#*FORCES SELF TO PRESS THAT POST BUTTON BEFORE REGRETTING IT BECAUSE THERE'S NOTHING SELFISH ABOUT TELLING OTHERS WHEN

[moonraccoon-exe]

Hello raccoobos!!

I’m still trying to catch up with many PMs, and still some asks (and adding tags to some artworks, I swear I haven’t forgotten <’3), but I’ve been either busy or tired ahahah ;w;

But I do am getting to it. I’m not ignoring anyone, and I hope you know that. <3

I’m not going to be home on most if not all of tomorrow friday (today as this post reblogs itself), but I’ll be reading you, and trying to catch up, promise <3

Hope you’re having a most fantastic day or night!!! :3

[saxxxology]

Freedom | oneshot

PAIRING: Sam Winchester x Reader WORD COUNT: 2,446 WARNINGS: spoilers for “Inherit the Earth,” character death, drinking to cope, minor trauma processing, smut, post-sex feels, stress/anxiety NOTE: This fic is set post 15x19 - “Inherit the Earth.” Do not save or repost my work without my consent. This work is 18+ only.

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“So we’re free.”

Sam glances up, casting his eyes over the rim of his beer bottle to where you’re perched on the edge of the counter. Legs slightly parted under the hem of your knee-length nightshirt, back slouched, eyes boring into him like you can see right through his skin and into his soul.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Chuck’s gone, Jack’s… doin’ his thing, I guess. There’s nobody calling the shots for us anymore.”

You hum, tipping back your bottle of vodka to take a long swallow. The clear alcohol burns your throat, and you let out a sigh that turns warm in your chest. “Where’s Dean?”

“Holed up in his room.” Sam swipes his tongue over his teeth. “He hasn’t really been able to process Cas, I figured we could give him a few days.”

“Yeah.” You swallow thickly and raise the bottle to your lips again. “Fuckin’ Cas, man.”

“I know.” Sam chuckles. “He was one of the good ones.”

You nod in agreement. “I’ll second that.”

There’s a long silence, interrupted only by the dull clink of glass on metal, the swish of liquid in an almost-empty glass, and a repetitive shuffle of paper as Sam flips absentmindedly through a two-day-old newspaper.

“How are you?” you ask, eager to break the quiet. Sam’s eyes flicker up to you once again, and you shift a little on the counter. “I’m just asking because you haven’t said much since we got back.”

Sam tightens his lips and takes a deep breath. “I don’t know, really. I feel numb. Like, I don’t know if it just hasn’t hit yet, but… yeah, I feel numb.” He rolls his shoulders back and downs the rest of his beer in a single swallow.

“Same here.” You sniff, screwing the cap back onto the tall vodka bottle and setting it aside. “I’m so tired of it. Dean said Cas died and I felt nothing.”

“You’re in shock,” Sam excuses, “and we’ve been dealing with so much shit, we can’t process all of it at once. Cas deserves to be… he deserves for us to grieve for him, without thinking about anything else.”

You chew on your lower lip, surveying him as he rubs his forehead with one hand. He’s tense, the relief of having Chuck gone only half-there. All three of you are used to things being too good to be true, only for shit to hit the fan right after you’ve booked a beach vacation or a weekend in Vegas.

But hell, you deserve to take a little bit of this newfound freedom for granted. Besides, it’s been a while since you had the time or energy to get laid. Sam’s hot, you’re needy… one night of not considering fallout from anything might be nice.

“Sam?”

“Hmm?”

You take a quick breath, leaning back to brace one hand just behind your hip. “If I asked you to fuck me, would you?”

He stiffens, unable to keep his gaze from drifting over to you. He looks beat; tired and lost and just a little scared of the world. For a second you regret asking, thinking he might just say no and get to blame it all on the alcohol.

“I…” he blows air through his lips as pink stains his cheeks. “Are you drunk?”

“Not really.” You speak a little too soon, as your focus begins to drift and you blink twice to clear your vision. “Well, maybe not enough.”

“No, don’t drink any more.” Sam stands up, abandoning his empty bottle on the table as he shuffles over to you. The toes of his boots drag on the polished concrete floor; he’s so cautious about it, like he’s scared to indulge in something other than people prying him for answers or questions. He hates selfishness, and taking this, taking you… it’ll be the ultimate self-indulgence that he may or may not come out of feeling like he deserved it.

“You scared of me?” you tease, tipping your head back as he leans a hip against the side of the counter.

“Never.” He chuckles softly. “You really okay? You want this?”

You lick your lower lip. “Am I ever okay?”

“That’s true.” He sighs heavily, raking his eyes down the column of your neck, over your nipples pressing through the dark blue fabric of your shirt, your stomach, the rise of your thighs, and then right back up to yours…

It’s like he’s a virgin all over again, you think to yourself. He needs a little help getting into it.

You reach for his hand. He lets you take it, guiding his fingers under the hem of your nightshirt. The tips of his fingers are still cold, chilly from his beer, and you shiver a little when he guides them against the inside of your thigh, creeping closer and closer to your core.

He inhales sharply through his nose when his fingers slip against the smooth, warm lips of your pussy. Your thighs part a little more, and you let out a little sigh when he takes the lead, nudging the tip of his index finger down into wet heat.

“Why are you not wearin’ any panties?” he asks.

You arch an eyebrow. “Why are you questioning it?”

He chuckles, bracing his free hand on the metal countertop next to your hip, and slips his fingers a little farther into your folds. You shimmy a little to encourage him, and he lowers his head, the tip of his nose pressing against your cheek to nudge your head back.

He kisses you hungrily, humming against your lips as you reciprocate eagerly. You can taste the beer on his lower lip, and he deepens the kiss, licking into your mouth as his fingers explore deeper between your legs. He finds your clit, targeting smooth, gentle rolls over it as your hand wanders over the front of his jeans.

“Fuck me,” you whisper, “please, Sam, I need you.”

He growls, stepping quickly between your thighs. “Not here.”

He scoops you up, striding towards the steps and feeling his way into the hall. You wrap your legs around his waist. The door to his bedroom is open, and you giggle when he kicks it shut, lips still glued to yours. He lowers you to the ground, waiting for you to stand still before running his hands under the fabric of your nightshirt.

“Get this off,” he murmurs, stripping it roughly over your head and tossing it to the floor. He palms your tits, thumbs rubbing over your nipples, and you arch into the sensation, pulling at the buttons of his flannel, popping each metal clasp until he can shrug it off. He cups your face with both hands, pushing his hips closer as you tug at his belt. His jeans fall to the ground with a dull thud, leaving him in just a pair of navy blue boxers.

He pulls back when you slide a hand into the waistband of his boxers, wrapping your fingers around the hard length of his dick. His pelvis jerks into your touch, and you grin up at him, stretching up onto your toes to claim his mouth in a deep, dirty kiss.

“Condom,” he whispers, “in the nightstand—”

“No,” you reply breathlessly, “I’m on the pill.”

Sam smirks, his hands sliding down to grope your ass. “That works, too.”

He kisses you hard, lifting you up just enough to dump you on the bed. He crawls over you eagerly, reaching down to stroke himself, and you whimper when the thick tip drags through your folds.

He sinks inside with a loud sigh, fisting his cock to push deeper as you squirm underneath him. Your knees fall open, giving him as much room as possible, and his hand falls beside your waist to brace when he gets himself deep enough to thrust comfortably.

Your nails dig into his hips on the first deep, desperate grind. He hisses at the sting and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your lips, panting hard as he thrusts into a rhythm that has the frame of his bed shuddering under the force.

He feels like heaven. Thick and hot and hard as his belly slides against yours, skin already dotted with sweat. His hand comes up to cup your face, fingers curling against your hair as his lips dot a line down your throat, over your chest, and then wrap around a swollen nipple. Your head falls back against a pillow, and you plant your toes firmly against the mattress for leverage. He grunts when you push up against him, allowing him to move even deeper inside until he bottoms out.

“Stay right there,” he mutters. He heaves himself up in one smooth motion, eyes locking on your face as he drops his entire weight into his thrusts. The loud slap of flesh on flesh echoes through the room, and you’re unable to stop your gasps and moans when you feel the ache of it. He grabs your wrists when you try and touch him, pinning them down on either side of your head, and you let out a long sigh of his name that earns a feral growl in reply. The roll of his hips changes when you squeeze around him, deep scoops that have your belly clenching.

“Oh my God, don’t stop,” you breathe, “make me cum, baby, please…”

“That’s the fuckin’ plan.” Sam dips his head to kiss you, and you wiggle playfully in his grip, the tease only making his fingers curl tighter. “You need to touch yourself?”

“No.” You catch a breath when he pauses, lips feather light against yours. “Just keep movin’ like that.”

He chuckles, shifting his weight for balance before resuming the same delicious, expert strokes. His eyes drift down your body until they land between your legs, and he groans at the sight of his cock plunging in and out of your cunt, shiny with your slick.

“Yeah, that’s it, honey,” he murmurs, “c’mon and cum for me.”

You push up against his thrusts, mouth falling open as the hot skin above his dick rubs against your clit. You’re almost there, you can feel it brimming in the pit of your belly, and when Sam’s thrusts turn into hard, bestial shoves, you spiral into bliss, convulsing between Sam’s body and the mattress as he fucks you through it. His grip on your wrists loosens, and you wrap your arms tight around his shoulders, dragging him down on top of you. He slows, then stops, lifting his head from the crook of your neck to press a lazy kiss to your cheek.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly, “you didn’t—”

He stops you with a kiss. “I will. C’mere.”

He rolls onto his back, keeping you close with an arm looped around your waist. You situate yourself on top of him, eyes falling closed as your head spins.

“Whoa, there,” he chuckles, “here, baby, put your hands right here.”

“I know how to ride a dick, dummy.” You arch your back, leaning forward far enough to brace your palms over his shoulders, tits just inches away from his kiss-swollen lips. He huffs, fingers splaying out on your hips as you begin to ride him, rolling your hips and bouncing down on his cock. He grunts, mouth opening in a soft O, and you moan when he gives an instinctive little push of his hips, meeting you halfway as you find your own rhythm.

“Fuck,” he moans, craning his neck to lap his tongue against one nipple. You pull back before he can get a real taste, scraping your nails over his chest as you work him harder, faster, until his soft pants and grunts turn into full-fledged moans.

He cums with a strangled groan, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. You keep moving, giggling when he arches and bucks underneath you, breathing high in his throat as he crosses the brink from pleasure to overstimulation. Unable to take any more, he pushes you off with a hoarse laugh, and you collapse beside him, giggling with your lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck, I needed that,” you sigh, turning your head to gaze at him.

“Me too.” He stretches one arm under your head, allowing you to scoot close into his side and rest your cheek against his chest. His heart is a steady beat, thumping slower and slower as his body calms, and you tip your head back to kiss under his jaw. He smiles, allowing his eyes to flutter closed, and skims his thumb over your shoulder.

You lie together in silence for a long time, calming down with soft kisses and touches. You’re the one to break the silence, running a hand over a small scar on his opposite shoulder.

“I don’t know why we never did this before,” you comment.

“Me either.” Sam kisses you tenderly. “It was good.”

You sigh against his lips, gazing up into his eyes as an ache suddenly builds in your throat. “Cas died.”

He nods slowly, exhaling long and slow through his nose. “Yeah. You wanna talk?”

You shrug. “I guess.”

“Tell you what.” Sam props himself on one elbow, leaning down to nuzzle your shoulder. “How about we take a shower, put something on the TV, we can take our time.”

“Uh… yeah,” you sigh, trying to keep your voice steady. “You go ahead.”

Sam gives you a soft, sad smile. “Don’t take too long, ‘kay?”

“I won’t.” You let your head roll back onto a pillow and close your eyes. “I just… I need to cry for a few minutes and I wanna be alone.”

He clicks his tongue and grazes his fingers over your cheek. “All right. I’ll save some hot water for you.”

“Don’t steal it all.”

“I won’t.” He kisses your cheek. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You sigh deeply. “I know. Go on, I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay.” He slides out of bed, and you watch him tread slowly to the door and disappear into the hallway. Rolling onto your side, you bury your face against his pillow, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath and holding it.

Your strokes of luck lately have been too good to be true, and there’s a weight in your stomach that usually only means one thing. All the big, heavy-hitting players are gone. It’s just you, Sam, and Dean now, left alone to form your own little path in the world for the first time ever. It’s terrifying.

Shit’s going to hit the fan, and when it does, this time, it’ll be the worst thing to happen to you.

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[all1e23]

Between the Stars [Pt.10]

Pairings:  Bucky x  Reader

Series warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Grief. Overall sadness. Depression. It’s pretty angsty if I’m being honest. Things mellow out as the series goes on. TW: Military/Spouse death. **Smut.** 18+ please and thanks. 

A/N:  This chapter has my whole Goddamn heart. I wasn’t planning on posting. I am just going to see how this goes y’all. As always  my beautiful beta @moonbeambucky​​​​​​ made sure this wasn’t trash and I adore her. If you like it write me a book report, sing me a song or come scream at me.

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam, though! Thanks!****

The last month has been the hardest thirty days since Steve died and the heartache you were feeling had nothing to do with that loss.

Things between you and Bucky have been awkward since his late night confession. You didn’t know how to feel about any of this. Bucky admitting he loved you when you were kids was not something you ever saw as a possibility. Or maybe you convinced yourself it wasn’t one. Looking back now, there were moments that it was obvious. Right there in your face, shining brighter than the sun, and you chose to ignore it. Even after you married Steve, there were times you caught Bucky staring in such a way it stole your breath; he never tried to hide it, or at least he wasn’t great at hiding it. He became angry with you every time you attempted to set him up with someone, and then there was the night out, everyone had been drinking and things were said that shouldn’t have been. The jealousy you felt at the thought of Bucky finding another girl pretty enough to take her home still stings. You hadn’t realized it was jealousy until now, but it was. The anger in Bucky’s eyes that same night when he told you not everyone could be as amazing as your husband — he couldn’t be Steve. 

You’ve never wanted Bucky to be Steve. Now you were wondering if he even knew that?

While the truth made everything a lot clearer, that didn’t mean that any of it made sense. If anything, things between you only became more complicated now that you knew his secrets. Bucky felt the divide as much if not more than you, and began spending more time away from the house. It started with taking his bike out for a drive that would last several hours at a time. He would come home long after you had fallen asleep and you suspected it was so he wouldn’t have to talk about all the things that needed to be said. You didn’t want to talk. You just wanted to lay with him. 

Things quickly spun out from there.

More and more, his days were spent with Sam or visiting his mom. What could you say? Please stay here with me instead of visiting your mother and sister? It wasn’t like when he first came home. Not that you were anywhere close to being healed or normal or whatever everyone around you expected you to be, but you could get up and live. You didn’t need him to be the crutch that kept you breathing. You could breathe all on your own. So, you let him go without a word, hoping things would go back to normal. Or, a new normal? You didn’t want to forget everything that was shared or pretend you weren’t feeling the way you’ve been feeling these last few months. You did want Bucky; you wanted him back home with you. You know how selfish it made you, and you didn’t care. 

That selfishness quickly turned into desperation. You were desperate to have him back, you tried over and over to make plans. Resorting to scheduling time with your best friend, the man who lived in your house just to get some time alone with him, but it was next to impossible. There have been more canceled plans than plans followed through the last three weeks. Bucky was avoiding you. There was no point in sugar-coating it to spare your feelings. Most nights he spent away from you were spent with Sam, and you knew that. Still, it hurt to know he simply didn’t want to be around you. When Bucky finally makes his way home, he always smells like bourbon. Those evenings you spend alone, but on the rare occasions he does come back in time to sleep with you, he sleeps facing you so you could rest your forehead against his chest or bicep. 

Even those moments were few and far between lately thanks to an incident two weeks ago. Bucky stumbled into bed thinking you were asleep, and in his tipsy state, he whispered some things that will forever be etched into your memories.

“I should have chased after you—that night. I should have made sure you knew I loved you,” you could hear the disgust in his voice, and you wanted to sit up and tell him you were awake. You shouldn’t be listening to this when he never meant for you to know these secrets. “I should have told Dot to go find someone else because I belonged to you. Had since we met. Wouldn't have changed much, though. Once Steve kissed you, I could see it, it was like you woke up or somethin’. I’ve never seen you smile at anyone like that. Let alone at me.” 

It was silent after that, and you thought he had fallen asleep, but then you felt him press a kiss to the side of your head, and he whispered into the dark, “Maybe one day I’ll have the courage to tell you when you’re awake.” 

He didn’t know how much you knew, but it was clear just saying the words out loud pushed you further away. You hated this and wished you could take it back. You wished you never brought up that night and kept your childish notions to yourself. If only you could take it all back, change the way you felt then maybe things would be okay again. 

The house was quiet when you snuck in the back door. You told Bucky this morning you would be gone all night, out with Wanda for a girl’s night so that he could have the house all to himself. That part was genuine. You had gone out, but the longer you were out, and the more time you spent away from Bucky, the more you wanted to be with him. You ended up calling it an early evening and waited in the dark until you saw Bucky head out onto the back porch with a small glass in his hand. 

He hasn’t wanted to see you lately, anyway. 

Steve’s hidden stash of whiskey was on the counter, and your heart hurt at the sight. You catch sight of Bucky leaning on the back porch, red dot glowing between his lips and three fingers of amber liquid floating in his glass. You quickly scurried upstairs and crept into your room, opening the door just enough to slip in because the squeak in the hinge will give you away. You heard the glass doors off the kitchen shut and a glass clinking against another, you closed your eyes and forced yourself to stay put and get ready for bed. There was nothing you could do to help him when he didn't want to see you. 

Bucky trudged up the stairs, carrying his bruised and beaten heart behind him. The soft yellow light spilling into the hallway from your bedroom had him stopping. Your door cracked several inches. It wasn’t like that before. He slowly moved towards the open door enough to spot you standing in front of the long dresser on the far side of your bed by the bay window. You were slowly undoing the buttons of your shirt after shimming out of your jeans, and Bucky couldn’t move even though he knew he shouldn’t be watching you like this. You didn’t need to hear the tiny exhale he let out to know he was standing there. You could feel him. Standing there nearly naked with your grey flannel (Bucky’s shirt technically) unbuttoned and hanging open leaving your black lace bra and black cotton boyshorts on display, you should feel embarrassed or self- conscious. You didn’t. You glanced up from the floor, locking eyes with him. Neither of you says a word. Bucky slowly stepped one foot into your room, making sure it was okay before moving any further. When you make no move to throw him out or curse him for even considering this to be okay, he slowly moves across the wood floor with careful steps on bare feet. 

His eyes fell to the black lace taking you in as if it’s the first time he’s truly seeing you. Bucky looked back up and met your eyes as he slowly reached out, running a thumb down the soft, thin material covering your breast. You inched forward, settling your hands on his ribs, clutching the worn navy-colored fabric of his shirt between your fingers. Bucky’s head tilted his head just enough so he could run his nose down yours, and he smiled when you tilted your chin towards him. His hands came to rest on the sides of your face, and he let his lips ghost over your skin. They hovered over your cheeks, the corners of your mouth, but never touched your lips. When your mouth fell open, lips barely parting he took his chance and tentatively pressed his lips against yours, softly letting them linger there for the longest three seconds of your life. Bucky scanned your face looking for any sign of regret the moment he pulled back, and when he found none, his lips claimed yours again this time without hesitation or uncertainty. 

The kiss was gentle despite the desperate want behind it and not at all what you thought kissing Bucky would be like. He was in no rush for this to be over. His lips moved over yours, slow and delicately. He tasted like whiskey from the bottle you knew was still resting on the counter downstairs, and there was a faint smell of cigarettes lingering on his shirt. He always smoked when he was distressed and hurting, and you hated it. With the way he was gently parting your lips with his own, smoking was the last thing on your mind. You honestly didn’t know what you expected but, kissing him like this made you dizzy, and when your knees went weak from the high, Bucky kept you from falling.

His right hand fell to your back, pressing firmly into your skin as he walked you backward until you bumped into the dresser behind you, giving your shaking legs support. The lamp that sits atop the old wooden chest wobbled and fell back into the curtain, dulling the soft yellow light, leaving a more delicate peach hue to fill the room. It stayed where it fell. Neither of you daring to let go of the other. Bucky hands have yet to leave your skin, much like his lips and you wanted it to stay that way. You didn’t have a lot of experience kissing, but it’s never felt like this. It’s never reached inside and grabbed a piece of you, stealing your breath and maybe a bit of your soul. 

A sweet sigh led to several short soft kisses that allowed you to catch your breath. With closed eyes, Bucky pressed one last honeyed kiss to your lips, and his forehead fell onto yours. You were trembling but not in the way you thought you would be when you found yourself here again. Bucky looked apprehensive when his eyes opened, the hand on your back pressed further into your skin, and he took a deep breath. 

“We can blame it on the whiskey,” Bucky whispered, his breath warming your swollen lips. 

That would be the easy thing to do. Blame all of this on the alcohol; tonight and the bonfire. You could end whatever this was before it became messier. Tell Bucky to leave, sleep in your bed for once, and wake up in the morning, pretending that Bucky didn’t just steal your heart with a simple kiss. You could do all that, and Bucky would act as if it never happened. There would be no guilt or shame he forced on you for wanting to take it all back. He would still love you the way he always has. That was the right thing to do, and that’s what you should tell him. 

“I haven’t had any,” you whispered back instead. 

Bucky gave you a sad smile and shrugged his shoulder. "We could still blame it on the whiskey." 

There was the out if you wanted to take it. You weren’t sure if it was an out for you or him. It was hanging there in the air regardless. If only things were as simple as walking away and forgetting. You’ve been straddling the two lives, two versions of you for long enough, and you were so tired of faking it. 

“I don’t want to be sad anymore, Bucky. I’m tired of being sad, and I’m so tired of pretending.” 

“Pretending?” Bucky questioned. You could hear his heartbeat, you could swear it. It was hard and fast, pounding with uncertainty against his chest. 

“What part of you has been pretending?” 

It’s terrifying how one simple question can change everything. 

“The only part of me that’s real is one tied to you.” 

You were playing with fire, but you’ve always had a way of finding trouble, and Bucky’s always been fond of the kind of trouble you were made of.

Bucky didn’t know what to say to that so he let his hands say all the things he couldn’t. They brushed gingerly down your sides, lightly running down to the top of your thighs and playing along the edge of the black cotton covering you. You wanted to memorize the way his fingertips felt on your skin in case you never again get the chance to feel them. His hands were rough in the right places and soft where they needed to be. The roughened calloused thumb and forefinger and that thin line running down his middle finger through his right palm to his wrist -- an incident with a knife while they were deployed a few years ago. 

He reached behind him and pulled his shirt over his head, and your hands immediately found his skin trailing soft fingers over the various scars. New ones you’ve never seen and some old ones that made your skin crawl from the haunting memory. The scarred skin on his left shoulder left you with that queasy feeling. You almost lost him that time. They nearly took his arm, and you could still hear Steve’s voice in your ear, desperate and tear-filled coming down a scratchy satellite phone to tell you that Bucky may not be coming home. 

Your lips brush over the scar from the bullet that ripped through his shoulder nearly taking him from you and Bucky’s breath hitched at the contact. You wished you could take that pain for him. You know how much it still bothers him, especially when it’s cold, and there are nightmares tied to the scars that won’t leave him alone. If you could, you would take those, too. You slowly pull back to find him watching you intently. There’s a long pause from you both. Did he need the assurance that you both wanted this, and it wasn’t a mistake? Did you? His breath heavy, the desperate want between you making the air thick and hard to breathe. The silence in the room was overwhelming, and it was the confirmation you both needed. 

Bucky’s left hand came up to grip your hair, and he pulled you forward with a gentle demand, swiftly claiming your lips. Rough fingers push the sleeve of his flannel from your shoulders enough that it fell onto the floor on its accord. There’s a kiss to each shoulder as he nudges the straps of your bra off your shoulders, unhooking it with one hand and letting it join the pile at your feet. You briefly wonder how many times and with how many other women he's done this. How many of his one-night stands has he touched like this? The thought was quickly extinguished when you felt his lips gently land on the tip of your nose. He bumped your noses together, wearing a small smile when he kisses the corner of your mouth and presses a sweeter, softer kiss to your lips. 

He’s never done this before. He was making sure you know it’s never been this way with anyone. He's never held anyone the way he's holding you now, nor does he want to. 

Bucky urged you back towards the side of your bed, stopping right before the mattress could brush the back of your legs. He hesitated, glancing from the bed back to you. It was a question. Did you want to do this here? Because he would understand if you didn’t. There wasn’t much of a question in your mind despite his worry. Your fingers land on his belt, slowly undoing it and pulling it from the loops. It was okay to want this, and it was okay to want this here. Bucky wasn’t a dirty secret or something shameful you had to keep hidden. 

There was nothing shameful or dirty about what you felt for Bucky.  

Kicking his jeans to the side, Bucky dropped to his knees in front of you, he grasped behind your knees and pulled your legs out from under you dropping you back onto the bed. You squealed softly and Bucky’s deep chuckle followed, making you shiver. With thumbs hooked in the waist of your panties, he slowly tugged them down, kissing each ankle as your foot slipped free. The room felt hot. Maybe it was the fan spinning on low or the heat of Bucky’s shoulders under your legs. It could be how he was staring up at you with his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen and his hands sliding up to cup your ass, lifting your hips to meet his mouth. 

A lecherous moan bounced off the walls and Bucky hummed against you. It didn’t take much. The first feel of his tongue and your legs were quivering around his ears. The intention was to taste you, not tease you until you were begging for release. It was easy to tell with the way he devoured you from the moment his lips were on you. He wanted to savor the sweet taste on his lips. You simply couldn’t stop your pleas for more. You couldn’t fight it. The burn from his beard on your thighs and the strokes of his tongue had you squirming. He didn’t relent until you were writhing and coming undone under him.

Bucky stood between your legs, panting, and still wearing the evidence of your orgasm glistening on his lips. You couldn’t take it another second. Leaning up onto your elbows you tangled the chain from tags around your hand, pulling him to you. The kiss is wet and frantic. Not like before. You could taste yourself on his tongue and it only spurred you on. Your hands were steady, rushed but steady, as you tugged his boxers down. Bucky’s hand lands on top of yours, slowing your movements. He needed this slow. You both did. There was a breathy, please that fell from someone’s lips. Neither of you are sure whose. 

With a gentle push to his chest, you guide him to sit back against the headboard. His necklace fell back to his chest, gripping his biceps with both hands to steady yourself as you straddle his waist, and Bucky’s hands came up swiftly, gripping your hips and halting you from sinking down on him. His eyes frantically roam your skin, his thoughts were racing and you could hear every one of them as if they were your own. He’s searching for the truth in all this. Is this all something he imagined? If he takes the chance will you fall with him or is he on his own? It’s the same thought making your legs tremble. You pressed your forehead against his and took a deep breath.  

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “You can fall, Bucky. I'm right here with you.”  

Something about your words made the tension he was holding dissipate and left him with an easy smile. His grip on your hips slowly loosened, the shake in his hands steadied as you pressed a kiss to his lips and you sank down on him. His head tilted back against the headboard and his mouth fell open at the feel of you clenching around him. You didn’t move for a moment, giving you both a minute to adjust. Allowing your head a chance to catch up to your heart. The hand on your waist slid around your backside, urging you to move with a gentle tap. Fingertips wandered every inch of your skin, exploring every inch of you as he watched you breathless and rocking against him. 

His palm comes to rest over your heart, closing his eyes as your heart thumped against his palm letting him know this was real. You were here with him, and this was no dream. 

It was quiet save for the creek of the headboard, your heavy breaths, and Bucky’s soft, guttural moans he couldn’t stop. You came apart first. The sight of your mouth hanging open, gasping for breath, and quivering in his arms pushed Bucky over the edge. He came clutching your thighs and whispering your name. It was a pretty sight.  

Your bottom lip was still trembling long past the last wave when you asked if he felt the same thing you did. 

“Did you fall, too?” 

Bucky smiled at your question and cupped your face in his hands, kissing you sweet and sure between heavy breaths. 

“Yeah, Trouble. ‘Bout fifteen years ago.” 

You rest your forehead against his jaw and press a kiss to his neck—Bucky’s lips land on your shoulder, his beard tickling you enough to make you wriggle. Bucky grinned, wrapped an arm around your waist, and slipped down low enough to cover you with the sheet. There was a brief worry that you were cold, but you simply burrowed further into his chest, assured him you hadn’t felt this warm in a long time. You would both need to leave this bed and get cleaned up at some point, but for a few minutes longer, you could stay right where you were. 

Bucky had every intention of soaking in this moment that was never supposed to be. 

A conversation needed to be had. There would need to be explanations and assurances. None of this was planned. You hadn’t meant to fall for Bucky. He loved you in a way you didn’t fully understand. You wanted to though, if he was willing to show you. You wanted to let him love you. None of what you were feeling was intended, and it was never meant to be a replacement for what you had. He was different. It was something new—a new kind of old you never wanted to lose. 

New was nice, it turned out. 

Previous // Next 

[taintedbloom]

Say Amen // Archie & Amelia

Perhaps, it weren’t the brightest of ideas to enter his father’s office without his permission, in spite of the fact the office space was rarely used to start with, but the Devereaux patriarch’s untimely demise dampened the likeliness he would receive punishment for the trespassing. It is not as if Archie cared for the man, he discovered the acceptance he couldn’t feel anything for anyone, much less an absent father who took advantage of the wealth tacked onto his last name. His mother seized control of all financial aspects long before her husband expired, she evidently wore the pants in their relationship, and it was an unspoken truth in the household. 

In the seventeen years of his life, he and his eldest brother Grayson were entrapped by Amelia’s torrential competitiveness engulfing the brothers and while their bond suffered from such meddling, his relationship with every member of his family would not have improved regardless for the unfortunate parental methods. There was his brother, throwing about snarky side comments and refusing to stand up to their mother, their mother as a whole who mildly terrorized her children in a way that she played oblivious to, and dear old dad became the male socialite on steroids. Archie reminded himself of this as he lingered about the moderate length of the room, his fingers gliding along the smooth mahogany surface of the ornate desk.

“You should not be in here, Archibald.” The teenager’s gaze slowly lifted to meet his mother’s, whose form hovered in the doorway with her hands properly folded behind her back. That was the word to describe the woman, proper. Proper clothes, proper hair, proper posture, everything about her screamed frustratingly perfect and unkempt. It was a miracle how she fell in love with a husband farthest from flawlessness. “I needed a moment. Dad’s too dead to care.” His father’s funeral wake shoved Archie to his emotional limits. The shaking of hands and condolences, every lie spilling from the lips of those who pretended as if they painted a doting image of his father, disgusting. One more reeking pile of a bullshit story and he would have set the mansion ablaze. “Where’s Grayson?”

“Downstairs entertaining our guests where you are meant to be.” Amelia tensely replied, taking a few steps into the room, frowning at the work that will need to be done packing the rest of her husband’s belongings for storage. Or simply tossing everything in the trash saved her the trouble. “You needed a moment, right? Is that why I found a packed suitcase under your bed?” Her eyebrow lifted as her son’s briefly dropped and even if Archie experienced no shame hiding the evidence of his immediate escape not a single day that his father’s corpse had been in the ground, he was slightly guilty at himself for not concealing his post-funeral plans smarter. “As soon as the meaningless charade of a wake is over, I’m leaving.” Archie nonchalantly dropped the knowledge as his fingers wrapped around the carbon copy of the family portrait that was currently hanging above the living room’s fire place on the first level. All smiles, nothing screamed imperfect, though, the ten year old version of him could hide the almost dead look in his eyes. Something...unnerving.

“Excuse me?” The woman’s eyes narrowed into small slits, turning her nose up at the mere prospect of her son believing he possessed the nerve to leave home, “You’re not of age yet, Archibald, what would you possibly know of supporting yourself after the reliance this family has given you?” She spoiled her children, or more so their wealth spoiled them for her, but she prepared the boys for this cruel harsh world. Archie the most selfish, the most pampered of them all. “You are not leaving and shirking your responsibilities.”

“Yes, I am.” Archie placed aside the frame he was holding, feeling the same flare of rage tickling the surface of his subconscious. “School is finished, Father’s no longer stealing from my savings, and now there’s nothing left for me here.” Not to mention, his newfound career path Archie chose for himself. All it took were the right people to fall in step with, the right contacts providing the resources mandatory for blossoming the seed of a thought planted by those who uncovered extraordinary potential. He never picked up a gun before this, but now the weight it carried in his hand and tucked in the back of his suit pant waistband felt eerily natural. “Tragically heartbreaking as it is to confess, Mother, the thought of taking over your business would’ve certainly colored me envious for Father’s fate.”

Amelia pressed a hand to her chest at the young male’s statements, appalled by his ever careless nature and unsurprised at the brutal honesty. Speaking ill-will of the dead? She taught him better. “As willing as you are to erase the existence of your own family, my boy, you still live under my roof. The food you eat down to every last expensive article of clothing gracing your entire person is from the generosity of the high class I have dropped in your ungrateful hands. As this is my rules, my house, I am within my right to speak freely when I say,” Her chin slightly tilted, “You are not going anywhere, Archibald. Your attitude lately, for one, has been without a doubt the most unacceptable.” The woman scoffed, “You’ve been distant, distracted, you must take me for the fool when you believe I have not noticed when you sneak away at all ungodly hours of the night. It ends tonight, Archie. And quite frankly-”

“And you choose now of all days to share your complete truthful opinion.” The young male cut his mother’s statement short with a flourish of his hand, “When you have spent almost two decades of my entire life throwing me no more than manipulative lies and scrutiny.” Archie wouldn’t normally allow his temperament to graze the surface for the entertainment of the Devereaux matriarch, much less shatter the self-contained gentlemanly bearing, but Amelia knew what to speak, how to portray her attitude, to rile her child. “If you have something, anything to say, now is the time, Mother, because I guarantee you will not receive another chance as soon as the sun rises when I am gone tomorrow.” 

“You want honesty? No matter how harsh?” Amelia pressed a finger to her lip, mulling through the dozens of thoughts once remained unspoken. Her son’s curt nod forced the woman to continue, “I knew from the moment you were born, there was always something wrong with you, Archibald. You were too quiet as a child, too calm, too everything that should not have been possible of someone your age. You were cold to others, a difficulty empathizing, and while the latter trait I thought was an inheritance from your family lineage, you lack a filter and an unwillingness to make friends. And even with such a cutthroat heartless state, you were and are still a disappointment.” It might’ve been cruel and unjust, but he asked for honesty and honesty he shall bare, “I tried, for years, I tried preparing you and your brother for the lifetime that has been handed to you, but you’ve failed every expectation. You are selfish, conniving, arrogant, it is no wonder you have no stable relationships, no girlfriend or what have you. It’s not how a Devereaux acts. I detest saying this so openly, darling,” She paused, the regret she might experience later not bothering her the slightest, “I’m almost ashamed to call you my son.”

Archibald made the assumption she would back down from sharing a scrap of integrity and brush the conversational topic aside before leaving him to his devices, yet, she spilled seventeen years’ worth of what has remained bottled away for appearance’s sake. It all made perfect sense, the competitiveness, the silent dinners, the snide insults veiled by criticism, she hated him. Amelia did not need to express such, which was pointless attempting to spare his emotions when she shared the knowledge he couldn’t feel, but she one hundred percent hated his guts with every fiber of her being by the opinion he clutched closely. He heard nothing but the shrill ringing in his ears, saw nothing but flashes of his childhood memories pass his gaze as if someone pressed the fast forward button. Archie suddenly felt his hand reaching around, could feel his fingers encapsulate the cool metal of the gun hidden in his waistband, and only realized the gravity of his actions the second he heard the click of the gun’s hammer. The barrel...pointing straight at the woman who bore him into this world. “I was never enough for you.” His hand shook faintly even though he tried steadying it.

Amelia watched as her youngest son’s expression warped before her very eyes. She anticipated dismissal or even a slather of sarcasm to conceal how greatly her opinion mattered whether or not Archie faked his disinterest. Just as he preferred dismissing the can of worms he tore at the seams, the woman flickered her attention to fixing the watch clasped to her wrist. She noted the late hour and the awaiting guests missing the grieving widow’s presence before a small clicking sound caused Amelia to raise her head slowly, heart instantly pounding the moment she collided face-to-face with the barrel of a gun. “You wouldn’t pull the trigger, Archibald.” Her voice wavered and the man seemed to take satisfied joy in that, “Doesn’t change the truth and you know it.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Archie dropped his index finger to the trigger, hammering in his point, “I mean, you have granted me the perfect ammunition, Mother. It’s what we call a motive.” He tightened the grip on the weapon’s handle and barked a dark sound from the back of his throat that was closely reminiscent of a laugh, “What parent pits her children against each other, hm? You have done nothing but confirm time and time again the real culprit why I’ve consistently felt even crazier than I thought I already was. I have never once apologized for who I am or how I am, but since you are so determined to cast me as a monster, here I stand.”

“A monster.” Amelia mocked the use of the term. “This earth is crawling with competition, my dear, anyone believing playing fair achieves their dreams are inadequate buffoons.” She slid her foot backwards in the door’s direction and, in spite of how miniscule the movement was created, Archie’s teachings displayed the tools to spot when a target came close seizing an escape opportunity. Her confidence never diminished, “Blood alone will not establish my safety, but one fact certainly does.” 

Archie breathed a chuckle devoid of all humor and care in the world, “Then give me a single good solid reason why I shouldn’t extinguish the one person who has slashed at every part of who I’ve become and carelessly laugh while I bled.” The woman was a walking terror at times and while he couldn’t recall her revealing any gesture of motherly kindness, she never deserved the privilege of children. If kids would ever enter his story in the near future, as any god lurking out there is his witness, they will never endure what he has suffered with either a hellbent competitive parent nor an absentee father. “A bullet solves everything. A bullet saves my life, my freedom. You think I’m the selfish one, Mother, it is no wonder where I learned it from. Finally, you have taught me something useful. So, I ask again,” He hissed, “Give me a fucking good reason.”

The tip of Amelia’s mouth quirked, “You are weak, Archie. Weak like your father.” Her piercing stare hovered from the gun her son was holding and landed on Archie’s expression, adrenaline kicking in almost instantly. She was frightened, oh yes, her facial features revealed nothing damning that could be used as an advantageous upper hand, but facing death was troublesome, “Why do you believe he slept with every living creature in this city, pet, has that crossed your mind? I haven’t the faintest clue what deep trench of an underworld you have dug yourself in, Archibald, but you’ve sealed a fate that’s promised your worst fear. Loneliness.” Amelia paused for melodramatic effect, “Despite what you feel about me or your brother, butchering your own family means you’ll truly be alone in this cesspool. No one will love you. So, go right ahead,” She stepped forward cautiously, “Do it. Solve your problems at my expense.”

Archibald could feel his confidence slipping quickly, willing his physical state not to follow suit, forcing the memories of the wisdom imparted on him by others who introduced the young male to a dream career engaging in his darkest fancies. Kill her, kill her, kill her, a voice from somewhere screamed blaringly. Squeeze the trigger and the pain disappears, as if it were that simple. Killing his mother had not crossed his mind before, though, its presence and the formulating euphoric rush couldn’t surprise or scare him. He realized a split second too late the hands wrapped around the gun were wobbling uncontrollably as his head rationalized between two battling arguments. Pull the trigger, don’t pull the trigger, the racing thoughts produced a maddening result. No one loved him, did he want love? How can he when he could not feel it? Couldn’t feel anything? One night stands came and went, meaningless dalliances, but nothing lasted. Not that the youngest Devereaux allowed the progression.

In the end...Archie shakily lowered the firearm.

“See?” Amelia cracked the silence emanating in the middle of mother and child. Placing one foot in front of the other, the desk was the only object within that office standing between them. “Your pride and vanity will be your greatest weakness, Archibald. While the one faithful enough to count on the most is yourself, paranoia is a downfall capable of destroying all chances to pass on our family name.” Archie turned away from her, watching his mother pick him apart from the corner of his eye, “Choosing what you think is right will be a path you travel alone. You and I both know how this story ends, boy,” The woman carelessly waved her hand to the side and spun on her heel as she sauntered towards the door, “You dead and no one here to pick up the pieces. Nor I or your brother will.”

“You’re wrong.” Archie’s voice sliced the everlasting din, his gaze dropping to the gun in his hands. Amelia grinded to an abrupt halt as the male continued, “You may have needed me, needed Grayson, to resume our lineage, but I have never needed you.” The words were venom on his tongue. He attempted playing the role of dutiful son, he spat his complaints, threw about sarcastic remarks without a care in the world, but Archibald faced a resolution and he would not stray the road ahead. He cannot turn back now, not when he has come this far for any other alternative. “I’m done.” Archie traced a circled path around the desk and gravitated towards the door.

“Archibald,” His mother’s voice caused the young male to pause in his tracks as soon as he passed her, “When this power trip of yours fails, you will come crawling home begging for my forgiveness.” The statement caused a harsh laugh to flee from the teenager’s lips the minute it reached his ears. “No, Mother,” He partially turned, “you will be begging for mine watching the disappointment you raised make a name others only dare whisper. And for once, I’ll take it one way or another.” Archie didn’t bother wasting the energy drinking in his mother’s likely appalled expression as he reached the doorway. Archie was nothing if not a dramatic little bastard, that isn’t falsified knowledge, but to stand on the precipice holding the match as every bridge he possessed torched before his eyes, well...so shall it be his reality. “Send Grayson my regards.” Directing one last comment for the only living parent he had, Archibald disappeared from the room.

[themurphyzone]

Connect

This isn’t related to MML Connect. It’s named for the opening theme of Puella Magi Madoka Magica. All you need to know is The Island of Lost Dakotas messed me up so much. But I’ve been posting on that a lot, so you guys probably know that already.

 I will never forget the promise we made

“We’ll prove that we can be trusted to handle a mission to save the world, correct?” Cavendish asked. “In the words of Professor Time, ‘persevere when the circumstances tell you that you can’t’.” 

“You ripped that from his memoir, didn’t you?” Dakota replied. 

Cavendish quickly shoved the book under his pillow. “It was the only chapter I hadn’t memorized.” 

Dakota shook his head. “You’re really something else. Fine. We’ll work our way up the ladder. Together. That means one of us doesn’t advance without the other, more than one-”

Cavendish sighed. “I didn’t take you to be able to memorize the dictionary. Very well. Whether pistachio protecting or saving the world, we shall succeed together.” 

 Though time goes on it will never fade

The car crash had been the 51st death. Or was it the 56th? Though he could only give a rough estimate of how many times he’d looped time to undo death, or have trouble remembering the circumstances which led to it, there was one thing that he could recall with perfect clarity. 

The promise to succeed together. To never let failure define them. Triumph when the odds were against them. 

 Don’t lose sight I must move on

Get the pills away. Away where they could never hurt Cavendish. 

All this time. All this time and not a single death had been suicide. 

Succeed together meant nothing to him. How could he have been so damn selfish? 

Maybe it wasn’t his fault though. Dakota was the one who was caught up in outside forces that he never recognized the internal ones. 

Loop time. Loop time and talk to him. Beg him. Whatever it takes. 

Until I reach the faraway dawn

When would it stop? How would he stop it?

The deaths were far too common to be circumstance alone. There was a reason they were occurring. 

He would find out why. And stop it. 

How can I see through the visions

A ship. A storm. A lightning strike. 

A gun. A mask. An alley. 

Cavendish would die and die and die. Even if he was still alive, he died in Dakota’s dreams that sometimes he’d question the reality of it all. Which was the figment and which was real became blurred.

Through the loop to another revision

It never ended. The clock ticked on, sweeping Dakota to a new timeline and erasing the old one. The hands beat methodically. 

Just a matter of time before the new timeline was erased as well. 

No matter how long it takes

Losing track and still counting. Wouldn’t it be funny if the Island reached maximum capacity before the loops stopped? The thought of all his past selves all crowded together, arguing over elbow room and food almost made him laugh. 

 I will find a way for your sake

Where there’s a will, there’s a way. There had to be. 

The sacrifice was worth it. 

Because it was Cavendish.

 It hurts to be alone

A past self needed some guidance on where to go, since he was still adjusting to Earth after being on the moon for a few missions. “Big storm today,” the past self remarked. “If we stay out any longer we might see cats and dogs.” 

“That’s the boat,” Dakota said, pointing to the one that a man in a pink raincoat was standing next to. “It’ll take you as far as a mysterious fogbank, and after that you’ll be on your own until you reach the Island. And if the captain starts spouting some junk about being judgmental just ignore him. He lectures everyone.” 

The past self nodded, and Dakota hiked up the collar of his tracksuit against the pounding rain, heading back the way he came. “On my own, huh?” he said. Streams of water bounced off his glasses, and two tiny, thin ones streaked down his cheeks. 

“Only for a little bit,” Dakota replied. “You’ll have me to keep you company once you reach the Island.” 

“But you aren’t Cavendish,” the past self said. 

“No,” Dakota agreed. “I’m not Cavendish.” 

Yet I must do this on my own

Cavendish could never know. He was paranoid enough already. Knowing that he was fated to die a million times over only to suddenly be alive at the push of a button would scare him out of never leaving the apartment again. 

He didn’t want to consider what would happen if the Bureau discovered his secret. The past Dakotas would be considered an anomaly, and likely destroyed. Or used for experiments. 

Milo Murphy was just a kid. He had enough on his plate already, with school, Murphy’s Law, and all. He didn’t need to be burdened with that secret. 

This was his mission alone.

I must restrain my emotions

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted so many things he couldn’t have. Like a child really. 

It was only natural to try and seek a place of comfort. But he couldn’t. No, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t let anyone know-

Fight it. Push it down. Don’t let it explode. Keep it in. Hold it together. 

Though we’re separated by oceans

The Island was uncharted and uninhabited. It was the perfect place for the Dakotas to begin anew, to build themselves another life after another had been forcibly stripped away. 

Their existence a secret. They would leave no mark. The industries they built were forever shrouded in anonymity. And when the time came, it would wither away.  

I look forward to the day

What if Cavendish found out? Yes, he definitely wouldn’t take it well. 

But a tiny part of him said maybe....

And so he entertained the idea. 

Where both of us say

It was a few simple words. Language was an odd thing. How could you take a simple sentence and twist it into something so complex? 

Three words meant more than life and death. 

And it would never come out. 

 A dance if we may

The first act: the death scene. The second: the loop. The third: life goes on. 

It was a dance. A slow, rhythmic dance that challenged death. 

Someone was winding up the key to their stage.  

As long as his dance partner was Cavendish, he didn’t care how long it would take to escape them. 

And I will be by your side

They were up there. Watching. 

His secret had been discovered. It had only been a matter of time before the civilization of Dakotas had been found and destroyed. 

Balthazar Cavendish was to be executed. He should never have been alive after the first time he’d been killed. An anomaly. A panel of superiors waited above the room, safely presiding over his death. They had the final say.  

The jig was up. 

And so Dakota had asked to be put in the room with his partner. It was his doing, he argued. He should receive a proper sentence as well. 

Cavendish protested of course. He had a life. He needed to live it. 

But the Bureau decided to comply with his request. Of all times, now they choose to listen to him. Their benevolence almost seemed believable. And so he was locked in the room with Cavendish. 

They would meet their final fate. Together. 

Until the day I die. 

The gas trickled in. Suffocating to death. So this was how they would go out. 

“Succeed together,” Cavendish said quietly. “Do you...still remember? The promise.”

Dakota squeezed his hand. “I never forgot. No matter how many times you died. Didn’t matter how many times I went back to save you.”

The gas inched closer. It covered the outer edges of the room now. 

Cavendish’s hands covered Dakota’s, his fingers gently massaging his knuckles. “Thank you.” Tears built up in his eyes. “And...sorry.”

Dakota rolled his eyes. “It’s you. What am I gonna do?” 

Cavendish coughed. It was getting harder to breathe with every second. “What...am I going to do with you?” 

“Take me out,” Dakota replied. He was holding out better, but not for long. “To lunch.” 

Cavendish slumped forward, his head resting on Dakota’s shoulder. He gazed weakly at Dakota’s face in a weak attempt at a glare. Dakota pressed a kiss to his cheek, and Cavendish’s eyes closed. His body twitched once, then stilled. 

There would be no more do-overs after this. 

But that was okay. 

Their final success was dying together. 

He had kept his promise after all this time. 

He saw a green-sleeved hand. It stroked his hair, relieving all his pain, all his grief with each gentle touch. Sky-blue eyes blinked at him.  

“Come, Dakota.”

And he followed with no regrets.