#lost without a life raft

[indigospyder]

Been having a pretty rough week this week and struggling to actually connect with friends and loved ones for a while now, so just know I’m still kicking, just kicking under a rock. A boulder, even. But I’m kicking.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢��: your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 13.0K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), friends to lovers, angst, jealous & angry john, descriptions of violence & injuries, wound tending trope, talks of insecurities, “she fell first but he fell harder”, confession of feelings, john is emotionally constipated, extreme levels of yearning, john’s praise kink, grinding, dry humping, dirty talk, making out, biting, hair pulling, fingering (fem!rec), handjob, mutual orgasm. aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is a pretty big fic (sorry not sorry) and I worked really hard on it! I really hope that you guys enjoy, a lot of time & effort went into it! Thank you guys for your support! 🫶

John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle vulnerability.

He comes close, teetering along the edge in soft-spoken conversation through the early hours of morning, or in the aftermath of a particularly rough and arduous mission.

Validation was something he subconsciously craved, the desire to feel wanted, to feel as if he was greater than the sum of his parts. Losing his rank in the military and losing Captain America screamed inadequacy; he was learning to be better.

In that journey, somewhere, he found himself getting closer with you. It often manifested in the form of teasing and sarcastic jabs, banter to keep things light, but as months ticked by, he found himself opening up.

Vulnerability strikes fear into him, greater than that of a weapon being waved in his face, or thrown into any warzone.

There’s something effortless he’s found within you, something comfortable, and that scares him. It’s kept him distanced, watching from afar, attempting to keep you at-bay, knowing the consequences of what could happen if he let himself get attached.

Everyone who gets close to him always loses — Lemar lost his life, Olivia lost a partner, his son lost a father. John had come to the realization that he didn’t want to lose you, too.

On more than one occasion, you catch glimpses of a shattered man who’s still picking up the pieces, directionless; a man who’s trying to do good, but still can’t quite get it right.

It wasn’t easy, befriending him — his cocksure smirk and arrogance often warded away others, but you, in all of your optimism, had waded through without complaint.

He’s militant, rigorous, rough; though, you’ve managed to dig just beneath the surface, where a softer man resides. He’s known for sharing, for being zealously overprotective, and for his dry, sardonic humor.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone on the team when your feelings are revealed.

The both of you are two halves to a whole, lamenting to a buried and burning flame, continuing to dance around one another.

Unbeknownst to either of you, the feelings are there, and it’s powerful — you want him, he wants you.

Admittedly, you felt that it was glaringly one-sided, you liking him; you assumed it’d be unrequited for the rest of your days. The more he began to keep you at a distance, the more accepting you became of the outcome.

On the quinjet, it’s hushed with preparation, the deep breath before the plunge. The mission is somewhere oceanic, aboard a hijacked S.H.I.E.L.D helicarrier swarming with mercenaries and thieves.

The darker realm of espionage, violence, and deception is somewhat newer to you. Before being inducted into the New Avengers, you were scouted by Valentina for your abilities, avoiding time in The Raft for something you didn’t do.

Now, it all feels strange — you’re traveling the world, you’re helping people, you’re a hero.

“You’ll drop in here,” Bucky’s brows are furrowed together, a visage of stoic calm, adopting more of a leadership role. He’d run thousands of missions, dismantled armies — none of this was unusual for him. “With Walker.”

Strapped into his webbed jump-seat, John bristles at the mention of his name, and yours. He gets heated before a mission, as if he’s working himself up, noticeably coiled like some predator waiting in the wings.

There’s a visible tension in his jaw, a weight in his shoulders, white-knuckling his still-bent shield as if it’s a vice. He isn’t nervous — just impatient, ready to get the job over with.

“Say we drop in, and it’s compromised,” With a low hum, you point to the scanned layout of the helicarrier, attempting to discern a backup plan. “What should we do?” It’s a fair question, and you’re worried about the specifics.

“Double back to here, and wait for Ava to clear the path to you,” Bucky affirms, peering at Walker, who’s partially tuned-in, partially brooding. “If all goes according to plan, you shouldn’t have to rely on the backup position.”

Bucky’s close to you; too close.

John catches it in heated glances, countenance riddled with the face of jealousy’s ire, blonde brows pinched together. Unfortunately, he doesn’t mask anything well, letting his sentiments reveal themselves, rear their ugly head.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, you’re leaning in; for you, it’s an involuntary thing. Bucky’s similar to an older brother figure, offering a sense of comfort when things seem to be too much.

Though, John doesn’t see it that way; all he sees is Barnes invading your space as if it belongs to him, and you’re none the wiser.

His abdomen twists into knots, as if he’s swallowing his rage, only to make room for misery.

John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle his own affections, either.

It was simple for him to pinpoint when exactly he realized he’d liked you, too. A few months back, he’d gotten sick with frustration, toiling over Olivia moving on, finding someone else. He couldn’t blame her after everything, but the fury hadn’t subsided.

Instead, he was left raw, with this amalgamation of emotions that had twisted into some catalyst, a maelstrom of everything he’d done wrong in life.

Through this tide of navigating newfound feelings, there were plenty of moments where he’d wanted to get closer.

John thought about it often; draping a blanket over your shoulder when you’d fallen asleep in the common room, hands brushing when you’d reached for the same object, bodies ghosting over another during training sessions, his lingering stares when he thought no one else was watching.

There you were, staying up with him into the early hours of morning, before dawn’s first scrap of light could pierce the black horizon. He thought about that night more times than he could count — he thought about how much you cared, how kind you were.

It was more than he deserved, admittedly. Without a shadow of a doubt, John knew that he didn’t deserve to have you in his life, let alone like you. Things were less complicated when he kept you distanced, even if it felt completely wrong.

He figured that you getting with Bucky was his punishment for fumbling your friendship and isolating you, avoiding you. Nothing hurt worse than seeing the look in your eyes whenever he dismissed you, or kept you at arm’s length.

Then again, he didn’t want to see your blood on his hands, or have to stomach the sight of your body if he messed up, or if he let you get too close.

If he wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect you — he didn’t want you to end up like Lemar.

Between Bucky droning on about the mission at-hand and Alexei attempting to give some inspirational speech, your eyes find John, brows furrowing together.

There’s an established familiarity, one strong enough for you to know that he’s upset about something, frustrated. He’s not as adept at concealing his emotions as he thinks he is; whatever he’s going through, it’s branded into his countenance.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the far side of the helicarrier, John’s forlorn stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away — somewhere else entirely.

For the past month or two, he’s pushed you away, shut you out as if he’s slammed a door in your face. It stings even still, an embittered thing, and you’re left to wonder why.

You were friends, closer to him than the rest of the team, much to everyone’s amazement. Something doesn’t feel right whenever you look at him, as if he’s dragging around a weight, unwilling to let anyone else shoulder the burden.

Your feelings for him seem to complicate everything.

Quiet, you decide to sit in the jumpseat beside him, buckling yourself in, pondering how to broach the tenuous silence that lingers between you. Before, he might’ve said something insolent or made a sarcastic remark; instead, you’re met with nothing.

“When we drop in, should w—” Before you can rationally discuss tactics, John interjects.

He cuts you off, as sharp as a blade. “When we drop, you stay on my flank and don’t engage unless I tell you to.” John gruffs, uncharacteristically quipped with you, and everyone else seems to notice, too.

Startled, you’re mildly taken aback, left confused as to why he’s treating you like this. You aren’t prone to outbursts or snapping back with the same cutthroat demeanor, resorting to a sullen silence.

Yelena grimaces, nose wrinkling in a thinly-veiled disdain. “Walker, relax. She is just trying to help.” She murmurs, still attempting to work around her twinge of uncertainty about him.

John’s haughty gaze floats toward Yelena, as if he’s winding up to say something callous. Instead, the words seem to turn to ash, retort buried somewhere in the depths of his throat.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done this hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

“Ready?” Bucky calls over the comms, quinjet descending through darkness, making a quick flight for the small helipad toward the back of the vessel.

As the hull opens, you’re quick to clamor behind John, who’s often barreling first into danger without blinking an eye. The two of you jump first, and it’s a shorter fall to the helicarrier’s landing zone, tucking and rolling as you make it down.

Swallowed by darkness, the only light happens to be the glow from various posts scattered around the area, making it difficult for you to follow his silhouette. For a man of his size, he moves quickly, enhanced by the super-soldier serum.

To your relief, your drop point isn’t compromised, not swarming with mercenaries as you thought it’d be. John takes two of them out with ease, leaving you to rush to catch up, scrambling after him as best as you can.

“Slow down, John.” You urge, watching as his shoulder rolls, head twitching as he draws his pistol. It was a waiting game, now; letting the others secure their portions of the ship and make their way forward.

“Watch my flank,” Flat, John knows that no one is likely to ambush from behind, given your location. It gives you something to do, something to distract so he can keep you pinned behind him. “That’s all you need to do.”

“I can’t do that if you’re rushing into this,” With an urgent protest, you keep watch nonetheless, eyes peeled through the darkness for any unforeseen threats. “If something happens, I don’t know if I can react in-time …”

With your powers, you’re still adjusting — it’s a constant work in-progress, testing the limits, trying to see how much you can handle. Telekinesis is nothing menial, however, you’re struggling to fully grasp the boundaries of your abilities.

“Stay behind me.” John barks, cadence akin to an angry drill sergeant instead of your teammate, your friend.

Emotions run high in the wake of his sharp tone, and you’re inclined to react, hopelessly lost as to why he’s upset with you.

“What’s wrong?” Bad time to ask, but you can’t help it anymore. “John, we’re friends. I know that something is making you frustrated.” Your poignant line of questioning invokes his scorn as he turns around, pushing you into the wall of a shipping container.

He isn’t rough, but it’s done with urgency as you narrowly avoid the prying barrel of a rifle, armed with a flashlight attachment. With bated breath, he waits for it to pass, firmly keeping an arm on your waist, caging you against cool metal.

Looking as if he’s on the verge of succumbing to rage, his nostrils flare, jaw locked as he directs his wave of anguish onto you. It’s everything, all at once — his jealousy, his anger, his feelings for you and unwillingness to act.

“We’re not doing this.” He grits, and it’s a command, not a suggestion. His voice is low, pitched with something indiscernible, and you can taste the anguish that wafts from him in hot waves.

Conceding, you appear as if you’ve been struck, wilting beneath his sharp tongue, succumbing to the blade he sinks into you. “I’m sorry — I won’t ask anymore.” Firm, your words ring in his ears; he’s guilty.

Silent, you gently step away from his grasp as if he’s burned you alive, skin stinging where he kept his hand on your waist. Deciding to focus on the mission at-hand, you leave your affections there, for now.

John’s gaze shifts toward the ground, brows pinching together, countenance warping into a mask of frustration. He’s angry with himself, above all; he hates that he’s doing this to you.

Armed mercenaries patrol the open spaces of the main deck, guarding crates of illegal weapons smuggled from various battles. There’s supposed Chitauri equipment inside, Asgardian, remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D and H.Y.D.R.A, too.

It’s easier to follow his lead, his experience far outweighing yours as he moves to find some level of cover. “We’ll make for that wall,” John murmurs, motioning toward a divot of sleek steel, several feet to your left. “Go on my mark.”

The vessel groans, shockwaves pulsing beneath your feet as an explosion fires off in the distance, a large chunk of the command center blown apart. You’re quick on the comms, pressing a button that’s built into your suit.

“Was that us or them?” You question, watching as an eruption of fire consumes the deck. John winces, moderately impressed as the both of you hang back, waiting for the right opportunity to push ahead.

“I had to improvise — you can all thank me later.” Ava’s voice reverberates over the comms, and you can envision her smirk through it all. As the mercenaries scramble to move shipments away from the blast, John’s ready to move.

As he hops over the short, concrete barrier, a sudden click hisses behind you. Every nerve in your body seems to freeze, recognizing the noise as the safety of a gun being unlatched.

“Don’t move.”

Three mercenaries stand behind you, rifles drawn, blasting columns of light into your eyes. You’re like a deer in the headlights, brain wracking, scrambling to try and figure something out.

John acts quickly, throwing his bent hunk of metal at one of them, gun clattering from his hands as he draws his pistol. He huffs like a bull when he fights, body pumping with adrenaline, jaw locked as if it might shatter.

He’s primal when he’s dismantling his opposition; smooth, experienced, and hotheaded. When it comes to morally bankrupt mercenaries, he doesn’t pull a single punch, moving like some barricade of brawny muscle.

You’re trying to disarm the second with your powers, though it’s faltering, exceedingly difficult to concentrate. Between the poor lighting, John’s agility, and your scrambled psyche, you come up empty-handed.

In the midst of the scuffle, you notice a rifle being aimed at John. It’s as if your powers know when to bleed through, as you shove him away with a pulse of your mind. He stumbles, flails, and loses his balance.

Though, it’s momentary, just enough to be a distraction so John didn’t get hurt. It’s difficult to distinguish what’s happening through the dark, save for the lights strapped to the end of rifle barrels.

The mercenary that you’d tossed to the ground is getting back up, angry.

Instead of attempting to use your abilities again, you resort to throwing a wrench at him. Before you can follow through on your movement, a gunshot rings out — and it’s not John who gets hurt.

Something sharp and piercing penetrates through your suit, slicing through thin kevlar, going right into your abdomen, somewhere on the right side of your ribcage. Agony blossoms over you, like tendrils of a scorching heat blistering over your skin.

The bullet whistles clean through, exiting with more bite and tear than how it entered. You’ve never been shot before — maimed and bruised, perhaps, but nothing grievous like this.

The wind ripped from your lungs, as if someone had stolen every scrap of air from you. It was all shock, burning and burning still, before you collapsed in a heap, hand immediately clutching at your ribs.

John’s still roughing up the remainder of the mercenaries without a shred of mercy, and once they are grounded, no longer a threat, he sees you.

It feels like he’s in Latvia again — feels like yesterday, the suffering too raw and too visceral, as if he’s reliving the memory. Time slows to a crawl, his heart nearly bursting from his chest.

Crimson begins to flourish through the fabric of your bodice, wet and hot, but you’re beginning to feel dizzy. Everything is spinning, and fear begins to settle, you’re scared. You don’t know if you were hit somewhere critical.

“John?” You croak, feeling something firm catch you before your head can knock against the concrete.

He’s not there, he’s trapped in a nightmare; reality settles in with its bitter sting and cruelty when he feels your blood on his fingertips.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” John’s clinging onto you, shield slung on his back, cradling you in his arms, trying to get you to stay alert. “Shit, come on — She’s hit! Bucky, I’ve — She’s down!” He sounds as if he’s speaking in half-sentences, babbling and broken.

A haze forms at the fringes of your vision, blurry, and that’s when the pain begins to surge, like a hot iron being dug into your flesh. A cry of torment rips through your diaphragm, every breath feeling labored, as if you’re heaving.

He’s carried men from the trenches of war torn countries, he’s saved hostages, he’s dragged barely-conscious bodies through the desert.

Nothing could’ve prepared John for this, for you laying bleeding in his arms, latching onto him, startled and in unimaginable pain. Any sliver of calm has left him, replaced with anguish, with panic, with an amalgamation of emotions.

“You’re gonna be fine,” John chokes, attempting to calm you and himself, but nothing is working. “Gonna be okay, just — Hey, just focus on me.” He’s lifting you into his arms, knowing that it might make things worse, but he’s got to get you somewhere safe.

The trauma he carries with him still seems to split open like a dam, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of anguish, of suffering. John is suffocating beneath the weight of it all, and in that darkness, he’s scared of losing you.

He should’ve told you how he felt, he shouldn’t have pushed you away, should’ve been a better man — should’ve been stronger, faster.

John feels like he’s drowning, swept away within a riptide, an unforgiving current that’s threatening to wash him away. He wonders if that’s what he deserves — erased, to slip away and let the world forget.

When he feels you gripping his arm like a vice, those feelings begin to disappear. “J—John,” You stammer, voice hoarse, thick with turmoil as you cringe at the pain. “Don’t go anywhere, please.” Able to get out a string of words, your consciousness begins to waver.

“I’m right here,” John’s stoic cadence warbles, wrought with the thickness of emotion as he tries to stay calm for you. He’s trying to pull you to safety, get you onto the quinjet, holding you firm to his chest. “Stay awake, stay with me.”

“Walker, what’s your location?” Bucky doesn’t sound nearly as panicked as John, but there’s a terse edge to his voice, something coiled.

Another explosion shakes the deck, and he nearly barrels over, keeping his footing firm to avoid losing his grip on you. You’re threading along the fringes of consciousness, gaze half-lidded, visage drawn up into one of discomfort.

“Drop point,” John shouts over the comms, petrified, something fearful in his voice, which happens to crack at the end. “She’s hit bad, you need to get here now!”

Struggling to keep yourself afloat, your grasp is weakening, anchored to the front of his body armor like a tether to reality. “M’okay,” You slur, your voice little more than a murmur. “Still here.” It’s mostly to placate John, who’s looking completely lost.

Panicked, cerulean hues stare at you through the dark, holding steadfastly to you as the quinjet descends a few feet away. John moves, trying to avoid jostling you around as the hull begins to open.

“I got you, I got you.” John’s chanting it to himself like some mantra, noticing the glazed look in your eyes. Tendrils of burning agony continue to plume through your abdomen, blood warm, oozing from your wound.

In the back of the quinjet, there’s several crates of items stolen from the helicarrier, one of which Valentina had specifically asked for. The rest of the team is there, and Yelena moves to the edge, helping the both of you in.

Everyone becomes blurry, hovering around you, but you can’t see faces. You hear John more than the rest — he’s angry. “Put pressure on the wound,” He barks, feeling his hand shakily smooth over your crown. “Bucky, you need to hurry!”

Bucky’s reply is indiscernible, but you can only assume that he’s attempting to console John from the pilot’s cockpit. John says something back, sharp, like a dog that’s biting at a handler.

Voices begin to drown away, as if it’s all become mere background noise, a dismal hum. Consciousness wanes, bleeding away at the edges, and your grip on John’s chest falls slack.

All at once, everything fades to black.

Dizzying, blanched light pools around your peripheral when you finally rouse from unconsciousness, and the agony that’s festering in your ribs has become a dull, incessant ache.

A sharp inhale pierces your lungs as you attempt to gather your bearings, and you feel something soft, cushioned beneath you. The Watchtower’s medbay is stark and glittering, a newer addition that’s seen some use.

Beneath your brow, your head throbs something awful, and as the grogginess begins to wear off, your surroundings become crystalline. Everything seems too sterile, too sanitized.

Tangled in pale hospital sheets, you glance to your left — nothing, empty; save for the other medical beds and metallic fixtures.

It’s what’s on your right side that startles you.

John is slumped in a chair, half-dressed in his suit, navy-blue compression shirt clinging to his musculature. He’s dozing off, head tilted back along the seat’s rim, chest rising and falling with shallow, steady breaths.

Blonde tresses are disheveled, glistening with a layer of dampness; he must’ve taken a shower. There’s a yellowing bruise behind his left ear, countenance grizzled with his beard, noticeably rugged.

Something wet clings to your ribs, prompting you to pull up the hem of your shirt to find a cluster of gauze and bandages wrapped over your wound. Dried crimson stains the linen, but in much smaller amounts than before.

Inevitably, your gaze shifts back to John, whose visage seems less anguished when he’s resting. His brows are still furrowed, but there’s a prominent lack of frustration present.

He was painfully handsome; you always found him attractive, but it’s enhanced when he’s simply existing. Part of you wonders how long he’s been sitting here for — how long you’ve been bedridden.

In his lap, he’s got one of your sweatshirts, which is a peculiar sight, one that makes you curl with warmth. Gooseflesh courses over your spine, a shiver following after as you shift against the mattress.

Swinging your legs out from underneath your sheets, you attempt to stand, wobbling slightly as you find your footing. The tile is blisteringly cold beneath your heels, and you feel jabs of a throbbing ache spread through your side.

The bed creaks, a faint metallic grinding that reverberates throughout the room. Before you can quietly creep from the mattress, John is stirring in the chair beside you.

“What are you doing?” It’s the first question he asks, tone clipped, as if you’re doing something wrong. Running a hand over his face, he lets out a soft grunt, readjusting to his surroundings.

“Getting something to drink,” Through a hoarse croak, you swallow, attempting to quench the dryness that burns in your throat. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I’ll get it,” John murmurs, aloof as he stands from the chair with a low groan. Muscles are sore, bone-deep from the mission, but he knows that he’ll endure. “You sit back down.” His command is noticeably gentle.

“Thank you,” With a smile, you shuffle back into bed, nonplussed by the ripples of slight pain. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting the wound to feel so light; it’s only aching. “How long have I been out?”

Striding toward the sink, John fills up a glass of water, sleeves of his shirt rolled toward his elbows. Corded muscle wraps taut around his forearms, dusted with blonde hair and a myriad of scrapes and bruises.

“Twelve hours, give or take,” His bedside manners are surprisingly intact, more than you thought possible. He’s avoided you so much lately that having him back feels nice. “Might need to change your dressing.”

Quiet, your hand falls to your ribs, fingertips lightly flicking over the gauze, over tufts of white. “Have you been here the whole time?” Your tone was gentle, tender; everything seemed to crawl to a low hum.

Through terse shoulders and a brief sigh, John answered you. “Bucky came by a little while ago,” He murmured, returning to you with a glass of freezing water. “Yelena, too.”

He didn’t answer your question fully, which didn’t go unnoticed. With a nod, you took several greedy swigs of water, your throat soothed by cool liquid, adjusting your position.

“I didn’t ask about Bucky or Yelena,” Clicking your tongue, your gaze shifts to John, almost pleading with him for some semblance of truth. “Thank you for staying with me.” Maintaining a cordial smile, you placed the glass aside.

John nodded, a subtle gesture that held more meaning than he let on. A silence settled between, more uncomfortable than tranquil, prompting him to rifle around for medical supplies.

Basic first aid was ingrained into him, but there was some wariness he felt with patching you up. It was all closeness, a growing intimacy that made his bones blister.

He liked you so much, wanted you so terribly that it began to gnaw away at him — and he felt entirely undeserving.

Bruises dust his knuckles, hands visibly rattling with a subtle tremor. He’s steady when he fights — assured, confident, lethal.

With you, in the gentle silence and unspoken feelings, he starts to feel the pressure mounting, the nerves.

“Should be healed in a few weeks,” John murmurs, stepping towards the edge of the mattress, subtly gesturing for you to move closer. “You got hit at close-range.” He says it as if it’s a painful memory.

Memories float at the fringes of your mind, and what you remember most is John; he never once left your side, toiling over you, and the panic. The mortifying fear in his eyes was something you remembered the most.

“It doesn’t feel that bad.” With a shrug, you move toward the edge, swinging your legs over the side. Awkwardness sweeps in as you lift your shirt, shy beneath his stare, which is unusually warm.

John swallows, jaw ticking, knuckles white as he clutches the roll of gauze. When you lift your shirt, there’s a blotch of dark crimson, nothing too severe, but he’s left feeling guilty.

He told you to cover his flank, and you were ambushed — he should’ve known better. Cerulean hues settle over your wound, brows furrowing before he reaches down to unravel the soiled bandages.

Calloused fingertips brush over bare flesh, and the both of you shiver as if you’ve been electrified. Gooseflesh follows in a wave, snaking over your flesh, causing you to clear your throat to relieve a sliver of tension.

He’s standing between your legs, broad musculature creating something of a gap, staring down at you with an indiscernible gleam. The closeness is sudden, exhilarating; you can feel the heat wafting from his body.

“You’ve been really distant lately,” It’s quiet, your observation; your cadence lacks any real malice, only perturbation. “I miss our friendship.” Sullen, your confession makes him inhale, a sharp and poignant sound that splits his lungs.

John distracts himself by prying your old linens aside, tossing them onto a metal tray that sits beside your bed. “Yeah,” He knows it’s his fault. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” A partial truth, but it’s better than fibbing to you outright.

He’s jealous, he’s angry, he’s riddled with guilt.

It’s an amalgamation of everything negative, of everything sour and rotten that sits inside of him, burning a hole right through. John knows that he isn’t a stellar example of a man, but he’s trying to do good. He wants to do right by you.

“How long will it take for you to realize that I’m here for you? That I can handle the truth, no matter how ugly it is?” Even then, you never raise your voice, sitting soundly as John inspects your stitches, countenance pinched together.

“I don’t want to get in the way.” He grits, and he fights the urge to sound disgustingly bitter. Jealousy is an emotion he doesn’t handle well, something volatile; anger, too.

Bewildered, you wince when he dabs antiseptics against your agitated flesh, and he’s swift to apologize. A soft groan of discomfort slips past your mouth, teeth clenching.

“Sorry,” John soothes, blonde brows creased together, his visage one of immediate apology as his hand recoils. “I’m sorry.” He huffs, flesh crawling when he realizes he accidentally hurt you.

Bruised knuckles graze over your abdomen, as if he’s offering another apology through touch alone. The sensation makes you quiver, digits tensing into the pale sheets beneath you.

“It’s alright,” With a smile, your gaze flutters toward his hands again, mapping every bruise, scrape, scar — you notice the slight tremor again. “You’re good at this.” You remark, attempting to placate him.

With a sardonic chuckle, John makes a face, as if he’s in a state of mild disbelief. “Not really.” He counters, gruff, gently cleaning your wound, eyes traveling over your features. You’re so beautiful, and it makes him nervous.

“Take a compliment, John.” There’s a softer lilt to your tone, one that eases the coiled frustration that carries in his shoulders. The smile you give him is saccharine, the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.

Writhing around, your movement makes it increasingly difficult for him to steady the gauze over your wound. “Stop moving.” He quips, as if he’s reverting back to being in some perpetual state of frustration.

Nodding, you mumble an apology, allowing him to thread the linen around your torso. He ensured that he was exceedingly gentle when it came to the flesh around your wound.

There’s a beat of silence, one that stretches on for too long, causing you to break it with a question. “Why do you think you’re getting in the way?” Your inquiry takes him by surprise.

“What?” John plays dumb, knowing that he shouldn’t have said anything. You’re often too curious, but you care — you care so deeply for him, and it’s written on your face.

“You said that you didn’t want to get in the way,” Trying again, your brows crease together, chin jutting forward as you maintain a steady stare. “I’m not sure what you’re getting in the way of.”

Cornering him, John doesn’t know what to say — maybe he needed to say it, to get it out in the open. If you acknowledged your relationship with Bucky, maybe it would be what he needed to try and move on from his feelings for you.

His jaw is tight, unnaturally so; the muscle might snap into two from how hard he’s clenching. With a stinging inhale, he decides to broach the subject with a blunt tone, but the bitterness sits heavy.

“You and Barnes.” John grits, hearing the startled gasp that escapes your mouth. Judging from your expression, this came as a surprise to you.

He’s jealous — the realization hits you all at once, and everything begins to slowly click into place. The indifference, the avoidance, the sudden bite of frustration — he thinks you’re with Bucky. It couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“John,” Bewildered, you attempt to refute his claim, but he’s interjecting, as if his mouth is flying before his brain has time to catch up. “That’s not …”

“Wish you would’ve told me.” He grouses, even though it isn’t remotely close to the truth. The distance between bodies is nearly nonexistent, and you’re face-to-face with his sternum, feeling his fingers ghost beside your thigh.

“I don’t like Bucky,” You mumble, which visibly catches him off-guard. “I’ve never viewed him as anything more than a brother, and he feels the same way.” Once that’s out in the open, John feels incredibly stupid.

Dumbfounded, his countenance contorts from a thinly-veiled frustration to something forlorn, and then he realizes how blind he’s been. He’s been punishing you for something you had no part in, keeping away because he thought it best.

Through a tight throat and dry mouth, you know then and there that you want to tell him — tell him everything. Your feelings are overwhelming in the heat of the moment, coercing you into a confession.

“I don’t like Bucky because I like you,” In one tremulous exhale, you say it, let it slip into the gap of silence and sit with it. “I wish you’d stop pushing me away.” Through a whisper, you try to slow your breathing, but it’s quick.

John freezes, blonde lashes fluttering as he attempts to register what you said. There’s a sense of disbelief that accompanies the shock, but it dissipates when he looks at you.

It’s love he sees, a tender affection that doesn’t scorn his past or see the facade — you see him, and that’s what matters most. “I don’t think I’m good enough for you.” He says it through a throttled neck, cadence thick with anguish.

“That’s not true,” Insistent, you reach for his arm, digits cold over his flesh, like kisses of ice. “John, when I look at you, I don’t see your mistakes. I just see you, and I like the man that I see.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, of everything, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out.

He was glad that he never went through with it; he found you somewhere along the way, and that was more important to him than anything else. There’s still part of him that hates himself — but he’s healing, he’s making room for you.

John shakes his head, nostrils flaring. “This is my fault,” He gruffs, brows pinched together. “Shouldn’t have told you to watch my flank. You wouldn’t be here right now, you’d be —”

“Stop it,” Before he can spiral into an infinite cycle of self-blame, you interject, ensuring that he doesn’t rake himself over the coals for this. “You can’t predict the outcome. You didn’t know we’d get ambushed.”

“But I should’ve known,” John snarls, malice not directed at you; it’s inward, and he’s crawling with fury toward himself. “I’m better than that. If I’m not, if I lose you …” He huffs, shoulders tight with tension.

“You didn’t. I’m right here, I’m fine — John, look at me,” Through a tender utterance, you coax him into meeting your gaze, breath hitching. He’s staring at you with the look of love. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Hushed, his head jostles in a nod of acknowledgment, opting to take your words to heart, even if the guilt still lingers. One hand holds your hip, thumb tracing circles over your exposed flesh, keeping you close to him.

“You’re too good,” John utters, knuckles dragging along the underside of your jaw, the gesture making your breath hitch within your throat. “I don’t understand how you do it.” A brief huff sticks in the back of his throat.

“I’m not perfect, John — nobody is,” All of you wants all of him; imperfections, flaws, heart — everything matters to you. “What I do know is that I’m tired of going on like this, tired of not being with you.”

Crimson snakes over his features, an incessant heat that consumes him like wildfire. He’s tired of it too, pretending like he doesn’t want you. He cups your jaw, palm rough like leather, thumb smoothing over your cheek.

“I think you’re perfect,” He whispers, reverent as he gazes longingly at you, heart aching so bad that it produces a dull throbbing within his chest. “You’ve got me.” John confirms with a sense of finality, foreheads ghosting over one another.

John doesn’t fully trust falling in love after his divorce — but he does it anyway, he keeps falling for you, and falling again.

Beneath your chest, your heart is nearly ripping right from your sternum, threatening to combust as you wait for him to say something. Maybe you’re waiting for the real rejection, or something else — you aren’t sure.

Cerulean hues study the delicate curve of your jaw, sweeping over your mouth; it’s familiar, he’s done it a hundred times whenever you weren’t looking. This time, it carries a certain heaviness, a torrent of feelings finally revealing themselves.

“Can I kiss you?” John rasps, as if he’s a man dying in a desert, desperate for the quench of water. His hands shift to cradle your hips, thumbs circling over your waist.

“Please.” Nearly breathless, you’re nodding, feeling him dip to your level, scratch of his beard prickling against your mouth. It’s a slow kiss, oozing with unbridled affection, the one he’s staved off for so long.

He’s typically rough; a rough mouth, rougher disposition, rough around the edges.

It comes as a surprise when he kisses you as if you’re delicate, something he’s terrified to break. He moves sluggishly, a crawl that only seems to build, the tension rising to steady simmer.

The kiss stretches on without pause, and you’re melting into him. Within the threading limbs and desperate mouths, your heartbeat crescendos, nervous system alert, nerves set ablaze.

It is in your kiss that he finds a semblance of peace, hunger continuing to grow until it becomes some ravenous bite. Mouths ceaselessly collide, wet and fervent, prompting you to reach for his bicep in order to anchor yourself.

Digits thread themselves into his compression shirt, tensing over spandex, involuntarily tugging him closer, distance between bodies now nonexistent. John is caged in around you, withdrawing enough to feel your exhale plume over his lips.

Wordlessly, he’s searching for you to continue, and you do, mouth returning to his own, intimately comfortable. It’s something he’s dreamt about a thousand times — and now, it’s a fantasy made reality.

The kiss deepens, warping into something passionate, embers kindled to a low flame, igniting a wildfire within your belly.

You’re craving his touch, feeling rough palms stroke soothing circles over your hips, grazing bare skin.

He feels safe, a sanctuary that you’re content to dwell within. As if to test the waters, your hand begins to trail from his chest to his shoulder, fingertips dancing upward.

Your palm splays over the nape of his neck, toying with blonde tresses. A low grunt splits through his chest, the kiss beginning to climb with intensity, mouths clamoring, desperate.

Footsteps reverberate somewhere from beyond the medbay, swiftly approaching, which prompts John to untether himself from you. He’s disappointed, stepping away from you with an agitated sound as Bucky lingers in the doorway.

Scarlet clings to John’s neck, a low huff escaping him as Bucky clears his throat. “You’re awake,” He remarks, noticing Walker’s unusual demeanor and your startled expression. “Feeling alright?”

The way you look at Bucky is humorously pointed, as if you’re mildly annoyed by his untimely interruption, and John sees it. You really do look at Bucky as if he’s some pesky older sibling; it’s not the way you look at him.

“I’m just fine,” You assure, hands folded within your lap as you attempt to squash the butterflies floating around in your stomach. The smile you’re wearing is infectious, happy. “John’s been looking after me.”

Bucky doesn’t conceal his smirk, pretending to act innocent, as if he has no clue about anything. You’ve confided in him more than once about your feelings for John — and John’s reluctantly done the same thing.

“Right, I’m sure he has,” Through a flash of pearlescent teeth and a streak of teasing humor, Bucky takes the terse silence as his queue to leave. “There’s pizza, if either of you are hungry.” He offers, leaning off of the doorframe.

John feels as if he’s burning, the back of his neck singed with heat as he peers at Bucky, and there’s a knowing look that passes between. “Thanks, Barnes.” He murmurs, mouth twitching into a brief smile before Bucky wanders off.

When he’s out of your periphery, John sits down next to you, leg-to-leg, hand gently resting over your thigh, thumb tracing circles over soft skin.

There’s a tranquil hush that passes between, the two of you sharing a longing glance. Leaning in, you find your purchase again the bulk of his bicep, firm beneath your cheek.

“I like you, too.” John murmurs, low and rumbling beside your ear, ensnaring your attention without any effort. Admittedly, he knew what he felt for you was stronger, overpowering — he was falling hard, and falling fast.

The bravado and swagger seem nonexistent when he’s alone with you, as if he’s stripped down to the rawest parts of himself, the parts he’s only willing to let you see.

Whatever facade he puts on, whatever barriers he constructed, they drop.

Tucking strands of hair behind your ear, he’s effortlessly charming, oozing with a veiled affection as he leans in to claim your mouth. The kiss is briefer than the one before, and he feels your hand press over his knee.

John can taste the sweetness of your lips, the way that you absentmindedly lean closer, ignoring the wretched ache that pulses through your ribs.

He caresses the small of your back, digits teasing bare flesh, thumbing over your bandages. A shudder passes through you, caught within the labyrinth of his mouth, a maze that you have no desire to escape from.

As if to shatter the moment, your stomach snarls with hunger, and you realize that it’s almost been a full day since you’ve last eaten anything. You reluctantly withdraw, visibly embarrassed as you clear your throat.

“Ruined the moment,” You murmur, but John doesn’t seem bothered, a smirk curling at his mouth, blonde brows lifting in amusement. “Did you mean what you said earlier, about liking me?”

“Yeah,” There’s a sincerity in his tone that you don’t often hear, but he’s genuine; he means what he says. Low, his cadence drops to a lull, timbre wrought with warmth. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.” He murmurs, brows furrowing.

A hitch forms within your throat, an exhilarated sound that he catches between his teeth, visage swirling with a torrent of emotions.

John is a storm — tempestuous, veiled with scars and insecurities, a maelstrom of a man that you’ve learned to navigate. He calms with you, finds a sense of peace in the quiet, and he lets you read his heart.

“What do I do to you?” Barely above a whisper, you’re vexed to know what he means, what feelings have lingered, long repressed. It’s an innocuous question, festering with underlying implications, and he knows this.

A soft huff escapes him, and he smooths a kiss over your brow, easing you off of the mattress. “Think you need to eat first.” John chides, and you don’t pursue his earlier remark, letting him help you onto solid ground.

Flustered, you’re moving together, and he grabs your sweatshirt from the chair, helping you to pull it on over your head to help with the chill.

There aren’t any surprised faces when you and John come to dinner together — and frankly, it was long overdue.

Everyone notices — he sits closer, he’s hovering around you, serving you food as if you’re incapable, smothering a smile when you aren’t looking.

Though, John tries his best to keep it subdued, even if it’s far from the truth.

“She lives! Was so worried about you!” Alexei bellows, caging your upper half in a bear-like hug, his knuckles scratching over your crown. “Ah, but she’s strong, eh? Not even bullet can stop you.” He grinned, prompting you to laugh.

John has the expression of a worried father, jaw terse, twitching when Alexei manhandles you. “Easy,” He warns, afraid of you getting hurt, or something else. “She’s still recovering.”

Ava rolls her eyes, amused by John’s behavior — he’s so in love that it’s sickening to behold. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Walker.” She mused, feet kicked up onto the arm of the couch, a slice of pizza lodged into one hand.

“Thank you, Alexei.” You smile, patting the Russian’s thick forearm before he releases you. You’re quick to eat, staving off starvation, sating the incessant growl that lurches within your stomach.

When dinner is over and the team disperses, John is nearly attached to your hip; he’d deny it, but it’s glaringly obvious. He’s by your side when he walks you to your room, your gait sluggish as you make it to the door.

“Feeling alright?” John probes, ushering you inside before the thick pane hisses shut behind you. You’re met with a welcoming hush, rubbing the sleeves of your sweatshirt together.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Placating, you clear your throat, shuffling towards your bed. “Do you … Do you want to stay the night here?” The question itself is shy, shrewd. You don’t want to overstep any boundaries, but you don’t want him to leave, either.

John exhales; it’s subtle, hitched with a twinge of exhilaration. He nods, pretending that it’s under the guise of watching over you, but in all actuality, he wants to be close. “Someone’s gotta watch you.” He murmurs, prompting you to smile.

“I think we can be honest with one another,” Your remark carries as you wander toward the bathroom, planning on brushing your teeth until your gums ooze with mint. “It goes beyond that.”

He’s like a watchdog, a protector, trailing after you even when you’re only a few feet away. Lingering in the doorframe, arms loosely folded over his chest, he’s ogling you. “You caught me.” John’s cadence softens, jaw tight.

Admittedly, he hasn’t felt this since Olivia — and even then, they were high school sweethearts. John hadn’t had another partner other than her, he never loved someone like he loved you.

There’s a sliver of awkwardness that accompanies him, as if he’s wading into uncharted territory; thrilling, but it makes him nervous. He doesn’t want to screw anything up with you like he almost did before.

“I like you a lot,” He utters, low and confessing. Toothbrush in-hand, you swivel just enough to face him, doe-eyed, ardent. “I don’t want to screw this up.” John admits, as if it’s painful for him to do so.

Talking about his feelings, being vulnerable — it’s all relatively new for him. Though, he knows that he trusts you wholeheartedly, and he knows that this is how he heals, how he improves.

He wants to be the best that he can be for you.

Smitten, you gaze at him as if he’s everything; he was your friend first, but now, he’s something more. It all feels right, like a puzzle piece slotting into place, and you can’t imagine it differently.

“You won’t, John. We’re in this together.” Reassuring, you flash a tender smile, leaning against the bathroom counter as a brace, lashes fluttering. You have faith in him, believing in him when he scarcely believes in himself.

John’s mouth twitches into a threadbare smile, still observing you as you begin to brush your teeth, using an obscene amount of arctic-mint toothpaste. His nose wrinkles at the sight. “Jesus, bad breath?” He teases.

Through furrowed brows, you’re scrubbing at your teeth as if they’re covered in grime, hastily dragging the bristles over the flat of your tongue. You repeat this pattern longer than what’s considered appropriate before gargling water.

“No, just … If we kiss again, I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t off-putting.” Your admission is one of embarrassment, but he doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. It’s the opposite — he’s magnetized by you, instead.

“If?” His head cocks to the left, as if the mere idea of not kissing you is preposterous. Blonde tresses sweep near his temples, disheveled, amusement scrawled onto his features. He swaggers closer, one hand dropping to your hip.

A shaky breath coagulates within the back of your throat, lips parted. “If.” You confirm, but it’s shattered, and he stoops down enough to capture your mouth in a passionate kiss.

A soft whine escapes your mouth, swallowed by your entanglement, lost within his lips. John kisses you gently, pouring his need into it, all of the pent-up affection he’s wanted to give to you.

A calloused hand steadies over your hip, thumb gingerly circling over your hip bone, the other ghosting across the small of your back.

Wedged against his musculature, your hands shift to the nape of his neck, fingertips toying with the blonde tresses there. He’s so warm, extinguishing the prevalent chill that grips your body.

His beard scratches against your mouth, a pleasant prickling that reminds you he’s real, flesh and blood, a beating heart. John exhales; a steady, exaggerated sound, attempting to cling to the fine line of restraint.

A charged passion echoes through the kiss, becoming increasingly heated, the longer you stand and reciprocate. Lips meld together, seamless, as if you’re made for one another.

Everything feels perfect — John’s been wanting this for months, and now that he has it, it’s almost overwhelming.

Snaking beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, his palm finds your bare flesh, caressing circles over the base of your spine. Another sound scrapes from your throat, digits interlocking over the back of his neck.

Each kiss oozes with a fiery want, and the more you entangle yourself into him, the more he wants you.

John is trying to keep things tame, given that your newfound relationship was in its infancy, but he couldn’t help himself.

Reluctant to withdraw, he stops, checking you to see if you’re still comfortable. “Still with me?” He murmurs, body flush against you, firm expanse of his chest brushing over yours.

With a nod, you’re unable to smother your smile, peering up at him through your lashes. Hands wander toward his broad shoulders, and then to his biceps, digits tensing over the muscle there. “Yeah,” You hum. “I’m a little cold.”

“Think I can help with that.” John’s mouth curls into a brief smirk, one that ignites a low fire within your belly. He plants another kiss to your jaw, catching the shudder that fans throughout your body.

You catch a glimpse of that cocksure, smug demeanor that had enticed you so much in the first place, followed by an underlying softness. Behind closed doors, he’s the first to succumb, handling you with a disarming gentleness.

“You’re a saint.” Your smile widens to a smitten beam as the both of you make for your bed. It’s as if you’re choked by your own anxieties — you can’t remember the last time you shared a bed with someone else.

John huffs, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let me go change.” He nods, moving to slip out of your room. He disappears, leaving you alone, even if it isn’t for very long.

With measured steps, you crawl into bed, comforter shrouding around your body, and you’re met with some relief from the cold. There’s a gap of quiet — gives you time to think, process what’s happened.

It almost feels ethereal, as if you’re trapped in a distant dream; John likes you, you like him. A smile tugs at your mouth, giggling to yourself like some excitable schoolgirl with a glaring crush.

Settling against your pillow, your hands loosely fold over your chest, a dull stitch pulsing through your right rib cage. Minutes tick by as you wait for him to come back, drumming your fingers over your comforter.

Another minute passes, and then five; the door suddenly opens, startling and sudden as you lurch within your bed. Your gaze flutters toward him, glued to the compression shirt and sweatpants combination.

Wordlessly, John gets into bed with you, making sure that he sticks to your left side. For him, it’s been a long time since he’s slept with someone — even before his divorce, he was sleeping on the couch.

John stills, laying on his back as he invites you closer with an arm. “Come here.” It’s soft, he’s soft for you. The mattress shifts beneath you as you scoot over, keeping to your left side, curling into him with your head against his collarbone.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

He adjusts, cerulean hues flickering toward you, taking in the delicate plate of your visage. You rip the air from his lungs without even trying; John’s hand caresses the back of your shoulder.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; it sends pleasant waves through your stomach. Attentive, he waits for your question, turning enough to see you fully.

“Why didn’t you tell me about how you felt?” You’re not accusatory, just curious. Even then, you want to know what stayed his hand, or prevented him from telling you the truth.

John’s jaw tenses, a catalyst of something forlorn brewing within his eyes. There’s a brief pause of consideration; he wants to be transparent, you deserve that. “Didn’t think you’d want me, because of everything I’ve done.”

Blinking, you roll onto your left side, albeit sluggishly, and he lets you rest your head against his bicep. A dab of cologne clings to him, and you nearly smile; that’s what took him so long to come back.

“John …” Through a gentle murmur, your hand slides toward his chest, circling over his collar. “We’ve all made mistakes. I don’t expect anything different, and you’re healing.” You caution, and he seems somewhat appreciative.

The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope.

Oftentimes, he felt like the greatest mistake of all, a dog who needed to be put down. It was a dark mindset, taking him to a place that he’d worked tirelessly to claw out of.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” He grits, tongue running over his teeth as he shakes his head. “I didn’t want to tarnish you, or drag you down with me. I …” John tapers off, throat working, shoulders tight with tension.

Sometimes he goes around pretending as if the weight of his past doesn’t crush him; with you, the load feels lighter, a burden he can shoulder. You’re waiting, expectant yet patient, mere breaths apart, and you’re understanding.

“I am scared of losing you,” With that confession, a heaviness seems relinquished from his chest. He isn’t one to admit that he’s afraid, let alone drag it out into the open. “Scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know who I’ll be if you’re gone.”

A hitch forms within your throat, lips parting as a gasp inhabits your lungs. Everything shifts, his admission leaving you burning; your hand searches for his own, ice upon fire.

“You won’t lose me,” Insistent, you curl closer, flush against one another; you can hear his low, sharp inhale, warmth radiating from his body. “I’m yours, John — for as long as you want me.”

John swallows, gaze turning to something incendiary, shadowed by ardor and by desire. A rough hand snakes to hold your hip, curling into the cotton material of your shorts. “Yeah?” He utters, lips dangerously close.

“Yeah.” The way he’s staring at you is nothing short of complete and utter devotion; that’s how you know he’s genuine. The palm that’s pressed over the back of your shoulder slides over your spine, and you shiver.

“I want to show you how much I want you,” He gruffs, cadence thick with something husky, something needy. John knows where this will take him, take you — he’s never wanted anything more. “If that’s alright.”

He’s charming — effortlessly handsome, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. Intimacy with him is something you crave, and you’re ready for it; you need him as you do air.

“More than alright.” You whisper, breathless, and his mouth hotly clamors for yours. It’s an explosion of fireworks, of pent-up affection, of an ardor that’s been smothered beneath uncertainty.

The both of you are certain now, and that’s what matters most. His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

Lips collide, collide, collide — you swear that he kisses you hoarse, beard scratching over your mouth, the sensation pleasant.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — kissed you with a sense of finality.

A low moan bubbles from your throat, trapped within the snare of his kiss, and you’re pressing into him. John subtly slots a thigh between your legs, causing you to spasm at the sudden contact.

“John,” With a hoarse whisper, his name rolls from your tongue, wanton. A warm exhale feathers over his mouth, lips ghosting over one another, never too far apart. “John.”

John grunts, hot breath fanning over your features, mouth peppering across your cheek, instead. His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

He’s careful, steady — he takes his time with you, savoring, wanting to explore your body. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it.

Something firm sits heavy, just below your belly, oozing with heat. A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan when you shift against him.

“That’s what you do to me,” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. “You drive me crazy.” He huffs; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

He’s strong, secure — there’s a protective edge to him, caged around you. Again, you shift, allowing your core to rock over his thigh, knee brushing over the growing tent in his sweatpants.

Swallowing a groan, John’s hands curl into the hem of your sweatshirt, nudging at the fabric. “Don’t want to hurt you.” He rumbles, asking for your consent before taking things further.

“You won’t.” Reassuring, you shuffle, sitting up enough for him to pry your sweatshirt aside, gingerly lifting the baggy garment over your head. You’re still wearing a t-shirt, which you initiate in removing.

The both of you are partially beneath the comforter, the room cast in an inky darkness, save for the soft glow of the light over your headboard. Tension blisters like wildfire between you, bodies flush, clothes shuffling.

Timidly, your hands wander to the hem of his compression shirt, gaze searching his, and he’s happy to comply. “Little eager, huh?” John chides, tone low, playful. It makes you flustered, shrewd beneath his stare.

“Maybe.” Through a sweet whisper, you recline backwards, just enough to give him space, navy spandex peeled away to reveal raw muscle. Your jaw slacks, mesmerized; he’s stupidly handsome.

Broad shoulders coil with slivers of tension, blanketed in light freckles, scars, and nearly-healed bruises. Biceps curl beside you, thick and firm, something for you to hold onto.

A dusting of blonde hair covers his chest, trailing over his abdomen and slipping beneath his waistband; it makes your head spin.

John exhales, cerulean hues drifting over your body, over the pallid gauze, mapping out every inch of you like you’re a constellation. “You’re so beautiful.” He purrs, palm grasping at your haunch.

Rough, careworn hands begin to caress beneath your dress, digits snaring into the soft cotton of your shorts. Sluggishly, he teases the waistband, neglecting to push past like you want him to.

“You can touch me,” Coaxing him, you notice the little twitch of his jaw, gaze glazed with a sheen of unbridled desire. “Don’t think I can go the whole way, but I still want you.”

“When you’re healed up, we’ll do this again.” John says it like a promise, a solemn oath that you desperately want him to keep. His lips search for yours, and he’s urging you in for a kiss, hand slipping between your legs.

Between slow kisses, you’re prodding him. “Already thinking about the next time?” With a teasing lilt, you shiver when calloused fingertips slip beneath the waistband of your shorts.

John bites back a smirk, palpable against your mouth as he plants a kiss there, musculature enveloping you, impenetrable. “Can you blame me?” He murmurs, digits finding your core.

Urging him in for another kiss, you’re lost within the heated labyrinth of his lips, savoring that rugged scratch of his beard. A low moan rouses within your chest, caught between your mouths.

Seeking the warmth between your legs, you nearly choked upon a strangled gasp as John’s digits ghosted along your slit. Arousal had gathered there, akin to the sticky sweetness of honey, prompting you to shiver beside him.

Wordlessly, he pushed deeper still, fingers pressing into your cunt. As he pushed past your folds, you moaned, the noise strangled, lost between the constant kisses and clawing sighs.

“You like that?” John gruffs into your mouth, a half-growl, pulling an excitable gasp from your lungs. He feels you nodding, and he begins to adjust, hovering over you, hand working against your cunt.

You squirmed, cunt aching for him in every way imaginable, hips jolting into the sensation of his practiced digits. He began to find a steady rhythm, worn digits sliding along the length of your cunt, letting you hold onto him as much as you pleased.

As if to even the score, you’re reaching for the front of his pants, noticing the glazed look in his eyes. John huffs, letting you touch him, palm grazing over the noticeable bulge.

A muted buzz courses through your body, legs spreading to accommodate for him, flesh burning with heat. An amalgamation of limbs and heat, your body feels sensitive, a live wire.

Any scrap of friction you received drove you mad, desperation climbing to new heights as your hips rocked forward into his hand. Planting a kiss to your jaw, he continues, hand fervently working to pleasure you.

John lowers, mouth pressing against your throat, showering your flesh in a myriad of kisses. A low moan split past your chest, thighs twitching, legs unsteady as you brush your hand over the swell in his sweatpants.

“Jesus,” He groans, low and husky beside your face, rumbled into your neck. His beard scratches ragged over your flesh, and your other hand sinks beside his ribs. “Stop teasing.” He hisses, tone audibly pitched with arousal.

His lips caress over the bend of your shoulder, to the velvety hollow between that and your throat. A string of kisses manifested there, digits continuing to caress over your slit.

The rhythm was agonizing, your body screaming with ecstasy. Bodies twist together, writhe — a mess of heady sighs, moans, grunts.

Thick digits continued to warm you, prodding against your entrance as he introduced his thumb, allowing it to circle around your clit. A sharp moan ripped through your throat, agonizing.

John’s teeth suddenly puncture the juncture between your neck and shoulder, harshly grazing over your soft skin. Another pleading moan erupts from your throat, finding pleasure in the sting of his rough bite.

As your hand worms past the waistline of his sweatpants, you’re clamoring, finding his cock, masterfully well-endowed as your digits brush over the flushed head. He’s not small by any means, causing your stomach to flip.

His cock throbbed incessantly, the pressure coiled within his abdomen, unexpectedly seizing when your hand wrapped around his length.

“Christ,” John groans into your shoulder, propped on one hand, the other buried into your cunt. His fingers stutter, fleeting, digits grazing over the bundle of nerves. “S’good.”

He’s painfully hard in your palm, bleeding heat, slick within your grasp as you give his cock several sluggish, gentler strokes. Another grunt stirs within his chest, flush to yours.

There’s a tension prevalent in his shoulders, one that slowly begins to unfurl, the more you touch him. It’s a mutual exchange of bliss, touching one another, bodies twined and grinding.

“I need you,” You sputter, a half-whine, hand moving to grasp at the nape of his neck, feeling his hips urge into your palm. “Needed you for s—so long, John.” Tapering off into a moan, his body shudders against you.

John’s gaze sears a hole through you, crackling, festering with heat as his mouth draws away from your throat. He clings to your words as if they’re a lifeline, kissing you hard, enough to make your chest burn.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. It’s all teeth, tongue, and want — veiled attraction spilling to the surface.

Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch on your bottom lip.

“You’ve got me.” John gruffs, blonde lashes fluttering, kissing the rugged skin beneath his eyes. He slows the kiss, savoring the sweet taste of your mouth, knowing that you are what he wants, forever.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. He’s passionate, exploratory — his digits trace back to your clit, thumb beginning to circle over it.

Between your hand stroking at his cock and his hand drawing slow circles over your clit, you’re both on the edge of combustion.

As you draw your hand along his length, caressing from the base to the flushed tip, John shudders, hips rocking forward into your palm. The sensation is maddening, coil pulled tight within his stomach, the pleasure mounting.

His thumb languidly circled your clit, other digits sliding against your cunt. You squirmed and careened forward, insides hot as liquid warmth pooled between your thighs.

“John,” You moan, singing his praises as he ruts his fingers into you, his forehead flush to yours. Noses ghost over one another, lips pressing into his with another bruising kiss. “M’close.”

Never wavering in your ministrations, your hand continued to stroke along his cock, pace developing into something evocative. It was all a haze of want, touching one another as if you were bitten by a fever.

John groaned, eyes half-lidded, pliant mouth parted as a string of satisfied grunts escaped him. As your thumb dragged over the swollen head, he nearly buckled, huffing against your mouth.

The simmering flame of desire burned brightly within the pit of your stomach, his digits continuing to piston in and out of your cunt. A cry of delight tore past your lips, nails digging crescents into the nape of his neck.

Pain throbbed, an incessant ache that rippled through your ribcage, something that you actively fought to ignore. You were too enamored with John, hovering above you, stomach tight as he nears his release.

“Christ,” He gruffs, husky and rumbling as he jolts forward another time or two, cock pulsing with heat as he curls his fingers inside of you. The reaction you have is visceral, blissful. “That’s it, that’s a good girl.” John huffs.

Instantaneous, your cunt clenched tightly around his thick fingers, hips urging forward, nearly crashing into his as his thumb nudges your clit.

The sweet nickname he uses nearly sends you into some frenzy, chewing at the inside of your cheek. You want him to say it again, but your body reacts first, blindsiding you with a white-hot haze.

Teeth lightly catch your bottom lip as the both of you reach your release, a mutual entanglement, feeling his hot spend rope over your palm. You cum on his fingers, a knot of coiled tension that unfurls with a vengeance.

Stars sweep through your vision, back arched, begging for friction as you brush against him, warmth coating the juncture between your thighs. John grunts, huffing again, the noise tantalizing as he curls into you.

It’s searing and feverish, as if you’ve been washed in fire, all-consuming. He’s touching you still, grinding over your clit, breathing heavily beside your ear as if he’s running a marathon.

Perspiration smatters along his brow, countenance furled into a look of stern bliss, lips parted to make room for another groan. There’s a mess between bodies — sweat, arousal, heat.

Drawn-out sighs escape you in an attempt to recuperate, catch your breath as you lay beneath him, legs trembling from your orgasm. It’s been a long time since someone touched you and meant it, and it was a satisfying feeling.

John moves off of you, collapsing in a muscled heap at your side, knowing he’ll have to go change again. A gap of silence stretches between the both of you, comfortable, and you’re sluggishly climbing down from your peak.

“You okay?” John murmurs, chest rising and falling, breathing beginning to steady out. His head tilts, cerulean gaze traveling over your body, appreciative — the light blankets you perfectly.

“Yeah,” Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you glance at John, half-lidded with a thinly-veiled affection. “That was really nice.” You confess, thighs still shifting together to relinquish some of the tension.

With a cocksure grin, John’s body shakes with a brief laugh, and he’s sitting up, gaze warm and never wavering from you. “Hope so,” He murmurs, planting a kiss against your jaw. “Want something to drink?”

Made you cum so hard you saw stars, and now he’s asking if you want a drink; you’re beaming, head jostling in a nod. “If you don’t mind. I think I might need a painkiller or two, too. The ache is a little much.” You sigh, and he nods.

“Right.” John is often one who prefers acts of service — it’s how he displays his devotion, his affection. He does it all seamlessly, leaving your room with a confident spring in his step.

When he returns, he’s holding a bottle of prescription ibuprofen and water, along with another change of clothes. He offers you both with a brief nod, letting you relax as he slips into your bathroom to change again.

You catch a well-lit glimpse of his body, muscles raw and sinewy, shoulders broad, a layer of sun-kissed brawn. He’s impressive, handsome, strong — your gaze travels over the labyrinth of bruises and scars.

Slipping back into your raggedy t-shirt, you take several swigs of water and a lower dosage of medication, swallowing it all down before you recline back into the pillow.

He’s crawling back into your bed, scooping you up into his embrace, keeping your good side wedged against him. Exhaustion settles in, and you’re quick to cozy up to him, hands idly tracing over his abdomen.

“I could get really used to this,” You remark, soft as he plants a kiss to your brow, palm splayed out over the small of your back. John takes comfort in that, knowing that he shares the same sentiment. “Spending the night, waking up to you, being together.”

“Yeah?” He husks, scarlet settling over his visage as he nods in agreement. “I think I could, too.” John hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.” He grouses, as if it’s an inconvenience.

A hint of something playful lingers within his tone, prompting you to press a kiss over his scruffy jaw. The sensation makes him preen, caging you in against his musculature.

“If it’s anyone, I’d want it to be you.” Curled beside him, you feel tired, letting the haze of exhaustion begin to overtake you. He’s spent too, eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a low hum of acknowledgment. “Falling asleep on me?”

“No,” John grumbles, nose wrinkling slightly. “Your voice is putting me to sleep.” His light teasing sends your heart soaring, and you can’t help but smile, content to have him hold you.

“Really smooth,” Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you make yourself comfortable, eyes closing as you decide to let yourself rest. “Goodnight, John.”

His mouth quirks into the ghost of a smirk, happening to open one eye as he turns his head, mouth meeting yours in a brief kiss. “I’ll see you in the morning.” John murmurs, warm breath pluming over your cheek.

You fall asleep in his arms; the pain in your ribs subsides.

[all-with-angel]

—Doomed by the narrative

❥ Why JJK men wouldn't last in a relationship

❥ Gojo, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna

❥ SATORU GOJO

He'd always thought that your relationship was a means to an end. it's not like he doesn't love you, gods no. It's just he had also never thought you two would last as long as you thought it would.

He could never see himself growing old with you. At least, thats what he’d like to say.

In truth, sometimes he’d sit quietly, let himself daydream about a future. The day he’d get wrinkles and he’d kiss yours, cook a smaller breakfast— light and easy, less sugar than when he was younger, before drinking coffee together in the backyard. But he never let himself think about it too much, lest he fool himself into believing it could happen.

There was always this quiet undercurrent, something just beneath the glittering surface of his charm, his teasing smiles, the way he wrapped himself around you like a koala. But Satoru Gojo was the strongest. And the strongest was nothing if not alone.

Maybe you knew that, in some suppressed part of your mind.

He knew it, better than anyone.

Satoru Gojo had a habit of deflecting whenever you’d ask about the future. Something disguised as a joke, something to tease you. But never to answer the question. You’d ask about what plans he had for the two of you, and he’d reply, “Awww~ Thinking that far ahead already? You must love me soo much! Hmmm?~” Right before covering your face in kisses and tickling you, leading you to screech and try to run away— Making you forget what you had asked him in the first place.

He never stopped moving. With the way he flitted from mission to mission, country to country, night after restless night without him beside you. You’d wake up and he was already getting dressed, giving you a quick kiss before going out. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about you. If anything, it was the opposite.

He cared so much, so deeply, it scared him. And Gojo wasn’t used to being scared. Power came easy. Strength was a fact. But loving someone? Choosing someone and staying? That was a whole different battlefield.

He tried of course. But it was just once. One time he let himself be comfortable, one time he let his guard down again. That one time made him realize that he’d have to be vulnerable with you–-- And he couldn’t afford that. Not when your life was on the line too.

Satoru Gojo was born with too much power, too many expectations, too many ghosts clinging to his heels. He was a man meant to die young or live long enough to lose everything. And he knew it. He carried it in his bones, in the way he touched you with hands that never lingered quite long enough. He spoke in half-promises. He held you like you were real and fragile and already gone. Like he had already lost you.

To him, you were always temporary. You were a life raft in a sea of blood. Fleeting, necessary, but never permanent. His reason for keeping you around was selfish. For him. To keep him company. Something fun to distract from his inevitable end. He was a weapon, through and through.

Satory Gojo could never be human with you. 

In the end, he really wasn’t.

❥ KENTO NANAMI

He settled for you. It's not like he doesn't love you, don't get me wrong, it's just that he doesn't love you in the way you love him— You were easy to love, handed to him on a silver platter. You practically threw yourself at him when he was just being nice. Polite. 

He pitied you, really. You could've had better standards. Maybe given him a chase for your love. Make him earn it.

Maybe that's why he chose to settle for you, because you were easy. Because it was quick.

Nanami had always felt like his life was sand falling through his fingers, he felt like he needed to actually live it. And quick. He knew his years on this world as a sorcerer wouldn't be long, and he’d be damned if he didn’t take this chance.

A year after the two of you met, he married you.

Marrying you seemed like the obvious choice to him, he wanted to settle down and have a family anyway. He'd support you through your problems, but not because he loved you, not because he deeply cared for you, but because it was his responsibility. That's what you are to him. Someone to protect, someone to take care of. Not someone to love so deeply that it would have him on his knees.

A year into your marriage with Nanami Kento, the cracks started to show. The perfect paradise that he had set up to keep you with him for longer, shattered.

He overworked himself, for you and our future children, he’d mutter before leaving for work. Nanami would be stressed, coming home late and collapsing into bed. You'd offer to give him some relief, some loving after a month or so of a stagnant bedroom, and he brushed you off like another chore. Later, he gave you flowers and an apology. But he never brought up the subject again. Neither did you.

He prioritized work and it became even worse when he had switched careers— One that he didn’t even tell you about. Nanami was secretive about it. And every night where you’d ask him, his answers would be more vague and different than the last.

You accused him of cheating, tears flowing down your face while he stood stoic in the doorway. Then he sighed. Tired. As if this was a chore.

He comforted you, reassured you that his loyalty lies with you. And yet it all sounded rehearsed, fake. A customer service level performance to soothe you into being calmer. This happened again and again and again and again.

At some point, you couldnt take the secrets anymore. The tired and still feeling of the cold band on your finger feeling like an actual chain rather than the grapevines and flowering start of the relationship.

In the end, you divorced him. Nanami tried to take it to marriage therapy, but after getting shut down once, he simply accepted the fact that you could not love a man that never loved you in the first place.

A few months later, you get a letter from his lawyer saying that he had given everything under his name to you. 

❥ TOJI FUSHIGURO

It wasn’t that Toji didn’t care. He just didn’t care enough to change.

It worked for a while. The fire, the thrill. The sex was good- great, even. Violent in its affection, like he didn’t know how to be soft but wanted to try.

The first time you brought it up, it was quiet– mindless. A gentle, “Hey, could you not leave your weapons all over the place?” as you picked up a blade half-hidden under the couch cushions. Toji had smirked and shrugged, like it was endearing. “Part of the décor, baby,” he said with that cocky grin, pressing a kiss to your temple like it would smooth over the issue.

You laughed, then. You actually laughed. But that laugh started getting harder to find.

It wasn’t just the weapons. It was the blood. The bruises. The fact that he’d vanish for three days without so much as a text or a warning, come home with some half-assed excuse and the stench of blood still clinging to him like a second skin. You knew what he was. Who he was. You weren’t naïve. You didn’t walk into this thinking Toji Fushiguro was some nine-to-five kind of guy with a clean conscience.

Still, you thought— hoped, really, that being with you might pull some of that recklessness back. That love, whatever version he had for you, might temper the edge just a little. But Toji wasn’t the type to be tempered. He was a blade through and through. Cold steel, sharp and uncompromising.

“I just worry,” you told him one night, tired, not even mad anymore— just drained. He’d come home limping, one hand pressed against a wound that looked deeper than he let on, and he was already halfway to raiding the fridge like it was any other night.

“I didn’t die, did I?” he clicked his tongue, cracking open a beer. “What’re you nagging for?” Sharp. Irritated. Like your concern was some bug buzzing in his ear.

Toji hated being told things. That was the real issue. Because he didn’t see it as concern. He saw it as control. And he'd be damned if he let himself be controlled. Every reminder to rest. Every note to clean up after himself. Every request to maybe not take jobs that had a 70% chance of disembowelment. 

He took it all the same way— a leash being thrown around his neck. One all too familiar.

He started snapping more after that. Leaving earlier. Coming back later. You’d find yourself alone more often than not, curled up on the couch, the only proof of his existence a trail of blood-streaked bandages in the bathroom and the faint scent of gunpowder in the air.

You asked him once, annoyed, but you realized too late that you were afraid of the answer–- if he even wanted to be in a relationship.

He gave you a look like you'd asked if grass wanted to be green. “I like fucking you. That not enough?”

You loved him. You really did.

But love wasn’t supposed to feel like sitting on a time bomb, praying it wouldn’t go off while you slept. Wasn’t supposed to drain you as you tried to help him, all the while that help was barely doing anything.

“You want someone domestic,” he said, voice low as he lit a cigarette on the balcony, not even looking at you. “Go find some salaryman, yeah? Someone who’ll do chores with you on Sundays.”

“I want you,” you said.He finally looked at you, eyes flat. “No. You want me different.”

❥ SUKUNA RYOUMEN

He does not know how to love. And while he is fully capable to learn, to choose to love you–- He won’t.  Learning how to love would take him years, if not your entire lifespan to do. Even then, it will be the farthest thing from perfect. Obviously, you never expected Sukuna to love you the way you loved him.

Not with softness. Not with kind whispered words. Before you even loved him, you knew he was different.

You tried, anyway. Gods, you tried.

You were patient with his sharp edges, learned how to navigate his moods like one learns the tides— when to speak, when to listen, when to walk away and let him burn himself out. But you’d still flinch when he’d get mad, yell and reach to break something. The wall, the table— never you, though. 

Not yet, some semblance of self preservation whispered to you.

Still, Sukuna was an untamable storm anyway. You’d act ‘wrong’ and suddenly its your fault that his mood turned sour. You had to walk on eggshells around him, that, or you’d have to quite literally scream your heart out. Fights could last days, weeks. 

Your life with him would be a ticking time bomb, an angry, dangerous man always lingering in your home. And you’d be stupidly naive to think that he’d never raise a hand against you.

Sukuna doesn’t do love. He knows how to tear hearts out of chests, not listen to them beat.

Sukuna was not built to cradle anything he could crush. And you, you would be so easy to destroy. Too easy.  A flick of his wrist, a punch, anything he’d put a sliver of effort into and you would die. He’d thought about it. 

How to kill you. 

The few times he thought about it, something uncomfortable always ate at his chest. But every single time, curiosity also nipped at him. Would you crumble just how he thought you would? Would your bones really crack that easily? 

Would your blood stain him too? Eventually?

The answer is yes. It does.

Masterlist

Ive had this in the draft cave for A MONTH. A MONTH I tell you.

[3ardnpc]

Mammon finally discovers what—who—you’re hiding from him.

TAGS: mammon x reader x lucifer, smut, angst, jealousy, accidental voyeurism, threesome, fingering, oral, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, 18+ MDNI, 4.3k

A/N: another repost from my old blog! Even tho mammon is my fave I cant help but make him suffer just a little bit

You’re nervous and he can tell, just like he can tell when someone’s bluffing in poker. It's the way your eyes sweep across the room on anything but him. It’s the way you clutch your DDD in both hands against your chest like there’s a secret to hide on it.

Ever since you landed in the Devildom, disheveled and confused, he was begrudgingly assigned to be your guardian demon and what kind of guardian would he be if he couldn’t tell when you're distressed? He’s The Great Mammon after all!

But too bad The Great Mammon can’t seem to get you to spill your guts no matter how long he stands and pesters you. He thought being your first and spending so much time together, practically attached at the hip, you’d trust him a little more with your secrets. It stings that you can’t confide in him fully yet.

Not that he’d ever admit any mere human could make him feel this way!

“I’m not lettin’ ya leave the room till ya tell me!”

You let out a breath of air, bordering between exasperated and tired. “Come on, Mammon, I’m not hiding anything.”

At that moment your DDD chimes with a text alert and your cheeks darken and eyes turn down in shame. Your eyes drift again.

“Gonna answer that or what?” He tries peering at your phone, but you step back. He can’t help the clammy feeling in his palms as theories run wild in his mind.

Could it be a boyfriend? You’d never date some lower level demon from RAD, you can hardly stand being alone in a room with one for fear of them stealing your soul. A boyfriend from the human world perhaps? Or even, the only other human in the exchange program, Solomon? That shady sorcerer could have seduced you for some nefarious purpose and you might’ve fallen for it. If you did, Mammon wouldn’t hesitate to hunt and tear Solomon apart if he hurt you.

And it couldn’t be any of his annoying brothers. If you were dating any of his brothers he’d know… right? And if you were going to date any of his brothers, it’d be him, right?

You’re his human, after all.

“Gonna have your nose in my business all day or what?” You retort.

“Hmph,” he shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a small step back, “just wonderin’.”

You tuck your DDD into the coat pocket of your RAD uniform and regard Mammon with curiosity. “What did you need anyway?”

Oh yeah, he almost forgot why he had even approached you in the first place.

“I may or may not owe a few demons.”

“I’m not lending you anymore Grimm, Mammon.”

“Come on! I wasn’t gonna ask ya that!”

He was.

You cross your arms and tsk, “what happened to the money you earned working part-time?”

Mammon huffs, not in the mood to explain how he lost it all after a disappointing night at the casino.

A familiar ring interrupts the conversation and he recognizes it as your ringtone. After two rings, and his intense blue stare, you give in and he watches as you pull it from your pocket and read the screen.

Your eyes light up, the same way Beels’ light up when he sees an extra large plate of deep fried bat wings.

A twinge of jealousy strikes him. Did you ever get that excited when his name came up on your phone? Oh no, he felt like Levi. The green tendrils of envy creep onto his heart without warning and he tries swallowing it.

“You scummy, good for nothing idiot! Where's my limited edition, glow in the dark, space-themed Ruri-chan figurine?! I know you took her!” Levi barks when he comes barreling into the living room. Speak of the devil. “I want her back now! Your scummyness probably rubbed off on my precious Ruri-chan!”

Mammon moves behind you for futile protection from the oncoming wrath of the third born. He clutches onto your shoulders like a life raft.

“Oi, I didn’t steal nothin’!”

He did and the damn thing didn’t even sell for much.

“Liar!”

Mammon hears your melodic laugh as you pry his hands off, your phone still ringing and he finally gets a view of the caller on your screen.

It’s Lucifer.

Why the hell are you getting so excited over Lucifer of all demons calling you? Do you like being lectured for hours, constantly reprimanded and berated? Are you that much of a masochist and he just hasn’t realized it yet?

“Don’t ignore me! If she’s not back in my arms by tomorrow I’ll lock you in a room with Cerberus.”

You swipe to answer your DDD and say to Mammon before departing, “you’re on your own.”

Mammon helplessly watches you go, giggling on the phone as you say hello to Lucifer.

—

The hour-long rant Mammon received from Levi was a pain. Not only does he have to pay off his debt to those demons at the casino, but now he has to buy back Levi’s figurine.

He figured he could just steal a few things no one would miss and sell them. That annoying TSL soundtrack that Lucifer always has on could probably sell for something. He could make some money and never have to hear those songs reverberate off the walls again.

He can just blame Lucifer when the album is suddenly ‘lost’. Though, there’s no way anyone would believe The Lucifer lost something, but that detail isn’t important right now. He needs the Grimm.

Mammon knocks on Lucifer’s bedroom just to check if his older brother is there. Lucifer knows when Mammon knocks and ignores answering. So Mammon has gotten good at straining his ears to listen to any signs of papers rustling or a pen scratching, but there’s nothing tonight. Lucifer’s door, although usually locked specifically to keep him out, is surprisingly unlocked when Mammon turns it.

The gothic and immaculate room is empty. So far so good for Mammon. He gets to work shuffling through each and every drawer and shelf, searching for anything valuable to pocket.

The door knob to the en-suite bathroom twists and in a panic, Mammon dives into the nearby wardrobe and shuts the door, leaving a tiny sliver open to peek out of. All he can really see from this angle is Lucifer’s ridiculously massive bed. He always wondered why his older brother needed a large bed. Lucifer himself may be a tall demon, but not tall enough to warrant such a wide bed.

Probably to fit him and his huge ego, Mammon thinks. He almost chuckles at his own joke if not for seeing you tip-toeing up to the bed fresh out of the bathroom.

You’ve changed out of your RAD uniform. A red silk robe hangs loosely over your shoulders instead. You glance around the room, probably checking for some sign of Lucifer, an adorably innocent expression on your face. You’re clueless to Mammon’s presence stuffed inside the closet.

He wants to jump out and ask what in the Devildom you're doing in Lucifer’s room, but he can’t move. He can’t even seem to catch his breath inside the suffocating closet.

Only one real question runs through his mind: why? Why are you in Lucifer’s room? Why are you wearing that?

He watches you crawl onto the bed, running your hands over the black, satin sheets. A satisfied hum leaves your lips when you settle against the headboard, shifting until you find a comfortable position. Your hands fall into your lap, idly playing with the hem of your robe, and a content smile rests on your face.

“And what’s this?”

Mammon, so absorbed in watching you, didn’t notice the sound of Lucifer walking into his bedroom. You perk up at the sound of Lucifer’s voice, moving to a kneeling position on the bed.

“A surprise,” you say, but your tone is not one Mammon’s familiar with. It’s seductive and tempting like an incubi’s, only sweeter and it’s coming from you. He wishes those words were directed at him, and him only, not Lucifer.

“Oh, really?” Comes Lucifer’s cool response.

Damn bastard, Mammon curses in his head, tempted to pop out of the closet just to wack his older brother in the back of the head. Is that really all ya got to say when she's dressed up for ya in bed?

His teeth clench, a growl forming in the back of his throat. It’s just like Lucifer to sound unappreciative when he’s got such a perfect human all to himself.

“You called me to come meet you in your room. I thought I should dress up.”

Your nimble fingers pull apart the knot on the front of your robe and it slides easily off your shoulders. Your body is almost naked except for the lacy black underwear and bra. It reveals more skin than Mammon ever thought he’d see, and his greedy eyes only want to see more. His strains to look through the opening.

Mammon watches you boldly pull on Lucifer’s red tie to bring his face closer, his lips barely grazing yours. He sees the slight smirk and hungry red eyes on Lucifer.

“Don’t you like it? It’s just for you, Lucifer.”

Just for you.

Those words punch Mammon in the gut. This isn’t for him to see. He shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t even know about your secret relationship. But you two are close, right? You can tell him anything. He’s your first, after all.

“I don’t think you deserve any praise. Do you know why?”

You shake your head, a pout on your lips from Lucifer’s rejection.

“Because you let that pest in.”

Before he can react to Lucifer’s words, a burst of magic throws open the closet doors and forces Mammon to come tumbling out.

“Mammon?” You gasp, grabbing your robe to cover yourself again.

Scrambling to his feet, Mammon averts his eyes and mumbles out incoherent apologies.

You probably think he’s a damn pervert. He won’t even look you in the eye.

“Should I throw him out or should we punish him for spying?”

“Punish?” You and Mammon both echo. While Mammon’s voice is fearful for the kind of sadistic ways Lucifer will torture him, yours is curious.

The eldest brother doesn’t turn his head to acknowledge the younger, his eyes are keenly on you. His gloved hand slides over your shoulder, toying with the thin strap of your bra before sliding it down. “Answer me.”

Your coy eyes dart over to Mammon who is still helplessly sprawled on the floor, unable to move. A tongue moves to wet your lips and both men watch, mesmerized by your action.

“He can stay.”

Mammon has always had nice long and slender fingers and, of course, he knew that. He had the skilled, nimble fingers of a thief. They were capable of picking pockets and, apparently, making you writhe and gasp beneath him. Oh, if only he had a camera to capture your pretty face gasping his name in fragmented breaths.

Two orgasms with just his fingers and now he was aiming for a third just to keep listening to your overstimulated moans. The way you writhed around his fingers, struggling to keep up with his ruthless pace, was addicting. Your fingers were buried in the dark sheets of Lucifer’s bed.

Finally, your eyes fluttered open. He watched your flushed face intently, memorizing the way your brows furrowed together in pleasure, glossy lips parted for air, and the sheen of sweat that had gathered over your smooth skin. He could watch you fall apart on his fingers for the next century or for the rest of his eternal life, preferably the latter.

Mammon met your eyes. He may have been declared the worst, scummiest brother of the seven but when he saw you, those words meant nothing. You were his human. His perfect human. And the way you looked at him convinced him that maybe he wasn’t a worthless loser like his brothers said, he was just as perfect in your eyes as you were in his. That was all that mattered to him.

He slowly drew his two fingers out of you, earning a whine. Your weak arms chased after him. He couldn’t resist the low chuckle that escaped him. You were so needy for him—just for him.

Your sticky arousal clung to his fingers and he greedily stuck them into his mouth to taste. So sweet, just like you. One taste and he felt an insatiable hunger, rivaling Beel’s, begin to build up inside of him. He wanted you so badly for so long. Now, you were splayed out for him with legs spread wide, a leaking cunt ready to be fucked. The need on your face was apparent.

Mammon slid his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop. Two orgasms later and he had yet to kiss you. As he leaned down he thought he should. He wanted to. It’ll be our first kiss, Mammon thought. Our first kiss in Lucifer’s room, on Lucifer’s bed, under Lucifer’s watchful eye.

He couldn’t do it.

Instead, he came down to press hot kisses against your neck. He cursed himself for being so afraid. His fists curled up beside your head.

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, you responded by baring your neck for him, sighing and grinding yourself against his clothed erection. He bit back a groan and buried his face into your neck.

“You’re all mine, right?” He murmured more to himself than anyone else. You were too lost in a haze of pleasure to properly hear him.

But his fantasies could only last so long.

“For now, Mammon. But, don’t forget who she really belongs to.” The cold voice reached his ears from the corner of the room.

Mammon’s blue eyes moved to where his older brother reclined on the sofa with a cruel smirk. The fireplace was lit, casting an even sinister glow on Lucifer that Mammon found fitting. The brothers locked eyes, equally filled with an unspoken challenge.

Mammon glared at Lucifer, the demon who was so proud and confident you’d never leave him for anyone else. So proud and confident, he’d let Mammon fuck you.

Yeah, well, Mammon would show him. He would fuck you so good you wouldn’t even rememeber Lucifer’s name by the time he was done.

“Ya bastard,” Mammon snapped, fully removing his face from your neck. “Can ya just shut up?”

Lucifer only crossed his arms, the smug smirk growing deeper.

“Mammon…” came your sweet, wavering voice. He looked back down at your adorable pout. Those plump and reddened lips that had been caught between your teeth when you tried (and failed) to hold back moans just looked so irresistible. He wanted to kiss you. Your hand came up to run through his snowy hair. “Don’t be mean.”

“Yes, Mammon,” Lucifer said the younger’s name with venom, “I wouldn’t recommend it. After all, I’m the one allowing you to do this. I can end it whenever I please.”

This was only happening because Mammon happened to stumble in on you and Lucifer. But it wasn’t just Lucifer’s decision to let him stay, you also had a say in this. You were the one letting him kiss your body, fuck you on his fingers—you wanted this just as much as him. Lucifer be damned, Mammon only wanted your permission.

Mammon’s only reply was a dismissive ‘tch’ and his mouth returned to press kisses on your body. This time with renewed vigor. He’d carve his name on your skin and use his cock to ruin you until your thoughts were consumed by him.

His fingers scorched a trail over your chest until he cupped one of your breasts, squeezing and running his thumb over a hardened nipple. You let out a breathy moan, arching your back into his hand. He bent his head to take your other neglected nipple into his mouth. He used his skillful tongue to lick and suck and abuse each nipple until they were red and littered with his marks.

“Hah,” you sighed, taking on a whiny tone “please, Mammon, touch me.”

He detached his mouth from your nipple to give a short reply, “I am, baby.” He continued his assault on your breasts, then made his way up to your neck and sucked even more bruises onto your skin.

Lucifer clicked his tongue at the pet name, but didn’t say anything. He stayed glued to his spot on the couch and watched you two with a fierce red gaze. How any of this was punishment, Mammon wouldn’t know. Letting him have you all to himself while Lucifer quietly sat back and observed seemed more like a reward.

“Y-You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I wanna hear you say it.”

You bit your lip hesitantly, nervous eyes flitting over to Lucifer. He remained silent.

“Your fingers, your mouth… I want you to—ngh,” you moaned when his fingers grazed the inner part of your thigh. So close. He dragged them higher, lightly brushing your outer folds. A knowing smirk rested on his lips. You bucked your hips, desperate for him to sink his fingers back into you. “I want you in me, on me. Please, please.”

How could he resist such a pretty plea? One hand pushed your thighs apart and two fingers quickly entered you again, pushing through your tight walls and had you crying out.

You sighed with blurry unfocused eyes that drifted over the room as Mammon offered you such great pleasure that your thighs trembled around his hand. You gasped when his fingers curled unexpectedly, hitting the perfect angle, making you arch your back and your fingers dig into the dark sheets.

Judging by your reaction, Mammon knew he hit the jackpot and he’d be foolish not to keep going until you’re clenching around his fingers and crying his name for Lucifer to hear—better yet, for all of the House of Lamentation.

His mouth made its way down until he was kissing your inner thighs. One of his large hands pushed your thighs further apart so he could fit his shoulders between your legs and get a better view of your drenched folds. After two mind-numbing orgasms, your arousal coated his fingers and soaked the bed. His tongue lapped around his fingers, cleaning up your mess, savoring your taste. He became ravenous once your sweetnesses hit his tongue.

Foregoing his fingers, Mammon instead used them to spread your folds apart to plunge his serpentine tongue into your cunt with a ferocity that had you shaking.

“Ah, too m-much.” You groaned, twining your fingers through his hair and tugging on the strands, hoping it would halt his quick tongue. He grunted at the sharp tug on his head, but your arms, weak from the onslaught of pleasure, were no match for his demonic strength and determination. His fingers dug into your thigh to prevent you from squeezing them around his head. You would have bruises in the morning, but it would be another display of him on your skin. Exactly what he wanted. His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking the swollen and sensitive bud, and grazed it with his teeth. You cried out. The pleasure was so overwhelming that tears began to roll down your cheeks.

“Good girl. You can take it.” Lucifer was no longer sitting on the couch. Some time between Mammon fingering you and eating you out, he moved to the edge of the bed, closest to your head. He stroked your sweat matted hair out of your face. His white gloves dragged across your damp cheek.

You muttered Lucifer’s name between breaths. You didn’t realize it, but Mammon did.

Saying another demon’s name while he was the one between your legs!?

“Oi, oi,” Mammon snapped, tugging at your hips until you were dragged out of Lucifer’s grasp. His possessive hands, nails digging in and leaving crescents on your skin, squeezed your thighs. “He ain’t the one who’s eatin’ ya out, is he? Eyes over here.”

Lucifer scoffed, “don’t be childish, Mammon.”

The eldest demon moved to sit behind you, propping your limp body against his chest. Having you settled against him, he slowly removed his gloves. When long, pale fingers finally emerged, they toyed with your nipples first, tugging and pinching, drawing out your high-pitched whimpers. He played with you like a doll under his absolute control, knowing exactly where you liked to be touched, where you let out the softest gasps from the pressure of his hands against your throat.

You fell against Lucifer, fitting against him like you were meant to be that way. It just wasn’t fair. It wasn’t. Mammon was your first man. So, why did you fall into the arms of Lucifer instead of him?

“Tch, yer a greedy little slut, aren’t ya? Wantin’ two demons at once. Ta be nothin’ but a stupid cocksleeve.” The comment came without warning, even Mammon paused.

“Mammon.”

The second-born nearly yelped when he heard the simmering fury in Lucifer’s barely restrained voice. A familiar dark aura fogged the room. Just before Lucifer could reach around you and throttle him, your hand pressed against his chest to stop him.

“It’s fine, Lucifer,” you managed to say in time. “I-I kinda liked it.”

Your back was to Mammon. You couldn’t see the relief that left his body limp.

“I won’t let him talk to you like that.” Lucifer narrowed his sharp eyes at Mammon over your shoulder. Even after you confessed to liking the names, Lucifer’s hands tightened around your waist protectively. “You can go now.”

“B-but I ain’t finished,” Mammon protested, reaching to touch your shoulder.

Lucifer was faster, wrapping his gloved hand around Mammon’s wrist and pushing him away. “You’re done when I say so.”

The aura in the room changed with Lucifer’s mood. As the eldest and strongest demon in the room, he controlled every action, down to the last breath, and Mammon would be wise to remember that.

“He doesn’t have to go,” you turned around to look at Mammon, “don’t go.” You offered him a soft reassuring smile.

“You really want him to stay, love?” Lucifer had your attention again, cupping your cheeks in his hands, searching for any signs of hesitation.

You nodded and Lucifer sighed. “Okay, but,” Lucifer looked at Mammon, “no more touching. Your punishment can start now.”

“Wha-”

“Mammon, stay,” your sweet voice commanded him and he was stuck. The feeling of your pact activating left him feeling numb all over. His master gave him an order he had to obey. So, this was the real punishment.

Mammon clenched his jaw and helplessly watched Lucifer flip you onto your stomach and spread your legs, ass up. You were facing him on your elbows, flashing him a teasing smile. Your bottom lip came between your teeth and Mammon groaned, wishing he had kissed you when he could.

“You prepared her well for me,” Lucifer taunted, unbuckling his pants and bringing out his cock. His two fingers pushed into your wet cunt. You gasped when a third finger entered, stretching you out further to ensure taking Lucifer’s cock would be easier. “Now you can watch me fuck her.”

Lucifer’s fingers slipped out and were soon replaced by his thick cock, pushing into your tight walls. The second he entered you, your arms collapsed and you fell against the bed, eyelids fluttering shut so you could fully feel his entire length buried inside you and fucking you.

As much as he wanted to, Mammon couldn’t tear his gaze away from you and your expressions. When you’d bite your lip to hold back shallow gasps after each rough thrust, or how your brows furrowed when Lucifer reached around your waist to play with your clit, he studied them all.

“Nng—more,” you panted, grinding your hips against Lucifer.

Just like Mammon, Lucifer wasn’t immune to your pleas. He lifted your body against his chest, letting you sit on his cock as he thrusted up into you and his hand played with your tits. You moaned, reaching your hand around to scratch at Lucifer’s neck. Your thighs trembled with each wet slap of your hips connecting.

“Let him know who’s fucking you this good,” Lucifer said low in your ear.

“Y-You!”

Lucifer gave your sore nipple a cruel pinch, demanding more than one-word answers.

“Hng! You, Lucifer! You make me f-feel so good!” You cried, grinding harder against his cock.

“Good girl,” Lucifer cooed into your ear. He continued fucking you, playing with your clit, until your body tensed.

Mammon could tell you were close. You came around his fingers twice—he remembered. When your head fell against Lucifer’s shoulder and your body locked up, he could tell that you came, Lucifer as well. His fingers twitched for contact. He just wanted to hold you, be the one whispering sweet comforts into your ear as you came down, but that was Lucifer’s job.

It was numbing to sit in place, unable to have what he desired more than Grimm, and be nothing but a spectator in Lucifer’s cruel punishment.

Your sleepy head rested on Lucifer’s shoulders, already dozing off when he pulled out. Your combined juices dribbled down your thigh. As Lucifer worked on making you comfortable, he glanced over his shoulder at Mammon.

“Give it up. She’s mine.”

Mammon felt his mouth go dry. If only you weren’t so oblivious to his obvious feelings and if only he weren’t so adamant on denying them, then things wouldn’t be this way.

With you resting comfortably in Lucifer’s bed, the command you put on Mammon was released. The feeling returned to his limbs, but the dull ache in his chest lingered. He dragged himself from the bed, knowing the longer he watched your peaceful expression in Lucifer’s arms, the more it’d hurt.

He still wished he kissed you.

[bullet-prooflove]

Bread: Jack Abbot x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @ilariyalavorowrites @spooky-librarian-ghost @wtfc-huh

Companion piece to:

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Balance - Jack reveals his feelings for you but they come with complications.

Off Limits - An awkward start to the day leads Jack to make a claim on your affections.

Hawaii - Jack discovers who he really is when you book a trip to Hawaii.

Silk (NSFW) - Jack loves the sight of you in silk.

Boston - You reflect on the past after your ex-husband makes an appearance on a trying day.

This God Damn Fucking Day - Jack steps into the fray with things get messy between you and you ex-husband.

Misdemeanour - Jack's forced to step in when you get arrested because of your ex-husband.

Fishtail - Jack helps you decompress in the aftermath of your ex-husband.

Love Language (NSFW) - Jack has his own unique love language.

What Puts You On That Ledge - Jack finds away to pull you off that ledge.

Masochist - You and Jack have an indepth understanding of one another.

Seven Shades of Fucked Up (NSFW) - You know exactly how to get Jack off.

Part of the Job - Violence has always been part of the job, but this time it hits a little too close to home for Jack.

Pittfest - Jack's day turns into a nightmare when he recieves a notification from the hospital regarding a mass casuality event.

Snapband - Jack's worst fear comes true during a mass casuality event.

Life Raft - Jack reaches out when he sees that you're struggling.

Baking saved Jack’s life once. He tells you that when you step into the kitchen after a therapy nap to discover him kneading dough on the countertop.

After his brother got better and his niece was returned to his custody he’d felt listless, unneeded. The PTSD he’d convinced himself he didn’t have had hit him like a freight train. Flashbacks, nightmares, irritability, the works. He stopped sleeping, started to disconnect from the world.

“It was my friend Dre that pulled me out of it.” He says as you lean back against the work surface alongside him, watching his motions. “He’s the vet that owns the bakery. He knew when I got quiet that something wasn’t right. He started coming over but I couldn’t really engage, it was like a disconnect between me and the rest of the world. So we started doing this instead.” He says gesturing at the dough in front of him. “There’s something about the methodology of it that just relaxes me. I started to become more present, started talking more and it’s like the floodgates opened…”

He tilts his head to look at you, his whiskey coloured eyes meeting yours.

“For a long time the world didn’t make sense to me but bread, it’s simple. It’s chemistry, physicality and mindfulness all rolled into one.”

“You like bread because you are bread.” You inform him, nudging his hip with yours. “It’s structured, measured and when you get it all hot and bothered it rises.”

“You know this is serious stuff.” He chuckles the left side of his mouth quirking up into a smile.

“I know.” You smile, your cheek coming to rest on his shoulder as he continues to beat the dough with the heel of his hands. “So why don’t you tell me what’s going on in that head of yours that’s made you crack out that apron for the first time in five years.”

“I thought I lost you Faye.” He tells you, his kneading becoming more aggressive. “For three hours I was convinced the love of my life was dead and it fucked with me. Sometimes I wake up and I have to check you’re still breathing because this world without you…”

He trails off but you get the picture. He would have stepped right off that roof after his shift with absolutely no hesitation.

“This is my way of working through that, of coming to terms with what happened in a healthy way.”

You duck underneath his arm, placing yourself within the confines of his body, your back against his chest, your hands coming to rest alongside his on top of the dough.

“Will you teach me?” You request. His grizzled cheek comes to rest against yours as his fingers slips into the grooves between your knuckles, forcing your palms into the dough, massaging it.

“Remember that thing I said before about you and bread?” You murmur as his lips brush over your jaw, his hips slotting perfectly against yours. “Well I can feel it rising.”

“I told you it’s chemistry, physicality and mindfulness all rolled into one.” He whispers, grinding against you so you can feel him there, hard, heavy, wanting. “You wanted to know the reason I haven’t had to do this in five years? It’s was you Faye. I don’t need the bread when I have you.”

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[serpentface]

The liwe and uraña, the megafauna of the Yutreiya archipelago (a large volcanic island chain near the center of the White Sea, homeland to the qilik-elowey Ulelilwa peoples). These are the two largest native land animals found in these islands, standing about waist high on a human.

The liwe is a flightless bird and the top land-based predator to be found here. Their ancestors were predatory birds who came to occupy niches as land based predators (with some members of the family specializing into insectivorous or partially herbivorous roles). Their wing are entirely vestigial, though retain some use in steering while at chase and in courtship displays- pairs will stand chest to chest and shake their wings at each other, and males will rapidly flap their tiny wings in continued display while mating, which is notably silly looking.

They act primarily as ambush hunters, as they have neither the speed nor stamina to capture a healthy adult uraña in an outright chase. Pairs mate for life and hunt cooperatively, with one typically driving prey to where the other waits in ambush. When hunting large prey, they typically attempt to injure the prey by slashing with their sharp beaks and kill with a crushing/piercing bite to the throat. Smaller prey is kicked and trampled until it can be dispatched with a bite.

The uraña has a superficially deerlike appearance, but is actually a highly derived lagomorph that has specialized in cursorial grazing and browsing niches. Their ancestors were likely hares (or harelike animals) who distributed through parts of the White Sea via rafting events and over land bridges during periods of lower sea levels. They have entirely lost the hopping gait of their ancestors and run like deer, but retain some recognizably hare-like traits. Males competing for access to mates (and females competing for herd dominance) will stand on their hind legs and box each other with their hoof-like claws. They give birth to precocial young (usually two at a time) who can stand and run shortly after birth.

They live in fission-fusion herds of up to 200 (though generally less) individuals for protection against predators. A herd at large is mixed sex, though most interactions outside of the breeding season are homosocial. Females and their young form bands within the interior of the herd, and will drive out adolescent males, while adult and adolescent males form bands that patrol the outside of the herd and watch for predators.

Females maintain strong dominance hierarchies within their circles, maintained with ritualistic displays and brief bouts of boxing. Male bands do not have strong dominance hierarchies, though they compete heavily during the breeding season. Male uraña have two distinct morphs in terms of size and reproductive behavior- larger, higher testosterone males attract and defend harems during the breeding season, and will spend these months tirelessly chasing off competitors, stealing from rivals, and attempting to prevent females from straying, all while barely eating. Smaller, lower testosterone males spend more of their energy courting singular females and/or wooing them out of their harems via shows of strength in boxing matches, attempting to mate with as many as possible during the breeding season without monopolizing access or picking fights with their larger counterparts. Harem males monopolize most of the breeding, but the yearly strain of defending large groups of females often results them having shorter lifespans (or being picked off by predators in a weakened state post-breeding season). Boxing males expend far less energy in the breeding season, and as such often live long enough to sire many offspring throughout their lives. As such, both strategies are reproductively successful and result in/reinforce this distinct morphology.

Liwe were part of a larger family of flightless birds once found on these islands, but the unintentional introduction of rats by the first Ulelilwa settlers contributed to the demise of most of this group (as well as a great variety of flying birds). Liwe eggs are too large and thick shelled for most rats to consume, and they have survived and thrived while the rest of their relatives are extinct on all but the most isolated of islands.

There also used to be a much larger species of uraña (about the size of a key deer). These were the largest animals on the islands and had no natural predators (save for liwe occasionally taking their young). Their population was already under pressure or locally extinct in many islands due to decreasing landmass in rising sea levels, and was fully driven extinct by its grazing lands converted to the raising of crops and ant-farming by Ulelilwa settlers. The smaller uraña occupy more generalist niches and adapted well to these pressures, with most of their populations not only surviving but exploding in size with the gradual extinction of their larger relatives.

(slightly outdated) size ref

[yuta-nakamots]

Snow Angel - B.Barnes

Pairing - Post-CW Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Genre - fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship!AU

Warnings - negative self-talk, Bucky needs support

Summary - While Bucky heals in Wakanda, you stay by his side, offering him comfort and hope as he fights to believe he’s worthy of a future.

Word Count - 1k

Now Playing: Snow Angel - Renee Rapp

Following the events of Bucky becoming an international fugitive, you and Steve ran with him, keeping him company every step of the way until finding refuge in Wakanda, thanks to the grace of King T’Challa. 

“Are you sure you want to do this, Buck?” Steve asked, his voice full of worry. His brows furrowed as he looked between Bucky and the cryostasis chamber. 

Bucky gave him a sad smile. “It’s safer this way…” his eyes flitted around the room until they landed on you. “For everyone.”

Filled with hope from the promise of Bucky’s well-being from T’Challa and Shuri, Steve returned to his duties as an Avenger and as Captain America, leaving you to watch after Bucky during his recovery in Wakanda. Day after day, you visited him in Shuri’s lab and spoke to him as if he could hear you, giving him updates on the rest of the team. Steve had broken Sam, Clint, Wanda, and Scott out of the Raft, and they were all on the run. 

Scott and Clint had plans to go back to their family, Sam and Wanda wanted to continue operating on their own volition, helping people off the grid. And Steve? He lived the vigilante life he always wanted, doing his own missions quietly. Helping refugees, stopping weapons deals or black-market tech threats. The burner phone he had given you was the only thing keeping you tied to the rest of the world, your main focus being Bucky. 

As Shuri worked through his physical and mental inner-workings, occasionally, Bucky was allowed periods outside of cryostasis for consultation regarding his treatment, the first semblance of control he had at reclaiming himself. During those times, he stayed by your side, as if your presence was the only thing reminding him why he was enduring all of this. 

On a particularly sunny day, T’Challa had granted you and Bucky a brief moment outside to get some fresh air. The two of you walked side by side until you came upon a small pond at the edge of a forest. You took a seat on a large rock, Bucky finding his spot in between your legs, his head falling against your stomach. Your hands gently carded through his long brown locks, and he leaned into you, his eyes fluttering shut while basking in the warmth, a stark contrast to the cryo chamber. 

“Doll, feel the tip of my nose.” 

You do as told, one hand sliding down the strong ridge of his nose to the tip. It’s both burning and ice cold. “Bucky, are you okay?” Your finger stayed on his nose until it warmed up a bit under your touch. 

“It’s like winter…I’ll make it through.” You look down at him, his eyes still shut, eyelashes bristling gently in the breeze. For a while, the rustling of the foliage surrounding the two of you was the only sound that filled the silence. “Do you ever wish you had gone a different way?”

“What do you mean?” Your hands busied themselves in Bucky’s hair once more, tugging gently at the strands and weaving them together in delicate braids. 

“You could be living your life right now, you know.” His voice was steady, but it did nothing to hide his emotional turmoil. “You don’t have to stay with me here, losing time you can’t get back.” 

“Bucky,” you began, continuing your motions as you pulled strand after strand into two braids, framing his features. “My life is nothing without you. No time is lost as long as I’m with you. Even if I went back home, I would only be wishing I were here.”

Bucky breathed a heavy sigh, steadying himself before he responded. “You really are an angel, you know that?” You heard the way his tone wavered. “I’ve tried so hard to…to keep myself from hurting others, but it seems like no matter what I do, I end up half alive and twice as weak.”

“Buck…” Your heart broke at his words. He wasn’t one to talk about his emotions. “I wish you saw yourself the way I do. Brave, selfless, worthy-”

“But I’m not. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.” 

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, running fingers down the thin braids you created. “You deserve all of this and more. You’ll make it through this. We will make it through this,” you tell him, emphasizing your last statement.

“And what’s there for us after everything is over?” Bucky finally opened his eyes, his ocean blue ones staring up into yours. 

You hum in thought. “Well, seasons will change, that’s for sure.”

Bucky lightly chuckled, wincing slightly as a hand came up to his temple. “Still defrosting,” he told you, sensing your concern for him. “It’s hard to laugh when it’s hard enough to breathe.” Your hands moved from his hair down to his temples, massaging slow circles. “If I’m being honest, I still don’t really know what they’re doing to me up in there.” He brought his index finger to his forehead, tapping on it twice. 

“Shuri’s been trying to decode the programming, trying to find where those words took root and if it’s possible to get them out,” you explain to him, remembering the mental maps she constantly had up on the giant screens. 

“Better than nothing, I guess,” Bucky chuffs as your hands float back into his scalp, fingers flexing to apply light pressure while dragging through his hair. “Even if it kills me, at least it means I tried.”

“Hey,” you chide. “We’ll figure this out.” If there was ever a time when Bucky Barnes needed support, you would be the first to arrive and last to leave.

Autoplay: If you like this, you may also like [2:39pm] Bucket - B.Barnes

[pooks]

Ichiji was beyond pissed off at this dumb Davy Back fight.

First off, the shitty raft he, Luffy and Sanji were on broke. He told his captain that it wouldn't hold. Secondly, he's gotten whisked away by Foxy's idiotic pirate crew as their "prize".

He hated the Foxy Pirates. He hated the stupid, fake-cute woman on his crew. He hated the fake as fuck announcer and he hated this pathetic motherfucker to pirate captain Silver fucking Foxy.

And now these idiots wanted him to pledge his loyalty?

Oh ho...oh ho ho ho ho...

They had no idea who they were messing with.

"Give me that." He said and snatched a den-den mushi megaphone. He walked to the front of this "stage" and looked ahead of the massive crowd. Among them, he saw his real crew and he saw Sanji.

No one could make him pledge his loyalty to anyone else than the one he loved most.

"I pledge to..."

Everyone kept their breaths. Scarlet Ichiji, the recently risen pirate with a bounty on 40 million berries and mysterious powers that was not from a devil fruit...what would he say?

Ichiji then gave a wicked grin, like a serial murderer had just caught the scent of blood and found their new victim. "To slice the neck of anyone who says that I should abandon my precious little brother, whom I have bled out for!"

He turned his head around and smirked at Foxy, who had gone pale white and started to cold sweat. "I am Scarlet, Foxy. I am a DEVIL compared to my dear little brother. To forfeit my title as his big brother is to forfeit my life. So I DON'T PLEDGE LOYALTY TO YOU. I shall wait until the end of these games for my execution since I don't accept you as my new captain. Suck a lemon."

He was instantly booed by every single Foxy Pirate.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Sanji stood there, frozen with a widened eye. "AAARGH! SHITTY BROTHER WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?!" He screamed angrily. He didn't want to see his older brother forfeit his life and if they lost...if they lost, then he would die!

Luffy laughed and clapped his hands. "That's right, Ichiji! You're my archivist!"

"HE'S GONNA DIE IF WE LOSE THE NEXT TWO GAMES!" Nami shrieked at him. "Ichiji! Don't be stupid! Just go ahead and pledge loyalty for that moron! Don't throw away your life for nothing!"

"It won't be for nothing if it means Sanji lives!" Ichiji shouted at her, pissed off that she still didn't understand a thing about his bond to his little brother. "I

Usopp was tear-eyed and sniffed. "What a model big brother...Ichiji, you're such a man..." He rubbed his eyes. "Damn it, Sanji! You're so lucky!"

'Not so lucky if we lose the next two games.' Zoro thought to himself and glanced at the cook without moving his head. Sanji looked as if he was close to a panic-induced anxiety attack, biting on his nails and looked generally distressed. He couldn't let that happen.

"Ichiji..." Chopper sniffled, hugging Sanji's leg.

'If we lose...' Nami narrowed her eyes.

'The next two games...' Robin thought.

"Sanji/I will see Ichiji being executed!" Everyone's thoughts echoed in union, not that they knew it.

'No regrets.' Ichiji smirked to himself.

There was no way his captain would let that happen.

Perhaps not the most ideal solution, but if it gives some his captain motivation...then he'll do everything he can to take him back before his pending doom.

'Kick his ass, captain.'

[xreaderdumpster]

Being Kyoraku's partner would include...

First time posting to this new blog! Wanted to get back into writing and blogging as a new year's resolution so... here you go ;w;

Going on bar crawls with Rangiku and her group. Having one too many and having him cling to you like a life raft. Hands loosely interlocked, his bearded cheek smushed against yours. "You know I loooooove you (Y/N)~"

Him being conflicted with how to explain the fact he wore a woman's kimono. The rumours circulating the Soul Society that it was a lost lover or deceased wife's. You never listened. But the moment he explained himself and you were okay with it, even without the explanation, his heart would melt. You would be one of the few he would delve these secrets to.

Lazy days, though rare as Head Captain, would be Shunsui's favourites. His hands stroking your head as you slept peacefully against his chest. A casual evening stroll in the moonlight. Cooking together. It was perfect. Almost like being alive again.

Shunsui would have a specific cologne. Something akin to cherry blossom, tonka bean and rose. More masculine centred shinigami can often make fun of him for it but damn does he smell good. He may spray a bit extra before seeing you so you get subtly addicted to it or associate it with him more.

Will always enjoy having his head on your lap. Bad day? "(Y/N), I think I need to lay down... I feel a migraine coming on." Missed you? "Please, just five minutes in your lap, that's all I'm asking. You can't refuse the head captain!" Good day? "*sigh* It's like a reward" Especially if his partner has a thick thighs or a soft stomach.

Has always been a ladies man. Shunsui knows how to charm a woman into his bed. But with you? He was so SO nervous before your first time together. Until you got into it and he remembered every trick in his book.

Adores having his hair washed by you when you bathe together. Fingers entangled in his locks, nails gently scraping his scalp before hot water washes it all away. It's his addiction. Also definitely has a hair pulling kink.

[sitp-recs]

hiii liv!! any soft eighth year recs??

I read nice things and I’m just craving some soft drarry :)

thank you hope youre doing well

Hi anon! Ahh I adore Nice Things, such a healing fic and a perfect read for the holiday season ❤️ here are some soft 8th year fics for you:

Thermodynamic Equilibrium by @dorthyanndrarry (T, 5k)

Harry's far too hot. Draco's always cold. And somehow against all odds, together they create a perfect equilibrium.

What Country, Friends, Is This? by khalulu (M, 8k)

When Harry and Draco are paired up for a nebulous “capstone project” in 8th year, Draco suggests they use it as an opportunity to take a free Grand Tour of Europe.

warmest part of the winter by warmfoothills (T, 11k)

It’s not even a balcony, it’s just a window with a bit of a ledge, and Draco’s read Shakespeare anyway, he knows how this one ends.

Said and Unsaid (or, The Value of Knowing When to Stop Talking) by bryoneybrynn (T, 15k)

When the Interrogator asked if he had anything to say on his own behalf, Draco shook his head, his lips pressed tight in a thin line. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like an excuse.

On Our Way by evils (E, 30k)

Draco is trying to spend the summer keeping his head down, but a repair project and a certain snowy owl have other plans for him.

All Things Go by @sorrybutblog (E, 33k)

Draco’s back at Hogwarts by court order. Harry’s back for no particular reason at all. Some things change, some stay the same.

Like Lightning at Your Fingertips by potterwatch (T, 43k)

The problem with living with another insomniac is, eventually, they find out you’re one, too.

The July Tree by @oknowkiss (E, 51k)

Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail… nor well-meaning friends, nor questionable communication skills, nor seven years of hating each other’s guts can keep Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy from falling in love.

The Promise of Summer by Omi_Ohmy (M, 66k)

How was Harry supposed to know that coming back for eighth year would be so confusing? Everything is the same, and yet not the same. And nowhere is this more obvious than with Draco Malfoy.

Azoth by @lol-zeitgeistic (E, 88k)

Now that Harry is back at Hogwarts with Hermione for eighth year, he realises that something’s missing from his life, and it either has to do with Ron, his boggart, Snape, or Malfoy. Furthermore, what, exactly, does it mean when one’s life is defined by the desire to simultaneously impress and annoy a portrait? Harry has no idea; he’s too busy trying not to be in love with Malfoy to care.

Helix by Saras_Girl (E, 92k)

Seven months after the end of the war, Harry is feeling lost. Fortunately, he is about to be offered an unexpected and sparkling chance to find himself again.

Far From The Tree by aideomai (E, 112k)

The arrival of Harry Potter’s children—snapped back in time, the children themselves guessed, twenty or so years—was the most interesting thing to happen at Hogwarts for years.

Written on the Heart by who_la_hoop (E, 113k)

Unnerved by the attention he’s attracting from everyone – the Slytherins are the least of it, to be fair – and struggling with a raft of changes to Hogwarts itself, Harry wishes he could be happy that one constant remains: Draco Malfoy really fucking hates him.

where all the veins meet by @saxamophone (E, 146k)

It's the summer of 1998. The battle is over, and Voldemort is dead, but Harry still has more questions than answers. Who is he without a piece of Voldemort's soul in his head? What is he supposed to do now?

Bonus: a smutty Christmas treat 🎅🏼

The Romantic Prawn Who Loved Christmas by bixgirl1 (E, 39k)

When Draco, forced into sharing a room with Potter for the year, finds out that Potter has a sleepwalking problem, he expects the odd conversations and the weird games of chess.

[yandere-sins]

The Orcas' Tale - Give up wanting to leave them (BE 2)

Sooo, finally another bad end, and a really long one at that! Please heed the warnings at always, and I hope you guys enjoy it ♥

Fandom: Original Content   Pairings: Yandere!Orca Mermen x GN!AFAB!Reader   Warnings: Yandere, Monsters, Violence (Scratching, Biting, Verbal Abuse, Mention of a tragic birth), Sexual Content (Fingering, Groping, Mention of monster cocks, Non-consensual touches), Pregnancy and Nursing mention, Baby mention, Baby death mention, Animalistic behavior, Mention of blood/claws/sharp teeth, Hinting at death, Long Post

Why should you even try? 

Slowly, you let your breath slide out through your gritted teeth, the tension being pulled from your body as you exhaled. Until there was nothing. You simply felt nothing. No anxiety, no stress, no panic. The urgency from before was replaced by numbness, your mind turning blank as you stared at the pool, the water gently rippling. It was utterly dark, seemingly endless in its depth. Even with the light of the shining plant climbing along the walls, the only thing that got clearer by the second was that there was nothing you could do.

It was simply a fact. A fact you had tried to deny for so long but that those three had already pointed out to you countless times. You were weak; you were helpless. Without them, you'd still be out there on your little raft. No one would have come to save you. Being indebted to them was one thing, but you couldn't deny it anymore that the chance of going back to your life had already been very slim even before they found you. Of course they wouldn't want to risk their life for someone they barely knew. Make a tedious and dangerous journey for someone they had already saved once before out of the goodness of their hearts.

And you… couldn't swim there. You had no idea where you were, but there was a high chance it wasn't near land. Judging by how little light illuminated the water in the small pool, you'd have to dive and swim quite a bit before you'd reach the surface. And then what? Try to weather the moody waters until you'd either die from exhaustion, heatstroke, or drown in the waves? They already told you they wouldn't come for you if you left on your own, so aside from nature's cruelty, you'd also be subject to predators like the orcas. Not even a trained swimmer would have a chance. You certainly wouldn't make it back to land. Who were you going to fool?

Just like that, you realized the choice you had to make.

"Fine…" you mumbled, catching everyone's attention, Lyr even pried open an eye again to watch you. "I'll stay."

There was a moment of silence. Even your heartbeat was booming when there were no breaths or movements around you in the cave. The expectancy of a joke was loud and clear, even amongst these creatures that weren't supposed to be human enough to understand it. As if you were going to go back on your word any passing second now and throw another tantrum about how you want to leave immediately. 

"Human," Nerrocan mumbled, sounding almost like a warning. "Let's sleep over it."

"No." Shaking your head, you cut off the idea. "I am done trying to fight battles I can't win! I don't have the strength to keep going like this. I have to make a decision now and be done worrying and agonizing about all the possibilities and consequences! I… I'll stay here. With you guys. You promised to keep me safe, so you better step up!"

You could feel the tears shooting into your eyes and quickly wiped them away, fed up with crying and too exhausted to care about the warning signs your body sent you. Your throat was clogged up, but you had said your piece, ready to lay the argument to rest. Just like you were ready to finally go to sleep and regain some of the sanity you had lost over the last few hours. Sleep that wasn't induced by panic or violence. Checking the ground behind you for stones or unevenness, you settled down, heaving a deep breath and trying to let go of any remnants of your conflicting feelings. All you wanted were a few hours of not having to think or feel before facing the new reality you chose. 

"Human," someone purred to your left, ripping you out of the calm you tried to force yourself into. Opening your eyes, Krill's face hung above yours, his deep red eyes sparkling alongside his widely spread grin. Almost immediately, regret crept back into your conscience as you dragged your arms in front of your body, only for your wrists to be caught in one of Krill's hands. 

"So you agree to stay? Give yourself to us?"

Before you knew it, he had brought his head down, his voice sweeter than anything you had ever heard, goosebumps surging on your skin as the sound tingled all over you. You gave a brief but firm nod, wiggling your body beneath him while Krill's body weighed down on you, the merman not wasting a breath to respond to your agreement. Lips crashing into yours, the strange sensation of his kiss reminded you of Nerrocan's when he first pulled you into the water. Domineering, confident, hungry. It didn't soothe the resurfacing anxiety, the thoughts swirling in your mind as you were forced to open your mouth for him, his plump tongue breaking through to lick at your blunt teeth and taste what you had to offer. 

You could barely struggle beneath him, trying desperately just to get air. But with your hands pinned down, Krill only relented when he felt every muscle in your body tensing, briefly pulling away for you to breathe while he kissed along your jaw and the side of your neck laid bare before him. This wasn't what you wanted from this deal, but you neither had the strength nor the chance to hide the jerk that went through you when his teeth grazed over the spot between your shoulder and neck, your whine sounding awfully lot like a moan.

The three of them gave you no second to catch your composure as all their hands seemed to appear across your body, claws squeezing into your flesh while the pads of their hands rubbed up on your inner thigh. Their interest in you greatly outweighed their common sense, and they grew more and more eager to explore you with every touch that fell on you, never enough to quench their curiosity. It was then that you realized the full extent of your choice. The consequence of your actions.

"We'll take good care of you," Krill hummed, his voice sending shivers up your spine, causing a tingle deep in your core. You knew he was using his magical siren voice at you, and yet you could not reasonably explain the visceral need you felt to keep hearing it. Your whole body shivered when he added in a honeyed purr, "I promise."

You knew you couldn't trust him, the orcas' promises never actually being fulfilled. But you realized then and there that you didn't have the fight left in you to argue. To really make them promise. There was no time to concentrate on anything other than the sensations running through your body as his hand slipped below, a strong, clawed finger settling between your folds, slowly, rhythmically circling and pressing into your sex. The sensation left you writhing up to the moment when the tip of his claw got caught on the fabric of your wetsuit. You gasped, shooting upwards, only for more hands to grab your shoulders.

As if they coordinated their movements, Krill's body retreated, not out of sight, but out of your thoughts, the sound of water splashing as he sank into the pool, barely able to catch your attention as Lyr took over. With his chest in your back, he kept you seated, a smug grin playing around his lips as he looked down on you from behind.

"Who's a good human?" he asked, your brain fully aware that he was mocking you, turning your expression into a grimace. And yet… at the same time… his voice kept going where Krill left off, your gut churning with the need to hear more of it.

"I'm not your pet!" you hissed back, but the sound was more of a childish complaint than the confident reply you wanted it to be. However, before you two could argue, your focus was diverted, your eyes snapping forward to Krill's hands roaming between your legs, spreading them. With his body demanding space between your thighs, he used his hands to slip beneath the supple flesh of your thighs, lifting them up and out of the way, steading them over his shoulders. "What–!" you tried to argue when your head was forcefully pulled backwards, eyes falling back on Lyr, whose sharp teeth showed in the form of a large grin.

"That's where you're wrong," he chuckled, placing his hand, gently yet firm, around your throat, denying you the chance to look away as he leaned forward to kiss you, tongue swiping over your lips demandingly. You couldn't help but jolt and push your hands into his shoulders above you, but no matter how much of your left-over strength you used, he didn't budge a bit until you relented, letting him in, the merman exploring your mouth with his tongue to his heart's content, letting out little chuckles as he went about having his way with you. 

There was no time to comprehend and work through everything that happened. Your clothes didn't last long with their hands clawing through the fabric until they could brandish your skin with their scratches. Tongues turned into teeth, salvia into blood. You gasped when Krill filled you with one of his fingers, moaning into Nerrocan's mouth, who had made it his life mission to ease you into their groping with more kisses, allowing you to breathe through him only. If you had to assess them, he was the only gentle one, and yet, even he couldn't stop himself from squeezing your breast needily when his grabby hands found them. 

Even he couldn't hold back biting a bloody, possessive ring of teeth marks around your nipples when the chance presented itself, and neither could his packmates, the hot blood trickling from your shoulder and thighs mixing with your tears and juices while they licked the wounds devotedly. None of them was satisfied with just one bite, marking their territories on your body, their jaws stretching wider, teeth burying deeper, and tongues licking more fervently with every mark.

The claw inside your cunt made you anxious, your walls clenching around the thick finger involuntarily, even as you were distracted from the waves of pleasure and pain. You tried your best to keep yourself controlled and conscious, but you were failing miserably, their muttered voices lulling you into letting yourself fall, giving up your struggles. You hadn't yet loosened up enough when Krill forced another one of his fingers inside, cursing about your tightness. 

"How's my cock supposed to fit inside?" he complained to no one in particular while your body jerked, sobs escaping you as he rampaged your pussy. It hurt! It was anything but lovingly! And yet, he fucked joint after joint inside you, triggering all the sweet spots you wished he'd never find. "It's like you want this to hurt! You're so much worse than our females!"

Every tear trickling from your eyes was licked up by the other two, and every complaint was swallowed by another kiss. You had already given in to them once, but letting go completely was harder than you thought. "Relax," Lyr purred into your ear from behind, sounding so damn convincing to your struggling brain and making you breathe out the air you've been holding in. His hand wandered below, teasing your body on its way until it found your cunt, spreading it and flicking his finger unintentionally over your clit.

"Do that again," Krill ordered, perplexed when you moaned out loud, your walls tensing and releasing with a shudder. You could hear the knowing chuckle behind you before Lyr began assaulting your clit with his fingers, twisting and circling over it, his touch so rough and mean, and yet distracting you from the hardship of Krill fucking you with his fingers until it came all together in harmony.

Nerrocan demanded entrance to your mouth once more as he played with your breasts, his claws stimulating and pulling your nipples alongside the pleasure given to you by the other two. That way, you were kept between heaven and hell until you finally caved, your orgasm rattling through your body violently, eyes rolling back as the three pushed you over the edge. Your songs of pleasure ripped through the silent cave, and the three joined in with cocky laughter and adoring whistles.

For a few moments, you were gone from the world, gone from the pain and agony that your decision had already given you. Someone laid you down into the soft fur as you convulsed, fingers popping out of you before you were enveloped in more tongues licking off the remnants of your orgasm, exploring and tasting you, forcing out whines from your throat whenever they teased a sensitive area. 

You were doomed. So fucking doomed.

It was nice that you'd go out with a bang, pleasure overweighing pain. Still, you hadn't saved yourself with your decision, only putting you into more misery. It had never been an equal partnership that they offered. You were more of a pet than an accepted member of their squad. But when you focused your gaze, staring into three sparkling pairs of eyes, pearls of cum dripping from their erect cocks onto your body, you knew you were more than even a pet. You were going to be their personal pleasure toy. And outlet for their desires. A broodmare.

Their children's mother. 

And your body did the only thing it could do to save you, forcing your conscience to drift away from you, your vision turning black as the sight of them closed in.

"It is so small. Again."

You didn't dare to pry your eyes off the little devil baby in your arms, even when his great aunt spewed her venomous words around you again. Even after baby two—actually three—she still had nothing nice to say about the half-humans you had given birth to for her sons and nephew. She had nothing but snide comments and derogatory words, and though every one of them stung, there was little you could do against her. 

"I'm sorry," you muttered, flinching noticeably when your son accidentally bit instead of sucked on your breast, hungry and desperate for milk that you wanted to feed him but couldn't. Even if you were lucky to even produce milk, considering your child wasn't the only one feeding from it and the constant stress you were under, there was never enough for him. Compared to his brethren, your son was small, causing loads of fear and anguish amongst the pack if he'd even make it. Yet he fed like a champion, suffering from your lack of milk to the point of recklessly biting you. 

"Come now, Dessi. Cut the human some slack."

Compared to her sister, Thalassa was much gentler when it came to you. Nerrocan's mother couldn't and wouldn't hide the smile on her face as she scooped up her first known grandchild from your arms, one palm enough to hold the little man. Had the three merely told you how massive the females of their pack were, you might not have believed it, but they towered over you, easily trice your size. Once the baby was out of your hands, you clutched your breast, the left-over milk mixing with blood as you winced. Unlike his father, the little rascal didn't leave deep and permanent marks, but your time pregnant and nursing was visible all over alongside the claiming mating bites, especially with the lack of clothes you were given, modesty not needed underwater. 

"You're just happy it's your grandchild this time." Desdemona followed the statement with a loud huff, dissatisfied and annoyed as she always was when it came to matters concerning you, while she stared at the little baby in her sister's palm. Danger gleamed in her eyes as she watched Thalassa coo and bubble to the baby, almost looking like a human grandmother despite her statue-esque size and unmistakable skin pattern similar to Nerrocan's. But if you were honest, only a small part of you would try to save your child from her wrath should she decide to unleash it on your son. You knew better than to try and throw a tantrum around the matriarch of the pack, who wished for nothing more than for you to disappear. 

"If only these three rascals would get their bums out there and have children with strong and healthy females instead of… that."

Her eyes shifted to you, and you instinctively hung your head in shame, knowing how unwelcome you were. In her eyes, you were a mere plaything of her children, not the respected mother of her grandkids. Your first encounter had been tense, Krill, Lyr, and Nerrocan having decided not to make a secret out of your existence but introduce you to their pack. They received a lot of retaliation from everyone, but when they made it clear through bared fangs and screeching that they would choose you over their family, the matriarch eventually relented. 

She cared very little about the new position you gained in the whole pack as the mother of her grandchildren, though. And behind whistles and snarky looks from every merfolk you met in the months you had been here, it was pretty clear that the only reason you were even tolerated was because of your three mates, who wouldn't hear any reason when it came to their choice of partner. Yes, mates.

Another reason she hated you so, as her sons and nephew refused to find—in her opinion—better partners and make children that were worthy of being nurtured and taught the ways of the sirens. Orcas didn't tend to stay monogamous. To learn they actually had a word for it, hearing it the first time uttered in disgust from the matriarch, had been an awful surprise. Desdemona despised you for depriving Krill and Lyr of that possibility, blaming you for their focus ever only being on you. As if you asked them to obsess and impregnate you. As if it was all your fault.

When really, it was just another consequence of your decision years ago.

Being tolerated was better than being dead, at least, even if your body felt like it was dying. Siren-human babies were needy like a human would be, in the body of a mermaid, together with sharp teeth and a tail. The horror of birthing was still stuck in every bone, and you were exhausted from being up all night trying to get your child to calm down. Nerrocan tried his best, taking his son swimming or floating at the surface when he could, but he was duty-bound, away most of the day to hunt. And if it wasn't their child, Krill and Lyr weren't genuinely interested in it, only looking forward to the time you'd be ready to mate again. 

"That's right," Thalassa chuckled, playing with the baby that looked like a miniature toy in her hands. It should have alarmed you, but who were you to derive the grandmother of what she enjoyed when she could crush you with one hand? "I am so happy it's my grandson this time. You already have one, Dessi! It's more than fair it was my sweet, little Nerrocan having a child this time. And look how cute it is! You're the cutest little thing in the world, aren't you?"

Your child was happily bubbling while you shrugged away from Desdemona, who seemed to slowly but surely lose her mind over her sister's affection for the little devil spawn she saw in your son. "At least it's a siren this time," she hissed angrily, reminding you of the painful memories you tried to forget. 

This child was lucky to be born with all the traits needed to survive below the ocean's surface. Fangs, claws, gills, and a tail were enough to secure its place in the pack, unlike his sister, your second child, who was born human and not a siren. It had been another show of how cruel these creatures were, ripping her away from you the moment you had birthed her, never even allowing you to hold her. A delusional part of you wanted to believe she was still alive, but you had never even once seen her, the sound of her cries turning into gurgles the only thing you remembered.

Your relationship with Lyr had never been the same since then. After all, it was his daughter that just didn't make the cut with the pack. These memories were too painful to remember for both of you, but even when he showed up and slept in the same cave, bringing you food and gifts, you knew he couldn't forget them, either. 

The water in the large entrance pool of the community hall—another cave, though larger and wider, with space for thirty or more orcas to assemble and often used by families to chat and linger—rippled before you as a familiar face broke through the surface, smiling politely at you when your eyes crossed. She was young and highly regarded in terms of merfolk's standards, some distant relative of your mates. But you never even learned her name as she only came to collect your children at your mother-in-law's request. She had nursed your first son for you and did it for the newborn now, but not without throwing you a pitiful glance when she thought you weren't looking.

To her, as to everyone else, you were nothing but a minor lifeform, unsuited and better as food than as mother for the children of their strongest warriors. Had she not been family, surely the matriarch had asked her to bear Krill's or Lyr's child, and she'd be the one sitting here with them, nursing and chatting with very happy grandmothers. Envy was not a good look on her pretty face, but could you begrudge her for it? 

"Time for food!" Thalassa lilted, ignoring that you had just nursed him, at least to some extent. Lowering her hand towards the pretty mermaid, the latter scooped the tiny child into her arms, giving a well-mannered bow to the matriarch and her sister but sparing only a short glance at you before slipping under. Gone was your hungry baby, and you breathed out, trying not to make your relief known too much. 

"Hah…" Desdemona sighed, looking after the younger female with longing in her eyes. "If you could at least produce enough milk for your own child, we wouldn't have to bother our lovely and kind daughters and nieces with providing for it. Do you even do anything but take from us, Human?"

Biting your lip, you knew arguing was pointless. What would you even say? Apologizing would only make her mad, and standing up for yourself had proved useless. No matter how many kills and victories her sons and nephew dedicated to you or how many gold chains and jewels they decorated you with, she'd never see you worthy of anything but her frustration and anger. Changing her opinion was nearly impossible if no one she respected argued for her.

"Now, now, Sister. Leave the poor mother alone. I have nursed your children too when they drained you of all your milk, don't you remember?" Thalassa came to your rescue, and you shot her a brief smile as a thank you that she returned in kind.

"That was something completely different."

"Sure it was, Desdemona. Isn't it more important that our sons are happy? Don't you like seeing them do their best for their beloved and the pack?"

Baring her teeth at her sister, Thalassia finally relented with her gentle scolding, raising her hands conciliatory at the matriarch whose word stood above everyone's, including her sister's. 

"Only when the human finally gives Lyr the child he deserves will they truly be happy."

It stung. Hearing her underhanded insults at your lost daughter and yourself hurt exactly like she intended, especially when paired with a glare that could kill. Lowering your head, the tears stung badly in your eyes, even when you tried to hold them back, not wanting her to see your display of weakness. She still noticed, especially with the scowl her sister gave her.

"Everyone makes mistakes," she backpaddled loudly, not as much caring about you as she cared about the image she created of herself to the other few groups of female orcas lingering around but keeping their distance. How would she look in their eyes, making her grandson's mother cry? "Our sons and us included, Thalassia."

"After all, it was the human's choice to stay here."

Unable to hold back your sobs, you covered your face in your hands. You wanted to scream that NO! it wasn't your choice. Well… it was, but what else could you have done? Simply said goodbye to your life? Miserably succumbed to nature or the predators waiting for you? Died while on your journey and killing their sons while at it?

"Ah, the tears again," Desdemona sighed, defeated. As if it was her who was suffering a great ordeal. Knowing you were painting her in the cruel light befitting of her attitude, she resorted to brushing off your feelings, even going as far as to mock you. "What a pitiful creature. Truly pitiful. The only reason you are still alive is because our sons feed and adore you. They might buy into your crying, but I will not humor this any longer, let's go, Thassi."

Slipping into the water, her massive body disappeared into the depths you, too, called your home now, however unwillingly. You knew below you was an elaborate city of deep waters and caves, all belonging to the pack. Nerrocan had shown it to you, albeit over a long, long time, as you couldn't adjust your eyes properly underwater. Without help, you were lost, left to someone's goodwill to be brought from and to the cave you shared with your mates, stranding you wherever you were, oftentimes alone and hurting as no one would reply to your calls. 

When she was gone, it was another big stone off your shoulders, her presence nothing but agonizing and dreadful. Thalassa scooted closer, her giant palm settling gently at your back. "It's alright," she soothed you, and you tried to compose yourself, wiping away the tears. "She's actually very happy with Krill being a father and her sweet grandson."

Her comforting words were nothing but pretty lies. However, you nodded, the pack's second-in-command still instilling a good heap of fear into you, even if she was pretending to be nice. 

"Alas," she sighed, a thoughtful hum escaping her, no less melodic than any word anyone ever spoke to you. She leaned forward, the hand rubbing your back coming to a halt as her fingers wrapped around your body, claws placed against your skin. She didn't hurt you, didn't even press a mark into your flesh, but the sharp claws against your neck and above your heart were threatening enough for you to still, not daring to move and hurt yourself on them. 

"You don't really have to give her another grandchild, you know? It would be a waste to strain your body for Lyr again. That boy is no good, not even as a father. How about you give my sweet Nerrocan another child? I don't mind if it's a girl or a boy, but wouldn't it be so nice if we could become a big, happy family? Bigger than Desdemona's. See, I can't have children anymore, but you're still fertile. Wouldn't you like to see me at the head of the pack instead of her? I know I'm asking much, but you could do me this little favor, and maybe I can put in a good word for you with everyone."

You glanced at her from the corner of your eyes, too afraid to turn your head. Her smile was no longer warm and welcoming. There was no kindness and no motherly care left in the calculated, forced expression on her face. Once again, she made you realize you were nothing in this world, their schemes and power struggles just as bad as humans, and if not a pet to her son and nephews, you were a pawn for her to rise to the position of the matriarch. 

"Think about how happy Nerrocan would be if you chose him for your next mating cycle. And of course, I'd be so happy too if you'd give me another grandchild. It's your decision, of course. I am sure you'll make the right decision… this time."

You nodded slowly over her claw to prevent yourself from getting hurt. In the end, every kind word and gesture had just been to move her plan into motion, cozying up to you for her own gain. Thalassa was no different from her sister or everyone else, and when she slipped into the pool, the grand cave hall slowly emptying out with the other orcas leaving as well, an awfully familiar feeling of loneliness overcame you.

Looking up at the glowing plant light at the ceiling, silent tears poured from your eyes as you longed for the warmth of a real family and real friends surrounding you. Of any human, really. Of the warm sun and the cozy rain, clouds above your head instead of stone and water. Endless amounts of water. You missed days you were pain-free and cared for. Where someone asked for your thoughts because they liked to hear them. You knew what you signed up for by now, but the cost had been too great, too devastating for you to bear.

The trophies and gold you were adorned with wouldn't make you happy. Being pregnant and raising more children wouldn't make you happy. Being with your mates, not out of love, but because you needed them to survive, didn't make you happy. Being a pawn and popping out kids for some power-hungry orca lady wouldn't make you happy, regardless of her promises. You had a role in this pack, and as such, you were treated well. But just because you were tolerated and respected, you'd never be happy with how you were treated as nothing more than a mother to children no one wants you to have aside from Krill and Nerrocan, maybe Lyr.

Staring into the water, you couldn't see the ground below. It was there, you'd reach it eventually if you sank far enough, but you wouldn't live long enough to ascend from it again. No one would come to save you this time. No one would take you home and tell you they loved you. But if you couldn't be happy… then at least you could be free.

And finally, everyone would be satisfied with your choice. 

[fandomfluffandfuck]

just wanted to hear some more of your thoughts on desperate sub steve, like after missions he just wants bucky to take care of him so he just trusts bucky to give him exactly what he needs. whether he's on his back with his eyes closed just /feeling/ everything or whether he's riding bucky only focused on his own pleasure, knowing that's all that really matters right now. anyway food for thought :))

For reference, my ask box is no longer open for requests, but this is from before I closed it, so I will be writing for this ask.

Food for thought that I will devour

Okay, I was aiming to write smut for this, but... it's soft. It got soft on me. Like, there's definite sensuality to this, but lots of feelings too.

For each and every wrong, second-guessed step over the past few days, everything slides right back into place with a satisfying 'click' the moment that Steve is shut in the muffled oasis of their home. The door is closed behind them with a soft 'shhnk' and seals off most of the noise from the city, leaving behind just the faintest murmur thrumming beneath the sound of Steve's heart, pounding and pushing blood through his weary body, and twinned by Bucky's matching rhythm. His other half. And everything is all righted and balanced again because of that other half.

Bucky.

Steve can breathe right now because Bucky's here, standing toe-to-toe with him in the tight space of their entryway and clearing his throat just above the hum of blood rushing through their veins and their lungs expanding and contracting. It's peaceful after an unending barrage of chaos. Bucky's trying to lure him out of his head after the rush and crash of the latest mission, Steve knows, but he feels fucking dead on his feet. As good as being home feels...

He needs more this time than just the calm of coming home and the soft, throaty noise of Bucky calling to him.

And, thankfully, Bucky doesn't just understand, Bucky is happy to provide, settling them both by taking half a step in close and pushing their bodies together. Suddenly, there is no space between them from the shoulders down. Instinctively, just the same as Steve did when they used to dance in their shoebox, thin-walled apartment before the war, Steve's hands come up to rest on Bucky's biceps, just below his shoulders. Holding on. Letting Bucky lead.

Meanwhile, Bucky's hands don't go to his waist to cup and dip him to the crooning, slow music, leading him around their creaking, worn floor. Instead, he curls his flesh and blood hand into a loose, easy fist and uses his softly curled index finger to lift his chin. Steve's too tired to care about how stereotypical it is for him to immediately get lost in his lover's eyes as he's arranged under his hands like a doll, but he does. Their depth draws him in like a siren call into the churning, winter-chilled sea. And he stays out there, lost without a life raft in sight the whole while Bucky deftly undoes the little buckle underneath his cowl with a flick of charming fingers.

Steve exhales faintly. Not a sigh--not yet--but almost.

When he's done with the tiny buckle, the leather straps fall away, and Steve is freed with Bucky gently tugging the protective headgear away and leaving him with vulnerable bedhead. Steve knows from countless encounters post-mission that to Bucky, his hair looks like a fuzzy duckling right now and he kind of resents that. It makes him a little bit miffed. Grumpy, maybe. Or, having his hair like this and then being cooed at for being so cute usually does. At this moment, in the twenty-fifth hour, he can't be bothered.

He can't find the strength or playfulness within himself to pout or whine when Bucky hums, dropping his cowl to the side with a cracking 'thunk', grabbing him by the chin, and easing his face down to level. All Steve can do is surrender to the feeling of Bucky's hand running through his hair, tufting it up even more, and humming to himself at how stupid and endearing he looks.

Helmet hair. Pfft.

Bucky drops a chaste kiss on the crown of his head as Steve struggles and fails to keep his head where Bucky put it. Rather than level and eye-to-eye, his chin ends up against his chest. He's just so tired and Bucky is so warm. It's only natural for Steve to melt against him, isn't it?

"I'll deal with your cowl and shield," Bucky murmurs using Steve's bowed pose to his advantage, cupping the back of his neck and pulling his head even more snuggly against the junction of his shoulder and neck to reach for his shield mounted on his back. Steve lets go of his arms to instead lay his hands flat on his chest, relishing in the simplicity of feeling his breath. Chest expanding and contracting--an ocean wave rocking Steve's boat so gently that he can't help but feel like he's being put right to sleep. "You leave the rest on, 'kay?"

"M'kay," Steve parrots, blinking and feeling his lashes brush delicate butterfly kisses over Bucky's skin. He smells like sweat and aftershave, even when his stubble has grown out in the days they've been away. Somehow always date-ready like the charmer he is. Perfumed and groomed and tidied.

"Good--"

Steve exhales shakily. Just that one word. The power it holds over him when breathed from Bucky's mouth.

"--the only thing you gotta do is get your butt into the bedroom, okay? Don't worry about the sheets, just get off your feet, right?"

Steve nods into his body, curling up like a cat to take the memory of him with him for the short while they'll be apart.

"Shoo then, Rogers," Bucky tells him playfully when enough time has passed.

And he does.

Obediently, Steve stumbles through their home without touching his uniform. His shield and cowl are gone--taken off his hands by Bucky--so he's lighter, but he's very much still strapped in and weighed down with all his tac gear. It always feels unfathomably heavy after missions, dragging him down in a way that's less physical than it ought to be. Every time he's done with a mission, he isn't sure how he got himself into his uniform in the first place. It seems impossible to put on, to take off, to move at all.

So, by the time he's through the doorway into their bedroom, the thought of clean sheets (or, more accurately, non-mission grime, grit, and sweat covered like Steve himself is, they can never stay away from each other for long enough for their bedsheets to be that clean) doesn't even enter his mind. His muscles are lead. His skin is paper. He can't sustain the weight pulling at him, and if he doesn't give in and flop down onto the bed, he's going to tear apart.

From walking in the front door to standing and letting Bucky peel off his first few layers to stumbling down the hall to tumbling forward a few steps into the room, Steve is far too exhausted to even expend the energy it would take to turn around before letting gravity have him and pulling him into bed to loll and bounce like a fish out of water. His whole body limp. Bed doesn't hurt. It doesn't matter if he falls face-first. So, he does. Collapsing completely.

And the breath coming out of him fogs up the sheets, caught in their thick comforter, hot and humid, making him feel that much slower and sleepier as he re-inhales his own body-temperature air. Steve finds himself quietly hoping that whatever Bucky has planned for him, sucking or fucking or anything else, he can do it while mostly asleep. As is, he can hardly keep his eyes open--the mattress and sheets and blankets shoved against his face make it darker and quieter and without the demand of having to stay on his feet, yeah, he's a dead man. Sleep coming for him like a stone dropping to the bottom of a current-less lake.

Hopefully, with whatever the post-mission plan is to ground Steve by letting him float in the zero-gravity of submission, gone on as Captain America and team leader for too long, Bucky won't mind if he crashes immediately after orgasm. Hell, Steve doesn't even think he'll make it to orgasm at this point, nevermind past it. He'll be out before he cums, just with the effort of climbing to the peak. Maybe Bucky will be okay with that, Steve likes being used enough without a big finish. Steve likes being used when he doesn't even know it, too. He's slept through Bucky having his body, before. And drifting into sleep with Bucky using him to find his own pleasure sounds almost better than an orgasm right now anyway.

Fuck, he might be asleep already by the time Bucky comes to rescue him. That, or he's just drifting hard already. It's hard to tell when he's so drowsy. All Steve knows is that his heart and blood have slowed to a syrup-thick flow, and he jolts like he's been woken from sleep by the phantom sensation of falling when Bucky's fingers drum on the bottom of his right boot. The vibrations through the thick, thick sole of his combat boots are more shocking than he'd think, but maybe he's just sensitive. Raw around the edges after so much adrenaline has poured out of him.

"Turn over for me, honey?" Bucky phrases it like a question not because it's not an order, but because there's a silent, 'if you can' tagged onto the end of it. If he can't, Bucky still wants him over, but he'll just do it himself. Steve isn't in charge anymore, not when he climbs up onto the bed. His title means nothing here. And what a fucking relief.

Letting out a sleepy little murmur, Steve tries his best.

He gets about halfway over, balanced precariously on his side, eyes nodding shut again before Bucky chuckles indulgently at him, watching him struggle to complete the motion. And so, Bucky grabs his shield harness still clinging to him around his shoulders, and pulls him the rest of the way over, dumping him (gently and lovingly, but still dumping him) onto his back.

"There you are, baby," Bucky croons down at him, uncurling his fingers from his harness and smoothing both his hands down his still, flopped-over body. He dilly-dallies enough to loosely trace the star emblem at the center of his chest but then continues on...

Steve feels pink. He's too tired to sparkle, but he definitely feels flushed pink. Not blushing exactly. Not physically blushing, at least. Probably. He doesn't have a mirror to confirm, though. He's just... pink.

He feels pink.

Light pink. Easy and breathable, so long as Bucky keeps touching him and stays close.

Bucky doesn't mind his coloring--if he can see it, Steve knows he knows him well enough that he can sense it, regardless of whether it's visible or not--he just keeps going and unbuckles his utility belt, letting the weight of itself drag it off his waist. It pools around him on the bed. Bucky leaves it there to rest for now. More important than his belt, Bucky smooths his way down his legs, over the thick fabric padding his uniform pants, keeping him safe from hits, kicks, knives, and bullets, and over the stuffed pockets--filled with odds and ends of first aid, gadgets, tools, and snacks--to finally reach his boots. Once at his boots, Bucky starts the slow, intricate process of untying them. All of their fucking latches, then the laces beneath those latches, and even more shit beneath the beneath. It's a process. All for the goal of keeping his feet in one piece each and hopefully making sure his boots don't fall off during missions but remain breathable but also water and fire and whatever else proof. The demands of superhero-ing. Yeah, it's a process.

A process that Bucky is so kind as to take complete care of, letting Steve splay out, puddling, eyelids drooping, while he lifts his left booted foot, and then his right. Holding each, in turn, against his lower stomach and hip while he gets him out of them.

One. by. one.

One plus one makes two.

Boots and socks gone make four (well, more like six because Steve was wearing two layers of socks beneath his boots).

And Bucky isn't about to only finish a job halfway. So, he travels back up from his bared ankles to his waist to rid him of his pants, tugging and rolling them down. Those pants have to weigh literal pounds with all the shit in the pockets and the hyper-engineered material itself. Then, Bucky keeps going up to his uniform top to wiggle him out of that, too. More pounds melting off him. To undress him like a doll, Bucky moves him like a doll, humming under his breath. A lullaby. First, dragging him forward to dangle his legs off the edge of the bed a little while he takes care of his pants. Second, lifting him up, almost pulling him to sit up but not making Steve do any of the work himself and holding himself rigid with his abs, so he can elevate his torso and shimmy him out of the top. Third, leaving him just in his jockstrap for now. Nearly naked. But Steve couldn't feel self-conscious around Bucky if he tried.

So, just then, Bucky kisses Steve in the very center of his chest, and at the same time that Steve is expecting to be rolled over--maybe have his legs curled up beneath him, maybe spread wide, and opened on thick, lube-slick fingers, made to feel so good that all he can do is shiver and let his eyes roll back until they fall shut--that is exactly when, "ohhh," a loose, gasping sound spills out of his statically open lips.

Unexpected.

Bucky's are hands putting in work.

They're not--

They aren't inside him. But they are all over him. Those handsome, skilled fingers are digging into his tensed, knotted muscles, massaging them into utter submission. Steve is already there, but his muscles are a little more stubborn. Just the beginning, knowing what's coming, has his muscles melting into a puddle, though.

Bucky is meticulously kneading and rubbing every inch of his skin, uncaring how he's sweaty and gross, and just focusing on cooking him past al dente to complete mush. Massaging him like there's no fucking tomorrow. Steve is practically already asleep, floating, and blissed out. Past blissed out. His muscles have already been overworked from the past few days' mission, but now they're tenderized from the lovingly not-tender treatment, digging in deep and pressing hard.

Steve has no idea how Bucky can lift his arms anymore after so much exertion, but he's not going to question him. He can't. He doesn't think he could talk if he tried. He's so wiped out he can hardly gasp or moan in pleasure at being massaged like this. His incoherence is not helped by the knowledge that this settles Bucky, too. He's always liked taking care of people. Always, always has taken great care of people from Steve to his baby sisters to any soldier in his squad. Especially after HYDRA, too, having control of himself to take care of other people is something he's fought hard to have. Steve needs to give up control after calling all the shots and Bucky seeks to have control. It's perfect.

This is perfect. Centering them both.

And Steve, personally, as he's drifting off with a tiny smile tugging at his mouth, knows he will wake up in 12 hours aching. Not his muscles, Bucky is making sure of that. But he will be aching between his legs and then, with more energy back in his beat-up body, he'll plaster himself to Bucky to pout for an orgasm, wanting his permission for it and help with it. But for now, he's good. This is good. This is all he needs.

He can drift hard into dreamland.

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Even Ice Can Burn~Oneshot

This is an request by @fandomsearcherforcuntymen

I couldn’t reply to your ask due to a glich…I hope that’s ok!

Summery: Once, Y/N L/N and Bucky Barnes were just soldiers. Then they became Hydra’s perfect weapons—frozen, erased, unleashed only to kill. When Bucky regains his memories, he searches for the girl he lost, only to find her aiming a dagger at the President. But Y/N isn’t beyond saving. As old ghosts resurface and Hydra fights to reclaim her, she must decide: stay the weapon they made her, or burn it all down.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!Supersoldier!reader

Note: All characters except The Whisperer are not mine!

||Master List||

They met in the heart of a city that never stopped moving—three kids clinging to each other like life rafts in a world that often felt too big, too harsh. Steve Rogers, ever the scrappy one with fire in his heart. Bucky Barnes, all charm and confidence with a protective streak a mile wide. And Y/N L/N, the girl who moved into their building with a sharp wit and a spark in her eyes that neither of them could ignore.

It started simply enough—Steve had been sick again, and Bucky had dragged him out for air when they stumbled upon a crowd of older boys cornering a girl half their size in an alley. She stood her ground, fists clenched, daring them to try. Bucky couldn’t help but grin. Steve was already charging in, despite his size. And from that moment, it was the three of them against the world.

They became inseparable. Sunday mornings were for coffee and sketchbooks. Saturdays were for walking through the city, sometimes hand in hand, sometimes racing across rooftops when the world felt light enough. Y/N teased Steve gently, challenged Bucky constantly, and kept both of them on their toes.

What neither of them knew—what Bucky could never admit—was that he had fallen for her. Not just for her sharp tongue or the way she could knock the wind out of him with a single look. He fell for the way she laughed with her whole body. The way she saw Steve, truly saw him, long before the serum. The way she made both of them feel like they mattered in a world that treated them like they didn’t.

But war came. And with it, uniforms, orders, and goodbyes.

They fought side by side in the war, always watching each other’s backs. Y/N was one of the best—the kind of soldier others followed without question. She was fearless, quick, and smarter than most of their commanding officers. When Steve became Captain America, and Bucky became part of the Howling Commandos, it only made sense that she was there too.

But it was never enough.

The day Bucky fell from the train, Y/N’s heart stopped. She didn’t think. She jumped.

Steve never saw her land.

When she opened her eyes, she was restrained in a cold, metal room, half her body screaming in pain. She caught glimpses of Bucky through glass, heard him scream, then go silent, over and over again.

Hydra took their time. They needed to perfect the science. Bucky was the trial run—the guinea pig. Y/N was the goal. They enhanced him first, rebuilding him bone by bone, muscle by muscle, mind by mind. They broke him to see how far a man could bend before he shattered.

Then they took her.

Unlike Bucky, her body accepted the serum instantly. Her strength, reflexes, and senses became godlike. Hydra called her the apex soldier. But the more powerful she became, the more dangerous she was to them if her mind stayed her own. So they erased her—just as they had erased Bucky. They wiped every memory, every smile, every name. All that was left was obedience.

They became ghosts. Kept in cryostasis when not in use. Woken only for bloodshed, chaos, and war. Hidden away from the world that once knew their names.

Years later, after the fall of SHIELD and the crumbling of Hydra’s last strongholds, Bucky Barnes remembered.

Piece by piece, with Steve at his side, he built himself back together. He remembered the war. He remembered falling. And he remembered her.

Y/N.

It hit him like a wave, crashing through his reformed mind with memories so vivid it took his breath away. Her laugh. Her defiance. The way she looked at him like she saw straight through the bravado.

“She’s out there,” he told Steve one night, the two of them standing side by side on the roof of the Avengers compound. “I know she is.”

Steve didn’t argue. He felt it too. They searched through what remained of Hydra files, tracing every whisper and lead until they uncovered something more urgent—an imminent threat. Someone was planning to assassinate the President of the United States during a diplomatic visit to New York.

The Avengers assembled.

Crowds gathered. Security tightened. And then—movement.

In the chaos of the crowd, Bucky saw it—a blur of black darting through the alley, closing in on the president’s motorcade. A flash of silver glinted in the air.

A dagger.

Bucky moved without thinking, barreling through the crowd. He tackled the would-be assassin just as the blade left their hand, forcing the throw just an inch off its mark. It embedded in a nearby wall with a metallic thunk.

And then he saw her face.

Y/N.

His breath caught. She was leaner, colder, sharper. But it was her.

She didn’t hesitate. She threw him off like he weighed nothing, landing in a crouch with the precision of a panther. He didn’t fight back. Not really.

“Y/N,” he rasped. “It’s me. Bucky. Don’t you remember me?”

She hesitated—but only for a second. Her fist collided with his jaw, sending him reeling.

“Stop!” he shouted, dodging another blow. “Please, just look at me!”

There was nothing behind her eyes but lethal focus.

Steve arrived next, shield in hand. “Y/N!” he called, stunned. “What the hell—?”

She lunged at him. The fight escalated—Y/N against Steve and Bucky. She moved like a ghost, striking with precision and force. Steve grunted as she landed a blow that would’ve shattered any normal man’s ribs.

“Don’t hurt her!” Bucky shouted, catching Steve’s arm mid-swing. “We don’t fight to kill.”

Y/N paused—just for a second—at the sound of his voice. A flicker of something danced across her expression. But it was gone before it could take root.

The alley was silent now—save for the echo of footfalls and the hiss of Y/N’s breath. She stood in the center of the chaos she’d created: overturned crates, a dented shield, Bucky’s bruised cheek, and Steve’s panting form. But her eyes were vacant. Cold. Calculated.

“Y/N,” Bucky said again, slowly stepping toward her. “Please. I don’t want to fight you.”

She tilted her head, her body still poised for an attack. “You think I know you?”

“You do,” Bucky said gently. “We were friends. All three of us. Brooklyn. Remember?”

“Brooklyn?” Her voice was flat. Empty. “That’s not in my mission parameters.”

Steve stepped in behind him, fingers gripping the heavy-duty restraints Tony had sent via a sleek silver drone moments before. “Got ‘em,” he muttered to Bucky. “These are reinforced vibranium cuffs—Tony said even the Hulk couldn’t break through.”

Bucky didn’t look back. “Not yet,” he said. “She’s still in there.”

Y/N lunged suddenly, her fist aiming straight for Steve’s throat—but Bucky caught her, arms wrapping tightly around her torso from behind. She thrashed against him like a wild animal, all strength and fury.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Bucky whispered into her ear, voice shaking. “I swear, I’m not. But I can’t let you keep doing this.”

“Let me go!” she screamed, slamming her elbow into his ribs with bone-cracking force. He grunted but held on tighter, his arms locked around her, refusing to let her slip through his grasp again. “Let me go—let me go—!”

“Y/N, you don’t belong to them,” Bucky said, his voice breaking. “You never did.”

Steve took his chance. With practiced speed, he snapped the cuffs around her wrists while Bucky held her still. They hissed closed, locking with a finality that seemed to freeze the air.

The moment the metal snapped into place, her body jerked—still resisting, trembling. “You traitors,” she snarled through clenched teeth. “You don’t understand what I am. What they made me.”

“I know exactly what they did,” Bucky whispered, pressing his forehead against the back of her shoulder. “Because they did it to me too.”

She fought harder, like the words burned her. Her body twisted violently, nearly throwing them both to the ground.

“She’s going to break something,” Steve muttered, trying to help hold her upright.

“I’ve got her!” Bucky barked, struggling to keep her still. “Y/N, stop! Please, stop! I’m right here—it’s me. Bucky.”

But she didn’t stop.

That’s when Sam dropped in from above, his wings retracting as he landed with quiet force. He watched for a second—eyes flicking from Bucky’s desperate hold to Y/N’s burning rage—then moved in close.

“Sorry, Barnes,” he said, voice low and grim. “She’s too far gone right now.”

Before Bucky could react, Sam pressed the hypo-injector to Y/N’s neck.

She stiffened. Her breath hitched.

And then, like a puppet with its strings cut, she slumped in Bucky’s arms.

“No—no, no,” he whispered, slowly lowering them both to the ground. He cradled her like she was glass, brushing the hair from her face as her breathing evened out. Her brow still furrowed, even unconscious—like her body hadn’t stopped fighting.

Steve crouched beside him, concern in his voice. “It was a sedative. Nothing permanent. She’s okay.”

Bucky didn’t answer for a moment. He just looked at her—at the bruises on her knuckles, the pain still etched in her sleeping face.

“We’ve got her now,” Steve said gently. “She’s not going back to them.”

“She’s still in there,” Bucky murmured, tightening his arms protectively around her. “I know she is. And I’ll stay with her until she finds her way back.”

Steve nodded and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Then we’ll bring her home. Together.”

The Avengers Compound was quieter than usual when they brought her in—no quips, no arguments, no sounds from the gym or labs. Just low voices, the faint beeping of machines, and the sound of Y/N’s restrained breathing.

She lay in a secured medical suite, her wrists still bound in the vibranium cuffs Tony had upgraded personally. Her legs were free, but she couldn’t move far. There were pressure-sensitive failsafes in the room, a clear request from Bucky: “No cells. No walls. Just safety.”

She was asleep—again. The sedative was working its way out of her system, but the aftereffects of years of Hydra conditioning lingered in her taut posture and twitching fingers.

Bucky hadn’t left her side.

He sat in the chair beside her bed, arms resting on his knees, the weight of the past pressing into his shoulders like lead. Steve stood just inside the door, watching him.

“You’ve been here all night,” Steve said softly. “You should rest.”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Steve replied. “Neither is she. But pushing yourself won’t help her remember.”

Bucky glanced at Y/N, his voice low. “She used to doodle little stars on the corners of my notebooks. Remember that?”

Steve smiled faintly. “Yeah. She said your margins looked empty.”

“I asked her once if she thought I was going to be a soldier forever,” Bucky whispered, eyes fixed on her face. “She said no. Said I’d probably open a bookstore and flirt with customers all day.”

Steve chuckled quietly. “That sounds like her.”

“She didn’t deserve this,” Bucky said, voice trembling.

“I know.”

They both fell into silence until a sound made them both freeze.

A gasp.

Y/N’s body jerked, her hands straining against the cuffs. Her eyes fluttered open—sharp, wild, afraid. Her breathing quickened as she scanned the unfamiliar room, the sterile white walls, the distant hum of Friday’s monitoring vitals.

And then her eyes found Bucky.

“Easy,” Bucky said quickly, rising from his chair, hands raised in peace. “You’re safe.”

She flinched. “Where am I? Who are you?”

Steve stepped forward, his voice calm. “Y/N, you’re at the Avengers Compound. You’re not with Hydra anymore. You’re free.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, yanking against the cuffs. “You’re lying. This is a trick. I don’t know you.”

Bucky stepped closer. “You do. It’s me. Bucky.”

Her eyes narrowed, confusion flickering behind them.

He knelt beside her bed, ignoring Steve’s wary glance, and gently placed a worn photograph on the bedside table. It was creased, a little faded—but clear. Three teenagers sitting on a Brooklyn stoop, arms around each other, grinning like they owned the world.

She stared at it.

“I carried this with me the whole war,” Bucky said quietly. “That’s you. That’s us. You used to say the three of us were a storm no one could stop.”

Y/N blinked, her brows twitching together. “That’s not… I don’t…”

Steve added gently, “You didn’t work for Hydra, Y/N. They took you. They hurt you. They erased you. But you are not them.”

Y/N turned her face away. “Then why do I feel like I belong to them?”

Bucky’s voice cracked. “Because they made you feel that way. Just like they did to me. But it’s a lie. Everything they told you was a lie.”

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. She didn’t wipe it away. She didn’t answer.

Steve stepped back to the door. “She needs you. I’ll give you time.”

Bucky sat beside her again, careful not to touch her.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered. “I’m going to stay right here, for as long as it takes. No more missions. No more cages. Just you and me, Y/N. Just us.”

Her breath hitched again—but she didn’t resist this time.

And outside the room, Steve exhaled, knowing that something—someone—was slowly starting to break through the cracks Hydra had left behind.

The room was dark, dimly lit by a low glow along the wall from the monitors. Outside the reinforced glass window, the Compound’s gardens were silent in the pre-dawn haze. But inside Y/N’s room, the silence was broken by a low, strangled gasp.

She jerked upright in bed, chest heaving, sweat clinging to her temples. The restraints on her wrists clicked slightly against the bed frame as her whole body trembled. Her eyes darted wildly around the room—still unsure, still untrusting.

“Y/N?” a groggy voice called from the corner.

Bucky had been dozing in the chair again, his body slouched, arms crossed. But at her gasp, he snapped fully awake and rushed to her side without hesitation.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay. You’re safe,” he whispered, kneeling beside her bed.

She didn’t answer, still trapped in the edges of her nightmare, her breath quick and shallow.

Bucky gently took her hand—the one not cuffed—and placed it over his heart. “It was just a dream. You’re not there anymore.”

Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, her lip trembling. “They kept telling me… I was a weapon. That I wasn’t real anymore. Just steel and orders.”

He swallowed hard. “They told me the same things. But you’re not what they made you do. You’re more than that. You always have been.”

Y/N met his eyes then—searching, scared—and for a moment, she just nodded. A small, broken motion. Bucky stayed at her side until her breathing evened out and her head gently leaned toward him, resting on his shoulder.

The sun had risen by the time Y/N stood, dressed in a simple t-shirt and sweats Bucky had brought her. Her hair was tied back, the cuffs still wrapped around her wrists, though now disengaged from the bed. Bucky walked beside her, patient and proud.

“You don’t have to meet them if you don’t want to,” he said softly. “I can stall them for a week.”

She glanced at him. “No… I want to meet them. If I’m really safe… I need to know who I’m safe with.”

Bucky gave a soft smile. “Okay then. Come on.”

They entered the lounge where the rest of the Avengers had gathered: Steve, Tony, Sam, Natasha, Wanda, and Bruce. The atmosphere was tense—everyone watching carefully, guarded but curious.

Y/N froze in the doorway.

Tony was the first to break the silence. “So. Hydra’s finest finally graces us with her presence.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but Y/N held up a hand. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’d be cautious too.”

There was a quiet beat of surprise, then Steve stepped forward. “Y/N, meet the team. Everyone here is with us. They’ve all fought their own battles.”

Sam nodded. “We’re not here to judge. We’re here to help.”

Tony crossed his arms, gaze flicking down to the cuffs. “Speaking of helping…”

Y/N followed his gaze and looked at her wrists. “Can they come off?”

The room grew still.

Bruce frowned. “Medically, she’s stable. But emotionally… those flashes of aggression—”

“I won’t hurt anyone,” Y/N said quietly, firmly.

Tony looked skeptical. “That’s easy to say until someone gets a vibranium knife in the ribs.”

“I believe her,” Bucky said, stepping beside her. “She’s not a threat. She’s trying. You want trust? Start by giving it.”

Tony looked at Steve, who nodded slowly. Then back at Y/N.

“Friday,” Tony said, “unlock the cuffs.”

There was a soft beep, and the cuffs disengaged. Y/N exhaled slowly, rubbing her wrists. For the first time in years, her hands were truly her own.

(Later That Day)

Steve and Bucky guided her to one of the smaller labs, where several devices and screens displayed holograms and files.

“Welcome to the 21st century,” Steve said with a grin.

Y/N blinked at the tech. “This is… overwhelming.”

Bucky laughed. “Try learning how to use a smartphone when you’ve been frozen for seventy years.”

Steve gestured toward the table. “These files are part of your history—some from Hydra’s base files, some from our own reports. We thought they might help.”

She hesitated, then nodded, moving toward one of the digital pads.

A screen lit up.

And as it did—her breath caught.

A sound. A flash. A memory.

She was in a cold room, surrounded by voices—shouting in German. Metal digging into her skin. Needles. A man in a white coat grinning down at her like she was a prize. She turned her head to the side and saw Bucky—bloodied, barely conscious—strapped to a table.

“Subject One has survived Phase Three. Begin Phase Four on the female.”

“Please…” she had whispered. “Don’t hurt him.”

Then: pain. Screaming. Cold.

The lab flickered back into view, her eyes wide, her knees buckling.

Bucky was at her side instantly. “Y/N? What is it?”

Her hands shook. “I saw it. I saw the lab. I was trying to stop them from hurting you…”

Bucky swallowed hard, his hand gripping hers. “It’s coming back.”

She nodded slowly, her voice small. “I remember screaming.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You weren’t screaming for yourself. You were screaming for me.”

Steve stepped closer, his voice thick. “You always protected us. Even back then.”

Y/N stared at her reflection in the screen—haunted, yet human.

“I think… I want to remember the rest,” she said.

Bucky smiled softly. “Then we’ll be with you every step of the way.”

(Avengers Compound – Training Room)

Y/N stood in the training room, hair tied back, dressed in sleek black gear. Across from her stood Natasha Romanoff, spinning one of her batons in her hand, smirking.

“You ready, supersoldier?” Natasha teased.

Y/N cracked her neck and shifted into a defensive stance. “You sure you are?”

They circled each other, measuring. Natasha struck first, fast and sharp, aiming for Y/N’s ribs, but Y/N blocked, twisted, and countered. Their movements became a blur—graceful, calculated violence.

“Not bad,” Nat grunted as she ducked a punch. “Bucky teach you that or Hydra?”

“Bucky,” Y/N said with a small smirk, “but I made it better.”

The spar escalated. Y/N’s strength gave her the edge, but Nat was quicker, more experienced. Eventually, Natasha flipped Y/N flat on her back. Y/N laughed from the floor.

“You cheat,” she said, breathless.

“I’m a spy. Of course I do.”

(Later That Day – Wanda’s Room)

Y/N sat cross-legged across from Wanda. Candles flickered around them, and Wanda’s hands hovered near Y/N’s temples.

“This won’t be easy,” Wanda said softly. “But I’ll be with you.”

Y/N nodded, her jaw tight. “Do it.”

A red glow enveloped them. Wanda’s eyes turned deep scarlet, and Y/N’s thoughts were flooded with flickers—laughter in a Brooklyn alley, Bucky’s voice calling her name, the bitter cold of cryo, and screams that weren’t hers but came from her mouth.

Tears slipped down her cheeks as one memory stood out—Bucky’s hand brushing her hair back before a mission. “Come back to me,” he’d said.

Wanda gasped. “That was real. That was love.”

Y/N blinked, chest aching. “I thought I imagined it…”

(The Next Morning – Manhattan Shopping District)

“Tony’s never gonna know,” Wanda said, swiping a card at the counter.

“You literally said that ten times,” Natasha replied, hauling bags over her shoulder.

Y/N chuckled, holding a milkshake. “Are you sure this isn’t illegal?”

“It’s not illegal if you’re adorable,” Wanda quipped. “Besides, it’s Stark money. It doesn’t count.”

They strolled through the sidewalk, laughing like old friends. Y/N felt… human.

Until she stopped walking.

Wanda turned. “Y/N?”

Y/N’s smile faded. Her pupils dilated slightly. A small black device buzzed silently in her ear—the Whisperer’s voice crawling into her mind.

“They are not your allies. They caged you. They want to control you. End them. Destroy them.”

“Y/N?” Wanda said again, stepping closer.

Y/N didn’t move.

Wanda placed a hand on her shoulder.

The moment she touched her, Y/N spun violently, her hand snapping up to Wanda’s throat and lifting her off the ground with terrifying strength. Wanda struggled, eyes wide in shock.

“Y/N!” she choked out.

A blur of red hair crashed into them—Natasha tackled Y/N to the pavement, knocking Wanda loose. Y/N growled low, primal, as she stood again, ready to strike.

“Wanda, stay back!” Natasha yelled.

Y/N advanced, movements robotic and vicious, like a weapon turned loose.

“Y/N, listen to me!” Natasha shouted. “You don’t want this. Fight him!”

But she didn’t respond.

Natasha tapped her earpiece. “Barnes, we’ve got a problem. She’s been triggered. Get here. Now!”

Wanda tried again, her magic sparking to life. “Y/N, please… you’re stronger than him. I saw your memories. I saw your heart!”

That hesitation in Y/N’s expression lasted just a second. But in that second, her legs buckled, her eyes rolled back—

And she collapsed.

(Minutes Later – Avengers Compound Landing Pad)

The Quinjet touched down roughly. Bucky rushed forward before the ramp even dropped fully.

He dropped to his knees beside her still form.

“Is she…?” he asked.

“She passed out,” Natasha said, her face pale. “But something got to her. Someone triggered her again.”

“She was completely gone,” Wanda added softly. “Cold. Like a machine.”

Bucky gathered Y/N into his arms, holding her against his chest. Her face twitched in her sleep. “We need to get her out of here. Away from everything.”

“Where?” Tony asked.

Bucky looked up, jaw tight with conviction. “Wakanda. They helped me. They can help her.”

Steve put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get you both there.”

As the jet prepared to take off again, Y/N stirred slightly, her head nestled against Bucky’s neck. His arms tightened around her protectively.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “No one’s taking you again.”

(Wakanda – Golden City Healing Ward)

Wakanda shimmered like something out of a dream. As the Quinjet descended, Y/N stirred weakly in Bucky’s arms. Her face was pale, dark lashes fluttering over her cheeks as she murmured something incoherent in her sleep. He held her tighter.

Shuri met them on the landing pad, arms crossed, eyes already scanning Y/N’s vitals through her kimoyo bead interface.

“She’s been manipulated?” Shuri asked, voice clipped and sharp.

Bucky nodded. “By someone called the Whisperer. He’s got something in her—some device. Or worse… something in her mind.”

Shuri’s brows furrowed. “Bring her inside. I’ll do everything I can.”

(Wakandan Medical Center – Isolation Chamber)

Y/N was settled onto a sleek vibranium scanning table. The tech around her hummed with gentle pulses of purple light. Shuri worked with surgical precision, placing a web of sensors around Y/N’s temples.

Bucky stood by the glass, tense. Steve was next to him, arms folded, trying to stay calm.

“She looks like she’s just sleeping,” Steve muttered.

“She’s not,” Bucky said quietly. “She’s in a war.”

Inside, Shuri activated the neuro-mapping.

“She has cortical inhibitors buried behind layers of trauma-induced memory suppression,” she explained through the intercom. “But… there’s something else. A secondary frequency—low, parasitic, like it’s listening. Whispering.”

Bucky’s fists clenched. “Can you get it out?”

Shuri’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. But it won’t be easy. Or painless.”

(A Few Hours Later – Recovery Room)

Y/N woke slowly, blinking up at a white ceiling and soft, gold lighting. Her limbs ached, her skin tingled. Everything felt… quieter.

“Hey,” a voice whispered.

She turned her head slightly. Bucky was sitting beside her bed, his face lined with worry and hope.

“Wakanda, right?” she rasped.

He smiled softly. “Yeah. You scared the hell out of us.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt Wanda,” she whispered.

“I know.” He reached for her hand, cautiously. “It wasn’t you.”

She looked down at their hands. “What if it happens again?”

“We’ll stop it. Together.”

Her throat closed up with emotion. “I don’t know how to be this person. Not anymore.”

“You don’t have to be her all at once. Just… start with being here.”

Y/N sat by her window, the moonlight washing over her as she sketched—rough outlines of faces she half-remembered, shadows of the past still lingering in pencil strokes.

A quiet knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Bucky stepped inside, holding something wrapped in cloth.

“I thought you might want this back,” he said, revealing a small, worn book—her old war sketchbook.

She gasped, touching the cover like it might vanish. “You kept it?”

He nodded. “Found it after we fell. Hid it away. Couldn’t let them destroy everything.”

She opened it, flipping through old pages—drawings of Steve laughing, Bucky smirking, and one sketch… of herself with a soft smile.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Bucky reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek.

“I’ll always bring you back.”

Their hands lingered.

He didn’t kiss her. Not yet.

But the space between them pulsed with something unspoken, something waiting.

A storm of memory. A flame not yet lit—but undeniably burning.

___

The air in Wakanda was different—warmer, calmer. The kind of peace that sank into your skin.

King T’Challa stood at the edge of the cliffside, looking out over a stretch of vibrant green hills and the distant shimmer of the city. Beside him, Bucky stood quietly, Y/N just behind, her arms folded but her posture open. She looked stronger now—less haunted. But the shadows still lingered behind her eyes.

“I believe,” T’Challa said in his smooth, unwavering voice, “that healing does not come from isolation… but from choosing the right solitude.”

He turned toward them and offered a small smile. “There is a cottage. Simple. Secluded. My people will bring anything you need. But it is far from the city. Quiet. Safe. For both of you.”

Y/N blinked. “You’d do that for me?”

“I would do that,” he said, his eyes meeting hers, “for a soldier who never had the choice to become one.”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded slowly.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“You may call me T’Challa.”

“And you,” he turned to Bucky, “will make sure no harm comes to her.”

Bucky nodded. “Always.”

___

It was a quiet place, nestled into the side of a soft green hill, surrounded by wildflowers and the gentle hum of nature. The cottage was made of wood and stone, modest in size but warm and sunlit, with wide windows and a small porch that overlooked the valley below.

Inside, there was only one bedroom, a living space, and a kitchen—but it was enough.

Sometimes, too much.

Especially with the way Bucky looked at her when she wasn’t looking. And the way she stared at him when he pretended to be lost in a book.

They didn’t talk about it—not yet. But it lingered in the air between them.

Their routine was gentle.

In the mornings, they trained. Y/N was regaining strength, learning to fight with clarity instead of fury. Bucky kept his movements slow when they sparred, letting her take the lead, offering a soft smile every time she landed a hit.

In the afternoons, they read—Y/N curled on the porch swing with a journal, Bucky on the steps below her with a book he barely turned the pages of. Sometimes she caught him sketching instead of reading, and when she teased him about it, he’d turn red and change the subject.

In the evenings, they cooked. Or rather, she cooked, and Bucky fumbled through chopping vegetables badly enough to make her laugh for the first time in weeks.

“Pretty sure you’re holding that upside down,” she grinned.

Bucky raised the knife sheepishly. “I’m used to weapons, not onions.”

“Tragic.”

“You wound me.”

They were close—too close, maybe. But neither pulled away.

One night, the power flickered during a storm, and the candles came out. The rain pounded on the windows like distant drums. Y/N stood in the kitchen, arms crossed as she stared at the lightning.

Bucky came up beside her. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I used to love the rain. Before it started meaning… different things.”

A beat of silence.

Then Bucky gently took her hand.

“It’s just water now,” he said. “Just thunder. Just wind. It doesn’t own you anymore.”

She turned to look at him, her hand still in his. There was something in his eyes—quiet, unwavering.

“You always know what to say.”

“I just say what I wish someone had told me.”

And for a moment, standing in the candlelight, hands laced and storm outside, it felt like the world had paused.

They didn’t share a bed—not yet.

But that night, when a distant crash of thunder made her flinch, and she came out into the hallway, he was already waiting there. No words needed.

He pulled back the blanket on the couch beside him. She hesitated for a heartbeat.

Then settled in, beside him, shoulder to shoulder, warmth seeping through the thin barrier of cotton and breath.

They didn’t sleep for a while. Just sat there—listening to the storm fade.

And somewhere in the stillness, Bucky whispered:

“You’re not alone anymore, Y/N.”

She didn’t reply.

But her head found his shoulder a moment later.

And that said enough.

___

The sun hung low in the sky, golden rays draping over the Wakandan hillside like silk. Birds chirped in the distance, and a soft wind tugged gently at Y/N’s hair as she knelt in the garden behind the cottage, carefully plucking blooming flowers. It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

She straightened, hands full of lavender and wild marigold, when a sudden chill pricked her skin.

A figure stood at the edge of the treeline.

Draped in a long black cape, his face hidden beneath a hood, he moved like a shadow slipping into daylight—wrong in every way.

Her blood ran cold.

She knew that shape. That presence.

The Whisperer.

Her manipulator. Her captor. The voice that haunted her nightmares and stole her will.

He took a step closer. She didn’t move.

“Hello again, little soldier,” he said, voice like silk laced with venom. “You’ve been resting for too long.”

She gripped the flowers tighter.

“You don’t belong here. You know that, don’t you?”

She didn’t speak. Her limbs trembled under the surface, but her face stayed cold, still. Waiting.

“You’re stronger with me,” he whispered. “You always have been. Let me in again. Come back to who you were made to be.”

He raised his gloved hand, fingers curling ever so slightly—and Y/N felt it. That old pull. The familiar pressure in her skull. Her knees nearly buckled.

But before he could reach further—

“Y/N!”

Bucky’s voice cut through the air like a blade. He sprinted across the grass, breathless, panic in his eyes as he reached her side and stepped protectively in front of her.

His gun was drawn instantly, arm stiff and steady.

“You,” Bucky growled at the cloaked figure. “You’re the one who did this to her.”

“Ah,” The Whisperer murmured. “The broken soldier. It’s always touching how loyal you dogs are. Even when it’s pointless.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You step closer, and I’ll end you.”

“Will you now?” The Whisperer smiled faintly. “Tell me, Sergeant Barnes… do you really think she belongs to you now?”

He gestured toward Y/N, who hadn’t moved. Her eyes were locked ahead, wide but unreadable.

Bucky turned slightly to her. “Y/N? Hey… it’s okay. You’re safe. Just stay with me, alright?”

But she didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

Then the sound of boots thundered against the earth.

Wakandan warriors burst onto the scene in perfect formation, vibranium spears and kinetic weapons at the ready. Okoye stood at the front, alongside King T’Challa himself.

“You do not belong on Wakandan soil,” T’Challa said firmly. “You will leave, or we will remove you by force.”

The Whisperer only chuckled. “You think a few spears can stop what’s already begun?”

T’Challa’s eyes narrowed. “This is your only warning.”

Then—Y/N moved.

Slowly. Almost robotically, she stepped forward, away from Bucky.

He caught her wrist. “Wait—what are you doing?”

She didn’t answer. Her expression remained blank. Empty. Bucky’s heart sank.

She pulled her arm from his grasp.

“Y/N, please,” he whispered, stepping in front of her. “Don’t listen to him. You don’t have to do this.”

But she walked past him.

The Whisperer’s smile grew wider. “Good girl. Now… destroy them.”

She continued walking—straight toward the Wakandan warriors.

Okoye raised her spear. “What is she doing?”

Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but his heart was pounding too loud to form words.

Y/N raised her hand.

Every muscle in Bucky’s body tensed.

But then—she stopped.

And without a word, she spun on her heel and launched herself straight at the Whisperer.

Her punch shattered the mask from his face. A roar of anger ripped from her throat, and the black-cloaked figure stumbled backward, caught completely off guard.

“She’s not yours anymore!” she screamed.

The Whisperer snarled. “Traitor.”

Suddenly, the trees around them trembled—and HYDRA agents burst forth like hornets, guns blazing.

The Wakandan army surged forward in a perfect counterattack. Bucky and Okoye went back to back, weapons raised, protecting Y/N from being overwhelmed.

But she didn’t need protection.

Not now.

She was a fury unleashed.

Y/N ducked beneath a HYDRA soldier’s strike, drove a knife into his thigh, and used his own momentum to throw him into three others. Her movements were graceful but brutal—every blow precise, her eyes lit with something deep and ancient.

She only had one target in mind.

The Whisperer.

He fought back with cruel ferocity, landing a brutal strike to her ribs and another to her jaw, but she didn’t fall. She surged forward, slamming him into a tree. He tried to twist her mind again—fingers to his temple—but she gritted through the pain.

“No more,” she spat.

A blade appeared in her hand, and with a final war cry, she drove it into his chest—deep, unyielding.

The Whisperer gasped. Eyes wide.

Then—stillness.

Y/N stepped back, trembling, blood splattered across her arms and face. Her breathing came in shallow gasps as the battle quieted. HYDRA soldiers fled or lay unconscious.

The Whisperer was dead.

She dropped the blade.

Bucky was beside her in seconds, catching her as her legs gave out. He cradled her against his chest, brushing the hair from her bloodied face.

“You did it,” he murmured. “You’re free.”

She clung to his jacket, breath hitching.

“I almost gave in,” she whispered, broken. “I almost let him take me again.”

“But you didn’t,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers. “You chose you.”

He held her tightly as the last of the clouds above parted and sunlight bathed the hill once more.

The battle was over.

But the war inside her wasn’t.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed in their quiet cottage, arms loosely wrapped around her knees, her body still sore, her mind even more so. The flowers she’d picked earlier that day—now forgotten—lay wilted on the windowsill. Her face was pale. Her knuckles still carried dried blood, though the wounds had already begun to heal.

Outside, the breeze moved softly through the trees. Birds still chirped. The world kept turning.

But inside, everything was quiet. Still.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there, staring at nothing. At everything. The weight of what she’d done—of what she’d almost become—pressed heavily on her chest. A pressure that no deep breath could lift.

Then the door creaked open.

“Y/N?”

His voice was gentle. Always was with her.

Bucky stepped in slowly, carrying two cups of tea. His shirt was rumpled, his hair slightly damp from the shower, and there was a faint scratch across his cheek. But his eyes—those storm-blue eyes—never left her.

She didn’t look up.

“Thought tea might help,” he said softly, placing one cup down beside her.

No reply.

He stayed standing for a moment, then slowly lowered himself onto the floor in front of her, sitting cross-legged. He didn’t push her to talk. He didn’t touch her. Just stayed close.

It took a minute. Maybe ten.

And then, finally, she whispered:

“I saw his face when I killed him.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed, but he stayed quiet, encouraging her to go on.

“There was… nothing. No regret. No humanity. Just hatred. I don’t think he even felt pain.” She swallowed hard. “And I hated him for that.”

“You had every right to,” Bucky said gently.

“But it scared me,” she admitted, voice cracking. “How easy it felt. Like something inside me had been waiting for that moment.”

“You’re not him.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you stopped,” he said, leaning in. “You had every reason to stay under his control, every reason to be angry. But you didn’t give in. You chose to fight. You chose us. You chose you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away.

“I’m tired, Buck,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Bucky reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, his metal fingers cool and gentle. “Then we’ll find out together. One day at a time.”

He stood, offering his hand.

After a moment, she took it.

He guided her outside to the small porch, where the horizon stretched out in warm orange and gold. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the valley. The garden swayed in the breeze.

She sat beside him on the wooden bench, pulling her legs up and resting her head on his shoulder. For a long time, they didn’t speak.

Just silence.

Safe silence.

“You ever think we’d end up here?” she asked eventually, eyes on the sky.

He gave a small huff of laughter. “Wakanda? No. Thought I’d be long gone by now.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft. “I’m glad you’re not.”

His heart skipped.

“I’m glad you’re not,” he said quietly, turning his head just slightly toward her.

She didn’t move away.

She stayed right there beside him, her hand finding his and lacing their fingers together, her grip firm. Real. Present.

Y/N finally looked up at him. “What is it, Buck?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Exhaled. Looked down. “I’ve been thinking about something. For a long time, actually.”

She sat up straighter, setting the mug down on the table.

“I never told you what you meant to me… before everything happened,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Back in Brooklyn, before the war, before Hydra—when it was just us three… You, me, and Steve.”

Her breath caught.

“I used to think I had all the time in the world,” he continued, chuckling softly. “That I’d tell you eventually. After the war. After we made it back home.” His eyes met hers then, blue and unguarded. “But then I fell. And I thought I’d lost the chance forever.”

“Bucky…”

“I loved you,” he said, voice firmer now, no longer trembling. “I love you. I think I always did. From the moment you walked into the diner and stole Steve’s fries.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a soft, surprised smile. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything now,” he said. “The way you laughed. The way you danced even when the jukebox skipped. The way you looked at me when I was being stupid—and God, I was stupid a lot.”

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He kept going.

“When I saw you again—after everything—I thought it was another nightmare. That you were gone. That they took you like they took me. But then I realized… even when you didn’t remember me, even when you were fighting me, something in me still couldn’t give up on you.”

She blinked hard, her vision blurring with emotion.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he added quickly. “I just needed you to know. That I loved you then. And I love you now. No matter who you are, or what they made you believe.”

There was a long pause.

Then, finally, Y/N reached for his hand.

Her fingers closed around his—soft, warm, grounding. “You idiot,” she whispered, voice shaky. “I loved you too.”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“I was just waiting for you to say something. You were always too busy being charming with every girl in Brooklyn.”

He gave a breathless laugh, disbelief in his eyes. “Y/N…”

She leaned in slowly, resting her forehead against his. Her voice dropped to a murmur. “You found me. You stayed. Even when I didn’t know myself.”

His metal hand came up, cradling the back of her head.

They stayed there, breathing each other in, hearts full with everything they’d lost—and finally, what they’d found again.

Not broken.

Not brainwashed.

Just them.

-the end

[ohwaitimthewriter]

The Memory Keeper

Chapter 6: Cruise

Pairing: Noa x human!reader

Warnings: None!

Summarize: A woman, allowed to live as long as the virus keeps running through her body, living on autopilot for 260 years, is going to see her life takes a new turn, finding hope in something that might come to put an end to her wandering.

Words: 3k+

A/N: Hi there! After all this time, I've decided to post the first part of this chapter. So it's not complete in what I wanted to tell entirely about this chapter. However, I find myself with a rather significant lack of inspiration and motivation, which has been going on for over a month now. I hope that working in this way will enable me to start the rest of this chapter under better conditions.

In the meantime, I hope you'll like this first part!

Enjoy your reading 😊

The Memory Keeper Masterlist / Planet of the apes Masterlist

Gifs credit (1) & (2)

Your brain was about to collapse. Its cogs were running at full speed in an engine flooded by years of letting yourself sink. Reaching the bottom of the ocean and letting yourself be carried along by the sea currents, getting used to seeing nothing but the crushing blackness of the abyss. Getting the engine running again made the rusty nuts creak, and no matter how many times you jabbed the storm-shaken screws with a screwdriver, it felt as if every turn sheared through your temples.

And everything was suddenly too heavy. The weight of your head ended up in the palm of your hands as your fingers desperately tried to cling to the hairline that defined your forehead.

Your cogs floundered in the muddy sand of the seabed that had become your brain. A flooded, clogged and slimy wading pool that struggled to rid itself of the stagnant seaweed that had accumulated until it filtered out the slightest particle of emotion that dared to try and find its way back to the surface. Drowning in your own wading pool. In your own brain, so as not to see the immeasurable extent of the damage inflicted by the tidal wave that had left you shipwrecked.

Shipwrecked. Today, it was difficult to remember when the boat had capsized. Had it happened gradually? As each crew member fell overboard? One after the other. And despite the lifebuoys, despite the rafts, all you could do was watch them sink, helpless as the ocean slowly took what had always belonged to it.

Shipwrecked on a wandering ship, meant to stay afloat despite the shattered hull and torn sails. Sometimes you still wondered why the ocean had chosen never to come and get you. The one that decided to toss you around like a lost buoy in the middle of the blue vastness, the one that made you swallow water at will, knowing full well that salt water couldn't carry you off. The one that dragged you to the open sea with no promise of ever seeing the end of it. Now the ocean was offering you the chance to wash ashore on a white sandbank.

But how do you dock without a captain at the helm?

A broad hand came to rest on your shoulder, engulfing half your shoulder blade, and a few comforting taps pressed against your shoulder.

“How do you know his words?”

Raka. He seemed to have a better grasp of the concept of empathy than did his friend. But you couldn't blame Noa. Even you didn't know how to steer your boat. So to ask a near-stranger to trust you to navigate between waves and sea rocks and reach that sandbank…

And how could you dock without a captain at the helm?

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The world was changing.

And the more you watched it burn away, the more you realized there was no one left. There was no one to tell the story. Radio, TV news, newspapers, books… no one would run them or write them. The human ability to convey an event around the world as we would slip a letter into a mailbox had gone to ashes when the virus had set humanity ablaze.

You no longer knew what the world was becoming, and only its progress could be observed directly through the lens of the camera you'd found in the ruins of a crumbling city center.

There was no one left to hold on to a lost humanity… except you. These history books, these tales of the years that modern society had never had the pleasure of exploring in its own lifetime, but only through the remnants that others recounted - in those historic eras of the birth of societies - were going to be the last. And the world you knew would eventually die in the memories of the few humans who would in turn die out without being able to ensure an offspring.

Only you would be left to remember this humanity. And if you dared to hope that the memories of the apes around you would be passed down through the generations, there was little hope that humans would live on in their memories and the tales you imagined would come to life around the rise of simian societies.

Perhaps that's what prompted you to bring back that camera. A Polaroid you knew would only last a year, or as long as you could find enough to keep it going between the batteries and photo paper it consumed with every click to capture an event, a group of apes fishing, or the sometimes gigantic wooden constructions rising several meters above your head.

Those pictures that were instantly printed would stay. They would tell the story. They would remember the time when humanity had been turned upside down and could not turn back. They would remember the new world that was being built under your admiring gaze. And they wouldn't forget. They wouldn't forget what the world had been, what humans had done and what the world was about to become.

It was important. You couldn't fully imagine how significant it was, but you'd been steeped in history classes and there was something comforting about knowing about a past you'd never witnessed. Perhaps because it was proof… the only proof of the existence of the past.

And if you'd been willing to give up the humanity you'd lived in, you weren't yet ready to forget its existence.

Through the lens, you could see the symbol made from pieces of wood hanging at the entrance to the village. A circle containing the shape of a four-pointed star. The symbol of Caesar, his words and the ideology he embodied. It was the kind of memory one shouldn't forget.

“Why… symbol?”

A sudden jolt.

Your finger pressed the button, completely out of focus on the image you'd just tried to center, and the click was followed by the distinctive sound of a photo printing. Your eyes turned for a second to the owner of the baritone voice as an amused sigh escaped your lips when you saw the blurred picture emerge from the polaroid.

“Because it's important.” You answered casually, a small smile on your face.

Caesar puffed through his nostrils, lips pursed in a brief upward movement as he tried to grasp the interest you had behind every picture you took. He'd seen it all before, thanks to Will. He knew humans liked that sort of thing even if it made no sense to him.

“It's important to remember.”

You went on, again looking into the lens to adjust the image of the symbol. This time, the photo came out clearly and the four-pointed star stood proudly in the center, the angle of the picture making it even more imposing than it was.

Caesar remained silent, his face eternally scowling, but you had a well-trained eye, you spotted a certain curiosity well hidden in the corner of his solemn gaze and you handed him the picture with a big smile.

“Long from now, the apes will be able to remember, thanks to this photo.” You carried on, lowering the camera to observe with your own eyes the life of the apes displayed in front of you.

Caesar listened carefully, and the ridge of his eyes hardened, puzzled by your words.

“Why… keep… the past?”

A very human notion, certainly. What's the point of remembering what yesterday was when today brings everything you need? And you seemed to be asking yourself the same question. Caesar didn't often see you with your eyebrows furrowed, your facial features slightly tense as your eyes sought a suitable answer to give him. Your hand went to the back of your neck to try and soothe the tension in your muscles, and he knew from this simple gesture that you were going to need time to build up a thought that you probably hadn't even considered yet.

You kept this attitude only in those moments when a simple question made you question again everything you were sure of, and Caesar took a certain pride in it. An ape making a human doubt. There was something exhilarating behind this feat. Even if you'd never seemed narrow-minded in your ideas, it was pleasant to see you reflect on a notion that seemed so obvious to you.

Humans were always like that. Sure of themselves and their beliefs. Confident that their values were the best, without questioning for a second their credibility or the nuances that might exist.

Why remember the past? What was the point of knowing about the advent of human societies? The horrors and destructive wars? The great names of men and women who have left their mark on history in one way or another? The great dates, whether of atrocity or freedom?

And beyond human history, and in the more mundane events of everyday life, what was the point of remembering our childhood home? Or that old aunt telling of her travels to the other side of the world? Or that birthday when nobody came?

Your fingers traveled to your wristband, tracing the outlines of the polished bone pieces under Caesar's gaze. If not for this wristband, or this lame hip, what would drive you to remember why Caesar and his kind had taken you under their wings? There was nothing else. Your body had forgotten the torture and pain. There was nothing tangible to prove the existence of abuse apart from that wristband and that hip. The brain was quick enough to forget what was of no use to it or what was too painful to remain in living memory. And if the brain forgot, if there was nothing to remind it to remember, how could one prove the existence of what had been?

And… why should one prove it?

“Because it existed… and… if we forget, how could we do any better?”

Caesar snorted, and you watched his eyes widen dubiously. Had humans done better? He wasn't very knowledgeable about humanity's past, and on second thought, maybe he wasn't interested enough: whatever had been, good or bad today, that's what was important.

“Humans… have they done better?”

Caesar was skeptical, and had every reason to be. On second glance, perhaps humans were doing worse today. The lesson was never learned, and the human was diving headfirst back into his bad habits, making sure to choke on them. This made you smile. His skepticism was right in spite of you, and you even suspected that he knew more about the human species than you did.

“No,” you answered with a giggle. “But apes might.”

There was a glimmer of hope in your eyes. The human cause was lost, and had been for a long time. Even before the virus had spread, humanity had already begun to dig its own grave. Beyond the wars and hatred, the Earth itself was rotting from the inside out under the impact of the human hand. It had only ever been a matter of time before humanity came to the end of its reign.

You weren't even sorry to see your species die out. You were only sorry that it was taking everything else with it.

There was a form of supplication in your eyes. Let the apes do better. Better than wars, better than hatred, better than the destruction of nature, better than the aggressive ambition of some men, better than… the human species in all its consequences.

Caesar raised his head proudly. He was sure of one thing: apes were, in all their consequences, better than humans.

“Apes… don't need… to remember… to do better.”

His gruff voice was adamant, and despite his assurance, a twinge of anxiety settled in the pit of your stomach. How could one do better if no one remembered what had been? You looked up at him, and couldn't help admiring the self-assured features Caesar wore on his face. Broad-shouldered and imposing, his chest puffed out in defiance of anyone who wished to argue with him, what would become of simian society if he were no longer present in the minds of the apes?

You saw it every day. All you had to do was say his name and the apes would bend their backs without batting an eyelid. But none were afraid of him. Caesar had earned the respect of his people because they knew how, thanks to him, they had won their freedom. They respected him and his words, because they remembered.

“In 300 years, don't you want to become the legend of Grumpy Caesar?”

Your gently teasing laugh was greeted by a grumble, probably offended by the nickname you kept harping into his ears, but for the benevolent smile that followed every time, Caesar could never take it the wrong way. It was you, and he'd learned that your words of affection sometimes resembled those teasing words. Those words always followed by a slight, playful shove of the back of your hand against his biceps as your lips stretched happily. He'd also noticed that this was the only time you dared to touch him. And that made him smile.

To become a legend, there was no such thing in the minds of the apes. When his body had breathed the last breath of oxygen that life would grant him, and the sun had decided to stop shining on him, the apes would find another sturdy branch on which to stand. This was how it was meant to be, and his name would become nothing more than the caress of the wind, forgotten once it had gone by.

“Too faraway, apes will forget.”

Caesar preferred to sign these words. Sign language always seemed to have a deeper meaning. When audible words didn't speak loud enough to resonate emotions swallowed up far beneath the ribcage, signs spoke with more truth. A truth that seemed very heavy to you.

The apes will forget. Perhaps that was the truest and saddest thing of all. His name will crumble in the memory of the apes like wood devoured by growing flames. And once the wood has shattered, it will simply lie in a pile of ashes, waiting for the breeze to carry it away and scatter it as it pleases until there's nothing left.

It was his truth. At least, if there was nothing to remind them of him. Your eyes fell on the camera hanging around your neck before settling back on Caesar. He was looking at his people the way he looked at his sons, and if that's all it took to save his name, whether he understood it or not, you'd immortalize the little stones that were building his empire as many times as he'd let you.

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An empire shaped like a ship to endure the years, and when it was the captain's turn to walk the plank to fulfill the ocean's call, the rudder had slipped into your hands. And you accepted it. You knew that sailing against wind and tide would be an arduous task. You knew it. And it seemed to you that you had fought well. Sails wide open to catch as much wind as possible and the remaining crew paddling hard against the pull of fallen anchors. The endeavor had been going on for a long time.

For so long.

For too long.

Every crew member was an anchor desperately dragged along by the ship you were trying to keep afloat until the mainsail gave way. The increasing weight and the fading wind had worn away the fabric until only the tatters floated scattered in the wind. And the boat that had sailed at full speed for so long found itself slowing down… more and more, until the natural swell of the blue vastness became its only driving force.

No matter whether you wanted to go to port or starboard, the ocean pushed the boat in the direction it thought best without ever consulting you, sometimes leading it into storms where the sea grew high above the masts. You often watched helplessly as the huge waves crashed over the deck, washing away the rubble that an earlier storm had caused, and soon, shipwreck would be bound to occur.

How long had you been at the helm before you let go? A rudder that had let you down long before you gave up. And how long had you just watched that rudder go from left to right at the mercy of the ocean without doing anything about it?

You weren’t sure how to act upon it. As natural as it had been in the past, navigating Caesar’s memory again across this ocean had become a mystery.

If time hadn’t run its best sprint, perhaps there would have been a time when explaining would have been easy.

But today…

Today, the sand bank on the horizon might just become a mere illusion.

Your glassy gaze fell on Raka as he watched your fingers run over the frame and brush against Caesar's image. Such a simple question demanded an equally simple answer. But was it really? Telling them that you'd known him would most certainly trigger a cataclysm that would turn your dilapidated ship upside down, and you were already lacking strength at the mere thought of having to put it back afloat. Swimming to the end of an endless journey was not in your plans, even if the countdown to impact was already ticking away in front of your eyes.

Raka's green eyes eventually found yours, and a series of soft hootings encouraged you to speak as you could only swallow as you spoke anxiously.

“ What about you… how do you know them?”

You watched his gaze slide from your eyes to Noa's, who was listening to your conversation with great interest. His curious stare dropped like a domino to the gauntlet on his left hand, and with a precise gesture, Noa pulled out a pendant crafted from what looked like white wood.

A pendant in the shape of…

“The order of Caesar, naturally!” Raka exclaimed as if it was an obvious fact.

A four-pointed star.

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[oh-alicent]

write the angsty post-2x08 loustat bath scene you want to see in the world

preview below, no idea when it'll get finished but hopefully in the next week or so? (tw: mentions of self harm)

As he ran the washcloth over his pale arms, Louis was struck by the littering of indentations against the pearly white skin— nail marks, he thought faintly— and thought of Lestat's nails, the beds caked with blood. Without a doubt, Louis knew he'd been hurting himself. He'd thought he'd seen it when he'd mentioned 1973, Lestat's hands curling into his arms as he tried to ground his thoughts. The scent of blood in the air— he'd mistaken it for tears— as Lestat had asked him if he'd hurt himself. And all the while...

He half expected the man to shift under his gaze, pull back the signs of self carnage, make a scathing quip or some sort of poorly timed joke. None of those things happened. Lestat's eyes were unfocused, trained on a spot just above Louis' head.

Words bubbled up at his throat. Honey, what've you done to yourself? Burdening syllables, suggestions of a life before. A name he couldn't use, because it meant something more than he was sure he could give. More than Lestat might even want, anyway. Instead, he chose, "We should heal these," and nicked his thumb to bring it to the wound.

Lestat moved like a viper, grabbing his wrist and shoving it away from him. "No," he muttered pointedly, his eyes wild as they peered up from under his lashes. "They'll heal on their own in time."

Not with the way he was feeding, Louis thought dejectedly. It could take weeks.

Shifting on his knees, he knelt closer to the clawfoot tub, a gentle hand on Lestat's shoulder, tucking the clean strands behind his ear. "Please?" he asked gently. "I want to see you well again."

He scoffed, an indignant sound. "I am well."

"Les." Louis moved to massage the point behind his ear where he'd always melted in his embrace— maybe it was cheating, getting him to acquiesce like this— and a term of endearment escaped him without him noticing. "Please, honey?"

Despite being almost completely submerged under the water, Louis still felt him tense at the word, and he thought he might have lost Lestat then. "Lou," he mimicked, his tone callous. But there was a quiet grumble of acceptance, and he didn't fight Louis when his fledgling's blood met his lips.

Lestat's fangs breached the wound on Louis' wrist, that familiar pain a strange kind of relief. He took him in, cautiously at first, then all at once— strong, greedy pulls, like a man starved, because he was— and a gentle moan left Louis' lips at the lightheadedness of it all. He was adrift, floating a raft on a rippling sea of iridescent blue, and it was all Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. His maker never once stopped consuming his every thought, dancing behind his eyes. And still, all his recollections were nothingness, were child's play. How could he have remembered it so dully?

Because here Lestat was, a shell of who he'd been decades prior, and yet his presence filled up every corner of the room, like the lights had been dimmed for the past seventy years, and Louis had been merely existing in the dark.

[animatorweirdo]

The Fall of the Sun (Part 2)

Part 1

While recovering from the injuries that had left you bedridden, you remember the past and think of the moments that led you into this.

(Author note: Just a fair warning, I might not continue this fic after this part.)

Warnings: broken bones, drugs to numb the pain, pirates, murder, your family dying in a fire, mentions of becoming a slave, jumping into a sea, getting attacked by a sea snake, storms, dehydration and nearly dying by the sun, Halbrand being a bit annoying, bar fights, mentions if him being in prison, violence, volcanic eruptions, things getting destroyed by fire, threats of being burned alive, angst, injuries, betrayal and reader being self-deprecative.

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As you lay on the bed, trying to let your broken body recover. You think of the past, the happier times before all this. It was all you could do besides be wrapped in bandages and consumed by the medicines to numb the pain. 

You were born in a town beside a northern shore. It was a happy little town. You were a young girl, dreaming of adventure and finding true love. Your family considered you silly for them, but you were certain that one day— you would embark on a journey to fulfill those dreams. 

One special thing about your town was your unique neighbor, a dragon. Your people and her had lived in peace for many years thus there was never a fear of her attacking your town. She was a patient and kind being. You had visited her cave many times with your friends. Nearly everyone had a great friendship with her and you all were eager when she shared the news that she had laid a clutch of eggs.  Life was good back then. 

However, everything changed when the pirates came. 

You and the town first allowed them to stay out of politeness. They were arrogant and rude, but since they didn’t cause trouble worth kicking them out, you could only wait and hope they would leave as soon as possible. But then they heard about your friend and decided to commit one of the most horrible acts you had ever seen. 

They sneaked into her lair and murdered her. They crushed their eggs and stole all the gifts you and the townspeople had given her throughout the years. 

When they bragged their victory to you, you all were horrified and tried to chase them out, but then they attacked your home, burned the houses, and killed people. Your family perished when your house caught on fire. You had no idea what happened to your siblings and cousins. You were the only one to survive. 

Unfortunately, you were also taken captive by the pirates with those who survived. They intended to sell you for slavery. Despite your hatred for them, you were scared to act and played nice until you found out they had taken one of the eggs. They planned to sell it to some lord who would take pleasure in enslaving a legendary beast such as a dragon. Remembering your old friend, you decided not to allow it to happen. 

During a storm, you stole the egg. However, seeing nowhere else to escape when your escape boat was lost. You jumped into the freezing sea, allowing the current to take you despite struggling to remain above the surface. 

Miraculously, you survived the storm. But then you were forced to swim in the sea without clear direction, hoping you might find land.  You doubted if you made the right decision, but considering your fate would have been slavery, death by the sea was perhaps better than a lifetime of torment. 

That was then when you encountered the raft and met him, Halbrand. 

The surviving people took pity enough on you to help you climb on the raft, and then he spoke to you for the first time. 

“What is a lone maiden like yourself doing swimming so far in the sea?” The brown-haired man questioned after one of the raft people helped you on the raft and you lay on the wooden flooring, exhausted. 

“I jumped out of a pirate ship. It was either stay and be sold as a slave, or jump and possibly die in the sea. The latter was more pleasing to me,” You answered then looked toward him. 

“What about you? What does a lonely wet rat like yourself doing so far out of here?” You asked, which earned a chuckle from him. 

He first appeared a bit cold but did not seem to mind talking with you. Apparently, the ship he was traveling on was destroyed by a sea snake, and now they were hopelessly sailing on whatever was left, hoping a land would come their way sooner or later. Strangely, he kept looking toward the bag you clutched close to your hips like he knew something. It made you feel uneasy but tolerated it as you were stuck with him. 

He seemed to liven up a bit when you talked more, and he seemed to have taken a liking to calling you ‘tough girl’ just to annoy you. You hated it, but you couldn’t help but admit that talking to him helped you keep your sanity. 

Unfortunately, the sea proved more dangerous than you imagined. You were attacked by the same sea monster that destroyed Halbrand’s ship. It devoured the rest of the poor travelers and destroyed the raft, leaving only you and Halbrand. You did not know how you survived, except you two lay quietly against the raft as the sea snake swam past you.  Scared out of your wits, you might have held his hand tightly which he did not seem to mind until the danger was over. Strangely, you remember him uttering some strange words right before the sea snake left. 

Then the storm came, which caused many troubles and nearly destroyed the raft if you had not cut the rope that kept you down. Then came the sun and you were dying from heat and dehydration. 

Heating under the scorching sun, exhausted and choking on your dry throat. You looked toward Halbrand one last time. 

“You know, Halbrand. Even though you were kinda annoying since we are most likely going to die, it was nice knowing you. “ You said, struggling to maintain consciousness under the heat. 

He chuckled, sweating and glancing toward you. “I knew you were gonna warm up to me eventually,” He teased, his eyes full of exhaustion. “But… it was nice knowing you as well, tough girl,” he said, using the nickname you hated. 

He offered his hand and you did not mind holding it as the sun finally got to you, causing your consciousness to flicker under the heat. 

But luck seemed to be on your side as you two were found by a numenorian ship. 

They gave you water and food to eat then brought you to one of the port cities of Numenor. The ship’s captain was kind enough to share some gold so you two would have a place to stay for a couple of nights while you sorted out your predicament. 

You allowed Halbrand to stay with you, even though you had enough only for one room in the inn. He liked testing your patience and tried to convince you to show the secrets of your bag, but luckily he didn’t push it. Perhaps your ordeal together managed to help you become friends and you two decided to find some work so you could keep the room for now. 

Your mother taught you everything you needed to know about embroidery and the workings of stitching. You had a passion for clothing and fashion. You asked around if anyone knew any clothes vendors or shops who could use an extra hand and you ended up meeting a nice elderly woman named Núriël, who was amazed by your skills and eagerly took you in to work for her. 

While doing a small errand, you noticed Halbrand seemed to have found his place in a forge, so you catch up with him for a moment. Apparently, to work in a forge, he needed to be part of a guild and he managed to become a member. You felt slightly proud and wished him congrats before continuing your day.

Your day went smoothly and quicker than you anticipated. Núriël gifted you extra clothing for you and Halbrand after you told her of your ordeal in the sea.  You were grateful and eagerly made your way back to the inn, only for some numenorian guard to tell you that Halbrand was in prison for theft and causing a tavern fight. 

You were slightly livid as you helped him out of there and forced him to explain. Apparently, he had trouble finding work in the forge, so he stole the guild badge and tried to get into the good graces of the men by buying them drinks at the tavern. However, they were easily offended by something he said and a tavern fight was born. 

You scolded him as it was common knowledge that the numenorians were known as a proud people. Such tricks as buying drinks will only work on those from Middle Earth. 

He then admitted he had not interacted with people much, so he was not the most experienced. You found it weird that he did not know how to interact before returning to your room, making dinner, and then showing him new clothes so he would not look like a rat. 

The next day, you decided to aid him in finding work at the guild. The people there were much calmer when you apologized for your friend’s rude behavior and then questioned about the qualifications to join the guild. Halbrand was slightly offended when you excused his behavior as being a fever from the sea, but since it allowed the men of the guild to give him a chance, he did not complain. 

You instructed him very clearly not to run his mouth. He is to listen and learn when necessary. You were not going to help him if he got himself in prison for the second time. 

He showed gratitude and promised he would not disappoint you. 

He kept his promise as he managed to win over the guild with his forge skills and become an official member, which meant no more stealing or tavern fights.

The whole thing helped you become closer and you got into a routine that helped you adapt to your new life. Halbrand learned to be better at socializing with people, though you had taken on yourselves to dress him on proper occasions. He always teased and joked about how you were his personal dresser. Those jokes always earned a smack or eyes rolling. 

However, you did grow fond of him and finally trusted him enough to reveal the golden egg to him. 

You told him about your friend and the life before pirated. You told him how you could not allow her only child to be taken and sold off to slavery. Halbrand looked at you with rare sensibility. 

“I’m sorry… for your loss,” He said. 

“Will you promise me not to tell anyone? We are better off now, but there is no knowing what the Numenorians will do if they find such a creature here. “ You asked. 

“I would not be able to forgive myself if anything came to happen to my friend’s only child,” You said, looking at the golden egg in your hands. 

“I’m sure everything will be fine by how you protect the egg,” Halbrand tried to play it off as a joke. 

“I’m serious, Halbrand. Please… Give me your word you will allow no harm to the egg,” You said with a tone of seriousness. 

Halbrand was quiet for a moment before taking your hand into his. “I give you my word that no harm will come to the egg or the life inside it,” He said sincerely. 

That promise helped you be easy on yourself, and surprisingly, Halbrand seemed to have become more honest with you. He still teased you like no tomorrow, but he kept his word and did not mention anything about the egg to the outside world. You could not help but admit that you considered him one of your most trusted friends. 

You and Halbrand decided that life on Numenor was not so bad and had enough money to rent a bigger place. You became comfortable leaving the egg near the fireplace to incubate and after three months living in Numenor, the day finally arrived.

You pulled Halbrand out of his forge that day, excited to have him there. You two then watched as a small dragon hatched from the egg. Its scales were golden and big pearly black eyes looked back at you. A small adorable chirp escaped its mouth and your heart was stolen. You placed your hand on the table and watched the little creature curiously climb on your palm. You then snuggled close to it with love in your heart. 

Halbrand figured the dragon must be male. You found it a little strange that he had such knowledge of dragons, but you didn't care enough and already came up with a name. You named the little dragon, Anorion, which Halbrand thought was slightly cheesy yet fitting. 

Your routine changed with Anorion as he needed food and a lot of attention. It became a bit of a challenge as he would sometimes cry out for you, nearly giving himself away to your landowners and other people nearby. Anorion would behave well in Halbrand’s care, but he was especially clingy with you. It gave Halbrand a reason to tease you as Anorion obviously saw you as his mother. 

You considered getting a new place that was away from people, but then you heard some rumors about the Southlands and remembered that you had relatives who lived there and hadn’t seen them in years. 

You proposed the idea of the journey to Halbrand as Anorion had become rowdy as he grew and that you had enough to pay a ship to take you to Middle Earth. Halbrand surprisingly agreed to the idea without much thought and you began the preparations. 

You bid goodbye to the friends you made. They bid you farewell and gave you some parting gifts. You delivered Anorion in a box, playing him off as your sicky pet to explain the sounds that echoed from his box. You then finally set off to Middle Earth.

As you sailed out of the port city, you became curious about Halbrand’s decision to come with you and questioned him about it as he could have easily stayed in Numenor. 

“I did not mind our life in Numenor, but I think it would become lonely and less interesting without you there,” Halbrand said. “And I would be a pretty bad father to Anorion if I abandoned his mother on a possible dangerous journey,” He finished with a grin. 

His remark caused you to roll your eyes at him, but in your heart, you felt warm and a change. That was perhaps the moment you began to feel more for your annoyingly charming friend. 

When you finally arrived on Middle Earth, you bought a wagon and a couple of horses before setting off to the Southlands. The journey was long but peaceful. As Anorion had grown big enough to learn how to fly, you two had fun helping him learn and Anorion eagerly flew most of the distances and began hunting for himself. 

You two would sometimes stop to fish and camp beneath the stars. You once instigated a water fight in a river and Halbrand gave no mercy. It was fun, but when Halbrand picked you up by your waist and you both fell into the river, you noticed how the close contact made you feel nervous even though you had no such issue before. 

When you finally reached the Southlands, you were suddenly stopped by your old elven friend, Rhiwlas. You had met when she first came to your town and you two became good friends so you were fairly excited to see her again.

She had warned orcs had been seen around Southland and insisted she would escort you to the village. 

You did not mind and took the chance to catch up with her, telling her everything that had happened as she escorted you to the village where your relatives lived. 

Your relatives were shocked but glad to see you. They were sorrowful when you told them what had happened to your home and were more than willing to provide a place for you and Halbrand to stay. 

After settling in, you and Halbrand took the chance to sit on the grass and enjoy the scenery while Anorion looked around your new home. 

“Not a bad place. It’s very peaceful,” You stated. 

Halbrand nodded with a hum. “I agree. Thought I am happy that the forge of this village is looking for new smiths and do not require me to join some guild,” he stated, making you giggle. 

“Say… since we are in Middle Earth. There is nothing that would stop you from traveling and doing what you want,” You started, and Halbrand looked at you strangely. “I do not mean you are not welcome to stay. You are more than welcome. I just mean… If you wanted to leave and travel, that would not bother me,” You explained. 

He stared at you for a moment before grinning. “I am in no rush to travel. I think I can come to enjoy this place,” He assured and you could not help but smile. Relief and joy encased you within the thought of him staying. 

But then Rhiwlas came and to your surprise, she seemed suspicious of Halbrand. She questioned you about his past, and then you figured she was just being protective of you. You assured her that Halbrand could be trusted, but for some reason, she was adamant in her suspicion. 

Then by accident, she saw Anorion. You quickly had to introduce her to him and assure her that he was not dangerous. Luckily, you managed to get her comfortable, and promise not to tell on you. You promised her that you would introduce Anorion to your relatives soon enough. 

Unfortunately, your new peace did not last long as the orcs attacked. It was completely out of surprise and you would have lost your life if Halbrand was not there to save your life. Rhiwlas and her people did their best to fend them off, but they overwhelmed them by numbers. You were scared that soon they would either kill or enslave you all, but then Anorion took flight and released his fire upon them. 

You and Halbrand had tried to help him learn to breathe fire and this was the first time you had seen him use it effectively. You felt pride and Anorion’s sudden appearance scared the orcs away, allowing Rhiwlas and her people to finish them. 

The orcs left, ordered to retreat by an orc that looked like an elf. You were glad it was over then introduced Anorion to your relatives and the village people. Luckily, they were more welcoming than you thought and did not mind giving treats and pets to the small dragon.

While recovering from the attack, you noticed the sudden change in Halbrand’s mood. He was quiet and stared at the way where the orcs and their leader left with hatred in his eyes. That way you knew he knew the orc leader from somewhere and questioned him about it. He hesitated first then revealed the orc leader had done great wrong to him, thus the hatred.

You were sympathetic and comforted him, which helped the anger in him to calm down. 

Rhiwlas went after the orc leader with her company and the peace was restored. But then, Anorion became frightened by something. 

He started crying, biting your arm and clothing, seemingly trying to lead you away from the village. It was hard to calm him down until Halbrand revealed that, like animals, dragons could sense when a great danger or catastrophe was going to happen soon.

You began to feel eerie when you noticed birds escaping toward the west and other animals becoming frightened by something as well. You decided to trust Anorion’s instinct and convinced your relatives and other village people to leave as soon as possible. 

You traveled away from the village, carrying Anorion in your arms as you tried to comfort him, all the while attempting to figure out what had frightened him so deeply.

You got your answer when the Southland’s slumbering volcano erupted. The great cloud rose before your very eyes and balls of fire fell upon the earth. All of you ran for your lives, despite having some distance from the volcano, the great balls of fire were able to reach you and cause havoc around you. 

Halbrand covered you while you two ran with scared Anorion in your arms. However, then the great cloud of fire came toward you with awful speed. You were not able to run away as it caught up to you, ready to burn all of you alive. 

“(Name)!” Halbrand yelled. He embraced you as the fiery cloud consumed you and everything around you. You cried out in fear, expecting to be burned alive. 

But instead of being burned alive, you felt something cold wrap around you and then you dropped against a forest ground. 

In shock, you stared at the unfamiliar forest around you. Anorion whimpered as you got up and looked around in confusion as there was no fire around you. 

You then saw the fires and the smoke and walked up the hill, seeing the volcano far away and everything that had been burned to ash. You were in disbelief of what had happened, but your worry for Halbrand and your relatives overshadowed your need for answers and you began making your way out of the forest, toward the destroyed land. 

By coincidence, you encountered Rhiwlas who came back to investigate after seeing the volcano erupt. You then told her what had happened. 

The fiery cloud had most likely dissipated by now, so you pleaded with her to see if any of your relatives or Halbrand were still alive. She doubted anyone could have survived such destruction, but you continued pleading and she finally agreed. 

You stayed in the camp with Anorion and some of her people. They questioned how you survived and you gave an unsure description of how during the fire, Halbrand embraced you and suddenly you were in another forest like magic. They found it strange, but your confusion was settled when Rhiwlas returned and declared she had found one survivor. 

You were relieved to find it was Halbrand who had survived the fire. However, your face went pale when you saw a large sharp piece of wood stuck through his side. 

Rhiwlas explained he was going to need immediate treatment if he was to survive. She then sorrowfully explained that your relatives and the rest of the village people had died in the fire. Your heart sank for your relatives, but you held strong as Halbrand’s survival was at stake and you brought him to Lindon. 

You prayed Eru or whatever Valar for him to survive. You were there as the elven healers worked swiftly to remove the wood piece and block the blood loss. They were able to stable him but he was going to rest for a while. 

You were by his side the days he spent with his eyes closed, praying he would not leave you alone till the day arrived when he opened his eyes and teased you for your tears. You were joyful, but could no longer hold back revealing your feelings. 

“Is everything a joke to you?” You scolded him softly after he woke up and made that ridiculous remark. 

“I like to keep up the smiles rather than despair. Thought having lovely maiden yourself and our sweet child mourn my passing does not sound like an awful end,” He grinned. 

“I thought I really lost you,” You revealed.  

“Well, as you can see. I am way too charming to pass away so easily,” Halbrand said, petting Anorion’s head. 

“I’m serious. Halbrand you are more important to me than you realize. I do not know I would be able to live without you by my side,” You confessed, hoping he would understand what you meant and he did. 

Halbrand stared at you, before gently placing his hand behind your head and bringing your lips down to meet with his. 

It was sweet and short before you broke it off, and he promised he was not going to leave your side anytime soon. 

You were there as he recovered. He recovered surprisingly fast. After two days, he was able to walk by himself.

You told the happy news to Rhiwlas. However, she had begun to suspect Halbrand from something. She revealed how she found it way too strange how he was able to survive the volcano and that he was most likely the reason you were able to escape the volcano into another forest. Thinking about it made you realize how strange it was and that there was a possibility that Halbrand was not an ordinary human man. However, when Rhiwlas revealed that she suspected him of being a malicious being, you became defensive. You tried to reason with her that Halbrand could not be something evil since he did save your and Anorion’s life. Why would he save you if he was evil? 

Rhiwlas was not convinced, especially when Halbrand had begun taking an interest in talking with the elves and suggesting something that could help them defeat the orcs now they had found themselves a new homeland in the former Southlands. 

Then something happened between them and you could no longer find Halbrand anywhere. Rhiwlas revealed that he was Sauron, causing you to fall into shock and denial. You thought she was throwing accusations at him because she was being overly protective. You could not believe the man you have befriended, lived, traveled with, and held feelings for could be some ancient evil from the past. 

Unfortunately, it was the truth. 

You became the unfortunate fool deceived by the deceiver, with no family or place to go. Alone among the elves. And now, a poor fool with a broken body. Anorion was possibly dead, if not, enslaved by the orcs. You could do nothing but stare into the nothing, hoping you won’t end up as crippled for the rest of your life. 

Oh, what an unfortunate fool you truly are…