#everything else is just a confusing mess

[ooliecat]

Can I ask How do you color and render your art? I frickin love the way you choose colors esp for lighting and bounce light, it's really pretty

thanks so much :) this took a little bit because i'm not a teacher. but hope you can understand some concepts i put out.

I'm going to go over mostly on how I shade/render. Picking out initial base colors is something that just comes with practice, preference, and from someone more eloquent.

The top is what 'not' to do. The bottom is generally what i do.

below is another example

i could do more. i meant to do more. but every other tip/tutorial i tried doing seemed like i was teaching abc's. I realized i don't know exactly what was being asked. I do have a few general tips though.

my process usually goes: Sketch, lineart, coloring, filtering/post processing.

'Post processing' can be a lot of things like; Painting over the drawing(fixing errors or adding details), or adding a noise filter, adding an overlaying photo. And/or changing the colors with gradient maps.

If you use a program that supports gradient maps then use them. they can be your best friend. Especially when colors don't look cohesive or just how you want them to.

Experiment with layer modes. At the moment I'm really into Pin-Light and Luminosity. Like I said, experiment. This is included in post-processing.

Use more than one shading color for each section. Go darker, go lighter while using that color picking method. Ex: It's usually darker under the neck than the side of the face. So use a darker color than the face.

if anythings confusing or you'd like something more specific then you're more than welcome to ask.

[masterfuldoodler]

girlbossed too hard.... unless...

[mechahero]

@dragvnsovl asked- ⊙﹏☉（；へ：） headcanons! (accepting)

⊙﹏☉ = What flusters the character

It'd be easier to list off the things that don't fluster him, to be honest. Whatever flusters him is relatively basic (or kind of pathetic from whatever way you choose to view it). That would be things like compliments or nice words in general directed towards him, small gestures of kindness, maybe even the occasional gentle touch or kiss.

He can't quite wrap his head around it and yet it embarrasses him nonetheless.

（；へ：） = What makes the character cry

Sad moments in movies, sad songs of any kind, love related or otherwise, people failing to understand what he's saying to the point where if he gets so frustrated he'll either start shouting or end up crying out of said frustration depending on the day. Lambda also does tend to cry over hurt animals as well.

He cries about a lot of things, actually. He's a bleeding heart like that.

[marshadowstea]

okay word vomit to end the day :3

dont read it, this is mine >:[

[ko-eko-ev-go-ms]

The struggle of putting yourself in the position of having to do a bunch of social stuff for a good cause but meanwhile you have SO MUCH social anxiety

[fazcinatingblog]

When Sophia rang this morning, she said she'd slept on the couch, still in yesterday's clothes, had knocked over the coffee and it had spilt everywhere and everything was wet and she couldn't even light her cigarette and

[monstersholygrail]

Easter in Free Use City is, like most things, completely different than what Easter is like for the rest of the world. When you have an entire city with no children you can afford to change up the holiday games and make them a lot more adult friendly.

Bunny Secretary walks up to you at your desk, a smirk on his lips that hold a million secrets. You’re working like it’s a normal day, only kind of wondering why the entire floor is cleared of your colleagues.

“Hey, sweets, you need to get downstairs for the annual egg hunt.”

At your confused glance, Bunny Secretary’s smirk only grows darker, his cock twitching with uncontainable excitement. Pre leaks in his briefs at your pure naivety. That’ll be gone before long and it’ll all be because of him.

“Confused? Well, darling, every year I get to pick one person to plant this lovely egg vibrator inside of. When I do, the office is alerted and the hunt begins.”

He holds up a brightly covered egg shaped toy, decorated as if it were an actual Easter egg. Realization dawns on you and your legs subtly try and rub together, your body throbbing at the idea of all these big sexy monsters pawing at you, plunging their giant fingers inside of you in attempts to find the egg. Bunny Secretary’s eyes gleam as if reading your mind.

“First one to find the egg gets the prize. And this year that prize… is you,” he purrs, his bunny nose twitching as he inhales deep gulps of your arousal.

With a swift push of your chair, Bunny Secretary has you ass up, leaning against the desk and ready for him. Your core leaking with arousal and making him drool.

His hands run over your body, caressing you with a dark and twisted reverence like he just can’t get enough of you. But it’s not just enough to taste and the urge has him leaning in to get a taste.

The moment your essence drips onto his tongue, Bunny Secretary swears he blacks out. All he can sense is your taste, everything else going dark as he eats you out like a man starved. His tongue reaching far into your depths, swirling the thick muscle inside of you. Fucking you relentlessly with his mouth and getting you ready to take the toy.

He works you with his tongue, higher and higher till your pretty hole flutters around him, desperate to cum. You whine in protest when he pulls back but a moment later and the thick egg is stretching your slick walls as he pops the toy inside of you.

At first nothing happens. You stand on shaky legs and your lips part, about to ask what gives, when Bunny Secretary clicks something on a miniature remote and your body is buzzing to life. Sparks of pleasure shoot from your core and instead of words, you moan like the slut you are as your knees buckle. The shock of it instantly turning you into a gushing mess.

It only takes that last bit of vibration to have you coming at your desk, barely able to stand. Bunny Secretary is right there to keep you upright, bringing you firmly against his chest. Even that has you coming harder till finally the vibrations stop and you slump against him.

“Hmm. I wonder how long it’ll take them to find you when you already look so fucking wrecked,” he rasps, voice hoarse with his own need, and his lips curled in a smug grin.

You briefly wonder what he means as he helps practically carry you downstairs where the office is holding the hunt. It all makes sense as Bunny Secretary opens the door and you’re immediately greeted with what looks to be a war zone.

But no, it’s not a war zone. It’s the biggest damn orgy you’ve ever seen in your life. Everyone from the office railing each other in search of the egg. The egg currently inside you. The reminder has you clenching around it and trying to hold in the lewd moans that beg to spill from your lips.

“Happy Easter,” he sings in your ear, “Now get in there.”

[screampied]

sukuna never says “i love you.”

to him, the words are meaningless. he’s been alive for thousands and thousands of years, of course he knows what it means. he’s not stupid, but for some reason—every time it comes out of your little human mouth, his heart aches. you say it so sweetly with the cheekiest grin on your face, not a single care in the world. he hated it. three words, eight letters of pure rubbish. at least, that’s what he thinks to himself. for sukuna, he expresses his love in a different way.

physical touch. flicking your forehead, teasing you, saying things he’d never say to you while you were awake. that was his version of love, he didn’t need those stupid, stupid words. or did he?

“love you, ‘kuna,” you’d pepper another kiss against his cheek. he tchs, the audacity for you to do something so embarrassing. he never says it back but you know deep down he’s got to feel at least something in that cold heart of his. he just has to, after all you did steal his heart in a way. and he stole yours. your eyes always had a glinting sparkle whenever those words would come out and he hated it. his response to you saying you loved him would always be the same.

“yeah yeah,” he gruffs. or a simple, “i know..”

but— there’d be a time where he’d regret not saying it back. a cold, cruel time where it’s just you and him, no one else. except, it would really just be him.

sukuna had a hard time at expression his feelings. it’s not like he hated you—despite his rough, barbarous persona.

he didn’t hate you but he did. it was complicated. it was a struggle trying to put it into words. all he knew was that he loathed how soft you made him, he noticed his behavior would change around you overtime. sukuna’s voice was get more gentle, his shoulders would relax, and he’d always finding himself flicking your forehead for some strange reason. it’s annoying,

you’re annoying.

the feeling was love though, it had to be.

had to be,

so the moment comes where he regrets not saying it back.

it’s something he’d continuously beat himself up over for. because now, here you are, laid all out near the ground in his arms. all four of his arms held you in a tight, cradling embrace and he’s got an expression you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. sukuna’s scarlet red irises were blown and fearfully dilated. his thin nostrils flared up and his slit brows contort in panic and confusion.

sukuna ryomen was scared.

“brat. get up.” he murmurs, three simple words was all he said to you. three simple words but you could barely even hear them.

all you heard was a brief inaudible mumble. you saw his lips moving but barely any sound came out. your body felt crushed, the pain was excruciating. your limbs, they felt like they were on fire. getting up was the last thing on your mind and you’ve probably sone the most careless thing imaginable.

you took a hit for sukuna, a deadly hit that was powerful enough to cost you your life. it’s funny though—all the talk of seeing your life flash before your eyes, and now, being snatched into the inevitable end, you were starting to really see it.

“get up,” he repeats, and this time, a single tear falls right onto your cheek. you meet sukuna’s gaze. the king of curses was a mere mess right before your eyes. he was like this for just you. teary eyed and sniffling, he can’t stand this pain.

you’re being held in his lap and not once does his eyes leave yours. sukuna takes a while to speak again and it’s as if he’s carefully thinking of what to say. time was precious right now, but he didn’t wanna think about anything. his focus was solely on you, his favorite little human.

“can you hear me? say something.”

“you .. you’re gonna get wrinkles if you keep frowning too much, ‘kuna.” you hum, a weak finger stroking against his cheek.

archons, for whatever reason, that little comment brought a smile to his face. you were so annoying to him and yet, he wouldn’t wanna be in anyone else’s presence. everything hurt though,

your body felt scorchingly hot, your pulse remains to ring through your ears and you were wheezing a bit. “hey, hey,” he watches as you try to cling onto his hand. sukuna didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say - all he did do though, was hold you. it was the least thing he could do. your hand was so small compared to his, his long fingernails gently tickling against your skin.

he didn’t have it in him to scold you for trying to protect him. as fragile of a being you knew you were, you did it anyway. you risked your life for him. sukuna let his guard down and you jumped right in the way without a second thought for yourself. that’s what love was, his heart bleeds at the recent flashback before a shaky breath leaves his lips. “this wasn’t supposed to happen. you can’t leave me like this, please.”

“i’m not l- leaving.” you reply, your voice weak and frail. sukuna knew that was a lie. the more you stared at him, how the look of worry on his face paints and marinates his features, he was really scared. you were his everything, his breath of fresh air, maybe even his one true love. “never gonna leave you, sukuna.”

and sukuna lays there with you on his lap. you seem still - too still. right before his eyes, he watches as your body’s temp run cold, final breaths making its introduction. everything was going so fast. he barely had time to react before he realized,

you were gone.

“no,” he whispers under his breath. the demon was at a loss of words. the feeling in his chest, it was indescribable. painful, and tight as he watches the light leave your eyes, something within him leaves also. a part of him. you were drifting away and there was nothing he could do about it. “no.” he repeats against, feeling a dull ache run cold through his body. sukuna didn’t know what to do. he’s seeing red, but perhaps that wasn’t just bloodshed and anger. maybe, maybe it was the one true feeling he was denying all along,

love.

his breaths become heavy once he realizes you’re actually gone. no movement, no cheeky replies, no random “i love you ‘kuna’s,” no nothing. the tear in his heart was enough to make him see the light with you. it hurt horribly, a lump in his throat builds up before he starts to weep. one tear comes then multiple shortly follow, landing past the thin fabric of his sown kimono and onto your lifeless body.

sukuna hated you. he hated how you made him so soft, so vulnerable, so weak. you came into sukuna’s life, stole his heart, and also broke it.

as his eye twitches, his smile had already faded once you left him.

for the first time in centuries, sukuna was defeated. his enemy wasn’t a sorcerer, a curse, or even himself who he believed was his true worse enemy. sukuna ryomen was defeated by four simple letters, love. not only did you leave him in tears, but you also left him with an engagement ring inside his right palm.

he was far too late, he was gonna propose to you. that way, he’d build up the courage to say those stupid, stupid words. opening up his right hand, he stares at the ring he wanted to give you way earlier before this incident even happened. sukuna waited too long, he’d actually plan this for quite some time but again, he was scared.

with a defeated sigh, he surrenders, glancing at you for one last time. no smile on your face anymore but he just used his imagination. there you laid, peaceful, almost as if you were asleep. taking a deep breath, sukuna gives you his last gentle forehead flick before finally telling you the words he’s been longing to say for years.

“i … i love you too, brat. never leavin’ you either.”

[luna-azzurra]

Vibes for Characters #1

Who Are Angry, But Don’t Know Why...

(aka the ones who punch walls emotionally, even if they never touch anything)

☽ Clenched fists for no reason. Fingernails digging into palms. White knuckles. Always. ☽ Their jaw is sore, but they don’t realize it’s from grinding their teeth all day. ☽ Quick to snap at people who ask “Are you okay?”—because no, but they don’t have a map to what’s actually wrong. ☽ Laughs in the middle of an argument, but it’s that ugly laugh. That “God I wish I knew how to scream without breaking something” laugh. ☽ Gets weirdly emotional over small inconveniences. Burnt toast. Traffic. Missing socks. Not because of the thing—but because of everything. ☽ Hates being pitied more than being hated. ☽ Half the things they say sound sarcastic, even when they’re not trying to be. ☽ Walks too fast. Eats too fast. Always doing something like stillness might swallow them whole. ☽ Tells people ��I’m just tired” when what they mean is “I don’t trust myself not to explode.” ☽ Picks fights with mirrors. Or themselves. ☽ Looks calm from a distance, but their energy feels like a storm about to break. ☽ The kind of person who storms out and comes back five minutes later because they weren’t done arguing with themselves.

Who Don’t Think They Deserve to Exist

(The “I’m fine, but I’m not supposed to be here” kind of characters. The ghost-in-their-own-body ones.)

☽ Flinches when praised. Freezes when complimented. Looks confused, like kindness is a foreign language they never learned. ☽ Keeps everything small. Their voice. Their handwriting. Their footprint in the world. ☽ Won’t ask for help, but apologizes for asking if they’re allowed to ask. ☽ Constantly feels like they’re taking up space they didn’t earn. Physically, emotionally, narratively. ☽ Will drop everything to take care of you—and absolutely cannot handle being taken care of in return. ☽ Fills silences with self-deprecation. Can’t stand being left alone with just their own breathing. ☽ Has entire imaginary conversations in their head about being a burden. Usually ends with them deciding to stay quiet. ☽ Smiles when they’re sad, because they’ve learned people like them better that way. ☽ Lives in survival mode, even in safe places. ☽ The kind of tired that isn’t fixed by sleep. The kind of ache that doesn’t bruise. ☽ Doesn’t think anyone would miss them if they left—but still shows up for everyone anyway. ☽ Would literally sacrifice themselves for someone else’s peace, and not tell anyone they were in pain while doing it.

Who Would Rather Self-Destruct Than Be Vulnerable

(You know the type. “I’m fine,” they say, while bleeding emotionally in six places and making it your fault.)

☽ Has a six-sense radar for emotional intimacy and bolts the second they feel it coming. ☽ Jokes about their trauma before anyone else can ask questions. ☽ Flirts like it’s war. Gets emotionally close like it’s a death sentence. ☽ Hates silence because it feels like it might start telling the truth. ☽ Master of the “accidental push away” (says things like “You don’t really care,” when what they mean is “Please prove me wrong.”) ☽ Would rather burn a bridge than admit they actually want you to cross it. ☽ Says “It’s not a big deal” about everything, even when it obviously is. ☽ Responds to “Are you okay?” with “Define okay.” ☽ Thinks vulnerability is weakness, but secretly craves someone who’ll stay after seeing the mess. ☽ Their love language is sabotage. Their defense mechanism is charisma. ☽ Will talk you through your emotional breakdown with terrifying clarity—and ghost you the second you ask how they’re doing. ☽ Would rather be hated for who they pretend to be than be hurt as who they really are.

[cassiemaebarnes]

Dreaming of You

Bucky x reader

Summary: When Bucky has a good dream about you, he wakes up confused - and with the best sleep he's had in years. When he continues having these soft dreams, he begins to believe that maybe he does deserve comfort, despite his messed up past.

Word Count: 9,220

Bucky didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment he was staring blankly at the ceiling of his room in the compound, the next, there was quiet. A different quiet.

He was lying in a bed. Not his own.

The sheets weren’t a deep navy blue. They were soft and rumpled, a light gray that smelled faintly of vanilla and something else – something familiar. There was no hum of the compound’s lights, no distant clang of Tony’s tech or the low murmur of the common room TV. Just stillness.

He blinked slowly, turning his head, expecting to find an explanation. But what he saw made him freeze.

You were there. Curled against him like you belonged there – like you chose to be there. Head resting gently on his chest, breath even and slow, your hand lightly curled into the fabric of his t-shirt. Your leg was slung over his like you’d done this before. Like it was natural. Like it was safe.

For a moment, he just stared.

You didn’t talk to him much. Not in a bad way – you were just quiet, like he was. But when you did speak, it was soft and easy. You didn’t tiptoe around him or treat him like a project. You gave him space. And somehow, without trying, you’d found your way into the parts of his life that felt…normal.

But this – this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t real.

And then he saw it.

His stomach twisted violently.

The metal arm. Shining silver. Red star on the shoulder.

The Winter Soldier.

Panic crawled up his throat.

He tried to move – tried to pull away – but he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t obey. His left arm, the metal one, lay at his side like dead weight. His right arm, the flesh one, was wrapped around you, and he hadn’t even realized it. He wanted to pull it back, wanted to get away before he hurt you.

The pressure built in his chest, heart hammering like a warning bell. His mind raced. He was him again. That version of himself. Cold. Weaponized. Dangerous.

Why couldn’t he move?

Why wouldn’t the dream let him move?

But then – you shifted, softly. Your hand curled tighter into his shirt. Your cheek rubbed against his chest in your sleep like you were burrowing closer. And your lips curved into the faintest smile.

Like you were happy.

With him.

Bucky’s breath stilled. The panic dulled at the edges, like someone had taken the volume knob and slowly turned it down.

You sighed. A soft, content sound. One that said, I’m safe here.

He stared at you, everything inside him slowly cracking open. The metal arm stayed still and lifeless beside him, but it didn’t matter now. You weren’t afraid.

You were still here.

He let out a slow, shaky breath, letting it all go with the exhale. The fear. The guilt. The weight. The arm still didn’t move, but it wasn’t the threat he’d imagined. Not in this moment. Not with you beside him.

Peace wasn’t something he often found – even in dreams.

But now he let it wrap around him like the warmth of the bed, the quiet of the room, the gentle rhythm of your breathing. His eyes softened, chest rising and falling with yours.

And then the dream faded.

But the calm stayed with him.

--

Bucky stirred slowly, eyes blinking open to the soft morning light filtering through his window. For once, he wasn’t jolted awake. No nightmares. No cold sweat. No tremor in his hands.

Just…rest.

He frowned at the ceiling. That was new.

He stretched slightly, joints stiff from staying in one position too long, but his body felt lighter somehow. Not in the physical sense – he still had the same weight, the same scars – but the kind of lightness that comes after real sleep. The kind that doesn’t happen often for him. Almost never.

His brows furrowed. Why?

Then – slowly – it came back to him.

The dream.

The warmth. The quiet. The feel of a body pressed to his. Your body. Head on his chest, hand holding onto his shirt, your leg tangled over his. Like you belonged there. Like he belonged there.

And the arm.

The metal one. With the red star.

He sat up too quickly, rubbing a hand down his face. The image of it all clung to his mind now – your peaceful face, that little smile in your sleep, how close you were. How it should have terrified him but didn’t – not in the end.

He didn’t know what the hell it meant.

Why you?

Why that version of him?

Why now?

Bucky exhaled slowly, trying to shove the dream to the back of his mind. Dreams didn’t mean anything. Not for him. They were scrambled echoes of memory and fear, things buried and half-processed. This was no different.

Still, his chest ached in a way he couldn’t explain.

He got out of bed and moved through the motions of his morning routine, then headed down to the kitchen.

There were already a few people scattered around the room, mugs in hand, morning voices low and mumbled. Sam leaned against the counter scrolling through his phone. Nat was picking at a muffin. And you were at the table, sipping from a light blue mug, eyes on a book with one leg tucked under you.

You looked up when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, offering him a little smile.

His stomach flipped.

It hit him like a punch to the gut. That smile.

Exactly like the dream.

He didn’t say anything at first, caught off guard. Your eyes lingered on him for just a second, warm and casual, like it was no big deal.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice gruff as he moved past you.

He busied himself with pouring his coffee, pretending he didn’t feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck. Pretending the dream wasn’t clawing its way to the surface again, vivid and disorienting and suddenly way too close to real.

He took a long sip of coffee, staring blankly at the counter.

Just a dream, he told himself again.

But the sound of your soft sigh behind him, the scrape of your mug against the table as you took another sip – it sounded exactly the same.

And he couldn’t shake it.

--

The office was quiet, just the soft ticking of the wall clock and the hum of distant city traffic outside the window. Bucky sat on the familiar worn-in couch, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Dr. Raynor was scribbling something in her notebook as she usually did before looking up at him.

“So,” she said, tone casual but watchful. “How many nightmares this past week?”

Bucky opened his mouth, the number already at the front of his mind. “Uh, I think…”

He trailed off, brows drawing together.

He thought the dream a couple nights ago. About waking up without a jolt, about how calm his body felt for the first time in…God, he didn’t even know how long. It wasn’t like the other dreams – not dark or violent. But he was the Winter Soldier in it. That arm. That red star. That helplessness. That fear.

But…

Then there was you. And peace. And warmth.

He hadn’t had that. Not even in dreams.

“Bucky?”

Dr. Raynor’s voice broke into his thoughts, cutting through the silence.

He blinked, snapping his attention back to her. “Uh, sorry. I think…three.”

She nodded, jotting it down. “That’s good. Fewer than last week. Progress.”

He gave a small, vague grunt in agreement, but she was already watching him a little too closely.

“What was the pause about?”

He hesitated. He could brush it off. Say he miscounted. Change the subject. But the dream had stuck with him. Still clung to the edges of his mind the past few mornings. He was curious – about what it meant, and about what she’d think of it.

So he exhaled slowly. “I…had a different kind of dream. A couple nights ago.”

Dr. Raynor leaned back slightly, folding her hands. “Different how?”

Bucky stared down at his hands for a second before answering. “I was lying in a bed. Just…quiet. And there was someone with me. A girl.” His voice stayed even, careful. “She was laying on me. Head on my chest, hand holding my shirt, leg over mine. We were just…there. Like it was normal.”

Raynor’s expression didn’t change, but he could tell she was paying full attention now.

“I looked down, and – my arm. It was the Winter Soldier version. Silver. Red star.” He swallowed. “I panicked. I couldn’t move it. Couldn’t move at all. Thought I was gonna hurt her. But then she moved closer in her sleep. Smiled.” He paused, voice softening. “It calmed me down. I felt…okay. Even with the arm.”

Dr. Raynor hummed thoughtfully. “Did you know the girl?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to hers. There was a moment of hesitation, then a quiet, “No.”

She raised an eyebrow, the kind that said you’re lying and we both know it, but she didn’t press.

“Did you wake up after that?”

He shook his head. “No. Slept through the night. Woke up in the morning, and it was the best sleep I’ve had in…a long time.”

There was a pause. Then, to his surprise, Dr. Raynor smiled – a small, genuine smile.

“Well,” she said, “it sounds like your brain is trying to tell you something.”

Bucky frowned. “Like what?”

“That you deserve comfort like that. Even with your past.”

The words hit him harder than he expected – right in the chest. He sat a little straighter, caught off guard by the way those simple words landed. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She continued gently. “You’ve spent years believing you’re not allowed to have peace. That you have to earn something you already should’ve had. And now, maybe your subconscious is finally pushing back on that.”

Bucky looked down again, lips pressed into a thin line.

“That dream wasn’t about danger. It wasn’t about control or violence or punishment. It was about being okay, even with the parts of you you’re still learning to accept.”

He didn’t respond, but something settled in him. Not quite relief. Not quite understanding. But something quieter than what he was used to.

Something like hope.

She scribbled something else down, then glanced up again. “Let it stay with you. The way that felt. Don’t dismiss it just because it didn’t scare you.”

He nodded, almost to himself.

He wouldn’t forget it.

Not the dream.

Not your smile.

And maybe, just maybe, not the feeling that – just for a moment – he was allowed to feel that safe.

--

Later that night, Bucky fell asleep without much effort – something that still felt strange, even after his conversation with Dr. Raynor earlier that day. Her words had echoed in his mind, quiet and persistent: You deserve comfort like that. Even with your past.

He didn’t quite believe it.

But somehow, his body did, because sleep pulled him under fast.

And the dream returned.

The same soft hush of a room that wasn’t his. The same tangled gray sheets. The same smell – vanilla and you.

He blinked slowly, just like last time.

Except…this time, everything was flipped.

You were still beside him – but now, on his left. Your body tucked perfectly into his side, your head nestled just below his shoulder, your hand curled into his shirt, your leg tangled with his.

But his metal arm – the Winter Soldier arm – was curled around you.

Touching you.

Holding you.

He froze.

Panic surged through him like a current.

No. No, no, no.

He looked down at the gleam of silver in the soft light, the red star glowing faintly like a warning. His mind screamed. What if it was pressing too hard? What if it locked up or jerked suddenly? What if it hurt you and he couldn’t stop it?

He tried to move it. Tried to pull away. But just like last time, the dream held him in place. The arm wouldn’t respond. It just was – still, locked in its place around you.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.

This wasn’t okay.

He shouldn’t be allowed to hold someone like this. Not with that arm. Not with the weight of what it had done. Not when it could still do damage.

But then – you shifted, slowly again.

You sighed softly. Peacefully. A little smile tugged at your lips as you nuzzled your face further into his chest, like you wanted to be even closer.

Like you were safe.

His panic stuttered. He blinked again, heart thudding for a different reason now.

You weren’t afraid. You didn’t recoil. You didn’t treat that arm like a threat.

You embraced it. Him.

Every bit of him.

Slowly, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His jaw unclenched. His shoulders eased down. He didn’t try to move the arm again – he didn’t want to. It was holding you. You were breathing steady, face peaceful, lips still curved with that small, content smile.

And somehow, for the second time, so was he.

He watched you quietly, letting the warmth of the moment soak into him. Letting it settle somewhere deeper than it had before. You hadn’t just tolerated the arm.

You trusted it.

Trusted him.

The room faded again. Soft and slow.

But the feeling – the comfort, the calm, the way you smiled in your sleep – it stayed.

Just like before.

--

Bucky woke with a slow inhale, the weight of sleep still clinging to his body.

But this time, he didn’t need a moment to remember.

The dream was right there, vivid and whole, waiting for him like it never left.

You, curled up against his left side. His metal arm – that arm – wrapped around you. And not by accident. Not something he couldn’t control. It was holding you. Touching you. And you didn’t flinch. You didn’t fear it.

You smiled.

He blinked up at the ceiling, jaw slack with quiet disbelief. His heart wasn’t racing. His hands weren’t clenched. There was no cold sweat or lingering tension in his spine.

Just a steady breath. A strange calm.

He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled.

He slept better than he had in years.

Maybe Dr. Raynor was right. Maybe his brain was trying to tell him something. Something he hadn’t let himself believe for a long time. Something about softness. About comfort. About…deserving it.

Even now, lying there in the soft morning light, the feeling hadn’t left him. It buzzed quietly under his skin – warm, unfamiliar. Not something he trusted yet. But not something he wanted to shake off either.

With a grunt, he sat up and went through the motions of his morning routine again and headed down to the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face. The smell of coffee hit him as soon as he rounded the corner.

Voices filtered through the space – soft and half-awake.

Sam was at the counter again, talking to someone across the room. Natasha leaned over a bowl of cereal. And you were at the table, in the same seat as before, scrolling lazily through something on your phone. You wore a cozy sweater today, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, your mug cradled in one hand.

You looked up when you saw him, smile soft and casual.

“Morning,” you said, voice quiet but warm.

His stomach flipped.

Just like the other day.

He swallowed thickly, eyes catching on the curve of your smile. The exact one from his dream. That same relaxed expression. That same tiny upturn of your lips like you were happy to see him.

He forced his eyes away.

“Morning,” he mumbled, barely above a grumble, and headed straight to the coffee machine.

He busied himself with pouring his coffee, keeping his back to the others. But his mind wasn’t quiet.

All he could think about was that dream. The weight of your head on his shoulder. The feel of your hand against his chest. The way you smiled in your sleep like everything about that moment was safe.

He took a long sip of the coffee, letting the warmth ground him.

Bucky leaned against the counter, mug in hand, eyes fixed on absolutely nothing in particular. He was too aware of you. Of your presence. The sound of your laugh – soft and breathy – when Sam made some dumb comment. The way you sat, one leg tucked under you, like you were completely at ease here.

He wasn’t used to noticing this much.

Or rather…he wasn’t used to letting himself notice.

“Hey, Barnes,” Sam called across the kitchen, pointing a spoon at him. “You gonna just brood in the corner all morning or are you capable of eating like a normal human being?”

Bucky gave him a deadpan look over his mug. “I am eating. This is breakfast.” He raised the mug like proof.

“Coffee’s not breakfast, man,” Sam said, gesturing to the bowl of yogurt in front of him. “It’s a sad, bitter hug.”

You snorted into your drink, and Bucky’s eyes flicked over to you before he could stop himself. That sound – your laugh – was way better than whatever Sam thought was funny.

Natasha gave a dry smile, not looking up from her cereal. “Let him be. At least he’s not staring into the distance like he’s reliving war crimes again.”

“Pretty sure that’s just his face,” Sam muttered.

That earned a louder laugh from you.

Bucky took a long drink of coffee to hide the corner of his mouth twitching.

Then Steve walked in, holding a tablet. “Morning,” he greeted as he passed, setting the device on the counter. “There’s a meeting at ten. Just some info about the upcoming mission.”

“Who’s going?” Nat asked.

Steve tapped the screen. “Me, Sam, Nat, and y/n.”

You raised your brows, nodding slowly. “Cool. I haven’t had a field op in a week. I’m itching.”

Bucky’s eyes went to you again without thinking. That little grin, that spark in your eyes – it tugged at something low in his chest. You were so casual, so ready. Brave, smart, calm. Everything he felt like he had to force in himself just to function.

Then Sam, apparently unable to resist, added, “Don’t worry, Barnes. We’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

“I didn’t say I wanted one,” Bucky muttered.

“Your eyes say it. The haunted ones.”

Bucky rolled them.

You leaned a little toward Sam with a playful smile. “I think he just wants us out of the kitchen so he can mope in peace.”

Bucky looked at you, eyebrows raised, and – damn it – there was that same smile again. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just...soft. Familiar in a way that made his chest feel tight.

Like the dream again.

The red star flashed in his mind for just a second – how it had looked resting beside your head.

His grip on the mug tightened and he looked away.

“You’re all very funny,” he muttered.

Sam raised his hands in mock surrender. “We try.”

You slid out of your seat, passing close by him on your way to the sink. “Don’t worry, Bucky,” you said gently, voice just for him. “You’ll miss us when we’re gone.”

He didn't say anything. Couldn’t, really.

Because he was pretty sure he would.

--

A couple nights later, the world was green and gold.

Sunlight filtered through trees he didn’t recognize, casting dappled shadows on the path beneath his boots. A soft breeze tugged at the edge of his sleeves, carrying the scent of something fresh – flowers maybe.

It was quiet and peaceful.

Still, Bucky frowned.

He didn’t know this place.

The path curved ahead through a gentle park, benches spaced out along the edges, a few distant people walking dogs or pushing strollers. He glanced around, scanning like he always did – half instinct, half reflex.

Then he looked to his left.

And there you were.

Walking beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No gear. No weapons. Just you, in casual clothes, looking comfortable and calm, your arms swinging gently at your sides. You didn’t say anything at first – just strolled, matching his pace, steps quiet on the pavement.

He stared, confused.

But before he could say anything, you looked up at him.

And smiled.

Not some bright, flashy grin. Just something quiet, warm, and familiar. Like you’d been here beside him the whole time and nothing about it was strange.

Then, without a word, you reached up and held his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

His metal hand. The Winter Soldier’s.

Bucky’s whole body went stiff.

His breath caught in his chest like someone had punched him.

The panic started the same way it always did – sharp, cold, immediate. That hand. That arm. He didn’t even like people walking on that side of him most of the time. Didn’t want them close to it.

But you…you hadn’t even hesitated.

You just laced your fingers through his like it was second nature.

Like it meant nothing.

Or maybe – everything.

He tried to pull away.

He couldn’t.

His feet kept walking. His body moved forward. But his hand – his metal hand – remained in yours.

And you didn’t look scared. You didn’t flinch or squeeze too tightly or act like it was anything other than his hand. Not a weapon. Not something dangerous.

Just…his.

You held it like you’d done it a hundred times before.

Like you wanted to.

And the whole time, that soft little smile stayed on your face.

He looked at you again, expecting to see some kind of shift – wariness, discomfort, anything. But all he saw was peace. Trust.

The panic in his chest twisted. Less sharp now. Still there, still curling at the edges of his thoughts, but quieter. Muffled under something heavier. Something warmer.

So he didn’t fight it.

He just…walked with you.

Fingers interlocked.

Sunlight dappling the path.

And when the dream began to fade, he didn’t want to let go.

--

Bucky woke up with the ghost of your hand still wrapped in his.

He lay there, eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. But it didn’t. Just the same bland paint, same quiet hum of the AC, same everything. Except him.

He didn’t feel the same.

The dream hadn’t faded this time. It was sharp. Too sharp. The colors. The breeze. The way you looked at him. The weight of your fingers laced with his metal ones, swinging lightly between you as if you’d never thought twice about touching him like that. Holding him like that.

His left hand rested against his chest now, unmoving.

He stared at it, heart thudding a little too loud in his ears.

Usually, the panic hit him first.

Usually, there was cold sweat. A racing pulse. The instinct to get up, walk it off, ground himself.

But this time…it was different.

There was confusion, of course. Why that arm again? Why you? Why the park? Why did it feel so damn real?

But under the confusion, there was something else entirely, deeper and quieter.

Longing.

It sat in his chest like a weight, not painful, but persistent, like something had just barely brushed against a place inside him he didn’t even know was empty until it wasn’t.

You looked so happy in that dream. So peaceful. Like you wanted to be there with him. Like you didn’t care that it was that hand you were holding. Like it never mattered.

And for a moment…he let himself believe it.

He rubbed his face with his flesh hand, sighing deep into the quiet.

He wasn’t used to wanting anything like this.

Not comfort.

Not softness.

Not…you.

But now, he couldn’t un-feel it.

He stayed there for a while, lying in bed, trying to push it down – but the feeling clung stubbornly to the edges of his mind.

Eventually, he got up and got ready, heading downstairs.

The kitchen was quiet when he walked in. Just Sam, Steve, and Nat – already half-finished with breakfast, voices low, the occasional clink of spoons against bowls – the usual noise.

But you weren’t there.

And Bucky didn’t expect the disappointment that tugged at his chest.

He tried to ignore it. Shoved it down like everything else. You didn’t owe him your presence. It wasn’t like you should be here. Still, it hit harder than it should’ve.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, fingers tight around the handle, and sat at the island without saying a word. None of them pushed him. Nat gave him a polite nod. Steve offered a brief, “Morning, Buck.” Sam just nodded and kept eating.

Bucky sipped his coffee and stared at nothing, trying not to think about the park, or your hand in his, or the way it had felt like something he'd never known he needed.

Then he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen.

His spine stiffened.

Then he saw you.

Hair a little messy. Hoodie hanging over your frame. Sleep still soft around your eyes. You looked barely awake – but when your gaze found him, you smiled.

That same quiet smile.

His stomach flipped.

But this time…his chest fluttered too.

“Morning,” you said, voice a little hoarse from sleep.

“Morning,” he mumbled back, too fast, too quiet. Eyes dropping instantly to his coffee like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

You walked over to the coffee machine and poured yourself a cup of coffee in your favorite light blue mug. Then, you turned and walked over to the island and sat down. Not in your usual spot, which would put a chair in between you two.

Right next to him.

On his left side.

By his metal arm.

His entire body tensed. Not panicked – just frozen. Every cell aware. That old instinct to shift away, to hide the arm, to make sure no one accidentally brushed against it. But he didn’t move. You didn’t seem to notice the shift in him, the tension laced through his frame.

You just sipped your coffee, then turned a little toward him.

“How’d you sleep?” you asked, casual, soft.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“…Good,” he said, forcing his voice to sound even. Normal.

You smiled a little more. “Good.”

Then…nothing.

No follow-up. No chatter.

Just you, sitting beside him, quiet and easy and not even glancing at his arm.

Bucky stared into his coffee again, heart still thudding somewhere too close to his ribs. A part of him wanted to get up, walk out, hide like he always did when things got too close. But another part just wanted to stay.

Because sitting here, next to you, felt almost like the dream.

And for the first time, that didn’t scare him.

It made him feel like maybe – just maybe – it could be real.

--

Later that day, he was back in the familiar office sitting on the worn couch. Dr. Raynor glanced down at her notepad before looking up at Bucky, her tone casual but her gaze sharp.

“So, how many nightmares this week?”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “None.”

She blinked. Her pen paused mid-word. “None?”

He nodded once, folding his arms across his chest but not defensively – more like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

Dr. Raynor leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes narrowing just a bit, surprised but clearly pleased. “Well…that’s really good, Bucky.”

He gave a small nod again but said nothing. She let the silence linger for a beat before continuing.

“Any more dreams like the last one?”

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes – something warmer than his usual stormcloud gaze. He looked at the floor, just for a second. “Yeah. Two more.”

Dr. Raynor smiled slightly. “Were they the same?”

“Kind of.”

“Tell me,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

Bucky shifted in his seat, arms still crossed, eyes distant like he was watching the scenes play in his head. “The first one…we were in bed again, the same one I didn’t recognize. Laying there. Only this time, she was on the other side of me. I had my left arm around her.”

Dr. Raynor’s brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

“It was still the metal one,” Bucky added, quieter. “The Winter Soldier one. But she didn’t mind. She was asleep against it like it was nothing.” He paused. “Like I was just...me.”

Dr. Raynor softened but stayed quiet, giving him room.

“The second dream…” he went on, “We were walking in some park. Not one I knew. Trees everywhere, real quiet. She was on my left side again.” He took a breath, like saying it out loud was harder than he thought it would be. “Then she reached up and held my hand. The metal one.” He glanced up at Dr. Raynor. “Still the old one.”

She nodded slowly, thoughtful. “And after those dreams...you still sleep well?”

“Yeah,” he said, more firmly this time. “I wake up feeling okay. Like I’m still there, kind of.”

“That’s a good thing, Bucky. That’s progress.”

He didn’t say anything, but his posture eased just slightly.

Dr. Raynor tapped her pen against the notepad. “Do you know the girl?”

“No,” he said quickly.

She raised an eyebrow at him, the same way she had the last time. No words – just that look, skeptical and patient and knowing.

Bucky sighed, his shoulders slumping just a little. “Yes.”

Dr. Raynor nodded, unsurprised. “Have you told her about the dreams?”

He shook his head.

“Who is she?”

“She’s…a teammate,” Bucky muttered, picking at a loose thread on the seam of his jacket. “New. Doesn’t talk much, but…she’s always nice.”

Dr. Raynor hummed, a thoughtful sound. She didn’t press, just let the silence stretch until it made Bucky glance up again.

“You should think about telling her,” she said gently. “See what she thinks.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He just stared down at his hands again, frowning.

He couldn’t tell her. He knew it. Because if she heard what he dreamed – if she knew she was part of this ideal version of his broken subconscious – she’d bolt. Or worse, she’d pity him. And either would be unbearable.

So he stayed silent. And Dr. Raynor didn’t push. But he could feel her eyes on him, reading everything he wasn’t saying.

--

The next dream started in a familiar place – the in the common room of the compound, the soft glow of a movie playing quietly on the TV.

He settled into the couch, feeling the familiar weight of his metal arm resting at his side, cold but steady.

Then, he became aware of you.

On his left side again.

You were sitting close, wrapped in a blanket, the fabric pooling softly over your legs.

You didn’t look up at him this time.

Instead, you shifted slowly, leaning over until your head came to rest on his metal shoulder.

Bucky froze for a moment, but the panic didn’t rise like before. It didn’t claw at him.

Instead, a quiet calm settled through him.

He felt…comfortable. Almost warm.

He looked down at you, watching the peaceful rise and fall of your breath.

After a moment, you tilted your head just enough to glance up at him, eyes soft, the same little smile curling your lips.

Then, without a word, you turned your gaze back to the movie.

Bucky settled back into the couch, heart steady, chest lighter.

He let himself enjoy the moment – the quiet closeness, the softness of the night, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this was where he belonged.

And then the dream faded.

--

Bucky woke slowly, the edges of the dream still clinging to him like mist. For a moment, he stayed still, eyes half-closed, breathing even. The quiet hum of the compound in the early morning was a stark contrast to the gentle glow of the dream’s memory – the movie, the couch, the familiar weight of her head against his shoulder. He could almost still feel it.

He rubbed a hand down his face and stared at the ceiling, brow furrowed in thought.

He knew what it meant – at least, in the vague, half-therapeutic way that Dr. Raynor would explain it. His brain, reaching for peace. For softness. For something to hold onto when the world always felt like it was trying to push him away. It made sense, kind of. A subconscious reminder that he deserved comfort, despite everything.

But why her?

It could’ve been anyone. Some faceless, gentle figure. Or no face at all, just a blur that whispered kindness in silence. That’s what he would’ve expected. Not someone real. Not someone who existed within arm’s reach in his actual life.

Not a teammate.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and exhaling slowly. Maybe if he just kept moving, it’d fade. The thoughts, the dreams, the softness of it all.

He pulled on a hoodie and headed toward the kitchen.

The sounds of morning met him as he approached – soft laughter, clinking mugs, voices overlapping. Everyone was already there, it seemed. He hesitated in the hallway, only for a second, before stepping inside.

And then he saw her.

She was seated in her usual spot at the island, barefoot and cross-legged in her chair, talking to Steve about something.

His chest fluttered – sharp and uninvited.

Bucky looked away immediately, cursing silently under his breath as he made a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Morning,” she said, bright and easy, like it cost her nothing.

He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. “Morning,” he muttered, pouring himself a cup. His hand was steady, but his stomach wasn’t.

He considered sitting. There was space next to her. She’d sat next to him just the other day – plopped down like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t a walking museum of trauma and metal and things better left unsaid.

But he stayed standing, back leaning against the counter, eyes flickering in her direction despite himself.

She was laughing now – head tilted slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners, hands wrapped around her mug. She didn’t glance at him. Didn’t need to. She just kept being herself.

And he just kept watching her, silent and still, wondering when she’d started feeling more like home than his own bed did.

--

You’re sitting at the island, fingers curled around your warm mug, letting the easy flow of morning conversation wash over you. Sam says something that makes you chuckle, and you offer a quiet reply, but your eyes keep drifting.

You glance over toward Bucky. The moment your eyes meet, he looks away. Fast. Too fast for it to be casual.

Your smile falters, and your brows draw together just slightly.

It’s the third time this morning you’ve caught him doing that – avoiding eye contact, ducking away like the sight of you is something sharp. He hadn’t even looked at you when he walked in. Just a low, distracted “morning” with his eyes glued to the coffee pot.

And that isn’t like him. He usually at least looks at you.

Bucky's never exactly chatty, but he’ll usually give you something – an amused comment, a dry joke, even just a subtle glance that says yeah, I heard you, and that was funny. But the past week or so, it’s like a wall’s gone up. A quiet shift you can’t quite name, but you feel it all the same.

It’s in the way he keeps his distance, and how you catch him looking sometimes, only for him to immediately pretend he wasn’t.

You sip your coffee, trying not to let it get to you. Trying not to read too far into it.

Still, your mind turns over the possibility that maybe – somehow – you did something. Said something. Made him uncomfortable. You’ve gone over your recent conversations in your head more times than you’d like to admit, but there’s nothing obvious, no red flag.

And yet, the cold space between you now feels intentional.

You want to ask. You want to turn around right now and say “Hey, did I do something?” but not here. Not in front of everyone. Not while Natasha’s discussing training schedules and Sam’s recounting whatever bizarre YouTube rabbit hole he fell down last night.

So you just stay quiet.

You bring your mug back to your lips and steal one more glance toward the counter.

He’s standing there with his coffee, back straight, face unreadable. Watching the room. Watching you, maybe. You can’t tell.

And so, for now, you let it go. But the worry still lingers, curling low in your stomach.

--

The run didn’t help.

Bucky had hoped it would – the steady rhythm of his feet on pavement, the wind slicing against his skin, the silence of early afternoon. But even with his heart racing and muscles burning, his mind never quieted.

He kept thinking about you.

About the way your head felt resting against his shoulder in the dream. About how you’d smiled without looking up. About how he’d woken up with that calm still in his chest, only for it to twist into knots the moment he saw you in the kitchen.

Why you? Why not some faceless person? Why not no one at all?

He didn’t have answers. Only questions that kept piling up and looping back on themselves. The only thing he was sure of was that avoiding you hadn’t done a damn thing to fix it.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding and he stepped out into the common room, sweat cooling on his skin. His shirt stuck to his back, and his dog tags shifted with each step as he moved toward the kitchen.

Then he saw you.

You were sitting at the island again, perched on the same stool, legs tucked up, scrolling casually through your phone. A half-eaten bag of pretzels sat in front of you, one hand idly reaching inside every so often. Your expression was relaxed and unaware, until you looked up and saw him.

“Hi,” you said, your voice light, but tinged with something that sounded almost...careful.

Bucky’s eyes met yours for the briefest second. “Hi,” he mumbled, already moving past her.

He went straight to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and twisting the cap off. Cold condensation dripped down his fingers. He turned around quickly, fully intending to walk right back out.

But then–

“Hey, wait.”

His feet stopped before his brain caught up. He turned slowly, water bottle still in hand.

You were watching him now, your phone resting face-down on the counter. Your brow was creased, concern etched subtly between your eyes.

“Did I...do something?” you asked.

Bucky blinked. “What?”

You hesitated, like you hated even asking. “It just feels like you’ve been avoiding me. You haven’t really talked to me lately. Not like before.” Your voice dropped a little. “If I said or did something wrong, I’d really like to know.”

The words hit him harder than he expected.

He hadn’t realized you’d noticed. Or that you cared.

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, taking a breath. “No,” he said finally, his voice rough. “You didn’t do anything.”

He could see the tension in your shoulders ease slightly, but your eyes were still searching his. Not angry, just worried.

He thought of Dr. Raynor, and what she said. You should think about telling her. See what she thinks.

He looked down at the floor, then back at you. You were still waiting, quiet and patient.

You tilted your head slightly. “Then…is something going on?”

There was a pause. A long one.

And then, before he could stop himself – before he could talk himself out of it –

“I’ve been having dreams about you.”

The words were out. Heavy, real, and hanging between you like something fragile that could shatter with a single wrong move.

Bucky kept his gaze on you, waiting for you to laugh, to recoil, to look at him like you didn’t know what to say.

But right now, he couldn’t take it back.

“Oh,” you say after a beat, eyes wide. “Are they…good dreams or bad dreams?”

Bucky feels the corner of his mouth tug upward, just slightly. “Good,” he says, then pauses. “Really good, actually.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you blink. “Oh.”

There’s a shift in your tone – subtle, but unmistakable. And Bucky sees the flicker of realization behind your eyes. Your posture straightens ever so slightly.

His eyes widen, and he quickly holds up both hands. “No. No – not like that.” His voice jumps a little higher than he meant it to.

Your lips press together, a small, amused line forming as you clearly try not to laugh.

Bucky groans quietly, rubbing a hand down his face. “Great,” he mutters. “Now I sound like a creep.”

“No, you don’t,” you say gently, and somehow that only makes the heat rise higher in his face.

He exhales sharply, then walks over to the island and sets his water bottle down. He leans against the counter, arms folded loosely over his chest.

“I’m gonna sound crazy either way, so I might as well just say it.”

You nod, encouraging but quiet, waiting.

“The first dream…I was laying in bed. A bed I didn’t recognize. And you were there next to me, with your…head on my chest. And your hand was holding onto my shirt, and your leg was over mine.” He paused and took a breath before continuing. “My real arm was around you, but my metal arm…it was my arm when I was the Winter Soldier.”

He glanced up at you, looking for a reaction, but you were just listening intently. So he swallows and continues.

“I freaked out. Scared I was gonna hurt you with the arm, since I was…y’know, him. But I couldn’t move. The dream wouldn’t let me. But then…you just nuzzled closer. You smiled and sighed, like you were content. Like you were safe.”

He looked back up at you, and this time, there was a little smile on your face. The same one from the dreams, which made him relax a little bit.

“The second one was the exact same. Except this time, you were on my left side. And my metal arm was around you. Still the Winter Soldier one. I was even more scared, worried that it was crushing you or that I’d hurt you. But again, I couldn’t move. But you just…curled into me again, like it was natural.”

You don’t speak, but your expression softens – eyebrows raised just enough, lips parted slightly like you want to ask something but don’t want to stop him.

“The third one was in a park I didn’t recognize. You were walking beside me, on my left again. And then you just…reached up and held my hand. The metal one. Still the Winter Soldier one. You didn’t flinch or hesitate. You just did it. Like you had before.”

Your gaze flicks to his arm for a second, then back to his face. Still, you stay quiet.

“And the last one,” he says, more quietly now, “was here. In the common room. Movie playing on the TV. You were next to me, wrapped in a blanket. You leaned on my metal soldier. The Winter Soldier one again. And I just…let it happen. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t panic. I felt…calm.”

He exhales, steadying himself. You still haven’t said anything, and he’s not sure if that’s better or worse.

“I told my therapist about them,” he admits, avoiding your eyes now, fiddling with the cap of his water bottle. “She thinks it’s my brain’s way of telling me that I deserve comfort. That I’ve earned peace after everything. That it’s okay to want something soft.”

There’s a long pause. Then he finally meets your gaze again.

“But I don’t know why it’s you in them.”

He doesn’t say it accusingly. It’s not a complaint. It’s a quiet confession – equal parts wonder and confusion. Like he’s still trying to solve a riddle his heart already understands.

And you’re still looking at him, a little wide-eyed, clearly surprised…but you’re smiling.

Not laughing. Not running.

Just smiling.

--

You don’t say anything at first.

Mostly because you’re still trying to take it all in.

Bucky Barnes – quiet, guarded, “I-don’t-do-feelings” Bucky Barnes – just told you he’s been dreaming about you. Four different times. And not nightmares or weird memory-warped missions, but soft, good dreams. Ones where you’re cuddling or holding his hand or doing…couple-y stuff.

You’re not sure what shocks you more: the fact that you’re in them, or the fact that he actually told you.

But he’s just standing there now, clearly uncomfortable, his arms crossed tight over his chest like he wants to disappear into the counter. His eyes won’t quite meet yours.

Still, you smile.

“Well…that’s new,” you say first. “But…I’m glad it’s me in them,” you say softly, voice steady. “Because you do deserve comfort. And for the record, I’m not scared of you. Or your metal arm. I’m really glad you told me.”

His eyes finally lift to yours, and even though his face doesn’t fully relax, you see the subtle flicker of relief behind his features.

“Thanks,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh...still feel kinda stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” you say, then pause before teasing lightly, “Just very bad at not looking like you’re panicking.”

That earns you the smallest smile.

You tilt your head, thinking back through what he said. “You said you didn’t recognize the bed? In the first two dreams?.”

He looks a little confused but nods. “Yeah.”

“What did it look like?”

He blinks, then shrugs, thinking. “Uh…light gray sheets. And it smelled like…vanilla.”

You blink. And then you laugh.

He looks startled. “What?”

“My sheets are gray,” you say, grinning now. “And everything I use – body wash, lotion, perfume – is vanilla-scented. Like, obnoxiously so.”

His eyebrows lift, and he actually laughs – soft and a little shy, but real.

“Oh,” he says, then clears his throat. “So, either my brain’s really good at guessing, or I’ve subconsciously memorized what you smell like.”

You pretend to consider that. “Creepy either way.”

His smile widens a bit, and he ducks his head. “Great.”

You nudge the snack bag toward him as a peace offering. “Guess you’re gonna have to keep dreaming about me now.”

He huffs a soft laugh, looking up at you through his lashes. “Yeah,” he says, quieter this time. “Maybe I will.”

And even though there's still a little awkwardness between you, it doesn't feel heavy anymore.

It feels...kind of nice. Like something new is starting to settle between the two of you – gentle, tentative, but warm.

And maybe that’s worth leaning into.

--

Fresh from the shower, your skin still slightly warm, you smooth the last bit of vanilla-scented lotion into your arms, the familiar scent wrapping around you like a soft blanket. You tug on your sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt – one of your comfiest – and run a hand through your damp hair as you walk over to your bed.

But you don’t get in.

You stop at the edge, eyes drifting over the crumpled gray sheets, the soft pillows, the blanket still a little twisted from the night before.

And all you can think about is Bucky.

He dreamed about this bed.

Your bed. Light gray sheets. Vanilla.

You tell yourself not to read into it. That maybe it didn’t mean anything. That maybe his brain just filled in blanks using details it picked up around the compound without him realizing it.

But you can’t shake the thought.

Can’t stop imagining him lying there – his broad frame stretched out under your blanket, arm around you, soft breathing in the dark. Not in a dream. Not in his head.

In real life.

You blink, startled by yourself.

Your eyebrows raise slightly, arms crossing over your chest as you frown down at the bed, telling yourself it’s time to get in.

Still, you don’t move.

You sigh, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it back.

But you don’t climb in.

You just…stand there. Staring.

And then, before you can talk yourself out of it – before your brain has a chance to spiral or question – you’re moving. Feet on autopilot.

Your hand closes around the doorknob, and the next thing you know, you’re stepping quietly into the hallway. The air is cooler out here, the compound quiet and still. You don’t even stop to think about what you’re going to say when you get there.

You just start walking. Down the hall.

Toward Bucky’s room.

--

Bucky lay in bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The room was dark and quiet, but his mind wouldn’t follow suit. Sleep hadn’t even crossed his mind yet – he was still replaying the conversation you two had in the kitchen, word for word. The way you smiled when he told you about the dreams. The surprise on your face. The way you’d said you were glad it was you. He could still hear your laugh when you told him his brain must be creepy or psychic.

It made something in his chest ache – in a good way, but still a little overwhelming.

So when a soft knock came at his door, he actually jumped. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Definitely not now, this late.

He swung his legs off the bed and crossed the room, cracking the door open.

And there you were.

Standing there with damp hair, dressed in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that hung loose over one shoulder. You looked like you were already halfway to bed – but your expression was uncertain, like you hadn’t fully thought this through.

“…Hi,” he said, confusion thick in his voice.

“Hi,” you echoed, a little hesitant.

He stared at you for a beat. “Uh…do you need something?”

You glanced up at him, then down again, then let out a small, anxious sigh. “Do you wanna sleep with me?”

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

His brain short-circuited.

You looked back up, saw his face, and your eyes went wide too, horror flooding your expression.

“No – no, not like that!” you blurted, already scrambling. “I didn’t – I mean I just thought maybe you’d…want to sleep in my room. Since you…y’know dreamed about my bed, I just thought maybe you’d want to do it.” Her eyes went even wider, which he didn’t think was possible. “Not do it, just – like – spend the night…in my room.”

You looked up at him again, face flushed with embarrassment, and honestly? You looked like you were about to turn and run.

But Bucky didn’t move. He blinked once. And then he laughed.

It started as a low chuckle, but it slipped out before he could stop it, shaking his head as he grinned down at the floor.

Your hand went to your forehead, covering your face as you laughed too, half in amusement, half in absolute mortification.

“Oh my God,” you groaned, voice muffled. “I should not have said any of that.”

But Bucky was still smiling.

You weren’t just asking for company. You were offering comfort. To him.

It was kind. And sweet. And, if he was being honest, a little brave.

“Yeah,” he said, cutting through your nervous laughter.

Your hand dropped from your forehead, eyes snapping up to meet his. “Really?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I mean–” He scratched the back of his neck, still smiling. “If dreaming about it helps me sleep that good…I figure I might actually sleep even better if it’s real.”

You let out a soft breath – half-relief, half-surprise – and nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Cool.”

The two of you turned, heading down the hallway side by side in the quiet dim light.

After a beat, you glanced up at him. “I had no idea what I was gonna say when I knocked,” you admitted, still sounding a little breathless. “I completely butchered it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Nah, it was memorable.”

“I walked up to your door and said, do you wanna sleep with me like I was reading off a bad rom-com script,” you deadpanned.

He grinned. “Hey, could’ve been worse. You didn’t add finger guns or a wink.”

You snorted. “Don’t tempt me, Barnes.”

He chuckled again, the sound low and easy in his chest. And somehow, walking beside you in sleepwear, both of you still recovering from the awkwardness, it didn’t feel weird or tense. Just…light.

And for the first time all night, Bucky wasn’t overthinking. He wasn’t questioning the dreams or spiraling over what they meant.

He was just walking beside you. And it felt good.

When you stepped into your room, the soft scent of vanilla hit him immediately – just like he remembered from the dream.

You walked over to the bed without hesitation and crawled in, pulling the covers back and settling under them. Bucky hesitated just a second longer, then followed.

He climbed in next to you, lying on his back. The mattress dipped under his weight, the blanket settled lightly over his chest. There was still a space between you – enough that he could feel the distance – but not enough to make it feel cold.

He stared up at the ceiling, heart beating a little faster than it probably needed to.

“…Wow,” he said quietly.

You turned your head, voice low. “What?”

He smiled, almost to himself. “This is…exactly like my dream.”

You let out a soft laugh, and he joined in, both of you breaking the tension just a little.

When he turned his head to look at you, you were already looking at him.

There was a long, quiet beat – one of those moments where neither of you really knew what came next, but neither of you wanted to move too fast either.

Then you started scooting closer. He watched you, surprised but not resisting, and when you were close enough, he lifted his flesh arm slightly – just enough of an invitation.

You curled up against him, warm and soft, resting your hand gently on his chest, your leg sliding over his like it belonged there.

He let out a slow breath, wrapping his arm around you, holding you there. Like it was natural. Like it had always been this way.

“…What about now?” you asked softly, voice muffled slightly against his t-shirt.

He looked down at you, heart squeezing tight in his chest. A small smile pulled at his lips.

“This is perfect,” he said.

You looked up at him, returning the smile – sleepy and sweet, like you were already half-relaxed just lying beside him.

And somehow, that smile of yours made something inside him go quiet in the best way.

No tension. Just peace.

You nestled in again, eyelids already heavy. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low, arm tightening around you just a little.

He stared at the ceiling for a while longer, your body warm against his side, the scent of vanilla in the air.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t dread falling asleep.

When it came, it came easy. And he fell asleep happy.

--

Masterlist

Author's Note: sorry for like falling off the face of the earth for a second there, I got busy😭 Part 2 of Darling and I Noticed and Part 3 of The New Winter Soldier will be coming at some point, I promise! Just wanted to give you guys something while I continue working on those!!

Bucky Taglist: @winchestert101 @herejustforbuckybarnes @avengemepercy @buckyslove1917 @nelachu2423 @iyskgd @navs-bhat @starstruckfirecat @yes-ilovetowrite @bonnyclydecat @knowingnothingnoel @muchwita @hanniebee33 @awesompawsum @knoxic @miss-chuchu @writtenbydianna @rnurse-kole @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @beanzwritez @barnesandbouquets @buckysgirl-12 @butnotmontana

[cherrygirlfriend]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ answer the call

pairing: bsf!reader x rafe synopsis: rafe fucks his best friend while she's on the phone with her boyfriend. warnings: smut, piv, MDNI!! wc: 1k a/n; originally posted 11/14/2024

rafe had you on all fours on your canopy bed, holding onto one of the posts for dear life as he pounded into you, the bed swaying every time he thrust his cock into you, one of his hands gripping onto your hair while the other rested on your ass, occasionally giving it a sharp smack, causing you to let out a noise that was between a gasp and a yelp.

"aww, look at you." rafe cooed mockingly with a tug at your hair, the blonde panting behind you "so fucking desperate for me to fuck you. bet your little loser boyfriend can't fuck you like you need to be fucked, hm?"

you hated the words that were leaving his lips, but you couldn't deny that he was right; your boyfriend definitely couldn't satisfy you the way rafe always seemed to be able to do, he couldn't hit that spongy spot that caused you to curl your toes, or rub your clit in the way that caused your back to arch off the bed. not like rafe did.

"say it," rafe commanded, "say that he can't-"

rafe let out an annoyed growl when he was interrupted by the sound of your phone ringing on the nightstand. his initial plan was to tell you to ignore it, but when he saw who it was, he got a whole new idea, a grin taking over your lips.

"answer it."

"w-what?" you looked back at rafe with furrowed brows, thinking that he must be joking, but as he continued to pound into you, there was no sign of hesitation on his face, only a wide, cruel grin.

you reached for your phone from the nightstand, rafe slowing his pace as you looked at the caller id with widened eyes, almost waiting for it to change into something else, but clear as day, there was your boyfriend's name, along with the contact photo you set for him, a picture of you two taken at a carnival.

"do it before i do it for you." rafe mumbled as he bent to press a small kiss to the back of your neck, grabbing your ass roughly. and hesitantly, you pressed the green button visible on the screen as rafe pulled out of you.

"h-hi, babe." you said, trying your best to steady your breathing as rafe teased your entrance with the tip of his cock, the hand that was in your hair just moments ago going down to rub your clit.

"hey, everything good?" the voice on the other line asked, and you had to hold back a moan by biting down on your lip as rafe's middle finger brought some of your arousal to your clit, starting to slowly rub the puffy bud.

"yeah, everything's good." you chuckled, "i was just working out."

when you said that, you felt rafe's tip slowly starting to enter you, stretching your walls as you tried not to let out any noise, your boyfriend going on a tirade about something that you honestly couldn't give two shits about at that moment.

rafe continued moving in and out of you, at first at a slow pace, slowly building it up; all the while your boyfriend was talking, and you occasionally let out noncommittal hums and 'mmhm's, but the harder rafe was fucking you, the harder it was to concentrate on anything other than him, and trying to keep quiet felt like rocket science at that point, and you were starting to taste blood in your mouth from how hard you were biting down on your lip.

"i-i gotta go." you said into the phone, nearly panting, "i'll see you later." you said, hanging up before he could even get a word in, feeling the band in your stomach getting closer and closer to snapping, letting out a moan you'd held in for too long the moment that you were off the call as rafe started pounding into you relentlessly.

"say it." rafe commanded behind you, your eyes squeezed shut, your mind hazy with pleasure, confused as to what he was talking about. "say that your boyfriend can't fuck you the way i fuck you."

you were a panting mess as he continued hitting the spot inside of you that only he seemed able to reach; a part of you didn't want to say it, didn't want to give him the satisfaction, but the moment the palm of his hand landed on your ass, you yelped, the pleasure almost overwhelming.

"h-he-"

"nuh-uh. your boyfriend."

you let out a small whine when he corrected you, trying to steady your erratic breathing as he continued thrusting in and out of you.

"m-my boyfriend... can't fuck me the way you do..."

"atta girl." rafe chuckled behind you, and the way his fingers continued circling your clit while he pounded into you from behind was getting almost overwhelming, and rafe could tell that you were getting closer by the way you were starting to clench around him, the blonde letting out a groan, "gonna come in this pretty pussy..." he mumbled, "she's practically begging me to... wants me to show her who she belongs to..."

a part of you wanted to protest, but you were so close that your mind was clouded by all the bliss he was making you feel, the world around you getting so hazy that you couldn't bring yourself to care as long as you got to come.

and as soon as you felt the band in your stomach snap, rafe's cock buried deep inside of you, he couldn't help the almost animalistic groan that left his lips, warm pumps of cum filling you up

[thepencilnerd]

And Through It All

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: What starts with years of coffee, rooftop conversations, and quiet closeness unravels in the aftermath of a violent patient attack. As the hospital reels, so does Robby—until everything he’s buried comes to the surface. warnings: depiction of violence towards women genre: slow burn, pining, angst, fluff, you both suck at feelings word count: 3.6k a/n: yes this show still has me in a chokehold, this man is old enough to be my father, and protective/emotionally constipated Robby has consumed my every waking thought. also someone please sedate me because I don't know how I'm going to make it between episodes.

p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | Feels Like Trouble) if you're interested

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch always clocked in just after you.

It started as coincidence—years ago, when you were a new year-2 resident fumbling your way through charting and sleep deprivation. You’d arrive blurry-eyed at 5:58 AM, and two minutes later, he'd walk through the side door with two cups of coffee. One always ended up in your hand.

"This is my warm welcome to the pit, I’m not on coffee rounds," he’d grumbled the first time.

"Yet, my savior, here you are," you smiled, taking the cup. "Thanks, Dr. Robby."

He gave you a look, dry and fond. "Don’t get used to it."

Needless to say, you both did.

Now a senior resident, you’ve long since earned your stripes—but the morning coffees kept coming. So did the banter.

"That differential on bed 7 was a mess," Robby muttered one morning.

You sipped from your cup. "I was experimenting with chaos as a teaching strategy."

He stared, deadpan. "Rein it in, Nietzsche."

Late nights sometimes ended on the roof—shoulders nearly touching, silence stretched long between you. The rooftop was a liminal space: above the noise, between shifts, between you and him. You'd talk about patients. About medicine. About what the job takes and what it leaves behind.

One night you’d murmured, "Do you think we make a difference? Or are we just putting out fires that never stop?"

Robby didn’t answer right away. You could hear him breathing. "Some burning buildings are worth running into," he said eventually, voice low like he was admitting something he'd carried a long time.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t not. You were close—so close it blurred. You never noticed how often he drifted into your orbit. But others did.

"So... you and Robinavitch—what’s the deal?" McKay would tease with a grin.

You furrowed your brow, genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"

She leaned on the nurses' station, unbothered. "C’mon, you really don’t see it? The way he looks at you? Brings you coffee every morning? Steps in before anyone else can when the ball rolls downhill?"

You waved a hand dismissively. "He just… cares. That’s his job."

McKay raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Except he doesn’t bring me coffee. Or look like he’s going to deck someone if they so much as raise their voice at me."

You opened your mouth to reply—but the sliding ER doors slammed open. A gurney rushed in, shouting echoing off the walls. Without thinking, you turned and ran toward the trauma bay.

"Saved by the bell," McKay called after you, but you were already gone.

But you didn’t see how his eyes tracked you in a crowded hallway, lingering just a second longer than necessary—guarded, but unmistakably drawn. How he'd appear at your side before anyone else when things turned sideways, voice calm but stance protective, like he was positioning himself between you and whatever chaos had just erupted. The way his jaw would tighten when residents spoke too casually around you, especially if their tone dipped into flirtation. The moments when his voice dropped low, quiet and edged with something softer, when asking if you’d made it home safe after shifts—always phrased like a passing question, but one he never failed to ask.

Earlier that week, Robby had been leaning against the counter in the break room with Dana and a few of the nurses clustered nearby. He was sipping bad coffee and flipping through a chart when Dana nudged him lightly with her elbow.

"You know," she started with a smirk. "You're getting pretty soft on that senior resident."

Robby didn’t look up, adjusting the frame of his glasses. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"

Princess glanced at Perlah, who grinned. The two exchanged a few rapid lines in Tagalog—something teasing and full of mischief. Robby raised an eyebrow.

"Just because I don’t speak Tagalog doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly what you’re saying," he said dryly, finally taking off his glasses and staring at the nurses judgementally.

Dana just about cackled. "Come on, Robby. You bring her coffee every morning, you hover when she’s in a tough case, you barely let interns breathe near her."

Perlah added, "And you always look at her like you’re trying not to."

Princess laughed. "Sir, that’s not just coffee—that’s courtship."

Robby rolled his eyes, biting back a smile. "You all have too much time on your hands."

"We're just saying," Dana said as she turned toward the door. "If you're gonna pine, at least be subtle."

He shook his head and muttered, "Back to work, people."

Then came the day everything cracked.

The patient had come in hostile—angry at the world and bleeding from a cut above his brow—muttering about how no one respected him, how women thought they were better than him. According to his chart, he had a record of violent outbursts and a chip on his shoulder the size of the hospital.

"You think you're smarter than me, don't you?" he sneered when you entered the bay, his arms crossed and chest puffed like a bull ready to pick a fight.

You kept your voice calm and professional. "Sir, I'm just here to update your chart and make sure you're getting what you need."

He laughed—sharp and bitter. "What I need is for people like you to stop looking at me like I'm some kind of freak. All you female doctors think you're so much better."

You froze for just a second. "I'm here to provide care. Nothing more."

"Don't lie to me!" he spat. "I see how you talk to the others. You think you're above me like some queen. But you're not. You're just another stupid cunt—"

"I'm going to get another physician to help with your case," you said quickly, trying to disengage, stepping back toward the call button.

"You walk away from me, and I swear—"

The second he was out of your peripheral vision, he lunged.

You cried out as his weight slammed into you, sending you hard to the ground. Everyone around you scattered, the staff protecting patients and patients protecting themselves.

Your elbow struck tile and pain bloomed across the crown of your skull. Your head snapped back like a slap bracelet. He loomed over you, shouting a string of vile insults, hands grabbing at whatever they could. Another set of fingers clamped around your throat. A scream pierced through the air shouting, "Robby!" Only after a set of doors burst open did you realize it was yours. 

Before you had time to process what was happening, he was there.

Robby knocked the patient off of you with brute force that stunned the entire hospital staff. Without help, Robby pinned him to the floor facefirst with practiced strength, knees braced, and jaw clenched. "Security!" his voice thundered.

Subduing the attacker by his wrists, Robby's knee dug into the man's back thigh without mercy, making him cry out in pain. "Collins! Dana!" he barked, voice sharp and commanding, reverberating through the trauma bay like a shockwave.

You were on the floor, dazed, breath knocked out of you. The two women rushed to your side in the blink of an eye. All around, med students and residents stood frozen, eyes wide.

They had never seen Robby like that.

No one had ever seen Robby like that.

The patient struggled once more before Robby leaned in and drove his knee harder into the attacker’s thigh, his grip unrelenting, voice low and deadly calm. "Stay down."

Security took over a moment later, but Robby didn’t move until he was sure it was safe. Then he stood, exhaled once, and turned to Dana and Collins.

"I'll be over as soon as I can, brief me later," he said. "I'll assess her myself."

Dana crouched beside you, one hand firm on your shoulder. "We've got you," she said gently, then glanced over her shoulder. "We'll be in 4."

Collins helped you up with care, guiding you slowly down the hall while Dana kept close at your side. You were still disoriented, a sharp ringing in your ears, but you caught a glimpse of Robby speaking to security. He didn’t even glance your way—focused, furious, deadly calm.

In Exam Room 4, Collins set you down on the cot, already checking your pupils with a penlight. "You hit your head?"

"Yeah," you managed, wincing as you moved. "Elbow too. Think I caught most of the floor on the way down."

Dana pressed a cold pack into your hand. "You’re in shock. Just breathe. We’ll handle this."

Collins nodded, gently examining your face and palpating around your ribs. "No obvious trauma, nothing broken. Expect some bruising around your throat the next few days. We should get you in for a head CT just to be safe. You took a hard hit."

"I'll get that booked ASAP," Dana said, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze before stepping out to handle the order. She paused at the doorway just long enough to exchange a glance with Collins—an unspoken check-in—before disappearing down the hall. 

Moments later, the door opened again. Robby stepped in, his expression unreadable but his eyes scanning you like he was cataloging every mark, every breath.

"I’ll take it from here," he said quietly to Collins.

They exchanged a glance, then wordlessly stepped out.

And then it was just you and him.

He crossed to your side, kneeling. His hands moved automatically, gently tilting your chin to check for swelling, eyes flicking to your pupils, then the scrape along your cheekbone. "Can you look up for me? Good. Follow my finger."

His voice was low and clinical, but his touch was careful—too careful.

"Headache? Nausea? Double vision?" he asked, bringing your hand into his and turning it over to assess for any injuries.

"No, just a little dizzy," you murmured.

He nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed your elbow, then the bruising along your neck. Then the questions stopped. His hands stilled.

He just looked at you—really looked at you—and the silence took hold.

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to say something but couldn't. Something had cracked open in him. Not just from what happened. From what it revealed.

And you could feel it—the weight in the room. Something unsaid between you, thick as blood and twice as loud.

You tried to fill the silence. "Dana said she'd put in a rush order for a head CT. Collins didn’t think anything was broken, just some bruising and—"

"Don’t," Robby said, almost too softly.

Your words faltered. You watched him—how his shoulders stayed tense, how his eyes didn’t move from yours, how still he was, like saying the wrong thing might make everything unravel.

"Robby," you said gently. "It's okay, I’m fine."

His jaw clenched, masseter muscles carving his sunken cheeks like a marble sculpture. "No, it's not. You’re not."

He said it so quietly, like he hated the truth of it. Getting up, he ruffled his hair and shook his head, voice still quiet but heavy. "Just... give me a second."

It wasn’t the injury that had shaken him—it was the realization. That in those terrifying few seconds, the worst thing he could imagine had nearly happened. And it wasn’t because you were his resident. Or his colleague.

It was because you were you.

You watched him pace as the silence dragged, your heart still pounding faintly in your ears. "Robby," you tried again, softer this time. "I'm okay, really..."

Still, he said nothing.

You gave a half-scoff, half-sigh, trying to shake off the tension. "I’ve had worse nights. Dana and Collins already cleared me—CT’s just precautionary. Nothing to worry about."

His movements stilled and eyes didn’t leave yours.

"What is it?" you asked, finally, your voice gentle but steady—like you already knew the answer but needed to hear it.

That cracked something in him. He looked away for a beat, jaw flexing again, his breath hitching as if he was holding back something too big to name. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, raw—nothing like the sharp, composed attending everyone else knew.

"I didn’t know it would feel like that." 

He rubs the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture in an effort to hold back whatever threatens to overflow. "Seeing you on the ground. Hearing you scream. For me. I’ve seen worse—God knows we all have. But nothing’s ever felt like that."

You froze.

His eyes met yours again, and the walls he always held in place—stone and steel and professionalism—weren’t there anymore. He looked at you like he wanted something he had never allowed himself to want. Like he was terrified of the feeling and already grieving it.

You felt the shift like gravity tilting. Like the air changed around you. It was as though the ground beneath you had tipped on its axis.

And suddenly, everything between you was different.

Not unspoken anymore, just unbearable to say aloud.

You felt yourself retreating into the space between what you wanted to feel and what you needed to believe. The part of you that ached wanted to lean forward, close the distance, tell him you felt it too—that terrible, awful, beautiful clarity.

But another part held you back. The part that lived in hospital hallways and stared at name badges and remembered what it meant to be professional. To be younger. A resident. His resident. The part that convinced you it could never be more.

You searched his face, trying to decode what this moment was, or if it had always been there, hiding in quiet coffees and rooftops and restrained glances. And still, he said nothing. Maybe he was waiting. Maybe he didn’t know how to cross that final line either.

So you just sat there in the quiet with him, suspended between the ache and the boundary—between what was true and what you were still too scared to say.

Eventually, you broke. Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brows furrowed instantly. "For what?"

You shook your head, feeling heat rise behind your eyes. "I don’t know. For not calling for help. For being alone in there. For... allowing this," you gestured between the two of you, "to happen." You sniffled. "For letting myself—"

"Don’t," he cut in sharply, but not unkindly. "Don’t you dare apologize for any of that, you did nothing wrong."

You blinked.

He leaned in slightly, voice steady now, like he needed you to hear every word. "You did everything right. You followed protocol. That man was unstable, and what happened wasn’t your fault."

Your lip trembled, but you didn’t speak.

His voice softened again. "And if this is about me... if you think you’ve done something wrong because of how I feel about you—how I care about you—don’t."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was everything neither of you knew how to name. It sat heavy between you—thick with the ache of things buried too long and the sharp edges of everything that couldn't be said. You could feel it in your chest, pressing against your ribs and threatening to claw itself out, the unspoken confession of a man who just laid bare more than he meant to, and your own desperate need to pretend you didn’t hear it.

But you had. You’d heard it in his voice, in the way his hands had trembled just slightly when he touched your face, in the way his eyes wouldn’t leave yours even when they should’ve.

And now, as your chest rose and fell too quickly and your heart tried to find steady ground, all the small moments you’d buried—or maybe just refused to examine—rushed back like a crashing wave. His hand guiding yours during your very first incision, firm but not overbearing. The coffees every morning—always your usual, always on time. The time he’d found you on the stairwell after you lost your first patient, sobbing uncontrollably, and he didn’t try to fix it—he just sat there beside you until you could breathe again. The rooftop shifts when you couldn’t quiet your incessant thoughts, he somehow always found you there.

The silence that needed no explanation.

It had always been there. A quiet, steadfast presence. Not loud, not showy—but constant.

And now, undeniable.

And maybe you were still trying to find the line between what had always been there and what had just changed—but the silence was no longer uncertain. It was waiting.

You decided to break it.

"Can I kiss you?" you whispered, eyes searching his, breath catching somewhere in your throat.

Robby didn’t answer. Not with words.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours, one last moment of hesitation flickering there—one last out, if you wanted it.

But you didn’t. Instead, you met him halfway.

His lips brushed yours, featherlight at first, reverent, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed. His skin was warm against yours, soft in a way that surprised you. Your fingers found his jaw, the roughness of his beard brushing your palms as your hands slid down slowly, until they came to rest at the curve of his neck—right where his pulse thrummed hard beneath your fingertips.

The kiss deepened a breath later, quiet and aching, full of everything you’d both held back for far too long. His hands rose to cradle your face, holding you like something fragile, like if he wasn’t careful, you might break. His thumbs grazed the corners of your cheekbones, grounding and gentle, anchoring you both in the impossible tenderness of it.

There was nothing hurried about it. Just warmth and softness and the quiet admission of something real. Something that had lived in the silence between you for years.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, exhaling shakily.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a confession.

He let out a breath, rough and shaky against your cheek. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that," he murmured. His voice cracked just slightly at the edges—like the truth cost something to say. And maybe it did.

You pulled back enough to see him clearly, your hands resting on his neck, feeling the steady, trembling pulse beneath your fingertips. He looked at you like the moment might vanish if he blinked.

For years, probably. You just hadn’t let yourself admit it. Not through the early mornings or the long nights. Not even when he stood too close, or when his voice turned soft just for you. Not even when your heart always found him in a crowd. But now, with his breath still warm against your lips and his hands still cradling your face like something precious, you couldn’t pretend anymore.

You’d been his and he'd been yours, long before either of you were brave enough to say it. You pulled back just enough to look at him—really look—and gently stroked his cheek, admiring his freckles like newly formed constellations in the sky. 

His eyes drop ever so slightly. "I'm old," he starts. "My work-life balance is absolute shit. You deserve someone who can give you what you need."

You stare at him, puzzled. For a second, you think he’s serious—like he's about to start building walls where they’d only just crumbled.

Then you catch the flicker in his expression. The barely-there smirk at the corner of his mouth. He’s only half-serious. Nervous. Teasing you.

You grin, easing the weight with a well-aimed jab. "At least you're not old enough to be my father. And it's not like my hours spent outside work ratio is any better."

He scoffs, ducking his head before shaking it all too lightheartedly.

"And for the record," you add, tapping his chest with a pointed index finger. "This is not some personification of daddy issues, I'll have you know that my father and I have a very healthy relationship."

"Well, that’s a relief," he murmurs, his smile softening as he encloses his fingers around your hand.

You sit back, playful. "I’ll keep you up to date on all the hottest trends the youths engage in. Like cat cafés and strawberry milk matcha lattes. And emotional vulnerability."

He groans, rubbing his face shyly. "God help me."

You grin, careful not to laugh too hard, and lean into him again. "Too late for that, Robinavitch. You’re stuck with me." 

"Yeah," he whispered. "I really hope I am."

Outside, the hospital buzzed as it always did—pages overhead, heels echoing on tile, lives beginning and ending behind curtain walls. But for a moment, the noise faded. The only sound was your breathing, his.

And the quiet hum of something long overdue settling into place.

You didn’t know what came next—how this would unfold outside the safety of Room 4, outside of bruises and adrenaline and low-lit confessions. But for now, with his forehead still resting gently against yours, and the weight of unspoken feelings finally aired between you, it didn’t matter.

You had time.

Until a round of cheers and high fives broke the stillness like a confetti cannon bursting into the air.

Both of you jerked apart, startled. Just outside the half-closed door to Room 4 stood a cluster of med students, nurses, residents, and paramedics—huddled together like a peanut gallery, barely containing their glee.

Fire. Fire beneath your cheeks igniting your face like the depths of hell and embarrassment. You buried it in Robby’s chest as he turned around slowly, one hand instinctively coming up to rest on your back as he started to laugh.

Langdon, of course, was the ringleader. He held up a neon orange post-it like a trophy, waving it proudly as the group chuckled and whooped behind him. In black Sharpie were the words:

UNPLANNED CONFESSION - Langdon & King—the bet circled and underlined. And below it: $7/week. Scribbled in tiny pen just beneath that, barely legible, was a date—six months ago.

He high-fived someone out of view next to him just before giving the two of you an exaggerated thumbs-up, grinning like he’d just won the Super Bowl. On cue, Mel stood up from beside him and gave you a quick wave and a shy smile, arms held tightly by her sides.

You groaned, still pressed into Robby's chest. "I swear to God, if they made a bracket—"

"Oh they definitely made a bracket," Robby said, laughing into your hair.

You peeked up at him, still mortified but grinning. "Are we seriously the plot twist in someone’s trauma bay soap opera?"

"Apparently," he muttered, pulling you closer. "Should we give them something to talk about for next week's episode?"

You scoffed, swatting lightly at his chest. "Take me out to dinner first, will you?"

Outside, the group began to scatter—some called back to rounds, others still giggling as they walked off. But you stayed there, tucked into Robby’s side, warmth blooming in your chest despite the chaos. Whatever came next, you’d figure it out. Together.

And if the hospital had front-row seats to your slow-burn becoming a soft landing? So be it.

[shadowsong26x]

things that occurred as i am pondering 'percussive maintenance':

...poor sam, stuck being the awkwardest fifth wheel in the universe for two thousand years lol.

[kissbabie]

sae has a thing for corruption !

when you called your best friend, sae, crying about how your boyfriend cheated on you, he's pissed. deep down, he always thought your boyfriend didn't deserve you. and when you ask to come over to his place, of course he agrees. and when he opens the door, his usual cool facade cracks just slightly because he hates seeing you like this, shaking and upset.

as your best friend, sae lets you in, gently placing a hand on the back of your head as you collapse onto him, kicking the door shut as well. he leads you to the couch-- covering you in blankets and letting you cry it out as you lean onto his side.

sae didn't say anything. in fact, he was pretty silent as you clung onto him. with tear stained cheeks and small sniffles coming out of you, you're still hurt knowing that your boyfriend cheated on you, asking "why didn't he love me enough?"

there's a small pause before sae replies, saying that it's "because he's an idiot."

you only let out another sniffle.

"you deserve better." sae says. his voice is low, calm, and has the tiniest hint of bitterness, something that would've been missed if you weren't paying close attention.

"you always say that." you mumble, face pressed onto his arm.

"because it's true."

at that, you lean back slightly from his arm and look up at him. but sae is staring blankly forward with a bored expression. although when he turns his head a bit and he shifts his gaze from whatever is infront of him to you, his eyes meet yours, causing your breath to hitch as he declares that "if you were mine, i wouldn't even look away."

"..sae?"

"i'm not gonna pretend I haven't thought about it." sae says, his tone suddenly rougher. your heartbeat practically pounded in your ears, shakily responding with "sae.. i'm not- i don't.. I'm just so confused about everything right now.."

sae brings his hand to gently rub your bottom lip. when he leans down closer to you, his lips brush the tiniest bit against yours.

"i know. let me fix it."

deep down, you knew you should have pulled away. it would be wrong to kiss your best friend! but you didn't. when his lips met yours, he kissed you gently and softly, almost as if you would melt if he were any rougher. so you let him kiss you, pressing yourself onto him. as for sae, he groaned in your mouth. he placed his hand on the small of your back, pulling you into his lap.

"you don't know what you're doing to me," he mutters after the both of you pull apart from your kiss. "you have no idea how long i've waited to touch you."

all you could do was whimper, telling him that you wanted him to make you forget about your cheating ex boyfriend. everything else was a blur, and before you knew it, your shorts and underwear had came off. his fingers had slid into your leaking pussy, muttering how you were so wet already, asking "you've never been touched like this before, have you?"

you tried to hide your face, but he caught your chin and tilted your head back. "no hiding." he said firmly. your heart was pounding and your cheeks felt hot as he continued pumping his fingers into you, thumb brushing over your clit. it felt so good, you've never felt anything like this, and you were already so whiny and overwhelmed just from his fingers. if you couldn't handle this, how were you going to take his cock?

when you came all over his fingers, making a mess on his hand, he pulled them out. he sweared the mess on your thigh, and then, he grabbed your hips. without much warning, he suddenly pushed his dick into you, causing you to let out a gasp.

"fuck," he groaned, voice raspy. "so fucking tight."

you were barely able to speak. he was so thick, so deep, and it was stretching you out so much.

"never had anyone inside you like this, huh?" he mutters, dragging you a bit over his cock. you shook your head, teary eyed and panting, "no.. just you.."

"good."

as he picked up the pace, bouncing you up and down on his cock, you swore you were losing yourself. your vision became so hazy, and the only thing you could focus on was the wet sounds and slaps of skin meeting skin, the ache of being stretched out, and sae's sharp breaths as his cock made your thighs tremble.

"you love this, don't you?" he breathed, watching your face. "getting ruined by me."

"uhhuhh saeee i love it.. please i can't.. can't.."

"you can." he bluntly states. "look at you, so needy."

sae kept going, and you felt yourself about to come. he felt your pussy fluttering around his cock, one hand going to the back of your hand to pull you down for a kiss as his other hand remained on your waist. "be a good girl and cum."

and you did, whining into his mouth since it was the kind of orgasm that had you shaking and nearly sobbing. sae groaned, still fucking you through it. and when he came, he didn't even flinch. just letting out a small "shit.." as he tightly held your hips, holding you in place and not letting you squirm as he filled you up.

when sae pulled out, the sight of the mess his cock and your pussy made was enough to make dirty, filthy thoughts form and swirl around in his head. he was quiet and calm, but he was always so protective of you. he always wanted you so bad, and every time you got a new boyfriend, he had to pretend not to care about it.

his jaw clenches, thinking how you were so good-- taking all of it and not pushing him away, how you were so messy and fucked out now, and how he wants more.

sae wants to see you beg. he wants to see you on your knees with wide eyes as you take his cock into your mouth. he wants to ruin everything about you, to make you say things that you would never expect to say.

he imagines you asking him to fuck you in public, to see how shame becomes a foreign concept to you, and he imagines you sending him filthy pictures to him when you miss him.

he wants to see the switch flip. from being a good girl to someone so filthy who only ever thinks about getting impaled on his massive cock, keeping all of his cum inside you as you beg for more.

when you whimper, sae finally snaps back to reality. you're looking down at the mess spilling out of your used pussy. but now, you're just as messed up as sae is. you fingers tremble as you reach down to try and stuff everything back inside you.

sae's breathe catches. his cock twitches, and his voice, now so hoarse, asks "what are you doing?"

you look at him with a pouty, almost embarrassed expression, but your fingers don't stop. "it's- it's leaking.."

his eyes darken as he tells you to pull your fingers out. you want to disobey, but you know better so you remove your hand from your pussy.

he puts you back onto his cock. it was so much for you, but he was so hard and big inside you that you wanted him to ruin you for anyone else, just as much as he wanted it.

"i'm not done with you." sae says, eyes darkening.

"i haven't even started."

for this req

© 𝒌issbabie | don't copy, steal, or translate any of my work

[anchoeritic]

bbf!ellie covering your mouth to hide your whimpers, her other hand dug deep between your thighs and rubbing you ever so gently. “shhh, baby… we gotta stay quiet,” you could feel her breath fanning your ear, her lips already brushing against it. if it wasn’t for her suppressing your moans, you’d probably have half the world banging at your door, the first people in line probably being everyone else in the house.

your relationship— situationship? something along those lines, it was a mess. from long stares across the room to passionate kissing… to her fingers being knuckle-deep inside of you. everything was a mess. everything was confusing. but you knew one thing for damn sure: never to let your brother find out.

“fuck, ellie,” you tried to mutter out under her hand, “don’t leave anymore marks.” well, that was a first for you. it’s better to be cautious, though. last time she marked up your neck, you had to pull out the ‘curling wand’ card, even then, it was just barely believable. she stifled out a laugh at your words, continuing to drag her teeth along your neck. her body molding into yours, pressing up against you while also pressing you up against the wall.

“s’pretty. how could i stay away from you?” you could feel her lips on your neck. soft. warm. wet. god, just her kisses alone could have you chasing a climax. her nipples peeking out from an old high-school t-shirt that wrapped loosely around her body and you can only imagine how wet she is under those plaid briefs. while your mind wanders, her touch gets hotter on your skin. her fingers dipped between your folds, her other hand pressing even tighter against your lips, letting no more noises come out of you.

her lips had a mind of their own, attacking your neck with her teeth just barely biting on your delicate skin. “i’ll be gentle with you, baby. you know i always am.” she knew what she was doing. she kept you nice and quiet, all pretty and pathetic under her power. she knew how to make you crumble. make you cum. she knew what you loved and what you hated. and she definitely heard you tell her no marks.

“e-ellie…” a quiet moan barely escaped as you felt her teeth sink in, “mmph— shit.” it was all so much. the rhythm of her fingers growing faster, teeth sinking deeper into your neck, her front pressed up right against your ass. she was so close and yet you were even closer.

“mhmm. you’re s’good for me. always lettin’ me fuck you whenever i want,” she finally raised her head up to whisper into your ear, “anytime, anywhere, all the fuckin’ time, huh?” grunting against the back of your head, breathing heavier. “s’fucking good to me.”

[dazedantics]

Mark knew he'd mess up his chances at some point. He wasn't prefect. In he fact he was always messing things up for himself.

But did it have to be now!?

Right now when you were sitting oh so closely on his lap, kissing him breathless in a way you hadn't before. God, he could spend days here, hands squishing you softly as you pushed him back onto the bed. You were so warm, and you smelt so good, tasted good. Everything was just so good about you. He hoped you thought the same about him.

Wait, what was that? You were saying something. He's not sure what though.

But he knew he liked that thrill running through him as you whispered in his ear, kissing sweetly down his neck, hand dragging down his chest.

His eyes were shut, smile steady as he took deep breaths. He couldn't get enough of this feeling.

You grabbed the hem of his shirt, kissing his lips once more, sucking in a way that had him unconsciously gripping the sheets.

This was heaven. This was what he was gonna remember right before he dies. This was ... this was amazing.

You hand was under his shirt, rubbing the second layer cloth separating his skin from yours and laughed breathily. God that laugh ....

You pulled back, saying something again before lifting up his first shirt.

He raised his arms to help you out.

Hm? Wait ... did you stop? But why? You were so close ...!

"Hey, what's wrong?" He breathed out, looking at you finally.

You were looking down, hands still holding up his shirt to his chest. You looked ... shocked?

Why? What'd he do?

"Wha-"

"You're Invincible."

He froze.

"Wh-what?"

"You're Invincible." You iterated again, meeting his eyes. "You're the Invincible!"

Uh oh ...

He quickly pulled his shirt back down to hide that familiar suit of blacks, blues, and yellows. He had completely forgot that he wore the damn thing underneath all his clothes.

"What? No, no, I'm not. It's just uh ... uhm ... I-I'm just a big fan! Yeah ... yeah. But I'm not Invincible!"

His voice had reached an embarrassing falsetto in some points. Face pink for different reasons now.

You grabbed his chin, forcing him to look back at you. Your eyes were wild with ... well, he's not entirely sure what. But he hoped it wasn't something bad.

"Yes, you are!" You exclaimed.

Then you took your other hand and raised it up to cover the upper part of his face.

"Yes you are!" You insisted. "Where's your mask? Lemme see!"

He sighed. Guess the best thing he could do was just tell you the truth and hope you'd understand.

Much to his disappointment, he guided you off his lap, stripped -in a not so sexy way- and put on the final piece of his costume.

"Listen, I know it's kind of a big secret to have kept from you, but please try to understand why I did it. There's so much that people don't know goes on with heroes and I just ... I couldn't ... I didn't want to risk you getting caught up in it ... I ...."

He was being his most sincere. Prepared to say more to try and convince you to forgive him, to give him a chance.

But you didn't really seem to be listening. Covering your mouth with both hands as you stared at him.

"Mark." You said.

And he felt himself deflate, like a puppy about to get reprimanded by his owner. He opened his mouth to say something else.

But you cut him off with a grin, giving happy little hops before running up to circle around him.

"Mark! Do you have any idea how cool that is? You're Invincible!"

He held a finger to his lips, brow sad and worried behind his mask. "Don't say it so loud."

"Sorry. But Mark!" You were sparkling.

And that really confused him.

You started going on and on about something or other about his heroic side. While he was preparing himself for that switch, for the prank to come in, the sting of your anger and hurt for lying to you for so long.

That never came though.

Just a gasp followed by a, "Can I try it on?"

What?

"I'm sorry? Should ...? Shouldn't you be like ... planning to dump me or something?"

"Why would I do that? If I said you were stuck with me before, I really mean it now. I got a superhero boyfriend!" You whisper yelled the last part.

Then you gasped again, running over to the book shelf, pulling out some comic, flipping through the pages and pointing to the images.

"We should totally act out this scene at some point!"

What?

"You're not ...? Mad?"

"What? No! Why would I be? Mark we should totally do this scene too!"

You went on and on, explaining some other thing the hero did after their partner got saved.

Your enthusiasm would've been quickly picked up and drawn out by him had this been a different time. But he was so ready for the worst reaction, he was a deer in headlights after getting the best.

"You're ... not messing with me right now?"

"Huh?" You watched him for a moment, seeming to notice his reaction now, then went over with a soft smile.

You put the book down then took off his mask. "Mark, if you think your gonna give me the biggest surprise ever and think I'll be upset, then you got a few screws loose in there."

You ran your fingers through his hair, the action causing him to close his eyes and lean into you. "Sure, there could've been a better time to have told me, but I would've been excited either way. I mean, how often do you think I get the chance to be the hero's love interest? Never! Wouldn't you be happy too if I said I was a hero to my ordinary boyfriend?"

"Yeah ... I would." He murmured.

He rested his chin in your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist in a familiar motion. It was a comforting action that always made his worries melt away. He smiled, taking in that nice scent that he knew belonged to you.

"Exactly."

You stood there for a moment, quiet and content under the streaking moonlight coming from beyond the curtains.

He couldn't have asked for a better you. Maybe now he wouldn't have to feel so guilty for needing to reschedule all of your plans. And since you know his secret, there's no reason he can't use his powers to surprise you even more. Maybe now he could fly you out to that niche little shop in that far off country you've been talking about this weekend. And maybe you could start acting out all of those romantic scenes you two read about.

"Mark?"

"Yeah?" He loved when you weren't mad at him.

He felt your fingers tracing along his hips. "Don't you think you should still take this off though?"

... Woah ...

Maybe he didn't ruin his chances tonight after all.