#sam's fog talk

[ccaptain]

As much as it seems intentional to copy another facet of Kaeya Alberich, the infamous chocoholic of Mondstadt, "Kaeya"s passion for chocolate is born out of coincidence and is an integral part of defining his character.

The story behind how he came to taste chocolate for the first time upon having his old self burned away lays with Siobhan, and it's a rather simple one: as it was sitting in front of the TV of its room, motionless and without an avatar to call his yet, she brought it a bowl of chocolate ice cream. It was the first dessert it tasted after the process of becoming a being, and it loved the taste. I'm talking about the black silhouette that it was perking up so visibly after being rewired by that sweet treat that it ripped a small laughter out of Siobhan and a "that good, buddy?". This became their new bonding method, to spend time together simply watching tv dramas and shows while sitting on the couch, fishing chocolate ice cream out of a tub with a spoon each. It's how they bonded again after the sweet boy of the reverie was erased from history. They just kept sharing chocolate ice cream of many varieties while the newly born being was trying to tell her what it had learned for the day- but cocoa was the base of it.

No thing that he likes is a simple affair, each of his preferences is strongly connected to a memory- which is kind of ironic, for a being that's supposed to alter history itself.

For "Kaeya", the taste of chocolate reminds him of Siobhan, of home, of familiar company and of much simpler times. He seeks out anything with chocolate in it to find the taste again and again, hoping that it sticks this time. Hoping that the warm feeling doesn't go away some time after it melted in his mouth.

It never sticks for long, but that's to be expected. He's happy for that brief time regardless.

On a lighter note, kissing him must be a pretty sweet affair. Pun intended, as there's always the taste of sweet cocoa somewhere in the decision to smooch him. He consumes it so often that it's way more pratical for him to have adopted Kaeya Alberich's method of freezing some bits to bring with himself, consuming them on the go or offering some to his traveling partners.

[something-about-sunflowers]

Nothing more frustrating than someone being demonstrably wrong about something, and them insisting that you're the one who's wrong.

[thewulf]

Adding One || Paul Lahote

Summary: Request - Hi I love your Paul lahote stories!! I was wondering if you could do one super fluffy where the reader finds out she’s pregnant but is worried how Paul will feel because they’re still young and all the werewolf and vampire stuff is going on at the time!!🩵

A/N: I just love Paul. Thank you for the requests as always! @lunajay33

Pairing: Paul Lahote x Reader

Word Count: 5.4k +

TW: Pregnancy

The warm scent of blueberry muffins filled Emily’s kitchen mingling with the faint tang of sea air drifting in through the open window. You were slouched in one of the chairs at her table with your cheek resting in your palm as you watched her move about the kitchen. The quiet hum of her voice as she talked about Sam and the pack was comforting, but it was hard to focus. Your stomach rolled again. That new unease building in the back of your mind.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Emily commented. Her voice cutting through the fog of your thoughts. She glanced at you over her shoulder, her sharp eyes softening when they landed on your face. “Are you feeling okay?”

You forced a smile, shrugging like it was nothing. “Just tired, I guess. It’s been a stressful few weeks, you know? All the patrols, Jacob imprinting on… that situation. It’s a lot.” You tried brushing her off.

Emily turned back to her muffins, humming as she pulled them from the oven and set them on the counter. “That’s true. It’s been hard on everyone.” She didn’t say anything else for a moment, but you could feel her watching you out of the corner of her eye. “Are you sure that’s all it is?” she asked gently not wanting to push too hard.

Your smile faltered. “Of course. What else would it be?”

Emily walked over and sat across from you. Her expression calm but concerned. “Well, you’ve been tired a lot lately. And you’ve barely eaten today. You won’t even touch my muffins like you always do. I also saw you push your plate away last week at dinner too.” She tilted her head, her tone as light as she could make it. “And I saw you make a face when I started the coffee earlier. You used to love coffee… I haven’t seen you drink a cup in weeks now.”

You stiffened slightly, trying to brush her off with a laugh. “I’m just… off, that’s all. It’s probably just stress or maybe a stomach bug. Nothing to worry about.” That unease grew in the pit of your stomach though.

She didn’t drop it. “Maybe,” she said slowly. Her dark eyes studying you. “But… have you thought it might be something else?”

You blinked at her, frowning. “Something else? Like what?”

She hesitated before she reached across the table to rest her hand on yours. “I don’t want to assume anything, but… you and Paul are together all the time. Could there be… another reason why you’re feeling this way?”

Her words hit you like a freight train and you immediately shook your head. Your voice pitching higher than you intended. “No. Absolutely not. There’s no way, Emily. We’re careful! I mean, mostly. But… no. That’s impossible.”

Emily gave you a patient look but didn’t pull her hand away. “I know you’re careful,” she said gently. “But accidents happen. When was the last time you had your period?” She asked the dreaded question… when was it?

The question made your heart lurch, and you froze. “I…” shit, you didn’t know, “I don’t know,” you stammered. “It’s been… I mean, I’m not great at keeping track, but…” Your voice trailed off as your mind began counting backward. The realization hitting you like a bucket of ice water on a freezing winter day. Your chest tightened. Your mouth suddenly ran dry.

Emily leaned forward slightly. Her voice soft but steady. “How long has it been?”

You swallowed hard while staring at her as the truth sank in. “I.... A month? Maybe more?” You guessed as you kept counting further back. No, it was more than a month now. It’d been nearly six weeks.

Emily’s expression didn’t change though there was a hint of sympathy in her eyes. “It might not be what you think,” she said carefully. “But maybe… maybe you should take a test. Just to be sure.”

Your stomach flipped at the thought, and you instinctively shook your head again. “I can’t. What if it’s positive? What am I supposed to do? What’s Paul going to say? What about the pack or my parents? Shit! My parents Em!” Your voice cracked, panic bubbling up as the possibility became more real. Pregnant. You couldn’t possibly be pregnant. No, it was just stress. You’d been so stressed lately. Periods were often late when stress was abundant. Yeah, just stress.

Emily squeezed your hand. Her calm presence grounding you. “If it’s positive, you’ll figure it out like you always do. You’re not alone in this, okay? You have me. You have Paul. And you have the while pack. Whatever happens, we’ll all be here for you.” Her voice was low and soothing as it always was. Her reassurance should have been comforting, but your thoughts were spiraling. The only thing you could focus on was the quiet truth settling into the back of your mind. You might really be pregnant. She stood with you still trying to process what was likely true.

Emily slipped out the door after giving you a reassuring smile. Her keys jingling as she walked to the front door. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she’d said. “And don’t even think about panicking while I’m gone. Just breathe. I’m going to go buy one from the pharmacy. It won’t be a big deal if someone sees me buying one.” Easier said than done.

You sat stiffly on the edge of the couch with your knee bouncing restlessly as the minutes ticked by. Emily was right. If anyone saw her buying a pregnancy test, they wouldn’t think twice about it. She and Sam were married, in their twenties, and settled. But you? At nineteen, unmarried, and still figuring out your life, the very idea of people finding out sent a wave of nausea through you.

When Emily returned, she came through the door with the same calm efficiency as before. She held a small paper bag like it contained something perfectly ordinary. She set it down on the table while brushing the rain from her hair as she gave you a steady look. “Alright,” she said. Her tone light but firm. “No one saw me. Not that it would’ve mattered. But I figured you’d want to hear that.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Thank God. I’d die right here if word got back to my mom. Or the whole reservation.” You peeked through your fingers, your voice dropping to a mutter. “This place is like a fishbowl.”

Emily laughed softly and slid the bag toward you. “Relax. It’s done. Now, the next part is up to you.”

You stared at the bag. Your palms suddenly very disgustingly sweaty. Your heart hammered as you reached out and pulled the slim box from inside, the pink lettering glaring up at you like a warning. “I feel like I’m in one of those cheesy after-school specials,” you mumbled, your voice shaky as you tried to make light of the situation.

Emily gave your shoulder a comforting squeeze. “You’re not. You’re just figuring out what’s next. Go on. I’ll wait here.” With a long breath you stood and made your way to the bathroom, the box clutched tightly in your hands. The next few minutes felt like an eternity. You sat on the edge of the bathtub staring at the little plastic stick on the counter, its blank screen taunting you.

When your phone buzzed with the timer you’d set, your stomach flipped. You stood slowly, your hands trembling as you picked up the test. Two pink lines.

Positive.

Your knees felt weak as you gripped the counter for support as a tidal wave of emotions crashed over you. A strange mix of fear, joy, and uncertainty swirled in your chest, leaving you utterly breathless. You stared at the test for a long moment trying to process what it meant. Your hand drifted to your abdomen as you gulped.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, Emily was waiting on the couch. Her face was soft as ever with understanding. She looked up as you stepped into the room, the test still clutched in your hand. “Well?” she asked gently. Her brown eyes searching your face for any sign of what it said.

You held up the test. Your mouth dry. “I guess I’m pregnant,” you said with your voice unsteady. Then in a weak attempt to lighten the mood you added with a shaky laugh, “Stealing Bella’s thunder, huh?” Bella’s pregnancy had been the talk of the pack ever since the group found out what she was carrying. Then the vampire human baby decided to make its appearance after only 28 days. The thought sent a shiver down your spine as you thought of what carrying a werewolf baby would entail.

Emily blinked, then burst into laughter. Her head tilting back as she shook her head. “Oh, you’ve got to stop hanging out with Paul so much. You’re picking up his sense of humor.” She grinned as she gave your arm a reassuring squeeze.

Despite your spinning thoughts her laughter pulled a smile from you. She wrapped you in a warm, steady hug. “It’s going to be okay,” she murmured, her voice firm. “Paul loves you so much. More than I ever thought he’d be capable of. You’re not doing this alone.” You clung to her words like a lifeline as tears brimmed in your eyes. You weren’t sad… no, not at all. You were simply overwhelmed as this had not been in your plans. You were going to get married to Paul in a few years and maybe have some kid’s years after that. Not now. But life had a funny way of throwing you completely off. First, being imprinted to a damned werewolf. Now this.

You sat at the kitchen table with the pregnancy test still in your hand. Emily had made you a cup of tea. The warm mug sitting untouched in front of you as your thoughts spiraled. You’d stared at the little pink lines so long now that they were practically burned into your vision. A constant reminder of the new, terrifying reality that had just taken shape.

Emily leaned against the counter, watching you with a mixture of patience and quiet concern. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” she asked gently.

You let out a shaky breath, placing the test down on the table so gently as if it might explode. “Everything,” you said. Your voice barely above a whisper. “I mean… Paul and I are nineteen. This wasn’t exactly in the plan. What if he’s not ready for this? What if he feels… trapped?” The thought made your stomach churn. You couldn’t shake the image of his face falling when you told him.

Emily frowned, stepping closer and taking the chair across from you. “Yes, you both are young, but you know he’s devoted to you. He’d run through fire for you without thinking twice. That’s the bond. It’s unshakable.”

You nodded slowly, but her reassurance only soothed one layer of your anxiety. “But what about my parents?” you asked. Your voice cracking yet again. “If they find out, they’ll never let me hear the end of it. They’ll say I’m ruining my life. That we’re not ready. And Paul’s parents… What if they think I’m irresponsible or… God forbid, trying to trap him or something?”

Emily shook her head firmly. “No one who knows you would think that. You and Paul have been through so much already and you’ve come out stronger every time. His parents will see that. His parents love you. And as for your parents…” She gave you a small, wry smile. “They’ll probably be shocked at first. Maybe even upset. But they’ll come around. They always do.”

You laughed bitterly, rubbing your temples. “It’s not just them. It’s the pack, too. What are they going to think? There’s so much going on right now. Jacob imprinting on a half-vampire baby, the Cullen drama, all of it. This is the worst time for this to happen. What if they see it as a distraction? What if they resent me for pulling Paul’s attention away?”

Emily reached out grabbing for your hand. “First of all, no one in that pack would resent you. You know how they are. They’re family, even if they don’t always show it the right way. And second, you’re not pulling Paul’s attention away. If anything, this will give him more to fight for. Plus, I think they all like you more than Paul anyway.” She added with a mischievous grin.

Your chest tightened at her words. A mix of hope and fear swirling inside you. “But what if I’m not enough?” you whispered. “What if I can’t handle this? What if I ruin everything?”

Emily’s grip on your hand tightened. Her scarred fingers warm and steady. “You’re more than enough,” she said firmly. “You’re strong and you have so many people who love and adore you. You’re not doing this alone. Paul’s going to be over the moon, you’ll see. And the pack? They’ll probably throw a barbecue to celebrate.”

Despite the storm of emotions swirling in your chest that last comment drew a weak laugh from you. “Yeah, and Embry will probably make a joke about Paul being the first one to ‘start a litter,’” you muttered.

Emily grinned. “Probably. But you’ve got to admit, they’d all step up to make sure you and that baby are safe. It’s what they do.”

You took a shaky sip of tea. The warmth grounding you for a moment. Deep down you knew Emily was right. But the thought of telling Paul, and everyone else, still felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. “Guess I’ll find out soon enough,” you murmured while staring down at your tea. “I just hope you’re right.”

Emily smiled softly, giving your hand one last squeeze. “I’m always right,” she teased. Her voice light. “Now, let’s figure out how you’re going to tell Paul. You’ve got this.”

Just as you were going to ask her how in the hell you’d drop this bomb on him the front door opened loudly, followed by the familiar sound of Paul’s laugh, low and warm, rolling through the house. “We’re back!” Quil called out, clearly in a good mood. Jared muttered something about food and within seconds all three of them were in the kitchen rummaging around for snacks.

You sat frozen at the kitchen table gripping your mug of now-cold tea. Your eyes were glued to the wall like it might have answers to the mess of thoughts tangling in your head. Emily shot you a look that practically screamed, you better handle this soon, before helping the hungry wolves to whatever snack she deemed acceptable.

“Hey,” Paul’s voice broke through the fog. You looked up just as he walked over to you. His usual easy grin faltering slightly as he studied your face. He crouched in front of you, his warm hands resting on your knees. “You okay? You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” you asked. Your voice faltering slightly as you tried to sound normal.

“The one that says you’re either about to cry or punch someone.” He tilted his head. His grin returning. “Hopefully not me.”

You forced a laugh but it came out weak and shaky. “I’m fine. Just tired. You know, the usual.”

Paul narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. His sharp instincts both as a wolf and your imprint meant there was no hiding anything from him for long. “Uh-huh. Sure babe. You’re totally not being weird. Not at all.” He teased lightly.

“I am not!” you shot back too quickly. His brows shot up.

“Okay…” He dragged the word out, standing and looking toward the kitchen where Quil and Jared were now arguing over a loaf of bread. Paul glanced back at you. His concern deepening. “Wanna take a walk? Fresh air might feel good.”

You hesitated. Your pulse roaring in your ears. You couldn’t do this here. Not with Jared and Quil’s supernatural hearing and Emily’s knowing looks. “Yeah,” you muttered finally, standing abruptly. “Let’s go.”

Paul smiled softly and walked behind you as you made your way out of the house. He grabbed his jacket and followed you out the door. The crisp air hit your skin, grounding you slightly as you led him down the gravel path toward the edge of the forest. Paul stayed quiet. His hands stuffed in his pockets as he matched your pace. He didn’t push but you could feel his eyes on you. His quiet presence making your nerves churn even more.

When you finally stopped, he turned to face you. His expression soft but cautious. “Alright then,” he said, leaning back against a tree. His arms crossing over his chest. “What’s going on? You’ve been acting… off since we got back. And don’t tell me it’s nothing because I know you better than that love.”

You fidgeted. Your fingers twisting the hem of your sweater as you avoided his gaze. Your stomach was in knots and the words felt stuck in your throat. “Paul, I… I need to tell you something,” you started. Your voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” he said, his tone steady but laced with worry. “Whatever it is, just say it.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, you made a strange almost choking sound which made his eyes widen. “Are you okay? It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.” he said while stepping closer.

“I’m fine!” you said too quickly yet again. Your voice pitching higher than you wanted. “It’s just… this is… ugh!” You threw your hands up while pacing a few steps before spinning back to face him. “You’re going to freak out.”

Paul blinked slowly. His brows knitting together as a hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this worked up before babe. What’s going on?” You just had to tell him. Just do it.

You stopped pacing. Your chest tightening as you blurted out, “I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Paul’s face went blank, his arms dropping to his sides as he stared at you. You felt the blood drain from your face. The panic rising as his lack of reaction stretched on. “Paul?” you whispered. Your voice trembling. “Say something. Please, say something.”

He blinked, his lips parting slightly. “You’re serious?” he asked in a silky soft voice like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you right.

You nodded. Your throat tight. “Yeah. I just found out today. I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to be like this. I wasn’t even sure how I should tell you, because I know we’re young, and everything’s crazy right now, and…”

“Shh,” he said cutting you off gently. He stepped forward completely closing the distance between you. His hands finding your arms as he looked down at you. Those chocolate brown eyes searching yours. “You’re pregnant? We’re… having a baby? Our baby?”

Your heart pounded as you nodded again with tears welling up in your eyes. “Yeah.”

A slow grin spread across his face. It started small but grew until it lit up his whole expression. He laughed softly almost in disbelief and suddenly pulled you into his arms. He held you so tightly you could barely breathe. “You’re serious?” he asked again. His voice muffled against your hair. “We’re having a baby?”

You let out a watery laugh. Your hands clutching at his jacket. “Yeah. We’re having a baby.” You said softly.

Paul pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes shining with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’re amazing,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I mean it. I can’t even…” He broke off, shaking his head like he couldn’t find the words. “This is crazy, but it’s… it’s amazing. I’m so happy right now,” He grinned before pulling you in for a kiss, “We’re having a baby!”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as a laugh bubbled out of you. “You’re not scared? Or mad?”

“Of course, I’m scared,” he admitted. His hands moving to cradle your face. “But I’m not mad. Never. You’re my world, and now… now we’re building something together. How could I be anything but happy about that?”

You sniffled, leaning into his touch. “Well, I’m glad one of us is confident. Because I was ready to fake my death and disappear into the woods.”

Paul laughed before kissing your forehead softly. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me, babe. And this kid? They’re going to have the best damn parents in the world.” His hand ran over your abdomen gently.

A small, tentative smile tugged at your lips as you rested your forehead against his neck. “I hope you’re ready to break the news to the pack, though. I can already hear Embry’s jokes.”

Paul’s grin only widened. A glimmer of excitement sparking in his eyes. “We’ve got to tell them.”

Your stomach dropped, and you blinked at him. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now,” he said. His voice filled with conviction. “Why wouldn’t we? This is huge! It’s amazing! They’re going to be so happy for us.”

“Paul,” you said slowly while trying to reel him back in. “We just found out. Don’t you think we should… I don’t know, let it sink in first? Maybe figure out how we’re going to explain this before we say anything?”

But Paul shook his head. His hands framing your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “There’s nothing to explain, babe. This is good news. They’re family. They’ll support us no matter what. And if anyone has anything negative to say…” His voice dropped slightly. A spark of protectiveness flaring in his tone. “They’ll have to deal with me. But they’re going to be so excited love. So damn excited.”

You hesitated. Your doubts lingering. “It’s not that simple, Paul. What if they think it’s irresponsible? Or too soon?”

He took your hands, his gaze steady and unwavering. “Look, I know things are messy right now. The timing might not be perfect. But then again, when is it ever? What matters is that this is ours. You, me, and this baby. We’re going to be okay because we have each other.” His voice softened and the corners of his lips tugged into a smile. “I want to celebrate that with the people who care the most about us.”

His sincerity broke through your defenses, and you sighed, nodding reluctantly. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything,” he said. His smile warm and full of pride. “You’re carrying our baby. How could I not want to shout it from the rooftops?”

A small laugh slipped out despite yourself. You shook your head at his antics. “Fine. But if this goes sideways, you’re the one dealing with the fallout.”

Paul chuckled, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Deal. Now, let’s go tell them.”

As he led you back toward the house, his excitement practically radiating off him, you still felt a twinge of nerves. But the way he held your hand, so steady and unshakable, made you believe that somehow everything would work out.

The moment you and Paul stepped back into the house. Emily’s eyes flicked to the two of you. Her lips curled into the smallest, most knowing smile. Her gaze lingered on Paul who was still vibrating with energy like he could barely contain himself. She exhaled softly, relief washing over her face.

“He knows, doesn’t he?” she asked you, her voice low enough that only you and Paul could hear.

“Of course, I know,” Paul cut in with his grin so wide it was practically smug. “You really think she could keep something like this from me?” His arm wrapped protectively around your waist. His hand warm against your side as he glanced down at you. “She tried, though. Gotta give her credit.”

Emily’s smile grew. She stepped closer to squeeze your hand. “I’m glad you told him,” she said simply. Her calm steadiness grounded you in a way nothing else could.

Jared and Quil, however, were still oblivious. Quil frowned at Paul. His sandwich frozen halfway to his mouth. “What’s up with you? You look like you just hit the jackpot.”

“Yeah,” Jared added, leaning back against the counter. “You’ve got that weird, smug thing going on. Like you know something we don’t.”

Paul smirked, his fingers flexing slightly on your waist. “Maybe I do.”

Quil rolled his eyes. “You gonna share with the class, or…?”

Paul leaned against the back of the couch looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Let’s wait until everyone’s here,” he said, glancing toward the door. “Don’t wanna repeat myself.”

Jared groaned. “Dude, seriously? You’re such a…”

“Later,” Paul interrupted. His grin growing wider. Jared muttered something under his breath, but Paul didn’t seem to care. His attention stayed on you. His thumb brushing absently along your hip.

By the time Sam and the rest of the pack arrived the room was buzzing with conversation. The pack had settled in, tired but loud as usual, filling the space with their usual chaos. You could feel your nerves creeping back but Paul’s steady presence beside you kept them at bay.

Once the noise quieted enough for him to speak, Paul cleared his throat. All eyes turned toward him. The sudden intensity of his expression silencing even Quil’s usual chatter.

Emily, sipping her tea, shot Paul a look. Silently daring him to be subtle. But Paul being Paul had no plans for subtlety. He straightened while crossing his arms over his chest as he cleared his throat. “Me and Y/N… we’re not just us anymore. We’re adding one.”

The room went silent. All eyes turning toward him. Jared frowned. “What does that even mean?”

Quil looked at you both, confused. “Wait. Did you get a dog? Please tell me it’s a dog.”

Paul smirked, clearly reveling in the suspense. “Nope. Not a dog.”

Embry tilted his head, his brows furrowed. “A cat? Fish? What?”

Paul chuckled, dragging it out just a little longer. “Think bigger.”

Quil’s eyes narrowed and then he gasped. His mouth dropping open. “Oh my God! You’re moving?! Are you leaving the rez?”

Paul groaned before dragging a hand down his face. “No! Not moving, not a pet, not a damn secret stash of food.” He glanced at you. His grin softening slightly and nodded like it was your moment to take over.

And you couldn’t help it. With all their clueless guesses and Paul’s smug antics a laugh bubbled out of you, warm and uncontrollable. Everyone froze, watching you with the most curious eyes and through your laughter, you managed to blurt, “We’re having a baby!”

The room went completely still for a beat, Jared’s apple frozen mid-air as his jaw dropped. Quil looked between you and Paul. His face blank before he finally sputtered, “Wait… like an actual baby?” Even Sam looked a little shell shocked at that news.

“Yes, Quil,” Paul said dryly though his grin betrayed his pride. “An actual baby. Our baby.”

Jared blinked rapidly then burst out laughing, slapping the counter. “Holy shit. You’re serious? Paul Lahote’s gonna be a dad?”

Quil let out a strangled laugh while running a hand through his hair. “Wow. This poor kid’s gonna have your temper, huh? Better hope they get your patience.” He looked at you with a knowing grin.

Sam, who had entered the room halfway through the chaos, finally stepped forward. His expression calm but full of warmth. “That’s great news,” he said simply while clapping Paul on the shoulder before looking at you. “You’re both going to be amazing parents.”

The pack didn’t hold back after that. Quil and Jared immediately started throwing out ridiculous suggestions for baby names while Embry vowed to make the baby a tiny wolf plushie as a first gift. The teasing was relentless, but it was full of love. It was clear that they were genuinely happy for you both. Your earlier nerves vanishing in an instant at their exuberance.

Hours later when the house had quieted and everyone had left, you and Paul found yourselves alone in the dimly lit living room. You curled up against his side. Your head resting on his chest as his arm draped securely around you.

“You know,” you murmured, smiling faintly, “your announcement was terrible.”

Paul laughed. The sound rumbling through his chest. “Terrible? That was brilliant.”

“You had everyone thinking we got a dog,” you teased, tilting your head to look up at him. “I think Quil’s still processing.”

Paul smirked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Hey, I had to keep them guessing. Besides, you’re the one who cracked under pressure.”

You rolled your eyes but the warmth in his gaze softened your retort. His hand moved to your stomach, resting there gently as he whispered, “We’re really doing this, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. Your voice steady. “We are.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. His voice low and full of quiet conviction. “It’s gonna be perfect. You, me, and our little one. We’ve got this.”

Paul’s lips brushed against yours, slow and deliberate, grounding you for a fleeting moment. His hand, warm and steady on your stomach, reminded you of the little life you’d just announced to the pack. But the moment his forehead rested against yours the weight of what was coming next crept back in.

Your parents. His parents.

You pulled back slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as your heart pounded. “Paul,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “How are we going to tell them? My mom is going to flip, and not in a good way. And your mom…”

“Hey,” Paul interrupted softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Look at me.”

You hesitated but the steady warmth in his eyes drew you in. His grin was softer now, tempered with something deeper. “We’ll tell them the same way we told the pack, together. And if your mom flips, I’ll handle it. I’ll handle all of it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“I don’t know if you’ve met my mom,” you whispered. Your voice wavering as you tried to find humor in the situation. “She’s going to think this is reckless. She’ll probably yell. A lot.”

Paul’s grin widened, and he tipped your chin up with his knuckle before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Then let her yell. I’ll stand there and take it because, at the end of the day, none of that matters. What matters is us and this baby.”

You swallowed hard trying to keep your emotions from bubbling over. “But what if it’s too much? What if they think we’re too young, or not ready, or…”

Paul’s grip on you tightened slightly. His voice cutting through your spiral. “Then I’ll marry you tomorrow,” he said. His tone firm but laced with tenderness. “If that’s what it takes to make them see how serious I am, I’ll do it. Hell, I’ll do it tonight if you want.”

Your breath caught as you stared at him, wide-eyed. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m completely serious,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “I love you. I love this baby. And I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You’re my family now. You’ve always been my family and nothing, not your mom, not mine, not anyone, is going to change that.”

The conviction in his voice broke something loose in your chest. The fear and doubt unraveling as his words sank in. You let out a shaky laugh with tears pricking at your eyes. “You can’t just solve everything by offering to marry me, you know.”

Paul smirked, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Maybe not, but it’s a pretty damn good start, isn’t it?”

You laughed again, softer this time, and leaned into him, letting his steady warmth anchor you. “We’ll figure it out,” you murmured more to yourself than him.

“We already are,” he said, his voice low and sure. “One step at a time. And I’m not going anywhere, no matter what. You know that love.”

As his arms tightened around you, you felt it, the certainty he carried, the unwavering belief that you could face anything together. It didn’t erase all your fears, but it made them feel a little smaller, a little more manageable.

And for now, and forever that would be enough.

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[wendichester]

early seasons sammy fluff with his carhart jacket perhaps??

₊˚⊹⋆ borrowed warmth,

pairing. sam winchester x reader ( f )

wordcount. 540 genre. fluff

warnings. established relationship, reader’s cold + touchy, mutual pining energy but already together, sam being soft and massive, sharing clothes, roadside diner setting, cuddly warmth

The diner's parking lot smells like fried food and old pavement.

The wind’s been getting colder the further north you drive, the kind that cuts straight through your jacket and settles in your bones. You're trying to act like it doesn’t bother you—because you're stubborn and because the Winchesters don't exactly do delicate.

Except, well. Sam does.

Sam, with his too-big heart and quiet glances. Sam, with that ridiculous Carhartt jacket that looks like it’s seen more fights than most people. He wore it every winter back at Stanford, you remember that. Wore it like armor when he didn’t want anyone getting too close.

Now he’s offering it to you.

Literally holding it out in both hands, brows raised in a silent please.

You hesitate for like, half a second, before your pride gives up the ghost. “Okay. Fine. I’m freezing.”

He doesn’t say I told you so. He just smiles—soft, boyish—and helps you slip it on like it’s something sacred.

The jacket swallows you instantly, sleeves hanging past your fingers, shoulders heavy with Sam’s warmth. It smells like him, too—soap, motel fabric softener, something faintly woodsy and safe.

You bury your face in the collar and sigh. “This is actually heaven.”

Sam chuckles, stuffing his big hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Told you. It’s like...wearable comfort food.”

You glance up at him, teasing. “Is that why you wear it when you’re sulking?”

“Hey,” he says, mock defensive, “I wear it when I’m contemplative.”

You giggle and lean into his side as you both cross the gravel to the Impala, waiting for Dean to finish talking to the waitress inside.

Sam hums, glancing down at you as you cling tighter to the jacket. “You look good in it,” he says, quieter now.

You blink up at him. “Yeah?”

He nods, pink blooming at the tips of his ears. “Kinda wish you’d keep it.”

Your heart does a thing. A flutter. A full-on somersault.

“I mean, I’d have to be cold all the time,” you say playfully, nudging his arm, “but that’s...a tempting offer.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you for a second like you’ve got the stars tucked under your skin, like the jacket never belonged to anyone else but you.

You’re still searching for something to say—anything at all—when he steps closer and pulls the jacket tighter around you. One hand lingers on your back, wide and warm through the fabric.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you whisper, breath fogging between you. “Much better.”

Dean finally bursts out of the diner, holding a brown paper bag of leftovers and muttering something about pie politics and waitress sass. He stops when he sees you two.

“Oh come on, Sam. That thing’s a damn blanket. You’re gonna spoil her.”

You smirk and clutch the front of the jacket smugly. “Too late.”

Sam just grins, unapologetic, and holds the door open for you like it’s second nature.

Inside the Impala, the engine growls to life. You’re tucked between the leather seat and Sam’s side, his arm casually draped behind your shoulders—like the jacket wasn’t enough.

Outside, the cold wind howls across the empty highway. But here? In Sam’s jacket, in Sam’s orbit?

You’re warm. In every possible way.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #32

It all began when Dr. Jasmine Fenton—Jazz, to the brave and traumatized—walked into the Avengers Compound in five-inch block heels, a blood-red blazer, and a clipboard with everyone’s most damning psychological profiles printed in 12-point Times New Roman. She had been hired because, quote, “the last six therapists either quit, cried, or developed their own hero complexes.” SHIELD had gone through the best and brightest the world had to offer. They even tried a Wakandan empathy AI once. It cried. The AI cried.

So when Jazz Fenton walked in, armed with a dual PhD in clinical psychology and trauma therapy, the last thing they expected was that she’d personally know what hero trauma looked like. But she did. Her baby brother was a half-ghost interdimensional guardian who once got hit by a nuke and walked it off. Her parents were mad scientists who tried to dissect him. And her godfather was an immortal corporate vampire with a crown kink and a habit of kidnapping. She had seen things. She understood. And more importantly, she didn’t care. She wasn’t here to coddle them.

“Dr. Fenton,” Steve Rogers greeted politely that first morning.

“Please, call me Jazz,” she said with a smile that made even Natasha lower her coffee. “Or Doctor Fenton if you’re about to lie to me.”

Tony Stark made the mistake of raising an eyebrow. “Oh? What are you gonna do, psychoanalyze me into submission?”

She flipped to his file. “‘Severe abandonment issues, destructive self-worth tendencies, martyr complex buried under layers of narcissistic deflection, sleeps three hours a night, probably cries in the shower—’”

“I don’t cry in the shower!”

“That is because you don’t shower, Mr. Stark.”

That shut him up.

From that day onward, fear fell over the Avengers Compound like a thick, fragrant fog of anxiety. Jazz was everywhere. One moment she was on the roof with Clint discussing his grief over Budapest, the next she was in the lab with Bruce making him cry, and the moment after that she had Loki in handcuffs—not because he was arrested, but because he asked for them.

“I just think maybe I’m too attached to the idea of being hated,” Loki muttered, slouched on the therapy couch.

“You are,” Jazz replied, checking her notes. “You’re addicted to conflict because you’ve built your identity on being an outsider. Every time you’re offered genuine affection, you self-sabotage. You’re not a villain, you’re just a lonely youngest child.”

“I—” Loki blinked. “That is horrifically accurate. And incredibly offensive.”

“Cry harder, Sparklehorn.”

Thor, meanwhile, loved her. Adored her. Followed her around like an emotional support golden retriever with lightning powers. He kept trying to give her things—golden goblets, fur cloaks, an entire goat—until one day she casually picked up Mjolnir while fixing a crooked painting and everyone screamed.

“How the fuck—” Sam Wilson shouted.

“Why can she do that?” Peter Parker asked from the ceiling.

“Therapists shouldn’t be worthy!” Tony wailed. “It’s not natural!”

Jazz shrugged and handed the hammer back to Thor. “I was forged in the fires of Midwestern neglect and ghost radiation. You think Odin can break me? Try surviving your brother getting publicly disemboweled by a government robot while your parents take notes.”

She had no chill. None. She was the only person who called Wanda out on her grief projection, made Bucky talk about his repressed ballet skills, and forced Steve to draw a family tree so she could scream “YOUR ENTIRE FRIEND GROUP IS CODEPENDENT.”

“Group therapy!” she declared one Tuesday.

“No,” said literally everyone.

“Too bad. Show up or I will personally guilt you in front of the media using your own trauma receipts.”

And they did. They came. They came because they were afraid.

Tony sat with arms crossed. “This is stupid.”

“Tell that to your inner child.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Exactly.”

Clint sighed. “This is worse than Budapest.”

“Everything is worse than Budapest,” Natasha replied.

Wanda blinked slowly. “I think I just astrally projected my own anxiety. It’s hovering above me like a raincloud.”

Jazz didn’t even blink. “Let it hover. Let it watch you cry. Maybe it’ll finally grow up.”

Civil War? Canceled.

No one dared fight each other under Jazz’s watch. When tensions began rising between Tony and Steve over the Sokovia Accords, she locked them in a soundproof room with juice boxes and didn’t let them out until they hugged it out like the emotionally repressed golden retrievers they were.

“I will tranquilize you both,” she warned through the door. “I have the darts and the upper body strength. Don’t tempt me.”

They made up within the hour.

At one point, Nick Fury tried to get involved. He barged into one of Jazz’s sessions like he still ran SHIELD.

“What the hell kind of therapy involves throwing knives at a target while crying?” he demanded.

Jazz, unfazed, handed him a stress knife. “Want to try?”

He did. And then immediately rebooked weekly appointments.

By week four, the compound was transformed. Hulk was journaling. Peter was actually doing his homework. Wanda was learning healthy coping mechanisms that didn’t involve mind-controlling entire suburbs. Clint and Natasha were having pillow talks about emotional vulnerability. Even Loki was crocheting.

“Do you know what I’ve done?” he whispered as he stitched a duck.

“I’ve read your file,” Jazz said. “And your Tumblr tag. You’re not special.”

“I am special—”

“You’re traumatized, sweetie.”

Meanwhile, Tony—still deeply suspicious—began following her around trying to find proof she was a Hydra sleeper agent. What he found instead was her absolutely unhinged family.

“You’re related to who?” he asked over coffee one morning.

Jazz sighed. “My little brother is Danny Phantom, ghost-powered superhero and part-time physics major. My godfather is Vlad Masters, ex-billionaire and full-time supervillain with a complex. My parents are Jack and Maddie Fenton.”

Tony blinked. “The guys who duct-taped a rocket to a lawnmower and called it science?”

“The very same.”

“No wonder you’re like this.”

Jazz nodded. “Exactly. I was forged in chaos and trauma. Now I’m here to fix you.”

“I don’t want to be fixed.”

“Too bad. I’ve already started rebuilding your psyche.”

“What does that mean—”

“Check your inner monologue. Notice how it’s stopped calling you a worthless meat puppet?”

Tony screamed.

Even Doctor Strange, who allegedly had the answers to the universe, found himself in a corner drinking tea and rethinking the way he suppressed his emotions with sarcasm and facial hair.

“You’re not mystical, Stephen,” Jazz told him. “You’re just emotionally constipated.”

“I literally astral project.”

“Cool. Now try emotional projection. Maybe apologize to Wong.”

“…Wong is asleep.”

“Wake him up.”

By month two, even the press noticed. The Avengers were glowing. Smiling. Making eye contact during press conferences instead of brooding like middle school theater kids.

“What changed?” a reporter asked.

Tony grabbed the mic. “Her name is Jazz Fenton and she scares the hell out of us.”

Steve nodded solemnly. “She made me cry six times in one session. I told her about my dad.”

“She made me draw my feelings,” Clint added.

“I finally cried about Pietro,” Wanda whispered. “In public. It felt amazing. I think I vomited emotions.”

“Dr. Fenton helped me write a song about my grief,” Thor said proudly. “It’s a power ballad. With goats.”

And then came the incident.

The one time the Avengers tried to disobey her. Sam and Bucky had been arguing again. Loudly. And somewhere in the chaos, someone dared say, “It’s not like Jazz can stop us.”

Wrong.

So, so wrong.

Jazz calmly walked into the sparring room, confiscated Bucky’s knife mid-twirl, took Sam’s wings with one hand, and sat both men down with the force of divine intervention.

“You two,” she said in a voice that made the walls tremble, “are not enemies. You are trauma-bonded enemies-to-friends-to-exes-to-besties. You are a trope. You are a fanfiction tag. You are not about to regress into kindergarten slap fights because one of you forgot the others’ favorite breakfast order.”

“…He forgot my birthday,” Sam muttered.

“Because he has memory trauma! You have it too! You both need to go on a spa day and cry it out in a hot tub like normal people.”

And they did.

They actually did.

The day Jazz left for a conference—just one day—the entire compound fell into shambles. Loki started monologuing again, Peter accidentally built a sentient AI who wrote poetry about death, Wanda started glowing red again, and Tony tried to weaponize emotional damage via sarcastic limericks.

The moment she came back, they all lined up like chastised children.

“What did I say about emotionally projecting without supervision?” she asked.

“Don’t do it,” they chorused.

“And?”

Peter sniffled. “We missed you.”

“Damn right you did.”

Jazz smiled, terrifying and fond, and flipped her clipboard. “Now. Who wants to talk about their mother?”

And the Avengers, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, sat down.

Because nothing—not Chitauri, not Ultron, not even Thanos—was scarier than the therapist who could lift Mjolnir and your deepest childhood wound in the same breath.

Dr. Jasmine Fenton was the real hero. And everyone knew it.

[chxrrywines]

₊˚⊹♡ assistance | sam winchester x reader

a/n - not for kinktober just a fic i wanted to get out!! i’m unsure whether i like the dialogue on this im sorry if it sucks i feel i can never write dirty talk right *sobs* but i really hope you enjoy!!! <3

cws - fem!reader, 2k, nsfw 18+, phone sex, mutual masturbation, kind of softdom!sam, long distance, fluff, comfort, kinda unedited

other fics can be found on my masterlist

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

It was later than he’d liked by the time he finally got back to the motel. With muscles that ached from the day’s strain, brain fogged from how tired he was, Sam honestly just wanted to call his girlfriend and talk to her until he fell asleep.

He’d meant to text her a couple of hours prior to let her know the hunt was dragging on longer than expected, but his phone had fucking died when he and Dean were two hours into their trek into the woods to find the pack of werewolves they were hunting, and he’d been pretty miserable ever since.

Dean had disappeared off to the nearest bar after dropping Sam off at their room so he thankfully had the place to himself to mope around as he plugged his phone into the charger and showered whilst he waited for it to get some power. The shitty water pressure and barely lukewarm water did nothing for his aching back, so he was even more agitated by the time he got himself settled onto the uncomfortable mattress twenty minutes later, hair wet and skin still damp beneath his clothes with his eagerness to call her.

As much as he hated being away from her for so long, and too often, it was the safest thing to do. Sam wouldn't be able to forgive himself if something happened to her because she was too close to his shit. He still had dreams about Jess, about how that was all his fault. He couldn’t let it happen again.

His phone hadn’t even reached twenty percent but he was impatient and shuffled over to the edge of the bed so the phone cord would reach and held the phone to his ear as he called her, propped himself up against the headboard.

The phone didn’t even ring twice before she answered.

“Sam?”

“Hey, baby.” The words came out in an exhale, most of the tension left him just at the sound of her voice, the ache seeping out of his bones like a relief. It was what kept him sane whenever he was away. Her picture in his wallet, her hair tie on his wrist, her voice in his ear.

“Hi, Sammy. Got worried when you didn’t call on time.”

He winced at the thought. She worried for him, of course she did. Sam understood how horrible it must have felt for her, knowing what he was going off to do. He could only imagine the dread that must’ve curled inside of her whenever he was late calling. Too many things had happened in the past, too many things could still go wrong.

“Sorry, my phone died when we were still out, didn’t get back until way later than I thought,” he groaned, sank down the headboard a little to stretch out on the bed. The agitation still hadn’t quite left him, the stiffness in his muscles prominent. He wanted nothing more than to curl up with her in his arms and he couldn’t have it. “Miss you, honey.”

He could hear the smile in her voice as she responded, “Missed you more. Wish you were here, it’s cold at night without you in bed too.”

He snorted a quiet laugh. “That’s why you miss me?”

“Mhm,” she giggled, though her voice turned a little coy as she murmured, “among other reasons.”

“Yeah?” An automatic smile was curling at his mouth.

Another little giggle through the receiver. He didn’t even need to see her to know that she had that little bashful smile on her face. He also knew exactly what was on her mind, it was on his too.

It wasn’t the first time they’d have done this. He was on the road so often that their sex life wasn’t as amazing as it could have been, and it wasn’t like he didn’t pleasure himself when he was away on hunts anyways.

There had been many many evenings he’d spent in the shower, hot water rolling down his back as he had one hand pressed to the tiled wall whilst the other pumped his cock until his cum was washed down the drain along with his shampoo bubbles. It wasn’t ideal — bottom lip tucked between his teeth to stifle the heaving breaths and quiet groans, trying to get off as fast as he could before the hot water could run out or Dean could get back to the room. It was even worse when it became a result of having her on the phone. There had been many occasions where her soft voice and giggles in his ear had been enough to get him hard, on nights when he was really missing her and it had just been too long since he’d kissed her.

It turned out she did the same as him. Though when Sam pictured it, it was a lot more graceful than his time in the shower. Laid out all pretty on their bed, legs spread, fingers wet with her own arousal as her head tipped back against the pillows. Sometimes if he got a little selfish he pictured her voice all whimpery saying his name as she came, but he couldn’t get lost in that daydream often, or he’d get hard over that, too.

“Miss you,” she breathed again, and the shift in her tone was palpable. “I… I tried touching myself earlier but I couldn’t cum without you on the phone.”

The groan that left him was automatic and his cock throbbed, hardening beneath the material of his boxers. The idea that she couldn’t even get off without his voice in her ear did wonders for him, it was a wonder his ego wasn’t too big already.

“You need my help, honey?” He crooned into the phone, settled into the tone of voice he knew she liked to hear, the voice he used more often than not when he was whispering in her ear, hips slotted between her thighs, rolling in a rhythm that left her whiney and panting.

Her soft little “mhm” was enough for him to move his other hand down and palm himself, hissing in a breath through his teeth.

“Go ahead and lay down for me, pretty girl. Wanna tell me what you’re wearing?”

There was the rustling of sheets over the phone before her voice spoke up again, “Just one of your shirts.”

Another groan. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

She giggled and his cock twitched beneath his palm. Jesus Christ he needed to get back to her, he needed her in person, to sate the need that wouldn’t be doused thoroughly enough over the phone.

“Go ahead and spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” he breathed, palming his cock again as he spoke, eyes squeezing shut as his head knocked back against the headboard. “Did you get yourself all worked up earlier, hm? Are you all soaked already?”

There was another hum, though he could hear the way her breathing had deepened, deep and heavy in his ear. He could picture the tickle of her breath on his face, the shape of her lips, the taste of her mouth after she’d just brushed her teeth. He needed her.

“Why don’t you start touching yourself for me?” He murmured, voice low with his arousal. Her resounding moan was enough for his cock to throb again and his hand finally dipped beneath his waistband, freeing himself with a quiet groan.

“Are you touching yourself too?” She whimpered, and it was a miracle he didn’t just cum there and then.

“Yeah,” his hand lifted and he tipped his head down to spit into his palm, groaning softly the next time he pumped his cock. “Yeah I am, dolly. Your pretty voice got me all worked up— fuck.” He breathed out the word between his teeth. He was already leaking pre-cum, thumbing over the head of his cock in a move that made him shudder, though it felt nice when she did it. Stroked his cock with her pretty hands, her pretty lips that wrapped around his head when she was on her knees for him, licking along the length of his dick in a way that always made him weak in the knees.

She moaned again and his hips jerked, rutting into his hand with a filthy groan. “How’re you feeling, honey?”

She whimpered, and Sam felt another dribble of pre-cum slide down the length of his cock. “Good— mm, good, j’st—” she took in a shaky breath, “feels better when it’s you, baby.”

“Oh yeah?” He grunted, pumping his cock just a little faster. “Why’s that, dolly?”

“Bigger hands,” she breathed. “longer fingers.”

Sam moaned, the idea of his fingers nestled deep in her wet heat enough for his cock to throb in his hand, and he knew he wouldn’t last long. But from the sounds of her pretty little whimpers, neither would she. “Can’t fill that pretty pussy up as nice as I can, hm?” He took in a shuddering breath. “Play with your clit for me, sweetheart.”

He could hear the moment she did, the sharp inhale, the whimpery moan, the rustling of the sheets as she, undoubtedly, spread her legs wider. “Oh god, Sammy—”

“Are you close, sweetheart?”

All he got in response was a high-pitched “uh-huh.”

“That’s it— shit, that’s it, baby,” he panted, pumping his cock faster, moaning softly as his head arched back. “Go on, dolly, make some pretty sounds for me as you cum, won’t you? M’gonna cum just thinking about you making such a mess of yourself, c’mon, baby—” he was practically begging between sharp breaths.

It only took a moment before he heard her sharp inhale and the whine that followed, and all it took was a few more quick ruts into his hand and the sounds of her before he groaned her name, toes curled and eyelids scrunched as he came. He could feel the evidence of his orgasm dribbling down his cock and his fingers as he shucked a few more times, hissing through his teeth as he finally stopped.

“Oh sweetheart,” he breathed, panting, not unlike her heavy breaths into the phone. “You sounded so fucking pretty, honey. That feel good for you?”

She took a shuddery breath and hummed again. “Yeah, thanks baby.”

Sam couldn’t help the breathy chuckle. “Don’t need to thank me,” he murmured. “M’always gonna take care of my girl, even if I’m not there. You made quite a mess of me, too.”

She breathed a laugh, and a moment passed of just their shared breathing as they both calmed down. Sam’s cock had softened completely against his abdomen, and he’d have to change his clothes and have another shower, but fuck was it worth it.

“I’ll be on my way back to you tomorrow,” he promised once his breathing had mostly evened out. “Should be with you before dinner, then you get me all to yourself.”

She yawned into the phone before mumbling, “Good, want you back to me as soon as possible.”

The sound of her so sleepy just left him so soft. “I promise I will be,” he breathed. “Why don’t you get some sleep, okay honey? I’ll call you in the morning when we’re on the road.”

“Okay,” her voice had completely softened, coated in a sickly-sweet fondness that left him putty in her hands. “I love you. Get back to me safe, okay?”

“I always do,” Sam smiled. “I love you too. Night, gorgeous.”

She yawned her own goodbye before the line went dead, and he let the phone drop back down onto the mattress with a heavy breath.

Just one more day, then he could have her in person, help her in all the ways he wanted to on the phone.

[samsblades]

✶ . ၄၃ . easy, maybe — sam and dean w.

cw : gn!winchester!reader, hurt/comfort, reader’s the middle sibling, peacekeeper/selfless(?) reader, blood, injury & pain, stitches, nicknames (bud), poorly edited, no y/n, 3K words. requested !

summary : you try to hide a bad injury after a hunt. sam and dean patch you up, and spend the night worrying until you wake.

it’s not as hard being easy as some people might think. maybe that’s because it’s all you know how to be. the easy one, the quiet one, the peacekeeper, the blend into the background and don’t worry about me one. and it’s not that you’re weak-willed or unopinionated; there are times when you put your foot down, times when you argue, times when you’re petty or annoying or grumpy because you’re legitimately upset or possibly just a little too hungry.

one must note that easy does not mean perfect. it just means that you let sam ride shotgun despite being two years older. it means you take the couch most nights, you’re often impressively polite, and you patch up your own injuries in the bathroom before helping your brothers out. it means you let annoying little things slide, you pick up food when the other two are too tired to drive, you take care of the most tedious or boring tasks, and you tend not to get into any trouble with law enforcement or regular citizens. life is just easier for you all when sam and dean don’t have to worry about you too much.

naturally, you’ve developed quite a pain tolerance over the years of hunting and killing and nearly being killed; all three of you have. but you have become concerningly and particularly excellent at hiding wounds. it’s mostly about the breathing, you’ve decided. if you can hide the blood, move without any apparent stiffness, and keep your breathing even and normal, then sam and dean tend not to notice. they’ve got enough to worry about, you think.

but, unfortunately, there's certain things you can't quite hide, no matter how good of a little actor you can be. there's just far too much blood, more than you think you've ever bled from any one wound. it's not arterial, that much you know; you're familiar enough with basic anatomy to understand that a knife to your lower left side shouldn't be piercing any main veins or arteries. but it is soaking through your jacket and you're getting lightheaded. and you're almost to the impala, you remind yourself. you can make it that far, you're sure. if you just keep breathing, watching dean's trudging form as the distance between the two of you grows while your sluggish footsteps slow... if you just keep breathing, you're sure you can make it.

the leaves under your feet hush your footsteps, soft and soaked from this morning’s rain. dean doesn't question the fact that he can't hear you right behind him; you're quiet nearly all the time. the growing fog in your head makes you stumble. you slip, deprived of the bearings or stability you'd need to right yourself. the softened soil welcomes the crumple of your body, but your cheek scrapes on a ragged twig embedded in the ground. the dampness of the earth swallows any loudness to your fall, the little strangled noise that leaves your lips in surprise and hot white pain. the twig that draws a line of blood across your cheek doesn't even snap.

but you can't fall in complete silence; there's a rustle and a dull thud and dean's ears are attuned to listen for you and sam. he hears your grunt of pain, regardless of how quiet the sound is. he's immediately on high alert, spinning around and holding his gun at the ready. for split second, he thinks you've disappeared completely. he didn't know you'd been falling behind, twilight is ending, and your brown jacket melts into the color of the ground. but he's got keen eyes and spots you quickly.

"shit," he curses under his breath, all but sprinting back to you, long legs clearing logs and rocks without any fuss. before he's dropped to his knees by your side, he's already asking, "hey, hey, hey, talk to me, bud. what happened?"

you've managed to twist over onto your back by the time he gets there, though not without much effort. there's dirt clinging to the side of your face and wet leaves stuck to your clothes. it's become too dark for dean to see the spread of blood on your jacket.

"just a... just a cut," you breathe out. your voice doesn't sound quite right and it sets off blaring alarms in dean's head.

"where?" he demands, not harshly. his flashlight clicks on and you squint at the sudden brightness. he doesn't need you to answer. his free hand doesn't hesitate to move your bloodied jacket out of the way, and he sucks in a sharp breath before he even sees the full extent of the wound. his fingers gather up your soaked through shirt and gently peel the fabric away from your skin. "jesus, what the hell? when did this happen? just a cut?" he asks, bewildered and beyond concerned.

"b-before," you answer unhelpfully. "it's fine. help me up." you don't feel fine at all. your head pounds and your limbs are heavy and your voice is tight with pain.

dean scoffs, pulling off his jacket with an almost panicked urgency. "you were stabbed, are you crazy?" he accuses, sounding much more worried than actually angry. he messily folds up his jacket, not hesitating to push it against your wound, not so gentle in an effort to slow the bleeding. you grunt and he frowns deeper.

"more like a… a slash… less- less stabby. 's not that bad," you mumble, completely unconvincing.

dean's jaw clenches like he disagreed. "sammy'll fix you up," is all he says. "c'mon, let's get you up. you'll be just fine." dean knows that you prefer patching yourself up. he knows that you don't like letting them see you injured. but this is bad, he thinks, and his blood boils and his heart lurches at the thought that you tried to hide it.

sam, stuck in the motel with his healing broken arm, doesn’t expect much but a “we’re on the way back” sort of phone call from dean when he answers the ringing tone. dean himself is barely paying any attention to the phone. he should be paying attention to the road, but his eyes flick over to you often, and linger for too long. the first thing that sam hears over the phone is the muffled honk of a car horn.

then comes a quiet, “shit. i’m sorry, bud. you’re alright,” from dean. he doesn’t hear the little sound of pain you made when dean had to swerve the car.

“dean?” sam says, voice plainly worried. dean sounds off. “what’s going on?”

“sammy,” dean breathes, uncharacteristically afraid, “they’re bleeding bad. need you to be ready to stitch ‘em up when we get there. five minutes.”

“where? how bad?” sam asks in a rush, already standing and searching for a medical kit. there’s one on the coffee table.

“lower left side,” dean answers, voice a bit more sure when he can actually give a solid, factual answer. then it falters. “just– bad. real bad. they’re barely awake.”

“dammit,” sam mutters. he wants to ask what happened, but dean sounds like he’s driving recklessly through the panic of your injury. he doesn’t want to add anything else for him to think about. “you sure you shouldn’t be headed to the hospital?”

dean shakes his head, then glances at you and your heavy lidded eyes. “nearest one’s too far. you’re closer.”

“okay. alright. just– just drive safe and keep them talking,” sam says at the risk of angering dean in his precarious mental state. asking him to drive safe is a bit silly, and he already knows to keep you talking. 

but dean doesn’t retort, he just spares you another glance. “keep those eyes open for me,” he urges, leaving it up to sam to hang up the phone. he only does so in order to focus on gathering the right supplies for you. and when the impala pulls up into the parking space right in front of tonight’s motel room, sam’s waiting outside by the pale yellow door with a janky metal ‘17’ on the front. he’s at the passenger’s side before dean’s even turned the car off.

you’re leaning against the car door, so he’s precise and careful when he opens it, reaching in with one hand first and cupping the side of your neck to keep you steady while he slips in closer to you. 

“hey,” he says gently, hiding his fear. he’s not sure he can deal with all this shit without you. you’ve always been such a steadying presence. dean’s jacket that you keep clutched to your wound with shaky hands is all bloodied, and the only thing sam knows is that dean said it’s real bad.

dean’s there, opening the door the rest of the way so that sam can bend down and pull you into his arms. first goes your head to his chest, then his arms wrapping around your shoulders and tucking under your knees.

“there we go,” sam murmurs, wincing softly when the movement pulls a groan of pain from your lips. “can you talk to me?” he’s swift and gentle in his movements, getting you through the door and to the bed with the least amount of discomfort for you that he can.

“it’s okay, sammy,” you mumble in response to his request. of course that’s what you’d say. dean frowns, barely able to hear your words despite how close behind sam he hovers.

“yeah,” sam agrees, laying you out on the bed, pulling the ruined jacket away from your wound and gently moving your own clothing out of the way. it’s not a pretty sight, but the bleeding’s slowed enough for him to see that maybe it’s not as bad as they thought. stitches should do the trick, you’re just all messed up from the blood loss. “it is okay,” he confirms, “you’ll be okay.” 

as he soaks a clean rag with alcohol, sam wonders when the last time he’s stitched you up was. it must’ve been a while ago. he even can’t easily think of the last time he helped you deal with any injury. right now, it’s his job to stay calm and patch you up, but the way you said it’s okay, sammy, made him want to act a bit like the baby of the family. he wants to hug you. it doesn’t make him feel small, though, just extra responsible for making sure you’ll be alright. you’re always taking care of him and dean, even if it’s just in the smaller ways, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t fix this for you.

dean’s hands are far more tender than usual as he holds yours. sam cleans your wound, and you don’t react much. it worries them both, but sam assures that it’s not as bad as it seemed before.

the cast over sam’s wrist and forearm doesn’t make giving you stitches all that easy, but he manages. his big hands are somehow always much nimbler than dean’s, the stitches he produces less crude. but no matter how used to the feeling of a few stitches you are, once he gets to the sixth, you’re not sure you can stay awake any longer. you hate the feeling of the needle and thread going through your skin.

you give dean’s hand a weak squeeze. “’m gonna pass out,” you slur in warning. his eyes widen in worry. sam tries to stay focused, but his frown deepens. he’d much rather you didn’t, but he thinks you’ll be alright.

“hey, hey, hey, no. stay with us,” dean urges, brushing his fingers over your forehead. “you’re fine now, just stay awake, bud. look at me.” you meet his gaze with drooping eyelids and a weak frown. you feel bad for making him worry like this. 

“’m sorry,” you mumble, “so tired.” you close your eyes against his wishes, and your hand goes limp in his. 

“dammit,” sam whispers, noticing the way your muscles all go slack. dean’s not so quiet when he curses, standing up angrily. as sam finishes the stitches, dean paces, hands in fists.

“it’s my damn fault, sammy,” he growls. if sam looked up, the tears in dean’s otherwise angry eyes would betray his blatant concern for you. “i wasn’t paying attention.” sam worries now that dean’ll start throwing things. he doesn’t deal well with his little siblings getting hurt.

“they’re okay. seriously,” sam insists. really though, he’s worried out of his mind. freaking out won’t help him give you effective stitches, so he just focuses on the silent promise he’s made to take care of you. “they’ll heal. the stitches will be enough,” he says, instead of asking what happened to avoid upsetting dean further. dean returns to your side just as sam finishes the last stitch. he dresses the wound with a bit of help from dean, but mostly, the oldest just combs through loose strands of your hair, picking out dried leaves and twigs. dean cleans the little cut on your face too, wiping away the dirt from when you fell.

he holds you gently upright as sam trades your bloodstained jacket and top for a simple long sleeve crewneck shirt to keep you comfortable and warm as you rest. he monitors your pulse and constantly checks your breathing, and his nervous behavior doesn’t go unnoticed by dean. but your heartbeat remains steady and the soft sound of your breathing is the only thing that can be heard at times. it’s comforting to them both, taking turns by your side, though they’re most certainly overly concerned now that your body is set to start mending.

you sleep a long while, long enough that dean starts pacing again when he tires of sitting on the edge of the other bed with his head in his hands. sam sits in a chair by your side. he dozes lightly for a bit, until the sun rises and brightens the room through half opened curtains. dean’s asleep on the couch when sam comes back around, despite the completely free bed. when he wakes, dean makes coffee for him and sam, brooding the whole while. he still looks like he’s holding back the urge to throw a rickety motel chair into the wall, but he’s a bit more blatantly anxious than angry by now. he holds your hand for a little while before you wake up.

you start to stir at 9:37 in the morning, which means you’ve been sleeping for almost ten hours. sam had checked the time when you passed out, in the midst of all his worry as he stitched you up. but no one catches the time. you, of course, are not checking the time. you’re barely awake. dean doesn’t think to check the time, he’s much more concerned about the light rustle of the bed sheets that he hears coming from your direction. and sam is drying his hands in the bathroom. he probably wouldn’t care to check the time either even if he were standing right by the clock. he hears dean say your name through the thin bathroom door, quiet and nervous. the hand towel slips off the rack in his rush to get to you.

dean’s sitting by your side, both of his hands wrapping around yours. “hey,” he murmurs, soft and glad to see your eyelids fluttering. you see the water stained ceiling of the motel room and feel the end of the bed dipping by your feet, then a big, soft hand on your shin. that’s sam. dean’s the one holding your hand.

you try to say hey back, but it comes out as a hoarse groan. your throat is very dry. so you just squeeze dean’s hand back as best as you can. one of his hands leaves yours to rest on your tired head. you look over and offer him a little smile. he feels a rush of affection as you meet his gaze like that, and a little bit of guilt for always letting you be the best of them. the quietest and the easiest. he doesn’t know what to do with those feelings, so he asks a sweet, almost teary looking sam to go grab you some water. he does so without a qualm, tries to help you take a sip, and relents with a subtle pout when you refuse the help. you’re insistent about holding that cup for yourself.

“let me help you,” he murmurs, voice all soft. he sounds extra young right now, as his hands try to hold the cup and your head up for you. you grab the cup, shaking your head despite being plagued by a pounding ache at your temples.

“mm-mm,” you hum a no, as if it bothers you that he’s trying to use his hand in a cast to help. you’re truly just that stubborn that it makes you strong enough to hold the cup with your own shaky hands. sam’s hand hovers nearby anyway. when you’ve taken a good drink, and the water starts to slosh a bit because you’re having a hard time holding it steady, dean takes it from you and sets it on the bedside table. 

“you gave us a good little scare there,” he murmurs, voice gentler than usual. he doesn’t even pretend to sound annoyed. sam thinks his demeanor is a bit funny now, considering how much of a mess dean was last night and before you woke. but he easily lets it slide for right now. without a doubt, you’re his main concern.

“sorry,” you mumble, still sort of smiling.

“don’t,” sam scolds softly. “don’t be sorry.” it seems to him like you’re always willing to take the fall, fix the problem, ease the tension. right now, he’d rather you just let him and dean take care of everything for you. you look like you want to protest, keep apologizing for making them worry, but he grabs your free hand as a means to stop you. dean gives your hand a little squeeze to punctuate the same sentiment. 

you have nothing to be sorry for. and they are very grateful for you. losing you scares them more than anything, and for a moment, they will both be a bit vulnerable and ask for you to do the same by holding your hands tight for just a little while.

“okay,” you murmur. you won’t be sorry. i love you, too, you’re saying.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Two

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Your friends Wanda and Nat drag you to a corn maze event at night. After a rather unpleasant encounter with Bucky, Sam, and Steve, you want nothing but this night to end. Unfortunately for you, you’ll have to find the exit first.

Word count: 6.2k 🌾 🎃 🔦

Warnings: Annoyance to lovers; scared!Reader; scare actor with chainsaw; scarecrows; protective!Bucky; little bit of sad!Bucky

Author’s note: This is me ignoring my wips and writing something that randomly popped up in my head. Wrote this all in one sitting but I’m actually genuinely happy with it :)

Masterlist

“We’re going to get lost in there.”

“With your sense of direction, definitely, but thankfully you have me.”

You shove Nat in the shoulder lightly enough, grumbling under your breath, while Wanda on your other side snickers softly.

The brunette links her arm with yours. “We’ll stay together the whole time,” she assures you.

“Well, I left my bed for this, so this better be good!”

Natasha and Wanda insisted on visiting the corn maze event your town had to offer this year. And since they claimed it would be boring to do this in daylight you now are standing in front of towering stalks of corn being so close together, they obscure the view inside. Sure, it would be way too easy otherwise but, the easier this is, the faster you’d be getting out of here.

There is a clear cut through the corn, signaling the entrance to the maze, but you can’t see past the artificial fog swirling in the tunnel so that’s no help either. The branches over the entrance have cobwebs dangling down and a scarecrow is placed right beside the hole, its eyes glowing red with unnatural light.

A few dimly lit jack-o-lanterns path the way to the foggy entrance, giving only enough light to make sure you wouldn’t catch on uneven ground and fall before anything even started. That would surely be embarrassing enough for the night.

You can make out faint whispers coming from inside the maze, unsure if those come from other visitors or if they are simply sound effects. Either way, you don’t like it. It’s not like you get scared easily. But there’s something about the dark that had always irked you and you don’t feel like getting jumped by some scare actor tonight or some other shit.

There are a few other people standing in groups around you three, talking to staff members, or looking at the map of the maze to somewhat prepare. You don’t pay them any mind though. There is no way you’d be socializing tonight.

“Alright, let’s get this party started!” Nat exclaims beside you.

“I don’t see this being a party,” you mutter, “and shouldn’t we get a map as well? Might be helpful, you know?” The dry sarcasm in your voice gives way to the enthusiasm you are absolutely lacking.

“We don’t need a map. Come on!” Is all she says as she pulls you and Wanda to the entrance.

“Alright well, just so you know, I'm blaming it on you when we’re still aimlessly wandering around in there by dawn,” you warn, but there’s clearly amusement in your tone you can’t suppress and you share a quick laugh with Wanda.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

It takes you three a little more than fifteen minutes to find the first checkpoint. You’re not sure if this is good or bad timing but at least you haven’t lost anyone of your small group yet so that is good.

The small flashlights you had been given earlier by an instructor cast narrow beams through the dense, twisted rows of the maze. Now, each light lands on the scarecrow ahead, its ragged form standing as still as the one you passed at the entrance. He only has one arm outstretched, clearly pointing in the direction you’ll find the next checkpoint.

“This way,” Natasha calls out, already turning to follow the path being pointed at. Her black leather jacket catches the glow of your flashlight as you walk behind her, Wanda beside you.

You hear a set of screams echoing faintly through the maze, the fifth one since you entered - an indication that in the distance, other visitors just got ambushed by scare actors in the dark. You have no intention of being next so you’re thankful for Nat taking the lead.

However, your gaze constantly darts behind you, checking your back every few minutes, convinced that at any moment something - or rather someone - might leap out of the shadows. You quickly assess and flash the path you had walked seconds earlier, before turning around again, paranoia creeping in with every step.

Distracted, you almost miss the tombstone jutting from the path ahead of you. Your heart skips a beat as your foot catches the edge, but before your face can meet the ground, Wanda’s hand shoots out. She firmly latches onto your jacket sleeve, pulling you back and steadying you, an amused laugh slipping past her lips.

“Thanks, Wan,” you laugh, a little out of breath.

“Getting lost already, ladies?”

You shriek, your heart nearly jumping out of your chest, and Wanda yelps in unison. You bump into her side, both of you spinning around hastily toward the source of the voice. Even Nat flinched, but she seems to recover quickly, letting out a low chuckle as she eyes the three figures standing before you.

You could practically hear the sultry smile she’s undoubtedly wearing behind you as she questions them. “What are you guys doing here?”

Yeah, what are they doing here? You narrow your eyes at the man who made you leap out of your skin.

Bucky Barnes. Of course.

In the middle of a creepy maze, with scare actors hiding around almost every corner, he somehow managed to sneak up on you. Typical. You shouldn’t be surprised he found you in a fucking labyrinth.

“Thought we’d check out the fancy attraction everyone’s been yapping about.” It’s Sam who answers, his words laced with a teasing grin as he stands slightly behind Bucky with his arms crossed over his chest, clearly entertained.

But Bucky didn’t even acknowledge Nat’s question. His focus remains on you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips and that glint in his eyes you know so well. He’s evidently pleased with himself for catching you off guard. Fantastic.

Steve, who comes into focus on Sam’s other side, offers you girls a sympathetic smile. There is an apology written in the way he tilts his head. “We didn’t know you were planning on coming, or else we would’ve asked you to join us,” he says, voice sincere.

Before you can respond, Bucky cuts in, stepping forward with that infuriatingly confident swagger. He throws a lazy arm over your shoulder, pulling your stiff form against his side. “Ah well, we’re together now, so let’s stay that way. We’ll get you through this maze well-protected, girls.”

His voice carries that signature smugness as if he’s doing you some grand favor and you should be grateful. You’re not. Definitely, absolutely not.

You immediately shake off his arm, stepping away from him with a sharp glare. “Yeah, no thanks. We’ll manage on our own,” you argue.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, noticeably unfazed. His smirk deepens as he leans in, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Surely that scream said something different, doll. Don’t you think?”

You scowl. “Oh, shut up, Barnes-”

Steve interrupts you with his hands held up, palms open in a calming gesture. “Let’s not make this difficult. We’ll go our own way if that’s what you want.”

“Stay,” Nat drawls, standing relaxed with her arms crossed and shooting you a teasing glance. “It’s funnier that way.”

You cut her a look that should have been able to kill her. The corners of her mouth only curl higher as she turns back towards the path ahead of you.

You see Bucky’s grin from the corner of your eyes.

You all resumed walking, six flashlights cutting through the eerie darkness around you, their beams illuminating the narrow, winding path ahead. Despite your reluctance to admit it, having the guys with you provided some sort of ease. Your shoulders droop slightly and your gait becomes more confident.

More often than not you feel the hot gaze of Bucky on your skin but choose to ignore it, focusing on the path ahead so as not to stumble over another tombstone.

“So, have you guys started preparing for-” Steve’s voice breaks through the silence but gets immediately cut off by Sam.

“Hell no, no talking about classes, or practice for that matter. That ain’t on my agenda tonight,” Sam scolds rather loudly, his voice filled with mock severity. Nat snorts, still walking ahead of you, and you join in, a small laugh escaping as Steve sighs.

The moment was brief, though, as you round another corner and Nat calls out what lay before you. “Dead end,” she declares, her tone flat but unsurprised. “Turn around.”

Grumbling softly, your group pivots and you retrace your steps to take a different turn, only to find another winding corridor shortly later. This goes on for minutes - Natasha calling out dead ends and your group backtracking to find another path offering no more than the last. The guys didn’t take a map with them as well.

You don’t fail to notice the constant presence of Bucky at your back. Each time you turn a corner he seems just a little closer, the warmth of his proximity soothing the nerves in your veins and helping with the chilling air that comes with the night. You ignore that, though.

However, you can’t ignore the fact that you did not once turn around to check your back since he and the others expanded your little group and Bucky took his place at your back. It’s strange. All the paranoia and unease from earlier had softened somehow, as if his irritating confidence bled into you, making the maze feel a little less menacing, the darkness a little less suffocating.

You feel almost reassured by the steady weight of his attention at your back like his silent presence can ward off any sense of danger.

You’re not sure how to feel about that.

Suddenly, loud menacing laughter erupts from the thick corn wall beside you. The sound is dark and jarring, cutting through the air and sending a bolt of fear through your chest. You startle with a gasp, instinctively reaching for Wanda beside you as you jump away from the bushes, your hand clutching onto her arm.

Your heart pounds violently, the adrenaline making your breath quicken. You’re too lost in the moment to notice the steady hand that has settled on your back - Bucky’s hand.

Without a word, he keeps his palm firmly pressed against the fabric of your jacket as his other hand shoots into the corn wall. You barely register his swift movement until you see him yanking out a small device - a microphone hidden in the stalks, playing that sinister laughter on repeat. With a click, the sound stops.

“Just an audio, doll, everything’s alright,” Bucky explains, his voice low and calm, the teasing edge from earlier absent.

Your breathing slows and you let go of the death grip you had on Wanda’s arm, not registering how tightly you held onto her.

Bucky’s presence remains solid and you glance at him quickly, expecting to find his usual smug grin or some sarcastic remark waiting, hoping you don’t look as embarrassed as you feel.

But there’s none of that. Instead, his expression seems almost grim as he eyes the microphone in his hand, a hint of disgust crossing his face, lips twitching. Without much care, he tosses the device back into the corn, not bothering to see where it lands.

His other hand still lay pressed against your back and you let it ground you for a fleeting second.

However, the shock transforms rather rapidly into confusion. Shouldn’t he be delighted it went on right as you passed it? Usually, he would revel in something like this, tease you for your reaction, and flash you that infuriating smirk.

He doesn’t.

You keep walking for another few minutes, the tension slowly easing back into a manageable rhythm, when Sam barks out. “There! Second checkpoint! Y’all that’s on me!”

He moves past Wanda, stopping in front of a small carton laid out on a makeshift table. Scattered across the surface were pieces of a puzzle, all with seemingly random lines on them. Four small wooden stools sat nearby, clearly set up for people to take a seat while working on the puzzle.

“A puzzle?” Bucky asks incredulously, coming to a halt with a frown, his hands on his hips.

“I think it’s cute,” Wanda offers with a smile, moving to one of the stools and lowering herself down. She picks up a piece, studying it as she begins sorting through the chaos. You agree, following her lead and settling on a stool beside her.

“You too cool for a puzzle, Barnes? Or are you scared you won’t be able to solve it?” you mock half-heartedly, your eyes already skimming over the pieces, trying to find where they fit together.

Bucky scoffs, his teasing tone returning full force. “Joke’s on you, sweetheart. I’m an excellent puzzle solver. Always did this with Bec’s when she was small.”

His voice was lighter now and you feel yourself relax a little more at the returning banter settling between you.

Though you find yourself thinking about the small comment about his sister you keep stuck on and curiosity rises in you at the little insight in his former private life. You shouldn’t find this as interesting as you did. And you shouldn’t want to know more.

Bucky lowers himself into a crouch beside you since the two other wooden stools sit beside Wanda. Nat and Steve sit down on those with mild amusement, all eyes on the puzzle pieces.

Bucky stays rather close to your side, his thigh brushing against your own as he reaches over the small makeshift table.

Sam hovers over Wanda’s shoulder, offering commentary and the glow of his flashlight as she arranges the border pieces with surprising efficiency.

“It’s an arrow,” you quip, placing a few more pieces together with a minor sense of accomplishment.

“Oh yeah? How’d you figure that out?” Bucky smirks beside you, playful as ever as he gives you a gentle shove to your shoulder with his own.

Annoyance creeps back in and you roll your eyes. “Cut it, Barnes. What you’re doing over there isn’t helpful either,” you snap, shoving him more forcefully in return. He sways slightly on the balls of his feet, letting out a low chuckle that only grates on your nerves more.

For what feels like the hundredth time, you slap his hand away from the pieces you’ve already fit together. Bucky stopped sticking his own pieces together and rather enjoys reaching over and intentionally placing the wrong pieces onto yours, or worse, rearranging what you’d already solved, eyes twinkling with mischief and the corners of his mouth tugged high up his cheeks. Each time you fix it, he finds another way to mess it up.

You refuse to look at his blinding grin.

You huff instead, slapping his other hand away as it winds around your arms trying to sneak another mismatched piece into your section.

You're also too occupied to notice the knowing glances shared across the table.

“Alright, alright, let’s get this done so we can keep moving. I’m trying to make it outta here in one piece, people,” Sam jokes with a lightness in his voice that suggests he’s enjoying this rather thoroughly.

You finished the puzzle quickly, the final piece snapping into place, and you had to hold back Bucky’s hands, refraining him from spinning the whole thing to make the arrow point in the wrong direction.

A few minutes into the walk and a few dead ends later, Wanda breaks the comfortable silence. “When’s your next game again, guys?” she asks softly.

Sam let out a groan of exasperation, throwing his arms out dramatically, almost hitting Nat. “Oh come on! What’d I say about that, huh?”

He’d been walking at the front since he claimed his spot as the lead after 'earning' it by finding the checkpoint. He turns around as he talks, facing Wanda with a playful glare.

“You said no talking about class or practice. So, I can ask about games,” she counters with a smile.

From behind you, Steve’s laugh rumbles through the group. “She got you there, pal.”

Sam shakes his head, turning ahead again, muttering. “Yeah, yeah. Game’s next Saturday.”Though his annoyance is half-hearted at best.

Then, from beside you, Bucky’s voice breaks through, casual but directed. “You’re coming, right?”His tone is laid back with an underlying expectation. The question seems to be aimed at the group but he was looking at you.

Bucky had stepped up to walk beside you after you resumed walking, his pace matching yours and you see the way his head is tilted in your direction.

You glance up at him, blue eyes watching you. He obviously waits for an answer.

“Don’t know. Maybe I have to work then.” You shrug, playing it off, and look back forward again. But you’re surprised at the way your pulse quickens under his gaze and your hand squeezes the flashlight a little tighter.

You don’t always put a whole lot of effort into being there for their games. Sure, you showed up every now and then, but not nearly as often as everyone else. It wasn’t for lack of support. More like self-preservation.

Watching Bucky stride onto the field with that cocky confidence, owning every inch of the space around him, irks you incredibly. He’s good, and he knows it - he owns it.

Unfortunately for you though, sometimes you couldn’t shove down your annoyance for the guy enough and he, unbeknownst to himself, found a way of making your stomach flip in ways you weren’t entirely proud of.

Also, that football gear - You hate the way your body reacts upon seeing him in it as if it were the first time. The fitted jersey, the helmet tucked under his arm, the way his shoulders look even broader in the pads, the brown tendrils of his fluffy and tousled hair falling over his forehead - it all makes your stomach flutter every time and it drives you crazy.

So you found ways to avoid it. You picked up extra shifts at the library, checked the game schedule weeks in advance to make sure you had a built-in excuse. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, just something casual you were doing to avoid unnecessary distractions. But deep down, you knew better.

And so does Natasha - if her smirk in your direction is anything to go by. You glare at her to move her attention, but it’s useless.

You’re unprepared for the following corner of the maze, lingering in the echo of your thoughts. So when the scare actor does his job, emerging from the shadows and brandishing a chainsaw that roars to life in a terrifying symphony, your soul might have just kissed you goodbye.

The flickering light from the chainsaw illuminates his grimy, masked face, a wicked smile etched across his features, and eyes glimmering with twisted mischief.

You scream - just like Wanda, just like Sam. Nat lets out a quick yelp herself and you hear the sharp intake of a breath behind you from Steve. Bucky, who had seemingly been lost in his own thoughts, flinches beside you. In a swift motion, he surges closer, grabbing your arm harsher than probably intended and pulling you to his side. His leg instinctively positions his body in front of you.

The outfit of the actor - or that’s what you try to tell yourself he is - is a patchwork of tattered flannel and soiled jeans, the perfect embodiment of a deranged lumberjack. Raised high, the chainsaw vibrates with a menacing growl, its teeth gleaming wickedly as the man brandishes it like a weapon, the scent of gasoline mingling with the earthiness of the maze.

You clutch Bucky's arm, fingers digging into the firm muscle of his biceps as he stands protectively before you, his stance rigid and shoulders tense. Your other hand is linked with his, shaking fingers surrounded by steady ones. Though his stance is stiff and tense.

Time seems to freeze as Nat, Wanda, and Sam stand still in front of you, Steve’s presence at your back.

Your heart races violently in your chest, suffocating you, and for a moment, it feels like your breath stopped altogether as the chainsaw-wielding man lunges toward you six.

All you are able to do in your state of panic is squeeze Bucky’s hand so tightly you might have feared his blood circulation cut off, if your mind were able to conjure up a thought at the moment.

Bucky reacts instantly. Without hesitation, he pivots and bolts down the maze, pulling you along. His fingers clutch yours with such fierce intensity as if his only fear is losing you in this chaos.

Steve surges ahead, taking a sharp turn right while Bucky guides you left, then right, and left again; maneuvering the maze like a seasoned racer. The world around you blurs as you focus solely on keeping up, your heart racing along with your feet. All sense of direction is lost in the chaos and you can’t tell if Nat, Sam, and Wanda are still trailing behind or if they’re swallowed by the cornrows.

You try to take a glance back, hoping to catch a glimpse of red hair, dark brown skin, or Wanda’s long coat.

“Don’t look back!” Bucky shouts over the roar of the chainsaw, his voice snapping your head to the front before you can see anything else besides the blur of yellow-green walls. “Switch off your flashlight!”

You do as you’re told.

You could have had a relaxed evening, maybe taking a bath or watching a show with warm tea and popcorn but no, instead you find yourself chased by a man with a real fucking chainsaw.

Panic surges through you again, your breaths getting shorter at Bucky's fast pace and you feel his hand tighten. There’s an unexpected strength in the way he holds you, his muscles coiling with determination. He navigates the twists and turns with instinctive agility, intense eyes moving over to you every few seconds as if the only important thing here is you.

And somehow that is oddly reassuring and maybe a bit satisfying at the moment. All that mattered is Bucky’s strong grip, anchoring you as you run alongside him.

Around another corner, the path opens up to a small clearing that offers a momentary respite. Bucky pulls you into the safety of the space, pressing your back against the rough stalks of corn, their leaves brushing against your skin. You stand chest to chest, touching each other with every ragged breath you take in.

Bucky still seems composed despite all the running you just did.

He faces the direction you had come from, muscles coiled and ready to react, arms on either side of you, practically hugging you to his chest.

“We lost the others,” you pant, glancing around as best as you could with a mountain of muscle blocking your view.

Bucky’s face is a mask of focus, his eyes scanning the maze. “Yeah. Just stay with me,” he murmurs, lowering his voice, his breath fanning over your cheeks.

He takes another few seconds to assess the surroundings, before looking down at you. “Are you alright?” he asks softly, yet urgently.

You had never been this close to Bucky before, had never imagined such a scenario, and it leaves you unprepared for the overwhelming feelings that flood your senses.

The moonlight cast a slightly silver glow over his features but some remain hidden in shadows. His eyes search yours and you find yourself caught in the depths of his irises, a captivating swirl of blue that makes it hard to look away. His lips are parted slightly, soft breaths brushing against your cheeks and your nose fills with a scent that is something distinctly him. It doesn’t help with finding your voice. The slight furrow in his brow suggests worry as he scans your features.

You nod, still breathless from the scare and his proximity.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you manage to reply, though just then, a chilling laughter echoes from around you. The sound of the chainsaw roars back to life, slicing through the stillness.

You flinch in Bucky’s hold, instinctively moving closer and burrowing half in his chest. “Fucking asshole,”you breathe out a laugh and Bucky tightens his arms momentarily around you with a low chuckle. He seems to relax a little.

“We’ll have to keep moving,” he states, a slight trace of amusement in his tone as he looks back at you. He lifts his hand for a second as if longing to tuck the loose strands of hair behind your ears that landed in your face after the frantic escape.

You ignore the sliver of disappointment as he takes his hand back and moves away slightly, letting the chill night air brush against your skin instead of his warm breath. You feel cold, despite the adrenaline pumping in your veins.

The laughing grows louder and Bucky links his hand with yours again. “You ready?” he asks, waiting for your nod before starting to run again, darting through the maze some more.

You have no idea how long it takes before you come to another stop but your chest heaves with exhaustion as you do, ragged breaths leaving your lips. Bucky stands composed with narrowed eyes, looking around the maze.

The silence between you is perhaps a little uncomfortable, the only sound being the heavy breathing of your own labored lungs.

“Well, shit,” you utter after regaining some semblance of balance. “How do we find the others? I have no idea where we are.”

Bucky’s eyes meet yours, his expression unreadable for a moment. He licks his lips, then shrugs nonchalantly. “Looks like it's just the two of us.”

Your incredulous gaze sweeps over his face. “Seriously?” you ask, coming out sharper than intended.

Bucky rubs his hand over his face, looking away from you. “I’m sure they’re fine. Not like anything ever happens in these things. Sam probably already made a bet that he makes it to the exit before we do. So we should just…try and beat 'em.”

You know he tries to seem like this doesn’t affect him at all but there is something about him that makes your stomach churn uncomfortably. He looks a little defeated, perhaps even…hurt. And you don’t quite understand why.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners slightly as he tries for a smile but it looks wry. “Come on, doll! We’re a great team,” he insists.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, I don’t know about that, Barnes.”

Pain shoots through your chest. Not unfamiliar but not known around Bucky. His faltered expression stings and you don’t know what to do besides watching him drop his eyes to his feet and sigh heavily.

The sound feels like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless once again but without running from a man with a chainsaw.

His hands move over his hair. “It’s still Bucky for you doll. Told you many times,” he says softly, voice heavy with a mixture of dejection and desperation. “And we don’t really have a choice now, do we? We don’t know where the others are and it might take hours to find them. Just looking for the exit of this thing would be easier. Bet the others are doing the same.”

He looks at you then, with a troubled expression, seeming so vulnerable all of a sudden, traces of the cocky football player lost somewhere in this maze.

You nod then, slowly, not able to bring a word out because you have no clue as to what has him this sad.

“Alright,” he continues, nodding to himself. “I think we might have run past the third checkpoint. Let’s find the last one.”

The silence between Bucky and you stretches out like a fragile thread, the tension building with each passing moment. You can feel him glancing at you every few paces and you look over at him every once in a while but nobody says anything.

You don’t even talk when reaching another dead end, just turning around and resuming to walk.

He seems to let you lead, though, taking the turns you do.

You let your gaze sweep over the maze’s twists and turns until something catches your eye. A small, narrow wooden post stands almost camouflaged among the corn stalks, and your pace quickens.

“Over there! Look!”

It feels weird to break the silence between you but you don’t look over at Bucky as you approach the post and hear him fall into step behind you.

It’s adorned with two wooden flags, both having slightly faded letters atop. You read the first one, a small riddle as it seems.

“What’s it say?” Bucky asks, his voice quiet and low near your ear.

The glow of your flashlight helps you make out the words. “It says…What has keys but can’t open locks? What has a face but no eyes, nose, or mouth?”

You chance a quick glance at Bucky beside you. His eyes narrow. “I think I know this one,” he says slowly. “A clock, maybe.”

You read the riddle again, feeling his eyes on your profile. “Yeah, I think that’s it.” You hesitate a second. “Damn, Barnes. Not only all muscle, I see!” You're grateful for the teasing tone that made its way back to your voice and out of the corner of your eye, you can see Bucky’s grin lighting up his face again.

“You’d be surprised, doll,” he replies softly, a smile in his voice.

It isn’t quite the answer you had expected.

You thought he’d dig out the fact that you basically complimented his figure and you snapped your gaze up to his, though he doesn’t meet your eyes, instead staring at the letters on the wooden post.

“So, it’s a clock. What do we do with that?” He questions and you slowly turn back, lighting up the wooden flags again.

“There’s more.”

You move your light to the second flag, starting to read what’s written there.

“I’m a number that’s often paired. In harmony, I’m the perfect tease. Together we’re a perfect pair. A balance of Yin and Yang to share. In the morning, I’m bright and bold. By night, I’m soft and gentle to hold. My presence is felt in every way. From sunrise to sunset, every day.”

You hadn’t even finished reading when Bucky began shuffling a little beside you, straightening his spine. He watches you in silence now and you do your best to ignore his gaze.

You had no idea who came up with that riddle, but you feel like slapping that person. The weird tension between Bucky and you only tightens, seeming to snap any minute and this is no help at all.

Those words seem to sear themselves into your brain, echoing with an unsettling intimacy, you either wanted to bask in or get rid of.

You feel yourself wandering down a dangerous road.

You stare at those words carved into wood and it is as if someone had been watching you two, studying your dynamic, and decided to reduce your complicated relationship to a text.

But do you really think so?

In harmony? A perfect pair? Yin and Yang?

You know there was always something. You can try to suppress feelings for all you want but how can you get rid of something you won’t even acknowledge in the first place.

You like him. You like him a whole lot. Damn it, there is just something about this idiot you have to adore. But you can’t tell him that. Not now.

Not when the weight of his gaze hasn’t left you yet and you feel a flush rise in your cheeks.

Finally, you meet Bucky’s eyes, still fixed on you, as if waiting for something. His expression is unreadable and you feel like bolting away into the corn maze and getting lost. Maybe forever.

How can he look so calm and rigid at the same time? You know he is affected by those words but it looks more like he tries to see what they do to you.

His eyes dart back and forth between yours, so intense, your throat constricts and you look away, clearing your throat in hopes it will break the spell.

“Two,” you croak out. “That’s the answer. We have to head towards two o’clock.”

You see Bucky nodding slowly from the corner of his eye, his jaw clenched and you begin walking again.

The tension is palpable, like a living entity that wrapped itself around you. Every step feels like a struggle as if you’re wading through quicksand, fighting against the undertow of your own emotions.

The silence grows so thick, you can hardly breathe.

Light.

There is light just around the corner, beckoning you forward and distant voices grow louder with each step you take.

But right after rounding the corner, fog appears, wrapping you in its damp, grey folds. It’s disorienting at first but feels just like the fog you had passed at the entrance so this has to be a good sign.

However, as you spin around, desperate to locate Bucky, he is lost in the mist and you feel the suffocating need to feel him, hands reaching out frantically, grasping at nothing.

“Bucky!” You call out, voice strained and urgent. You don’t even notice the nickname rolling off your tongue, torn from your lips as if ripped from your throat.

In an instant, a gentle touch brushes against your arm. You jerk back at first, startled, but then feel the soft pressure of Bucky’s fingers wrap around yours. His other hand takes hold of yours, touch so gentle and careful as if you are something to be treasured.

Your heart begins to race as you realize he is right in front of you, chest nearly pressed against yours just like earlier, though this time it feels much more intense, intimate, purposeful.

You strain to see beyond the veil of mist, but it’s like gazing into a void. All you can make out is the faint outline of Bucky’s form, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His breathing is growing ragged. He can run however long away from a chainsaw-wielding man but standing in front of you is what makes him lose his breath?

Blood is pumping through your veins and you feel it rushing through your ears. He’s still standing in front of you, hands holding yours, chest resting against yours and you feel his hot breath against your face again.

You try to comprehend what he is doing, why he doesn’t lead you to the exit, but deep down you know. He’s gauging your reaction. Maybe he saw something in your gaze while reading this riddle, maybe it was in the way you looked at him, or carried yourself. But something about the way you had acted seemed to have given him courage. He found something as he searched your gaze at the wooden post.

And now he’s waiting for you.

“Bucky,” you whisper, barely audible but the hitch of a breath right in front of you is an indication he heard you.

His name is a plea, a confirmation, the consent to continue what he started.

Bucky’s fingers caress your skin, moving up your arms in such a slow motion as if he’s mapping and memorizing how every inch of your skin feels under his fingertips. Shivers run down your spine and goosebumps erupt in the wake of his hands and you know he can feel it.

His hesitation tempers down with every second.

The touch of his fingertips is magnetic and although you can’t see it, it draws you in with an almost magnetic force. You feel yourself leaning into him, eyes fixed on the fog where you know his own are, as if willing to clear it, ready to see the exact kind of blue you fell for. But you know he’s looking at you, not seeing, but still looking. And that was enough to make your stomach flutter.

As his fingers reach your face he gently tucks the flyaway strands behind your ear, holding your face in his palms and tilting it just right. His forehead lands on yours and you take a deep breath in until all you consume is him.

You don’t care about the eyesight you are lacking at the moment. You wouldn’t even care about hearing that menacing laughter again, or the roar from the chainsaw, because here in Bucky’s arms you’ve never felt saver.

You feel his presence in every way.

And when your lips meet his, moving in sync, you know.

In harmony. Like the perfect pair. Yin and Yang.

“Hold your horses, people, I hear something.”

You ignore Sam’s voice outside the fog, attention set on Bucky and his plump lips, his tongue gliding in your mouth, exploring its new home.

“Barnes! Hey, man! Y/n! You in there?”

Sam’s shout again remains ignored.

“You lost, guys, everyone’s out here!”

Bucky pulls away at that, resting his forehead against yours. You feel his huge smile against yours, keeping your eyes closed.

“Nah,” he whispers against your lips. “I definitely won today.”

“The road might be long

The stars may not guide me

But if you keep your heart open

I will find you”

- Michael Xavier

[magical-reid]

Mornings Are the Hardest

Paring: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning: Angsty with a happy ending

Word Count: 1.5K

Summary: Bucky Barnes has pushed away the person he cares about most, afraid of being vulnerable, of letting someone into the broken parts of himself. After an emotional breakdown, he finally admits that he wants more—more than the fleeting moments and the painful goodbyes—and when he opens up, he finds that the person he loves feels the same. With that realization, both Bucky and the reader can begin to heal, together.

Bucky Barnes used to love mornings—well, he used to. Back when the days were simpler, before everything got complicated. Before Hydra, and most importantly, before you.

Mornings were never a thing to him. He’d wake up, usually alone, the cold sheets around him just a reminder of the battle scars on his soul, his body, the battles he’d fought, both in war and with himself. He was fine with being alone. He had to be. After everything, he learned to push people away—keep them at arm's length. It was easier that way.

But not anymore.

Not since you.

You broke through the walls he’d built around himself. What started as a late-night distraction, a way to escape the nightmares and the crushing loneliness of his life, became something much more than he ever intended. The moments spent with you—soft laughter in the dark, the comfort of your touch, the way you made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t beyond saving—those moments filled something inside him he didn’t even know was empty.

But the mornings… they were the hardest.

He hated waking up to an empty bed, the space beside him cold, and the imprint of your absence hanging in the air like a ghost. He could still smell the faint traces of your perfume on the pillow, the lingering heat of your skin where you had been, but you were gone. Always gone by the time he woke up.

It used to be that those bruises you left on him—the marks of your passion, of your need—didn’t mean anything. They were just physical signs of a fleeting thing. But now? Now, they felt like something else. Reminders of everything he couldn't keep, reminders that you weren’t sticking around, that whatever this was between the two of you was always just temporary.

He had no right to want more. He had no right to ask for it, especially when his life was built on lies, blood, and broken promises. But the more time he spent with you, the more he realized that he didn’t want to be alone anymore. Not like this.

But how could he tell you that? How could he admit that he was falling for you when he was so broken, when he was convinced you deserved more than someone like him?

When Bucky arrived at the compound later that afternoon, he could feel the tension in his chest, the anxiety that had built up all day. Everyone was doing their usual thing—Sam was cracking jokes with whoever would listen, Natasha was on her laptop, and Wanda was sipping coffee on the couch. But you, you were sitting at the table, talking with Steve, laughing at something he said.

The sound of your laughter hit Bucky like a sucker punch. It wasn’t the kind of laughter that made him smile anymore—it was the kind of laughter that made his chest ache, that reminded him of all the things he couldn’t have.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you, his heart heavy. You looked so carefree, so radiant, and it made him feel even more like an outsider. His stomach twisted, the familiar pang of jealousy clawing at him when he saw the way Steve smiled at you. But you didn’t see him standing there, didn’t notice the way his world seemed to slow down as he watched you talk, unaware of the war raging inside him.

“Bucky!” Sam’s voice broke through the fog in his mind. “You gonna stand there all day, or you want to join the rest of us?”

Bucky snapped out of his trance, forcing himself to move forward. “Yeah, sure,” he muttered, slipping into the seat next to Sam.

You turned then, offering him that soft smile that used to make his heart race—but now, it just made him feel like a fraud. A stranger sitting across from someone he wanted to be close to but had no idea how to be.

“Hey, Bucky,” you said, voice light, casual. Too casual. “How’s it going?”

Bucky opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. He couldn’t do this anymore. Not with you. Not like this. “Fine,” he said, his voice rough. He avoided looking at you, his gaze darting to the beer in front of him.

“You sure about that?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between Bucky and you.

“I’m fine,” Bucky repeated, his voice hardening. He picked up his beer and drank it too fast, hoping the burn in his throat would drown out the emotions bubbling inside him. But it didn’t work.

You leaned in a little closer to Steve, laughing at something he said, and Bucky’s stomach churned with the kind of frustration that only came when he felt out of control. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t just sit here and pretend everything was okay when he knew it wasn’t.

Without another word, he stood up abruptly. “I’m gonna head out,” he muttered, already turning away.

“Bucky—” you called after him, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t want to hear the emptiness in your voice, the concern that you probably didn’t even realize was there.

By the time he got home, he was suffocating under the weight of his thoughts. He slammed the front door behind him, trying to ignore the questions from the others. Inside, he climbed the stairs to his room, pacing back and forth, hands running through his hair, a desperate need to escape the thoughts that were drowning him.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he muttered to himself. “She’s gonna leave.”

It wasn’t a question. He knew it. He was pushing you away—had been for weeks now—but he couldn’t stop. The thought of you getting too close, the thought of you seeing all the parts of him that were still broken, terrified him.

He grabbed his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he reached your name. His thumb hovered over the call button for a moment, the fear of rejection tightening his chest. But the ache in his chest—the one that felt like it would tear him apart if he didn’t do something—drove him to press it.

"Need me already?" you teased when you answered, your voice low, almost playful, like nothing was wrong.

Normally, that would’ve made him smirk, would’ve made him feel alive. But tonight, all it did was break him a little more. “Can we talk?” His voice was quieter than he intended, a mixture of fear and longing.

There was a long pause. “Talk?”

“Yeah. Talk.” Bucky's grip tightened on the phone. “Please. I need to talk to you.”

You hesitated. “Okay. Now?”

“Yeah. Now.”

When you knocked on his door, Bucky opened it before you could even raise your hand a second time. He was shaking, nerves and fear clashing inside him. “Hey,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Hey,” you answered softly, your gaze immediately scanning his face for any sign of what was wrong.

“Come in,” Bucky said, stepping aside.

The two of you sat on the couch, the space between you thick with all the things unsaid. Bucky fiddled with the sleeve of his jacket, his heart hammering in his chest as he tried to find the words that would make everything clear.

Finally, the silence broke, Bucky’s voice raw as he said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“This,” Bucky gestured between the two of you, his chest tightening. “I can’t keep pretending it’s enough. I can’t keep waking up alone. I can’t keep watching you walk out of here. I want more.” His voice cracked. “I want you.”

Your breath caught, but Bucky was already going on, the words tumbling out faster than he could control them. “I want to know you—your hopes, your fears. I want to be there for you. I want to wake up next to you and not feel like you’re just going to disappear the next morning. I want to be with you, really with you. I want to be… yours.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and then the silence between you both felt unbearable. His words hung in the air, fragile and vulnerable. You blinked, eyes filling with tears, and before Bucky could say anything else, you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was soft, tentative, but there was a depth to it—something that neither of you had allowed before. When you pulled back, your foreheads resting together, Bucky searched your eyes, still unsure.

“Does that mean…” he whispered, the question hanging in the air.

You nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I want more too. I want you.”

Bucky let out a long breath, relief flooding through him as he pulled you into his arms, holding you close, as if you might disappear if he didn’t. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel broken. He felt whole. Maybe mornings wouldn't be so bad after all.

[heldbybarnes]

okay lemme walk you through this—

road trip. bucky x reader where they’re in a friend group, and not enemies, but not really friends either. an unfortunate dice roll lands the two of them in a trailer attached to the back of the car while steve, sam, nat, peter, and tony all chill in the front car. it’s ovulation week. the car ride is bumpy. and bucky? well, let’s just say he helps you out.

thoughts? 🩵

IM WALKED....I wrote a haiku for you🥰

never stop your notes or I’ll go full chaos mode— postal, unhinged, feral 🩵

On with the fic bc I am here for this.....

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), mutual masturbation / fingering (f receiving), unprotected sexual contact, breeding kink undertones, semi-public setting (they’re in a trailer with people in the front car), slight power imbalance, strong language

----------

The trip was supposed to be fun. Team bonding, Tony had said. Open air, no missions, one long road trip to a secluded lake house in Vermont. Sun, snacks, card games. No weapons. No drama.

But the second the dice clattered to the pavement and landed on six, you should’ve known your fate was sealed.

“Barnes and Y/N. Trailer.”

Steve read it aloud like it wasn’t a death sentence.

You blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Bucky scoffed next to you. “I’m not riding in the damn trailer.”

“Yes, you are,” Tony grinned from the driver’s seat of the SUV. “Fair is fair. It’s decked out with bean bags and portable fans. You’ll survive.”

And so now here you were. Trapped in a glorified tin can on wheels.

With him.

Not that you hated Bucky. You didn’t. You just… didn’t like him. Not really. He was too serious. Too cold. Always watching, never talking. And something about him always made your skin itch—especially lately. Not in a bad way. In a you’ve-had-sex-dreams-about-him-twice-this-week-and-it’s-only-Tuesday kind of way.

Which is what made the whole thing worse.

Because the trailer was not just cramped—it was bumpy. The kind of bumpy that had you jostling on every pothole and rut, swaying into each other like some badly choreographed dance. And with every bump, your thighs clenched tighter. Your breath got shallower.

Because it was ovulation week. And your body?

It wanted a baby. Specifically, a 6’1, metal-armed one with a sharp jaw and a habit of muttering under his breath like you were a headache he was trying to ignore.

You tucked your knees tighter to your chest, trying to create some distance on the bean bag. “You could at least pretend this isn’t hell,” you muttered.

Bucky glanced over, head tilted against the thin trailer wall. “You’ve been squirming since mile marker twelve. Something wrong?”

Heat prickled down your spine. “It’s bumpy.”

He arched a brow. “It’s a dirt road.”

“No shit.”

His lips quirked. “You always this cranky when you don’t get your way?”

You rolled your eyes and looked out the tiny, dust-fogged window. If you stayed quiet long enough, maybe the ache between your legs would cool off. Maybe the pressure in your lower belly would go away.

Maybe Bucky Barnes would stop looking at you like he knew.

But the next bump came hard and fast—and this time, the jolt sent you sliding right into his lap.

“Shit—sorry,” you started, scrambling.

But before you could move, a large hand braced your waist. His metal one. And it stayed there.

For a beat too long.

“I can move—”

“You’re fine.”

That voice. Low and warm, like it had been dragged over gravel. His thumb pressed just slightly into the curve of your waist, and for one dizzy second, you didn’t breathe.

“Is this what’s got you so tense?” he said, quiet now.

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned in, breath brushing your cheek. “You’ve been restless since we left. I thought it was me. But now… it’s something else, isn’t it?”

Your pulse thudded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I think you do.”

And then—like he’d read every filthy thought that crossed your mind since the second you were assigned this trailer—his hand slid lower. Down, down, just over the seam of your shorts.

You gasped. “Bucky—”

“Tell me no,” he said. “And I’ll stop.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Because the moment his fingers pressed between your legs, the ache you’d been trying to ignore lit up like a goddamn bonfire. You were soaked. And he groaned.

“Christ. That all for me?”

You nodded, breath hitching as he rubbed slow, lazy circles over your clit through the fabric. Your hips jerked. The trailer rattled.

“What is it?” he teased, mouth at your ear. “Road too bumpy?”

You whimpered, gripping his shoulders. “You’re such an asshole.”

He laughed—laughed. And then, with maddening control, he popped the button on your shorts and slid his hand beneath the waistband.

Skin to skin.

You nearly lost it.

“God, you’re wet,” he muttered. “I knew you were wound tight, but this?”

His fingers slid through your folds, spreading the slick. When he found your clit again, you gasped—hips bucking as the coil in your belly tightened.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Grinding on my fingers like you’re in heat.”

“I am,” you snapped before you could think. “It’s ovulation week.”

That made him still. Just for a second.

“Oh.”

You watched his throat work. Watched the flicker of something dark in his eyes.

And then?

He curled his fingers inside you.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

“Don’t worry, doll,” he said, voice thick. “I’ll help you out.”

You writhed on his lap as he thrust his fingers deeper, thumb working tight little circles over your clit. The trailer creaked and swayed, matching the rhythm of his touch. You buried your face in his neck, whimpering against his skin.

“No one can hear you,” he murmured. “Not over the road.”

“Steve—”

“Is playing Taylor Swift up front,” he smirked. “You’re good.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve stopped it. But it felt too good, too hot. And the way he held you—possessive, firm, like he’d wanted this just as badly as you had—had your toes curling and thighs trembling.

“Bucky—gonna—”

“That’s it,” he said. “Come on. Let go for me.”

Your orgasm slammed into you like a tidal wave. You clenched around his fingers, mouth open in a silent cry as the pleasure rolled through you. He didn’t stop until you were shaking, boneless in his lap.

When he finally pulled his hand from your shorts, it glistened. He looked at you—satisfied, smug, and somehow still gentle.

“You alright?”

You nodded, dazed.

He grabbed a water bottle from the corner and handed it over. “Hydrate.”

You sipped, cheeks flushed, heart still racing. “That was…”

“Yeah,” he said. “It was.”

Silence settled for a moment. The trailer hummed.

And then—

“I’m still not riding back here with you on the way home.”

He grinned. “Yeah, you are.”

You scowled. “You’re cocky.”

“I’m confident.”

You glanced at the bulge pressing against his jeans. Then at his smug little smirk. Then back at his hand still glistening with you.

“…Yeah. You are.”

[mandoalorian]

his body, her fury [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: tensions crackle as the mission to track down reed richards spirals into chaos beneath manhattan’s streets. with tempers flaring and powers unleashed, lines blur between enemy and ally—especially when instincts overpower intention.

word count: 6700

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, male masturbation, bucky has a steamy shower moment, canon typical violence/action, angst, bucky/sam still aren’t friends, enemies to lovers, details of injury, avengers tower fic, thunderbolts spoilers

masterlist

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The street was dead. Not the kind of dead that came with sleep or silence — the kind that buzzed with something wrong. Static in the air. Lights in the buildings overhead flickered like they were trying to whisper warnings.

“You sure this is the place?” John’s voice cut through the fog as he slung his taco-shaped shield over his back, boots clunking loudly against cracked concrete. “Because it looks like a dump.”

“It’s supposed to,” Bucky muttered from the front, barely glancing back. “That’s the point.”

You adjusted the strap of your tactical vest, the weight of your comms gear pressing against your shoulder. The tip you’d received from Valentina said there was energy movement underground — something not registered by satellites but pulsing with dimensional interference. And supposedly, Reed Richards had something to do with it.

“I’ve seen dumps with more personality,” Alexei grumbled beside you. “In Russia, we have garbage fires that are warmer than this city.”

You smirked in spite of yourself. “You talk a lot for someone who nearly tripped the last three sensors.”

“I am stealthy,” he replied, squinting ahead like a bloodhound in war paint. “You are simply not perceptive enough to notice.”

“She’s plenty perceptive,” Bucky snapped, stopping at a rusted manhole cover etched with what looked like claw marks.

John rolled his eyes. “Oh good, here comes your moody boyfriend routine.”

You stiffened.

“I’m not her—” “He’s not my—”

You and Bucky spoke at the same time, then glared at each other.

Bucky was already kneeling beside the manhole, wrenching the cover off with one gloved hand. You watched as he pulled at it with ease, managing to tear away something which would usually take a whole team of men and machinery. The scent that came out was metallic and wrong, like burnt ozone and bleach. He didn’t look at you when he said, “Stay in front of me when we go in. Don’t touch anything.”

“Why? Scared I’ll break something?” you shot back.

“No,” he said without blinking. “Scared you’ll get hurt.”

That stunned you more than it should have. You recovered fast.

“I can handle myself.”

“We’ll see.”

“Can we save the foreplay for later?” John drawled as he dropped into the opening. “Some of us are trying to save the world.”

You felt your eye twitch.

Alexei went next, grumbling something about “American sarcasm” and “no damn manners.” You followed, fingers tight on the ladder rungs, the cold metal slick beneath your gloves. When you landed at the bottom, ankle-deep in shadow and ancient water, you were surrounded by whispering pipes and humming machinery.

It felt like the underground had a heartbeat.

“Oh, gross,” you muttered, waving a hand in front of your face as the sewer air clung to your skin like rot. “Smells like Bucky’s personality down here.”

Behind you, a heavy thud echoed as Bucky dropped in, the metal grate clanging back into place above. His arm brushed yours, and you shifted away reflexively.  “Cute,” he said dryly, brushing dust off his tactical vest. “I didn’t realise we were rating sewer systems now. Are you always going to be this pleasant on missions? Or am I just that lucky tonight?”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Only when I have to share air with someone whose idea of charm is brooding and breathing too loudly.”

Bucky scoffed, stepping just close enough to brush your shoulder as he passed. His touch made a shiver crawl over you. “Lucky for you, I don’t need charm to get the job done.”

Your jaw tightened, pulse flickering. “No, just a personality like sandpaper and the warmth of a corpse.”

He paused, just a beat, then smirked — barely. “Still can’t stop staring, though.”

You scoffed, biting down the flush rising to your cheeks. “Only to remind myself what not to work with.”

Alexei, trudging just behind you, looked between the two of you with big, gleaming eyes. “Is this flirting?” he whispered—not quietly. “Because it kind of feels like flirting.”

John Walker snorted. “Lover’s quarrel,” he muttered under his breath, wiping sewer grime off his gloves. “They just need to kiss already and save us the tension migraines.”

“Say that again and I’ll show you a migraine,” you snapped, not even bothering to look at him. “I don’t have time to play babysitter to two men with over-inflated egos.”

“Two?” Bucky echoed, cocking a brow. “So I’m sharing that title now?”

“You’ve always been number one in my heart, Barnes,” you drawled sarcastically. “Right next to paper cuts and food poisoning.”

Alexei coughed to hide his laugh. “I like this team dynamic. It keeps me sharp.”

John grunted. “It’s gonna get us caught if you two don’t zip it. We’re not exactly stealthy when we’re bickering like high schoolers.”

“I’m not bickering,” you and Bucky said in unison, then scowled at each other like the very sound of being in sync was offensive.

Silence stretched briefly before Alexei whispered to himself, “Definitely flirting.”

You’d been walking for what felt like hours. The tunnels split and curved endlessly, coated in rust and algae, with flickering industrial lights above giving everything a sickly yellow tint. The deeper you went, the warmer it got. Not in any natural way — in a “maybe the Earth’s core is bleeding” way.

“This is a dead end,” John grumbled, shining his flashlight down a hallway that looped back into itself. “We’re wasting time. Probably a just bum’s hideout, and Val’s intel was bunk.”

“Valentina’s intel is never bunk,” Bucky said sharply, voice low and certain.

Alexei nodded vigorously. “She once told me to dig under a hot dog cart in Queens. Said I’d find contraband tech. I found a squirrel with a USB drive in its mouth. She was correct.”

John blinked, then scoffed. “Not what I meant. Why is that even a sentence?”

Alexei grinned. “She’s never wrong. Just like Bucky—sharp instincts. That’s why I listen.”

John snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe if Bucky grunted less and actually led like a human being, we wouldn’t be crawling through Manhattan’s sewer system like Ninja Turtles on a midlife crisis.”

Bucky didn’t dignify that with a response, but Alexei turned with a grunt. “You don’t respect him,” he said to John, stabbing a finger in Bucky’s direction. “This man saved the world.”

John raised a brow. “Yeah, and he also killed a couple dozen people before that. You forget about that part?”

You held your breath, waiting.

Alexei crossed his arms. “We all have skeletons. This one just happens to be a very efficient skeleton.”

You let out an involuntary snort. Even Bucky’s lip twitched.

“I’m checking this hatch,” you said quickly, pointing to a rusted grate high above. You stepped onto the ledge of a cracked pipe but the vent was just out of reach. You adjusted your footing, arms stretching — still not high enough.

“Here,” Bucky said.

You looked down just as he approached, silent again. His hands found your waist before you could object and suddenly — you were airborne. Lifted like you weighed nothing.

You gasped. “Warn me next time.”

“You would’ve said no,” he said simply, keeping you steady with terrifying ease.

His fingers were warm through the fabric of your tac gear. Steady. Strong. Too strong.

You wrenched the vent cover loose and peered through, catching only the stretch of more tunnel — until something flickered across your vision. A thread. A shimmer. An aura.

You froze.

It pulsed in slow motion, soft as a heartbeat. Blue. Cool. Controlled. Intelligent.

He was here.

You dropped down, landing hard on your feet, and Bucky steadied you again before you could stumble. You looked straight at him.

“He’s here,” you whispered. “Reed Richards. I can feel him. He’s close.”

The others tensed instantly.

“Where?” Bucky asked.

You pointed. “Past the wall. There’s another level above. I don’t know how to get there yet, but—he’s not alone. There’s… something with him.”

Bucky’s expression darkened.

“I knew it,” Alexei muttered, fingers twitching by his belt. “I felt something earlier. My toes were tingling.”

“You sure that wasn’t just mold?” John muttered.

“Silence, peasant,” Alexei snapped.

Bucky turned to the group. “Weapons ready. Eyes up.”

You exhaled slowly. Whatever was coming, you’d found him. The aura was unmistakable.

Reed Richards.

But if he was here, hiding beneath Manhattan… why hadn’t he made contact?

And what — or who — was he hiding from?

Bucky’s hands had left you minutes ago, but you could still feel the imprint of them on your waist — like a brand. The way he’d lifted you — no hesitation, no strain. In his arms, you’d felt like nothing at all.

You hated that your heart had skipped when his fingers brushed your sides. Hated the way you felt warm where he touched you. Hated that he hadn't even looked winded, his jaw set, eyes scanning the dark with focus so precise it made you ache.

You shook it off.

Now wasn’t the time.

Reed’s aura pulsed just ahead, still faint but constant, like a low hum in your bones. You pressed your hand to the concrete wall beside the grate and narrowed your eyes, channelling out every voice, every footstep, and every mocking comment from John.

The path revealed itself slowly. A faint shimmer along the right wall. Not a doorway, but a structural weakness. Like someone had reshaped the building. Not broken it — just… bent it.

“I know where to go,” you said firmly, already stepping forward.

The team fell into step behind you. You didn’t need to look to know Bucky was closest. His steps were quieter. Measured. The aura around him buzzed, still dim and grey and sad and full of edges.

John, on the other hand, radiated loud red, all ego and bravado.

Alexei was harder to read — his aura shifted between an affectionate gold and bright, crackling blue, like he felt too much at once and had no idea how to rein it in.

“So,” Alexei started, peering around your shoulder. “This aura power… does it let you see through walls? Do you feel heartbeats? Emotions? Can you sense guilt?”

You gave him a side-glance. “Kind of. And yes. Sometimes.”

John rolled his eyes. “She’s not a damn lie detector.”

Alexei gasped. “Can you tell if someone finds me attractive?”

That actually made you smirk. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Alexei grinned and bumped your shoulder like an overgrown golden retriever.

“Let her focus,” Bucky said from behind, his voice sharper than before. Not cruel. Protective. “She’s tracking something.”

You exhaled again, steadying your steps. You passed the cracked grate and turned into a narrow corridor. The ceiling sloped low and the air smelled charged, like static and smoke. Reed’s aura was stronger here, along with another.

Hot, bright. Reckless.

Whoever was with him — they were nothing like Reed.

You stopped at the end of the corridor and placed a hand on the wall again.

“There’s a door here,” you murmured. “But it’s cloaked. They don’t want to be found.”

Bucky moved to your side. “But we found them anyway.”

You didn’t look at him.

“They’ll know we’re here now,” you said softly. “We’re close enough that the heat of their auras is radiating through the wall.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Heat?”

Alexei adjusted his grip on his shield. “That means fire. I am certain.”

You didn’t answer. You just stepped back, heart pounding, and nodded once toward the sealed doorway.

“You ready?” Bucky asked.

You hesitated. Then nodded again.

This wasn’t just about finding someone anymore. It was about what you might unleash when you did.

The door didn’t open so much as melt.

One second it was solid wall. The next, it shimmered out of existence, sucked inward and twisted like taffy before folding into nothing.

You all stepped back instinctively.

Then came the voice — low, calculated, smooth as wet marble.

“I was wondering when one of you would find us.”

Reed Richards stepped into the corridor like he’d been waiting.

He was around 6 feet. Unassuming at first glance — built strong, hair dark but silvering at the sides, and a moustache adorning his top lip. His suit was grey-blue, faintly glowing at the seams, moulded to his frame in a way that hinted at lab-engineered fibres. But his aura… it shimmered like quicksilver. Smooth and opaque. Too controlled. You couldn’t read it. Not really.

And that disturbed you more than anything.

Beside him stood a younger man. Blonde. Lean. Arms crossed over his chest, leaning with one shoulder against the melted frame of the wall, looking bored. His aura, unlike Reed’s, blazed golden-orange. Fire. Excitement. Recklessness. You didn’t need to know who he was to know what he could do.

Johnny Storm.

“Aw, man,” Johnny said, grinning at Alexei. “They sent the big guy from the Cold War. That’s adorable.”

Alexei puffed his chest out, entirely unbothered. “And you are fire boy. Like spicy little meatball.”

Johnny raised a brow. “Okay, what cartoon did you crawl out of?”

Alexei shrugged with a grin. “One where fire boy always loses to big, handsome Russian.”

“Enough,” Reed cut in, voice calm but firm. “You found us. Now what?”

You glanced at Bucky — he said nothing, expression unreadable. This was his op. But you knew better than to wait for him.

“We’re not here to bring you in,” you said, stepping forward. “We just want to know why you’re here. Why now. After all this time.”

Reed tilted his head, studying you like you were a thesis. “You’re new.”

“She’s not your concern,” Bucky snapped, finally stepping up beside you.

Johnny looked between the two of you and let out a low whistle. “Whoa. Is there—”

“No,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Alexei beamed. “There is tension. I love this.”

John stepped forward, impatient now. “Look, Richards, we don’t care what you’re doing. But if you’re planning something that puts New York at risk—”

“We’re not,” Reed said.

Johnny cracked his knuckles, literal sparks flying. “Depends on your definition of risk.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then why hide?”

Reed hesitated — and that was the first real tell. A flicker. Not of fear. But caution.

“We’ve been watching what’s happening,” he said finally. “Valentina’s grip is tightening. Heroes are being drafted, monitored, muzzled. That’s not freedom. That’s control.”

“And what you’re doing—sneaking through Lower Manhattan—isn’t control?” John said.

Reed looked past him, eyes meeting yours.

“Control,” he said slowly, “is about fear. And power. You’d be surprised how easy it is to lose yourself in both.”

You felt Bucky shift beside you — a movement so slight you might’ve missed it. But you felt the tension spike in his aura. Like Reed’s words hit too close.

You didn’t like this. You didn’t like Reed’s blank aura. Or Johnny’s flippant confidence. Or the way Bucky kept himself between you and the others without even thinking.

“Valentina will want to speak to you,” Bucky said eventually. “You’ll come with us. Cooperate. Maybe you’ll get some say in your future.”

Reed’s smile was thin. “We’ll consider it. But first—”

From the depths of the warehouse, something groaned. A machine, maybe. A generator kicking to life. The sound trembled through the floor and sent a gust of warm air spiralling up the corridor.

Johnny rolled his neck. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh?” Alexei echoed.

Johnny’s smile widened. “Yeah. That usually means you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

You barely had time to register the shift.

Reed’s eyes narrowed. A ripple — subtle, controlled — surged through the air. Energy, molecular, electromagnetic, something you couldn’t name. But you felt it in your bones. A warning.

And then everything exploded.

Johnny went first, launching into the air with a blast of flame that singed the warehouse ceiling black. Heat bloomed around him as he hovered, arms glowing like sunfire.

“You might wanna duck,” he shouted, and sent a fireball straight toward John.

Walker threw up his shield in time, catching the blast — but the impact sent him sliding several feet back, boots screeching across the floor. “Goddammit,” he muttered, shaking the singe off his arm. “I hate hotheads.”

Alexei roared, barreling forward like a battering ram toward Reed — only to be yanked back mid-stride by some force. His body twisted unnaturally for a moment, mid-air, until Reed flicked a hand and sent him crashing into a stack of metal crates.

You moved before you could think. Instinct. Training. Rage.

You sent out a wave — not full power, not like earlier with Bucky, but enough to shove Reed back into a wall. His body stretched and twisted as it hit, limbs warping and bending, like water trying to reform. He absorbed the blow with ease.

“Impressive,” he said, straightening. “But don’t overexert. I’m not the one you should be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid of anyone,” you snapped.

Behind you, Bucky was a blur. He ducked a fire blast from Johnny, vaulted over debris, and slammed into the Human Torch with a tackle so powerful it knocked the air from Johnny’s lungs. They crashed into the scaffolding overhead, flames licking at Bucky’s sleeves, but he didn’t let go.

“Stand down!” Bucky shouted over the roar of heat. “This doesn’t have to end in a fight.”

“Too late!” Johnny coughed, blasting flame directly between them and launching Bucky back.

You turned in time to see John and Alexei regroup — Alexei’s suit was partially scorched, but he grinned like a lunatic, cracking his neck.

“I love this job,” he said, and charged again.

You focused on Reed, trying to get close — but he dodged like liquid, impossible to pin down. Every move you made, he anticipated, twisting out of reach.

The fight was chaos, fire and fists clashing in bursts of movement across the crumbling basement floor. Reed had stretched himself like a whipcord around Alexei’s limbs, trying to pull him down. John was ducking plasma blasts, while Bucky fought like a man possessed — until he wasn’t.

Johnny Storm roared overhead, his body engulfed in searing flame, eyes glowing like molten coals. He dove like a meteor, striking Bucky hard across the chest and sending him skidding across the floor, metal arm scraping against concrete, flesh side vulnerable. He didn’t get up.

Your breath hitched.

“Bucky!” you shouted, the sound tearing from your throat before you could stop it.

Johnny surged forward again, fire arcing from his palms.

“Get off him!” The scream escaped you like it had claws, primal and sharp.

Johnny didn’t even look at you — just raised a blazing hand, ready to strike Bucky again.

Something inside you snapped.

“He’s not yours to kill!” you yelled, voice shaking with fury. “He’s not yours!”

The air warped. A pulse of aura erupted from you like a wave — raw, hot, blistering with energy and emotion. Anger. Panic. Hate. Power.

It knocked Johnny sideways midair like a ragdoll, extinguishing his flames in a violent sputter. He crashed against a pillar with a groan. Your body seized up with power. Aura flared out in a violent, blinding wave. It knocked Reed backwards. Everyone felt it.

Your knees buckled.

You didn’t even hit the ground.

Strong arms caught you — cradled you against a broad, sweat-dampened chest. The scent of steel, warmth, and aftershave grounded you for a breath before the world tilted again.

“Hey—hey—stay with me,” Bucky’s voice was tight with panic. You were dimly aware of the fight pausing, of Johnny landing hard nearby, eyes wide with guilt.

“She’s out!” John barked.

Bucky lowered you gently, brushing a hand against your cheek, trying to keep you conscious.

“You did good,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “You did good, okay? Stay with me, please.”

Everything spun. Your skin burned. Your powers roared in your veins, then flickered out like a dying match.

The last thing you saw before darkness took you was Bucky's face — tight-jawed, terrified — calling your name.

And then, nothing.

“Back off,” Bucky snapped, his voice like a razor.

He didn’t mean to sound so sharp — but Reed had taken a step forward, and that was too damn close. Too soon after you collapsed in his arms. Too close to the scorch marks still staining the floor.

Johnny’s flames had died down, but the air still shimmered with heat and tension. He held his hands up, guilty but defiant. “We didn’t know she’d react like that.”

“No one did,” Alexei muttered, hoisting his shield onto his back, eyeing your limp form with an expression unusually sombre for him.

John Walker hovered at the edge, his jaw tense. “Let’s get out of here.”

Bucky didn’t look up. He was kneeling beside you, one arm cradling your shoulders, the other checking your pulse for the third time.

Still there. Still steady. But faint.

“Are you okay?” he whispered under his breath, knowing you couldn’t answer. The question was mostly for himself. Because the longer he looked at your face — sweat-slicked, brow furrowed in unconscious pain — the more the ache in his chest grew.

You weren’t supposed to do this. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.

You were supposed to hate him. And yet, you saved him.

“Take a message back to Valentina,” Bucky finally said to John who was fingers were already tapping away on his comms device. Bucky rose to his feet with you in his arms. “Tell her this mission isn’t over. Reed Richards knows something. And we’re not done.”

Reed didn’t argue. His eyes were guarded now — calculating.

Johnny looked down, face lined with something close to regret. “I’m sorry,” he offered, voice quieter than usual. “Tell her I said that.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

He just walked past him, your body limp against his chest. John opened the door to the quinjet, letting him pass first. Alexei followed, his face unusually grim.

As they lifted off and the city shrank beneath them, no one spoke.

Not even John, who usually couldn’t shut up.

Alexei finally muttered, “She’s tough. She’ll bounce back.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the weight of you was still in his arms, the scent of smoke and lavender still in his lungs, and the echo of your power still ringing in his bones.

But worse than all of that — far worse — was the fear he couldn’t shake.

That maybe this wasn’t just a mission anymore.

That maybe he cared too much.

The quinjet touched down on the Avengers Tower rooftop, all smooth metal and humming engines, but Bucky didn’t wait for the platform to fully lower.

He was out of the hatch before anyone else moved, your body still limp in his arms.

Bob was already waiting by the med bay doors, having been alerted mid-flight. His holographic display flickered anxiously in one hand, the other pushing open the door with too-human urgency.

“In here, in here,” Bob chirped, worry lining every word. “Vitals first. Lay her flat.”

Bucky did. Gently. With more care than anyone had ever seen from him.

Your hair spilt over the crisp white pillow. You didn’t stir. Not even a wince.

“Her aura’s stabilising,” Bob muttered, scanning your forehead with a soft blue light. “But she pushed too far. Power surge like that? Burned straight through her neural pathways. She needs rest. Fluids. Maybe—”

The doors slammed open.

“What the hell happened?”

Sam.

Storming into the room, panic written all over his face, breath short like he’d flown in from five boroughs over. His eyes locked on you, then flicked to Bucky, and rage bloomed.

Bucky stood slowly from your bedside. He didn’t flinch.

“She lost control,” Bucky said, voice low.

“You were leading the mission.” Sam’s voice cracked, tight with fury. “You were with her. You said you had her. What did you do?!”

“I didn’t—” Bucky looked away. His jaw tensed. “She overreached. Tried to protect us. The power backfired. I didn’t see it coming.”

Sam stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides. “You should’ve. You’ve known her powers are unstable, you’ve seen it up close, and you still let her throw herself into the fight?”

“She made the call.”

“She's not a soldier, Bucky. She's still learning.”

“She’s not helpless either.”

“She’s hurt.” Sam snapped.

The room fell quiet.

The hum of the machines. The steady beep of your heart monitor. Bob’s hands moved gently, measuring your oxygen levels and watching your brainwave fluctuations, but his eyes darted nervously between the men.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Bucky said finally, almost like a question. “Right?”

Bob nodded. “She’s strong. Just... drained.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped back to you.

Your breathing was soft. Uneven. And your hand twitched against the sheet — the only sign of life he could focus on.

Sam stepped forward again, his voice quieter now, but just as sharp. “This doesn’t happen again. You don’t get to act like her pain doesn’t cost you.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. His voice was hoarse. “It does.”

And then he turned, heading for the door — because if he stayed a moment longer, he might say something he couldn’t take back.

Something like: I should’ve protected her first.

────✪────

The water roared as it slammed against Bucky’s back, hot enough to sting. But it wasn’t enough to wash away the gnawing feeling in his chest, the weight that settled into his bones every time his mind wandered back to the mission, to you.

His hands gripped the shower wall, fingers digging into the tiles as the steam surrounded him. He needed to feel something, anything, to get out of his head. The warmth of the water was almost painful, but it wasn’t the temperature that made his skin burn. No, it was the memory of your face, unconscious on that cold metal floor, your body limp in his arms.

It hit him in waves—how fragile you were, yet how strong, how... alive—but still so much like him. Like him in the ways you shouldn’t be, in the way you fought for others without thinking of yourself. And now, he’d let you fall. He’d let you suffer the weight of your own powers without catching you.

His breath caught. He dropped his head, feeling the cascade of water streak over his face. The guilt felt like a noose around his neck, tugging tighter with every breath. He had to save you, had to make sure nothing else happened to you—but it was too late.

The droplets ran down his body, the slickness of the water making his muscles ache as the steam filled his lungs. His mind drifted, despite his best efforts, to your face, your eyes. Those damned eyes that had read through him so easily. That moment when you said you were just looking at him...

It had driven him crazy. More than it should. More than it had to. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about you like this.

And then, your last words: “He’s not yours!”

He was supposed to be focused. Protecting. But all he could think of was the way you held yourself, the way your body had felt when he lifted you into his arms, so delicate but strong. The tension between you when he touched you, when he lifted you up to the vent, when he fought alongside you.

He hated it.

But then, he hated how much he wanted it, too.

His hands ran down his face, brushing away droplets, but the heat of the shower only made him feel hotter. His chest tightened as his mind replayed those moments: the brush of your lips in the chaos, the wildness of your energy, the way your scent lingered in the air.

He couldn’t stop himself. His body reacted without his permission—his breath deepened, chest rising and falling in rhythm to his pulse. He gritted his teeth as his muscles flexed, suddenly aware of the way the steam clung to his skin, the slickness of his hands trailing over his hard abs in frustration.

He wished they were your hands.

He closed his eyes and tried to block it out, but the thought of you—of the way you looked at him, of how he wanted to touch you again—made his pulse spike, his body betraying him as he pushed away the thoughts.

“Fuck.”

The word escaped his lips before he could stop it, his hands slamming against the wall in frustration. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He wasn’t supposed to want you.

And yet, here he was, drenched in guilt, drenched in steam, drenched in something else entirely.

The water kept pouring over him. Cold in the places it hit the skin that hadn’t been touched by the steam. Hot where his body burned with thoughts of you.

His body, however, didn’t care about his guilt. It only cared about the heat, the desperate desire that pooled low in his stomach as his thoughts of you grew more intense. He tried to shut it down, tried to focus on the sound of the water, but it was no use. His body betrayed him. The ache between his legs was unmistakable.

He reached down, his hand trembling slightly as he touched himself, the rough motion a quick, desperate attempt to rid himself of the thoughts that swirled around in his mind. His heart raced as his hand moved, fingers curled around his length that was already achingly hard, thoughts of you filling every inch of his being. He imagined the way you’d feel beneath him, your breath quickening as his lips brushed against yours, your body pressed against his.

Bucky pumped at his cock with one hand, and used the other hand to steady himself against the slippy tile wall. This was wrong, this was so wrong. Bucky cursed your name under his breath, over and over again. He’d never felt this way before, not about anyone. And if you found out about this… God, the mere thought terrified Bucky.

But the more he imagined, the faster his hand moved, the pressure building until it became unbearable. He couldn’t think of anything else—just you. Your lips, your skin, your defiance and strength. The way you made him feel so alive.

With a low groan, Bucky came, the release overwhelming him. Bursts of his cum painted the tiles on the wall white and the tension in his body shattered like glass. He grabbed a washcloth to clean the mess he made and turned the shower off. 

But as the high faded, so did the sense of relief. Guilt and shame flooded back, cold and heavy.

“Get it out of your system, Barnes,” he muttered to himself, voice rough, almost bitter. “You’re not some damn kid.”

But even as he said the words, he knew the truth. He wasn’t over you. He couldn’t be. He’d never be able to stop wanting you.

The hallway lights buzzed faintly as Bucky stepped out of the elevator and into the sterile calm of the med bay floor. His damp hair was slicked back, a dark shirt clinging to him like it didn’t want to let go of the heat still rolling off his skin.

He moved toward your room on instinct.

Bob was sitting beside your bed, hunched over a monitor, glasses sliding down his nose. He didn’t look up until Bucky’s boots scuffed the tile.

“She’s stable,” Bob murmured, adjusting a dial. “Vitals are strong. She just needs rest. Should wake up in a couple days.”

Bucky nodded once, silently. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you. Not yet. Not while guilt still twisted in his chest like a blade.

Bob glanced up at him. “You did everything right, you know.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He turned, jaw tight, and left the room.

Back upstairs, the tower buzzed with low voices and hurried footsteps. The tension was thick. People moving with purpose. Focus. Victory humming just beneath the surface.

The others had succeeded.

Yelena was the first to spot him as he stalked into the main briefing hallway.

“Bucky,” she called, jogging to catch up. Her short braid swayed as she fell into step beside him. “Valentina wants to debrief you. Alexei and John too. She’s… not thrilled.”

“Big surprise,” he muttered.

“She thinks you screwed the pooch.”

“She’s not wrong.”

Yelena paused, then nodded toward the security wing. “Sue Storm and the orange guy—Thing? They’re in Interrogation Two. Sam and Joaquin are with them. They’re cooperative. Friendly, even.”

Bucky arched a brow. “They just walked in?”

“They said they were waiting to be found.” She gave him a teasing glance. “Unlike your guy.”

He grunted.

Yelena’s voice softened. “Seriously, you okay?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept walking.

Inside the observation room, through the two-way glass, Bucky spotted Sam leaning on the edge of the table, mid-conversation with Sue and Ben Grimm. Joaquin was typing something into a tablet, and Ben was eating what looked like his third protein bar.

Sue noticed Bucky’s shadow at the door and offered a nod. Cool. Controlled.

He didn’t go in.

“Come on, Soldier,” Yelena nudged, jerking her thumb down the corridor. “Valentina’s waiting in Briefing Room C. She’s already got Alexei and Walker in there getting grilled.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. As if the steam of the shower had done nothing to purge the fire still simmering in his veins.

Valentina always had a way of making everything worse.

And if she asked what went wrong…

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to say it aloud.

That you’d been the strongest one there. And that he let you fall anyway.

The briefing room was dimly lit, the air stale with the cold scent of old coffee and control. Bucky walked in to find Valentina seated at the head of the table like a queen bored with her kingdom. Legs crossed, tablet in hand, red lips pursed in mock interest.

John sat off to the side with his arms crossed, wearing that smug “I’m not responsible for anything” expression. Alexei, by contrast, was visibly restless, bouncing his knee and cracking his knuckles like a teenager waiting to be scolded by a parent he could probably snap in half.

Valentina looked up as Bucky entered, and smiled—not warmly.

“Well, look who survived the sewer.”

Bucky didn’t rise to it. “Get to it.”

“Straight to business,” she sighed, tossing the tablet down with a dramatic clack. “No apology. No explanation. Just straight-up Alpha Male Cold Shoulder. Your charm is truly wasted on national security.”

Alexei shifted, muttering under his breath. “Is she always like this?”

“Worse,” John replied.

Valentina ignored them. She leaned forward, her tone suddenly razor-sharp. “You had one objective: locate and safely extract Reed Richards. Instead, you lost control of the situation, engaged in a firefight with allies, and brought back nothing but an unconscious asset and a headache.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “They attacked first. Reed was lying low for a reason.”

“Don’t feed me lines like I wasn’t watching the feed.” She tapped the table, where blurred thermal footage flickered to life. “You lost control of the situation. The girl blacked out. Walker was flailing. Alexei was—well, Alexei-ing. And you?” Her gaze pinned Bucky like a needle. “You froze. You rushed to her instead of finishing the fight.”

“Because she was—” He stopped himself. Took a breath. “She was down. She needed help.”

“She is not your priority, James,” Valentina said flatly.

Alexei bristled. “Hey. She saved our asses. You weren’t there.”

Valentina’s eyes flicked to him. “And I’m not sure you belong there either, Red Guardian. This isn’t the Soviet circus.”

Alexei leaned forward, grinning with too many teeth. “You’re just mad because my team actually likes me.”

John smirked, but Bucky spoke over them. “The mission’s not over. We made contact. We know where Reed and Johnny are. We can work with that.”

“You lost the element of surprise,” Valentina countered. “And what you can work with is my patience—which is thinning by the second. Richards is slipping through your fingers, and I’m not sending the entire tower to clean up your mistakes.”

Bucky held her gaze. “Then don’t. Just send me.”

Valentina’s smile curled like smoke. “Oh, honey. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

A tense silence followed, broken only by the low buzz of the projector screen behind her.

Then, cool as ever, she stood and smoothed her blazer. “Debriefing’s over. Get her stable, regroup, and next time—try not to let your personal feelings compromise the mission.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply, heels clicking like gunfire against the floor.

Alexei muttered something in Russian.

John finally uncrossed his arms. “I hate that woman.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He was already heading for the door.

────✪────

The med bay was still, cloaked in sterile shadows and the low, persistent rhythm of machines beeping beside your bed. It was late—most of the tower had gone quiet hours ago—but Bucky stayed.

He sat in the chair beside you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was praying. He’d changed into a dark hoodie and sweatpants, damp hair curling slightly at the ends from the shower. The exhaustion in his eyes ran deeper than the mission. His body was still, but tension hummed beneath his skin.

He watched the steady rise and fall of your chest, studied the furrow in your brow like you were fighting even now, even in sleep.

"I don’t know if you can hear me," he said finally, voice low and scratchy. "I’m guessing not. But I... needed to talk. And you’re the only one I think I can say this to."

He leaned back slowly in the chair, letting his head hit the wall behind him. His jaw worked as he tried to shape the next words, fingers flexing in his lap like he wasn’t used to speaking them aloud.

"You ever get tired of carrying ghosts?" he asked, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “'Cause I do. Every mission, every second of peace I get—it’s borrowed time. I used to think if I just kept going, if I kept fighting, the guilt would shut up. But it doesn’t. It just gets quieter. Trickier."

His gaze dropped back to you.

"I hated how loud you were, at first. You just... came in swinging. No fear. No filter." His mouth curved, faintly. "You called me an asshole before you even knew me."

He paused. Swallowed.

"And I miss it. I miss the way you rolled your eyes at me. The way you pushed every button like you were born to do it. You made me feel like I was still real. Like I wasn’t just the guy in the file. The weapon. The relic."

He reached forward without thinking, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with calloused fingers. He stopped himself before his hand lingered too long.

"I don’t know what happened to you out there. I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve protected you. But all I could think about was—was how scared you looked, right before you fell. I can’t get it outta my head."

His voice cracked slightly, but he cleared it before continuing.

"And now I’m sitting here talkin’ to you like you’re gonna wake up and start yelling at me again. But part of me hopes you do. That you wake up, call me a dick, and ask for food." A breath of a laugh. "I’d take that over this silence any day."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, hands raking through his hair.

"You’re stronger than you think. Whatever’s inside you, whatever’s chasing you—I’ve seen people break from half of what you’ve survived. But not you."

Silence stretched for a few beats. Then, quietly:

"Come back, alright? I need someone to argue with."

And he stayed there, beside you, long after the machines hummed on and the world outside forgot how soft he could be.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

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[sapphoagapova]

sweats… skips shadley …. Lip n tongue piercinfs…. Reader faceriding hhim n when he gets the memo that reader’s afraid of putting their full weight on him he just . Yanks them down with or without warning . This is further into their relationship cuz i js know his ass gets bold when hes comfortable . Many other things in my head but this is the one that comes outta those thoughts. One of which being just simply domming him when ur fresh into the relation of the ship and playing into those sweet suppressed kinks that he’s hiding cuz hes shy and probably still nervous . SHAKES im normal

Hhhhiiii i saw ur post from one hour ago ^_^ ^_^ ^_^ — leopard anon (perchance) 🐾⚡️

#CONTAINS: Face-sitting, blowjobs, multiple orgasms, possibly OOC, first time writing smut, so it could potentially be bad!! #SYNOPSIS: You and Skips lounge on the porch, the smoke curling lazily between your lips as the night wraps around you both. You’ve been together for a while now, and with every flirtatious glance and lingering touch, the thought of finally taking him to bed grows harder to ignore. #AUTHORSNOTE: This is my first time writing smut, so this could be bad, and it isn't exactly what Anon wanted, but! Hey! More Skips Shadley content! Word count: 6k words.

The porch was worn but warm, still holding the heat of the day in its wood like a secret it hadn’t decided to let go of. The faded boards creaked gently beneath shifting weight, soft as an old sigh. Cracks in the paint curled like brittle paper left too long in the sun, the remnants of once-bold colour now ghosted over by time. Somewhere in the yard, wind stirred the tall grass just enough to remind you the world was still moving—that beyond this quiet frame, time hadn’t stopped. A lone cicada buzzed and fell silent again. The trees swayed lazily, casting shadows that reached but never quite touched the porch. But up here, in this in-between space of light and hush, everything felt paused—like the breath before a question, the stillness before someone speaks, the moment that asks you to stay just a little longer.

A flame bloomed in Skips’ cupped hands, briefly lighting up the shadows clinging to his face. The joint caught with a low, satisfying sizzle, the sound barely rising above the hum of the night. He took a slow, measured hit—eyes half-lidded, mouth barely parting as the smoke filled his lungs—and held it there for a beat before exhaling in a soft stream that curled into the air like fog. Without a word, he passed it to you, fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. The ember glowed faintly in the dark, a small orange pulse between two fingertips, casting flickering light on chipped nail polish and the silver ring he always wore. Crickets chirped lazily in the background, and the scent of weed and woodsmoke mixed in the thick summer air.

You were curled up with Skips in a blanket pile, sunk into the worn wooden stairs of the porch like the two of you had always belonged there. The world was quiet in that fuzzy, slowed-down way it gets when the high hits just right. The joint sat snug between your lips as you took a deep breath, the ember glowing brighter for a moment before you let the smoke roll out, slow and sweet. It drifted into the warm night air, catching the porch light like fog in a dream. You let your head fall gently onto Skips’ shoulder, your cheek brushing against the fabric of his hoodie, worn soft from too many washes.

"You know, I'm fucking glad someone in this house smokes—it's been real lonely since Sam moved to another state," you mumbled, your voice heavy and honest, your words stretching out like syrup. "And I'm real glad the 420 wasn't bullshit." You waved the joint for emphasis, the ember leaving a lazy streak of light in the dark. Skips didn’t say anything at first—he didn’t know who Sam was, only that you talked about them a lot, someone from 'thiscord,' some far-off corner of your phone—but he understood the tone, the soft ache behind it.

He leaned into your head, his own weight warm and grounding against yours. “I mean,” he murmured, “I did put that on my handle to look cool before actually smoking weed.”

That made you huff a laugh, short and real, and the smoke slipped out with it. The porch creaked beneath you both like it was laughing too. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed, headlights casting brief shadows across the yard before disappearing. Time felt far away. All that mattered was the warm spot your bodies made on the porch, the joint flickering like a tiny star between you, and the shared quiet that said more than either of you needed to.

"So, you manifested it?" you grinned, the corner of your mouth tugging up as you raised a teasing brow, the joint lazily held between your fingers like a wand mid-spell. The smoke drifted past your face, catching in your lashes, softening everything.

Skips shrugged, trying to look casual, but the porch light betrayed him. A faint yellow blush bloomed across his cheeks, warm against the usual stillness of his face. He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes flicking away just for a second. “Probably,” he muttered, lips tugging into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. “I got curious.”

“Well, it does bring the satisfaction,” you murmured, tapping ash from the joint with a practiced flick before taking another hit. The smoke curled around your words, lazy and warm. You sat up, peeling yourself away from Skips’ shoulder—much to his quiet disappointment. The place where your head had rested felt oddly empty now, like the heat had been sucked out of it.

You leaned back on your hands, spine arched, chin tilted toward the stars. The porch light threw a faint glow over your features, but your eyes were far away—glassy with more than just the high. There was a story flickering there, pulling you somewhere else entirely.

“Sam and I used to smoke like this all the time,” you said, your voice softer now, but with that hazy fondness only old friendships carry. You passed the joint back to Skips. “Back in our college apartment, we’d roll up, blast some weird SoundCloud artist no one had ever heard of, and just… lose hours. Talked mad shit. Laughed until we cried.”

Skips blinked slowly, the image already forming in his mind. You always painted things in colours that stuck.

“And we had this really stupid tradition—whenever we hooked up with someone and never talked to them again, we’d steal their belts.”

Skips turned to you, brows slightly raised. “You stole them?”

You grinned, impish and unapologetic. “We called it the ‘Belt Wall.’ Had like ten at one point. All different styles. It was like a shrine to bad decisions.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “That’s… honestly kind of impressive.”

“What can I say? I’m quite good in bed,” you bragged, a sly grin curling at your lips. You didn’t look at him when you said it, but you could feel his attention shift.

Skips raised a brow, head tilted slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeated, dragging out the word with playful confidence. “I got into all sorts of kinks.”

He hummed, a low, amused sound in his throat. Not disbelief, not judgement—just curiosity tucked inside something unreadable. It made your stomach tighten, just a little.

Admittedly—well, not admittedly, since you hadn’t said it out loud—you’d been eyeing him for a while now. Not just in passing glances or harmless daydreams, but in that slow-burning, aching kind of way. The kind where his hoodie smelt too good, his voice stuck to your skin, and every accidental touch sparked something dangerous and warm. The kind where you wondered, quietly, desperately, what it would be like to finally take him to bed.

Sure, you were dating. The label was there. You kissed, you cuddled, you shared joints and stupid inside jokes and blanket piles on creaking porches—but you hadn’t done it yet. Not that you were rushing, but the question hovered. Lingered. Grew louder in moments like this.

You wondered what he liked. What made his breath hitch. What made him shy. What he’d let you do if you asked nicely—or not-so-nicely. You wondered what he wouldn’t like. If he’d trust you enough to say so. If he’d blush when you leaned close and whispered things only meant for dim rooms and locked doors.

Your gaze slid to him, sharp but playful. “What about you?” you asked, voice a little softer, a little slower. “You into anything?”

Skips choked a little on his own breath—subtle, but enough that you noticed. He cleared his throat, scratched the back of his neck, and then finally glanced at you with a lopsided smile that was all nerves and not enough confidence to cover them up.

“I mean… maybe,” he mumbled, not quite meeting your gaze. “Kinda depends who’s asking.”

You smiled wide, shameless. “Someone who’s been hoping you’d end up in their bed.”

That definitely made him blush. He looked down at his lap, a low laugh escaping him, flustered and warm. “You can’t just say shit like that while I’m high,” he muttered.

But he didn’t say no. And that flicker in his eyes? That wasn’t hesitation—it was permission.

You licked your lips slowly, deliberately, eyes lingering on his mouth—the way it twisted nervously, how he chewed at the inside of his cheek like he didn’t know what to do with your attention. The way his gaze flicked anywhere but yours only made you want him more. There was something about the way he got shy that stirred something deep in your chest. You wanted to pull every sound out of him, every hidden thought, every quiet little please.

“Come on,” you said, tilting your head, your voice dipping low and velvety as you leaned in just a little. “What are you into?”

He shifted beside you, pulling the blanket a little higher like it would shield him. “Why’re you asking like that?” he muttered, clearly flustered, eyes still not on you.

You just smiled, slow and indulgent. “I’ll go first, if it helps.” He didn’t respond, but you caught the way his shoulder tensed slightly, like he was bracing for something.

You let the words slip out, soft and intimate. “I really like body worship,” you said, watching him closely. “Giving, receiving. Slow, drawn out. Making someone feel like they’re sacred.”

That earned a reaction—barely a flicker in his expression, but it was there. His jaw shifted. His hands twitched. You could practically feel him trying not to react.

He cleared his throat, mumbling, “That’s pretty vanilla.”

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Mm. I can be kinkier.” You shrugged like it was no big deal, but your eyes stayed locked on him, steady and inviting. “Come on. What’s yours?”

He hesitated, a long pause stretching out between you like something fragile and waiting. Then, finally, his voice came out—barely above a whisper.

“I think I like… being told what to do,” he said, not meeting your eyes, cheeks already flushed. “Not like, super hardcore stuff. Just… being guided. Pushed around a little.”

That made your breath hitch, just slightly. It was subtle, but it rippled through your chest like a shiver, sparked by the quiet confession he'd barely managed to get out. He hadn’t even looked at you when he said it—had barely whispered it like the words themselves were fragile—but they hit you like a brick.

You leaned in, slow and deliberate, your voice low enough that only he could hear, like you were handing him a secret in the dark. “You like being taken care of,” you murmured, letting the words linger in the space between you. Your smile deepened, soft and dangerous all at once. “And maybe… a little controlled?”

Skips made a sound—barely a groan, more like a breath catching on the edge of embarrassment—and dropped his face into his hands. His ears were burning red now, and his shoulders curled up like he could hide inside the blanket between you. “Why are you saying it like that—”

“Because you’re cute when you’re squirming,” you teased, nudging his knee with yours, tone playful but with just enough gravity to make your meaning clear. You didn’t need to push harder than that—he was already unraveling, just from this.

He didn’t answer immediately, just let out a breathy laugh into his hands, muffled and helpless. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t shift back. If anything, his body leaned a little closer to yours, like he didn’t want to admit how much the tension was affecting him—but couldn’t help but give in to it anyway.

You watched him for a second, just breathing him in—the nervous fidgeting, the flushed skin, the way his knee brushed yours and didn’t move. He was trying so hard to hold on to his composure, and he was failing in the prettiest way.

You reached up, slowly, gently curling your fingers around his wrists—his skin warm under your touch, pulse fluttering beneath your thumb. He froze for a moment but didn’t resist, letting you guide his hands away from his face like you were peeling back the last layer of hesitation between you. And there he was. His cheeks were flushed—soft, warm, unmistakably golden under the porch light, like the glow had settled into his skin. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and uncertain, but so full of something you’d both been pretending not to notice for weeks now. Maybe longer. You stared at him for a beat, mouth parting, breath catching at the sight of him—so shy, so exposed, and still not pulling away.

“…You’re really pretty,” you whispered. It slipped out like breath, like instinct, like the truth had been on your tongue for too long and finally decided to fall out on its own.

His eyes widened just slightly, like the words stunned him. Like they struck some small, hidden place inside him that didn’t know how to handle softness. His lips parted in surprise, and he opened his mouth to say something—but nothing came out. He looked at you like you’d cracked something open in him. Like no one had said it quite like that before. Or maybe no one had said it and meant it. The air around you was thick now, tense but tender, full of things that didn’t need to be said. You could hear both of your breathing. You could feel the way your knees touched, the way the heat between you had slowly gone from playful to something that throbbed at the base of your spine.

You didn’t move. You didn’t need to. Because Skips did.

He leaned in—tentative at first, still testing the gravity between you, still not totally convinced this was real. His hand found your thigh, warm and trembling just slightly, grounding himself. His other hand hovered by your cheek, fingers twitching with hesitation before brushing against your jaw with the gentlest touch, like you might vanish if he grabbed too tightly. Then he kissed you. Soft. Sweet. Careful, like a question asked in the dark. Like a secret shared between two people who’d been tiptoeing toward each other for far too long.

You didn’t hesitate. You kissed him back with everything you’d been holding back—slow, full, sure. His lips were warm and plush, a little unsure, but they moved with yours like he’d thought about this before. Dreamed about it. Maybe even replayed it in his head late at night, just like you had.

His hand tightened slightly on your thigh, and you shifted closer, your hand sliding up his arm to rest against his chest. You could feel his heart beating fast, matching your own, both of you caught in something that wasn’t just a kiss—it was everything you hadn’t said finally collapsing into touch. Your fingers moved without thought, instinct taking over as your hand slid up the side of his neck and into his hair—dark, soft, slightly messy from the way he kept nervously running his hands through it all night. You buried your fingers there, gently at first, but then you gripped tighter, tugging just enough to test him.

That was when he groaned—quiet, caught off guard, and pressed right against your mouth. The sound vibrated into you like a shiver, low and breathy, full of surprise and need. It wasn’t loud, but it was honest. His lips faltered against yours for a heartbeat, like the sensation short-circuited something in him, and then he kissed you harder, leaning into your body, like he wanted to melt into your skin. You swallowed the noise he made, greedy for more.

The kiss deepened—slow, but messier now, less careful. He was still shy, still flushed, but your touch seemed to pull something out of him. Something he didn’t know how to name. Like your fingers in his hair unlocked a door he hadn’t meant to open just yet. You tugged again, just slightly, watching how his breath hitched, how his hands tightened on your thighs as though to anchor himself.

And god, that sound.

He eased you back with a gentle press, and the moment your body gave way, darkness swept over you like a velvet tide. You barely registered the shift—only the plush give of something soft cradling your spine. Still, you hadn’t let go of him. Not yet. It felt too good, too overwhelming, like a fever you didn’t want to break.

You whimpered when he pulled away from your mouth, but he didn’t go far—only dipped lower, lips grazing your neck with heat and hunger. The sound you made was involuntary, a breathy moan that escaped before you could stop it. Still, the pause gave your eyes a moment to wander, adjusting to the dim glow bleeding through strands of shadow.

You recognized it now—this realm, this oddly intimate bubble of space. The same pocket dimension where you first crossed paths with him under the alias xxxshadowlord420xxx. Only now, the void had been furnished with personality: band posters clung to the dark walls like relics from a forgotten era—emo names only the most online would remember. A dented CD rack leaned drunkenly in the corner, stuffed to the brim. An old computer hummed in the corner, its desktop a cluttered mosaic of downloads and chaotic nostalgia. The place reeked of teenage angst and digital sanctuary. An emo bedroom, unmistakably his.

And yet, even with your back against what might’ve been a mattress and your gaze trailing across the cluttered shrine of who he was, your hands remained hooked around him, refusing to let go.

“Fuck…” you breathed, the word slipping out in a shaken whisper as his teeth sank into your skin. A sharp sting bloomed beneath the surface, and your fingers instinctively tangled in his shadowy hair. Sensing your jolt, he eased the pressure, his lips softening as he pressed a gentle kiss to the same spot, a quiet apology written in heat and tenderness. The contrast—the bite and then the balm—made your pulse thrum in your throat, your body caught somewhere between ache and surrender.

Your fingers trailed languidly through the silken strands of his raven locks, each tooth releasing from the tender flesh of his scalp as your hand began its retreat. The air felt cool and foreign against your dampened fingertips as they descended, a whisper of sensation lingering in their wake. Gently, almost reverently, your palm cupped the growing heat of his arousal, the hard length of him twitching against your touch like a brand of living steel. His breath, once ragged and desperate, began to slow and steady as he buried his face into the crook of your shoulder, the warmth of your skin and the scent of your essence seeming to soothe the ragged edges of his hunger. The room fell silent save for the soft, shuddering inhales and exhales that ghosted over your collarbone, a haunting melody of sated desire and lingering need.

In a flurry of eager hands and rustling fabric, you and Skips worked to divest him of his shirt, the garment falling away to reveal his toned, gray-skinned torso. Your eyes widened slightly as they fell upon the glint of metal adorning his nipples - a pair of intricate, circular barbells that caught the dim light, their surface a darker shade of gray than his natural skin tone. A smirk played at the corners of your mouth, a teasing glint sparkling in your eyes as you took in the sight of the piercings.

"Spicy…" You murmured, your voice laced with playful mischief. A pretty blush crept across Skips' cheeks, the rare display of color on his pallid skin only serving to make him look more alluring. He ducked his head, trying to hide the way his ears burned, but you could see the pleased smile tugging at his lips beneath his unkempt hair. It seemed your approval meant more to him than he let on, his body language betraying a hint of the vulnerability hidden beneath his usual aloof exterior.

You leaned back against the headboard, taking a moment to fully appreciate Skips' newly exposed form. Your gaze drifted over the tantalizing sight of his nipple piercings, the glint of metal a delicious contrast to his smooth, gray skin. You followed the line of his happy trail, the narrow path of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers, drawing your eye downwards. Your breath caught slightly as your attention was caught by the growing bulge at his crotch, his arousal evident and impressive even through the fabric.

As you drank in every detail of Skips' appearance, you saw his expression shift, a becoming blush staining his fair skin. He ducked his head shyly, trying to hide the way his ears burned beneath the tousled fall of his hair. "Please, don't look at me like that..." Skips murmured, his usual bravado deserting him in the face of your blatant admiration. There was a rare vulnerability in his eyes as he peeked up at you from beneath sooty lashes, a hint of the man beneath the "cool" facade. It was clear your gaze affected him deeply, igniting a warmth within him that had little to do with lust.

"I can't help it, you're breathtaking," you murmured, your voice low and heavy with admiration. As if drawn by an invisible force, your hand began to explore the expanse of Skips' chest, your fingers trailing up to gently pinch and roll his pierced nipple between them. The action elicited a sharp gasp from Skips, his breath escaping him in a shuddering pant as your lips began their own sensual journey across his skin.

You peppered his neck with tender kisses, your mouth mapping the column of his throat with a reverence that made Skips' pulse jump beneath your lips. You traced the line of his collarbone with the tip of your tongue before dipping lower, your kisses trailing downwards until you reached his other nipple. Skips arched into your touch with a low, drawn-out moan, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. His skin was hot and smooth beneath your mouth, the metal of his piercing cool in contrast. You lingered there for a moment, laving the sensitive bud with attention until Skips was writhing on top of you, his body thrumming with pleasure and need.

As your teasing touches and tender kisses inflamed Skips' desire, you felt him begin to move against you with increasing urgency. He ground his hips into your thigh, the rough denim of his jeans creating a delicious friction that made him gasp and shudder. His movements grew more insistent, almost desperate, as he rutted against you like a dog in heat. The evidence of his arousal was unmistakable, the hard, thick line of his cock straining against the confines of his trousers as he sought more of that maddening pressure.

At the same time, Skips' fingers tightened in your hair, gripping the strands with a fervor that bordered on pain. He used the grip to pull you closer, to crush your lips more firmly against his chest, demanding more of your touch. His breath came in hot, ragged pants, the sound of his increasingly labored breathing filling your ears as he lost himself in the haze of sensation.

As your lips and fingers retreated from Skips' now-tender nipples, a sound of protest escaped him - a needy whine that caught in his throat, his body arching upwards as if to chase your touch. You could feel the frustration radiating off him, his skin prickling with goosebumps and his muscles coiled tight with tension. But there was no time to linger on his discomfort, not when the evidence of his arousal was so prominent, so urgently demanding attention.

With a shared look of playful conspirator, you and Skips set to work divesting him of the last of his clothing. Your deft fingers made quick work of his belt, the leather strap slipping free of its loops with a soft clink. At the same time, Skips' own hands fumbled with his zipper, the metal teeth parting ways with a hiss as he wrenched the denim open. Together, you both tugged and wriggled, Skips lifting his hips to aid in the process as he shimmied out of the constrictive jeans. The tight fabric resisted for a moment before giving way, the dark denim sliding down his legs to pool around his ankles. Soft giggles escaped your lips at the slightly comedic moment.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against the damp fabric of Skips' boxers, feeling the intense heat radiating from his straining erection. "Penumbra..." he gasped, his voice thick with need as you lavished his most sensitive area with gentle kisses. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and he found himself drowning in the depths of your gaze - a swirling mix of love and lust that made his heart clench and his cock throb with anticipation.

Unable to resist any longer, you peeled his boxers down, freeing his impressive length from its cotton prison. It sprang up, slapping against his stomach, the thick shaft flushed a deep, angry red and leaking with desire. Before Skips could even process the sudden exposure, you had already wrapped your lips around his cock, your mouth engulfing his aching flesh in a warm, slick embrace.

A guttural moan tore from Skips' throat, his head leaning back as his hips jerked upwards, driving himself deeper into your mouth. His fingers tightened in your hair, gripping the strands with a desperate intensity as he fought the urge to thrust, to fuck your face with wild abandon.

Heeding Skips' desperate plea, you took him a few tantalizing inches deeper, your lips stretching to accommodate his generous girth. You could feel the thick, pulsing heat of him throbbing against your tongue as you began to bob your head, taking him in and then pulling back, setting a steady rhythm. The musky, slightly bitter taste of his arousal flooded your senses, a heady elixir that made your head swim and your core clench with desire.

Your fingers gripped the base of his shaft, pumping in time with the movement of your mouth, stroking the velvety skin that was so hard and yet so sensitive. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the unique map of his desire etched into the hot flesh beneath your fingertips. Skips' breath grew harsher, his chest rising and falling more rapidly as you worked him with lips and tongue and hand, stoking the flames of his lust ever higher.

"oooooh, fuck! Penumbra!" he let out a needy groan. "I'm—I'm about to erupt—!"

Skips' hips began to move with increasing urgency, no longer able to hold back as he fucked into the warm, welcoming haven of your mouth. His grip on your hair turned almost punishing as he set a relentless pace, his cock driving in and out, in and out, the thick length plunging past your lips and hitting the back of your throat with each powerful thrust. You could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in his body, his muscles drawn taut like a bowstring ready to snap.

With a roar that was equal parts pleasure and agony, Skips slammed his hips forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt in the clutch of your throat. At the same moment, his cock jerked and pulsed, the thick shaft throbbing as it unleashed a torrent of hot, bitter seed directly down your gullet. You had only a split second to prepare before the first spurt of his release flooded your mouth, the sheer volume of it catching you off guard.

You tried your best to swallow it down, to gulp and swallow and breathe through your nose as Skips emptied himself into you, his cum shooting out in seemingly endless ropes of thick, viscous fluid. But it was too much, too fast, and you found coughing out his essences, pulling back.

"Oh—Oh, my god—I am so sorry—" He gently held your shoulders as you continued to cough out, "Are you okay?"

“No—” you choked on your own breath, coughing once before forcing a laugh. “—It’s fine! Never been better.” Your voice wavered just enough to betray you, even as that lovesick grin stretched across your face. It looked dreamy—almost dazed—like someone high on affection and denial all at once.

“God, you look insane.” He laughed, breathless and amused. You laughed too, cheeks warm as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, trying to compose yourself.

“Uhm…” You glanced away for a moment, your eyes flickering toward the floor before returning to him. “Wanna keep going?”

“Re—Really?” His eyes widened slightly, lips parted in quiet surprise. “A—Are you sure?”

“Yeah…” you murmured, fingertips drifting gently across his bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin and the thrum of his heartbeat beneath it. “I still have some stamina…”

His hand found yours, holding it in place for a second longer. “Well… I do wanna make you feel good this time…”

You smiled softly. “Yeah?”

He nodded, voice low. “Yeah…”

“Uhm… so what do you wanna do to me?” you asked, shifting where you sat, trying to sound casual despite the heat creeping up your neck.

“Oh! Uhm…” He fumbled for words, eyes darting away before returning to you with hesitant boldness. “I was hoping you’d…”

You leaned in slightly, your voice low and teasing. “I’d…?”

His breath hitched. “Sit on my face.”

The moment hung suspended—his face blooming a bright, embarrassed yellow, like someone caught in a dream he didn’t expect to say out loud. His ears twitched. Yours probably burned.

You looked him up and down, biting your lip as if already tasting the thought. A soft giggle escaped you before your hands slid to his shoulders, pulling him down onto the mattress with ease. The room shifted with your movements, and in seconds, you were on top—straddling him, your thighs framing his hips, confidence glinting in your eyes like a dare.

You leaned down and crashed your mouth against his, lips dragging with a greedy, open-mouthed hunger. Your tongue lapped at his, not so much a kiss as a claim—fast, wet, and messy. His breath hitched sharply beneath you as your teeth scraped his bottom lip, and you swallowed the sound he made. Hands gripped, clutched, pulled—neither of you caring about finesse, just the heat, the urgency, the ache of wanting more.

You quickly slipped your shorts down your legs, kicking them off to the side. You were left in nothing but your damp panties, the flimsy fabric clinging to your aching sex, a testament to your own arousal. His hands were already reaching for you, his fingers slipping beneath the elastic of your panties with a sense of urgency. "Eager…" You teased yet obeyed his desire.

you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your drenched panties and shimmied out of them, the flimsy fabric sliding down your legs to pool on the bed beside you. Baring yourself fully to Skips' heated gaze, you swung your leg over to straddle his face, your dripping sex now hovering mere inches above his lips.

Skips' eyes darkened with lust as he took in the glorious sight of your naked, glistening folds, the heady aroma of your arousal filling his nostrils. His hands gripped your thighs, long fingers splaying over the smooth skin as he held you steady, positioning you exactly where he wanted you.

You bit your lip, a thrill of anticipation and a flicker of nervousness dancing in your eyes as you gazed down at Skips' dark, intense gaze. "Ready?" you whispered, your voice breathy and laden with desire.

Skips eagerly nodded, his eyes blazing with a feral hunger that made your pulse jump. He didn't wait for you to lower yourself to him, but instead, he surprised you with a sudden, forceful tug on your thighs. Skips demonstrated an astonishing strength as he easily pulled you down, your dripping sex slamming against his waiting mouth with a lewd, obscene sound. His lips parted instantly, his tongue delving between your folds to lap at your dripping essence with a desperate, almost starving fervor.

"Oh!" you gasped, your back arching as a jolt of pleasure shot through you. Skips' tongue was relentless, stroking and delving, teasing your sensitive flesh with a skill that left you breathless. He seemed determined to taste every drop of your arousal, to drink his fill of your nectar until he was sated. Your hesitation melted away as he feasted on your sex, his mouth and tongue and lips working in tandem to stoke the flames of your desire ever higher. The sensation of his mouth on your aching, needy body was almost too much to bear, the intensity of it stealing your breath and making your head spin.

Your fingers tangled almost desperately in Skips' long, silky hair, gripping the dark strands as if your life depended on it. Broken gasps and wanton moans spilled from your lips, interspersed with breathless pleas and curses. "Fuck, Skips..." you panted, your voice ragged and raw with desire. "Fuck, yes, just like that..."

Skips needed no further encouragement. He doubled his efforts, plunging his tongue deep into your dripping channel with a newfound fervor. He fucked your cunt with a wild abandon, his tongue pumping in and out, stroking your most sensitive spots with a skill that left you seeing stars. The obscene sound of his mouth working over your sex filled the room, punctuated by your increasingly high-pitched cries of ecstasy.

At the same time, Skips' hands roamed your body, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, kneading and squeezing, urging you to grind yourself against his face. His thumbs brushed over your clit, circling and teasing the swollen nub, sending jolts of electricity zinging up your spine.

You ground your dripping sex against Skips' face with wild abandon, your hips undulating in a primal dance as old as time itself. Your chest heaved with each ragged, desperate breath, the rise and fall of your breasts matching the relentless rhythm of Skips' tongue plunging into your aching core. You bit your lip hard enough to leave a mark, your teeth sinking into the tender flesh as you struggled to muffle the wanton moans and cries that threatened to spill from your throat.

Your fingers tightened their grip on Skips' hair, fisting the silky strands as you held his face flush against your dripping folds. You could feel the scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs, the slight abrasion a delicious contrast to the slick slide of his tongue as it fucked your cunt with a wild, almost punishing fervor. Your body moved of its own accord, grinding and rolling, chasing the pleasure that only Skips could give you. 

You could feel your thighs beginning to tremble and quake beneath Skips' skilled ministrations, the muscles fluttering and tensing as your climax approached. Skips, ever attuned to your body's every reaction, could sense your impending release long before you had to utter a word. His obsidian eyes flicked up to meet yours, blazing with a dark, triumphant intensity as he redoubled his efforts, spurred on by the knowledge that he had brought you to the brink of ecstasy.

With a low, approving growl that vibrated through you, Skips plunged his tongue even deeper into your dripping cunt. He fucked your channel with a wild, almost feral intensity, his tongue pumping in and out, stroking your most sensitive spots with a breathtaking skill that left you seeing stars. At the same time, his lips sealed around your clit, suckling the swollen nub with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He teased the underside with the tip of his tongue, flicking and circling, before closing his lips and suckling harder, determined to drink down every last drop of your release.

"Fuck! Skiiippsss!" You cried out, your voice dissolving into a drawn-out, keening wail as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your body convulsed, back arching sharply as pleasure exploded through every nerve ending, setting your skin ablaze and your heart pounding. Skips' fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, holding you in place as he relentlessly worked you through your climax, his tongue never pausing in its relentless assault on your spasming sex.

Warm, molten heat flooded your core as your walls clenched and fluttered around Skips' plundering muscle, gripping it like a velvet vise. Your thighs trembled violently, quaking and jerking as you rode out the intense waves of your release. Broken sobs and gasps tumbled from your lips, punctuated by the shameless grinding of your hips, your body instinctively seeking to prolong the mind-blowing ecstasy that Skips had unleashed within you.

Skips drank down your essence greedily, his lips and tongue and chin slick with your dripping arousal. He seemed determined to taste every last drop, to swallow down your pleasure until he was drunk on it, addicted to the flavor of your desire.

With your legs still trembling from the aftershocks of your intense climax, you forced yourself to unstraddle Skips' face. You collapsed onto the bed beside him, your chest heaving as you fought to catch your breath, your skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration. You turned your head to the side, your eyes widening as you took in the debauched sight of Skips' face—his chin and lips slick with your dripping arousal, his obsidian eyes glazed and unfocused from the thorough tongue-lashing he had just given you.

"Holy fuck..." you breathed, your voice ragged and raw from your cries of ecstasy. Skips' chest rose and fell rapidly beside you, his own breathing labored from the exertion of his enthusiastic ministrations. A few stray strands of his long, dark hair clung to his face, plastered there by the slick evidence of your shared passion. The sight of him, the raw, primal intensity etched into every line and curve of his cum-drunk features, sent a fresh shiver of desire rippling through your sated body. You knew you should say something more, something profound or poetic, but all you could manage was a breathless, awestruck… "Hi…"

Skips let out a low, boyish giggle, his voice still thick with leftover heat. “Hey…”

You turned your head slightly toward him. “That was…” you exhaled, your lips curving into a hazy smile, “really nice. Amazing, even… You were really good.” Your voice came out soft, awestruck, like you were still floating somewhere between reality and whatever place he had just taken you to.

Skips leaned in and kissed you, and instantly, you tasted yourself on his lips—a lingering reminder of everything that had just happened. But this time, it wasn’t rushed or frantic. It wasn’t driven by need. How could it be, when you’d already had him, already reached that high together. No—this kiss was different. It was slow, tender. His lips moved against yours like he was savoring you now, not devouring. It was soft. Loving. Like he was kissing you not just because he could—but because he wanted to stay in this moment just a little longer.

“I’ll get you a towel,” he murmured, voice low and still a little breathless. He sat up from the bed, muscles shifting under his skin as he reached over to a nearby drawer. He pulled out a towel, but before handing it to you, he brought one corner to his mouth, wiping the slick from his lips—your slick—from earlier. The motion was unhurried, almost casual, but something about it felt intimate… Reverent. Like he wasn’t trying to erase what happened, just tidy the edges of something already perfect.

He walked over to you, the towel still warm in his hands, and knelt between your legs with a gentleness that contrasted the intensity from before. Carefully, he wiped the glistening mess from your thighs—your release still slick against your skin. His touch was tender, almost reverent, as if he didn’t want to make you flinch or break the moment’s quiet. Once he was done, he leaned in, giving you a soft, lingering peck on the lips—not rushed, not demanding, just a quiet kiss that said everything without needing a single word.

"I think I love you."

I hope you enjoy!! I literally forgot about his tongue-piercing and I cried when I found out.

[farmerstarter]

maybe some general seb relationship headcanons if you dont mind? especially prior to it or crushing/early dating. how would he react to the confession? would his friends tease him? etc.

im a little picky w sdv hc blog interpretations and i love yours! theyre so sweet. if this is a lot feel free to just do as much as you'd like 💟

ʚ👾ɞ ˚ · . Crushing

tags: sebastian from sdv x gn! reader

OMG Anon! I am so sorry this is sooooo late. I just finished my 2nd year of college and it was so hectic. But now I have WAY more time to write. Writing this was so fun! if you have any fic requests then feel free to send me an ask! <3 purple divider by @saradika-graphics <3

𐙚⭑ Sebastian couldn’t deny that he, like everyone else in the valley, was curious about the new farmer moving into the overgrown expanse of land to the west of town. He was a bit down on the idea of not having his usual smoking place anymore, but the intrigue easily overpowered it. He was one of the last people to meet you. Sam and Abigail couldn’t stop talking about you. Which was reasonable, nothing ever happens in the valley. The more Sebastian knew about you, the more confused he got. Why move out in the middle of nowhere? Why leave the city for a pile of dirt and a mosquito-infested house? It was weird. For him, at least.

𐙚⭑ You two finally met at night. Sebastian was smoking by the waterfall, and you ambled your way out of the cave with a bag full of copper and coal. The mountains were wisped with fog, cold with dew. Sebastian was sure he was the only living soul out in the open. Much to his surprise, and at the expense of his dignity, he let out the loudest scream he could muster when you decided it was a good idea to sneak up on him to say hello while you were covered in soot and mud. While he was calming himself down and you were washing your face in the lake, you promised not to tell Sam or Abigail about the encounter. Sebastian was very grateful for that. The two of you spent the next hour talking.

𐙚⭑ The next time you met him was when you were discussing building plans with Robin in her house. Robin was just explaining that you needed more wood for your planned chicken coop, and Sebastian just so happened to come out to return his pile of plates to the kitchen. Robin waved him over to introduce him to you. His eyes met yours, and you immediately introduced yourself properly. You gave him a discreet wink when Robin’s back was turned. You deduced that Robin wouldn’t have been too happy to know her son was out at the late hours of the night, smoking his third cigarette in one sitting. Seeing this as an opportunity for her son to get some sunlight, Robin asked Sebastian to accompany you while you got more wood. He didn’t have anything to do; he had finished his module for the week, and he was curious about what his friends were telling him about you. So, he agreed to do it.

𐙚⭑ The two of you decided that Cindersnap Forest would be a good place to chop down some trees. You led the way while Sebastian followed suit, dragging along a wheelbarrow that Robin gave you to make the trip back to the mountains easier. Sebastian spent the day sitting on the makeshift bridge over the river and watching you cut down too many trees for him to count. There were times when you offered to teach him how to wield an axe. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of you, so he just shook his head and decided to arrange the logs of wood in the wheelbarrow instead. It was 2 pm when you finally had enough wood for the coop, but neither of you wanted to go back just yet, mostly because it was too hot to walk back, and Sebastian didn’t want to burn off his skin.

𐙚⭑ You and Sebastian went to look at whatever the traveling cart was selling. You couldn’t help but laugh at the way the dark-haired man’s eyes widened when he found out the merchant was selling an egg for 500 gold.

𐙚⭑ It would be so cute if you and Sebastian stumbled into the secret woods and that became your little hideaway to hang out when life got demanding for both of you.

𐙚⭑ You definitely fell for him first, but Sebastian fell in love harder. It all started when you invited him, Sam, and Abigail over to eat the many fish dishes you cooked when you finally had a kitchen in your abode. You specifically made sashimi for him since you remembered he mentioned it was his favorite. He was touched. You took the effort to even remember what he said, and that made his heart stutter. (“It tastes just like the ones Linus makes.”) ((Side note: it would be so cute if Sebastian and Linus became friends because Linus would make sashimi for both of them to eat at night by his tent, but I digress.))

𐙚⭑ Your friendship with Sebastian continued to bloom when you found a frog egg in the cave. You immediately ran to Sebastian to show it off. The two of you became parents to a very hungry frog named Blimp.

𐙚⭑ You and Sebastian rode his motorcycle at night when the two of you had nothing to do. He didn’t have an extra helmet yet, so he insisted you wear his helmet instead of him. He wanted you safe.

𐙚⭑ I am a firm believer that Sebastian is the type of person to become loud and talkative when he’s around people he is truly comfortable with. So, the moment you two became friends, Sebastian would invite you to hang out with him and Sam in his room to play Solarian Chronicles. He becomes more animated the longer you play, laughing at Sam’s crappy rolls and your insistence that every small enemy is the true boss in disguise. To both Robin and Demetrius’ surprise, Sebastian spends more time outside compared to the past. The two of you either hang out in the Secret Woods or play the arcade games in the saloon. PICNICS! IN THE SECRET WOODS!!

𐙚⭑ You confessed first, and Sebastian became red in the face in an instant. He couldn’t stop smiling, though. Sam doesn’t let him hear the end of it.

𐙚⭑ On clear nights, you and Sebastian climb up to the roof of his house to stargaze. He loves pointing out constellations to you, showing off what Maru taught him. If he asked nicely enough, his half-sister would let the two of you borrow her telescope.

[der-schweizer]

This is a little idea about the post of @proneterror204 make sure to hit them up for the og post.

Part two

Danny was somewhere between bored, tired (which he almost always was) and generally not okay. How his parents had managed to draw the attention of Wayne Enterprise and get invited to a Gala that Bruce Wayne himself was hosting, was beyond him.

Granted he hadn't even known about it until about three days ago. Honestly he should be used to getting utterly blindsided by his parents ‘Come on, Danny. We are going to drive for the next three days. It's going to be fun’-type of surprises.

They had just left him enough time to lock down the portal, something his dad should have done, grab his suit that Vlad had gifted him. (As much as he dislikes the Froot Loop, Danny wasn’t stupid enough to throw out a multi-thousand Dollar suit.) And then they were off.

He managed to sneak in a few texts to Sam and Tucker on the ride. So now he was here, halfway bored out of his head. He had already been talked to multiple times, and each time got mistaken for one of the Wayne kids.

Danny could see it honestly. Blue eyes, Black hair, decent build body and an air of exhaustion that hung around most of them like a cloak. It was probably the reason why they kept coming to him. Thankfully he managed to shake them off rather quickly.

He had finally found a quiet corner where he could lurk and eat some of the finger food that was laid out on the buffet. Going for thirds was tempting as everything was very tasty but sadly not very filling.

“Man, I could go for a burger.”

A snort came from next to him, which nearly startled him. The girl that had been in the corner before was putting a hand over her mouth in clear embarrassment.

“Uhm. Hi?” Danny gave an awkward wave, not knowing how he should talk to her. In turn she said a quiet “Hello” whilst also signing it. Danny of course immediately picked up on it.

“Sorry to ask but are you…” he gestured towards his ears, signing himself in case she was deaf. The girl looked at him with surprise before smiling softly. “No, I don't like talking.”

“Ah, perfectly understandable. I do know ASL, one of my friends is almost deaf but she got those fancy implants that let her hear everything.”

In lieu of the answer all he got was an “Mhh.” He went quiet after, having no fucking idea what to talk about. Danny quietly wondered what the fuck he could even talk about, the weather? Either rain or fog. The city? Rockbottom in every poll except for crime. Thinking about it gave him an idea.

“Say, who is your favorite Vigilante?”

The question got her attention, making her think for a moment before quietly saying. “Like Wing. Yours?” Danny mused for a second, humming loudly.

“Hmm, I think it's Orphan. I mean, have you seen her move? Just pure grace and elegance. I bet she is an immortal Vampire that simply got bored and decided to fight crime.”

He didn’t see how she blushed, “No.”

Danny just scoffed, “Are you kidding me? She moves with far too much elegance and grace to be mortal. Credit to the other bats but they move like mortals. She dances around both rogues and vigilantes!”

She turned away for a moment, trying to hide that she was blushing but it didn't really work. “Orphan. Is. good. What about others?”

“Oh, hmm.” Danny looked up whilst tapping a finger against his chin. “Well there’s Red Hood and Stabby Robin. Both are top tier, which should be a no brainer.”

She tilted her head in thought. “Why?”

“Well. Stabby robin practices the art of the sword, a forgotten art in modern times. And Red Hood shoots pedophiles! Who doesn't like that?” Danny set his empty plate aside, looking around for a waiter with drinks.

Her answer drew his full attention back to her. “Batman.”

Danny scoffed at the name. “Yeah, of course he doesn't like that. I mean have you looked at the costume of the very first Robin? Doesn't take much imagination why he dislikes Hood offing pedos.”

A crackle in her ear drew Cass’s attention away from him. “Red Robin here, Lantern and Superman are moving in to arrest his parents. Can you keep him distracted for a while longer?”

“Mmm. You still want burger?”

“Huh? Uh, yeah? Do you know a good place?” The question itself caught him absolutely off guard.

“Yes, take me out?” She tilted her head, giving him a cute look. Danny just shrugged, “Sure, my parents are going to take hours to explain everything anyway and they keep getting sidetracked whilst doing so. I fully expect to still be here tomorrow. Might as well spend the time with a cute girl.”

She blushed visibly, then stuck out her hand. “Cass, we date now.” He grabbed her hand, flushing a bit as well. “I’m Danny.”

“No, not Danny. You boyfriend.” She hooked her arm with his and pulled him along. Danny quickly went along with it, not saying no to it.

In Cass’s ear Red Robin spoke again. “Uh Cass? That wasn't the plan. You don't have to date him. Cass? Please don't make me explain this to B.” A click was heard as another com went to the same line. Batman growled out a simple. “Follow. Them.” before it went off.

Cassandra just put a bit more pep into her step as she pulled her new boyfriend towards her personal favorite Bat burger.

Nightwing clicked his comm on, “Found them. They are in the parking lot at main and fifth street.”

He spent a moment taking a picture of them. It showed them sitting on a concert divider, with Danny pointing up with his left whilst holding a half eaten burger in his right. Cass was sitting next to him,a bunch of fries sticking out of her mouth whilst she was grabbing a bunch more. She is also starring right at the camera. Her look perfectly said ‘if you ruin this date, i will end you’.

Batman's voice echoed in his ear, “Keep your eyes on Danny. He might have the same ideology as his parents. Oa and the lanterns are already moving in on the Ghostly Investigation Ward. We might have to take him into custody if things turn bad.”

Dick was just about to answer when Cass abruptly stood up, dranging Danny up and then away.

“Hold on, they just started moving again.” Nightwing got up from his perch and followed them quickly.

Tim worked on cutting through the strange rope, “Okay. Just to make sure I got everything right. Danny and Cass went to Batburger and had some takeout, then went for a walk in the park whilst you followed them, right?”

Dick who was trying not to wiggle, nodded. "Yeah."

“Then some weird ass shadow creature jumped you, tied you up and hung you from this tree, right?”

“You are forgetting the part where I described it as a lady from the eighteen sixties, and the part where she said to leave ‘the king of kings’ in peace. Other than that you got it spot on.”

“You know, I would make fun of you for that but considering that there is no knot in this rope and its tough as hell I will believe you.”

“Great. Do we know where they went after I lost them?”

Tim looked him right in the eyes. “Steph found them, and considering how red she was when she came back, it's best to wait until morning.”

Dick opened his mouth to ask why before it clicked in his head. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Danny woke up groggy, his eyes were crusted over and his limbs felt heavy. For a moment he just laid there, then did a full body stretch, stretching from toes to fingertips.

After it he laid there for a moment listening to noises in the room. He could hear cars and their horns. Some shouting down the hall and the shower in the bathroom.

That prompted the memories of last night which caused the ‘i got laid’ grin. He let out a satisfied noise, before crossing his arms behind his head.

After a moment Danny wondered if Cass would be up to ‘share’ the shower only for him to freeze at the sight of the Batman in the room.

“Uuuhhh.”

“Daniel James Fenton.” Batman growled out. “You are hereby placed under investigation by the Justice League for potential violation of interdimensional rights. Your parents have already been arrested and are awaiting their trial. Do you have anything to say to that?”

[dollyzdaydreamz]

dean winchester x fairy! reader

make me feel like a person

description: you were never meant to cross paths with a human, let alone be saved by a hunter. but after a late-night diner run, you learn what it feels like to be human. and dean, he remembers what it feels like to be more than a hunter. (strangers --> friends --> lovers)

fluff • minor angst • sfw • 5k words

warnings: none, dean nearly runs the you over in the beginning though hehe

The backroads were slick with rain and shadow. Branches clawed at the sky like skeletal hands, and the Impala's headlights carved narrow tunnels through the dark. Something about nights like this, quiet and murky, should've set Dean on edge, but it was oddly familiar given all the late night hunts he used to go on growing up.

Classic rock buzzed low on the radio, and Dean tapped the steering wheel to the beat, his other hand holding a lukewarm coffee. Sam was back at Bobby’s chasing down lore on a spirit near the Cascades, which gave Dean the pleasure of this solo errand: destroying a cursed trinket from two towns over.

His foot hesitated on the gas when something flickered across the road up ahead.

It was small, fast, and luminescent. At first, he thought it was just a reflection, but-

“Shit!”

He slammed the brakes and the Impala fishtailed before screeching to a halt.

Heart pounding, Dean jumped out, gun half-drawn.

The thing, or person, he almost hit was lying in the middle of the road, curled up, trembling.

“Hey!” he called out. “You alright?”

It was a girl.

No, not a girl, a woman. Dirt-smudged face, wild hair matted with rain, wearing what looked like tattered green silk. Her skin was flushed, eyes wide with terror.

Dean jolted back as she scrambled to her feet, but he reached forward when she nearly collapsed again.

“Th-They’re coming after me.” She rasped, keeping her distance.

Dena shifted, “Who’s coming?”

“The hunters.” She whimpered, rubbing her slashed temple, eyes widening at the crimson.

Dean’s instincts flared. He took a step forward, scanning the woods behind her. “Hunters?”

Her breath quickened as she glanced at the forest, “They want to kill me.”

Dean’s grip tightened on his gun, “Why?”

She stared at him, panic crackling in her big eyes,

“I’m a fairy.”

He blinked.

“Right. Okay. Well… you’ve probably had a little too much to drink,” he huffed.

“I’m serious,” she said, voice hardening.

And then, to his complete and utter horror, she unfolded a set of wings. Gossamer-thin, iridescent, shimmering even in the gray fog of the storm. The air around her warped, as if her very presence altered reality.

Dean flinched. “Son of a bitch.”

He raised his gun on instinct. “What the hell kind of trap is this?”

“I’m not—!” she yelped, but Dean was already moving, pinning her to the wet asphalt with one knee.

There was a flash of hurt in her eyes before she went slack beneath him.

“Sorry, Tinkerbell,” he muttered, picking her up and starting toward the impala, “But I ain’t taking any chances.”

—

When you awoke, it was to the smell of motor oil, leather, and coffee.

There were booming voices echoing off walls made of wood and metal.

You stirred slowly, pulse drumming in your ears, shoulder blades aching to get up and expand your wings after being on your back for so long.

“…shouldn’t’ve knocked her out cold, Dean. She’s a goddamn fairy,” a thoughtful voice muttered.

“She sprouted wings like a damn peacock, what was I supposed to do?” another voice answered, gravelly, defensive. “I thought some sort of…I don’t know–siren trick!”

“You always think with your trigger finger,” grumbled another man. “Fairies are harmless. Some hunters go after them just for sport. It’s sick.”

Everything was strange, you blinked your eyes open, expecting to see the shutters of your cottage.

Instead, three men towered the dimly lit room: one with shaggy brown hair and big eyes, one in a trucker cap with a scowl, and him. The man from the road.

They were talking about you like you were an animal in a cage. You felt the sting of tears spring into your eyes. You never should’ve crossed into human territory.

Whispers of how brutal man could be floated around, but you’d read tons of lore on the creatures so similar to you fairies and came to realize not all of them were bad.

But you were proven gravely wrong, and now you had to pay the price.

Admittedly, you romanticized human life in your head, so curiosity got the better of you when you stupidly wandered a little too far out from the forest.

You began searching around you for a pipe, a dagger, anything, to take down your captors. Your eyes landed on the soft light illuminating your peripheral.

There was a metal lamp on the table beside you. You didn’t think, just reached an arm out as quietly as you could.

You grabbed it, and toed forward lightly,

Then you lunged.

“Whoa—hey!” the green-eyed man barked, stumbling back as you swung.

“Let me go home!” You yelled.

“Easy, okay? You’re not in danger!” he said, holding up his hands.

You scoffed, wild eyes flickering to the sharp weaponry practically displayed on the walls.

They probably planned to kill you in here, tack your wings up like one of those awful taxidermy trophies you read about in your books.

“You're lying.”

“We’re not lying,” the taller man reasoned. “You’re in a safe place, alright? We aren’t the kind of hunters you ran from.”

Your hands trembled around the lamp. You looked between them, unsure.

“I’m Sam Winchester,” he said, resting a hand on his chest, before motioning to the man that knocked you out earlier, “This is my brother Dean.”

Your eye caught the older man watching vigilantly from across the room, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of a frayed cap, “That’s our friend Bobby.”

“You wanna tell us your name?” He asked gently.

You faltered, mumbling your name before tightening your iron grip in case they decided to cut the nice act.

“Here,” Dean began, “Let’s make a deal.”

“Deal?” You bristled, giving him a look.

“You must be hungry, right? I mean I would be, after being hunted and all…” he trailed off, chuckling nervously.

His smile dropped at your hard stare, before he cleared his throat.

“You let go of the lamp, I’ll get you a burger…deal?”

You falter a little, a furrow taking place between your brows.

“Burger?” You mumbled to yourself, jolting back as he stepped toward you.

“How about we find something for you to wear first?” Bobby suggested from behind the boys, giving your tattered dress a gentle regard.

You looked down, your gown snagged with twigs, blackened with grime.

“Think I got a few extra clothes here.” Dean murmured, snagging a few flannels from his bag, before tossing some over to Sam, knowing you were still a little jumpy around him.

“Here,” Sam said, “You wear this and he’ll take you out for some food.”

You felt your stomach churn.

It was either uncertainty, the desire to consume whatever this burger business was, or both.

You nodded, “Deal.”

“Good,” Dean grinned, extending an apprehensive hand toward the lamp, “Just gonna put this back.”

—

The material was soft, smelled faintly of something woodsy and leathery, and the collar gaped slightly around your neck. You didn’t hate it. That was the most unsettling part.

Your wings were hidden again, tucked back into your skin, though your shoulder blades still ached faintly. Your hair was damp from the earlier downpour, and your skin was a touch too pale from everything you’d been through.

The bathroom door creaked softly as you peered out, just enough for one eye and a sliver of your cheek to catch the low light.

The hall beyond was quiet, a low hum of conversation bleeding in from the living room.

Just because they hadn’t hurt you yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t.

So you waited at the edge of the door, half-thinking maybe this was part of some trick. That if you stepped out, the kindness would vanish, and you'd see their true faces.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice called from the couch.

Your heart kicked.

He was lounging there, one arm slung over the back, head tilted toward the sound of her door.

When you didn’t answer, he stood up. His eyes found yours in the shadow and softened.

“They fit okay?”

You stepped out slowly, making uncertain steps on the creaky floor. The boots clomped awkwardly, slightly big around the ankles. And the shirt, his shirt, swallowed you whole.

So much for wanting to be human. You felt ridiculous.

His eyes raked down and then back up, slowly.

“Dean?” Sam called, nudging him, “Grab a belt.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Dean blinked, before fumbling for the nearest one off the back of a chair. “Here.”

He stepped toward you, holding the belt out, but the moment he crossed into your space, you tensed, body still instinctively leaning away.

Dean froze. He didn’t say anything, just stepped back.

Sam came up behind him, “Mind if I?”

You nodded once.

As Sam strained to kneel at your level and carefully wrap the belt around you, you eyed the sheer length of his legs with mild curiosity. Your gaze flitted toward Dean’s legs. He was very tall, but not freakishly so, like his brother.

What’d they eat as children?

The flannel pulled in gently, not tight, but just enough to give the fabric a bit of shape, making it look more like a dress than a borrowed shirt.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Better?”

“Better.” You smile softly, feeling a little less like hunter prey and more like a human for the first time.

—

Dean held the Impala door open with a quiet gesture.

You stood for a moment, hand on the roof of the car, studying the metal beast like it might lunge.

“Promise it doesn’t bite,” Dean said, voice light but genuine.

You hesitated, then crawled inside.

Dean shut the door with a soft thunk, then walked around to the driver’s side. The moment he twisted the key, the engine roared to life.

You flinched, shoulders curling in, eyes wide with alarm. It sounded like he’d woken an ancient beast.

“Sorry, she’s got a bit of a bark,” Dean muttered, shooting you a glance. “Should’ve warned you.”

You slowly uncurled, watching the dashboard lights flicker like fireflies.

The radio kicked on automatically, something grating and electric that had your body tensed again.

Dean caught it. “Right, right—hang on,” he mumbled, flipping the knob.

Static, then a low, gentle melody filled the car. A simple acoustic rhythm, a man’s voice, gravelly, but sweet, singing about rivers and grass.

You relaxed almost immediately, leaning back, weary gaze softening.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Good.”

He tapped the wheel in rhythm, humming faintly, occasionally letting a lyric slip out under his breath.

You listened.

“You have a nice voice,” you say, breaking the silence.

Dean glanced over, surprised. “What? Nah.”

You turned toward him, resting your head lightly against the seat. “It’s true.”

He scoffed dismissively, shifting in his seat.

“Did you…ever want to be like this man?” You ask, pointing at the dashboard where the voice came from.

Dean smiled faintly, the question catching him off guard, “I think I was more the fireman type when I was a kid. But a rock star? Yeah, that’d be cool too.”

He glanced sideways at you, saw you watching the lights on the side of the road blur past, mesmerized.

“What about you?” he asked, “Do fairies have...you know, jobs?”

You smiled, “Yes. But I always wanted to see what this was like, the human world…to be a person.”

Dean didn’t answer right away.

He just kept driving.

But after a moment, he looked over again with a soft grin, “You might end up being better at it than me.”

—

A few moments later, Dean pulled into a diner, glowing under the night sky, sat at the edge of a cracked lot.

You sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the building ahead with growing excitement.

“Alright,” Dean killed the engine, glancing at you with a grin, “get ready for the best damn food your woodland heart’s ever seen.”

When you stepped out of the car, you absorbed the scene with a curiosity you didn’t bother to hide.

Warm light spilled onto the parking spaces, silhouettes moving past steam-fogged windows.

Your gaze drifted, lingering a beat too long on a group of giant leather-clad bikers leaning against their Harleys just outside the entrance.

You tilted your head.

They sort of looked like a different breed of human.

Large, boisterous, laughter booming and eyes sharp beneath shaggy brows.

One of them, slightly scrawnier than the rest, raised an eyebrow at you, half a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

You frowned, wings twitching underneath your clothes in half surprise, half disgust.

Dean turned back to you, following your line of sight before he chuckled. “Yeah, let's not make new friends tonight.”

You turned to him just as he reached for your hand.

The warmth of his palm curled around yours without hesitation. The contact startled you, wings tensing slightly under your jacket, but you didn’t pull away.

Instead, a strange sense of steadiness spread through your chest, like your feet were planted a little more firmly on this unfamiliar earth.

Dean leaned back against the booth, one arm stretched along the top of the seat like his presence was effortlessly at home here.

You knew the world had places like this, but to see it all in motion, the colors, the smells, the closeness of strangers, was something else entirely.

It all felt strangely familiar, like the scent of a place you’d visited in a dream once.

The waitress approached and the moment she looked at him, her demeanor shifted.

“What can I get you, sugar?”

She didn’t bat an eye your way, glancing at Dean every so often as she wrote an order down like he might disappear if she blinked.

You chuckled under your breath in disbelief as you noticed another girl at the bar tucking her hair behind her ear while sneaking a look his way.

And another.

They all looked at him like he was made of something rare.

Then it hit you.

Dean Winchester must be…desirable, in the human world.

When you really took his features in for the first time, it made sense.

He was handsome, striking, really, even by fairy standards. His eyes a forest green that glinted like they had secrets tucked behind long eyelashes, the slope of his nose almost a feminine aquiline, and blushed lips not too thin nor too large.

His gaze met yours, a flicker of amusement already in his eyes.

You flushed and averted your gaze, quickly busying yourself by perusing through the menu like it was the most interesting thing you’ve seen in all your time here.

“Y’know,” he said, voice low and warm across the table, “you don’t look too bad yourself.”

You stiffened, still unable to meet his eyes. You dared a glance up, catching on the subtle way his smirk softened when he looked at you.

Luckily, the food arrived with a clatter and a puff of heat to break the tension.

The burger towered in front of you, layers of meat and cheese like some architectural feat barely held together by the skewered toothpick stabbed through its center.

Everything smelled rich and heavy in a way that made your stomach both growl and hesitate. Dean noticed your expression, half amusement, half sympathy lighting in his eyes.

“Alright, don’t panic,” he said, pulling the burger from his plate. “This is edible. Just gotta know how to tackle it.”

You watched closely as he plucked off the toothpick, adjusted the bun with practiced ease, then held it up like a prize catch.

“See? Two hands. No dainty fairy bites. You go in with conviction.” He explained, putting his game face on.

You couldn’t help the chuckle escaping you at his monstrous bite.

He muffled a satisfied sound, then set it down. “Now you.”

You eyed your burger like it might fight back.

Still, you mirrored him, gently lifting it with both hands. It wobbled slightly, sauce already threatening to drip down your fingers. You glanced at him, unsure.

Your first bite was awkward, too much bread, a piece of lettuce tried to slide out. You chewed slowly, then cautiously nodded.

“Oh,” you mumbled.

“What do you think?” Dean asked, eyes trained on your expression.

“That’s… that’s actually nice.”

“There you go,” Dean chuckled, “Welcome to America, Tinkerbell.”

“Whose Tinker?—”

You were cut off when the waitress placed a thick creamy drink crowned with a swirl of whipped cream and a bright red cherry beside you.

Your lips wrapped around the straw and you took a sip.

Your eyes widened.

Cold. Sweet. Rich. Like frozen vanilla clouds, more indulgent than anything you’d tasted in your forest glades or mountaintop springs.

You took another sip.

Then another.

Dean watched you drain half the glass in one go, “Woah there, pace yourself.”

“This is incredible,” you said, breathless.

He grinned, flagging down the waitress again. “Can we get a slice of apple pie?”

Apple pie?

You paused. “I’ve had that before.”

Dean raised a brow. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Years ago, an old lady that lived near my cottage left one on her windowsill in the woods, and well…I took a piece. Just a small one.”

“You’ve got a sweet tooth,” He murmured, reaching to wipe a dab of whipped cream from your upper lip with his thumb.

You jolted slightly, but let him clean it off anyway.

You snuck a glance behind the brim of your glass as he brought his thumb to his lips and licked it clean, “So do I.”

Before you could flush brighter than the cherry still floating atop your milkshake, the pie arrived.

“So,” Dean started, popping the cherry into his mouth and fiddling with the stem, “What do fairies eat anyway? Aside from stolen pies.”

“A lot of things. They aren’t too far off from what most humans eat…but I don’t know—I wouldn’t wanna bore you with all the details,” You shrugged.

He grinned, suckling on the cherry as he leaned forward, “Try me.”

You flushed, eyes widening just a tad.

Is it normal for humans to act so…flirtatious like this?

Or maybe this isn’t flirtatious at all, it’s just a cherry.

Yeah, he’s just eating a cherry.

But he keeps staring at you.

For Christ sake! This wasn’t in the human lore books–

“You there?”

You jolted, mind pausing from its endless reeling.

“Huh? Oh,” you shifted, ignoring his almost knowing grin.

“Well, Spring’s got flower nectar. In Summer there's berries and herbs, sometimes pine nuts. Autumn, we preserve by drying apples. During the Winter we eat frost sugar or moss biscuits.”

Dean blinked, “Moss biscuits?”

“They’re pretty good.” You nodded, “I’ll bring you some one day, you can try them out yourself.”

Dean grinned, leaning back against his seat, “Yeah?”

“Why not?” You grinned, motioning to his plate “You could use a little green in your diet.”

You chuckled at the dry look he shot you.

After a long comfortable pause you spoke up again,

“I’ve read about places like this, in secret mostly” you said softly, looking around the diner.

“In secret?” He asked.

“My parents used to forbid me from human lore. I remember sneaking a few under my bed anyway.”

Dean tilted his head, resting his cheek against his palm, brows furrowed as his gaze flitted around your face.

Something about his attention was admittedly flustering, yet made it so easy to speak your mind.

So you went on.

“The books had table etiquette, music, and how people eat together in booths like these. How everything stays buzzing and on. I mean, it’s like the human world never sleeps.”

You sighed almost dreamily, eyes lingering on the cracked laminate of the table before trailing back up to him.

His gaze hadn’t left you once. And suddenly you were aware of how long you’d been talking.

You were cut off mid-thought, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble. You know all this.”

You took another long sip from your milkshake, eyes darting away.

Dean didn’t say anything at first, but when you glanced back up, his brow was less tense than before, eyes softer and less playful.

Then, he reached for the fork.

“Here,” he cut off a piece of pie, and offered it, “Try it warm this time.”

You took it, shaky fingers brushing his as you did with a little smile.

—

After the pie had been reduced to crumbs and the last of the milkshake drained, the diner had settled into a lull.

A small crowd had gathered near the back where a dartboard hung crookedly against the wall.

Dean leaned against the bar counter, watching the room with half-lidded eyes and a content smirk.

You sat beside him, perched on one of the tall stools. The vinyl creaked every time you shifted, so you started spinning slowly, letting your heels brush the metal footrest and giving yourself gentle pushes.

The motion was simple, rhythmic. Your legs swung, and your hair shifted around your shoulders like the soft rustling of leaves in the wind.

You closed your eyes, letting the hum of the diner and the motion blur together, like a memory you hadn't had yet.

Dean’s amused glance turned sharp the second he noticed it.

A cluster of sparkles escaped from your back, a gold trail, floating just high enough to catch someone’s eye if they looked close enough.

He straightened immediately and stepped closer, hand settling gently but firmly on the back of your stool. “Alright, Tinkerbell. Ease up.”

You blinked at him in confusion until you followed his line of sight.

“Oh,” you murmured, biting back a smile. “Guess the spinning woke them up.”

“Yeah, well, this place ain’t exactly fairy-friendly,” Dean huffed, stepping between you and the rest of the room. “Next time someone sees sparkles coming off your back, they’re either gonna call a priest or start filming.”

You laughed under your breath, just as a sharp metallic thunk drew your attention toward the far corner of the room.

It was the same guy, the one who’d given you that too-long stare earlier. Only now, he was hunched in front of the dartboard, except he wasn’t throwing darts.

He was throwing knives.

They landed with angry precision, the blades biting deep into the already-splintered wood. He didn’t seem to be playing with anyone. Just showing off.

You nudged Dean’s elbow, keeping your voice below a whisper. “Do you think you could beat him?”

Dean didn’t look up right away, just smirked at the question. “You kidding me, sweetheart?” he drawled, “I’m a damn pro.”

“Pro or not, I can help you win a decent amount of cash,” You hum.

Dean raised a brow, “How’s that?” —

As the two of you approached the back of the room, the air felt thicker. More tension, more eyes, more testosterone.

You trailed behind Dean as he strode toward the knife-thrower. The man looked up just as Dean came to a stop beside him, then let his gaze flick toward you.

Dean shifted, just slightly, to stand in front of you.

“Mind if I play a few rounds?” Dean asked, “Winner snags a hundred?”

There was a tense pause, then the man grunted and handed over a spare knife.

The first few throws were close, solid enough to draw impressed murmurs from the crowd.

Upon your involvement, the biker’s next knife landed several inches outside the bullseye.

Dean raised his eyebrows, mock-sympathetic. “Tough break, man.”

The game wore on, sometimes Dean’s elbow bumped yours on purpose everytime he ‘missed.’

Other times, he just looked at you out of the corner of his eye and grinned like you shared a private joke.

In the final round, you barely moved, just bent the air pressure in the tiniest, imperceptible way.

Dean nailed his final throw with a satisfying thunk, the blade hitting dead-center.

The biker cursed under his breath and Dean sauntered over to collect the cash without much fuss. The group had grown significantly more sour and suspicious.

But they’d never figure out a fairy and a hunter had just hustled them out of a hundred bucks.

“Think that’s our cue,” Dean muttered, looping an arm around your waist casually, and steering you toward the door.

The diner door swung shut behind you with a final clang, the warm hum of laughter and jukebox music fading into the cooler, quieter night.

Dean tucked the bills into his jacket pocket, then glanced sideways at you.

“So, are you glad you came?”

You looked up at him and nodded, still buzzing with energy, laughter bubbling just beneath your ribs. “That was… fun.”

The town was still alive in patches, dim porch lights, a flickering sign from the motel across the street, a dog barking somewhere in the distance.

It would’ve been perfect if your wings would just sit still.

They twitched again, stubborn under the flannel shirt. You shifted your shoulders uncomfortably, trying to make it look like nothing at all.

But every few steps, another flicker of movement pulsed through you, an involuntary flutter trying to push through the heavy cotton.

Excitement always did this to you. Too much motion, too much joy, and your wings started behaving like they had minds of their own.

Dean cast a sideways glance at you, catching the subtle fidgeting.

“You alright?” he asked. “That belt too tight or something?”

“No, it’s fine,” you lied quickly, straightening a little.

He squinted. “Alright.”

Then, with that usual ease, he muttered, “Well, don’t worry. We’ll get you out of those clothes in no time.”

You froze.

Well that didn’t help.

Before you could even gather a reply, Dean continued, completely unbothered,

“Sam and Bobby should have something figured out soon,” he sighed. “Way to get you home, keep you off the radar.”

You didn’t answer right away. Something about the words hit differently than they were probably meant to.

Home.

Avoiding trouble and leaving all of this behind.

Your steps slowed slightly and your posture slumped as you stared down the quiet street, now somehow lonelier than it had looked before.

Dean glanced at you, then looked around, just to make sure no one was watching.

Satisfied, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the small hunting knife from earlier.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Turn around.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He gestured with the knife, but his eyes were soft. “Just trust me.”

You hesitated for only a moment before turning, facing away.

You felt his hand gently tug the back of the shirt outward, then you heard the fabric tear. One long, slow slice, followed by a second on the opposite side.

Cool air brushed against your back, and just like that, your wings slipped free.

You sighed as they unfurled slowly, stretching out like they’d been holding their breath all night.

Dean stood there, knife still in one hand and his breath caught in his chest.

His eyes followed the slow motion of your wings, transfixed by the almost-hypnotic way the breadth of them pulsed with gentle light, like moonlight scattered across water, translucent and alive.

Dean reached out, just a little, like he was about to touch them, fingers lifting midair.

But he blinked and pulled back.

“Sorry,” he gruffed, clearing his throat. “Didn’t mean to…get weird about it.”

Your smile was soft, a little amused, but not mocking.

You turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Movement caught your eye just off the path, a small clearing between trees where an old swing set sat crooked, half-swallowed by time and overgrowth.

You pointed. “Come on. I wanna show you something.”

—

The chain screeched as you climbed on, boots barely touching the ground. Dean followed at a slower pace, arms crossed, watching you like he wasn’t quite sure what you were up to but wasn’t about to say no.

You pushed off the ground, trying to gain momentum, but it was hard given how rusted the joints of the chains were.

“Here,” he offered, stepping up behind you. “I’ll give you a boost.”

You rolled your eyes, “I know how to swing myself.”

“I know,” He drawled, grabbing the chains gently and pulling you back.

You braced for the push, but when it didn’t come, you looked to the side and flinched to find his face close to yours.

You sucked in a breath when his eyes flickered down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

“Ready, Tinkerbell?”

“Yeah," You whisper.

Then your brows furrowed, "But…whose Tinkerbe—Agh!” You yelped, caught off guard as he lurched you forward.

You swung high, your wings fluttering with the motion.

All at once, a trail of fairy dust began to circle in your wake.

It spun behind you in soft spirals, glittering gold and green in the dark.

As you gained speed, it lifted higher, weaving around Dean too, curling into the air like enchanted smoke,

“You see that?!” You chuckled. Dean huffed in amusement, bringing a hand up to catch some fairy dust, before letting it float up and around him. For once, a "hunt" didn't bring about the image of horror in some lore book his father shoved down his throat as a kid. No, this was one of the stories his mom whispered to him before he drifted off to sleep. This was a fairytale. He was taken out of his thoughts when the volume of fairy dust nearly blurred his vision in a cloud of golds and greens.

“Alright, alright—I get it. You win the cool contest.” Dean groaned playfully, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from a stray swirl.

You threw your head back and laughed again.

But then his phone buzzed, the sound cutting through the moment.

He stepped away to answer it, muttering a quick “Yeah?” as he walked toward the edge of the clearing.

You slowed, the swing’s motion easing into smaller and smaller arcs until your boots brushed the earth again.

You hopped off, brushing your hands against your thighs as you approached.

Dean had a strange look on his face. Not worry, nor relief.

You tilted your head. “Everything okay?”

He looked off into the clearing, avoiding your gaze, before answering.

“Sam and Bobby found the hunters, found a way to mislead them,” he said. “They think it’s safe to get you back to where you came from.”

“Oh.” You nodded, folding your arms across your chest even though you weren’t cold.

You weren’t sure what to say. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of trees rustling and the last drift of fairy dust settling into the dirt.

He ran a hand down his face, “We should…head back.”

—

You and Dean walked quietly along an old dirt trail winding through the forest, bordering on the territory you came from. Ancient willow trees loomed above, their leaves whispering with the breeze, while puddles shimmered faintly under the moonlight.

Your wings were folded tight against your back, aching quietly beneath the shirt, like they were holding in too much feeling at once.

You hadn’t meant for this to happen, hadn’t meant to feel anything for Dean, for a human.

The single night behind you felt too bright, vivid, too full of things you were never meant to have.

Every now and then he’d glance over, eyes flicking toward you like he wanted to speak but, for once that night, couldn’t find the words.

You stopped just as your parent’s cottage came to view, soft lamp lights spilling onto the damp grass. There was a puddle where you and Dean stood, shallow but wide and glassy, reflecting the stars like a second sky.

Dean slowed beside you.

“You alright?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away. The word swelled in your throat, impossible to contain.

“No.”

He turned to look at you fully, brows twitching in surprise.

You kept your eyes on the puddle as you gently toed at it with your boot, watching the ripples warp the reflection of the stars above you.

“I like these boots.” You murmur, “And this stupid shirt.”

Dean said nothing.

You took a shallow breath, blinking back the sting rising in your eyes. “I almost wish tonight never happened...I-I wish I never met you.”

His gaze searched yours, “Why?”

"I...well, I think I-." You stammered, unable to form the words. You sighed in frustration, before your boots met Deans in the puddle, toes resting right on top of his.

You didn’t rightly know what you were doing, though the feather light hands on your waist steadied you.

“I love you, Dean," You breathed, "you make me feel like a person.” You rose up gently, just enough to close the distance and placed your lips on top of his.

He stood perfectly still for a beat, then leaned in just barely, as if the moment might vanish if he grasped too hard.

When you broke away to breathe, Dean’s head chased after yours for a half second, before he came to and pulled away.

He pressed his forehead against yours, “I could say the same to you.” You felt your heart leap just a little at the almost boyish tint that had risen to his face, "Next time, I'm taking you out to dinner." "Oh yeah?" He asked, voice tender as he suppressed a grin, "And what about desert?"

You rolled your eyes, “Only if you try out the moss biscuits first.”

He nodded, intertwining his pinky with yours, “Deal.”

Just then, your wings fluttered again, only this time you didn’t try to stop them.

A thin gleaming trail of fairy dust circled around the two of you, sealing a vow between a fairy and a hunter, to meet again under the glimmer of a summer night sky.

aaa i hope this was okay, i know it was long asf `(*>﹏<*)′

i finally figured out how to put gradient text on here i luv it omg

[wendichester]

.ೃ࿔*:･ name your price,

summary. you're trying to close a deal with sam but he has better ideas.

pairing. sam winchester x demon!reader ( female )

wordcount. 542 genre. smut ( mdni )

warnings. explicit sexual content, semi-public sex / sex in a car (impala), light dominance, power play, tension, dirty talk, sam being a little dark and cocky, consensual but toeing the line of enemies-to-lovers heat

The deal was supposed to be simple.

You show up. You negotiate. You don’t end up pinned against the side of a ’67 Impala with Sam Winchester’s thigh between your legs.

And yet—here you are.

“You know,” you purr, tilting your head with a lazy smirk, “I was offering you a way out.”

Sam’s eyes flicker over you. You see the war in him—logic versus instinct. His jaw ticks, his hands clench. Then he steps in close, crowding your space with that quiet, slow-burning fury he does better than anyone else.

“I’m tired of deals,” he says, voice low and rough. “Tired of demons thinking they can come and play me.”

Your back hits metal, cool and sharp against your spine. The Impala looms behind you, a witness to your little standoff. Sam cages you in with one hand beside your head, the other ghosting your hip, not quite touching—but close enough to make your skin hum.

“You wanted to gamble?” he says. “Here’s your bet. You shut up and let me take what you’re really offering.”

Your eyes flash black—automatic. Not from anger, not even fear. Excitement. Sam Winchester doesn’t bluff. Never has.

“You sure you can handle me?” you murmur, teeth grazing your lower lip. “Not every day a boy like you gets to fuck a demon.”

He leans in. “You’ve clearly never met me.”

And then his mouth is on yours, brutal and claiming, hands finally grabbing—your waist, your ass, your thigh. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, and suddenly you’re in the Impala, straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips in the back seat.

It’s frantic—the way he yanks your shirt up, the scrape of his teeth at your throat, the impatient shove of your panties to the side. You grind down, moaning at the friction. He’s already hard beneath you, cock pressing up through his jeans, and you roll your hips like a tease.

Sam growls, low and hungry, and grips your hips. “You’re not in charge here, sweetheart.”

You drag your nails down his chest. “Then do something about it.”

He does.

He shifts just enough to undo his fly, dragging himself free, thick and already leaking. You don’t waste time—sink down on him with a moan, both of you gasping at the stretch.

“Fuck,” he pants, head tipping back against the seat. “You’re warm.”

You roll your hips slow, deliberate, fingers digging into his shoulders for balance. The car rocks beneath you, windows fogging. Every thrust sends a jolt through you, his hands guiding your pace—faster, deeper, harder.

“Still feel like bargaining?” he rasps, sweat slick at his temple.

You shake your head, lips parted, eyes glazed. “Fuck no.”

He grabs the back of your neck, pulls you down into a kiss that’s all tongue and heat and teeth. You’re unraveling, the tension snapping in waves, his name a curse and a prayer in your mouth.

And when it’s over—when you’re trembling in his lap, head buried in his shoulder and skin sticky with sweat—Sam leans close, his breath hot against your ear.

“Deal’s off,” he whispers. “But you can beg me for another round.”

You laugh, dazed and breathless. “You really are full of surprises.”

He grins, eyes dark. “You have no idea.”

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