#and went ✨feral✨

[little-bloodied-angel]

@carrymelikeimcute This possessed me when I saw the post so here, have

"The sea witch is beautiful, and Israel wasn't expecting that.

Beautiful in an unnerving way, even if he looks mostly like a young man; from the fluidity of his movements to the growths on his body -not barnacles and limpets and other rot like he's seen before on corpses fallen to the depths, but flat slivers of gold blending with soft pale skin in random spots, a band of it winding around his neck catching his attention in particular; pearls of different shapes and sizes and colors edging the contours of his orbital arches, his clavicle, his cheekbones, his shoulders. Long-ago-crushed gems in an iridescent rainbow melded with his eyelids, sanded-smooth coral and diamonds hanging like small drops from his peculiarly long eyelashes. His unnaturally red lips, the color vibrant even in the gloom of the cave; his canny eyes, the swirl of moving colors there, shifting through and from violet to gold to pure green to silver to teal to blue. He's got holes punched through his earlobes, a collection of human earrings dangling there, another rainbow of gems studded into the slightly pointed cartilage of his ears, a teardrop emerald with a chain threaded through his bellybutton. The smattering of freckles across his nose is gold foil, too; he's got dark hair, but when the light hits the hole at the top of the cave, the reflections that come back are copper, red, auburn, gold, even blue; and the soft waves of it look inviting, like those plump red lips do.

Israel has lived in the ocean his whole life; he knows what bright colors tend to mean, and he stays away.

He's not here for the witch. He's here because the witch can help him.

"You sold a pair of human legs to one of the Princes" he says, and it's not a question. The witch widens his eyes and presses a hand to his chest, over the floaty silvery-white silk gauze that moves with him and barely covers anything, making his stacked bracelets clink as he does so, as though he's offended, but his grin gives him away.

"It was much more than a pair of legs" he says, in a drawl like the currents, showing off too-sharp, too-white teeth. "Without human lungs and everything else that goes with, they wouldn't have done him much good, would they?"

He moves towards Israel; his serpent's tail is a dizzying blend of iridescent shades from red to lilac to teal to black, studded in more pearls, some of them as big as half the size of Israel's closed fist. And he moves quick, smooth and sure; he's in front of Israel's face in an eyeblink.

"I want that, too" he says, and his voice does not waver, not even at the spark of red he sees in the witch's eyes.

"You do? Since when have you ever cared that much about the human world or what it has to offer?" he asks, head cocked, grinning coyly. "It's a lot of risk, and very low reward".

Israel's hand flies to the tattoo on his cheek before he thinks of it, as though shielding it from the scrutiny of those eyes, and he knows a second too late that he's given himself away.

"Ah" is all the witch says, an exhale really, and his long fingers reach out to touch but stop short, curling inside his palm one by one. Israel closes his eyes, and feels the water move as the witch swims back to his cauldron.

"Well, when there's a will, there's a way" he says cheerfully, arranging his arms over the edge so he can rest his cheek on one of them. Israel tries to keep his eyes on the collection of bracelets; one is a carved circlet made of jade, with a serpent winding around it; another is silver, decorated with deep blue and green enamel in winding patterns; a third is made of amber and coral twined together, and a fourth of black lacquer and shells of abalone; yet a fifth is a cuff edged in clinking coins, decorated with lapis-lazuli and malachite and agate and letters he cannot recognize. There are more, but the witch snaps his fingers and silently demands to be looked in the face by pointing at it.

"Magic is never free, though. You know that. Your prince paid a hefty price to chase his golden haired dream, and so will you".

"What did you make Edward give you?" he growls, forgetting for an instant how dangerous of a being this is to anger.

"Tut, tut" the witch chastises, clicking his tongue and wagging his pointer finger. For one horrifying moment, Israel thinks that the flesh has been stripped from it raw, before he realizes it was cut off cleanly at the first joint and replaced with an articulate prosthetic that looks to be ivory or porcelain, painted all over with surface-world flowers. He recognizes the spider lilies; Edward showed them to him years and years ago. It looks like at some point, the witch paid a price too. "I didn't make him give me anything. The enchantment asks, and I translate".

Israel has barely opened his mouth before the witch speaks again.

"His spell was his spell. Not him nor I can tell you. But I can tell you this. Regardless of everything else -regardless of the price- the spell you need will demand pain of you. You will drink the potion and become human, yes, but..."

The multicolored liquid swirls in the cauldron and reflects in those eyes. If Israel didn't know better, he'd think the witch is worried, or upset.

He blinks and starts moving his hands over the cauldron, summoning faster swirls and curling smoke in bizarre colors, every once in a while adding an ingredient as he talks that Israel cannot distinguish, making the potion flare bright and loud.

"It will feel like this: a sword will slice your tail in half, and that pain will remain in your legs; red-hot iron will close your gills, a blade will hollow out your chest for your lungs, and with every step you take you will feel a million shards of glass digging into your feet. Every breath and every step will be pain, and there will be no end for it except to gain the heart you seek. And if you don't achieve that by the time the seventh sun three times has set, you will relinquish your own heart" the witch says, looking into the cauldron and not at him until he raises his face, set in harsh lines that seem at odds with his beauty, like broken coral gone sharp and jagged. "Is that something you're willing to agree to?"

Israel feels his own face set too. He's not like the human prince Edward is fascinated with; not pretty and shiny and golden and warm. He is old and weathered, and cold like the deep sea, that he knows; but he also knows the loyalty and devotion of his own heart, the lengths he will go to protect Edward, to love him.

"It is" he says, and his voice doesn't tremble.

"Very well then" the witch says back, and his own voice has become something odd and layered and metallic, as he swims up to the glass bubbles in the upper shelves and starts collecting what they house.

"Red lilies for passion; purple hydrangeas for a will of understanding; poppies for love and death; myosotis as a plea not to be forgotten" he recites, as a shower of petals rains into the pearlescent liquid, pale purple and sky blue and blood red.

"Pomegranate and silk chrysalis for transformation" he goes on; the strange human fruit bleeds under his glinting knife and glinting eyes, and the little balls of thread dissolve.

"And now for sacrifice" says the witch, and once more in an instant he's in front of Israel. One of his earrings, he notices, is not like the others, not a pearl on a hook or a curved horn carved in coral or even a human gold coin. It's a silver dagger, going through a heart carved in a ruby. Israel's own heart aches; Edward had worn a similar one, a gift, not long ago. Another one, he realizes, the oldest-looking one, is a fishing hook made of ivory or bone. He shudders.

"Your enchantment requires three things of you. Something from the past you cherish; something from the present that has been discarded; and the promise of a future sacrifice, sealed with a gift".

There's sorrow in those eyes, Israel is almost certain. Still, he once again looks away, once again says: "Take them".

The witch's hand finds the back of his neck, cradles it, and for one bizarre instant Israel thinks he's going to kiss him, and for one even more bizarre heartbeat he wants him to.

"Something from the past you cherish" the witch says, almost against his lips.

Then those long fingers tear at the chain that holds his ring, snapping it, and the witch's other hand twirls the knife until it's scored a circle around his ring finger, guiding it to bleed over the cauldron where his mother's ring also goes. Israel hasn't noticed their bodies moving, and he almost wants to scream, to cry, but the witch never stops.

"Something from the present that has been discarded" he pronounces, and the hand cradling his head turns into a grip as the witch's knife finds his neck this time, sinking deep and cutting a vertical line down the front of it. The grip disappears, and the witch withdraws a mass of bloodied, stringy red rope from his throat with that hand. He suddenly realizes what it is, as it's thrown into the cauldron too.

His vocal cords. His voice. Discarded, but not by him. A warning of a doomed endeavor, but now he can no more stop this than he can scream his pain.

"And a promise of a future sacrifice, sealed with a gift" the witch finishes, turning the dagger over the light until it glows red and plunging it into Israel's chest, into his heart, now scarred with the price he will pay in three times seven suns.

The reddened dagger stirs the liquid in the cauldron in one direction, and then the witch does the same with the hand that wears the prosthetic, going in the opposite one, the potion glowing enough as to blind as he mutters under his breath.

The potion settles, dark as night with odd twinkles of red, and the witch fills a glass bottle with it that he hands to him, holding his hand in- in his.

Why can't he think of his own name?

"Listen to me carefully, or this will be your death. Swim up to shore before you drink this, or you will drown. Don't kill the man he wants, or his heart will turn to stone. And your name is the gift the spell took; there's power in names. The past person you cherished gave you Israel; the person who discarded your voice gave you Izzy. Unless you win his heart, and reclaim the price you paid, or forfeit yours in turn, you will be neither. But I will give you one gift, so you will not fall into despair. You're far too interesting to just let die in a day" he tells him, too fond for his cruelty. "Your name during this trial, your name that comes from me, is Basilica". The witch presses cold lips to his forehead for an instant, before urging him: "Now go".

Basilica swims out of the cave and up to the surface as fast as he can, tears welling in his eyes. Not one sun has set yet, and he already feels like he's lost everything.

When he breaches the water and heaves himself onto golden sand, he unstoppers the bottle and downs it in one gulp. The sensation is as promised, as described, and the pain twice as brutal, and his heart pounds and his chest heaves as he undergoes an agony he can no longer give voice to, until his heart and his new body give up on him and he collapses.

~~~~~~

Deep, deep down under the sea, in his cave full of trinkets and ingredients, the sea witch watches him through a gently held glass bubble, and his heart aches, as he toys with the silver and emerald ring, clean and bright as new, that he'd retrieved from the bottom of a momentarily empty cauldron. He has always had his reasons for disliking most of the sea princes, and Edward in particular, but this is a step too far.

"I wasn't lying when I said you're too interesting to let die" he murmurs, and his power echoed in the walls agrees with him. "But you're also too cherished, and you don't even know". He sighs, then slides the ring onto a velvet cord ripped from his clothes, then over his head and under the band of gold melded around his neck. "I'm starting to think" he says to no one in particular, swimming upwards again in search of a bubble that houses spider lilies "that it's past my due for a little trip to the human world".

A little mermaid AU where Ed gets legs to go after Stede, but then Izzy rocks up to sea-witch Lucius and ALSO wants legs so he can go after Ed. And Lucius (who is a messy bitch who loves ocean drama and is like 'why is there a fucking run on legs all of a sudden??') agrees, but the price is that, if Ed 'doesn't want Izzy's heart' then he must return to the sea and pledge it to him instead.

Cue Lucius also taking human form to stir shit and talk about how crappy humans are with Izzy, who inevitably fails to get Ed's love for himself.

And Izzy thinks he's going to literally get his heart ripped out or be forced to work for a witch and not just...you know...be gently cherished by a lonely sea-witch who thinks this royal guard is...pretty neat actually.

(Also, tentacle sex).

[arthrobug]

Am I still going feral over the fact that lil old Rayman is going to be a possibly crazy news reporter in a dystopian anime along with the freakin twink himself Pagan Min from Farcry 4?

And that Rabbids are giant seemingly multidimensional monsters?

AND THAT THE GUY FROM ASSASSIN'S CREED IS A SILLY LIL FROG GUY?

Yes, I very much am

[orphiicheartd]

POV: You are Rook chilling peacefully in your Savanaclaw dorm

[danysdaughter]

Сетка

pairing | civil!war!bucky x widow!reader

word count | 10.4k words

summary | when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, intimate sex, enemies to companions to lovers, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, winter soldier triggers, protective!reader, protective!bucky, mutual obsession, feral love, soft intimacy, violence, reader only speaks russian, bucky speaks english, emotionally devastated bucky barnes, shit translated russian (probably), reader does not play about her man

a/n | IMPORTANT TO NOTE: the events of black widow happen before ca:cw in this. Based on this request. (I'm posting this from work lol)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Москва, 2003 — Красная комната

Moscow, 2003 — The Red Room

The walls were too white.

Sterile. Silent. Watching.

That was the first thing you noticed—that kind of white that felt wrong. Like it had been bleached so many times, even the ghosts had nowhere left to hide. Even the steel doors looked polished, like they were proud of what happened here.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with the others—seven girls, fifteen on average. Not children. Not soldiers. Not yet.

The floor was colder than ice, and it bled through your thin uniform. But none of you shivered. That had been trained out early—along with tears, questions, and the word нет.[no.]

The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Underneath it, sweat clung to the walls like memory. Like shame.

Footsteps echoed.

Three sets.

Two sharp. One heavy.

No one turned to look. That was lesson one. Looking got you noticed. Being noticed got you hurt.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The shift in the atmosphere—immediate and suffocating. Like gravity got heavier. Like breath didn’t work the same anymore.

Он пришёл. [He’s here.]

You didn’t flinch, but your muscles locked up. Your knuckles pressed into your knees until they went white.

Then: silence.

Not peace.

The kind of silence that held a knife behind its back.

“Смотри вперёд,” Madam B’s voice cut cleanly through the air. [Eyes forward.]

You obeyed. All of you did. Like clockwork. Chins lifted. Spines straight.

He stood beside her. Taller than you remembered from the rumors. Broader. Real.

Зимний солдат.

The Winter Soldier

His face was half-shadow under the fluorescents, but his eyes—those eyes—were unmistakable. Dead, pale things. A shade too light. Like they’d been bleached, too.

He didn’t look at you. Or at anyone. His stare drifted somewhere behind the wall, like even he didn’t want to be in his body anymore.

That metal arm glinted under the lights. Thick at the shoulder. Seamless. Inhuman.

Madam B clasped her hands in front of her. Her posture was perfect. Her smile was poisonous.

“Ваши инструк��оры научили вас д��сциплине, послушанию, терпению боли,” she said. [Your instructors have taught you discipline, obedience, pain tolerance.]

“Точность.” [Precision.]

She nodded toward him.

“Теперь вы узнаете страх.” [Now… you will learn fear.]

He moved without signal. No countdown. No command.

Just violence.

One second, stillness.

The next—he was on Yulia.

The smallest one. The quietest. The one who tried to hum to herself when the lights went out.

Her back hit the wall with a sickening crack. His left arm—that arm—pressed into her throat. Just enough to choke. Not enough to kill.

Her boots scraped the tile. A soft panic-sound left her lips—then cut off as her training kicked in.

She stopped fighting. That was lesson two.

You didn't move. Not even your eyes.

Yulia turned her head slowly. Her gaze found you. Desperate. Wild. The kind of fear none of you were allowed to show.

You didn’t blink.

“Вы будете тренироваться с ним,” Madam B continued, like this was nothing. [You will train with him.]

“Вы выучите его методы. Его инстинкты.”

[You will learn his methods. His instincts.]

Yulia let out a breath that sounded like breaking glass.

And the Soldier?

He still didn’t look at her. Or at you. Or at anyone.

Because you weren’t people. Not to him.

Just shapes to break. Dolls to test.

Madam B’s smile never wavered.

“Если вы выживете.” [If you survive.]

────────────────────────

Красная комната — Тренировка, 2003

The Red Room — Training, 2003

The floor wasn’t white.

It was concrete—cracked, stained, pitted with impact. The kind of surface that remembered every body that ever hit it.

The air in the training room was humid with breath and blood. The walls sweated under the heat of fluorescent lights, buzzing like flies in your ears.

You stood alone at the center.

The others were pressed against the wall—backs straight, eyes forward, silent as statues.

Your breathing was even. Measured.

Your fists curled tight, knuckles aching with pressure.

You didn’t shake. You never shook.

You’d already lost blood on this floor. Skin. Teeth. You’d learned how to fall without sound.

But this was different.

He stepped into the ring.

Black tactical gear. Combat boots. Gloves pulled tight. His metal arm caught the light—chrome and shadow. It wasn’t a limb. It was a threat.

He didn’t speak. He never did.

Not even a command.

Madam B stood off to the side, clipboard cradled in one arm, her pen already moving.

She didn’t call a start. She didn’t have to.

The moment his weight shifted—you moved.

You struck first.

Open palm to the throat. Hook to the ribs. Low kick toward the knee.

They were survival strikes. Precise. Fast. Smart.

He swatted them away like you were nothing.

Effortless. Mechanical. Indifferent.

Then he hit back.

His fist caught the edge of your jaw—crack—and your skull snapped sideways. Your vision pulsed white for half a second, but you stayed upright.

You had to stay upright.

Then came the sweep. His left leg scythed yours out from under you, and before you even hit the floor, the metal arm slammed across your chest.

You went down hard.

Concrete kissed your back. The air tore from your lungs.

And then—pressure.

He was on top of you. One knee against your ribs, hand to your throat.

That arm. Cold. Absolute.

He wasn’t holding you down.

He was claiming the ground beneath you.

You didn’t fight it. Not yet.

You stared up into his face, and for the first time—saw him. Not as the ghost of a myth. Not as the whispered fear behind training drills.

But as a man.

A machine.

Both.

His expression was blank. But that blankness said everything.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This was a warning.

You don’t win.

You survive.

So you reached for his sidearm.

His hand snapped around your wrist. That sound—metal joints locking down on bone.

It should have crushed you. But it didn’t.

You kneed him in the stomach—your knee landing against Kevlar with a jolt. You twisted, shoved your shoulder down, and used his own momentum to roll you both.

It wasn’t elegant.

It was smart.

Calculated. Ruthless.

You weren’t bigger. Or stronger.

But you were sharp.

You learned.

He came at you again, and this time you didn’t flinch.

You dropped beneath the punch, spun inside his reach, and used his arm like a fulcrum—flipped over his shoulder.

You landed wrong.

Your elbow scraped open.

But you were standing.

There was no applause. No approval. Only the scratch of Madam B’s pen.

The Soldier didn’t react.

He reset.

No emotion. No hesitation. Just reset. Like you hadn’t earned a single thing.

But you saw it.

The twitch of his fingers. The micro-adjustment in how his feet planted. The pause—barely a pause—as his eyes followed your stance like he was filing it away.

He wouldn’t remember your name.

You didn’t have one here.

But that day? He noticed you.

────────────────────────

Красная комната — через шесть месяцев

Red Room — Six Months Later

The mat was stained with old sweat and old blood.

You stood barefoot at the center. Bruised. Breathing steady.

Fifteen years old. One of the last still standing.

You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t need to. You measured time in bruises, in blood dried under fingernails, in how long it took for your ribs to stop aching.

This was your fourth session with the Soldat in six days.

They were testing something.

Durability, maybe. Threshold. Obedience.

Or maybe they just wanted to see if you’d finally break.

Above, behind the black glass, Madam B watched. Her voice came cold over the intercom.

“Начали.” [Begin.]

You moved instantly.

A blur across the mat. Feint left, then up—elbow aimed for the hinge of his jaw.

His metal hand caught your arm mid-strike. Effortless. Inevitable.

He twisted. Spun you. Drove a knee into your side.

You blocked—barely. The pain reverberated through your ribcage like splintering glass.

But you didn’t grunt.

Didn’t cry out.

You never made a sound.

Pain didn’t mean stop.

Pain meant continue.

The room rang with impact. Bare feet sliding. Fists connecting. Breath coming sharp between attacks.

He was bigger. Stronger. His reach eclipsed yours, his strikes heavier, colder.

But you were faster. You had studied him. Memorized every tick, every tell. He never led with his right. The metal arm always came second—the trap after the bait.

You slid low under a hook, came up behind him, and kicked the back of his knee.

He faltered.

A grunt left his mouth—barely audible, but real.

You didn’t pause.

You spun, forearm tucked in, and drove it up under his ribs. You connected.

His breath hitched.

Your chest rose once—sharp.

You’d drawn breath from the Soldat.

His hand snapped out—metal fingers closing around your throat.

You slammed into the wall with a thud that rattled through your spine.

His grip tightened.

But you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink.

Your stare locked with his—blank to blank.

Two weapons mid-calibration.

He leaned in. Not far. Just enough to study you.

His eyes weren’t flat. Not fully.

Something behind them… ticked.

Then—he spoke.

Low. Controlled.

Almost quiet enough not to register.

“Хватит.” [Enough.]

Your body stilled.

Muscles stopped firing. Breath locked. Every cell in you responded like a command had been entered in your bones.

That word—from him—meant stop.

Session over.

He released you.

You dropped—not from failure, not from injury, but from the vacuum left by adrenaline. Your knees hit the mat. Your hand splayed out to catch balance.

Your chest heaved. Hot. Controlled. Like a furnace behind your ribs.

He watched you.

Still silent. Still unreadable.

But his fists were clenched.

And this time… he didn’t walk away immediately.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Not like an opponent. Not like an assignment.

Like something had clicked. Like a new file was being written in his mind.

Not fear. Not even memory.

Interest.

────────────────────────

After Hydra took back the Soldat, the others gave you a nickname.

Сетка.

[The Web.]

You weren’t the strongest.

You weren’t the fastest.

But you were the only one—aside from the one they called Romanova—to hold your ground against the Soldat.

You weren’t known for brute force.

You were known for calculated strikes.

For how you waited. For how you wrapped your opponents in silence and then struck.

You didn’t earn it through survival.

You earned it through stillness.

Through how, when the Winter Soldat looked at you—he paused.

Румыния, Бухарест, 2016

Romania, Bucharest, 2016

The world was too big.

You hadn’t realized that until you were freed.

Not with fanfare. Not with chains breaking on a concrete floor. Just… the chemicals gone. The fog lifted. Like smoke peeling away after the fire’s already eaten everything it wanted.

You were free.

And you didn’t know what to do with it.

No one gave you instructions. No handler. No target. No voice in your ear.

So you drifted.

Trains. Buses. The back of a truck once, when it didn’t matter where you ended up. Countries blurred. Time warped. Faces forgotten before they were registered.

You didn’t speak.

Not because you couldn’t.

Because your voice didn’t sound like yours yet. It sounded like property. Like training. Like the echo of someone else’s weaponized breath.

When you did speak, it was only in Russian. A comfort. A shield.

If they couldn’t understand you, they couldn’t own you.

Now—

Bucharest.

A city wrapped in damp air and dull concrete. A sky so overcast it looked like someone had smudged out the sun.

You didn’t pick it.

It just happened.

Like most things now.

No mission brought you here. No ghost pulled you.

Just the weight of motion finally running out of road.

You sat at the corner table of a café so small the world didn’t seem to notice it existed. A chipped white mug sat between your hands. Coffee, cooled and untouched. You hadn’t tasted anything in days, but the smell was something. Bitter. Familiar.

Across the street, a man adjusted a bike chain. His hands were black with grease. Someone shouted upstairs in Romanian. A dog barked. The faint crack of an egg hitting a pan cut through the air.

It should have felt normal.

And maybe that’s what made it unbearable.

You weren’t made for peace.

Peace had no rules. No orders.

Peace expected you to feel.

But you didn’t feel human.

You didn’t feel anything at all.

Just a hum in your chest where panic used to live. Just silence where purpose used to be.

Your fingertips curled against the ceramic like you were checking to see if you were still real.

Maybe you were. Maybe not.

You watched the sky for signs of rain.

And thought: Maybe tomorrow, you’ll leave.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

A Few Days Later

It started with the color of his eyes.

You didn’t recognize the rest of him at first—he moved differently now. Civilian clothes. Hair tied back. Slower, softer posture. Almost… human.

But then he turned toward the sun.

And you saw them.

That shade. That steel blue.

Unnatural. Icy.

Dead things wearing a face.

And suddenly, the world tilted sideways.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Солдат. [Soldat.]

The market noise dulled to a hum in your ears. Just smells and motion. Heat and light. Someone was selling tomatoes. Someone else bartered for lamb. Shoes scuffed pavement.

You didn’t blink.

Your feet were already moving.

He spotted you seconds later. His brows knit in confusion—not fear. Recognition hovered behind his expression, but distant. Faded. Like trying to remember the lyrics to a song he only half-heard.

Then—your eyes met.

His mouth opened, confused.

You lunged.

He moved just in time—sidestepped, arm up, deflecting your first strike. You twisted under him, elbow jabbing into his ribs. He caught your wrist.

“Wait—who the hell are—?”

You dropped your weight, flipped him over your hip. He hit the cobblestone with a grunt, rolled, sprang to his feet.

A vendor screamed. Then another.

Crates of fruit crashed around you. Splinters of wood. Apples underfoot.

He tried to disengage—hands up, defensive, careful.

“I don’t want to fight you—!”

You weren’t listening.

Your fist slammed toward his face. He blocked. You kicked at his thigh, drove your knee up toward his gut.

He grunted, staggered. Caught your leg mid-air.

You spun inside the hold, using the capture, and flipped over his shoulders.

Your knees slammed down on his collarbones.

He stumbled.

You slammed your palm into the back of his skull, forcing him toward the ground.

He rolled, bringing you down with him. The two of you crashed through a vendor’s table, shattering it into splinters and cloth.

“Чёрт—who are you?”

[Damn it—]

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t.

His face twisted—half in frustration, half in dawning memory. But you weren’t a memory. You were now.

He blocked a knife-hand strike. Caught your other wrist. You twisted under, slammed your head toward his jaw.

It connected. His lip split. A child screamed nearby.

He shoved you off—but not to hurt. To breathe.

“I’m not him,” he rasped. “Not anymore.”

Your heart pounded. Your knees bent. You were ready to kill.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Every second he breathed in your presence felt like failure.

You were fifteen again. You were on the mat. You were under the metal arm.

You struck low—shin to his knee. He buckled slightly, but rebounded quick, grabbing your arm and twisting. You followed it, using the torque to throw yourself up and over him, body flipping above his head. He ducked, but not fast enough.

Your heel scraped his temple.

He staggered.

You hit the ground in a crouch, surged forward, fists flying—open-palm strikes, throat jabs, knife-hand to his kidney. He blocked most. Absorbed some.

But you were faster.

You always had been.

Around you, the market dissolved. Stalls crushed. People scattered. Screams and panic thick in the air. Vendors grabbed their children and ran. Tomatoes exploded underfoot like bloodstains.

He was breathing heavier now.

You could see the calculation behind his eyes—how he wasn’t hitting back.

Because he knew. He knew the precision in your strikes. He knew where you’d learned them.

“Why are you doing this?” he ground out, catching your arm again, ducking under a punch and shoving you backward into a stack of crates. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

You snapped forward, wrapped your legs around his neck, pulled.

He fell—slammed hard on the ground with you on top. You straddled his chest, brought your elbow up, and—

He caught your wrist. Locked it. Twisted just enough to force the momentum off. Rolled.

Now you were beneath him.

His knees pinned your thighs. His hand gripped your wrist above your head. Metal arm pressed against your collarbone—not choking, just holding.

Your breathing came fast. Harsh. Chest rising and falling in panic, fury, fire.

His hair hung loose now. Lip bleeding. Chest heaving.

And his eyes—

They weren’t dead. They weren’t his. They weren’t the Soldat’s.

His voice came low. Guttural.

“I’m not him.” His hand didn’t tighten. He didn’t shake. “I don't want to hurt you.”

You wanted to fight. Your body ached to.

But your eyes locked with his. And something fractured. Because the eyes that looked back at you now—they weren’t hollow. They weren’t blank.

They were human. Still haunted. Still carrying every sin etched into his bones. But there was no order in them. No command. No programming.

Just… regret.

Your body didn’t relax. But it stopped resisting.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Your breath caught in your throat—not because you were scared, but because you didn’t know what to do with stillness.

Your body had stopped moving, but everything inside was still screaming.

His grip didn’t loosen.

He was still above you, pinning you down—not aggressively. Just… securing the chaos.

You stared up at him, and he stared back, his brow furrowed like he was searching for a word he’d forgotten in a language he hadn’t spoken in years.

And then—

sirens.

Not close yet, but coming. Sharp. Rising.

His head snapped to the side. You tensed beneath him again. His eyes flicked back to you. Jaw tight. Conflicted.

Then, in a movement that felt more instinct than decision—he pulled you up.

You didn’t resist. Not out of trust. Out of confusion.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. Didn’t shove you.

He just moved—guiding you fast into a narrow alley between buildings. The noise of the street dimmed behind you. Fabric flapped on a laundry line above. The pavement here was cracked, lined with moss and cigarette butts.

He stopped. Pulled you behind him.

Pressed your back against the wall, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you behind his frame.

You should’ve fought him again. You should’ve broken his arm. But you didn’t.

His other hand came up—not touching you, just hovering slightly, as if to say stay.

You both stayed frozen. You could feel his breath against your temple. Still steady. But his hand—

It was shaking. Not from fear. From memory.

Like his body remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He didn’t look back at you. But he stayed there.

And for now, so did you.

The sirens faded.

The city noise returned in slow motion—honking, voices, the far-off clatter of trams and tires. The chaos in the market had been swallowed again by the buzz of ordinary life, like the fight never happened.

Bucky shifted. Just slightly.

His hand eased away from your stomach, the other dropping to his side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But you did.

You turned your head—slowly—and shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut through bone.

You shoved his chest with both hands. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to get space between you. Your expression was blank, but your body radiated heat and fury.

He didn’t resist. He let you push him.

And you turned.

No words. No explanation. No retreat. Just your back as you walked away—shoulders squared, movements clipped, hair tangled from the fight. You didn’t run.

You didn’t need to.

“…Hey,” he called after you, stepping out of the alley. “Hey—wait.”

You didn’t pause.

Your boots clapped against the wet pavement, turning down another street without looking back.

“Where are you going?” No answer.

He caught up, boots scuffing beside yours. He wasn’t panting anymore, but he was confused. Disarmed in the way only survivors could disarm each other.

“You just tried to kill me,” he said. “You started that. You could’ve—”

He stopped. Regrouped. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just one subtle shift in your jaw. Tension in your neck.

That was all he got.

He caught up beside you. Tried to get in front of you. You side-stepped him like he was furniture.

“You speak?” he pushed, breath hitching with disbelief. “You got a name? Or just fists?”

Still nothing.

You barely acknowledged his existence now. That alone made his pulse spike.

“Did we know each other?” he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—really know each other? Because something about you feels… I don’t know.”

You stopped. Just once. You turned your head slightly.

And said, flatly, with razor-edged indifference, “Он умер.” [He’s dead.]

Then kept walking.

The words froze him. Just for a second.

The Soldat.

Dead.

Killed in your eyes the second he hesitated. The second he showed mercy. The second he didn’t fight back.

He kept following. Not at a sprint. Not with force.

Just… there.

A shadow a few steps behind. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to touch.

You turned corners like the city owed you space. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. But you knew he was behind you. Every step. Every breath.

And still—you didn’t stop.

You passed shopfronts. Faded yellow walls. Posters curling off the bricks. A cracked tile underfoot. The stink of wet bread and exhaust in the air.

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, not breathless—just bitter. “You came at me. Remember that?”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t expect you to.

“I don’t remember everything, alright?” he pushed, his voice clipping at the edge. “There are gaps. Big ones. I don’t know who I hurt. Who I—”

You rolled your eyes.

The noise he made in frustration wasn’t a sound of anger.

It was need.

“Just—just tell me your name,” he said. “Please. I don’t care what you were trying to do. Just give me that.”

You stopped again.

Slow.

Turned slightly.

Your face unreadable.

Voice low. “Сетка.”

His brow furrowed.

“Setka?” he repeated. “That’s not a name.”

You tilted your head—just a fraction. And then you looked at him like he was insects. Not worth a fight.

Just an irritation buzzing too close to your ear.

You turned back. Started walking again.

He followed.

“Is that a code name? What is that? Russian? Hydra?” He caught up beside you, walking now shoulder to shoulder. “Did I know you?”

You gave him nothing.

But his eyes stayed on you.

And you?

You just kept walking.

Not because you were done with him.

Because you were done with what he used to be.

────────────────────────

You ducked into the café like it owed you something.

Not the same one from before—this one was smaller, grittier. Glass smudged with fingerprints. Fluorescent light overhead flickering like a dying star. But the pastries in the case were fresh, warm, and dusted with powdered sugar.

That’s all that mattered.

You didn’t look back to check if he was still following.

You knew he was.

You ordered with a short nod, pointed at what you wanted. Paid in crumpled bills. And sat by the window, legs crossed, posture casual—like this was your place and the world was just visiting.

A sweet bun sat in front of you, golden, soft, still steaming.

You tore into it with precision. First bite was deliberate—slow chew, eyes half-lidded in genuine pleasure.

And then—

He walked in.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

You licked a smear of sugar off your thumb, eyes fixed on the glass.

He ordered something. You didn’t care what. Until he slid into the seat across from you.

Boots heavy. Posture coiled. Forearms resting on the edge of the table like he was ready to fight if the cutlery moved.

He stared at you.

That stare. Cold. Sharp. Brow low. Eyes locked in.

The kind of look that made grown men flinch. You took another bite of your pastry.

Chewed. Swallowed. Licked your lips. And looked up slowly.

Your gaze met his.Unblinking. Flat. Not intimidated. Just... annoyed.

He stared harder.

You raised an eyebrow—just one.

Bit into the pastry again with a kind of exaggerated grace. Sugar dusted your bottom lip.

He leaned forward a bit.

You leaned back, leisurely, like the air between you bored you.

The silence was so thick it should’ve collapsed the table.

Still, you said nothing. Because you didn’t need to. You’d already won.

He shifted. You didn’t. His jaw flexed. Then—

He moved.

Slowly, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to do it, Bucky brought his hand up and extended it across the table. Palm open. Fingers slightly curled. That awkward, stilted kind of offer people made when they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch the world yet.

“I’m Bucky,” he said.

The words didn’t come easy. They stuck to the back of his throat. “Bucky.” Like he was still trying the name on. Still figuring out if it fit.

You looked at his hand. Not quickly. Not dramatically.

Just… down. Like you were glancing at a smear on your table.

Then you looked back up at him. Dead stare. Cold.

“Мне всё равно,” you said softly.

[I don’t care.]

The words landed heavier than a bullet. You didn’t spit them. You didn’t hiss them. You just meant them.

His hand hovered for another second—like he thought maybe he’d misheard, misunderstood, anything. Then he slowly pulled it back. Fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist on the table.

You went back to your pastry. He didn’t move again.

────────────────────────

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink when he stared at you across the table. Didn’t soften when he introduced himself. Didn’t care.

He’d held out his hand like it meant something—like the name Bucky still belonged to him—and you looked at it like it was rotting.

“Мне всё равно.” [I don’t care.]

That should’ve been the end of it.

He should’ve let you walk. Let you disappear like every other phantom in his half-formed memory. But—

He couldn’t.

You were like smoke in a room with no fire.

Wrong. Out of place. But present.

Cold. Controlled. Eyes like winter steel and hands trained for death.

You weren't avoiding him like he was dangerous. You acted like he was a fly. An inconvenience.

And still…

He couldn’t stop watching you.

He found out you stayed three blocks away from him, in a run-down building that looked like it had never seen heat. No lights on past midnight. You came and went like habit—not avoidance.

No weapons drawn. Just… presence.

And it started happening before he noticed it: He’d time his walks to cross your path. He’d change course just to track where you ended up. Not to hurt you. Not even to corner you.

Just to exist near you.

Because somehow, somehow—he felt more alive around you than he had in years.

Not safe. Not comfortable. Alive.

Like the weight wasn’t pressing quite as hard against his chest when you were in the room. Even if you never looked at him. Even if you never said a word.

There was something about you.

Not just the way you moved—efficient, brutal, graceful like a damn blade in water. But the way you carried herself.

Like you didn’t owe the world a thing.

You were impenetrable. And it made him feel human.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

Some Days Later

You were sitting on the edge of a crumbling fountain, half a pastry in one hand, your boot tapping against the stone.

Same coat. Same deadpan stare. Same indifference like it was armor stitched into your skin.

Bucky stood across the square, watching.

Again.

You didn’t look at him, but he knew you saw him.

You always did.

This time, he walked straight over.

No subtlety. No circling. No waiting for a moment that wouldn’t come.

You didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just kept eating, like the man you tried to murder in a marketplace last week wasn’t about to sit beside you.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the fountain—not too close. Close enough.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m not following you,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow but said nothing. The flake of pastry lingered on your lip. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I just need to know…” He sighed, hand curling over his knee. “Setka. What that name means. Who are you?”

No response.

A pause.

Then, at last, your voice—quiet, flat, “Ты думаешь, ты хочешь знать.”

[You think you want to know, but you dont]

You met his eyes. Still unreadable. Still so, so tired.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, low.

His voice was raw now—not just tired, but unraveling.

“I just… need to know.”

A pause.

“Did I hurt you?”

Your chewing stopped.

You looked forward, eyes tracking something only you could see. Your fingers flexed once on the crumpled pastry paper. Then, softly, “да.” [Yes.]

A beat.

And then, quieter still—

“Но ты также научил меня не умирать.”

[But you also taught me not to die.*]

The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

His throat worked. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to ask what you meant—but couldn’t even form the question.

So he looked at you. Not with suspicion.

But with that kind of desperate, quiet plea in his eyes—the kind that asked without sound.

Please. I need more.

You finally sighed. A long, slow exhale through your nose. Tired. Annoyed.

Like explaining this was beneath you, but his stare was loud enough to warrant an answer.

“Красная комната,” you said flatly.

[The Red Room.]

His brows furrowed.

“Гидра отдала тебя им.”

[Hydra gave you to them.]

You finally looked at him.

Your face was unreadable. Not cruel. Not soft. Just matter-of-fact. “Ты��� обучал нас.”

[You trained us.]

And there it was. The fracture in his expression. Shock, but not surprise.

Like you'd just said something he already knew, deep in his bones—but didn’t want to hear aloud.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“You were a widow,” he said, mostly to himself.

Your silence was confirmation. And for the first time since he met you, you didn’t look like a ghost.

He sat there, silent. Trying to make sense of what you'd just given him. And still—he needed more.

“How…” he said quietly, carefully, “how did you get out?”

You didn’t look at him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. That specific kind of sigh. The one that said you’re annoying, but I’ll answer because I want you to stop talking.

Then, cool and clipped, “Наталия Романова. И Елена Белова.”

[Natalia Romanova. And Yelena Belova.]

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t soften. You tossed the empty pastry wrapper into the bin beside the fountain and stood.

Then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Слишком поздно для большинства.”

[Too late for most of us.]

And without a glance back, you turned and walked away. Boots clicking against the stone. Shoulders squared. Back straight.

Leaving him there with a realization that the only person who might know who he was still didn’t care who he is.

You heard his steps before you saw him.

You always did.

He didn’t walk like a civilian. Not even when he tried.

His boots were too heavy. His presence too loud. Even in silence.

You didn’t turn when he entered the courtyard, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t mean to be there.

But you knew better.

You were sitting on a low wall, picking at the crust of a tart. Raspberry filling on your thumb. The sun was barely up.

And there he was. Again.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes. This time, you just… watched. Not with annoyance. Just observation.

He sat a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough not to press.

He looked tired.

More than usual.

Like he hadn’t slept. Like being in his skin had worn him raw.

And for the first time, you wondered.

Not what he wanted.

But why he kept wanting.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then tilted your head just slightly.

Voice soft. Even.

“Что ты хочешь от меня?”

[What do you want from me?]

He blinked.

Then smirked—dry, thin, almost embarrassed.

“Your name,” he said. “For one.”

You gave him a look. Half-bored, half-knowing.

“и…?” you prompted, arching a brow. [And…]

That’s when he faltered.

He shifted on the wall. Looked down at his hands. Flexed the metal one like he didn’t trust it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Not bitter. Not confused. Just honest.

“I don’t know why I keep looking for you. I just—”

He hesitated.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense. And you don’t even like me.”

You blinked at him. Then returned your gaze forward. Back to the rising sun. And said nothing.

But for once, you didn’t get up and leave.

You stayed.

────────────────────────

The fountain was silent, just a hollowed-out shell of stone, stained with rust and time. You sat perched on the rim, arms resting against your knees, watching the last light of day catch in the cracks of the broken tiles. The warmth of the sun was soft on your face, but the air was already turning cold.

You felt him arrive before he spoke.

He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but was too heavy with memory not to be felt.

He sat beside you—not too close, but not far. He didn’t speak. Not yet. And you didn’t turn your head to acknowledge him. It wasn’t necessary.

You’d started sharing silence like it belonged to both of you.

Minutes passed.

You listened to the slow creak of birds returning to the rooftops, the faint echo of footsteps on distant concrete. The world had quieted around you, and he hadn’t left.

Eventually, his voice broke through, rough and low.

“I don’t think I'll ever stop waiting.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. The words hung in the air, weightless and unfinished, and part of you wondered if he even expected a reply. Your gaze stayed fixed ahead, tracking the fractured pattern of shadows stretching across the courtyard.

And then, maybe without knowing why—you spoke.

Your name left your mouth quieter than you intended, like it had to sneak past the years of silence it had been buried under.

He turned to you. “What?”

You looked at him.

Met his eyes.

And said it again.

Clear. Certain. Yours.

The way he blinked told you he hadn’t expected it—not tonight, maybe not ever. He repeated it under his breath, carefully, like the syllables might dissolve if he held them too tightly. He said it like he was tasting something real for the first time in years.

Then he gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into something soft.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, giving him the same look you’d used on a hundred fools who thought they’d earned something for no reason.

His smile grew—not smug, but amused. Quiet. Unforced.

For a moment, you didn’t mind that he was there.

───────────────────────

You always took the same seat—back corner, right by the window, where the sunlight slanted across the table in late morning like gold dust.

Your coffee was always lukewarm by the time you drank it, and your pastries were always sweet. The music in your ears pulsed soft and steady, a low hum only you could hear. You never shared what you were listening to, and you never offered to.

He never asked.

But he noticed.

He noticed that when you chewed slowly, your head tilted slightly to one side—just enough to catch a particular note. He noticed that you tapped your fingers on the table sometimes, in rhythm with whatever beat lived under your skin.

It wasn’t much.

But it was yours.

And you noticed him too.

He always had the same notebook—small, black, worn at the edges, the kind that could be slipped into a coat pocket without a second thought. He never let anyone else see inside. But he wrote in it often, sometimes mid-sentence, like a thought might escape if he didn’t pin it down fast enough.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Until one morning, when he was scribbling again inside it, you leaned slightly forward, voice low, words rolling off your tongue like it belonged there.

“Что ты там всё время пишешь?”

[What do you keep writing in there?]

He glanced up, blinking like he hadn’t realized you were watching him.

“Stuff I remember,” he answered, softly. “Names. Places. Dreams. I forget a lot, so I write it down.”

He didn’t ask what you were listening to.

But his gaze flicked toward the earbud still nestled in your ear, and you knew he was thinking it.

You didn’t offer it.

But you didn’t hide it, either.

Later that morning, you both reached for the last almond tart at the same time.

Your hand got there first.

You raised a brow. He huffed out a laugh through his nose and motioned for you to take it.

You did.

You broke it in half and pushed the other piece across the table.

He didn’t thank you. But he ate it.

That was the day you stopped sitting across from each other.

And started sitting side by side.

────────────────────────

The café was nearly empty, just the soft clink of ceramic and the distant hum of an old radio behind the counter. The pastry case had been picked clean, and the overhead light above your usual table flickered faintly, but neither of you moved to find another seat.

You sat beside him this time—shoulder to shoulder, one knee pulled up onto the booth seat, your arm resting lazily along the back of the bench. The hood of your coat was down, loose pieces of hair falling over your face. You didn’t bother fixing them.

You were listening to something again—earbuds in, eyes half-lidded.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break whatever this was. The fact that you were still here meant something.

You shifted suddenly.

Not much—just a lean, just enough that your shoulder pressed into his arm, your head tipping to the side until it rested against him. Light. Casual. Like it was accidental. Like he wasn’t even there.

His breath hitched slightly—but he didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him.

But you reached up, plucked one of the earbuds from your ear, and—without looking—held it out toward him.

An offering.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just choice.

He hesitated—then took it.

David Bowie’s voice filtered in, old and warm and ghostlike. Something about changes, about time bending and slipping through fingers. The kind of song that made the city feel like it was holding its breath.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t smile.

But your head stayed against his shoulder.

And when the song ended, you didn’t take the earbud back.

You just let it stay.

Несколько месяцев спустя

A Few Months Later

He was on the floor again.

The mattress had been too soft. The air too still. He needed edges. Needed cold.

But even here—against the hard wood, spine pressed into the earth like punishment—it wasn’t enough to keep the dreams out.

They started like they always did.

Flashes of corridors. Screams without mouths. His own hands soaked in red. Russian commands slicing through the dark like razors.

He heard bones snap. He heard a girl scream—

No, not a girl. You.

But the Soldat didn’t stop.

His own voice—flat, mechanized—spoke a language he couldn’t feel, barking orders at children.

And then—

He was drowning in snow. Arms bound. Blood freezing.

He gasped awake like something had clawed through his chest.

His breath came ragged. Sharp. Cold sweat clung to every inch of skin, and the room felt like it was collapsing.

But then—

A hand.

Soft.

Warm against his chest.

Not sudden. Not a jolt. Just there—pressed gently over his heart like it had been holding him for hours.

“Тише…” [Easy now…]

Your voice was the first thing to cut through the fog. Low, steady, threaded with sleep but utterly sure.

His eyes snapped to you.

Darkness wrapped around the room like cloth, but he could see you in the low amber spill from the window. You were curled against him, body bare and familiar, skin pressed to skin. Your thigh hooked over his, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other tracing slow, grounding circles over his chest.

You didn’t flinch at his shaking.

You just held him.

“Это не сейчас,” you whispered again, softer.

[It’s not now.]

And he breathed like he hadn’t in days.

Hands found your back—clutching, clinging, greedy in the way that had nothing to do with sex. Like you were oxygen. Like his fingers didn’t know how to stop searching for the edges of you.

You didn’t pull away. You let him take. You let him need.

His breath stayed ragged for a long time, chest heaving beneath your hand like it couldn’t find its rhythm. His fingers clutched at your back, shifting slightly to your waist, to your shoulder, back again—like he needed to make sure you were real every few seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept your arm over his chest, anchoring him.

Eventually, his head turned slightly against your temple. His mouth brushed your hair when he spoke, the words low, scratchy, like they were being dragged out of his ribs one by one.

“I saw them again.”

You said nothing.

“I was holding one of them down. I don’t even think she was older than fifteen. She looked like you. I think—I think maybe it was you.”

You pressed your lips against his jaw.

Not a kiss. Not an answer.

Just pressure.

“I can’t always tell if it’s memory or something Hydra put here,” he muttered, voice splintering at the edges. “Sometimes I remember things I know I didn’t do. And other times—I know it was me. The worst ones… I know it was me.”

His hand moved to your stomach. Held you there like gravity.

“I hear screaming in Russian, and I can’t tell if it’s my voice or someone else’s. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it. That it’ll fade. But it’s like it’s burned into the back of my eyelids.”

You shifted, just slightly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, guiding his face closer until your foreheads touched.

He exhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know who I am outside of what they made me,” he said. “But when I’m with you, it’s the first time I don’t feel like a ghost in my own body.”

Your hand slipped behind his neck, fingertips resting just beneath his hairline.

“Ты не призрак.” [You’re not a ghost.]

The words didn’t feel like comfort.

They felt like truth.

And when his breath caught again—quiet, uneven, almost broken—you stayed exactly where you were.

Not fixing him. Not saving him. Just with him.

Because at some point, without meaning to, he had become the only thing in this world that mattered.

The room was still dark, the sky outside only just beginning to tint at the edges. You were still lying there, skin warm against his, your breath a steady rhythm he’d started to match. His body had gone still again—not tense, not panicked. Just quiet. Contained.

But his hand was still at your waist. His fingers drawing soft, slow shapes into your side like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And you let him.

Because it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry.

It was careful.

His breath brushed the space just behind your ear when he spoke again.

“You’re the only thing I feel like I don’t need to apologize for.”

You shifted slightly—chest to chest now, one leg brushing between his. Your palm moved up to his shoulder, then trailed along the line of his throat, slow and exploratory. Not a seduction.

A recognition.

The intimacy didn’t build like a fire—it simmered, low and inevitable. He leaned into you like someone who had forgotten how to reach for warmth. His hand moved to your back, spreading wide across your spine, holding you there—not hard, not desperate, but present.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not rough. Not fast.

Just his mouth against yours, slow and searching. His breath shaky, his fingers tightening just a little in your hair.

You kissed him back. Not because you were trying to fix him. Not because you owed him anything.

But because he felt real beneath your hands, and that was enough.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice barely more than breath:

“Please…”

You didn’t ask what he was asking for.

Because you already knew.

Bucky's forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm where it spilled between your lips, ragged in the quiet. His eyes were still closed. Like he couldn't bear to look at you yet—like the weight of being seen might break him.

You moved first.

Your hand slid slowly from the nape of his neck down to his shoulder, tracing the edge of his scars with deliberate softness. His skin twitched under your touch, not from fear—from hunger.

His metal arm lay inert beside him, but his other hand came up, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing your cheek like he still wasn’t sure you were real. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. His mouth followed.

This kiss was different.

No panic. No desperation.

Just need, thick and quiet and sharp.

You shifted, straddling his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist, your palms splayed flat against his chest. His skin was warm under yours, heartbeat hammering as though his body was still catching up to the permission he'd finally given himself—to want.

His hands found your waist. Traced the line of your spine. One stayed there, grounding himself in the curve of you, while the other slid up your side, fingers memorizing the shape of your ribs like he was trying to draw you blind.

When your hips pressed down against him, his breath caught sharply in his throat. He met your gaze then—fully, finally.

Not as the Soldat.

Not as a ghost.

As himself.

And you saw it—that flicker of reverence buried under the heat. Like even now, even wanting you, he didn’t feel like he deserved to have you.

So you kissed him again.

Not to reassure him.

To claim him.

His mouth opened under yours, hands gripping tighter now, pulling you down, closer, deeper. You rocked together slow, controlled, your rhythm deliberate, the pace of two people not trying to lose themselves—but trying to find themselves in each other.

You whispered between kisses—soft sounds only meant for him. He didn’t understand some of the words, but he held on to the tone, the way you said his name like it didn’t belong to anyone else.

When you sank down onto him, his whole body shuddered under you. His hands gripped your thighs, not guiding—begging. His lips trailed your throat, jaw, shoulder, anything he could reach, like touch was the only language he trusted.

You moved together slowly at first—bodies adjusting, memorizing, matching breath for breath, sound for sound. Every shift brought a deeper connection, every sigh a new thread stitched between skin and soul.

By the time your pace quickened, the air around you had changed. The city had faded. The world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this need.

He moaned your name against your neck like it was a prayer.

You held him like you were anchoring a man about to fall through the floor.

When release came, it wasn’t just pleasure. It was relief. A crashing, dissolving quiet that left you tangled together, chest to chest, sweat-slicked and breathless, your pulse finally syncing to something steady.

You didn't let go.

And neither did he.

Just stayed inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like the world outside your bodies had ceased to exist.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

You had this.

────────────────────────

Следующее утро

The Next Morning

The market was quiet in the way city mornings could be. Early light filtered between rusted awnings, the smell of spices and stone settling into the cracks of the pavement. You walked beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his arm near yours.

He was holding plums.

Inspecting them like they were treasure.

You watched him quietly, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It was absurd—how gentle he looked now, murmuring something about ripeness in Romanian under his breath. You didn't understand every word, but the tone was enough.

Then—

Something shifted.

A sharp prick under your skin.

Like static.

Like danger.

You didn’t know where it came from. A glance. A tension in the air. A silence that cut through background chatter too cleanly.

Your eyes tracked the source—an older man, just across the way, holding a folded newspaper in stiff fingers. He wasn’t watching the stand. He was watching him.

You followed the man’s line of sight, moving slowly, deliberately toward the stand. The vendor was distracted. You picked up a copy of the paper.

Front page.

Explosion at UN Assembly. Dozens dead. Suspect at large.

And beneath the headline—

His face.

Your stomach flipped. You turned sharply, plums forgotten. Walked straight to him.

Bucky looked up just as you shoved the newspaper into his chest.

He blinked. Then froze.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t run. You just leaned in, eyes locked with his.

“Нам нужно уходить. Сейчас.”

[We need to leave. Now.]

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t argue. His fingers clenched the paper.

And together, without another word, you turned and disappeared into the crowd.

────────────────────────

Берлин — Безопасный объект хранения

Berlin — Secure Holding Facility

You hadn't left his side since the arrest.

When the guards cuffed him, you didn’t fight them—not yet. You walked behind him, eyes narrowed, body coiled, your presence like a blade just waiting to be unsheathed.

No one could talk to you.

The blonde one had tried—gentle voice, soft posture, his hands open like that meant anything.

You stared at him like he was furniture.

His friend had watched you carefully, tension in his jaw, waiting for you to snap.

You didn’t.

You just stood closer to Bucky.

Then there was him.

The one in black. The Panther.

The moment he tried to approach, your hand twitched toward your hip. You had no weapon. Didn’t need one. Your body was a weapon. The look in your eyes alone was enough to make one of his guards step between you.

They tried to separate you.

You didn’t let them.

You didn’t speak a word—not in English, not in Russian. You were a storm in the room, silent and immovable. And even Bucky, tired and cuffed and quiet, looked at you with something just shy of awe.

Then the elevator opened.

She stepped out.

Red hair. Calm stride. Cold eyes that knew.

You didn’t need her name.

She didn’t need yours.

Natasha Romanoff approached slowly. Not cautiously. Respectfully.

She spoke in Russian, voice smooth but even.

“Мы никогда не встречались, но я знаю, кто ты.”

[We never met, but I know who you are.]

You said nothing.

She stopped a few feet away.

“Ты Сетка.” [You’re The Web.]

Still, no answer. But your gaze softened—fractionally.

Because you knew her too.

Not from missions. Not from photos.

From whispers in hallways. From training drills where instructors used her name like a warning.

Natalia Romanova. The Black Widow.

The one who escaped.

The one who survived.

“Он этого не делал,” you said finally.

[He didn’t do it.]

Your voice was low. Flat. Carved from certainty.

Natasha studied you. Something passed behind her eyes.

“I believe you,” she answered.

Then, more carefully:

“Но тебе нужно это сказать в суде.”

[But you need to say that in court.]

You stared at her.

Eyes hard.

“You’re his only alibi,” she added. “Without you, they’ll tear him apart.”

The thought made your stomach twist.

You clenched your jaw. Glanced at the camera behind Natasha—at Bucky, sitting in a metal chair, hands cuffed, head bowed.

You gave a slow nod.

And for the first time since his arrest—your eyes left him.

────────────────────────

The lights died without warning.

A loud click. A sharp hum.

Then—darkness.

Shouts echoed down the corridors. Metal scraped. Radios crackled with confusion. Power was down, systems offline, backup still lagging behind.

People froze. You didn’t.

You moved.

No hesitation. No questions.

The moment the lights dropped, your body remembered.

Because this kind of darkness only ever meant one thing.

You sprinted through the corridor like blood in a vein, bypassing the agents stumbling toward emergency protocols, your feet silent, lethal. Every step was muscle memory. Every twist and turn of the hallway a reflex carved into you long before freedom ever tasted real.

The door to the security wing came into view.

Ten guards. No time.

The first went down with a strike to the throat, his flashlight bouncing twice against the wall before silence claimed him.

The second reached for his radio—he didn’t get the chance. You broke his wrist, then slammed his head against the concrete.

They didn’t scream.

You didn’t give them the chance.

Three. Four. Five.

A baton cracked across your ribs—you spun and caught the next one mid-swing, driving his weapon into his own throat. The others hesitated.

That was their mistake.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Blood sprayed against the wall, glistening in the emergency red light now blinking to life.

Nine and ten dropped nearly at once—one from your heel, the other from your elbow, the weight of him crumbling against the wall with a breathless grunt.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not for breath. Not for pain. Not for blood.

You reached the holding cell just as the red emergency lights revealed him through the glass.

Bucky.

No. Not Bucky.

The Soldat.

His expression was blank. Eyes lifeless. Shoulders squared in that familiar, bone-deep way.

Inside the glass room, a man stood calmly—his voice rhythmic, deliberate.

“…Грузовой автомобиль.. Отчет—м…”

[Freight car... Mission report—m…]

You moved. Fast. You didn’t shout. You didn’t warn.

You slammed into the door controls, cracked them open with a guard’s badge, and dove through just as the man turned.

Your fist collided with his jaw before the last word could leave his mouth. He hit the floor, unconscious, blood blooming from his temple.

And then—

Silence.

Just the sound of the red lights humming.

You turned slowly. And looked at him.

Not Bucky. Not anymore.

Those eyes—the ones you’d let kiss your neck, trace your waist, breathe your name like it was prayer—were gone.

What stared back at you now was him.

The Soldat.

Empty. Programmed. Cold.

Your chest rose and fell with sharp, silent breaths. Not from exhaustion—but from adrenaline. From the ache that started deep behind your ribs and crept outward the moment he turned and looked at you with those eyes.

Cold. Vacant. Not his.

Your fingers curled slightly, tension trembling just beneath your skin.

You took one step forward.

“Бакки,” you said softly. [Bucky]

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

Another step.

“Бакки,” you tried again. [Bucky]

Still nothing.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t let it show.

Then—voice quieter, firmer, the way you’d been taught to never say unless you meant it—

“Солдат.” [Soldat]

His body shifted. Barely.

But his head tilted, just slightly, like the command lodged itself where language became law.

“Готов к выполнению.”

[Ready to comply.]

You closed your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to breathe.

And then you moved toward him. Hands raised.

No fear now. Not anymore. Not after all this time. Not after all the nights he’d held you like you were the only thing in the world that stopped him from drowning.

“Это не ты,” you murmured, approaching slowly. [This isn’t you.]

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

You laid your palms on his chest, feeling the warmth there—his heartbeat still steady, still human. You let your fingers spread, grounding yourself in the body you knew like your own.

“Ты не он.” [You’re not him.]

Your hands slid upward—over his collarbone, along his jaw, up to the sides of his face.

His eyes didn’t change. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

“Посмотри на меня.” [Look at me.]

Your thumbs traced just beneath his eyes. Soft. Intentional.

“Вернись ко мне.” [Come back to me.]

Stillness. And then—

A flicker. Just a breath. The barest crack behind his gaze.

His lips parted slightly, brows knitting, as if a noise were caught in his throat—something unsaid, something struggling to be remembered.

Your voice stayed low. Calm.

“Ты со мной сейчас.” [You’re with me now.]

His breath was just beginning to shift. Something in his face softening, eyes twitching with confusion—recognition pulling like a thread through fog.

Then—

Footsteps.

Boots on tile. Raised voices. Weapons ready.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Steve’s voice broke through first. “Bucky—!”

And in an instant, the tension returned.

Bucky’s body went rigid beneath your hands. His spine snapped straight, jaw locked, breath shallow and clipped. The softness vanished like it had never been there.

You felt the shift. Felt the Soldat rising again.

“Нет,” you whispered, voice firm, thumb still pressed to his cheekbone. “Нет.” [No.]

His hands twitched at his sides. You didn’t flinch.

You pressed closer, chest against his, forehead nearly touching his now. Then—

Movement behind you.

A shuffle of armor. The slight drag of a weapon’s safety clicking off.

You turned your head sharply—just enough to meet them.

Steve. Sam. T’Challa, face hard with fury, muscles taut with the restraint of a man who wanted to strike.

You stepped slightly in front of Bucky, still keeping one hand on his chest like you were holding a live wire.

Your eyes burned into all of them.

Then you pointed down at the unconscious man—Zemo, still bleeding from where you struck him.

“Вот ваш подрывник,” you spat, low and lethal. [There’s your bomber.]

None of them moved. Not yet.

Steve looked between you and Bucky, guilt bleeding into his features. Sam lowered his weapon just slightly. T’Challa’s jaw worked, but his eyes flicked to the man on the floor. Realisation behind his misplaced anger.

You didn’t wait for them to speak. You turned back to Bucky. Hands on his face again.

“Ты здесь,” you whispered, not begging—commanding. [You’re here.]

His breathing slowed. Not calm. But contained.

The emergency power roared back to life.

Lights flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Cameras reactivated. Screens across the control room sparked awake, broadcasting every inch of the cell.

Security forces tensed.

Steve took a step forward—halted only by the look you shot him.

Deadly. Final. And then.

You turned back. Everyone was watching. But none of it mattered.

You pressed your hand gently to Bucky’s chest again, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you were anchoring him there—in this moment, in this body.

His face twitched. Brows drew together in pain. His jaw clenched. The lines of the Soldat’s posture—so rigid, so familiar—began to shake.

You stepped closer still, voice low, Russian rolling like smoke from your lips. Words meant for him and no one else.

“Ты здесь. Это прошло. Это я. Только я.”

[You’re here. It’s over. It’s me. Only me.]

You said it like a vow. Like something you’d carve into him if you had to.

He blinked once. A flinch. Barely visible. Then his eyes met yours. Not hollow. Not gone.

Still struggling. Still fighting. But there.

His breathing hitched—once, then twice—and then with something like agony, he let out a sound low in his throat.

He bowed his head. And leaned into you.

Forehead against your shoulder, arms rising slowly—tentative at first, then tighter, until he was holding you with a force that felt like drowning. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d disappear.

Your hands slid into his hair, your fingers cradling the back of his skull.

Not protectively. Possessively.

He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He wasn’t a ghost. He was yours.

You didn’t look up. Not at Steve. Not at T’challa. Not at the dozens of cameras now recording this moment in real time, every politician, every soldier, every damned spectator watching the Soldat become Bucky Barnes again in the arms of the only person who knew how to bring him back.

And inside, rage burned in you like wildfire.

Not at him. At them. All of them.

For letting this happen to him. For dragging him back into it. For daring to treat him like a threat when he was barely holding himself together.

You hated them. Every last one of them.

But him?

You buried your face in his neck, whispering words no one else would ever hear.

He was the only thing you loved in this broken world.

The best way i can describe Bucky and Reader : Docile Dog and Feral Cat

[kedsandtubesocks]

erika!! omg i just saw your tags on my papa nanami blurb and want to thank you so much for reading it!! 🥺 you are sooooo sweet!! WAAAH i hope you have the loveliest day!! 💗

SEL SEL SEL omg pls THANK YOU FOR SHARING THAT WITH US!! ♥️😫

Goodness I miss him

You captured his essence so BEAUTIFULLY!!! He’s a man who cares with the little details and wants to spoil his family and you and just seeing how tender he is when you write him makes me MELT!!!

You’re the sweet one and I appreciate all you do and the time and energy you put into your works honey!! 💌😭🥹💕

I hope you have a beautiful rest of your day too!!!! 💖✨

[dipplinduo]

LOLLLL, MANDY.

YOU'VE DONE IT AGAIN.

LIGHTNING SPEED FANART OF THE FIC IM SCREAMING

I DON'T DESERVE YOU AND I 1000% CAN CONFIRM THAT DRAYTON WAS THINKING THAT IN THE MOMENT LMAOOOOOOO

I

I CAN'T

I HAVE NO EXCUSE

ITS SO LATE RIGHT NOW GUYS

I AM POSSESSED

I HAD TO DRAW THE SCENE

CARMINE IS SO CUTE. DRAYTON IS ICONIC.

And this ... is only ONE OF THE SCENES I WANT TO DRAW.

You might be guessing right if you know which one I want to draw next....( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Don't know what I'm talking about???

READ THE LATEST AND GREATEST:

[scoopsahoy]

alr i have kind of a wild request so ignore me if you dont wanna write it. you and eddie go to a house party thrown by steve (before they really knew each other) and you're dressed really provacatively. yall argue, he calls you a whore/slut, and you slap him and that awakens a new kink he didn't know he had, and yall fuck

ぺ  word count ⋰ 2.4k

✰  tw ⋰ none :)

❍  cw ⋰ possessive eddie, swearing, sex + fingering, handjob, face sitting, masturbation, oral (female receiving), top!reader, dirty talk

៚  a/n ⋰ i am ✨ovulating✨ at the moment so i'm a bit feral and horny rn, maybe this will quench that thirst

✐  masterlist

⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★

The second Eddie laid his eyes on you tonight, he felt rage bubble up in his chest. He wasn't a jealous guy by any means, but this... He couldn't help it. Seeing you in that short, tight dress with heels that accentuated your calves — your tits on full display, smushed together and jiggling with every step. It was too much for him to handle.

You wore the dress for him, knowing it would drive him up the wall with desire. But when you looked over at him, all you saw was angry jealousy. You were talking to Steve Harrington, who had a reputation of sleeping around at his parties.

You had zero intention of being the next notch on his belt, but you decided to play into Eddie's jealousy and make it worth your while.

He was protective of you. After all, you were the only girl in Hawkins who loved the Freak. And after finding you, he never intended on letting you go.

Just then, another guy with a reputation of being a bit of a man whore walked up and started a conversation with both of you. When you went to take another sip of the god-awful keg beer in your solo cup, you must've tipped it back too far and a few drops of it landed on your chest. You wiped them up, licking the beer off of your hand.

And you could've sworn you saw smoke blow out of both of Eddie's ears at this. This was the final straw, and he charged over to you, grabbing your bicep.

"Hey, babe," you said innocently.

"Can I talk to you? Alone?"

"Sure." You handed your cup to Steve. "Want the rest?"

Before he could respond, you were being dragged away by Eddie, who pulled you all the way upstairs to Steve's room (unintentionally) and shut the door behind you.

"What's up?" You kept the innocent tone.

"What's up? What's up? Seriously?"

"What? What's wrong, babe?"

"You know what's wrong."

"Enlighten me." You did know what was wrong. You knew completely. He let his jealousy get the better of him and couldn't handle the thought of other men lusting over you. He walked over to you, getting in your face.

In a low, deep voice, he said, "You show up to this party in that... dress. Showing every possible square inch of yourself."

"For you."

"No, no, no. Not for me. Not just for me."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Your tone was coy, fighting back a grin. "I think I'm actually dressed pretty modestly."

"Drop the act, Y/N." You rolled your eyes.

"What, I thought you liked public teasing."

"Yeah, when you're not surrounded by guys who would fuck the living daylights out of you."

"I think you're overestimating their abilities."

"You know both Steve and that other guy would fuck anything that moves, and you sit there, dripping beer on your tits and fake flirting with them."

"God, Eddie, I'm sorry. You normally go for this shit. How was I supposed to know it was any different?"

You turned to walk away from him.

"Because you're not usually dressed like a whore."

Without even a second to let that simmer, you were turning back around to face him, and your hand smacked him across the face so hard he froze, his head turned to the side.

You didn't even realize you were doing that before you could stop yourself. It was like instinct took over and you couldn't control yourself.

Neither of you moved for a few seconds. You were breathing heavily, both with rage and surprise.

He raised a hand to his cheek, flexing his jaw. His skin was red and hot, and the look in his eyes changed.

"Well, I guess... I probably deserved that."

"You think?"

Something out of the bottom corner of your vision caught your eye. You looked down to see a quickly growing tent in his pants.

"Eddie-"

"That was, uh... kinda hot."

"What?"

"I think... I liked that."

"What, getting slapped?"

He nodded. "It felt kind of good."

"You're joking."

A few seconds of silence passed before he grabbed your face and slammed your lips together. You immediately kissed back and he began backing you up towards the bed, dropping you down onto it.

"What's the word?" he asked, beckoning your safe word out of you.

"Zeppelin."

He smiled. "Good girl. Want me to fuck you on Harrington's bed, hm?"

"Yes," you moaned, his fingers wrapping lightly around your throat.

Without another word, he dropped to his knees on the floor, grabbing you by the thighs and yanking you towards him. Your ass was practically hanging off the bed, the only thing separating his mouth and your pussy being your underwear.

That didn't last long though, as they slid off your legs easily. He shoved them into his pocket, not intending to give them back for the night. The thought of you going commando at a party right after sex only made him harder, if that was even possible.

"What do you want?" he asked, his breath on your wet skin making you squirm.

"Eddie, please," you muttered, looking down at him.

"Uh-uh, you have to say it. 'Please' won't get you what you want."

"God, Eddie. I want your face buried in me."

"In where?"

"In my pussy. Please."

He didn't comply. He loved to tease you. Make you crumble under him. Instead of doing what you were asking for, he decided to finger you as slowly as humanly possible.

The initial touch was a bit of a relief, but his lack of speed could've made you cry.

"I don't think so."

"Ugh, please."

"I already told you, please isn't gonna get you anything. We're gonna try something new."

Admittedly, this is not where you'd prefer to branch out and try new things. But he moved you off the bed, instead taking your place laying down. He was on his back, his head on the pillow. He motioned for you to come over to him and mount him.

You complied, but he moved you up even further. You were straddling his face, looking down at him.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

Without answering you, he wrapped his arms around your hips from behind and pulled your body down, finally latching onto your clit with his mouth.

You gripped the headboard and gasped, immediate relief from the teasing making you feel warm.

"Fuck," you whispered, one hand reaching down to place itself on top of his. As you ground into his face, you couldn't help but feel like you were suffocating him. You tried to move backwards a little bit and give his nose more room, but his grip on you was strong, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

You reached behind you and cupped his crotch with your hand and he groaned into you. Your head was thrown back, your back arched and your hips desperately swaying into his tongue.

"Fuck, Eddie, I'm not gonna last much longer."

He tried his damndest to hold you still, but for some reason this position was much more intense than normal oral. So when you finally came — hard — you were glad there was music blasting outside.

You tried to cover your mouth with your hand, but he reached up and pulled it away, wanting to hear your whines and moans. Watching you from this angle was driving him insane. He'd never seen how much you really move when you cum, as you were normally on your back. But right now you could move freely, and you couldn't control yourself.

When he finally stopped his tongue, he scooched you down to sit in his lap. He sat up and wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close.

He kissed you roughly, smearing your lipgloss all over your faces.

"Baby," he whispered, looking up at you.

"Hm?"

"I want you to be on top tonight."

"But I'm never on top."

"I know. But I want you to be dominant this time."

"Eddie, I'm not dominant. You know that."

"When you slapped me... I liked it. I want you to do it again."

You furrowed your brows. "You... want me to hurt you?" He nodded. "That was in the heat of the moment. I don't think I could do it again if I tried."

"Then I want you to choke me, like I do to you." You gently placed your fingers around his neck, your fingertips pressing lightly. "Just like that. But harder." You squeezed the sides of his throat. His eyes lit up and he smiled. "There you go."

You also smiled a bit and pushed him down so he was laying on his back again. You crawled down between his legs, unbuckling his belt. Seeing you on top of him, undoing his clothes for him almost made him want to flip you over and fuck you as hard as he could. But the idea of you on top of him, fucking him, almost made him feel like he was going to combust.

Your hand around his girth broke him out of his imagination, a soft moan slipping out of his mouth.

"Y'know, the tables have turned a bit, here," you said seductively.

"Mhm."

"I'm used to you teasing me. But I don't usually get to do the teasing." You swiped your thumb over his swollen tip, which made him jump. "You like to go slow when you tease me. Painfully slow." You calmly and casually stroked him, keeping your speed at a minimum. "Now you get to see how it feels."

He was a puddle under you. Normally when you gave him handjobs, you would use both hands, as that's what it took to completely engulf him. But right now, you were only using one. And it was driving him insane. You could see his stomach muscles tensing, rippling at the lack of motion.

"Y/N, please."

"Ah-ah-ah. What was it you said to me earlier? 'Please' won't get you what you want." He chuckled at this, silently cursing himself for saying that. "You want me to fuck you?"

You weren't sure where you mustered up this confidence. Maybe it was seeing him writhing under you, you finally understood what it was like from his perspective.

Having someone whimpering and begging at your actions, pleading for more. Needing more from you.

"Yes."

"How bad?"

"So fucking bad."

You slowly licked a single stripe up from the base to the tip of his cock, making him thrust his hips gently.

You giggled to yourself, adjusting your position again so your hips were on top of his. His dick was pinned between his stomach and your wet pussy. You ground against it, sliding him through your folds.

His hands were on your thighs, his nails slightly digging into your skin.

"Tell me how much you want it," you whispered, reaching down and pushing his hair off his face.

"I need it so bad, baby."

"How bad?"

"So bad that if you don't fuck me right now I'm gonna flip you over and do it myself."

Without another word, you sunk down onto him, both of you sighing of relief. You threw your head back and got used to him inside of you, not used to having to make the next move.

You braced yourself on his abdomen, your hands pressing into his skin.

You got your rhythm down pretty quickly, figuring out how to maneuver your hips and not your whole body. And not long after, your hand found his throat, pressing against the sides.

His eyes rolled back into his head, the slight lack of oxygen at your control feeling ridiculously good. He couldn't believe he hadn't asked you to do this before.

He was beginning to give into the urge of thrusting, and when you noticed, you stopped your movements and stopped choking you.

"What happened?" he whined. That tone was an insane turn-on, how desperately, frantically he needed you.

"No moving," you commanded, which was something he would say to you when he would eat you out. "Keep your hips completely still or I stop."

"God, you're good at this."

You began moving again, and it didn't take long for him to get close. Normally he lasted for a while, but being dominated made him feel like he was going to bust after only about three minutes.

"Y/N, I'm getting close."

"Not yet."

"What?"

"No cumming yet. You have to wait."

The roles were reversed. He loved edging you, forcing you to hold off your orgasm until he said you could cum. And you understood why. Holding someone's orgasm in your hands, forbidding them to reach it until you allowed it was doing something to you.

"I can't- I can't wait," he choked, really squeezing your skin.

"Too bad, you have to." You reached down and began masturbating, getting yourself there so he could too. You squeezed his neck as you felt the familiar sensation building in your belly. "I'm getting close too, I'll tell you when."

He screwed his eyes shut tightly, throwing his head back. He looked heavenly in this position, putty in your hands. He was mumbling 'fuck, fuck, fuck' to himself, taking everything in him to hold his cum in.

"Eddie," you squealed. "Cum."

You'd never heard him scream when he came, but this ripped through him. He was incapable of being quiet like he normally was. His grunts and groans were animalistic and caveman-like. You'd never heard sounds like this come from him. Maybe it was the oxygen being cut off, or the position.

He couldn't resist thrusting his hips up as you came, which worked out perfectly because you could barely move as you trembled.

Tears fell down your cheeks and you moaned so loudly it hurt your throat.

When he stopped moving, you laid your chest against him, his cock still inside of you. You breathed in sync, neither of you opening your eyes. Eventually, he wrapped his hands around your back and held you close.

He planted a kiss to the top of your head and smirked.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Y/N. We should've done this forever ago."

"Yeah," was all you could muster.

It took you guys a moment to move, but when you finally did, you pulled your dress back down to cover your thighs.

"Can I have my underwear back?" you asked.

"I think I'll keep 'em. Make it a reminder not to flirt with other guys."

"But if I never teased you, this would've never happened."

He laughed. "Very true. Maybe I'll allow it sometimes."

[buckyseternaldoll]

hey! just read your sub!Bucky pieces and went absolutely FERAL for them. was just wondering if you had plans to do any more, maybe even one where Bucky slips into subspace? just a thought lol no pressure but I really really do love your writing it's AMAZING <3

Hi love! Let's just say I was working on this, which I felt it's giving the similar wavelength (not sure if this was the plot you're looking for) but I hope you'll enjoy this one too! 💜 This was already 2k words in before I saw this ✨

𝓌𝓇𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 ᢉ𐭩

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: It’s Bucky’s birthday, and for once, there’s no mission, no alarms, no need to be the strong one. Just a quiet morning in your shared bed at the Watchtower—where you worship every inch of him, show him how deeply he’s loved, and let him drift into the softest subspace under your touch.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, sub!Bucky, praise kink, emotional subspace, riding (f on m), blowjob, soft dom!reader, birthday sex, aftercare, gentle smut, romantic smut, post-mission softness, cuddling, emotional vulnerability, sleep kink (non-fetishized)

Word Count: 3.8k

It was just another quiet weekday in the Watchtower. No missions. No briefings. Not even a sparring session. The corridors were still and silent, bathed in late morning sun, untouched by urgency or tension for once. Peace like that was rare—but today, it felt deserved.

Especially because it was his birthday.

The two of you stayed in bed longer than usual, tangled beneath soft cotton sheets, both of you naked under the covers. Your body pressed close to his, skin on skin, warm and unhurried. Bucky’s head rested against your chest, his stubble grazing the swell of your breast as he breathed you in—like the sound of your heartbeat was the only thing tethering him to this quiet moment.

His flesh hand had found its way to your breast sometime after waking. Not with lust. Not to tease. He simply held you there, fingers splayed across your soft skin, thumb stroking lazy circles over your nipple. It grounded him. Anchored him. It made him feel safe.

You let him stay there, one arm curled around his shoulders, the other slowly carding through his messy, dark hair. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His body told you everything—the way he sighed softly when you touched him, how his thumb slowed, how his entire weight pressed into your side like he trusted the bed wouldn’t hold him but you would.

And maybe it was the quiet. Or the sunlight. Or just the fact that today was his. But something about the moment made you want to give him everything.

You kissed the top of his head first. Then his temple. The soft corner of his brow. Your lips moved slowly, reverently, down the side of his face until you reached his jaw—and you felt him exhale, deep and warm, like he was already letting go.

There was no urgency. No fire. Just love.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whispered into his hair. “Let me take care of you today. Let me show you how much I love you.”

You felt him nod, so faintly it was almost imperceptible—and that was all the permission you needed.

—

You shifted gently, guiding him with slow, coaxing hands until he lay flat on the bed beneath you. The sheets rustled beneath his body, catching little patches of morning sun that filtered through the curtains. His hair splayed out on the pillow like a halo, and when you leaned over him—hovering, bare skin brushing against his—Bucky didn’t resist. He just looked up at you with those steel-blue eyes, soft and stormless.

You began at his forehead. A single kiss. Barely a press of your lips. Then another—this one firmer, lingering. You trailed them down the center, between his brows. Then to the left, then the right, your mouth ghosting every inch of skin like it deserved worship.

You kissed the bridge of his nose, let your lips curl there, smiling gently when he scrunched it in response. His cheeks, flushed already, warmed further under your attention. You mouthed over his cheekbones, slow and fluttery—kisses like soft feathers.

Then, his eyelids—and he closed his eyes for you, without being asked. Trusting. Vulnerable. You kissed each one with quiet reverence, your thumbs brushing just beneath them.

His ears next—one, then the other—the shell, the lobe, the sensitive curve just behind it. You whispered there, voice velvet-soft:

“You don’t even know how beautiful you are, do you?”

He shivered under you.

You moved down to his chin, traced your lips beneath it, then finally met his mouth. A kiss, then another. Plush, slow, deep. Not hungry. Just… full. He sighed into you, his hands twitching slightly on the sheets like he didn’t know whether to pull you in or surrender entirely.

You chose for him.

You kissed down his throat next, dragging your lips over the strong line of his neck. One side, then the other. You kissed every inch—the sharp line under his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the side where his pulse fluttered quick under skin. You nuzzled there, inhaling deeply like he was your favorite scent.

Then came his collarbones. You traced them with your tongue, kissed over the dips, and left little open-mouthed presses over the stretch of chest between them.

His chest.

God, his chest.

You slowed there, sitting back on your knees for a moment to just look. His skin was lightly freckled, chest rising and falling steadily, pecs soft but sculpted with strength. His nipples were already pebbled from your touch, from the air, from the sheer intimacy of being looked at like this.

You leaned down again, mouthing at his left nipple. A soft suck. A slow swirl of your tongue. He let out the faintest breath—not a moan, but something deeper, like surprise. You repeated it on the right, just as lovingly.

“I don’t say this enough,” you murmured against his skin, “but I love your chest. Every inch of it. The way it fits against me when we sleep. How solid you feel when I hold you. How soft your skin is right here…”

You kissed the space between his pecs. Let your nose brush down the ridge of his sternum.

Then, you took both of his hands.

First, his flesh hand—calloused but warm, fingertips twitching with the desire to touch. You brought it up to your face and pressed it against your cheek, nuzzling in. Then his vibranium one—cooler, but just as familiar. You mirrored the movement, setting his palm against your other cheek, letting the contrast of heat and metal ground you both.

You kissed the knuckles of one, then the other. Not up to his shoulders—just enough to make him feel cherished, honored.

Then your lips began their descent.

You pressed slow kisses down the flat of his stomach, dragging your tongue briefly over the cut ridges of his abs. His stomach twitched beneath you—his muscles contracting, not from restraint, but from feeling. Each kiss came with breathy praise:

“So strong for me, baby...”

“Look at you, you’re unreal…”

“I could kiss you here all day…”

You moved lower, past the lines of his hips, brushing the edge of where his body was already beginning to stiffen with arousal. But you didn’t go there. Not yet.

Instead, you lingered. Paused. Looked.

Your eyes lifted, meeting his—half-lidded, soft with awe.

“You still surprise me, you know?” you said quietly, voice touched with wonder. “No matter how many times I’ve gone down on you, no matter how many times you’ve been inside me…”

Your gaze flicked down again.

“You’re still so damn perfect. Thick… long… veiny in all the right places… curved just right to ruin me.”

Bucky let out a low moan—barely there, like he was trying to hold it in.

You leaned forward, lips brushing the base of his shaft in a slow, wet kiss. Then another. You mouthed up his length, lips parting slightly to taste the warmth of him. Your tongue flicked just beneath the ridge, teasing gently.

He groaned this time—not loud, but from his chest. His hands fisted in the sheets.

You glanced up, lips still near the tip.

��You don’t have to hold it in today, baby,” you whispered. “It’s your day. You can moan as loud as you want.”

—

You kissed the tip of his cock once more, lips plush and wet, before taking him into your mouth—slow, steady, no theatrics. Just love.

He was warm and heavy on your tongue, the weight of him familiar, comforting even. You wrapped one hand around the base as you sucked, your other resting gently over his thigh, grounding him there. Your tongue moved in slow, tender motions—tracing along the underside, flicking softly under the head, then swirling around the crown like you were savoring the taste of him.

He moaned low—not because he was trying to, but because the sound slipped from him naturally. Bucky didn’t try to take control. Didn’t buck his hips. Didn’t reach for your head.

He just let you love him.

He surrendered to it. Fully.

You adjusted your pace now and then, never too fast—never trying to bring him over the edge, only to bring him peace. Your hand began to stroke slowly in tandem with your mouth, coaxing soft pulses from his cock as you pulled back and slid forward again, humming lightly around him. Every so often, you paused to mouth around the head, giving it gentle, fluttery kisses before sinking again.

His breaths were shallow now. Chest rising and falling with rhythm, hands fisting gently into the sheets beside him—not out of desperation, but of feeling too much and still wanting more.

And you gave it to him. Every drop.

After a while, you pulled back with a soft pop, one hand still stroking his length, slick and slow. You moved back up his body, hovering over him once again, your thighs straddling his hips now. His lips were parted, cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy when they met yours.

And then you kissed him.

A kiss so deep it made your chest ache. Tender, gentle, plush—just lips and warmth and love pouring into him like water into something parched. He moaned into your mouth, and you drank it down, your hand still stroking him between your bodies.

You broke the kiss barely an inch from his lips, whispering against him:

“I love you, Bucky. I love you so much it hurts. Nothing I do will ever be enough to show it. Nothing.”

You kissed him again, and he melted into it.

Still stroking him, you lifted your hips just enough to guide the tip of his cock toward your slick folds—already soaked, your body aching to take him in. You ran him through your wetness, coating him slowly, letting him feel the heat of you.

And then, you began to lower yourself.

Inch by inch, you took him into you—your breath catching, your moans soft and open. His hands remained beside him, his brows pulled slightly in a dazed, vulnerable expression as your warmth enveloped him.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered as he stretched you open, “So perfect for me… strong, kind, mine…”

Another inch.

“I love your mind… your body… your heart… every broken piece, every scar—I want them. I want you.”

You bottomed out, hips flush against his, his cock deep inside you—and his moan this time trembled. His chest rose sharply, his eyes shut tight. You felt him start to come apart.

He didn’t say a word—but the way his body softened beneath you, how his hands stopped clutching the sheets, how his breath started coming in slow, heavy waves—you could feel it.

He was letting go.

Slipping under.

Not because of pressure.

But because of love.

—

You leaned back, lifting your chest away from his, placing your hands on either side of his hips as you settled into a rhythm. Your body curved like sculpture as you began to ride him slowly—hips rolling with purpose, with grace, with love. Every movement was deliberate. Every descent a declaration.

He filled you so perfectly, thick and pulsing, stretching you just right. The familiar pressure made your head tilt back for a moment, a soft moan slipping past your lips as your walls clenched around him instinctively.

“God… Bucky—,” you breathed, eyes finding his again. “You feel so good inside me…”

His gaze was already on you—wide and heavy-lidded, ethereal in their pale blue softness. His hair was fanned across the pillow, chest rising with each breath, muscles loose beneath you.

But you could still see it—the flicker of something in his expression. That quiet tension he never fully let go of.

He still thought he had to be the strong one. The one who kept everything together. The protector. The man.

It was written in the furrow of his brow, the way his jaw flexed like he was trying to hold himself still, even while being loved.

But you weren’t having it.

You leaned into the movement, riding him with a little more rhythm now—still slow, still soft, but enough to make him feel. Your hands trailed down your own body, touching your breasts, your thighs, showing him how deeply he affected you. Your moans came easier, sweeter now.

“You don’t have to be anything right now,” you whispered. “Just let go, baby. Let me love you.”

He exhaled shakily. His hands stayed on the sheets, fingers twitching. His muscles were no longer holding tension—they were melting. You could feel it happening under you.

Your hips rolled deeper, and a fresh wave of slickness coated him, helping him glide within you with even less resistance. You moved with love—like he was your rhythm, your anchor, your purpose. And all the while, you kept your eyes on him.

“You’re so perfect like this… letting me take care of you…”

A little faster now.

Your moans turned breathier, your voice lilting every time his cock hit that perfect spot inside you—the gentle curve brushing your most sensitive places like a promise.

“You’re everything to me,” you whispered, and it cracked slightly on the edge of a moan. “Everything, Bucky. I love you—God, I love you so much, I don’t know what to do with it…”

He was trembling beneath you now—not from exertion, but from feeling too much. You knew his orgasm was close. Just like yours.

You rode him with more urgency now, but still soft. Still loving. The pace was steady, grounding—enough to build your pleasure to its peak without shaking the serenity of the moment. Just when you started to lose rhythm—your thighs tightening, your breath catching—your orgasm bloomed through you, warm and slow and full-bodied.

“Bucky,” you moaned, not loud, but with every ounce of devotion. “Bucky—I love you…”

That was all it took.

His eyes fluttered shut. His hands clenched the sheets. And then he came.

Hot pulses spilled inside you, his body jerking slightly beneath yours as he let go, all at once. You kept grinding down on him, slow and indulgent, milking every drop, wanting him to feel it—the depth of what you were giving him. The love you poured into every movement.

When the last wave passed, you slowly sank down, chest hovering over his again as you rested lightly on him, his cock still buried inside. You were panting, your skin dewy with sweat and satisfaction. He wasn’t—damn super soldier stamina—but he looked like a man completely undone.

And he was smiling.

Soft. Wide. So genuine it made your heart ache.

“God,” he murmured, voice rough with awe, “I love this… love how you cherished me.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him—tender and slow. A kiss that told him you heard him. That you always would.

You whispered against his lips:

“Happy birthday, baby.”

Another kiss, this one to the corner of his mouth. Then his cheek.

“Never too old to be the love of my life.”

—

Later—after your bodies had cooled and your breathing had steadied—you straddled him again.

But this time, you reached for him gently. Pulled him up with slow hands, guiding him to sit upright. His body followed yours instinctively, pliant and warm, his chest flush against yours as he came to rest in the middle of the bed with you wrapped around his lap.

You cupped his cheeks, kissed him—just once, deeply—and then reached beneath, guided him back inside you.

A soft gasp left both your lips.

You rolled your hips again, slow and steady. He was already hard again—of course he was, supersoldier resilience and all—and the way he filled you from this angle made you moan softly into the space between you.

Your face found his neck. You buried yourself there, lips brushing his pulse point, arms wrapped behind his shoulders as you moved up and down with slow rhythm. There was no urgency. Just this.

Your breath caught as you whispered:

“Bucky…”

A thrust.

“James—”

Another.

“God, Buck… I love you. I love you with every part of me…”

You kept moving, hips gliding down over his again and again, the wet sounds of your bodies joined mixing with the occasional sigh he let slip.

His arms had found your waist—not to control, but to hold. Lightly. Just to feel you close. His forehead rested against your shoulder now, breath warming your skin. His lips parted, but no words came. He didn’t need them.

You could feel the way he was slipping—further into you, further away from his thoughts. Every time your hips rolled, every time your voice cracked from how much you loved him, you felt the tension bleed out of his muscles.

His eyes stayed closed.

He was quiet. Floaty. Gone.

And you kept going. Riding him slow, murmuring his name like a lullaby, whispering your love into the curve of his neck.

“I love you, baby. I love you so much, I don’t even have the words…”

“You’re so good for me, Bucky… always so good…”

“Just stay here with me… you don’t have to carry anything else right now…”

And then it built again—soft pressure mounting inside you, your thighs starting to tremble, your moans breaking into breathy stutters. You held him tighter, and you felt it in him too—the little twitch of his cock, the sharp inhale against your skin.

“Come with me,” you whispered, “please, baby… just let go with me…”

And he did.

You came together, soft cries tangled into each other’s skin. Your body clung to his, every part of you melting, soaking in his heat as his release spilled deep inside you again. His arms wrapped tighter around your back, face buried in your shoulder, lips ghosting your collarbone in a dazed smile.

His voice cracked with emotion as he finally spoke:

“Baby… I never felt a love this strong. Not ever.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face—flushed, soft, dazed—and you smiled, cupping his cheeks.

“You deserve it, Buck. Every bit of it.”

You kissed him once, slow and warm. Then another.

With a soft sigh, you eased your hips back and slowly slid off of him, his cock slipping free with a wet sound that left you both breathless. You watched him blink—floaty, flushed, still gone—and reached for the small towel you’d tucked by the bedside earlier. You knew he’d need help now. You wanted to take care of him.

—

He was still seated, still inside that soft, slow daze, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of someone who felt held in every way.

You kissed his temple, voice soft in his ear:

“It’s your birthday, baby… So just lay down for me, yeah? Be the king you are today. Let me show you how much I love you.”

He didn’t answer—just nodded, dazed, letting you guide him gently back down onto the bed. He settled flat, arms relaxed at his sides, body loose like he didn’t have to carry anything anymore. You straddled beside him, reached for the towel, and began cleaning him.

First, his softened cock—still twitching slightly, sensitive, slick with your combined release. You were slow, so slow. Wiping him gently, careful not to rush or overstimulate. You murmured as you worked, each word like honey:

“You did so well for me, baby.”

“You let go so beautifully…”

“I’m so proud of you… so proud to be yours…”

You finished and kissed his hip softly, then leaned back to clean yourself. He watched through half-lidded eyes, not quite there, but present enough to follow your movements—like watching you anchored him to the world.

Once you were done, you tossed the towel aside and curled beside him, pulling the blankets up just enough to cover his lower half. You guided his head gently to your chest, his cheek resting over your bare skin. You felt the heat of his breath against you, the slow lull of his heartbeat syncing with yours.

And you threaded your fingers into his hair.

Soft, rhythmic motions. Over and over. Stroking behind his ear. Tracing circles over his scalp. Holding him.

He looked blissed, completely. His eyes were half-closed, lips parted, lashes fluttering like he was floating somewhere between sleep and peace.

Then, in a voice barely audible—more breath than sound—he mumbled:

“…love you so much…”

You smiled. Because you understood. You always would.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “So much.”

You kept petting him, holding him like he was something sacred, something worth all the time and care in the world. Minutes passed like that—maybe more—until eventually, you felt him stir a little.

He blinked, slower than usual. His eyes finally met yours—and there was clarity there now. The fog had lifted, just a little.

“Wow,” he said, voice rough and raw. “That was… new.”

He paused, searching for words.

“It felt like… I don’t know. Like being wrapped up. Like being hugged from the inside out. Everything was warm. And soft. Like I didn’t have to think anymore—”

Your smile deepened, thumb stroking his cheek.

“That’s love, baby Bucks,” you said softly. “That’s what it feels like. And I’m not gonna stop showing it to you.”

He closed his eyes again. Letting that sink in. Letting you sink in.

And with his arms slowly wrapping around your waist, pulling you close—you knew he believed you.

—

Bucky didn’t say anything else after that. He didn’t need to.

His head stayed tucked into your chest, arms loosely wrapped around your waist like he was holding onto the warmth that had brought him back from someplace far and quiet. You kept your fingers in his hair, slow and soothing, dragging your nails lightly over his scalp in slow patterns. You could feel his body softening more with every breath—his chest rising deeper, slower. The kind of breathing that only came when someone felt completely, utterly safe.

Your other hand traced gentle circles across the curve of his shoulder, then down the line of his back. You weren’t drawing any pattern, just touching to let him feel that you were still there.

Present.

Loving him, even in stillness.

He didn’t speak again. Didn’t shift. His breathing evened out—no sharp inhales, no tense exhale. His whole body went heavy against yours. No loud thoughts. No guilt. No duty pulling him from your arms.

He was asleep.

Just like that.

It had never been that easy before. Not for Bucky.

You smiled, still drawing lazy shapes on his skin, still playing with his hair. You didn’t rush your own sleep. Just let the warmth of him—his weight, his scent, the soft rhythm of his breathing—pull you in too.

Outside the window, the sun had climbed higher in the sky, stretching golden light across the floorboards of your shared unit in the Watchtower. There were no sirens. No mission briefings. No alarms.

Just calm.

Just love.

Just the two of you.

You let your eyes drift shut. Your arm curled tighter around him. And together, you both sank into the quiet peace of a late morning nap—wrapped in warmth, in safety, in everything you had given each other.

[dragonsoulage]

What their kinks are…

feat. Manjiro Sano, Ken Ryuguji, Baji Keisuke, Izana Kurokawa, Takashi Mitsuya

Sometimes they just can’t pretend as if they wouldn’t want to breed you or see you in pretty clothes they chose. Like they just can’t help themselves when you look just so divine it makes them go feral.

Hello friendos, this time we enjoy some Tokyo Revengers men and their kinks I think could fit them the most. I believe like with Izana it depends on the emotional state he is having sometimes. Although he is more rough overall 🤣💀

I hope you enjoy, because it was quiet fun writing it ✨✨💀🌚

Wordcount: 3,1k

Warnings: dominant men, rough, breeding kink, prais kink, Mommy issues/ kink, manhandling, biting, scratching, hair pulling, size kink, soft dom, clothes kink

Manjiro Sano - The switcher

Mikey gives off such a switch vibe energy. At first, he pins you down, having his way with you, wanting to make you beg for it. And the next, oh, such lovely eyes look up when he wants you to take the lead.

And unlike Izana, he wants this. He admits he likes it.

It depends on his mood, what he prefers, and what you give him today. Are you bratty? Well, he won't hesitate to pin you down underneath him, feeding you his long inches, gently choking you.

Even when he still presses a gentle kiss on your neck, cooing in your ear how well you take him.

Urging you to say how good he makes you feel.

"Come on, sweetheart, use your words," he teased, holding your thighs open to bully his dick between your puffy folds, making you tremble and roll back your eyes. He enjoys doing this to you. Seeing what his actions do to your sweet body, he adored you, eyes roaming over your form.

He is also really much into emotional sex, besides the fact he can fuck you into the mattress, being tender to you, and telling you how much he needs and loves you.

Often this is the point when things switch. Being on top of him, sitting up, he holds you, having you oh, so close. Mikey sat up too, just so he could bury his head in your neck, breathing you in.

Needing you, like he needs the fucking air to breath.

This is the moment when the fragile side slips through.

The softer side is that he actually is allowed to be vulnerable. And as soon as you noticed how his strokes went a little softer, you went with it. Tangled in arms and skin, wrapping them around his shoulders as your forehead lay against his.

Wide blue eyes looking in just your own orbs, you felt his breath caressing your lips, so puffy because you still rocked your hips into him.

The moment his feral look went suddenly all so gentle, daring you to take the lead. Just so the big boss finally could enjoy and just be.

"You feel like heaven...uhh." He let out, holding you still close, before you kissed his cheek.

Your palm came up cradling his face when you brushed back a blonde lock of his hair behind his ear.

"Hmm, you like that? I did not even start yet." You chuckled sultrily before you tried to get a firmer position.

Mikey not hesitating to lift you on your ass to help you adjust.

"I want you to say it, baby," you cooed in his ear, tilting your hips just right, shifting your weight so you could get a little better friction, which made you sigh content.

"You don't need to be that demanding," he chuckled shortly before leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view.

How perfect your body was in his eyes, how your tits just slightly swayed with your motion. The expression on his face says it all: he wants his girl to take the lead. And you did, gently grasping his chin, making you look at him, what he does, and what he adores.

"Am I? Demanding, sweet boy?" you asked him just before you started to bounce now a little faster. Walls squeezing tighter around his girth, and this was the point when his head fell back and a deep whine was heard. He couldn't keep his composure, not when his hands were reaching for your breasts, holding them, and when his eyebrows knit together.

"Fuck...No, Mommy," his voice strained, but he let go, just feeling your warm, tight pussy around him, unraveling him faster than any other thing in this world could.

Ken Ryuguji - Addicted to get you so full of him

I mean, it is obvious, Draken is a tall guy, a strong one. Always have been and always will be. So he just adores when you feel so small in his hands or around his cock.

Squeezing him in the most delicious way makes him grunt.

When he knows, he simply covers your whole frame when hovering over you. Spreading your thighs open just to watch his fat cock disappear in your puffy folds, how you struggle to take him, and yet your wet pussy sucked him in—at least she tried to.

"Look at that little, perfect pussy, so greedy even when I am not halfway in yet," he snickers, before planting a kiss right underneath your ear, just so he can listen to the little mewl.

Feeling the way your small hands grabbed after his biceps, nails digging in.

"Ken...it's too big... I- ahh." You tried to find any kind of words, but all you felt was that big stretch when he finally was completely sheathed inside you. Eyes squeezing shut, and head fell back in the pillows. So he saw the vulnerable column of your throat. Not hesitating to place open-mouthed hot kisses down there, all while fucking so slowly into you. Large hands held you open when you squirmed.

"Pretty girl can take it, yeah?" It was not a question, more spoken as a fact when he thrusts harder, deliberate but always on point to make you crumble beneath him.

I also imagine he has a thing for praise, and he is more likely to give praise. Like telling, you how pretty you look, how beautiful you are when you are wrecked. How good you felt around him, how it was making him feral. And believe me, he is going feral at some point.

"Taking me so well, look how utterly perfect you are like this," whispering it in your ear with that deep booming voice, making you shudder and more...clench around him, so his thrust stuttered for a short moment.

"Harder, baby," were the only words you always managed to choke out. Just so his hair that fell out of his braid tickled your face. Abs tensing when fucking you even deeper and harder. Just how you need it, how he needs it.

"I've got you, pretty girl. So fucking pretty and wet for me, hm?"

Overall, he is dominant but always makes you feel safe, never pushes you to your limit, even when you want him to... He knows when your body needs a break, and you are just too cock drunk to notice it. But he never left you unsatisfied. I always imagine when he knows you are sore...he would love when you sit on his face. No matter what weight you are, for him, he would love to get smothered by your pussy; he likes the weight he tries to put down on him. When he is fucking his tongue inside your cute pussy.

But Draken gets really feral when it is about breeding. Tell him you want it inside, and every ounce of self control is gone. Hand on your chin, tilting it up, looking in your eyes with such a pure need.

"Fuck a baby into me, Ken." Those sweet words, half moaned right in his face when you looked like you would die when he would not cum inside you. "Then tell me how much you want me to have it inside, pretty," he commanded, gently taking a deep breath, knowing he was bracing himself for the next hours to pump so much cum into you. Having you so overstimulated but begging...he was just a man. How should he deny his girlfriend that?  

Baji Keisuke - The manhandling menace

Baji? Fucking naughty, he takes you when he feels like it, aware how wet you got when he started manhandling you.

Seeing you in that dress? Damn, without thinking, he would bend you over his bike. But it's not just that. Even when I think he would be more the dominant one, he still likes when you bite back...or when you let him ruin you.

Baji fucking adores the way it feels when you pull on his hair while he eats you out. Bronze eyes looking up all while his tongue is so busy being buried into your tight, wet heat. Groaning when he just tasted your sweetness, he couldn't help but go feral. When does that man have any self-control?

He does things because he feels like them. Eating you out, his favorite meal of the day, and your hands in his silky raven strands? When he looks so handsome, being all focused and smug about making you come undone without even his cock?

"Come on, baby, pull it harder," he urged you to before laying his tongue flat against your clit, which was making your hips buck up. Your hands pulling it harder, and his face even more into your pussy.

But not just that—he loves to pull your hair too, fist wrapped around your hair, pounding you from behind. Girthy cock buried to the hilt in your snug cunt that fit him perfectly. You were already keening as it literally knocked your breath out of your lungs with every deep thrust. Pulling your hair just so his other hand grabs your throat gently. Watching that cute little expression when he fucked you dumb with teary eyes.

"Don't look at me with those eyes," he growled, yanking your head back, so his lips were warm against your ear.

"What eyes?" you asked him, all so innocent, although you knew what you did.

"These pleading eyes are telling me to fuck you even harder, sweetheart," whispering it in your ear before getting your head pushed into a pillow.

I also can imagine him quite the biter, especially during foreplay, making out? Your lips will be kiss-bitten, pink, and glossy. Barely keeping up with his hunger when his tongue was invading your mouth like a starved man, exploring every place in your mouth, tongues tangled before he started with a nib and gently sucked in your bottom lip just to bite down gently.

Not just that when he fucks you in a full nelson, he does enjoy biting oh so tenderly in your neck and shoulder. Loving the feeling of how your skin tasted and how it made your cute pussy throb when he does it with his canines.

And in case you bite back, that has him going, biting his shoulder when he sinks in deep, trying to keep yourself from coming too hard? He does enjoy it.

Baji is all yours when you start scratching him, when he pushes your thighs apart with large calloused hands, his face in the crook of your neck when he was sliding into you so effortlessly. Just when he picks up pace, your nails raking over his back, it was having his balls draw up tight, making him groan oh so deep. "Fuck, do it again," he commands. Give him a scratch, and he is all yours.  

Izana Kurokawa - The controlling one until he melts

I am sure he is a guy who wants control, wants to be king, and wants to be in total control of you. And don't get me wrong, this guy wrecks you in bed.

Throwing you around to his liking before giving your poor pussy the pounding of your life.

He enjoys watching you struggle beneath him; this is for sure. He pushes your limits, but never too much. Not for real, though.

Hands gripping so tight it was nearly bruising when he has you on your knees. Always these wet squelches of your pussy, the moan he could earn, the whimper on your tongue, the whisper of his name when he fucked you like this.

Head fell back, just to drag every mean inch of him along your inner walls. Making you feel every vein with this hard, punishing pace he had. Smacking your ass, just in time so you would squeeze him. And he knew you would.

"Look at that greedy, slutty girl. All on her knees for her king...fuck." He loved to degrade you, but not too much; you are his queen, not his slut, but he fucks you like one.

He could have had every girl, but you were the only one he wanted.

Izana knows you are patient, you are a safe place, his safe place.

You don't use him, not like everyone else. You let him use you, no matter if it were to fuck or sometimes...just sometimes cuddling you a moment longer than he intended.

Poor boy, so confused why he stayed like this with you, even when deep down he knows why.

You invited him to let him fall, and only when he wanted to, never demanding it.

He also loves praise....praise him when he makes you cum. Praise him when the big stretch feels so good.

And then there is a little other thing. Something he didn't even dare to realize he had until that one time.

It's obvious that he got mommy issues, and when you are so patient with him, maybe just maybe...after he ruined you thoroughly, when you climbed on top of him. Being a little sore but oh, so tender.

Peppering kisses along his neck and chest. Hot breath caressing his ear when he felt how your snug cunt sunk down his pulsing shaft, squeezing him so deliciously. Your fingertips dancing over his muscles.

"You are such a strong boy, aren't you?" you whispered, kissing the spot right behind his ear.

It made the great Izana shudder. Hands glued on your waist, like as if he would be afraid you would disappear.

He growled, holding back so much now. You were good to him, so good. When suddenly...just suddenly: "Yes, Mommy" slipped past his tongue. In a moment he is in shock, frozen in place. Just when he felt your pussy squeezing a little tighter and saw the delicate blush on you.

Not a sign of any discomfort or that you would make fun, he decides to let it be. Indulging in a rare moment where you are allowed to take the lead. The real lead, making his head spin so he could let loose for just this moment.

You kissed his lips shortly before caressing his cheek with your thumb, palming his face. "Then let Mommy take care of you now," you said sultrily before your hips started a sensual rhythm. Looking down on him, he was not really sure what happened now, but his fingers tightened around you. Eyes just narrowing a little when he let you have the pace you wished.

"Relax, baby. You deserve it. You have been so good today, so strong," you mumbled gently, trying to ease him from what just slipped out of his mouth.

Your flat hand pressing him down on his chest, not too harsh; it was a delicate balance before he probably would take the lead because he said, "Mommy?"

But damn, it felt good, especially when you had this gentle and sensual pace of your hips. Tits bouncing just slightly was an erotic sight when he looked up.

When you noticed slowly he let loose, for once...his head fell back, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, eyes squeezing shut. Not whining, but he strained himself to not lose all of his control completely. Your hand danced up his skin, tracing the lines of his neck before gently wrapping your fingers around his throat, not squeezing, just holding, before leaning down.

"You are such a good boy for Mommy, huh?" you whispered, and when you did, his hips jerked up, holding your waist tightly.

"Good at wrecking you in all the right places," he answered, still cocky but letting you have this way because you felt like damn sin. 

Takashi Mitsuya - The worshipper with style  

He is a walking green flag. You are not confident in your body? This changes when this man has you in his hands. Kissing every "imperfection" you thought you had, telling you what a goddess you are. Lavender eyes always half-lidded but so in awe when he parts your legs, to worship your absolutely divine pussy.

It was not just sweet and tasty...no, you were divine. Arms slung around your thigh, face buried where you needed him the most. "Such a good girl, with such a perfect pussy," he mumbled before his tongue lay flat against your cunt. Dragging his tongue over your hot slit, just seconds before his tongue flicking over your clit makes you gasp so cute, trying to find a hold on his hair. Your face turned away from him... he stopped. He wanted to see how good you look when you fall apart. How he made you feel.

"Nah, no turning away, love. Look in my face when I eat you." So you were forced to look at him; otherwise, he would have stopped, and you were far too needy then to stop.

"Taka..." you pouted, looking down, eyes immediately rolling back as soon as you felt his tongue.

He could spend hours there, just to watch your body react.  

In general, he loves to pick out clothes for you, or it's a bonus when he makes them. Fucking you in a dress that perfectly hugged your curves? That was so flattering on you because he knew your body better than you? When every stitch he did is made for this moment? Just so he could raise the hem up and fuck you when he pulled the cute panties he chose for you aside?

Having you in missionary just to see how gorgeous you were, makeup slightly smeared from the blow job you had given him. Hair tousled because he couldn't help, but then pull on it slightly.

His angry tip disappearing inside you, but all he could look at now was you...how your chest spilled nearly out of the cleavage, how he ruined you, and yet how good you looked while taking him.

"Told you, it would fit you perfectly, as you always fit for me so perfectly... God, you are so tight," cursing slightly because when he fucked you, he never came first, always wanting you to fall apart before he spilled right onto your naughty panties. Nothing is more arousing for him than seeing your panties full of his cum, makes you look even better.

"God, I need it deeper...please." Your plea was sweet, so sweet his head fell in your neck and he groaned. Adoring it whenever you wanted something. Serving you in devotion...you want it deeper? He hit the perfect angle. You needed it harder? He held you tighter and did it. Whatever you needed, without hesitation he made it happen.

Rubbing small circles over your clit, just so you would squirt on him, to tell you how pretty you looked while doing this...

"Hmmm, come on, love. Just a little...want this pretty pussy to cum for me. You can do it, right?" he urged you while his thumb was so firm on your nub it made your legs tremble, and you shudder...

[the-shadiest-tomato]

Now seems like a good time to do this

First of all, William Finn, that legend is missed

But I wanted to introduce y'all to my

Falsettos binder

An entirely hand written book of all the (dialogue? Lyrics?) of the entire musical.

Based on the revival 'cause that one's my favorite.

We got: in depth analysis of every bit of significance in nearly every line. Dumb thoughts of mine. And memes.

[I'm not exaggerating when I said I went through eight packs of sticky notes]

The point

A probably incorrect timeline based on a few dates and hella real world assumptions

Pencil/colored pencil drawings featuring every character's musical assigned colors and me-assigned chess pieces

Depressing watercolor paintings

A cobbled together study on the chess pieces used in "the chess game" cause they look so strange and are never used again

An extensive study on the cube which I used to build the whole thing functionally in the real world

What I call ✨ notes on a scene✨

Which is commentary and observations of every bootleg production I've seen.

There's also an In Trouser analysis in here somewhere, but alas, I have reached the image limit.

Perhaps you can tell I'm just slightly feral for this musical and had a bit too much free time a couple months back.

[paroslineage]

Being Their Girlfriend Would Include :

Se-mi Edition.

Series Masterlist.

Main Masterlist.

Girl's a Mama Bear.

Wrecked Nam-gyu's shit beacuse he flirted with you.

Teases you by blowing in your ears and smirks when you yelp.

Cuddles all the way.

Doesn't trust Thanos at ALL.

Loves when you play with her hands.

Would hold you, your back to her chest and chin on your head in a bear hug.

If you had a panic attack she would cover your ears and tuck you under her chin and rock you back and forth to soothe you.

During the special game she would keep you behind her protectively at all times because Nam-gyu definitely tries to attack both of you.

Poor Min-su would be of no help as he would be shaking in his boots.

loves caressing your hair.

One time someone injured you and she went feral.

Straight up killed the bitch ✨🤸.

Would rather die than to see you get killed ❤️‍🩹.

[svt-luna]

ʚིᵋ ⋆ INSTAGRAM UPDATE ࣪ ! ˓ ౨ৎ ࣪˖ ─── 250312: Spring

i have been getting comments about wanting more negative comments on Luna’s instagram posts, so here you go! it’s so much fun to write how everyone reacts 🤭

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰౨ৎ luna's instagram

Liked by jeonghaniyoo_n, vernonline, min9yu_k and 7,454,454 others

lunabae spring wrote me a love letter 🌷💐✨

View all comments

moonlightbae Bugs is living a better life than us

jeonghaniii BUGGSSSS 🥹💕

↳ bugsbunny_17 This is a Luna & Bugs fan account now.

jiyeonienienie_ you are spring personified Jiyeon ☺️🌷

jxjdaily the Lego dates 😩

h0shik-tiger Mom, Spring wrote you a love letter? Meanwhile, I got seasonal allergies

boojae_dk The real masterpiece here is YOU 💖💖

gyuldaekwan Luna with a paintbrush? Luna painting? Oh, hang that up immediately in Louvre, she’s making history

shua_angels And where is my Lego invite?

↳ lunaticsforever lets third wheel together 🫣

seokminsbiceps When did Bugs sign up for a modeling career?

lalunanova Bugs… let’s switch positions… i can be a bunny *starts hopping*

verkwan_ how do WE join the Lego date?!

horanghaehoe A performer, an artist, a songwriter, a model, Yoon Jeonghan’s fiancée, a bunny mother, a Lego master… what can’t she do?

user0762727215 Ugh, here we go again 🥱 Luna and her constant need to shove her relationship in our faces. You’re only showing off Jeonghan because you know it gets you more likes and engagement. We all know your entire relationship is a PR stunt. You just love male attention, don’t you? Anything for the views, right? Gosh, you are embarrassing 🤮 do us all a favor and kys, thanks.

↳ jeonghaniyoo_n Imagine waking up, choosing to be bitter, and still being this bad at it. If jealousy was a sport, you wouldn’t even make the bench. Try harder.

↳ jeonghaniyoo_n You can be bitter all you want, but the moment you speak badly about my fiancée, we have a problem. Careful now— I’d hate for your sad little comment to be the biggest mistake you make today.

↳ jeonghaniyoo_n Oh, look what I found— your account spreading hate and fake news about my fiancée. Don’t worry, I already reported it. Maybe spend less time being obsessed with Luna and more time preparing for that account suspension and enjoy being sued.

↳ lunabae oops, sorry! can you repeat that? i was too busy admiring the custom Lego set MY FINACÉ bought and built with me. just because your life is as dry as overcooked chicken doesn’t mean you need to project your misery onto mine. MY FINACÉ loves ME, my bunny that MY FIANCÉ bought ME is adorable, and my life is thriving— sorry that bothers you 😊💕

↳ sound_of_coups Not the audacity being on sale for free today.

↳ joshu_acoustic Ah, jealousy. A disease with no cure.

↳ woozi_universefactory Imagine thinking you matter in this conversation.

↳ everyone_woo This level of delusion is fascinating. Should we study it?

↳ ho5hi_kwon If Luna wanted clout, she’d get it from me. Not Jeonghan 🤷‍♂️🐯

↳ junhui_moon You spent all that time typing just to embarrass yourself. Inspiring.

↳ pledis_boos PR stunt?? LMAO, babe, have you seen them? They’re disgustingly in love 😂

↳ min9yu_k The irony of calling someone out for “clout” when you’re the one desperate for attention.

↳ dk_is_dokyeom It’s giving “I have no love in my life so I hate happy people.”

↳ xuminghao_o You’re mad at Jiyeon for existing? Have you tried… not being miserable?

↳ feat.dino If you don’t like her, why are you here? No, really. I’ll wait.

↳ vernonline Seek help.

caratrose SEVENTEEN WENT FERAL I CAN’T BREATHE.

bunnies4luna Not Hoshi saying she’d get clout from him LMAOOO.

jeongluna4ever SEUNGKWAN EXPOSING THEIR RELATIONSHIP HELP 😂

lulu-hannie YOON JEONGHAN IS OUT HERE COMMENTING NOT ONCE, NOT TWICE, BUT THRICE AND THREATENING A LAWSUIT? This man does not play around!! I’m shook.

↳ svtfan1997 I am literally shaking. Jeonghan’s scary side is RARE, but when it comes to Luna? He doesn’t hold back. @/user0762727215 your done.

94zlover_ Vernon really said “therapy is an option.”

bugsbff I want to be reincarnated as Bugs so I can witness this drama in real-time. also… KEEP YOON JEONGHAN’S WIFE’S NAME OUT YOUR MOUTH!!

loveforluna @/user0762727215 got jumped by the entire band. ALL FOURTEEN of them. Imagine 😂

ashonashonash Jun’s “Inspiring” sent me to another dimension 🤣🤣🤣

svtmoonchild seventeen in the comments like it’s Fight Club. Don’t mess with Bae Jiyeon. Period.

aegyo_king Petition to frame this comment section and hang it in a museum.

missluna_17 that bitch just got publicly executed… well… that’s one way to get their attention 😝

napipopeta I’ve never seen Jeonghan this scary… He reported the account and said they’re about to be sued? My jaw is on the floor.

lunaandsunshine Jeonghan is acting like the CEO of Protecting Luna and I’m LIVING for it! You NEVER see him this fired up.

bunnyboo_THREE comments and one of them says they’re getting sued. He’s not joking too.

↳ jeongnadaily Yoon Jeonghan is really about to take someone to court for Bae Jiyeon and I’m here for it! And they said chivalry is dead 🤩

ೃ⁀➷ comment or message me to be added to the tag list :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ SUBMIT A REQUEST AND ASK ME ANYTHING!

: ̗̀➛ requests are always open ♡ - selఌ

Taglist: @zhqvie @minminghao @angie-x3 @jennwonwoo @k13endall @heeseungthel0ml @chisskaa @megumi2020 @yoonzzziino @lllucere @smh-anon @yveclipse @randomworker @bunnystrm @iamawkwardandshy @gratefulbunny1 @bmo-bri @syren-ash @megseungmin @multiplums @unlikelysublimekryptonite @night-storm7 @cookiearmy @seokqt @btskzfav @billboard-singer @junhuisworld @caturdayvibe @coralbatlampzonk @sof1eya @lyraea @jihoonsbbygirl @cocopuff2424 @okoknotco @minvxq @soulphoenix1618 @whineywheeiny @rairaine @toplinehyunjin @ateez-atiny380 @cherrylovescheol @jiimtaee @blurr3db3rry @seomisaho @amanda08319 @peanutbutterslothsstuff @cheolsboo @allthings-fandoms @mystic-megumi @sherlockbye @tastyluvr @luperque @reignofraine @kpoplover-19 @star2013 @frankenstein852 @axleighkaize @jmkookie01 @shhh94 @gigglensnort @stupendouscookiehumanmug

[eobe]

Caf shop, Coruscant, 2:30 am

I could get no rest and went to a all-night caf shop to have a drawing session, a nice caf-uccino and to cry a little bit, but I got distracted by one of those intimidating red armored guards, so I drew him 😱

Guess what!? He noticed and wanted a copy of this and HE GAVE ME HIS COMM 🙈 I‘m normal about that. Yeah, absolutely. I‘m shuddering only from lack of sleep, yes. Not because of this clone getting under my skin, no… ❤️‍🔥✨

READ THE WHOLE STORY:

@eclec-tech I‘m still not over this encounter you made me meet COMMANDER FOX AND HOW TO BE NORMAL ABOUT THAT 🫠 and I found some between time to (art-)process this dopamine ❤️‍🔥✨

Thank you so much, dear Amber, I hope you can see what your writing magic did to me 🥰🫶✨

I WAS THERE and I smelled the caf shop and the atmosphere, heared the passing speederbikes outside and armor is really loud when a trooper approaches How do they sneak?

And I had so much fun to find my hand font in aurebesh 😂 I don‘t know from which planet those glowing decoration plants (or fungi?) come from, but they‘re quite fancy and now I want one 🤩✨

Have a closer look 👀:

My personal ALT text mission (1 additional ALT text for a previous artwork with each new art posting!):

My single other writing fanart piece (until now, because writings can be really dangerous for me too intense too gold too heavy too much too magic )

Echo in the rain

Taglist: @lonewolflupe @bixlasagna @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @covert1ntrovert @general-ida-raven @vrycurious @dystopicjumpsuit @chaicilatte @groguandthebadbatch @justanotherdikutsimp @ladylucksrogue and @ghostymarni @foxwithadarkside @feral-ferrule @nika6q for the shared Commander Fox fun ❤️‍🔥🦊

Did I say THANK YOU ❤️‍🔥🫠✨

Edit: what happens next! (Chapter 2 by Amber) 👀

Edit: and what happened after that (Chapter 3 by Eobe) 😂

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Stevie’s Garage

steddie, omegaverse, 1960s, omegas entering the workforce, single parents, cw: vague references to suicide

Steve liked working with his hands. As a child that meant playing with lincoln logs and tinker toys, after he presented it meant baking a sewing. Then his no-good, two-timing alpha left him for his secretary, with two pups, Danny (6) and Jenny (7 1/2). Steve won full custody in the divorce, and at least his ex pays his alimony on time.

But it isn’t enough to live on, not with the mortgage and the kids. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to worry about the house falling apart; he’s been doing home repairs the entire time, learned to change his own oil in his car, can fix a flat tire with ease.

More and more omegas are driving now, and Steve figures they would appreciate service from someone who won’t talk down to them. He gets a loan from his aunt, a maiden omega who invested well, and opens his own automobile service station: Stevie’s Garage.

Robin helps him get set up: painting the sign, ordering supplies, answering phone calls, while Steve gets under the hoods and gets his hands dirty.

He does well enough that after the first month he puts an ad in the paper to hire a second mechanic. He figures it will take a while to find an alpha (or even a beta) who can stand working for an omega.

Much to his surprise, a man with dark curls and a shy smile comes by later that week asking if the job is still available. Steve has Eddie check the car on the lift, and he finds the loose fan belt in a couple minutes, changes it out.

Steve hires him on the spot.

It turns out Eddie’s got a pup, too. Carrie’s in Danny’s class at school, and all Eddie will say is that her mother isn’t around anymore. Steve doesn’t pry. It means the three pups ride the bus to the garage after school and play together there until the workday is done. Jenny’s bossy, a bit feral, and loyal to a fault. The first day Carrie gets off the bus with them, she asks why she isn’t going home to her mom, all childish bluntness.

“Mama died in the bathtub when I was really little, then I went to live with Daddy,” Carrie answers, just a statement of fact.

Steve’s glad he didn’t pry.

After that, Jenny is as protective of Carrie as she is of her brother.

Three months after he hired Eddie, Steve admits to himself that he likes the alpha. More than likes him. Eddie smells nice, and he’s gentle with the pups, never raises his voice in anger—only in excitement or fear—he tells jokes and stories to pass the time, sings along with the radio. But mostly, he looks at Steve like a starving man looks at bread when he thinks the omega isn’t looking.

Steve wants to feed him.

They both have engine grease under their fingernails, are covered in heavy-duty cotton, Steve’s hair is under a kerchief; there is nothing particular sexy about the moment. But Steve can’t wait any longer, and he presses up against Eddie, pins him in place and kisses his mouth.

“I’m dead, yeah? The lift fell and I was crushed by Mrs. Wheeler’s Bel Air, and I’m dead,” Eddie babbles when their lips part.

“Not dead,” Steve replies with a grin. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Steve leans in for another kiss, one that Eddie deepens, his tongue slipping easily between parted lips. “I’ll need to get Robin to babysit.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Munson. You’re taking me out dancing.”

✨✨✨

Steve answers the door with his housecoat still on, crouching down to say hello to Carrie first, the pup throwing her arms around his neck. “Head into the living room, honey, the kids are doing a puzzle with Robbie,” he says, watching her scamper past him into the house. He turns to Eddie with a soft smile, “Just give me a couple minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie agrees, smile just as soft.

Steve disappears to his bedroom, and Eddie waits awkwardly in the doorway. He hears laughter from deeper in the house, followed by Robin saying, “Hey there, Care-Bear, come sit by me.”

He’s ruminating on how nice it is to have people who adore his kid as much as he does around, to give her that big family feeling, at least a little bit. Then Steve comes down the hallway wearing a proper dress, and Eddie quite literally stops breathing.

Dressed to the nines, Steve is a revelation, but he simply takes Eddie’s hand and says, “So, where are you taking me?”

“Enzo’s,” Eddie answers, no longer worried that it’s too much. Steve deserves the nicest restaurant in town for their first date. Steve deserves the best of everything.

Not that either of them has fancy tastes, not knowing what half the things on the menu are. Eddie gets spaghetti and meatballs, and Steve gets a chicken dish with some kind of red sauce. They talk and trade bites of food, both careful as they eat—Steve due to a lifetime of practice, Eddie because he realized as soon as the waiter took their order that he’d made a mistake and that leaving without marinara on his shirt would be a miracle.

After, he tells Steve to order dessert, and they split a tiramisu. Eddie pays the bill without really looking at it, having kept a tally in his head of the prices by habit, leaves a nice tip, and helps Steve up from his seat. “Ready for that dance?”

Steve smiles and nods, following Eddie to the dance floor. Enzo’s has a live band on the weekends; “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole starts just as Steve steps onto the parquet dance floor, his arms settling easily around Eddie’s neck. “I love this song,” he murmurs as they start to sway.

“Makes sense,” Eddie murmurs, “You’re certainly unforgettable, Steve.” They’re silent after that, moving to the music, bodies pressed close. A new song starts, and they keep swaying, dancing merely an excuse to hold each other in public, to trade small kisses.

“Robin’s planning to spend the night at my place,” Steve says once they are safely back in Eddie’s car.

“Oh?”

“We still have plenty of time…”

“Steve?”

“Take me back to your place, Eddie.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, driving on autopilot, as Steve rubs his hand up and down Eddie’s thigh.

Steve pounces on him as soon as they get through Eddie’s front door, kissing him hard and reaching for his belt. They shed clothes down the hallway, until they reach Eddie’s bedroom, leaving the lights off, everything illuminated well enough by the nearly full moon.

Eddie stops breathing again. Steve is a vision in only his slip, white satin and lace showing off so much more of his skin than Eddie’s ever seen. Carefully, he reaches out, suddenly nervous—a crass, unworthy man standing before the loveliest omega on earth—and pinches a bit of fabric at Steve’s waist, afraid to touch more.

“Hey,” Steve whispers, placing a hand over Eddie’s, “It’s okay. I’m still just me. Not gonna break, Ed.”

Everything after that is slow and sweet. Perfect.

Eddie cries tears of pleasure as he sinks into Steve’s wet heat. Steve mewls at being properly knotted for the first time in years. They fall asleep tangled together, the most relaxed either of them have felt, possibly ever.

Steve wakes early, before the sun is up. Eddie stirs beside him as soon as he moves, and Steve is happy to take a couple minutes to kiss.

There’s plenty of time to get home before the pups wake.

✨✨✨

Big thanks to @itcanbepalped for sharing the inspo with me and then riffing for a bit! Love you, Mads!!!

[angel-of-the-moons]

Need Steven with a freak. Let’s say he’s been dating this girl for a while and he’s ready to take it to the next step. He’s super worried he’ll make you all uncomfortable and stuff when he asks but the next thing he know he’s being ridden till the break of dawn

(I’m ovulating I am so sorry-)

OMG SAMESIES AND I. AM. ✨FERAL✨ RN

Please

Steven Grant x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Smut, just smut af, protected sex (implant), oral sex (m!receiving) creampie, overstimulation

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: This lil dress here is what I had in mind for the outfit in the start. (I'm a sucker for sunflower patterns)

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

It had to be tonight. He just couldn't take it anymore. None of them could.

But Steven was the worst about his urges. He felt awkward and worried it would chase you away, the first girlfriend he ever got to finally have; all the others didn't understand his... Problems.

Problems he later learned were triggered by Marc (and in some cases, Jake), but you? You took them in stride, like a duck to water.

The moment he first saw you, his breath had been sucked right out of him. Marc and Jake went dead silent, too.

It was a gloomy, dreary day; the rain coming down in heavy droplets, casting a grim light down on the London streets.

But there you were, walking around the museum, looking at exhibits and scribbling notes in your tiny notebook with oh, so many post-its sticking out, fattening the tiny book until it looked close to bursting.

You were the only ray of sunshine on that day, your yellow dress that hugged your body just right, little sunflowers covering the fabric. Your hair done just the right way to accentuate your face as your eyes studied each artifact and bauble you saw.

To say the boys were instantly smitten was an understatement.

It took weeks of bumping into you to work up the courage to talk to you, and it was only when you came in to buy a rather dinky looking scarab plushie in the gift shop. It's this conversation where he finds out you're in school, trying to become an archaeologist and historian.

Steven's dream girl, and he had hearts in his eyes at every word you spoke.

He couldn't help but blubber out a request for a date, and you agreed.

The rest... History in the making.

You'd been dating for two months, but already he could feel the pull of urges he didn't necessarily indulge in often.

Sure, he, Marc and Jake could indulge in it themselves, trying to take the edge off. But sometimes it felt like the more he indulged in it, the more intense his fantasies got.

He simply couldn't keep tugging his cock for momentary relief anymore, imagining it was your soft hand, your mouth, your tits or something else wrapped around his cock that had him practically drooling: your sweet cunt.

But tonight? Tonight was the night. He was afraid to bring it up because he didn't want you to feel like he was moving too fast; and he could barely function when you admitted you were a little surprised he waited so long. (And teased him a little for how sometimes he just wasn't stealthy when trying to conceal a surprise boner.)

You'd told him that you thought about him too, and that you were more than willing to let him indulge.

But it was from there that you found out that Steven had never actually been intimate with anyone. Jake and Marc had, yes. But poor Steven has just never had the luck.

And that's how Steven found himself in this precarious situation, you on your knees, your pretty little mouth wrapped around his cock as you bobbed your head so sweetly, tongue laving around his length, hollowing and sucking your cheeks with every drag, tracing the vein that ran up the side of him.

He couldn't stop with the babbling praises, the sweet petting in your hair.

Honestly, if you knew he was this weak? You'd have jumped his bones a lot sooner. Probably after the fourth or fifth date. It was rare you found someone who was intellectually a joy to talk to (not excluding Marc and Jake) who was so handsome and sweet to you.

One hand was thrust down into your panties, playing with yourself, dress hiked up so you could have better access as you continue sucking him off, the lewd sounds coming from both of you more suited to a pornography than the quiet air of his flat.

You could feel your orgasm cresting already, but you knew that you didn't want to just cum on your fingers like you had so many times before, you wanted to feel Steven inside of you and god did you want to drain him for everything he had.

Steven made a whine, babbling your name again.

"L-luv, I'm--I'm gonna--ugh--"

He couldn't even get the sentence out before you felt him spill down your throat, his hips bucking suddenly you gagged, carefully adjusting so you didn't choke as he pumped his load into your greedy mouth.

Well... you weren't surprised he didn't last very long...

He immediately started rattling off apologies that had you giggling.

God damn, you were going to enjoy draining him. Maybe Marc and Jake, too.

The blush that spread up to his ears made him look absolutely adorable.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--" He stammered out, covering his face. "In--in your mouth, I--"

With the fluid grace of a cat you climb into his lap, straddling him.

You cup his cheeks and kiss him softly, before pulling away.

"You're alright." You assure him, peppering his adorable face with kisses.

It's when he squeezes your thighs and ruts up into you, his face buried in your neck that you realize he's still hard.

You bite your lip and kiss his ear.

"Steven, do you want me to ride you?"

"Ohgodsyesplease." He breathes out on a whimper.

You hastily line his cock up with your hole and sink down, taking him in inch by delicious inch until you're stretched beautifully around him.

You tip your head back with a groan. He certainly had girth for days, that was for sure.

"I'm... Already close. Can you help me?" You say, giving him a sweet pout that makes his heart jump up into his throat.

"Y-yes, I can--"

The way he keeps cutting himself off makes you want to cuddle him and cover him with kisses, but at the same time fuck him until his legs go numb.

Maybe you'd do the former later.

You pull his fingers into your mouth and he makes a soft moan when you suck his fingers, swirling your tongue around his calloused digits until you deemed them wet enough.

Then, you guide his hand down your body to your throbbing clit, and show him the rhythm that'd work for you best.

"Try to keep it in time with me, m'kay?" You groan, grinding down on him in one slow, languid movement.

His eyes roll back, but he nods and keeps his fingers over your clit, massaging the bundle of nerves in time with each downward stroke of your hips.

Every bit of him had you aching, from his electric touches to his fat cock spearing you open and fucking your weeping pussy in the best way possible, you kicked yourself mentally again for not bringing up sex sooner.

Steven's cock felt far better inside of you than your fingers or your toys at home. He felt hot, he felt real. And real is what you'd been lacking lately.

Whatever Steven would give you, you planned on taking happily. You would--

Your eyes flutter open when Steven suddenly arches his back and hits you deeper than you expected him to; opening your mouth in a quiet cry, no sound escapes as your orgasm hits you and Steven continues swiping at your clit, fucking you from below as you shudder and collapse on top of him as he continues breathing on the hot embers of your orgasm to keep it going for as long as possible.

"Please." He whines in your ear.

"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease."

"In-inside--" You whimper, biting down on his shoulder, earning a toe-curling moan from him.

"You can do it inside."

He grits his teeth and let's out a hissing cry, veins popping in his neck and forehead as he fucks his spend up into you, his orgasm burning and flaying his nerves raw as he pumps you full.

He drops back onto the cushions of the couch and sofa, breathing hard, desperately trying to drag oxygen back into his lungs.

Reality however, is a cruel mistress and he looks down at where you two were connected.

"Oh, b-bloody hell. I--I didn't--"

"Relax, hon." You giggle, leaning back with one hand braced on one of his knees for support, your other hand trailing lazily down to where his cock still split you open, his cum leaking out around his length. The sight of you sent a dizzying spiral through him.

"I'm safe, promise. I have an implant. Still good for another three years."

The thought that he could keep doing this for three years--

His mind went blank when you grind down on his lap, feeling his cock stir to life despite the fact he was now exhausted.

"L-luv, I... I don't think I can..." He panted desperately.

Your brace your hands on his chest and start bouncing on his lap, grinning wickedly the whole time.

"I'm gonna keep going until I drain you dry, sweetheart. Get comfortable."

The gulp he made was audible in the space you shared, as was the sinful slap of skin on skin.

[chubbeh-seel]

subby bucky begging you to call him a good boy…

Good Boy

smut ahead, 18+, MDNI!!!

sub!Bucky x Female!reader

Summary: Bucky absolutely loses it when you praise him, a feral man when he is told anything praising about the smallest things.

Word count: 374, a lil oneshot<3

Warnings: praise, smut, established relationship, submissive bucky, hair pulling.

Authors note: I LOVED THIS IDEA LITERALLY TYSM FOR SUGGESTING THIS AHH!!!!

Bucky. A normally stoic, quiet, simple yet so complicated man who loves it when you unknowingly unlock his submissive side in the bedroom. He won’t admit that he loves being praised for simple things, though it is clear once you said “Good job, Buck” to him after a tough group mission.

This man, a man of congress, loves it when you call him a “Good Boy”, which is exactly what led you to this exact moment. Your hand in his hair while he licks at your clit, your legs wrapped around his head and squeezing it gently as you moaned and whined under his tongue.

When Bucky looked up at you with a needy look when he went to catch his breath, he huffed gently “Am I doing good?” He asked and you just smiled, knowing what he wants.

“Bucky, baby, you know the answer to that” You say and smirk as his face forms a small frown, him whining as he goes back to eating you out. He knew you liked to keep it from him, you only ever praised him after a job well done, and you are far from done.

Minutes pass as he keeps lapping up underneath you, sucking and licking your clit, grabbing at your thighs as you gently squeezed his head, pulling at his longer hair gently. “Fuck, thats its Bucky, you’re doing so good” You moaned as he smiled underneath you and doubled his efforts.

Your orgasm came quickly, running through you at lightning speed as your legs shook and your body tensed, pressing up against his tongue as you fully rode out your high.

He licked you a few more times before pulling away and wiping his chin, he was looking up at you like a lost puppy, needing his praise. “Did I do good? Please, love, was I good?” He asks, practically begging for his praise, you have done the classic pavlov’s dog technique to him without even trying.

“You are such a good boy, my Bucky” You say and kiss him gently as he smiles and kisses back, getting up from between your legs to pick you up and go clean yourselves off.

You had him completely whipped, and it was very very obvious.

✨💗