a playful kiss on one of your thighs "sure thing, doll". you see jason on the mirror, he walks until he leaves your clothes carefully placed on bed before he walks behind you; he looks amazing too, dressed on a black suit and a white button up shirt, a bow tie undone on the neck of his shirt is waiting to complete his fit but he's now pressing his hips against yours, half-hard cock grinding on your ass while jason's hands play with your lace panties, pretty red fabric being pulled softly as he bends you slightly against the drawer "i think you look fucking better like this, makes me want to use you until you can't keep your legs on the floor" his eyes are almost predatory now, fixed on your reflex as you wiggle your hips playfully.

"are we gonna arrive late again?" you ask him with a small pout, you know damn well you won't be on time but that's usual for you two because jason is always eager to fuck you before leaving to a gala. a soft scoff escapes his throat before he starts taking off his suit, followed by the sight of him undoing his shirt and then his pants; it has always been a dream to see your boyfriend naked in front of you, broad shoulders and chest, built body and that slim waist that made your mouth water, skin painted with scars but the most calling was that big Y shaped scar on his chest, you always loved to trace it with your fingers or to leave a trail of kisses before you sucked him off "like your views, princess?" jason's words are teasing, he knows the answer but he enjoys seeing you bite your lip and nod as your eyes roam over his body. one hand trails from your waist to your tummy, fingers drawing soft circles on your skin as he kisses your neck, nibbling on it softly and making you tilt your head to give him more room until his hand slides under your panties and his fingers start to caress your cunt, a small smirk when he feels your body reacting to his touch "you're so tempting, baby, that dress makes you look like you're begging to get dicked down... i wish i could just rip it and make you scream like a whore" his thumb is pressing on your clit as two more fingers slide up and down between your lips making you moan softly.

your hands are pressed against the wooden furniture, lips parted as a few sighs escape your mouth to his touch on your body driving you crazy, making you rock your hips on his hand "jason..." you call his name softly but it only earns you a quick glance and a raised eyebrow, you know what the man wants and it makes you shiver "sorry... sir, please" you ask softly and that makes jason's grin go wide "pretty little girl, want me to stuff my fingers on that greedy pussy? i bet you'd love to have my dick deep inside of you but you'll settle for my fingers, don't ya, bunny?" his voice is low and raspy, two digits teasing at your entrance and pushing ever so lightly before he slides them in, a laugh rumbling on his chest when he feels how wet he got you just with a few touches and a bunch of dirty things whispered into your ear but it's always like that because you can't help how much he turns you on, he knows what to do to get you on the mood and it takes jason just minutes until your legs are shaking a little, breath heavy while his fingers twist and move inside of you making a couple of noises that bring a bright blush to your face.

"look at you, baby, how small and vulnerable you look like this... with my fingers playing with you" jason's voice is almost a low growl as he squeezes your cheeks with his other hand making you look at youself all worked up in front of him, you do look smaller and then you're just wishing jason would pick you up to fuck you like a toy "uh, looks like someone is already thinking about what she wants me to do with her... this little pussy is clenching around my fingers" he taunts before pulling his digits out of you, a soft whine leaving your lips before he delivers a sharp slap on your cunt making you gasp and tremble. he laughs, pulling your panties down before he stands up again, his hand resuming on your pussy as he rubs your puffy lips, the wet sound making you want to look away "sir... i need you, please" you ask, obediently because you know that being a brat right now would only earn you being left all needy "need me, princess? you're being so good, aren't you?" jason asks and smirks when you nod enthusiastically, leaning in to press a quick kiss on your neck he pulls away to pull down his boxers and you can see him fisting at his hard rock dick, the sight making your mouth water and your pussy clench around nothing.

he stands right behind you, his hand guiding his tip to your entrance to start teasing you when he lets his dick slide between your folds grinding his hardness against you, it makes you moan but it's still not enough "i need you inside of me, please... sir, i need you to make me take your cock" a small pout decorates your lips as you look at him with pleading doe eyes, biting on your lip hard when he takes a handful of your hair, pulling it at the same time he thrusts in with a rough movement making you squirm and moan loudly " 's that what you wanted, baby? my dick inside of you?" jason asks into your ear as he starts moving his hips, free hand going to squeeze one of your tits, fingers pinching on your nipple while he strokes slowly and torturing for you to grow desperate "y-yes, sir, yes" you nod, your head falling back as he keeps hold of your hair messing it up, making your back arch in a weird angle that will probably let you sore the next few days but you can't help moan with a satisfied smile once he starts to move faster, his hand still kneading on your breast "fucking thight... your body is so perfect for me, doll, even your tits fit perfectly on my hands" jason tone is filled with pride and ownership, that only makes you mewl because you know your body is almost like made for him to fit on you in every possible way "you love how i talk to you, what a pretty dirty slut you are" he grunts in a harder thrust that makes you whine loudly, jason's hand leaving your chest to roam back between your legs to circle roughly on your clit for a few seconds before giving a hard slap against your swollen bud, it makes you clench like a vice dragging a gutural growl from your boyfriend's throat.

"you little freak! you enjoy when i slap that pussy, don't ya?" he mocks you, his cheek pressed against yours as he keeps pounding harder and faster almost as if he will never be able to fuck you again and oh, how it makes you even more needy "you're a sick whore, baby, bet you'll be squirting so hard if i slapped that pretty face of yours while i fuck your brains out" he has a filthy mouth but it only turns you on more and more, making you whimper in a silent plea for him to slap your cheek, desperate to see his hand print red on your face but instead he gives another sharp smack between your legs earning a tortured whine from you "jay! f-fuck... need you to slap my face, please" but he grunts, hand tugging your hair again as his gaze grows stern "how did you just called me, mhm? that's not how you should adress me when i'm giving you what you want or are you already too dumb fucked to think?" his voice is serious and it makes you shake your head "no, sir! sorry uh, i'm sorry" you pout, voice soft suddenly but it's probably a little late "your brain must be turned into a puddle already, how pathetic... just a needy whore, a sick brat" and jason gives hard and deep thrusts with each word, voice low and dominant.

"open your mouth. now" he demands as he pulls your hair again at the same time he smacks your pussy one more time, hand lingering over your sensitive bud as you do as he asked. mouth open and tongue sticking out while jason towers over you, he looks so intimidating it makes your inner walls thighten around his dick, a dry scoff escapes him before he spits into your mouth "swallow it, maybe that dirty mouth of yours deserves that if you want to speak like a slut" he grunts, eyes fixed on yours and a glint of lust when you swallow what he just gave you, letting out a loud moan when he presses a bruising kiss to your lips, biting and sucking on them.

jason brings his hand to your face, calloused fingers squeezing your cheeks again to make you open your mouth again for him to spit into it "that's better... obedient little whore" you moan, fingers scratching on the wood where your hands are still pressed, the mirror allowing you to watch your tense body from your hips to your head and jason behind you, his hips hammering against you while he keeps your head thrown back, crown almost pressed to his chest "can't even talk back, just a fuck toy for me to use and abuse" the words are messing with your foggy mind, making you tremble as you nod absentmindedly muttering jason's name like a mantra, his hand squeezing your face making your words sound muffled and sloppy but you stop when he spits over your sealed lips, leaving them shiny and looking just as filthy as the rest of your body when it was being used in this way; right then is when jason lets go of your hair, his hand moving your face to look at yourself on the mirror "your pretty lips look so good like that, mhm, better than any of those stupid lipglosses" he grins devilishly at your reflex and you can feel your body about to burst to his implication, your climax almost over you and he notices it in the way your inner walls convulse around his dick.

"it turns you on, huh? fucked up little slut, you're about to cum all over my cock for being treated like a stupid whore" he growls in a whisper behind your ear "go on, baby, cum for me" he urges with deep strokes that make him grunt at how thight your pussy clenches around him right before you scream his name when your climax washes all over you, body gripping on jason as a vice "that's a fucking good girl, huh, want me to fill up your needy cunt?" and you nod, breath heavy and struggled. his arm goes around your waist, keeping you on your feet when your legs are about to give up and his other hand goes back to play with your clit.

his thrusts grow sloppy, hips stuttering as he comes closer to his high "mhm, you love it when i breed you, right? gonna put a baby on you one of this days, gonna make you a mama" jason says in a sedative tone as he leans in to talk into your ear, it makes you cry from pleasure and need, his hand on your sensitive clit is making you squirm "god... yes please, sir, i wanna have your baby" a soft whimper escapes your lips turning into a full loud moan when he reaches his climax, his cock bursting inside of you as he paints your walls white with thick load of his seed, a grunt leaving his throat before he presses a long kiss on your shoulder.

"you're so fucking good for me, princess" he mutters with a smirk on his lips, jason's arm is still wrapped around your waist as he holds you on your tiptoes while you're both looking at your reflex "see? your lips look prettier like that... swollen and red from my kisses and shiny too" he teases before kissing your chin making you giggle softly "you're sick too, jay" you say with a bright blush on your cheeks before he lets you down and looks at the hour "we should get ready again now if we want to make it to the gala, baby"

you still have to get on your dress again after cleaning yourself, do part of your makeup again and brush your hair because "it looks better all loose, babe" is what jason says when he's ready and finds you struggling to get your half-up nice again. at least you know that your lips will remain red and swollen for a good part of the night and the gloss, that's something jason will have to fix every now and then when nobody around is looking at you both.

#mara's thoughts #jason todd #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd smut #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x fem!reader #reader insert #red hood #red hood imagine #red hood smut

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blue-rose-soul · 1 month

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A post about Alastor turning into a kid prompted a spiraling daydream wherein Husk gets thrown to Earth in the past. Sometime between 1905 and 1912 ish. He's a demon so of course people are fucking terrified of him so he takes off running through the back alleys, hiding in the shadows, and ends up crashing through the window of someone's house trying to stay out of sight. The house was dark so he thought it was empty, so Husk is completely shocked when he brushes himself off and turns to find a very familiar kid staring up at him.

All things considered, kiddo Alastor is ENTIRELY too calm about the giant winged cat monster with four-inch talons and wicked yellow fangs that came barrelling in through his bedroom window. Not that Husk is complaining, since the kid sneaks him some food and a beer. He's less than thrilled when little Alastor suggests he live in the closet as a pet, but at least he has somewhere he can stay out of sight until he figures out how to get back where he belongs...

The first night, Husk is awoken by the sound of furious yells through the door. Glass shattering. A muffled grunt. Slowly he pushes open the closet door to see Alastor huddled against the wall with a large man towering over him, reeking of beer with his fist raised.

Husk doesn't stop to think about the fact that this is a living human who won't respawn like all of the demons he's killed in Hell. One quick slice of his claws and it's over. The drunk bastard is dead. The hid is staring up at Husk, spattered in the man's blood.

Now, Husk doesn't regret putting the mean bastard down, but he knows he can't stay. So he tells Alastor to say a robber broke in and fled out the window when things got violent. Only, Alastor wants to go with Husk. Husk asks about Alastor's mother, and the look on the kid's face says it all. But Husk doesn't need a brat weighing him down and the kid doesn't need to get mixed up with demons so Husk just sweeps out the window, intent on leaving Alastor behind.

Only, Alastor follows him right outside, slicing himself on a piece of broken glass in his desperation not to be left behind. There's a lot of screaming and crying and Husk frantically looking around in case someone's heard before he finally cracks and agrees to take Alastor with him.

Cue the adventures of the alcoholic homeless cat demon and his tiny boss he accidentally kidnadopted as he tries to figure out a way back home while also searching for a safe place he can dump the brat.

Including such shenanigans as:

Husk bundled up in a trench coat, 3 sweaters, 7 scarves, a hat, a pair of mittens, and heavy boots, in Louisiana, IN THE SUMMER, asking around for a job.

Beby Alastor happily playing with Husk's wings (the mental image that convinced me to actually type all this out).

Husk teaching Alastor how to play poker and regretting it when not two games later, the kid is cleaning him out (they're betting bottle caps).

Husk's debut as a street magician, still dressed in aforementioned trench coats and scarves. He hates every moment of it but Alastor loves it, the little menace.

(This was kinda sorta inspired by this post from @nunalastor.)

#random thoughts #Hazbin Hotel #Dad Husk AU #I'll think of a better name later #unless I don't #Husk (Hazbin Hotel)#Alastor #child abuse cw

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newchangestf · 8 months

Text

A new bunny in the gym

My roommate Ryan has always been telling me I need to loosen up and stop taking life so seriously. Maybe he's got a point. While I spend all my time in the library studying he spends it at the gym or having fun at the club, and being bisexual he never has a probably finding a fuck.

I finally relented and joined him at the gym. The place was huge. Full of men of different sizes, all with bulging muscles. Though I was straight, not that I had much luck with girls, I could appreciate that all the men here were pretty attractive.

As I didn't know what to do or what to wear at the gym Ryan took me under his wing. Giving me socks, shorts, trainers, t-shirt, baseball cap, and a jockstrap to wear.

I was hesitant at first with the jockstrap, the black material didn't exactly look like it was new. It certainly wasn't something I would usually wear either.

"Don't worry bro, it's what all the guys wear!" Ryan promised.

I thought that I should listen to him considering that this was his domain so I done as I was told.

We started with some squats. Ryan showing me how to do stretch properly and safely use the weights. As I started squatting I felt the huge weights actually become easier and easier each time .

"Your legs are going to be so thick after this!" Ryan called out.

"...and so will that ass" he muttered under his breath.

We moved around the gym using the different machines. Each time they became easier to use really quickly. What I didn't notice was my body changing.

Muscle was quickly building up across my body. Turning me into a meaty gym bunny.

At the same time all those hours spent in the library were slipping away. Which explains why I didn't notice the changes.

It also explains why I didn't notice that all the guys in the gym were all very similar. About half were strong tall beasts with huge muscles. Whereas the rest were smaller, leaner but just as muscly with round bouncing asses.

Our final exercise was a couple of bench presses. I lay on my back with Ryan standing above my head helping me lift.

As he did he lowered his crotch towards my face. Breathing in his sweaty musk I felt everything click in place. My cock harded immediately and I became lost in his trance.

"I see you're changes have finally finished" Ryan said.

Putting the bar into the rack I stopped and looked up at him.

"You weren't living life and I was sick of coming back to the apartment to find you studying and not having fun. So when I found out about this place I had to bring you. Now that you're a muscle bro you can join me and have fun."

I just let the words sink in.

Ryan continued. "The best bit is that now you're just a cock hungry gym bunny. With an ass like that you'll be getting plenty of dick. Most of it mine. You won't even remember being straight."

---

That was four months ago. He was right. Now we go to the gym everyday together. Him a towering hulk of a man and me, a lean twunk with an ass that just begs to be fucked.

And it is fucked, all the time. I quickly grew to love the feeling and now I can't get enough. When Ryan isn't free I sometimes get help from the other guys at the gym. They're always happy to stretch me out after a session.

Life is so much easier now, why did I waste all that time in the library?

_____

First time writing, let me know your thoughts!

#gay transformation #male transformation #muscletf #straight to gay #muscle transformation #gym bro

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weebsinstash · 3 months

Text

Ok so I kept procrastinating but I finally finished Masquerade earlier today and just. Oh my fucking god, kicking my feet, twirling my hair around a finger, giggling ,rewinding, smiling like a GOON, I have THOUGHTS

--Val's red coat is his WINGS and they're glorious. And not to mention he wears that like, slutty open chested black v neck underneath where he's lowkey showing off his nipples too, the slut. The gold heart belt buckle and the matching gold accented accessories too. Ugh. You can't say he doesn't dress up, and I really liked getting to see the full reveal of his body so to speak, the way his violet arms become black fingers, also is he, is he wearing like gold manicured claw cap things sometimes, why is he such a diva, he's so extra

--the Addict music video WASN'T just being artistic, Valentino's smoke CAN become physical actual chains and bondage and oh my gooddddddd I'm using this knowledge for EVIL purposes.

Boom! Sudden third eye opening moment, but remember that post I made about "Val who starts dragging you around on a leash because he's too much taller than you to keep leading you by the hand" ? His lower set of arms could totally hold onto you BUT I can totally see him using these chains all the time now, to drag you around and just restrain you and shit. Ugh. Just. Him having you completely immobilized and helpless and shaking like a chihuahua as he can run his fingers along you and whatever else he wants, listening to you gadp and squirm

-- ok I know the whole point of the poison music video was showing the horrible shit Angel is made to do and how he's dehumanized but like.... obviously, from.. a fetish perspective... you know what I think 😩❤️

Like you can't just show me a shot of Valentino having Angel in his arms and he's got all four arms wrapped around him in like almost an embrace, kissing, KISSING while they fuck. maybe I'm so shy but that's so... intimate, like, ok fuck my ass i guess, that's like sex, whatever, but kissing me on the MOUTH, let alone with tongue? you might as well be looking into my soul or something dofnofjfjg, not to mention Val biting his neck while they do it like you CAN'T me all of that and expect me to be normal!!!

--platonic yandere Husker with an alcoholic Reader though. He forces you into these weird little therapy sessions when yeah he still serves you drinks but he cuts you off when you're fucking plastered, like he enables you until you're having TOO much, amd by that point you're yammering with your loose lips and answering ALL His questions. Siiiiigh I can see him seeing how you're down on your luck and burying your worries and sorrows at the bottom of a bottle , getting so drunk you can barely sit up straight, and he starts getting protective of you, secretly following you to bars when you won't just get drunk at the hotel, making sure your drink doesn't get spiked, having to kick some ass to protect you and drag you home more than once

--i was such a fool. If Valentino is such a, quite frankly, perverted fucking idiot that he LICKS CHARLIE, fucking CHARLIE MORNINGSTAR upon first meeting her, he ABSOLUTELY does creepy shit to his darling day ONE. He CLEARLY has ZERO impulse control: he drinks, he smokes, he forces himself onto other people, he throws things when he loses his temper. He uses his power to be a bully and seeking unrestrained self gratification

--this is completely unrelated to everything else here but Zestial is hot in that like, antiquated charming eldritch evil kind of way. He seems like the sort of creature you could encounter deep within an enchanted woods, you're freshly dead and wind up in a bad part of Pentagram City and this TOWERING gentleman says some shit like "turn back child, there is no safety for you here". He's. He's sexy in that Neflix Castlevania Dracula way where there's an appeal in his age and his wisdom and his composure and just his full-on aesthetic and such. Like bro it's so easy to miss it but he's the oldest of the Overlords and he bowed in respect to Carmilla for what she did. He's chivalrous and loyal and just 👀 got my eye on him...

--bro watching Val manipulate Angel to get Charlie to leave fucking HURT and I've thought about Reader being in that exact scenario SO many times! Valentino is manipulating Angel to control you, and he's manipulating YOU to control Angel. Sure, he'll have Angel make you cry and chase you off so you don't get emotional and interfere with a shoot, or so that you don't sabotage whatever manipulated state he has Angel under at the time, but when you're off on your own drinking and crying and sobbing and feeling oh so horrible and pitiful, then Val is sibling up to you, cooing about, oh how MEAN Angel was to you, he didn't have to be so harsh to someone so sweet--

Could you imagine the fucking. Tiered angst and manipulation of Angel hurting Reader because Val pressured him to, and then Reader going off and getting drunk and being self destructive, and then at your emotional weakest Val is popping in to strike some kind of deal with you or fuck you or whatever, and then Angel blames himself, and here's Valentino, "that wouldn't have happened if you just did what you were told :3c" and Angel is even further under his control because now he's terrified he might "fuck up" and get you really hurt

--siiiiiiiigh imagine like drinking with Angel and you've been down there for like two months and you're idly chit chatting and, something something, you offhandedly mention something like "god fuck Val had me so fucking wasted I could barely sign my employee contract" CUE ANGEL IMMEDIATELY DROPPING WHATEVERS IN HIS HAND AND SHAKING YOU, "what do you MEAN you signed something??? You're just waiting tables, what did you SIGN???" And it turns out Val whipped out like ONE OF THE B I G "types" of contracts for you. God I really want some elaboration on how those contracts work and how Val or any Overlord strikes deals and even gains powers because it's very clear not everyone had the same level of abilities, and also lowkey the power scaling in Hazbin is kinda busted like not to be a dweeb but you've got people running around basically having Quirks

--ALSO THIS IS SO DUMB BUT I HAVE A COMPLAINT SIR. Valentino straight up says "no one watches porn for the dialogue" EXTREMELY INCORRECT BUZZER NOISE. When you've watched enough porn or at the very least you're hunting for a specific fetish, dialogue can be Duper important. You can see 20 different actors do the same scene BUT have a specific pair who, maybe used a specific line that stood out to you and made it unique and made it worth watching. You know for a long while there I was writing smut and feeling like I was doing the same descriptions over and over again and it kind of burnt me out and turned me off and that's when I tried to shift towards more emotional and environmental and thematic sorts of stuff

Listen all I'm saying is I have been ENAMORED like straight up with the idea of Reader becoming the fourth V because you become close to all the Vs and you have your own talents and they all like you and shit. You're able to pitch product ideas to Vox, even help him if you're a programmer or a coder or something, Valentino.... maybe you have magic hammer space pockets and can run him errands or you cook drugs or you're like a sexy bodyguard for him or, he just likes getting drunk and doing drugs with you, and Velvette is that #Bitch who you gossip with who likes to design new shit for you and bounce ideas off of you from time to time. Like the gradual slide of "oh we're all hanging out and they think I'm actually kind of cool," to "oh they keep inviting me to hang out. I feel special. I'm one of the cool kids. Maybe I even have fun powers and they encourage me to be mean and evil and its fun" to then "oh you're straight up shoving new clothes in my face and you keep using this one specific V nickname for me instead of my real name and I stg I don't have personal space anymore and I'm always being crowded by at least one of you literally 24/7"

God just. God. Just. GOD I AM SO WELL FED. I saw what Viv was selling and I got in line and I've finally gotten my food and it is FILLING, my craving for controlling obsessive possessive douchebags is sooooo sated right now 😩❤️

#yandere stuff #sinprompts #yandere hellaverse

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zapreportsblog · 7 months

Note

Hello. Can you make an obsessive Volturi Kings and female fairy or elf reader?

❝our little fairy❞

✭ pairing : yandere poly volturi king x reader

✭ fandom : twilight

✭ summary : (y/n) is a tree spirit who was out exploring one day when she flies into the broad chest of Felix volturi, curious on her being he takes her back to his kings where a bond is formed between the three leaders and their little fairy.

✭ twilight masterlist 2

In a hidden corner of the ancient woodland, bathed in the soft, golden glow of the setting sun, a tiny woodland fairy (Y/N) flitted gracefully through the air. She was no larger than a dandelion puff, her iridescent wings shimmering with each delicate flutter. Her mission this evening was simple - to gather boggle cap tops and fragrant flowers to adorn her cozy little home nestled within the hollow of an ancient oak tree.

(Y/N) darted from one flower to another, her laughter like the tinkling of a distant wind chime. With nimble fingers, she plucked the petals of a dew-kissed wildflower, all the while imagining how they would brighten her tiny abode. Lost in her world of flora and whimsy, she didn't notice the towering figure of a man approaching.

Felix, a formidable vampire with rippling muscles and a chiseled jawline, moved through the forest with an eerie grace that belied his imposing presence. He was on a solitary walk, deep in thought, when an unexpected gust of wind swept (Y/N) off course. With a gasp, she collided with his chest, knocking the wind out of her, quite literally.

Startled, Felix instinctively reached out to catch whatever had just crashed into him. In his massive, open palm, he found himself holding the tiniest being he had ever seen. A creature so delicate, so ethereal, it could only be the stuff of legends.

"What a surprise we have here," Felix mused, his voice a deep rumble that (Y/N) felt rather than heard. He marveled at the tiny being he held, her translucent wings fluttering desperately to regain her composure.

(Y/N), on the other hand, was equally awestruck. Her wide, sparkling eyes took in the towering figure before her, his crimson eyes and pale skin telling her all she needed to know. She had heard tales of vampires, creatures of the night, but had never imagined she would encounter one up close.

As Felix examined her with a mix of curiosity and amusement, they both spoke in unison, their voices overlapping in a bizarre coincidence. "What are you?"

Their synchronized query left them momentarily dumbfounded, but it was Felix who broke the silence. "I'm a vampire," he declared, his gaze locked on her. "Now then, what are you?"

(Y/N) gathered her composure and replied, "I'm a fairy," her tiny voice ringing with a mixture of pride and wonder.

Felix's lips curled into a wry smile as he considered the possibilities. "Interesting," he murmured. "My masters, the Volturi Kings, would probably want to meet you. Would you be willing to accompany me to them?"

(Y/N) hesitated for only a moment before nodding. She had always been curious about the world beyond her woodland home, and this encounter promised an adventure unlike any she had ever imagined. With a sense of anticipation, she remained perched in the palm of Felix's hand as he set off on a journey that would change both their lives forever.

Felix returned to the imposing fortress of the Volturi, the ancient stone walls and eerie silence of the place contrasting sharply with the vibrant world from which he had come. In the palm of his hand, nestled amidst the swirl of his dark cloak, (Y/N) clung to a strand of his clothing, her heart aflutter with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

As Felix entered the grand hall where the three Volturi kings resided, his voice echoed through the cavernous chamber. "Masters, I bring you a most extraordinary guest."

Aro, the ancient and charismatic leader of the Volturi, turned his crimson eyes toward Felix, his features alight with curiosity. Marcus, the somber and introspective king, regarded Felix with a gaze as penetrating as the shadows that clung to him. Caius, the most imposing of the three with a demeanor as cold as ice, observed the proceedings with an air of detached indifference.

Felix recounted the story of his chance encounter with the tiny fairy, (Y/N), and how their simultaneous question had sparked this unusual alliance. As he spoke, Marcus, the most attuned to emotions among the Volturi, felt a peculiar sensation. It was like the faint stirrings of a bond he hadn't experienced in centuries.

The bond, however, was not limited to him alone. As Marcus delved deeper into the sensation, he realized that it extended, tendrils of emotion, reaching out to touch not only him but also Aro and Caius. It was as if this tiny being in Felix's palm had ignited a connection that bound them together.

Marcus met Aro's gaze, and without words, he conveyed his discovery. Aro's eyes widened with intrigue, and he nodded in understanding. Caius, on the other hand, seemed indifferent to the revelation.

With an air of expectation, Aro approached Felix and the small fairy. He extended a slender hand, and Felix carefully transferred (Y/N) into Aro's palm. The fairy stood there, her heart pounding, as Aro examined her with a bemused expression.

"Interesting," Aro murmured, his voice a velvety whisper. "Such a rare and exquisite creature."

Caius, who had been watching from the sidelines, couldn't resist the pull of curiosity any longer. He reached out and gently cupped (Y/N) in his hand, his cold skin contrasting with her warmth. Her miniature form seemed even smaller against his massive palm, but she held her composure, her wide eyes flitting between the three kings.

Caius, Aro, and Marcus leaned in, their expressions filled with fascination as they admired the tiny fairy before them. And just as (Y/N) had marveled at their vampiric beauty, she found herself flustered yet enchanted by the kings' ethereal grace and handsomeness.

With her heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings, (Y/N) realized that her adventure had taken an unexpected turn. She was now the center of attention among the most powerful vampires in existence, and the enchantment of their world was beginning to weave its magic around her in ways she could never have imagined.

Aro, the enigmatic leader of the Volturi, continued to study (Y/N) with fascination as she now stood in the palm of his hand. Her ethereal beauty and innocence intrigued him, and he couldn't help but find her presence captivating.

With an air of gentleness that contrasted with his usual demeanor, Aro began to speak to (Y/N). "My dear, I must explain that we are not like the creatures you are familiar with. We are vampires, though I’m sure our guard felix told you of our species. We vampires are immortal beings who feed on blood to survive."

(Y/N), who had never heard of vampires or their dark nature, simply nodded, assuming Aro was merely explaining his kind to her. "I see," she replied, her voice tinged with curiosity. "I am a woodland fairy, a guardian of the forest. We live in harmony with nature, nurturing the plants and creatures that inhabit our realm."

Marcus, the quieter and more introspective of the Volturi kings, couldn't help but feel sympathy for the tiny fairy. He decided to share another piece of information that would undoubtedly surprise her. "You see, (Y/N), there's something else you should know. Vampires have mates, like soulmates. It's a bond that goes beyond our understanding."

(Y/N) furrowed her tiny brow, not quite comprehending. "Mates? I've never heard of such a thing among my kind. We exist to protect and preserve the balance of the forest, but we don't have mates."

Caius, the most imposing of the Volturi kings, leaned in closer to (Y/N) and explained in a surprisingly gentle tone, "Mates are like soulmates as Marcus has said, and you just so happen to be ours therefore our souls are now linked to your existence, and we can't let you leave."

Confusion welled up within (Y/N). She loved the forest and being with nature, and the thought of not returning to her home saddened her. The three kings, sensitive to her emotions, proposed a solution.

Aro spoke, "We can build you a small house in our garden. You can be close to nature, and we can be close to you."

Although it was a generous offer, (Y/N) couldn't help but question it. "But why can't I go back to my home in the forest?"

Aro, ever the strategist, decided to stretch the truth to ensure her compliance. "The further you are from your mate, the weaker it makes the vampires. Eventually, it could even lead to our demise."

Hearing this, (Y/N) was filled with concern for her newfound friends. She didn't want to be the cause of their suffering. With a heavy heart, she agreed to stay in the garden with them, trusting their words.

Aro turned his attention to Alec and Jane, two of his loyal guards. "Alec, Jane, please retrieve the things from (Y/N)'s little house in the forest. We will make her feel at home here."

As the two vampires departed on their mission, (Y/N) couldn't shake the feeling that her life had taken an unexpected turn, and the enigmatic bond with these vampire kings would forever alter her existence.

The Volturi kings watched with a mixture of relief and elation as (Y/N) agreed to stay with them in their garden. The fact that they didn't have to resort to force or Chelsea’s manipulation abilities, filled them with a sense of contentment they rarely experienced. To them, she was more than just a rare and beautiful creature; she was their perfect mate.

As (Y/N) spoke animatedly about where she would place her belongings in the garden and how she would decorate it to fit her needs, the kings sat in a contemplative silence. Dark thoughts swirled in their minds like a storm on the horizon.

Aro, with his uncanny ability to see into the future, envisioned a world where (Y/N) would never leave their side. He saw himself as her protector, ensuring that she would never be harmed by anyone, and those who dared to threaten her would face the full extent of his wrath.

Marcus, whose empathy allowed him to sense the emotions of others, felt a growing sense of possessiveness towards (Y/N). He couldn't bear the thought of her being with anyone else, and the idea of her happiness being dependent on them was intoxicating.

Caius, who had always been the most cold and ruthless of the trio, surprised even himself with the intensity of his feelings for (Y/N). He imagined a future where they would be inseparable, where he would be her shelter from the world, and where anyone who dared to hurt her would face a punishment beyond measure.

Their fixation on (Y/N) was all-consuming, and they couldn't help but revel in the darkness of their desires. To them, she was the embodiment of perfection, the one they had longed for, and they were willing to do whatever it took to ensure she would never leave their side.

As (Y/N) continued to share her plans for her new life in the garden, the Volturi kings sat in silence, their minds filled with possessive thoughts and an unwavering determination to keep her with them, no matter the cost.

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yeyinde · 1 year

Text

circle the drain | Captain John Price x F!Reader

》 WARNINGS: SMUT 18+ — P-in-V sex; unsafe sex; gendered female reader, female gendered anatomy; implied power imbalance; no substance only smut SUMMARY: Somehow, you know his hands are the only things capable of keeping you whole. 》 WORD COUNT: 7,6k 》 NOTES: This was supposed to be a valentine's day gift, but it's super late on account of me being ridiculously sick. I'm also becoming the Patron Saint of "soon-ish" but this is the sequel to Caught p., i. Yeah. That fic that's been requested a bunch lmao. ANYWAY. It's FINALLY here. This was written in a day and edited under a feverish delirium in what feels like four months but was actually less than 10 minutes.

His hands are firebrands, fingers the lit end of a cigar. When he touches your skin, you hear the sizzle of your flesh burning away, and the pop of it cauterising under his blistering heat. He seals a little part of himself in the wounds he wrought: buries them deep in your dermis until they leak into your bloodstream.

There is no victory in this.

And yet—

"Fuck me, captain—"

—you just can't help yourself sometimes.

His eyes flash. "I didn't tell you to stop."

》 Caught p., i

MASTERLIST | JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | AO3

It's the firm press of his front against your back that starts it all.

His hands, rough, firm. Scorching. They drop to your shoulders, one palm sliding down your bicep, fingers curling over the soft skin in the crux of your elbow.

You try not to tremble when his broad back presses flush to your spine. When he ducks his head down, bending a little at the waist to reach you—Price is a mountain, a tower—and you feel the coarse hairs along his jaw, chin, scratch against the soft curve of your neck, the back of your ears, your cheek.

"Steady."

Your teeth snap tight together when you feel the rumble through his ribcage before he even opens his mouth to utter the words. The rasping little groan—mmh—he makes rolls over your spine, the back of your ribs. It rattles through your bones, clotting in the fibrils of your tissue.

The fluttering wings of a hummingbird beat in the cavity of your chest when he speaks.

"One…two notches higher."

You scent burning sycamore when he breathes out, the rasp of his breath brushing your shoulder. Heat bleeds into your spine when he sidles close to you, hands firm on your body as he strings you into the position he deems best.

You wonder, then, how those broad hands would move you around in a different context. How the unyielding press of his chest would feel naked against your back—

"—y'right?"

Squeaking out a clipped affirmative is all you can do amid the roiling currents that batter through your chest—a dizzying concoction of want, need, for the man pressed against your spine.

He rumbles again, his pitch a guttural whisper that seems so opposed to his very essence—Týr in flesh and bone; a behemoth on the battlefield yelling himself hoarse—and the slow, smoky roll, the muted murmur, makes your toes curl. Fingers itch.

"Yeah?" He presses, unwilling—or unable—to let go until he's satisfied, until the worry in his chest over his men, over you, is abated. Shifted to some other place where it can't distract him. He leans in closer, and you find notes of Tobacco and malt nestled amongst the cindered Sycamore. Psalm ashes tickling your nose.

"Yes—," it's barely more than a breath. A ghost of something you can't place.

When it comes to Price, you never sound like yourself. Breathless, breathy. Voice a whisper amid the rumbling clatter of a rockslide careening down a mountain. His very presence seems to syphon the air from your lungs until you're gasping.

It feels like you've run a marathon—throat throbbing like an open wound; infected and raw. The taste of heme wells on your tongue. Your lungs burn. Ink blots clot over your vision.

"I'm—yeah, I'm good, cap." You say, and try not to focus on how his proximity makes you dizzy. Desperate.

He feels good against you, and you can feel the smoulder of his body even through the thick layers of his tac-vest, his military-issued jacket, and his long-sleeved shirt. The heat is dizzying. Liquifying your sense of propriety, decorum; it leaks over your threadbare resolve—that brassbound lockbox where you keep all of your hidden secrets tucked inside a place no one, nothing, can touch it.

It's absolute hot—one decillion, four hundred and twenty nonillion degrees celsius—and, well—

Who can withstand the hottest possible temperature matter can reach?

The box isn't just burnt or turned to ash—but erased. Swallowed whole by the flames that spark so hot, they don't even leave behind a scorch mark but burn the platform it laid on, too.

It frees everything you struggled to keep bound within you when he steps back, when there's more distance between his thundering heart and your liquified spine than ever before. A chasm.

Your chest is a hollow crevasse, an inexistent hole, and when he steps back, you feel threads of absolute zero snake over the scorched flesh.

You hear the sharp inhale through tobacco-stained teeth when you add sir, and wonder if he feels the same chill clot inside his marrow that you do.

When you swallow, his eyes drop, flashing to the smooth column of your throat. Liquid puddles in those sapphire pools—cenotes framed in burnt umber—and the burn of his eclipsing pupils makes you feel like you're choking.

Price clears his throat, his eyes skirting away from you in a mockery of something disquieted, demure. The loss of his eyes on you makes something sour twist in your guts.

You want it back, you think, and know, then, that it's far too late. That whatever tenuous hold you had over yourself had been carbonised and charred to cinders when he touched you with his molten hands, melting that gossamer of resolve you clung.

And—

Fuck.

His eyes are fixed somewhere on your forehead—either unwilling or unable to look you bare in the eye, and you worry for a moment that he knows. That he can see the want in your gaze, the heavy weight of sin that rolls over your shoulders until they quiver. The want in your hands makes your fingers tremble.

But it dissipates when he offers a facsimile of a smile.

"Good work," he says, the words sticking to the nicotine in his throat, and you wonder if you could become addicted to smoke just from the fumes he exudes.

(You feel the itch in your veins for the smooth draw of smoke into your burning lungs when he moves away from you.)

Fuck—you think, eyes fixed on his broad back, his taped waist, heavy shoulders—indeed.

You've never smoked a cigar before, and somehow you find yourself feening for a hit, for the smooth curl of tobacco smoke in your throat, sticking to your teeth.

Your eyes are drawn to the flash of orange in a perfect ring of controlled fire, to the stem of dark brown clenched between an even thicker thumb and forefinger; the lips pursed around the butt, the beard peppered with ash.

The craving hits you harder than ever when you look at him: the complete picture of your leader, captain, hunched over a bed of papers and files.

It's when the ashlar blue of his gaze flickers up, catching the end of something Soap says, that you know, without any sense of uncertainty, that all the cigars locked inside his case wouldn't be enough to quench the hunger in your chest. Rapacious. Greedy.

(Greedy hands, they'd say when you took too much.

Your joints burn with the urge to cling, to hold.)

Price looks up, catching your wanting gaze. He holds it for a moment, just long enough for you to forget how to breathe, how to function. Something shudders over the thin veil of indifference he wears, sealed over his face like a scab. It splits, peels back until the oozing wound below is once again exposed to the open air.

Raw, pulsating.

You wonder what would happen to your mortal body if you syphoned the ichor of Tyr, let it pool on your earthly tongue.

Your mouth is dry. Lips chapped and numbed. Your tongue lashes out, wetting them. A distraction—an unconscious action. You've studied enough to know that chewing on your lips, nails, the inside of your cheeks until the skin splits and bleeds is a self-soothing mechanism to abate the flood of anxiety that rips through you. Still. You do it, anyway.

It's a trick of the light, you think, when his eyes dim, lowering down to your blood red mouth, narrowing at the tease of your tongue flicking across your trembling bottom lip.

A manifestation, a delusion.

When you want something so badly, your mind is startlingly, debilitatingly, adept at playing pretend.

Your gaze drops to your unfinished plate, and you struggle to pretend you're not losing your mind to the whims of your desire because for a moment there—a brief, almost imperceptible second—it almost felt like he wanted you, too.

You bum a cigarette from Soap, and try not to think about that cold, windy night in Cairo when Price dropped his cigars to save you.

The barking laugh that hacked from his soot-stained lungs when you found a pack of Cleopatra Lights in the warehouse you were hiding in.

"Ain't the same, love." He huffed, white teeth flashing in the blue-green light of the Azbakiyyah quarter spilling in through the smeared windows. "No substitute for the real thing."

You take a drag, and sputter over the side of the balcony, gasping and coughing through the thick musk of tobacco that chokes your lungs.

It does nothing to abate the hunger inside of you.

With tar-stained lungs, and nicotine glueing to your aching throat, you think: no, not the same at all.

(Once you get a taste of the perfect vice, love, no imitation can compare. Keep the cigs. They'll only make me anxious if I start smokin' 'im now.)

The itch in your joints becomes too much.

You slide your fingers over your flesh, and wish it was him—

Your head lifts, glancing once more at the entranceway to the changing room.

Liquid sapphires. Brow drawn tight.

Your heart stutters. "C—captain, I—"

His eyes flash. "I didn't tell you to stop."

It's curt. Direct. Blunt. Everything he is—all narrowed down into this claustrophobic space that fogs with steam; the walls bleeding with condensation. It's sticky, balmy. Feverish heat that prickles hot and cold against your skin.

He says: I didn't tell you to stop.

And you say: I didn't tell you to watch.

An impasse. Stalemate. No victor, no loser.

(Except you. Always, always you.)

This promises nothing but your ruin should you let your arms drop from the tight clench around your bare breasts, nipples hardened, prickled and sensitive from when your delicate, small fingers rubbed at them and dreamed about his mouth.

An invitation.

One you can't bring yourself to open. The envelope is ripped, torn. But the card is folded neatly on the table in front of you.

(Take a peek, it beckons when he shifts, the unmistakable outline of his thick, hard cock bulging through the fabric of his trousers. Just a little look. A little taste.)

But it won't be, will it? Just a little. Laughable. Don't be stupid.

You never learned how to say no to yourself, how to hold back.

(Your moon is fixed in Cancer.)

You give, give, give—and, in equal, if not a little more, measure: take, take, take.

Want, want, want.

You think of his heat searing your back, liquifying your spine, turning your calcified bones to polymer, and know, deep down within your aching marrow, that what you crave is blue.

You can't let yourself want this—want him.

It's dangerous. Wrong. It's a gaping maw of hurt and agony just waiting to sink its teeth into your fleshy body, to tear you apart; ripping you limb from limb until you're a pulpy mess of tendon and crushed bones, barely human, but alive. Stuck in anguish.

He's heartbreak in smoke, in Maduro brown with a golden logo on the stem.

—means dark. Ripe. Used to only be made from the highest leaves, 'cause they spend the most time on the plant.

Dark. Ripe. Price.

Dangerous. Addictive. Inescapable.

His eyes—l'heure bleue—gaze at you through the dense fog. Waiting. Waiting. It's in your hands, now. The option to march forward and commence, to push yourself into his palm, in the worn hands that touched brushed the small of your back one day, and ignited a fire in your veins.

Or to retreat.

To walk back, to end this. To call it. Mentor, mentee. Captain. Disciple. Distance will split between you, stifling like the air that clogs the tiled, tacky room. Heavy, oppressive, and—

Inescapable.

Fuck.

You either take, take, and then deal with the aftermath of a bloody battle that will leave false starts on your bones, cutting deep to bleed marrow into your bloodstream, or you—

Forfeit.

There is no future in this. No grand declaration of romance or togetherness. It's the artificial merging of bodies in an offering to Hēdonē; an evanescent dance. It leaks heartache in the seams, and carries the tang of disillusionment should you dip your fingers in glacial blue. It'll stain you. His fingertips are drenched in agony—molten red, a hot poker—and will brand your flesh, scar your body with the perfect imprint of his touch. Of him.

It'll rear, in those soft, lonely moments when your thoughts are too loud and the room is too quiet, and the phantom press of his skin will become a burden.

Yearning.

You hate how it tastes oh so familiar.

Perpetual. Never-ending. Stasis.

You look at him and see blue: blue eyes, blue blood, blue heart, blues.

(Ache.)

But if you don't:

Stagnancy.

(Is it so different from stasis, really?)

It's nautical twilight somewhere, surely. The centre of the sun is six degrees below the horizon. You have six more degrees to go before it ends.

Six.

And then—

(It's not a jump, but a leap.)

Your fingers dig into the skin of your forearm. Piercing. Painful. The bite leaves crescents behind. Blue moons. You pry them apart, and—

Drop.

Into the sea. Into blue.

He says your name when you bare yourself to him again, consenting to this—whatever it is—and giving yourself over like an offering to some whimsical god of lust and poor choices.

The rasp of it makes your spine prickle—a low simmering heat sparks in your belly: satiated by your own fingers but never satisfied. Him standing before you, eager and wanting, strokes the flames until they burn in a frenzy of wildfire; consuming everything in its wake until you're raw, charred husk on the verge of collapsing.

A fragile supernova.

Your core is molten; liquid heat—absolute hot—and when he moves, you feel the foundations wobble, and start to fall apart at the seams.

(Somehow, you know his hands are the only things capable of keeping you whole.)

Price, still dressed in his sweatpants—tented with the obvious outline of his turgid arousal—and tight t-shirt crosses the threshold in seven easy steps. The soft squelch of his feet against wet tile echo in the room, somehow louder than your gasping breaths.

He doesn't walk to you, he stalks. His gait is measured, purposeful; each step brings him inches closer to your trembling, bare form, and the heaviness of his lidded gaze, liquid blue in a chamber of pearlescent white, cudgels into your ribcage, breaking your resolve apart as it pries the protective ivory wrapped around your delicate, fragile heart apart.

"Price—"

The grey of his pants is splattered with the inkblot stain of the water sprinkling from the looming showerhead. The darkening patches draw your eye to the jut of his hips, wide and expansive, and then further down to the damp outline of his thick, heavy cock still housed in a cotton polymer.

There's a fever in your veins—a sickness echoed in the folds of ever blue that pierce through the smog clouding around you. A blunt weight, a burning heat.

His shirt moulds to the contours of his chest when he finally, finally, stands in front of you. The burnt umber of his chest hair bled through the logo of his faded, worn tee. Liverpool Football Club in bright red against stark white. It glues to his pecs, his biceps.

Your mouth waters at the sight.

"You want this?"

His hands lift, biceps bulging, flexing under the tight cotton when he presses them against the slick, humid tile. His hair clings to his forehead, dark and wet. Droplets bead in his beard.

He presses forward, eyes brimming with want; a palpable sense of desperation that shouldn't frisson over his rigid lines.

Price won't repeat his words—not when his voice is thicker than tar, and stripped bare—and you arch against the cool porcelain pressing into your back, the duality of his unrelenting heat, and the chill of ceramic making every synapse in your head misfire.

Trembling, shaking, and desperately trying to hold on to some sense of cognisance amid this turbulent reality, you force a nod. A jerk of your chin.

He breathes through his nose, the breath wisping over the bridge of your nose. Frustration, you think, and—

Impatience. Uncertainty.

"Do you—"

Your facsimile of consent isn't enough for him. He's not a man known to repeat himself, and this—the words that are ripped from the smouldering depths of his chest should be a warning, if not a bare-faced testament to just how much he wants this—makes your heart flutter. A thrumming beat that seems to echo in the scant space between your bodies, the crevasse pitched at an intentional distance by his stalwart sense of control, propriety.

He won't touch you unless he's absolutely sure you want this, him—

Frustrating.

Verbalising your assent, your eagerness, makes something churn inside of you. As if uttering the words aloud will somehow break the spell you cast over him by your pithy voice ringing his name in the shades of your pleasure, the sight of your delicate fingers threading between your swollen, drenched folds.

You want him—haven't wanted anything nearly as much in your life than to feel his damp, naked chest flush against yours, his hips prying your thighs apart, his massive hands grasping your flesh like each pound was owed to him, and he was collecting his dues.

But—

That leap, the precipice you balance yourself on, is daunting. A touch won't be enough. A taste would just be a tease. A morsel.

You don't want a crumb—you want it all.

"Price," you whine instead, biting back the words he wants to hear. "Just—give it to me—"

It makes him groan. His head tips forward, eyes burning pits of sapphire-stained coal.

"Need to hear you say it."

It borders that illicit equinox of being both too much and not enough: that dangerous precipice where you either climb to higher, deadlier altitudes or fall down to certain death.

You wonder if there is a win somewhere in that. A choice when you come out unscathed, whole.

Price leans in, hair wet, matted to his forehead, beard slick with droplets of water that bead against the auburn, and immediately you think: no.

There is no victory in this.

And yet—

"Fuck me, captain—"

—you just can't help yourself sometimes.

. . .

It's wicked. Intense.

The clothes he wore were shed from his body like a second skin under your quiet, hungry acquiescence. They sit in a sopping pile that keeps drawing your eye.

He's naked—just like you—but there is something marginally more intimate, vulnerable, in seeing your stolid leader in such a state of disarray. His hair is clumped from the humidity and moisture—matted on the top, but moussed on his side when he stepped away from you, and peeled the drenched shirt from his body. It sticks up in pieces near his ears, and your fingers ache with a longing to smooth them down.

Make him presentable, somehow.

Or maybe it's a distraction. A way to skirt around the tangibility of him standing before you, touchable and real, and—

And wanting.

The same shades of your desire are echoed in the rucked crevasses of cenote blue when he gazes down at you, head bowed, and catching the spray like your own personal protector. The water hits the nape of his neck, and glides down his broad shoulders, his chest.

You want to sink your teeth into the puddles caught by the jut of his clavicles. Want to taste the briny water running in rivulets across his skin.

Want, you think, and want, want, want—

Price's hand knots in the fine hair at curve of your neck, a perfect fistful in the thick of his palm, and he uses it as an anchoring point, a steer, to bend your chin in whichever way suits him best to slant his rapacious mouth over yours, and devour.

His kisses are blistering—contained: controlled, powerful, and measured; and desperate: soft gasps, gentle hums, and needy noises spill from the parted seam of his teeth, muffled by his nicotine-soaked tongue that dips in each crevasse it can find.

It's addicting—just like you knew he would be.

His touch is better than anything your nimble fingers could ever conceive; broad strokes of his rough hands run down the inches of skin available to him. Calloused thumbs catch the mooned curve of your nipple, grazing the soft tissue until your mouth drops in a gasp of his name. He rolls the blunt pad of his finger over them until they tingle from his touch, until each brush sends a shock of pleasure to your core.

Price's hand slides down, fingers ghosting over the wet skin of your side, your hip, your thigh. Each whisper of a touch drags out a whimper from your throat. It's too much. Your skin prickles with goosebumps in his wake, and leaves you feeling feverish and chilled at the same time. A war, then, starts as your body tries to oscillate between stemming the ache inside of you, the emptiness in your cunt, and the delicious drag of his flesh over yours. A droplet of intimacy and tenderness in a sea that collects the ashes of Gomorrah when it rains.

It is a shade softer than what you've come to expect from your captain, and far more delicate than you deserve.

The unexpected tenderness of this moment is a stab to your chest. Blunt, brutal—it's a sharp juxtaposition to the ginger way he touches you; the soft reverence in his gaze when he looks down at you.

Just sex, you think. Lust, want. Greed, hunger.

It isn't supposed to mean anything outside of unexpected happenstance; the melding of two willing bodies in a sign of ritualistic devotion to Hēdonē.

And yet—

You want. Full stop.

Everything. All of what he has to offer, and more, because you're never satisfied with just one. Never content until you've consumed, devoured, everything. Every iota of whatever it is that ensnared your attention.

And it's terrifying.

It's not a jump, but a leap. A careening descent down an embankment that has no ledges for you to sink your fingers in, and cling to. It's a treacherous fall to the bottom.

And still. Still. You won't regret the plunge. The drop.

How can you when you know what his skin feels like under your palm—warmer, softer, than you could have ever imagined. What he smells like when he leans in close, head dropping to suckle on your pulse point—vetiver and smoke; thick and musky—and the scent of his damp hair, cigar and malt, that darkens when it's wet, and curls slightly at the ends.

He's hairier than you'd imagined he would be—a thick bed of black curls on his chest that taper off into a line down his stomach, his navel, before thickening around his pelvis. A bed of curls, untrimmed and wry, that frame the jut of his thick, uncut cock. It curves a little to the left, and what he lacks in length—though you'd hardly call nearly six inches lacking—he makes up for in sheer girth. He's fatter than anything you'd ever felt in the palm of your hand, than you'd ever taken before. Your mouth waters at the sight, and you wonder if his cock would taste the same as the skin of his neck, his red nipples that peak through the coarse curls.

Wonder, then, if you'd even be able to take him all the way down to the base or if he'd stuff you full, and make your jaws ache just around the head of his fat cock.

When you gasp it out—wanna choke on your cock—Price shudders. The hitch in his breath, humid on your neck where he buried his face, nipping the skin around your jugular, is punched out of his chest, and accompanies a low snarling noise that sounds more animalistic than it does human.

"Fuckin' hell, love," he heaves through clenched teeth. His gaze flickers up, staring at you through the dusting of brown lashes cut over blue ashlar. His mouth is red from the trail of peppered bites, nips, he laved against your wet sternum. It's sin, you think, when he shivers. When his nostrils flare. "You can't just say shite like that—"

"Played with your pretty little cunt earlier, thinkin' of me, mmhm? Made yourself cum, didn't you?" Price stands to his full height, head bowing over yours. His hand wraps around the thick of his cock, eyes cresting in pleasure at the touch. There is a moment, then, when his gaze flickers to you, catching the burning anticipation that greets him like a kiss. "Gonna fuck you now, yeah?"

The look on his face, the hunger lingering in the cut of cerulean that gleams through the thin mist that clouds around you, is magnetic. Captivating. You can't tear your gaze away from the almost primal way he stares down at you. Wanting. Needy.

You taste heme in the back of your throat, and feel something knot inside your chest—something animalistic, possessive—when his eyes drop like an anchor to the smooth curve of your throat when you swallow the ichor down.

There's is the faintest flash of teeth from beneath his wet beard. A gnarled grimace. A botched grin. He bares the whites of his canines and moves closer to you. The blunt press of his throbbing cock steals the last vestiges of air from your quivering lungs.

"Teasin' me, eh?" He rasps, eyes dropping further to catch the sight of him dragging the silky head over your wet flesh until it's notched at the apex of your sex, kissing the divot above your aching clit.

With your lungs collapsing, you can't find the words to refute him, and settle instead for a meek nod.

"Use your words, love." It's a snarl punched through the clench of his teeth. "I want to hear you, yeah?"

"Yes," you gasp, back arching, aching for him. "Yes, captain—"

His broad shoulders tremble, lashes fluttering when the head of cock meets your cunt. The slide of him, iron-hard and velvet soft, has you mewling out some broken whisper of his name. Price responds with a groan. A wet, rasping noise spills out from his heaving chest.

"Fuck—," the curse is sawed out from between clenched teeth, the brush of his cock parting your slick folds, pressing taut to your leaking hole, has something wanting and possessive simmering in those cerulean pools. A gnarled hunger.

It makes you wonder, then, how often he'd leaned back against the same tile, his hand wrapped around himself just like this, and whispered your name into the steam.

"Look so pretty like this," he rumbles, fingers leaving indents in the thick of your thigh when he grasps you tighter. "All desperate for my fuckin' cock. Want it, don't you?"

The whimpered yes is ripped from your throat and shredded between the small gap of your jaws before his words take any tangible shape in your mind.

Your captain asks you a question—want my cock, don't you? So fuckin' desperate for it, ain't you?—and you respond immediately. No questions asked.

Pavlov's dog, you think, mouth watering when his cock slips against your cunt.

Price stops with just the head of his cock kissing your entrance, movements halting abruptly.

The protesting whine is cut off when he leans down, lips slanting over yours in a soft kiss, a brush. His beard scraps over the sensitive skin of your cheeks and chin, but the wet drag of his coarse hair feels good.

"Price—"

"Are you ready for me?"

No. It's immediate. Quick and decisive. A firm, assured thing that echoes in the scant spaces of your ribs.

You should say no. No, because then you'll want more. No, because once will not be enough to satiate the hunger inside of your chest. The growing chasm that growls out its need with each soft utterance of your name, each touch of his hand.

You're greedy.

You don't, though.

The hunger is stifled under the waves of desire that roll through you when his cock notches against your clit.

Instead, you nod. Whispering, I want it.

His gaze is blistering when he levels it on you. Gyre blue; arsenic white. His mouth knots into an even line, thick with anticipation. Determination. He echoes your nod once, and then presses his forehead against yours, holding it there.

His eyes bore into you when he steadies his hand on your thigh, trapped in his firm hold, and pushes himself against you once more.

"Breathe for me," he rasps, the word a low command, and then he rocks forward.

His cock stretches you with each inch that slides into your cunt. It's a white-hot heat that licks up your spine—the edges of too much and not enough, and how could there possibly be another inch when he's already so fucking deep?

The doesn't stop until his hips are flesh with yours, filling you to the brim. When his cock presses against the plug of your womb, you expect him to stop. He's bottomed out, filling you so deeply that you can almost taste his bitter tang on your tongue, but he doesn't. He doesn't.

His cock notches into your womb: a pulsing grind into the very end of you. The slide of it makes you hiss, makes your nails rake over his flesh, leaving rivers of red when you claw at him, struggling to keep yourself from being swallowed by the waves of pleasure, pain, that roll over you.

He pauses his slow rolls for a moment, just long enough to catch your lips in a searing kiss, and lift his hand up, pressing his palm flat against the wet tile. Distracting you, maybe, from the drag of his cock pulling out of your pulsing, gripping him tight as if to keep him locked inside of you forever. With his mouth on yours, fingers threading through the wet, clumped locks of his hair, you barely have time to brace yourself when he plants his feet on the floor, and rocks into you.

The air is forced from your lungs with the even cant of his hips, the slide of his cock back into you. It burrows deep, hitting something behind your naval that makes you keen, head reeling from the phosphenes that blink, coruscating in front of your eyes. An illicit lure in bioluminescence.

The blunt, bludgeoning thrust rattles through you, hard enough to make your bones tremble, and your head spin—dizzy and heavy with the blow of his hips fucking into the tight clench of you around him.

His hand drops from the wall, falling to your thigh.

He doesn't give you a moment to ready yourself before slips his fingers around your flesh, and hefts you up. Your back slides against the slick wall, thighs pushed tight around his marrow waist, held tight in the grip of his hands.

"C–captain—!"

Price shushes you with a searing kiss full of teeth, tongue. It tastes of charcoal and Sycamore bark when his tongue rolls over yours; a heady, smoky tang that makes you dizzy off the pure nicotine nestled between his teeth.

Comfortably situated in his grasp, legs wrapped around his waist, he starts a new rhythm. The stretch of his cock sawing into your pussy stings, edging sharply against your mettle as he fills you deeper, wrenching you open wider, than you'd ever experienced before.

But it's a good pain.

The kind you don't think you could ever live without now that you had a taste. No substitute for the real thing.

It's a scorching heat that ebbs, notching higher and higher as Price holds you tighter against the slick wall, fucking into you like a man starved.

His pace is hard, fast. Unrelenting.

Pleasure blooms inside of you and feels like a bruise when it brims in your nerves. Sparks of pain, ones that edge into that dangerous precipice of feeling somehow good despite the ache, weave together with the bliss. A quit of too much knotted into an overwhelming sense of euphoria.

Maybe it's the taste of success, of victory, when Price drops his head to your temple, mouthing across your damp skin. His tongue is scorching when it laves over your flesh, chasing the droplets that leak from your hairline to your cheekbone.

The graze of his beard running over your skin feels like everything you wanted, and more.

Your fingers curl over his broad shoulders, holding him close to your trembling chest. He's an anchor, a beacon—a buoy in the middle of the ocean. You can't help yourself from thinking six degrees when his chin lifts, and his mouth swallows the gospel of his name as it's choked out between your bruised lips.

The noises he makes, deep, rasping growls of your name; grunts of pleasure; hisses when you clench tight around the thick of him, desperate to keep him locked inside of you, are better than any fantasy you could have conjured up. The weight of his body on yours, the tight grasp of his hands, the rasp of his tongue, the whisper of your name—it piles and piles; the heavy weight falling on you like an anvil.

Velvet softness, and heat. Each drag of him over your sensitive walls makes you keen, toes curling, back arching in pleasure.

You're already sensitive from earlier, from when you played with yourself thinking of him, and the fullness, the slight sting of taking him into you, make a knot form behind your navel. A spooling thread of bliss pulling taut with each deep plunge of him seating deep behind your belly button.

"Touch yourself," he demands, words rucked through the clench of his teeth, bared in pleasure as he syphons bliss from your willing body. "C'mon, love—want you cum around my cock. Wanna feel you—"

You had expected blunt brutality—it had circled your fantasies the moment you pressed your back against the tile, and slipped your fingers through your folds. It's a staple of him, you think; who he is. Ferocity in flesh and bone. He'd touch you with the same rough hands, and regard you with rougher words.

"Mm, spread your legs for me, dove."

"You want it bad, don't you?"

Words reeking of the same smoke on his breath. Heavy commands fell from his blistering lips. It brought you to the brink, to the ledge of that white-hot pleasure until the thought of his hands branding your skin shoved you over.

Hearing it uttered aloud now nearly has you weeping. Frenzied with desire, and that unignorable sense of victory when he leans down, hands roughly hiking your thighs higher up his waist as he fucks into the molten centre of you. Accomplishment when your skin smarts long after his hand drifts away, knowing there will be a mark left behind—blood pooling under your bruised flesh when he gripped too hard.

It's enough to make you delirious.

"Come on," he husks, pressing the flat of his teeth against the underside of your jaw. "You made your pretty cunt cum on those fingers earlier, mmh? Do it again. Make yourself cum around my cock. You wanted this, didn't you? Moaned my fuckin' name with your fingers buried inside your sweet pussy. Well, now you have it, love. So, fuckin' cum—"

His words make you moan loud, your belly quivering at the heat in his voice when hisses the command into your skin.

Your hand slips from the vice grip around his shoulders, dropping to the apex of your spread thigh. Your cunt is burning to the touch, and hotter than the steam billowing around you like a thick cloud. Condensed sin. The lips of your pussy are slick, and swollen from the brutal way he fucks into you. The tips of your fingers ghost over the chafed, raw skin of your pussy, feeling the thick slide of his wet cock, sticky and drenched in the mess of your arousal, as it pounds into you.

Everything feels somehow heightened, real, when you feel the stretch of your flesh around the molten heat of him.

It makes you moan—a noise you'd never heard yourself make before: low, needy. A desperate whine, broken at the first vowel of his name. Jo—John—!

"That's it, love," he gasps, low and desperate, lashes tickling the skin of your jaw. "Cum for me—uhhh, fuck—gonna—gonna fuckin' cum—"

Your fingers pass over your throbbing clit, circling in tandem with each blunt piston of his cock kissing the seal of your womb. Oversensitive from your earliest orgasm, it doesn't take much for you to march toward that precipice once more, dusting over your nerves where it stings like a bruise, and rips through you like a gale.

The building crescendo of your pleasure ends when Price snaps his hips against yours, hitting deep, and finding a spot inside of you that seems to be a direct link to Nirvana, to bliss. He throws you over the ledge until you're once again falling down with nothing but him (him, him, always him) on your mind, and his name slipping off your tongue.

"C–captain—!"

Your cunt throbs around him, fluttering like the rapid pulse beating against the thin skin he nips with his teeth. It floods your veins with liquid bliss, and the euphoric haze that congeals in your head, a mushy slurry of chemicals and victory, is soporific, heavy. It falls on you like an anvil, an anchor around your neck, and you cling to him, murmuring his name into his crown as his thrusts grow sloppy, clumsy.

Price lifts his head, hands holding you tight to him as he fucks the tight clench of your cunt. His lips slant against yours in a messy, wet kiss, broken by gasps of your name spilling from his mouth. His tongue lashes across your teeth, rhythm stuttering into a desperate series of thrusts.

He groans in your ear, a hushed noise cudgelled in the background of everything else—the slap of his balls slapping against your sopping cunt as he plunges into you, pushing in as deep as he can go, and then deeper still, the heavy pants that tumble from your lips.

"Yeah, fuck, love—," another brutal snap has your mind whiting out in pleasure. "Jus' like that. Takin' it so good. So fuckin' good, ain't you?"

He batters against the seal of your womb like he was trying to bludgeon his way inside.

"Fuck—gonna cum—gonna—"

You spasm around him, tied tight at the base of his cock like a pretty little knot, a bow, and he groans low and dazed when he pulses deep inside of you, filling you up with his cum.

"Fuck—!"

He snarls your name, mouth sliding across your skin; wet and messy. His hands are hot on your skin, heavy and branding as he clings to you, riding out the last smouldering vestiges of his release that paints insides pearlescent with the stain of him.

Branded, you think, inside and out.

Your lips sting when he rubs the coarse hair of his chin over them, mouth trailing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses up the bridge of your nose.

He comes to himself in increments, and you catalogue each notch as they unfold before you. Heaving gasps against your neck; messy, wet kisses; murmurs of devotion into your hairline, your temple (fuck, love, fuck, feels so good, so good, good for me, perfect little thing, aren't you? So fuckin' perfect, can't get enough of your little cunt around me, gonna taste you after, gonna bury my face between these pretty thighs and make you ride my face, kitten, gonna make you cum on my tongue—); and finally, finally—his head lifts.

The sight of him, cheeks stained roseate from the heat of the still running shower, from the exertion of spreading you open, and fucking you against the wall—

It's breathtaking.

His eyes are dark, cindered ash and crushed basalt around the edge of a liquid blue cenote. A lunar mare—Oceanus Procellarum dusted with fine azure.

Thunderclouds of blue.

Something intense brims in the arsenic gyre when he stares down at you, lidded eyes heavy with the weight of his lingering pleasure; subdued and far more docile than you'd ever imagined he was capable of.

He blinks slowly and languidly; liquid strokes of a pale curtain suffering over the glacial canyons cut into ashlar—the motion is almost hypnotic when the thinning fog from the cooling shower sweeps across the scant space between your bodies. A veil of diaphanous white.

The haze makes him seem almost ethereal. Incorporeal. It almost feels like a dream—a manifestation of your wants taking shape in your subconsciousness. An illicit tease from the depths of your endless desire.

But the thud of his heart under your palm, the feeling of his cooling flesh glued to your skin like gauze, and harsh breaths ghosting across your flesh are too good to ever be a dream.

You're not imaginative enough to conjure the phantom feeling of his softening cock seated deep within your aching, tender cunt.

Or the sting of your flesh.

Your body feels like one massive contusion. The throbbing sting of strummed rubber bands snapping across the places he touched, gripped tight between his fingers.

It feels like the aftermath of a battle, and the comparison makes your mouth split, unfurling into a satisfied grin as the quiver in your muscles begins to remind you of that time you sprinted through the bustling streets of Cairo together. The heat blooming in your chest, your core, as hot as the sun that scorched your exposed skin.

The burn in your thighs is the same throbbing pain you felt when you slid on loose sand, and skinned your bare knees on the cobblestone of a hidden alleyway, tucked behind an alcove.

Price is a firm mountain holding you steady—just like then, when he picked you up off the ground despite your protests (just a scratch, cap, I can walk—), and carried you through the maze of winding tunnels on the outskirts of the city centre. Solid. Stalwart. Your dependable leader.

You've looked at him the same way for the last four years. Respect, want. Admiration, desire. Greed. You crave him in ways that always, always, felt unattainable. One-sided.

Silly.

And that was it, you think, staring into the naked blue of his eyes. Bare. Raw. Vulnerable.

You've been so busy running from your own feelings, your own ways, convinced without any proof that they were one-sided. A one-way path without any parallels, any concurrents. All this time, with your head buried in your chest to avoid getting caught staring at him so wantingly, you've missed the look in his eye, bent by refraction—your own avoidance.

The way Price looks at you is rapacious—a twin flame to your own covetous desires.

There's something so unfathomably fragile about how he stares at you, now. Head bowed, catching the brunt of the chilled spray as it rains down on him, shielding you from the cold. He keeps you warm, and tucked safely in the fold of his arms. Unwilling, you think, to let go just yet. To slip back into the same impasse as before. The same forced stalemate forged by hesitation.

It drags something out of your chest—a laugh, maybe: broken and frayed at the edges, a vocal fry of derision, and disbelief.

His chin lifts at the sound, brow furrowing together in a knot of confusion between his nautical blue eyes. Six degrees. You feel every notch when he slowly lowers the two of you to the ground, falling in a clumsy heap to his knees, and still buried within you.

"What?"

The word is drenched in the thick tang of the bloom of his dormant hesitation shucking the tendrils of sleep away as the spell around you splinters at the broken laughter that tumbled from your lips. It makes you coo—a soft, soothing noise to placate the dent between his brow, and the knot of his mouth souring into an even line.

"Just thinking," you hum, legs tightening around his waist, knees now hiked up the sides of his ribcage.

He hisses teeth gritted teeth when you wriggle on his lap. "About what?"

Your palm sides down his slick chest until the thud of his heart sits in the cup of your hand. "About this."

Your words draw a low hum from his throat, and you feel it reverberate through your joints. "That so?"

That cold night in Cairo rears again. No substitute for the real thing.

The thing is: with your head buried in the proverbial sand, you missed the way his eyes never wavered from your face when he said it. How the corners tightened with something that felt like irritation, but now feels like restraint.

Why you had to hunt for Cleopatra's, anyway.

(—losin' some bloody cigars' is hardly the same as losin' you, love. Don't you ever do that to me—to us—again—)

In some ways, you think you lost the battle—many of them, in fact—but when he winds his arms around your waist, keeping locked in his embrace, you know you somehow won the war. The unwinnable victory thudding steadily against the palm of your hand.

You glue your forehead to his, and murmur: "been waiting a long time for this."

"Well," he rasps, voice ghosting over the shell of your ear. "Hell of a way to get my attention."

#captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #this was edited in a feverish daze so if you find any mistakes #don't @ me about it #i did my best #ahhhh #it feels like it's been forever since i wrote for Price??#but it really hasn't???#anyway #captain john price #captain price #john price #cod mw2 #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain john price x you

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asnowfern · 7 months

Text

For @nessianweek day 3: Song Association

A/N: This line in Angels Like You by Miley Cyrus really reminded me of post-acowar Nessian. Here's a little accompanying drabble below the cut!

Nesta's eyes were closed, her ears straining to ignore everything but the live music of the tavern. When she felt the larger than life presence that took the seat next to hers, she did not open her eyes or acknowledge the newcomer.

There is only the music, she told herself. The lively beat, the lilting vocals, the accompanying strings, the-

Slight drum of fingers.

Her train of thought slammed to a halt, brakes screeching loudly in protest. Her eyes flew open and she pointedly did not look to her side and downed her glass, slamming it against the table. The wooden surface shook slightly in the echo of the impact.

"Careful not to break the glass on your hand, sweetheart," the voice teased.

Nesta did not need to ask why he was here. It was obvious. Just like how every crack of the fireplace was just as much of a reminder. She did not need a funeral or say goodbye to the headstone.

Crack.

She suppressed a shudder to little effect.

Not when she let him die with hatred and bitterness in her heart, his empty glassy eyes etched into her cursed immortal brain. She did not deserve forgiveness, she did not deserve closures. And she did not deserve the male next to her.

Before she could stop herself, she sneaked a peek at the Illyrian male next to her. His hazel eyes were trained at the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar, broad fingers lightly toyed with his glass, swirling it occasionally. The dim faelights reflected some of his striking features while also obscuring his face with dancing shadows, almost dragging him down to the darkness. To her.

Nesta could've sworn she saw those idle fingers twitch at his side as the edge of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. He knew she was staring, was a moment from making a lewd comment about it. So she cuts in, swiftly picking up a second drink off the bar counter and gulping it down. This time, she lets it crash its way back to the surface almost a little too close to his hand.

Cassian didn't flinch. Instead, he turned to her, brow raised, "You are more likely to hurt yourself than me with these little smashes."

She huffed and stood up abruptly, snatching up a random bottle of wine and left the establishment. The tavern owners knew enough by now who bankrolled her ever growing tab.

He followed close behind, trailing back barely half a step, his hulking form easily clearing the path for them. Eventually, they stopped in a quiet corner.

Nesta spun herself around, icy blue glaring up fiercely at dancing hazel, and demanded, 'How long are you going to follow me around?'

"I didn't think you wanted to be alone today," he shrugged.

The next cutting words bubbled, indignant at his presumptuousness, but died at her lips as his face softened, at his eyes that held such gentle concern and affection. Her heart sputtered and wreaked havoc on her bodily functions. Instead the words that spilled out were, "Take me somewhere only you know"

He paused for a beat before his recently healed wings spread and stretched, strong arms gently securing themselves around her. Without a word, they took off smoothly into the dark sky.

He landed them in an old clock tower. It wasn't the tallest nor the newest clock tower in the city. The large rust covered bell hovered creakily next to them. Yet, the view.

Oh, the view.

It was a perfect unobstructed view of the bridge and Sidra, the snow capped Illyrian mountains flanking it like a protective guardian.

More than that, it was quiet. Nothing but the lulling melody of the spring wind in their faces.

"I spent a lot of time here during those forty nine years. Just drinking, worrying," he confessed, his mind lost to the past, "hating myself for letting him go into danger alone, for failing as his general, his brother."

She recognised the moment for what it was, a shared vulnerability, a truce. She looped an arm around an elbow and squeezed slightly. You didn't fail.

Calloused fingers interlaced with hers, squeezing back reassuringly. And you're not alone. Not today, never. His thumb rubbed soothing circles. I'm here.

They didn't speak, not verbally. But his shoulders would nudge almost playfully at hers. His wings eventually unfurled to wrap around them when she shivered with the wind. Her eyes followed the trail of scarred membranes on his wings, the sound of agonised screams echoed in her head, a reminder of her failures.

Crack.

Nesta felt her body beginning to shake.

A comforting hand lifted hers to the wing, gently pressing soft fingertips to the scars on the hard and strong bony structure, it's fine. I'm fine, we're fine.

In the darkness of a sleeping Velaris, surrounded by the singing breeze and protective mountains, Nesta found the words slipping past her lips, "Wings like yours will only get dragged to hell with me"

The leathered wings curled tighter around them as low tones vibrated down her spine, "Wings like these are meant to fly you out of hell."

#nessianweek2023 #nessian #nessian drabble #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar

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tylermileslockett · 1 year

Text

Heracles 8: Hesiod’s Shield of Heracles

This archaic era (7-6th centuries B.C.E.) epic poem is attributed to Hesiod.

The Poem begins Heracles and his nephew and charioteer, Iolus, facing off against Ares and his son, Cycnus near the grove of Apollo, who appears and stirs Heracles to battle.

The second section of the poem describes the sacred shield, wrought with many fine details. The surface is described as golden; shimmering with enamel, white ivory, and electrum (gold alloyed with silver). In the center is the daunting face of fear with fiery eyes and white teeth, and Strife hovering above. Further dark deities are portrayed: like fate; who drags a dead man as she gnashes her teeth. 12 heads of frightful, spotted snakes, scenes of conflict between bloody lions and boars, and a battle between mortals and centaurs. It describes the golden horses of Ares, and the god himself, red with blood in his chariot, and flanked by fear and flight. Next is a safe harbor with silver dolphins devouring fish as a fisherman watches on. Next Perseus, floats on winged feet, wearing the invisibility cap of Hades, with Medusas head in his satchel, and he flees form pursuit by the gorgon sisters. It describes a terrible scene of men at war under bronze towers, with mothers tearing at their cheeks and fathers holding up their hands to the heavens in despair as the fates feed on the blood of newly dead warriors. In contrast, the next section describes seven golden gates and festive dances with newlyweds and youthful choruses.

The third section relates Athena speaking “winged-words” to Heracles, advising him to kill Cycnus but not rob him of his armor, and to strike Ares in his uncovered flesh below his shield. After the Chariots clash, Heracles kills Cycnus with a spear thrust into his neck. Ares springs at Heracles, ingoring Athena’s warning, but Heracles pierces Ares thigh, sending him fleeing back to Olympus.

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firstelevens · 1 month

Note

🎤 or 📷 for the sambucky prompt? If you'd like!

I may have played a little fast and loose with the prompt, but I was inspired! This one got pretty long, so it's posted on AO3 if anyone would prefer to read it there.

📸 Accidental Public Confession

“I hate time travel,” groans Sam, for at least the fifth time today.

“A little louder, Sam; I’m not sure they heard you across the Hudson,” hisses Bucky.

So far, they’ve been doing a decent job of blending in. Any gawking that they did when they got here seemed to go unnoticed, because even a hundred years in the future, New York City is the kind of place where tourists roam wide-eyed and slow down the pace of the sidewalks. Still, until it’s clear how much the world has changed in this place where the Quantum Realm spat them out, it’s best to keep a low profile.

They decide to head for Bleecker Street, in hopes that the Sanctum Sanctorum has survived and they can get some answers, but they’ve only walked a few blocks when Sam stops dead in his tracks and grabs Bucky’s hand to stop him, too.

Bucky’s first instinct is to check that Sam is okay, but then Sam grabs his chin and turns his head to face where he’s been pointing: the building that used to be Avengers Tower, still standing. There are people milling around outside, but banners hung by the entrance still have the Stark Industries logo on them, and if Bucky’s few interactions with Morgan Stark have been anything to go by, there’s a good chance that the people in that building are smart enough to help them figure out what went wrong. He realizes belatedly that Sam’s hand is still in his and abruptly lets go, nodding towards the building as they change course.

It’s only when they cross the street and get closer to the entrance that the two of them realize that that won’t be the case. The building looks the same from the outside, but now, in brass letters, the sign above the doors declares it the Smithsonian Museum of American Superheroics.

Sam and Bucky share a look for a moment, silently agreeing to head inside. The cloaking devices on their gear hold up just fine under the scanners by the door, and they step into a sunlit atrium, full of families and tour groups looking around in awe.

Beside him, Sam accepts a map held out by a docent and unfolds it. “Look,” he says, tapping at a spot on the map. “There’s a research and preservation wing on the fifth floor. You think they’d be able to help us? Or point to someone who could?”

“Maybe,” says Bucky, frowning as he looks around, “but maybe it’s worth figuring out how folks here and now feel about us before we go barging in.”

There’s a considering noise from Sam, and then he looks up from the map, pointing towards a dramatically lit archway off the atrium. Hanging beside it is a banner that reads, ‘The Star Spangled Man: Bearers of the Captain America Legacy.’ “We could start there, maybe.”

They cross the atrium, flanked by groups of tiny school kids, and make their way into the exhibition room, its low light a contrast to the bright atrium. There’s a hush in the space, the kids shushed into apparent reverence by their chaperones.

The first room is a lot like the one Bucky remembers from the museum in DC: the story of Steve’s time in the war, with a small feature on each of the Commandos. There’s a section dedicated to Isaiah Bradley and the people whose lives he saved, though it doesn’t linger on what happened to him afterwards. Then it moves on to Steve’s time with the Avengers, capped by the Sokovia Accords and the battle against Thanos. Bucky is relieved to have seen very little mention of himself, though he’s confused by the lack of Sam in any of the exhibit so far.

They follow the path into the next room, and Bucky’s unasked questions are answered. Dead center, in a glass case large enough to accommodate the suit’s full wingspan, is a replica of Sam’s first Cap uniform.

Bucky looks over to Sam, whose face is doing something complicated as he looks at the uniform on display. When his face hasn’t cleared after a moment or two, Bucky murmurs, “Bad research. They should fire whoever did this.”

Sam’s face immediately goes from warring emotions to pure confusion. “What? Why?”

Keeping as straight a face as he can, Bucky gestures to the wax figure wearing Sam’s uniform. “Look at this guy. This mannequin has never even heard of leg day. How’s anyone gonna make a Sam Wilson figurine with legs this skinny?”

It earns an quiet laugh from Sam, who gently cuffs Bucky on the shoulder and shakes his head as he walks away. Much as Bucky would like to stick by Sam and keep him laughing, it occurs to him that this will go faster if they cover more ground, so he starts at the opposite side of the room.

As the two of them work towards the middle, Bucky skims every plaque that he comes across, looking for signs that he and Sam showing up at a superhero facility might be unwelcome, but there aren’t any. Weirder than that is the fact that Bucky is almost halfway around the room, and the exhibit has only covered the first few years of Sam’s time as Cap. He knows they’re not supposed to engage with too much information from the future, but it seems strange that he’s halfway through the section about the work they’ve done together, and the timeline has already caught up to the mission that he and Sam were on two weeks ago.

Sam looks equally confused as the two of them approach each other, stopping in front of a glass case where Bucky is stunned to see his own face looking at him from the pictures on display. He’s spent enough time with the Wilsons to pick out everyone in the family photos—Titi and Gideon and both of Sam’s parents, all the people he’s gotten to know and love in Delacroix—but Bucky’s face crops up everywhere. He’s in the Christmas card photo, and beaming proudly in the background while AJ shows off his little league trophy, and manning the grill with Sam at a cookout. There’s the pictures of the team that Kate has been taking lately with her polaroid camera, shots from news stories and from the time they invited a photographer along to document a training exercise, and in every single one, Bucky is by Sam’s side.

He takes a few steps back to see the entirety of the display and feels his jaw drop. This entire section of the exhibit is specifically about him and Sam, and he might be able to convince himself that it was about their partnership in the field if it wasn’t for the words in his own handwriting, projected against the backdrop of the display case: the crisp, slanting cursive that all his teachers used to applaud him for, spelling out the words, ‘until the end of time.’

Bucky knows those words, knows exactly where and when he wrote them down, but what he doesn’t know is how anyone could have seen them. He keeps that letter with him, locked in a desk drawer and tucked away from prying eyes. Nobody’s read it but him; he never even bothered to send it. He’d just written the letter to put his feelings into the world somewhere, never intending for them to be anyone’s problem but his own, and now…

It suddenly strikes him that Sam has been strangely quiet this whole time, and when Bucky looks over at him, his eyes are wide and apologetic. Inside the display case, right at his eye level, is the letter that Bucky locked away six months ago and has tried not to think about every day since.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam starts to say, and Bucky’s not sure he can stand to hear it.

“It’s fine,” he says, like it’s not rapidly getting harder to breathe. “It’s– you didn’t– it’s not a big deal. It isn’t.”

“I shouldn’t have read it,” Sam’s saying. “I didn’t realize what it was; I saw that it was addressed to me, and I read the date and I figured it would be something I’d recognize, but–”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Still,” says Sam. “I’m sorry.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Bucky says tightly. He tries not to think about all the stupid things he said in that letter, all the damage that he’s just done to this friendship that Sam will be too kind to acknowledge. “Let’s just go home and we can pretend it never happened.”

Something flickers over Sam’s face before he clenches his jaw and squares his shoulders, nodding briskly. “Of course,” he says.

It’s Sam who walks away first, bound for the research wing entrance at the end of the exhibit. Bucky watches him go for a moment before turning back to the display case for one last glance. For all that he never wanted his letter to get out, Bucky can’t help but feel grateful that this is the part of his legacy that’s made it into a museum. He knows intimately the mark that the Soldier left on the world, and while that blood isn’t going anywhere, Bucky’s not even sure he knows how to voice his relief that at least in this one building, his place in history is marked by love.

As he looks over the whole display, his eyes fall to the bottom of the plaque, past the paragraph that recounts the details of his and Sam’s partnership. In small print across the bottom, there’s an acknowledgment of where the items in the display come from: ‘The Smithsonian thanks the Wilson family and the Wilson-Barnes Estate for their generous donation of these artifacts and their invaluable advice and support in the arrangement of this exhibit.’

Bucky blinks.

The Wilson family and the Wilson-Barnes Estate.

The Wilson-Barnes Estate.

Wilson-Barnes.

He has a sudden flashback to sitting down with a bunch of lawyers a few months ago, going over the basics of a superhero will. He hadn’t thought that he needed one at the time, but Sam had pointed out to Bucky that several decades of military backpay would just end up reverting to the state if Bucky died without a next of kin, and something about that left a bad taste in Bucky’s mouth. He’d ended up writing something simple, directing what he had to some charities and setting the rest aside for AJ and Cass, not that he’s told Sam or Sarah yet.

But even if the donations were made by the boys on his behalf, surely that would just constitute the Barnes Estate. Wilson hyphen Barnes means something shared, means that there was some legal reason why Sam and Bucky’s belongings would be dealt with together, and though it seems impossibly out of reach, Bucky can only think of one reason why that would happen.

He thinks again about how long Sam had stared at that letter, so much longer than it would have taken to read it just the once. He thinks about the emotion that had flashed across his face when Bucky had told him to forget about it. He’d assumed at the time that it might have been panic or frustration, but what if it had been something else entirely? What if Sam’s brusqueness wasn’t about the letter, but what had happened afterward?

Bucky can feel the tiniest amount of hope beginning to beat behind his ribcage, and after months and months of trying to squash it down, he lets it grow.

Across the room, he finds Sam, waiting by the next room of the exhibit and watching him. When Sam spreads his hands in the universal gesture for what the hell, dude, we’re trying to do something here, Bucky feels affection thrum through his veins, and he half-jogs over to where Sam is standing.

“I hope you have a plan for what to–” Sam is starting to say, but Bucky cuts him off again.

“We should talk about it,” he blurts. When Sam’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, he clarifies: “The letter. We should talk about the letter.

Immediately, Sam’s face softens. “We don’t have to, Buck. You didn’t mean for anyone to see it. It’s okay.”

But Bucky is already shaking his head. “I did,” he says, trying his best to push past the fear that had made him hide the letter in the first place. “I meant for you to see it. I just…I let my brain talk me out of it. I shouldn’t have.”

His words hang in the air for a moment, thick between them. Then, before either of them can say anything else, the door to the research wing swings open and a lady in a lab coat steps out. She has two sets of glasses perched on her head and a jeweler’s lens around her neck, and when she sees the two of them standing by the door, she does a cartoon-perfect double take.

“Oh, shit,” she says, her eyes going wide.

“Oh, good, you know who we are,” says Sam pleasantly, switching from Sam Wilson to Cap right in front of Bucky’s eyes. “Any chance you could help us find our way back home?”

When the still-shocked museum employee manages a weak yes and motions for them to follow her, Sam reaches for Bucky’s hand again to pull him along.

This time, Bucky doesn’t let go.

#sambucky #zainab does ask meme things #abarbaricyalp #thank you for sending this in! it fully ran away with me #my fic

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snotwebs · 2 years

Text

“Welcome notes” Bucky x Reader Oneshot

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader oneshot

Masterlist

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: You’ve been a S.H.I.E.L.D agent for many years now, but recently you’ve been on more and more missions with the Avengers, and so Fury decided it was time for you to move to the team’s wing in the tower. You are welcomed by everyone but there is just one person you still haven’t met. Bucky Barnes. You’ve heard so many stories about him, but he kept very much to himself. You decided to make it your mission to make Bucky feel as welcomed as you did, and so it all began with a note...

Warnings: Mentions of a nightmare, but other than that just fluff!

A/N: I haven’t really proof read this so there will be mistakes lol. Believe it or not this began with a drabble and I simply got carried away... This is more than I’ve written for uni in 2 years... Enjoy

Bucky kept to himself. Everyone knew that and no one really minded. Steve tried to encourage him to join in and socialise, but deep down he knew that Bucky was content on his own. Or at least, that’s what he thought.

The truth was, Bucky didn’t know what made him feel better. The team had all had time to bond long before he came along, so it makes sense to feel a little left out during meetings and around the building. Everyone had this sort of unspoken routine, these intimate little moments between friends. The handshakes, the knowing looks, the inside jokes. Bucky didn’t have any of that. Years ago he might’ve done with Steve, but over the years he had lost a part of himself. A very big part of himself. The part of him that could smoothly initiate a friendship or seduce any girl he wanted. Gone. And he was okay with that, he supposed. Nothing had come around to change his mind. He just kept to himself and left everyone be. Did he miss the person he used to be? He wasn’t quite sure anymore.

You moved into the compound 3 weeks ago (Officially, at least. You’d been crashing on the sofa so much after missions and movie nights that you practically lived there already.) Wanda was already your best friend and had been for the past year or so, so you didn’t have any trouble settling in and feeling at home.

You stood amongst the vast greenery surrounding the compound. In the distance you could hear some younger S.H.I.E.L.D agents playing football. Imagine, a whole day of physical activity, training until your muscles throbbed and screamed for mercy, and with your very little precious free time you choose... More exercise? You chuckled to yourself, remembering your very same eagerness just a few years prior. The past few years on the field had seen you fly up the ranks, catching the attention of only the highest agents and directors. Fury soon began assigning you to more intense missions, and you had even had the chance to work alongside some of the Avengers. A mission for intel in Italy was your favourite – that’s where you first met Wanda. After the job was done, you found a 24/7 coffee shop and talked and talked until the sun rose. Still jetlagged, the night was filled with giggles and a happiness that neither of you had felt in a very long time. From there, an inseparable bond was formed.

You weren’t quite sure what they saw in you, but Fury seemed certain that you were something special, and it didn’t take long before Cap wanted you on the team.

It had been a long day hauling your things to the Avengers wing. Your room was huge, towering glass windows letting in the gorgeous evening rays. A warm glow revealed fluttering dust particles as you dropped onto your bed. You were exhausted. You could feel every damn muscle in your body aching for sleep, but the more pressing matter was in your stomach. You were hungry, and I mean really damn hungry.

Trudging down to the kitchen, you were startled by Wanda who jumped out to tickle your sides.

“Wanda, stop it!” you laughed.

“You get everything up there okay?” she asked.

You nodded and smiled, linking your arm around hers and leading her into the kitchen.

Steve sat at the table flicking through a newspaper. Some things just never leave you... He looked up and beamed. “Agent.”

“Captain,” you smiled.

Wanda and you rootled through the cupboards and threw together a very haphazard pasta bake. You didn’t care about the mismatched spices and ingredients, you were just so happy to be there and so glad to have some food after a long day.

As the evening passed, you stayed in the communal area and introduced yourself to all the faces that passed through. Some familiar faces from previous missions, some just faces you’d seen on the news. Bruce rushed in and made a pot noodle, uttering a quick ‘Hello, nice to meet you’ and offering a timid smile before scuttling off back to his lab. He seemed very busy but you still felt welcomed by his brief visit. You’d met Sam a couple times before, but his friendly pat on the back was unexpected. He seemed genuinely pleased to see you, and you couldn’t have been happier. Tony had already given you a stupid nickname and Nat had already made a bet she could pin you down in the ring. The room was buzzing with friendly faces and life.

There was just one person that you hadn’t met. It was for the best, that’s what he thought.

Earlier, Steve knocked on Bucky’s door.

“What do you want?” Bucky grumbled. He could hear Steve laugh from behind the door.

“Missed you too, Buck.” Steve stepped through the door. Bucky was sat on his bed watching one of the many films Steve had tasked him with catching up on. He wasn’t really paying attention and his mind was elsewhere, but at least Steve might think he was getting better, you know? Getting back to who he used to be.

“I just came to remind you that Agent Y/N will be here soon. It just could be nice if-“

“Could be nice if I spent some time with everyone. Yeah, yeah I know.” Bucky frowned.

“Come on, Buck. It’s not that bad-“

“Steve. I know. It’s okay. I just don’t wanna intrude.”

“Bucky, this is your home too. You have every right-“ Steve sighed. “Will you just consider it? You might like her.”

Bucky took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I’ll consider it.”

Everyone had gone to bed except you and Steve. He was drinking some Asgardian mead that Thor had recently gifted him. It was a celebration, after all. A welcome party. Still, Cap was hardly drunk – barely even tipsy, but he’d had enough to be feeling nostalgic and so you listened with utmost curiosity.

He told you stories of the war, previous missions, and then... Bucky.

“What’s he like?” You asked.

Steve paused for a few seconds, deep in thought. He was choosing his words carefully. “He’s...Well, he’s Bucky.” You both laughed.

“I’m guessing he’s not a people person,” you said, mainly to yourself.

“He used to be, but he’s been through a lot. He’s changed a lot. I just think he’s out of practice.” You nodded along, listening intently to Steve’s words. “He’s alright with me, and Sam when they’re not arguing like kids. He says he doesn’t wanna intrude. He’s not been made to feel very welcomed since...well...”

“I understand,” you nodded, a new feeling of determination brewing deep in your stomach. The stories Steve told you of Bucky made him seem incredible and you so desperately wanted to meet him. No one deserves to feel unwelcome in their own home, and especially not someone as special sounding as Bucky.

So, it became your mission. Your own, secret, silly little mission.

And it all began with a note.

Knock knock knock.

Bucky heard the light patter of unfamiliar feet padding away down the hallway. He frowned before spotting a small, folded piece of paper slipped under his door. Rising slowly and cautiously, he crept towards the door and examined the piece of paper.

“hey! I’m y/n, I’ve moved in just round the corner (room 7!), I hope to see you around sometime!! :) ”

It was just a small gesture, something to make sure he knew he could approach you. You didn’t know whether it would make any difference at all, but you felt it was important to do something at least. What you didn’t realise was just how much of a difference that small note was going to make.

Bucky neatly folded it up, making sure not to create any new creases that weren’t already there, before placing it in the top drawer beside his bed. His room still remained fairly empty, presumably out of habit. For years he’d had everything ready to up and run at any given moment. Now that he was safe and stationed somewhere he could make home, most things seemed silly to cling on to. This note, however, seemed important.

As you slipped into your room following your silly little mission, you smiled and began to get ready for bed. You looked at yourself in the mirror, feeling the sensations in your tipsy brain now dwindling as you brushed your teeth and wriggled into something more comfortable. The satisfaction you felt becoming engulfed by your covers was like nothing else. The aches and thoughts of the day washing away as sleep took over you.

A few hours later whilst the moonlight crept into your room, you awoke to a faint noise. It only lasted for some brief moments, but you were frozen. You knew the sound instantly; the scream of a nightmare. It didn’t take a genius to work out who it might be. So, although sleep wrapped itself around your shivery body, you trudged to the kitchen with a blanket slung over your shoulder and prepared yourself to make an introduction.

The sight you came across was both heart breaking and breath taking. You’ve heard all kinds of stories about Bucky Barnes from all kinds of people. The stories of the soldier from the press, the stories from Cap about his childhood best friend, the Smithsonian's stories of The Howling Commandos. Now, though, it was time for your story to begin, and my oh my what a glorious sight. Clad in extremely flattering sweatpants and a baggy red henley, Bucky stood gazing out of the kitchen window. His eyes were reddened and wet from crying, but there was something about the way he was standing which just made you feel something, although you were not yet sure what that was.

You cleared your throat slightly. “Hi,” you croaked, sleep still laced heavy in your words. Bucky didn’t move. “If you want to be on your own, that’s okay. I just wanted to introduce myself.” Bucky now turned round to meet your gaze. God, he’s pretty. You gave him the most confident smile you could muster, despite the fluttering in your tummy, and continued to speak. “I hope you didn’t mind the note. It's just, I didn’t want to bother you, but also, I really wanted to meet you. I’ve just heard so much about you.”

Bucky dropped his head towards the floor. Shit. You’ve heard about The Solider, and you’ve heard about The White Wolf, but that’s not what you meant.

“Steve told me you once won 6 prizes in a row on a coconut shy at a carnival that you got banned from the stall,” you added quickly.

Bucky froze. Did you say something wrong? You hoped not, but then, you heard the most glorious sound. He laughed. You just made Bucky fucking Barnes and my god it felt good.

“That’s what you’ve heard?” he laughed. It sounded unfamiliar to him, so used to keeping himself monotonous and guarded.

“Yeah,” you began to recall your earlier conversation with Steve, “and you used to flirt with the girls at the theatre to sneak you and Steve in for free.”

Bucky was beaming. “Yeah, I did.” You both looked at each other for a few moments, and then began to laugh.

A sizzling noise pulled you from your laughter. “I also heard you were a terrible cook...”

Bucky followed your eyes to the toaster where smoke began to rise. “Ah, shit,” he whispered.

You helped him to rescue the burnt toast, scraping as much of the charred crumbs into the bin as you could. You passed him the butter and watched as he gently spread it on. Both of you sat on bar stools as he ate his toast, and you chomped on an open bag of crisps Sam left on the side earlier.

Bucky broke the silence. “Did I wake you?” He didn’t make eye contact.

“Yes,” you mumbled through a mouthful of crisps. The corners of his mouth turned up at this. You were clearly unbothered, swinging your legs off the high stool. “It’s a good job though, you’d have probably burned the whole building down if I hadn’t have come in here.”

“Hey, that’s not true,” he mock argued. “You distracted me, I swear.”

You leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “You think I’m distracting, Barnes?” You smirked.

Then you saw it. Just a small glimpse, but it was there. The twinkle in the eye, the corners of his mouth tugging into a cheeky smirk. That’s the Bucky that Steve told you about. The people person, the ladies' man. You needed more.

Bucky stood up to put his plate in the dishwasher, and then awkwardly leaned against the counter, arms folded in front of his chest. You took this as your cue that he was finished with your little meeting, and so you hopped down from the stool.

“Will I see you in the light of day, or do you just emerge under the cover of darkness?” you teased.

Bucky chuckled. “Usually just darkness,” he smiled, “but I guess I could make an exception for you.”

You sighed happily. “Good, ‘cause I really like sleep.” He seemed so amused by you. The way you spoke, how you moved, the way you were paying him such personal attention. You must just feel sorry for him, that’s what he thought. This couldn’t be genuine interest in him, I mean, did you even know who he was. He knew you must’ve done, and yet you still wanted to make him feel welcome.

He realised he was staring and cleared his throat. “Sleep’s nice.” What was he even saying?!

“Yeah, sleep’s nice,” you chuckled. “I hope you get some rest.”

Bucky nodded and you swivelled on your fluffy socks to leave the room. Just as you reached the door, you turned at his voice.

“Thank you,” he spoke. You frowned, tilting your head.

“What for-”

“The note,” he cleared his throat. “I didn’t mind. It was nice. Real nice.” He offered you a sheepish, tight-lipped smile.

You nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning, Bucky.”

And then you left.

You slipped back into your bedroom and felt the calls of your bed dragging you down. The comfort of your blankets wrapped you up once again and welcomed you back to sleep. Mere moments after you were pulled under, a small note was slid under your door. Brave enough to send a response, but not quite brave enough to do it when you had the capacity to open the door and face him. He’d waited until he heard your breathing slow, took a deep breath, and slipped it under, before silently retreating to his room.

You’d find it in the morning, and from then, a tradition would be born. Bucky would keep each note from you in the drawer beside his bed, and you kept his in a neat pile on your desk. You both slipped them under your doors at random points through the week, whenever you had something to say. They were usually trivial and silly, like “cookies in the kitchen me n wanda made, promise they’re not poisoned ;)” or “sam’s forcing me to go for a run at 5am, please save me.”

Bucky began to come out of his shell more, and you managed to encourage him to roam the communal areas during sociable hours of the day. Of course, everyone was polite and welcoming, and this took Bucky by surprise, but you knew they all would be. He made small talk with the team and Sam took his teasing to a whole new level, but he was different with you. You continued to leave each other notes and bump into each other at ridiculous times during the night, but it was no longer polite small talk with you. Bucky was playful and teasing, chatty and handsome.

You spoke about everything imaginable. From stories of the past to your greatest fears. You told him all about your training with S.H.I.E.L.D and he listened closely, eager to learn everything about you. Although he was reluctant at first, you asked him questions about before the war. At first he just elaborated on things Steve already told you, but then he became unstoppable. He’d talk for hours about his Mum and his childhood, finding a strange comfort and calm in your eyes as you watched him ramble. He felt safe talking to you, whether it was after a nightmare in the kitchen, or after all the team had left to go to bed after a movie night.

Tonight, you were sure would end up exactly like that. The team settled down to watch some shitty Netflix romcom Wanda had already watched twice that week. Nat was wrapped in a blanket and surrounded by snacks that she’d guard with her life. You just knew that Sam would later lean over in an attempt to sneak a Dorito, but he’d promptly get a smack and a glare from Nat. Wanda was on a big bean bag with vision perched behind her, gently stroking her hair. Tony fiddled with the projector as you entered the room and looked for a place to sit. A big space was left on one side of the sofa. Perfect. You made sure to sit with a gap to your left, knowing that bucky liked being by the arm rest.

Your calm demeanour soon disappeared as the two boys finally joined. You and Nat both clocked Sam’s subtle nudge on Bucky’s shoulder as he looked in the direction of the spot right next to you. Nat gave you a knowing smirk. She’d confronted you about your blatantly obvious feelings for Bucky weeks ago. Nat knew before you even knew you liked him.

Everyone was staring, so Bucky cleared his throat and headed towards you. He looked amazing. Not that he didn’t always look amazing, but something was different. Had he done something to his hair? This is definitely a new shirt. Was that aftershave you could smell?

“Can I sit here?” Bucky pointed to the side with the armrest.

“Yeah, yeah! Of course, Buck.”

He settled down next to you and you soon realised you should’ve left a bigger gap. You forgot just how muscly his thighs were, but boy oh boy you weren’t going to forget now you could feel them tensing against the side of your leg.

“Are you cold, Y/N?” Nat asked.

“Hm? No-”

Nat glared at you.

“I mean-”

“Here, have this,” she smiled, throwing the blanket towards you both. You looked at Bucky, expecting him to be uncomfortable, but the sight you came across was very different. That twinkle in his eye, he was trying not to laugh. You frowned up at him, but after gazing into his eyes for a few moments you relaxed. He held the blanket up and you nodded as he adjusted it to cover you both fully.

As the film went on, you did your very best to relax into his soft touch beside you, but he just smelled so fucking good and he was just so big and you could feel his muscular thighs and... Bucky was sneaking glances at you. Whenever you laughed or hid behind your hands from cringe, when you’d comment on the awful acting or try not to laugh at Wanda’s reactions, he would glance down at you with the brightest smile. You tried to pretend that you didn’t notice, but the blush creeping up your cheeks told him otherwise.

About half way through the film, you had completely settled into his touch before noticing his hand moving absentmindedly along your arm. Fingertips trailing along your soft skin, you bit your lip trying so hard to play it cool and not giggle like a teenager. Bucky trailed his hand down towards yours to which you gladly accepted and intertwined your fingers with his. Despite their initial scepticism, everyone was now engrossed in the film. Well, everyone except you and Bucky. Bucky leaned into your ear and whispered to you. “Am I distracting you, Agent Y/L/N?”

“Shut up,” you whispered. Bucky stifled a laugh as you felt your phone buzz.

Nat: ARE YOU GOING TO KISS HIM OR WHAT ???

You rolled your eyes and squeezed Bucky’s hand, returning your attention to the film.

Not long later, Bucky leaned in once again. “You still watching this?”

“Please tell me this is an invitation to do something more fun,” you whispered.

Bucky paused for a second and took a couple of deep breaths. “Wanna go for a walk?”

You couldn’t contain your grin. “Yes, please.”

You felt disappointment wash over you as Bucky dropped your hand and stood at once, however this sadness quickly vanished when he picked up the blanket and offered you his other hand to guide you out of the room and over the lazily strewn bodies of the team. You clung onto him tightly as you wobbled over a bowl of popcorn, trying to be as quiet as you could leaving the room.

Bucky led you in a comfortable silence to the closest exit, draping the blanket over your shoulders as you stepped into the cool nights breeze. You whispered your thanks before he led you further into the woodland area of the compound. He looked like he had a plan. “I do hope you’re not leading me to my death, Barnes,” you teased. He stopped and turned to face you. Bucky took your other hand in his and brought them both to his mouth, looking you dead in the eye before kissing them both individually. Your breathing quickened and in that very moment you just knew, Bucky Barnes knew exactly the hold he had on you. He knew you were smitten, and he undoubtedly was too. You assumed Sam had given him a pep talk, telling him to brush up a bit, which would explain the outfit and divine new cologne. Not that he needed to change anything to make you want him, but there was just something about Bucky making an effort for you, trying to impress you and muster up the courage to take you on a walk, that’s the Bucky Cap told you stories of.

“Are you cold?” Bucky’s smooth voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

“A little,” you nodded, “but I’m okay.”

“I wanted to show you something. I think you might like it.”

“Okay.”

He looked towards an area of the woodland that was littered with nettles and puddles and mud. The remnants of a flood in a hollow. “But we’ve gotta go through there to get to it.”

You laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.” He looked down at your shoes. “They might be a problem.” Fluffy grey slippers. Bucky thinks for a moment, then has an idea. He stepped towards you and cupped your face between his hands. “Do you trust me, Y/N?”

“Yes,” you whispered hoarsely. Then, before you could process what's happening, a grin spread across his face and Bucky swooped you up into his arms. You squealed and wrapped your arms around his neck tightly. “Oh my god Bucky, please don’t drop me.”

“I’m not gunna drop you, doll. Don’t you worry about your fluffy little slippers either.”

“Shut up.”

Bucky laughed and carried you over the damp grass until you reached a beautiful clearing. Gently, he lowered you to the ground, but your arms remained tightly around his neck as his did your waist. All that could be heard was the distant hooting of an owl and the trickle of water.

“Aren’t you going to look at what I came to show you?” he laughed.

You were gazing up at him and feigned annoyance before dropping your arms. “I suppose...”

You took a step back to take in your surroundings. Holy shit it was beautiful. A small pond amongst a clearing in the trees. The moon shone down casting gorgeous glimmering reflections across the water. You looked up, a vast sea of stars enveloping this lovely little world you’d happened upon. It was so quiet and felt so different from the building you were in not long ago.

Bucky watched you in awe. He stumbled upon this area a few months ago when he couldn’t sleep. One of the many things he didn’t like about the modern world was light pollution, but somehow, this little area always had an amazing view of the brightest stars. Something in him just told him that you’d love it. And you did.

“Bucky... this is amazing...I don’t know what to say.” You continued to look around, counting all of the stars you could see above you. A warm hand intertwined itself with yours as Bucky joined you by your side.

“I just thought you might like it,” he shrugged. “Made me think of you, its just pretty and quiet and feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist when I’m here.” He looked at you filled with nothing but adoration.

“Thank you for showing me, Buck.”

“S’alright, doll,” he smiled.

You blushed at the name. “I like that.”

Bucky laughed. “Alright, noted.”

Bucky adjusted the blanket to keep you covered and as warm as he could, pulling you closer into a hug. You hummed as he rested his chin on your head and gently trailed his hands up and down your back. No words needed to be said in that moment. It wasn’t uncomfortable by any means, neither of you even noticed the silence that stretched between you, it was just nice to be in each other's arms.

After a few minutes, Bucky broke the silence. “I don’t think I could score me and Steve theatre tickets these days.” You wondered where he was going with this, pulling away and looking into his eyes with curiosity. “When you wrote me that note, and all you’d heard of me was stories, did you expect me to be like this?”

You were confused. “I’m not sure. I guess I just expected a big mixture of all the things I’d heard...maybe? I don’t know what I expected, why are you-”

“I’m not who I used to be, is what I’m trying to say.” Bucky’s breaths were shaky as he spoke.

“That’s okay, you don’t have-”

“But I want to be. At least a little.” You listened as he spoke. “I don’t think I could waltz into a theatre and flirt my way to some free tickets anymore, but I think... there are some things I think I miss.”

“What sort of things?” you asked.

His gorgeous smiled returned as his confidence built. “Did Steve tell you anything about my dancing?”

You giggled, “No, no he didn’t.”

Bucky tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and rested his forehead against yours. “I’m starting to feel like me again,” Bucky began, “and it’s all cause of you, Y/N.” You cupped his face gently. “When I look at you, I feel like I did back then, before the war. I don’t think I’ll ever fully be able to be like that again, but I really wanna be.” You smiled, finally understanding what he was trying to tell you. He was beaming now. “I wanna take you dancin’, doll.”

You giggled as he grabbed your hand and twirled you around, the moonlight you stood beneath casting shadows across the dips in his face. You stared in wonder as he pulled you close, gently swaying you side to side. “I wanna take you dancing and out for dinner. I wanna win you prizes at a carnival and hold your hand wherever we go, and I might be a little rusty with it all, but I finally feel like I’ve got a reason to try, you know?”

You nodded and gave a big, cheesy grin. “I’d like that a lot, Buck.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed.

And at that brief confession of reciprocated desires, Bucky asked a question he’s wanted to ask for a few weeks now. A few weeks of silly notes and learning each others routines, a few weeks of late night conversations and stories, and a few weeks of falling in love. Not just with the stories and versions of each other told by the team or S.H.I.E.L.D files, the versions of you that you shared with each other.

“Can I kiss you?” Bucky whispered.

You nodded with a small smile.

Bucky lowered his head, hands cupping your cold cheeks before pressing his lips gently to yours. You kissed him back and gripped onto his shirt, lips moving in unison and only parting for small breaths and unstoppable smiles. The kiss remained gentle but grew more and more sure as you moved closer into each other's embrace. Buckys thumb stroked your cheek and his other hand reached round to your hair, softly running his fingers through the strands.

Finally, you separated. Foreheads resting against each other, smiles wide and giggles aplenty. You’d be disappointed that the kiss was over if you didn’t expect there to be more, but as Bucky looked into your eyes you just knew, the two of you had so much more to come...

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x avenger reader #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky x reader fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagine #im literally a lesbian idk why i wrote this #avengers imagine

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