#jen writes
Text
𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦
summary: After what you assumed would be a successful mission, things veer off-course and you're stuck with Bucky Barnes in Istanbul with no way out until morning. The tension between you comes to head and nothing will be the same again.
parings: Protective!Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Sniper!Agent!Curvy!F!Reader
word count: 6.5K
warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, canon-level violence with just a bit more blood, guns, reader is a sniper/sharp-shooter, hate-making out, degradation, fighting, insults and cursing, teasing/banter, reader and bucky don't know how to talk about their feelings (or to eachother), spanking, doggy, angry-horny, rough-ish sex, pent up anger, pent up sexual tension, power dynamics, protective!Bucky, vague hinting to Bucky's PTSD, no use of y/n, reader is tagged as curvy and is described as such but body description is kept to a minimum
a/n: this work is for @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge! My prompts were "enemies to lovers" and "Again! Please, again!"
I am incredibly thankful to Suz for letting me participate. I haven't been able to participate in a challenge since forever ago 😅
ALSO! This is my first time writing enemies to lovers, as well as curvy!reader! even though i'm curvy myself, i hope i did okay ♥
This work is not beta-read. all mistakes are my own. If any mistake is glaringly obvious, please feel free to message me and let me know!
p.s. I listened to a lot of PVRIS + Nothing But Thieves writing this, can ya tell?
p.p.s. the amount of willpower and struggle with my muse it took to finish this is... a lot. i think she scratched my cornea at some point.
If I’ve missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!
gif by @unearthlydust | dividers by @cafekitsune | warning banner by me ♥
my ao3 | my masterlist
title from: You Know Me Too Well by Nothing But Thieves
Read this fic HERE on ao3!
♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥
𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚
Bucky Barnes has always hated you, and you have always hated Bucky Barnes. At least since you first met, that is.
Being the newest recruit– and only sharp-shooter– to grace the S.H.I.E.L.D. Direct Action Team’s roster since signing on the Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, the hostility was almost immediate from the second you walked in your first day.
You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.
When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.
Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.
After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.
You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week.
With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.
Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together.
Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”
The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival.
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A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’
“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door.
“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.
You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.
Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger.
“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.
It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder.
The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit.
“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.
“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip.
Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing.
“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.
You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.
“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.
Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.
“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.
You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”
“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink.
Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it.
You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time.
You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell.
Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.
The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.
“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear.
“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”
White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.
He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.
“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.
His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.
You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below.
With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.
“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost.
“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape.
“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”
He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully.
“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.
“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.
“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”
He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.
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The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium.
There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form.
Your face burned.
Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?”
You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.”
He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.
♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.
You swallowed a groan.
“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear.
“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”
“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”
“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”
Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours.
“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.”
You wanted to take his finger and break it.
You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.
You doubted it was convincing.
“Fine.”
He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion.
When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.
“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”
“When the hell did you–”
“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.
“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance.
He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.
The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles.
“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.
Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.
It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike.
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The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”
“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own.
Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–
“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously.
“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side.
“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.
“Because there’s only one fucking bed?”
“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.
You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”
His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward.
You swallowed. “You heard me.”
One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard.
Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body.
“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.
“Look at me!”
“No! Fuck– Get off me!”
With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.
You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.
“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.”
His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it’d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”
You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone.
“Is that all, Sergeant?”
His Adam's apple bobbed.
“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.
“You heard me.”
The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged.
“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.
“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”
Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.
“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you.
And you let him.
“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.
“Holy–fuck, holy shit.”
Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why.
He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame.
“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”
Your heart stopped.
“You’re telling me.”
Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door.
Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy.
Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.
Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however.
He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?”
You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”
“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.
“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release.
“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.
“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”
He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”
“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”
“Number fuckin’ one.”
The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core.
Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.
“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.
He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs.
“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass.
SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”
SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”
SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.”
Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him.
“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”
You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure.
“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you.
“Fuck! Again! Please, again!”
He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you.
“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode.
“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”
“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.
For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile.
“Thanks.”
He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”
You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”
“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.
“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”
“Mhmm, sure,” he hummed. The covers shrouded you as he placed a metal hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb in soft circles as he pulled you in for another electrifying kiss.
#suzsblinddatewritingchallenge#targaryenvampireslayer#suz's writing challenge#writing challenge#filthy impetuous souls#jen writes#prompted#enemies to lovers#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x f!reader#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x female!reader#bucky barnes x you#curvy!reader#bucky barnes x curvy!reader#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes fic#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes angst#sebastian stan characters#protective!bucky barnes#sniper!reader#winter soldier#the winter soldier x you#the winter soldier x reader#bucky barnes imagines
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Kyōjurō x F!S/O: Snow On the Beach (Fluff, Modern!AU)
Note: Heyyyyy, bbys! It's been a while, I know... but here's something short and sweet, since I felt a bit inspired (and a lot sleepless) to write. All because of a certain someone; it's absolutely insane.
***
Sweet, soft crooning lulled (Y/n)’s senses to a false sense of calm; prompting her to close her eyes for a second and breathe in the crisp salt air that practically whipped at her face.
She then adjusted her grip on the camera— being careful not to drop it, as it had been a very recent, and very expensive purchase— as she opened her eyes and allowed herself to really take in her surroundings.
It all looked so ethereal. Snow on the beach; an entirely unfathomable concept for some, but her current reality. Most people could only dream of seeing something so otherworldly, yet it had been (Y/n)’s norm for the past few days— as she had decided to take on the snowy landscape as her subject matter for the impromptu photography class that she decided to tackle.
The topic was breathtaking scenery for the week, and most of her cohorts had gone off to the mountains to find their muses there. Meanwhile, she went the other route; against the grain.
Minutes ticked by with her just taking in the scenery, and in that time, more snow had begun to fall from the sky in minuscule flakes. It only served to make the already beautiful scene even prettier.
So, with her fingers gingerly tightening around the camera once more, she brought the viewfinder to her right eye— left index finger making quick work of the focus adjustment ring— when something in the distance caught her attention.
She had been alone just minutes before, but now, she could see an extremely familiar face steadily walking towards her from across the snowy beach.
Instantaneously, her heart began thrumming harder in her chest, with her lips curling up at the edges into a warm smile that her surprise visitor mirrored.
And with that, she hastily tucked her camera into the tote bag on her shoulder; its pristine condition the farthest thing from her mind at the moment. All that mattered to her then and there was the golden-haired man coming towards her.
One step forward, crunching snow beneath her shoe, then another step— and another, another, another… until she was doing a half-sprint towards Kyōjurō. She was a bit shameless in her actions, especially when she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss; warming her cold lips with his.
The blond grinned at his lover’s actions, finding it adorable that she had welcomed him so warmly; when they had only seen each other that morning, before he had left for work.
“What have you been up to, my love?” He asked, with his grin tapering down into a smile, just as he pulled back a little and cupped (Y/n)’s cheeks in his hands— all in an effort to help warm her up. “I missed you.”
"Already, Kyō?"
"I know, I just couldn't stay away."
#rengoku x y/n#rengoku kyoujurou x reader#rengoku kyojuro x reader#kyojuro x reader#rengoku kyojuro#kyojuro rengoku#kny x reader#kyoujurou rengoku x reader#rengoku x reader#kyojuro rengoku x reader#jen writes
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Story Summary: After spending five years stuck in the World of the Ocean King, Link returns to the Great Sea, only to find it changed beyond recognition. His friends and family view him as a traitor, accusing him of causing chaos across the ocean. With his allies all turned against him and a curse threatening to take his life, he sets out to reconnect with the one person who may be able to clear his name: Tetra.
Meanwhile, something sinister is rising over the Great Sea--a shadow seeking to spill the hero's blood and revive its fallen master. And this time, Link may not be strong enough to stop it on his own.
Ships: Link/Tetra
Rating: T
Warnings: Angst, Trauma, Violence, Blood and Injury, Torture, Harm to Children, Psycological Trauma
Chapter Summary: A new voyage takes to the seas.
It’s amazing how a sword slinged over one’s shoulder can make them feel safer, more secure… and somehow more scared than they’d ever be without one. The weight of that sword feels heavy as Link adjusts it and the shield Oshus had given him alongside it. His recovery had taken far longer than he would have liked it to, but as of today, the old man had finally deemed him healthy enough to venture out on his own. Or at least, with Ciela flying by his side as his new companion.
That’s about the only thing Link actually doesn’t mind about the daunting deal he’s been forced into. Ciela is lively, sweet and spirited, and Link would much rather have her joining him on this quest than someone like Oshus. He smiles as he listens to her babble on, flying just ahead to give him something of a “grand tour” of Mercay Island.
Click the link to read more; all comments are appreciated!
#jen writes#shades of the sea#legend of zelda#wind waker#phantom hourglass#spirit tracks#nintendo#link#ciela#linebeck#jolene#shades archive
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Happy New Year's Eve! 🎆🎇
So I wrote another fic. It's spyscrapper and smutty and tw: knives; I didn't know what the ending was going to be until I wrote it; it started out as a ficlet that folks in the server wanted more of, so I did my research and wrote another 12,000 words. I hope you enjoy.
sharp objects: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52652929
Here's to 2024 and more words.
#jen writes#spyscrapper#jedi survivor#cal kestis#bode akuna#look I wrote something and it isn't November
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Psychonauts - The Hornblower Incident - Chapter 12
Milla
Milla's in trouble. The Motherlobe has ordered Raz, Sasha, and Oleander back to headquarters without her, but Agent Nein would rather break the rules than leave his partner behind. Raz doesn't know what to expect when they get to Fanrong, he only hopes he'll somehow be able to help.
#psychonauts#psychonauts 2#fanfic#fanfiction#jen writes#the hornblower incident#this is one of my favorite chapters in the whole fic btw#in case anyone doubts what my ship is#sashaxmilla#sashamilla
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Summary: Ever since the adoption of Kurik, the three of them had plenty of visitors over to see them, showering their son with gifts and affection. As they're wondering what some of their other friends might try to bring, two more unexpected visitors stop by to see their son and bring a few more gifts for him.
Author's Note: I've been wanting to write more of Aylin and Isobel, so this gave me the perfect excuse to do so. The idea of them dropping in and visiting them at random just kind of made me happy, so I had to do it. Chapter two should come out in a few days. It's technically done, but I just want to make a couple of revisions before I post it. Also, I hate that this is the one to finally break my naming conventions from Hadestown.
#Shadowheart#Karlach#Tav Bg3#Shadowheart/Karlach/Tav#ShadowheartxKarlachxTav#Karlach Cliffgate#Dame Aylin#Isobel Thorm#Jen Writes
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Star Trek: Picard, Star Trek: La Sirena
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Agnes Jurati/Cristóbal Rios
Characters: Agnes Jurati, Cristóbal Rios
Additional Tags: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Sleeping Together, agnes is really trying
Summary:
Of the nights Agnes leaves, all but for the one she doesn’t.
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Written for the Hey, Sweetheart challenge @ficwip
#star trek picard#star trek la sirena#agnes jurati#cristobal rios#agnebal#heysweetheart#jen writes#a sort of five times fic#to a better beginning
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Fic Updates!
Good morning everyone!
First, thanks so much for being patient with me concerning fic updates. Real life and work don’t always cooperate with my fic schedule.
Second, I wrote the last chapter of Carry On yesterday. Yes, I know, I can already see the comments coming from that statement, but all good things must come to an end, and well, it’s time to let Dean have his happy ever after, and I think you guys will be much more pleased with the way I wrote this chapter as opposed to how the actual series ended. It’s with the Beta now, who is totally allowed to take as much time as she’s needed to because work and life affect her as well as it does all of us! As soon as she get’s done, and as soon as I can, I will let you guys know when I’m going to post it!
Third. I haven’t stop writing for Something About Fate, and now that Dean’s settled, I think we can start giving Jensen the attention he deserves in this fic! I will update as soon as there is an update, and I’m hoping to get some work done today and next week on the following chapter.
Enjoy the end of your week everyone! Stay cool, stay hydrated!
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After seeing the clip of the boxing match in 1x08 from the trailer, I couldn’t get the idea of Rose and Dimitri having an argument about the trials, layered by all the angsty goodness of what happened in 1x07, out of my head. So, here you go:
“Please tell me you’re not actually going to fight for Tatiana?”
Rose finds Dimitri after his name was announced alongside hers. The two of them will face one another in the trials to decide the next monarch of the dominion. Even while actively avoiding Dimitri, she can’t seem to escape him. If she was pious, she might think it was through some sort of sick excuse for divine intervention — but as it is, she’s pretty sure she just has terrible luck.
It’s dark, Dimitri is outlined in moonlight, his arms crossed. Tall and broad and stoic, as ever. His jaw clenches. He takes a measured breath before responding.
“Yes, I am,” he confirms. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Why?” Rose crows, anger bubbling to the surface. “Why would you agree to that?”
Dimitri uncrosses his arms, letting them hang by his side.
“For the same reason you agreed to fight for Victor.”
Rose actually laughs. He can’t be serious. She’s known Victor most of her life. He’s looked out for both her and Lissa. He is a good man. He would be a good king.
“That's not the same at all, and you know it,” she says, venomous.
“I know you like to think you’re above it all, Rose, but you’re not. We don’t make the decisions here. The moroi do.”
Rose feels a stab of irritation, sick and tired of everyone around her telling who she’s supposed to be, how she’s supposed to feel, what she should be doing with her life. She doesn’t get to make many choices about her future. The one thing she really wanted for herself — the one thing she has ever ached for this much — is beyond reach. Even if he’s standing right in front of her.
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Rose cries, taking a step closer. She’s in his space now, close enough she can almost feel his warmth. She has a flash — a dark night, a warm embrace. It’s all gone now.
There’s nothing left of what they were except this painful awkwardness between them.
“Rose, I—” Dimitri starts, but Rose cuts him off.
“You can’t do this, Dimitri. Tatiana is the worst. She’ll set us all back a hundred years. She’s the reason Mikhail is dead.”
Dimitri’s eyebrows snap together, a tick of annoyance. The first crack in the glass.
“You think that I want to fight for her? That I have a choice in the matter?” Dimitri asks, frustration lacing his words.
Of course this all comes down to choice.
When they first met, Dimitri had been buttoned up. He was closed off, and he liked it that way. A dutiful guardian, through and through. She could never get a read on him, and she wasn’t sure if she really wanted to.
But in the months since he unceremoniously tackled her to the ground (which, rude, by the way), Rose had started to recognize his tells. When Dimitri crosses his arms, frustration roils off of him. A roll of his eyes tells her that he’s exasperated — either at her, himself or a situation. When he clenches his jaw, Rose wants to kiss him. She’s pretty sure he wants to kiss her when that happens too.
One thing Rose is painfully familiar with is Dimitri’s sense of duty. His fear of losing control. It shows in his careful gaze, the way he chastises her when she pushes the boundaries a little. She has weeks of wanting so badly her chest feels like it’s going to break open to show for Dimitri’s inability to ever choose something for himself.
She’s tired of it.
“Of course you have a choice! We all do. This place has you and everyone in it so fucking brainwashed,” Rose barks.
Dimitri’s eyes soften for a moment. His gaze roaming Rose’s face. When he speaks, his words are soft, muted. Almost pleading.
“What would you have me do, Rose? Turn her down?”
“Yes!’ Rose insists. “You turn her down. You have to turn her down.”
Dimitri shakes his head, rolling his eyes ever so slightly.
“You want me to say no to the potential future queen of the dominion? A woman who, as you well know, is no friend to dhampirs? And certainly not to those that go against her.”
“If you wanted to do it, you would,” Rose says.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes. It is that simple,” she replies. Rose hesitates for a moment. Then lands her killing blow. Drives her stake home. “You just don’t want to try. Which seems to be a pattern with you.”
Dimitri flinches, like he's been stung. His voice is low and measured. He's angry now. “Rose, not all of us have the luxury of a princess' favour. It's not up to me."
He's lost, Rose thinks. Everything she saw in him locked away, hidden behind a glass of fear and duty and fucked up morality. It hurts to look at him.
“Save it, comrade. I’ll see you in the ring. Maybe then you'll listen."
#romitri#vampire academy#rose hathaway#dimitri belikov#they drive me insane#this is not well written but i couldnt get this argument out of my head#my text#my writing#romitri fanfiction#va fanfiction#jen writes
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Out of Context WIPs
I was tagged by @goatsandgangsters and thank you for that because this is such a fun idea!
RULES: summarise your WIPs badly and let people vote on they'd most like to read! (No min number of WIPs, I'm doing this many because I have too many ideas and tumblr wouldn't let me do any more choices 😅)
(Not an official rule, but stealing from @goatsandgangsters: I'll do a sprinto for the winning fic!)
I tag @midwinterspringwrites @scrapbirdy @fiora-miriel @eighteenqs @ahopelessromanticwritersworld (but only if you want to!) and anyone else who wants to!! (and tag me if you make posts because I wanna see what your options are and vote!)
#writing meme#I feel like midwinterspring and scrapbirdy will know what all of these are#because I can't help but share all of my things immediately with them 😅#Jen writes
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Hi! For the blossoming romance asks: picking a leaf/flower petal out of their hair, or brushing dirt off of their face?
(From this prompt list)
I had a lot of fun with this (it's also something that happened IRL with me and my now-husband before we were dating, hehe). Enjoy!
_______________________________________________________
After a delightful afternoon spent with Elen Ve’mal preparing the pots for seeding, the late afternoon bell of the chapel peeled away. Reluctantly, Elsie bade farewell to the elf and hurriedly left the garden; the warmth of the sun vanishing the instant she stepped inside the cool corridors of the castle. She pushed open the door to the main hall; whilst the door opposite the one she entered opened at the same time. She paused in her step as the figure looked up at her. All at once, her body flooded with heat, as if the sun had reappeared from behind her.
“Inquisitor,” Commander Cullen said, inclining his head. His voice was warm, but his face expressionless as he glanced at her clothes - no doubt spotting the mud on her breeches and the dirt caked on her boots.
They met in the centre of the room. “Cullen,” she said, a little breathless. She cleared her throat. “Shall we walk together?”
“Of course,” he said politely, and she fell into step beside him.
“Been busy this afternoon?” She enquired, hating the small talk, hating the way each silence felt strained, but wanting to hear him talk.
“I won’t bore you with the details, Inquisitor, but yes. The barracks are almost complete although I fear we’re going to need more.”
Well, she had asked for small talk, and that is exactly what he delivered.
“I’m sure we’ll find a way,” she replied, and they fell into silence again. Maker, why was this so difficult? In Haven, she would’ve taken a jibe at his work, said something that would’ve made him roll his eyes or grumble under his breath, but now? Nothing came to mind. So they walked quietly down the main hall and into the corridor leading to the war room.
He cleared his throat. “I assume you’ve been in the gardens?” he asked.
She threw him a smile and wiggled her fingers in front of her. “What gave it away? My green fingers? Or should I say brown…?”
His low chuckle made her stomach flip. “I was looking at the footprints your boots are leaving behind.”
“Oh maker’s balls,” she swore, stopping in her tracks. He was right - there was soil all down the corridor, which had only just been cleaned. “Don’t tell anyone, will you?”
Cullen stopped too, his eyes bright with amusement. “Who exactly would I tell? The Inquisitor…?”
Elsie made a face and batted his arm gently. “Oh, very funny.”
But his hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. It was a gentle, yet firm touch that made her stop altogether, her smile fading. Before she could say anything, he let go and with the same hand, pulled off his glove with his teeth in one swift movement. There was a small smile on his lips, and Elsie couldn’t help but look as the glove hung between his teeth. That little scar on his upper lip was incredibly distracting, so her responses were slow when a moment later she realised that his now ungloved hand was just inches from her cheek.
“I’m sorry, you have a.. May I?” he said, his other gloved hand now under her chin, tilting it upwards.
She had no idea what he was asking permission for, but at this moment he could’ve asked for absolutely anything and she would’ve obliged. She was at his mercy, and he had no idea.
His thumb, thick and calloused, was surprisingly gentle as he rubbed at her cheek. “You have a bit of soil, just here,” he explained, his voice low.
Elsie chuckled breathlessly, looking at his eyes, watching how the dark amber was zeroed in on its task until she was presentable. But then his gaze slid to hers, his thumb no longer prodding or wiping, and instead he hesitantly cupped her cheek. Her breath caught, and she heard him suck in a breath, as ever so gently she tilted into his touch. It was a fraction of a movement, but the heat that suddenly filled his gaze confirmed to her that he was feeling something too. Something between them that was beyond touch.
She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. A small thrill went down her spine as his eyes watched the subtle movement. She could smell elderberries and oakmoss. She could feel the warmth of his large hand on her cheek, the contrast of the cool leather under her chin with his other gloved hand. What would it be like, should their lips meet? Would it be soft, gentle, fleeting? Or rather bold, passionate and wanting?
The door to the corridor opened and Cullen withdrew his hands, as if scalded by fire. He turned away, quickly putting his glove back on and greeted Leliana who was coming down the corridor.
And just like that the spell had been broken, for that is what it had felt like. Time had almost stopped and in that moment it had just been them. Never before had every nerve ending, every wire in her body been so attuned to her senses. What was that?
“Inquisitor? Are you alright?” Leliana asked, holding the door to the war room open. Cullen glanced at her before continuing into the war room, his face back to being an unreadable mask. She frowned at his shoulders and nodded.
“I’m fine, thank you Leliana. Just…just tired.”
#jen answers#jen writes#what is this?#WRITING??!#It's been about a year#i know#i;m sorry#but fluff has convinced me and I was inspired#<3#Thank you!#writing prompt#culsie#cullen#cullen x inquisitor#commander cullen#cullen x trevelyan#cullen rutherford#cullen x elsie#fanfic
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Dancing in the Kitchen
summary: After the worst night imaginable, your best friend helps you when you need him most. What you don't realize is just how much you've always needed him.
or: Tony Dumps you. Steve picks you up and puts you back together.
parings: protective!best friend!Steve Rogers x best friend!f!Reader
word count: 4.9k
warnings: fluff, angst, self-doubt and insecurity, verbally abusive relationship elements, insults + language/name calling, reader cusses and so does Steve bc he can, no smut!, wearing Steve's clothes (very little to no description about reader's body so do with that what you will), intense feelings, confessions, crying, anxiety, best friends to lovers, intimate touch, VERY SLIGHT possessiveness, protectiveness, not Tony Stark friendly, cap quartet mention
a/n: these characters are out of college! It's set in their early-mid 20s following graduating and I thought it'd be a little more relatable (also since I'm not in college anymore I wanted this specific fic concept to be more relatable. self-indulgence and stuff). the cap quartet rent a house together. there might be more shenanigans in the future involving them. maybe. who knows? enjoy <3
If I've missed any tags, please let me know!
gif by @annislittleshopofhorrors | dividers by @saradika-graphics | warning banner by me ♥
my ao3 | my masterlist
Read this fic HERE on ao3!
♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥
Everything was cold.
Everything was ruined.
Everything was a fucking nightmare.
Dark clouds shrouded the night sky, hiding helpful moonlight. Rain pelted at you from above, mixing with fresh tears, drenching you to the bone as cold water collected on your skin and soaked through your dress. Your hands morphed into balled fists at your sides as you shook with rage, heartbreak, and the innate need to punch something.
You couldn’t wrap your pounding head around the events of the night; everything blurred together after ten o’clock. It was like a cruel joke, one where you waited an eternity for the punchline, begging for it not to be real no matter how hard you screwed your eyes shut and prayed.
You didn’t want to believe it, yet there you were.
It sure as hell wasn’t the first time you found yourself standing at the backdoor of Steve Roger’s house on the cusp of a breakdown– and a breakup– warring with your own body to simply knock on the fucking door. Hell, Steve was already expecting you. He knew something was wrong the second you called; there wasn’t a warning text, just you, asking in a choked-up whisper if he was home. His response spilled out in a rushed ‘yes’ before you could explain further. A ‘no questions asked’ request, something not uncommon in your friendship. Steve, since day one, was one of your main sources of comfort within a thousand mile radius.
Now, he was your only source of comfort within a thousand mile radius.
Remnants of the phone call from Tony only minutes earlier echoed in your eardrums like a bad case of tinnitus. Annoying, repetitive. His hoarse, drunken slurry of vicious words clawed at the inside of your skull. Another fight. Another screaming match. Another forgotten birthday– this time, it included meeting your family. You’d planned it for months prior, making sure Tony knew not to forget it.
Your insides were twisting in knots as you waited at the restaurant awkwardly with your parents, brother, and an empty seat next to you. After an hour, eight failed calls and fifteen texts later, Tony finally picked up. Delight revived the few butterflies left in your stomach, only to be crushed, turning them into weighted dread as loud club music obliterated your ear drum as he shouted at you.
“You bitch!” he spat. “Why the ever-loving f-fuck are y’blowin’ up my phone for?!”
You didn’t have time to process what he was saying before he’d already reloaded and shot you with more.
“What the hell is sooooo important? Huh? Y-you stupid bitch! You fuckin’ knew I’m busy t’night!”
You tore the phone away. Even at arm’s length, you, and the rest of your family, could hear every single thing he spewed at you. A couple from the table next to yours stopped mid-bite to turn and throw rude looks at you and your family.
“Tony, please, I–”
“‘Tony please’– just shut up!” he mocked. “Just shut the fuck up! I don’t fuckin’ care what you gotta– what you have t’say! I can’t f–fuckin’ stand you anymore!”
Hurt and hunger morphed into churning waves of anxiety and embarrassment. Your throat was closing. Tears began stinging your eyes. You looked between your parents in shame, meeting their stunned looks filled with pity and disappointment. Your brother refused to look anywhere but the spot on his plate where he played with his food, sadness and second-hand embarrassment plaguing his face.
Yelling, jeering, and chanting echoed out of your phone. Tony didn’t stop.
“Y’know what? I’m not doin’ this anymore,” he slurred, gulping some unknown liquid down, swallowing, gagging. More cheering. “We– we’re fuckin’ done. You’re out. I’m done.”
The other line fumbled. You winced as you heard Tony wet his lips, preparing the final blow. His breathing became heavy, ragged, hard enough you could smell the liquor through the phone.
“Fuckin’ cunt.”
Click.
You loathed yourself for tolerating him; the endless cycle of poisoning you, providing the antidote, and taking it away when it seemed to get better. The whiplash from his unpredictable moods and personal attacks on you hurt as bad as it felt when he’d come around with endless apologies– accompanied by flowers, cuddles, and kisses– to heal each wound he was responsible for.
This time, though, the stab was fatal. This time, you bled out; it’d been akin to getting gutted and hung helplessly in front of your fucking family.
A sob snuck its way up your throat. You choked it down, willing your fist to reach up and knock on the door. You didn’t understand why this was next to impossible. Steve was your best friend. It wasn’t like he was a stranger. It wasn’t like he’d chastise you or yell at you or tell you to fuck off. Yet, there was a fear, deep down, feeding on the anxiety and self-doubt in the pit of your stomach, telling you the opposite; it whispered to you, telling you to run back to your car, scream into the steering wheel, and speed off to disappear from everything and everyone for just a little longer. It’d only be until you got your head on straight, until you figured out what to do with the apartment and your classes and your stuff and–
Knock. knock. knock.
In the blur of a million thoughts racing through your mind, you automatically reached up and weakly knocked, body tensing every muscle as you waited.
The door swung open, revealing one extremely concerned Steve Rogers.
Steve panted, a result from sprinting down the stairs from his upstairs bedroom in an attempt to open the back door by your first knock. Acutely aware of his jaw hanging from its hinges, Steve’s soft baby blues bore into you, scanning you up and down, stunned at you and your dress and how desperate you looked.
Time stopped the second you saw him; it was difficult to describe, but everything magnetizing between the two of you was different. You felt different– different in the way he was familiar and somehow new at the same time. Steve felt different– different in the way you were single for the first time in two years and he was single since… forever ago.
This time was unlike the million other times.
You both stared. Your lips quivered, his parted in disbelief. Both your minds instantly went blank, unable to think of anything to say, to do. So, the sky thought for you. It opened its floodgates, releasing a torrential downpour as you stood inches from warmth, from comfort.
“Steve,” you croaked, reaching for him.
It was then, everything came crashing down.
You crumbled to the ground in a heap, knees buckling while your hand and arms braced for impact with the ground. Steve quickly abandoned his tight grip on the doorframe, catching you, helping you inside. Lungs gasped for air as heavy sobs poured from your chest and tears flowed steadily down your face. You pawed at Steve’s arm hooked around you as he stumbled back into the house, kicking the door closed and collapsing onto the kitchen floor with you in tow. He immediately pulled you closer and hugged you tightly against his chest. You heaved, crying out from the painful pit in your heart, digging your fingers into his flesh, hard enough to bruise. You buried your face into his t-shirt and bawled.
All of it– the rage, the hurt, the mess of balled-up emotions from the last two fucking years– came unraveled. Hands twisted into Steve’s t-shirt, balling the fabric and pulling it taut enough to rip.
Steve didn’t shout. He didn’t complain. He didn’t utter a single word as he leaned against the kitchen cabinets, rocking you gently, squeezing you harder as his chest rose and fell rhythmically against your pounding skull, silently coaxing you to follow his breathing. Blubbering in his lap, stringing words together became futile as thoughts became unrecognizable. Another wave of panic and anxiety crashed over you. Steve’s mumbled shushes softened you; the deep timbre and honeyed bass of his voice and vibrations in his chest grounded you, welcoming you to safety. To home.
“Shh… don’t worry, I got you. I have you. You’re okay,” he muttered, running a hand gently up and down your back.
“I–he–bu–” you fumbled, lip quivering as another sob overtook you. Rage clawed at the walls in the chasm of your chest. You screamed. Guttural, pained. Again. And again.
“Shh… it’s okay, let it out. You’re okay. You’re safe here,” he soothed, rocking you, adding in a lowered octave, “I’m here.”
“T–Tony,” you hiccuped, fists twisting more of Steve’s t-shirt. “He–he–”
“What, angel? What about Tony?”
“He–he c–called me n–names a–and,” you shook your head violently, “he b-broke up with me. For real, this time.”
Steve cupped your cheek, softly wiping away fresh tears with calloused fingertips. While you continued to cry in his arms, his focus turned to the back door you tumbled through. Inside, he seethed; his rage nearly boiled over at the thought of anyone doing this to you, let alone Tony fucking Stark. Out of all the things you’d told him over the last couple years– all the threats, the cruel jokes and abandonment and insults– tonight was the ultimate cherry on top. It validated every time Tony’s actions made Steve think vengeful thoughts on what he’d do if he ever got five minutes with the douchebag. Just five minutes. Alone.
He shook the thought away, looking back down to you. The last thing he wanted was for you to see him upset, let alone remotely think you were the cause of it. He’d promised himself that the first time you met.
Tony was going to fucking pay for what he’d done to you every single second for the last two years. And on your birthday, for chrissake.
“What–” Steve swallowed the excess rage in his chest. “What kind of names, sweetie?”
You softened, sniffling, refusing to look at him. “He called me a b–bitch, a–and,” you bit your tongue, “a… cunt.”
The moment the word left your lips, Steve fought every last nerve in him not to put you to bed, get in his car, and go teach Tony a lesson on some fucking manners. Hell, even the idea of taking Bucky and Sam crossed his mind.
He pushed the thought away, focusing back on you. You needed him. You came to him for help. No one else but him.
Steve slid his hand off your back and placed it under your chin, thumb and forefinger gently coaxing you to look at him. Big blue eyes swam with concern and worry. In the dark of the kitchen, they seemed brighter than ever– a beacon guiding you back from the hurricane in your head.
In an instant, everything in your head went quiet. No more muffled echoes from the phone call. No more sobs readying to burst out your chest. No more caring about how swollen and puffy your eyes were, or the drying combination of mascara and tear stains running down your cheeks and neck. Your sopping wet dress that drenched the floor, and Steve, was pushed to the back of your brain, the cold no longer leaking into your bones as he brought you back down from the ledge.
All you saw was Steve. All you smelled, all you could feel, was Steve.
Steve swallowed. His jaw slacked, tongue jutting out to wet his lips, slowly drinking you in for as long as he was able.
And honestly? You couldn’t care enough to stop him. It’d been so long since someone looked at you the way Steve did.
Had he always looked at you like that?
“Listen to me. You are none of those things. Not even close,” he whispered, hoping you believed him.
You nodded lightly. “I–I know, but it hurts,” your voice cracked again, eyes drifting away from him.
“Hey, look at me,” he tugged at your chin, “you will never be anything like he says you are. Ever. Okay?”
You stared at him. A small smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you placed a hand on his, taking it from your chin to your chest. Warmth bloomed as it rested against your damp skin.
“‘Kay.” Barely a whisper. Enough for only him to hear.
He paused, gaze holding steady on you, lips twitching at the corners.
“Let’s get you up ‘n out of that thing, yeah?” He nodded to your dress. “You gotta be freezing.”
Gently, he lifted you off his lap, rising from the kitchen floor and pulling you up on your feet. Your legs felt like a wobbly blend of jelly and nerves that forced you to lean onto Steve for support. He anticipated this, catching you and gripping your shoulders. You didn’t say a word. Instead, you clung to him as he guided you through the living room and up the stairs to his bedroom. You passed by Sam and Bucky’s rooms, both empty for the night, just like Natasha’s downstairs.
As Steve rifled through his drawers and closet, your focus wandered to his messy desk: the lamp cast a soft, warm glow across the room, sitting next to history books and sketchbooks stacked high on top of one another; pencils and dirtied paint brushes littered the surface, products of his latest art assignment. His bed was half-made, dark green covers on one side neatly tucked in while the opposite was thrown aside, exposing gray pinstripe sheets. The walls were covered with scattered art– some his, others his favorite artists’– posters and pictures of family, friends, and some local bands. You bit back a smile. Memories of the shows you both went to over the last few years played like a highlight reel in your mind. You never regretted it; you never passed up a single invite, even after the time Tony locked you out for a whole weekend.
“Here, these are clean,” he handed you a neatly folded pile of his clothes before adding, “I promise.”
A fuller smile broke across your face. The first of the entire night.
“Uh huh, sure, I believe you,” you joked sarcastically. He feigned hurt, scoffing at your false accusation.
“I did the sniff test, if that makes you feel any better.”
You giggled, taking the clothes from him and turning to head to the bathroom.
“I’ll be down in the kitchen,” he called after you. “You, um, you want something to drink?”
You paused, turning to look at him from the bathroom doorway halfway down the hall. From where he stood, the saturated pink creeping up his neck and reaching his face was more visible than the light on his desk. You couldn’t help but hold in a snicker and flash him a relieved smile, thankful.
“Coffee would be a godsend, right now.”
Steve smiled, saluting you. “Coming right up.”
You headed into the bathroom, tossing the clothes onto the counter, slumping against the door the second you shut and locked it. Finally relaxing, you realized how much tension was pent up in your tired shoulders– which, in turn, prompted the realization you were holding your breath the entire time in Steve’s room.
Brushing the self-induced lightheadedness, you slipped the ruined dress off your body and hung it up on the shower rod. You hated the color, the texture, but wore it anyway. For Tony. On your birthday.
You cursed yourself, pulling your bra off next– a pushup that held your rib cage hostage the entire night. Just how Tony likes it.
Or, liked it.
You silently prayed Steve included some Bailey’s in your coffee.
Pulling on Steve’s sweatshirt, the scent of him enveloped you instantly. You couldn’t help but nuzzle into the neck of it, filling your lungs with the familiarity of Steve. He was a quiet, sunny Sunday morning and freshly brewed coffee. He was a nice night in watching your favorite movies and playing cards.
Your head was swimming, swirling, caught up in the entirety of your best friend. He was yours just as much as you were his. Through Tony, through other guys you’d subjected yourself to the last few years, none of them compared to Steve.
You tugged the sweatpants on, catching sight of yourself in the mirror and realizing the runny makeup staining your face. You snorted at how fucking ridiculous you looked, remembering the caked-on layers you’d put on for the evening. Again, just for Tony. The snort turned into a giggle, utterly grateful for Steve not making fun of how you looked and for ignoring the mascara stains on his poor t-shirt from earlier.
But, again, it was Steve. He’d never make fun of you. Ever.
Butterflies– the ones you’d thought were long gone months prior– stuttered suddenly, alive and fluttering in your stomach.
You instantly recognized the feeling: it was the same you had the day you met Steve.
The same feeling you’d get on roller coasters, or reading an exceptionally good romance novel. Giddiness, dizziness. It was as if you were spinning while the room stood still. Your head felt light, high on helium. Your skin burned. Meeting your own gaze in the mirror, you scanned yourself, the question ‘is this happening right now?’ running on a loop at the forefront of your mind.
Bzzt.
You jumped at the buzz of a text. With the trance broken, you took into account your shaking hands and the bumping tempo of your heart. Turning on the sink, you made sure the water was as cold as possible before cupping some in your hands and splashing your face. Refreshing. Needed. You rubbed the rest of the runny wakeup off your skin, stuffing your face into the fluffy hand towel and silently promising to get the boys a new one. Picking up your phone, teeth chewed on cheek to hold in your smile at the sight of Steve’s name on the screen.
⍟ Steve: You doing OK? Coffees ready
You looked at yourself in the mirror.
“You got this,” you told your reflection. “He’s only your best friend.”
The butterflies continued to multiply, bumping against one another, fluttering and escaping out into your chest and your limbs.
“Fuck.”
You opened the door.
⋆˙ઇଓ⋆⭒˚｡⋆
“I was beginning to think you climbed out the window up there,” Steve quipped upon seeing you round the corner into the kitchen. He couldn’t help the stupid grin spreading across his face when he saw you in his clothes. You looked more relaxed, more comfortable.
More like you.
You noticed he changed, too, donning a heather-gray t-shirt that clung to his torso in all the right ways– ways you hadn’t noticed before.
You mentally scolded yourself.
“A–Almost. But I’d never pass up a cup of world-famous Rogers Roast.”
“Wow, world-famous? I would’ve preferred universally-renowned, but I’ll take it.” He held a mug out to you, one faded with a ‘I ❤ New York’ logo– the one you’d gotten for him during your senior-year college internship. “Made it just how you like it.”
He paused as you took a sip. You could feel his eyes on you, watching you, biting his lip in anticipation as you drank. The coffee tasted like liquid gold, warm and comforting and all-around delicious. You didn’t care if you burnt your tongue. This was what you needed.
He was what you needed.
Was he?
You looked back up at Steve. His cheeks flushed as he pressed his lips together, entranced with the mug in your hands, eyes ever-so-slightly flitting from it to your lips and back again.
“Thank you, Stevie.”
“You’re welcome, angel.”
You pinched yourself, then took another sip.
Silence fell, comfortable and calm, as you both nursed your drinks, checking your phones and letting time pass. You didn’t care to check the clock.
Steve cleared his throat and set his phone down.
“So, um,” he began. “What else did you have planned for your birthday?”
His voice was low, tender, careful with the question so as not to upset you. He was curious, however, and determined to see exactly how much Tony fucked up your night.
And your life.
“Oh,” you swallowed, chewing your lip in an attempt to remember what you’d originally planned.
“He was, ah, gonna take me dancing. After dinner, after he,” you took an unsteady breath, “after he met my family. It was the one thing he told me he'd let me do after dinner.” You shook your head, adding under your breath, “besides him.”
Tension seeped into the space between you both. You didn’t want to meet Steve’s stare; it was the one you’d always see whenever you told him about Tony, one filled with anger so palpable it made his arms flex subconsciously, one he thought he hid well enough so you never saw, but you always did. Without looking up, you already knew his jaw was clenched and his shoulders were stiff and his eyes bored a hole into the wall behind you. Butterflies started to somersault, crashing into the waves of worry and anxiety.
“Why?”
You looked up. Blue eyes. Stormy, swirling, stubborn.
“What?”
“Why did you stay with him?” Steve asked steadily, voice barely above a whisper. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
You paused. “Because he wouldn’t let me leave.”
“I could’ve helped you. We could’ve helped you,” he gestured vaguely to the rest of the house.
Your teeth tore into your bottom lip. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
“I–” Steve sighed and carded a hand through his dirty blond hair, frustrated, trying to keep his promise while also appealing to you and balancing the fragile tightrope you two stood on. “I care about you, angel. I care about you so fuckin’ much. I just wanna know why. Why he was– why you were–”
“I–” Don’t fucking cry. “I was trapped. Every time I tried to leave, he’d tie me down more. It… it wasn’t as easy as you fucking think, Steve. Rose-colored glasses, wool over my eyes, wolf in sheep's clothing, that sorta thing, ya know? These last couple years, I… I don’t know why tonight was it, and I don’t know how I was able to get out, and I just… I don’t fucking know. I don’t. I–”
You felt tears again.
“I– Angel, I wasn’t trying to–”
“No, I know,” you cut him off, setting down your mug to rub your face in your hands. “I know. But I need you to understand that I– God, my fucking brain feels so scrambled. I just feel so confused, I feel like I’m going insane right now. Fuck!”
You tried to calm down, taking deep breaths to feed your strained lungs, holding on to each before exhaling. In, hold, out, repeat.
The room was spinning again, whirling around like a sick carnival ride as your center of gravity began to give.
As you braced the counter, strong hands and warm, muscular arms engulfed you, lifting you back from the countertop and guiding you into the middle of the kitchen. Steve pressed into you until you relented, reaching your arms around him and pulling him closer. The tension in your shoulders melted, migrating to your chest where your heart surged the moment he touched you, where it pounded against your sternum, threatening to break out of its marrow cage. You inhaled him, savoring him, feeling him all around you.
Slowly, delicately, Steve unwrapped from you. He was careful with every touch, as if he would shatter you– even though he had no problem with putting you back together again. He’d done it a million times before, and he’d do it a million times again.
He’d do it all again for you.
Steve carefully slid your hands from around his center, placing one onto his shoulder, then– nervously and ever-so-slowly– he held your other hand out, sliding down your forearm and entwining his fingers into yours. His free hand fell softly onto your waist, fingers absently and lightly kneading the fabric and skin underneath his palm.
“May I have this dance?” he whispered.
You looked up from the floor to Steve, speechless. You nodded.
Then, he started to sway. He guided you both, rocking side to side to an unheard rhythm and subtly spinning in unison under the soft glow of the kitchen light.
He smiled softly, boyish and genuine, with admiration and tenderness in his eyes. Something gentle and kind, something about the feeling and the familiarity of it– of him– sank into you the longer you looked at him. Your focus shifted around the features of his chiseled face. You recognized the light freckles stippled across his nose and cheeks leftover from the summer; the scar on his earlobe from the night Natasha drunkenly dared you to pierce his ear and failed; the faint worry lines sculpted into his forehead he inherited from his father; the soft, full pink of his lips that innocently parted when you caught him staring at you.
It was the feeling that felt foreign to you; the one missing from your life after the last two years. But, it wasn’t missing. It had been right in front of you the entire time stealing glances, accidental touches, and irreplaceable memories.
Steve had been there.
Steve had been the one looking at you like that for the last two years.
He wasn’t missing. He was just waiting his turn.
And, judging by the realization that washed over your face, his waiting was over.
Steve's smile widened as he squeezed your waist, wordlessly confirming the thoughts running rampant in your head. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the ghost of a cry, blinking away tears forming in the corners of his vision.
Your lips trembled as you smiled back. Slowly, you snaked your hand from his shoulder to his cheek and cupped his face. He leaned into your touch instantly, stubble and skin rubbed against your palm as he kissed it lightly. The press of his lips sent a spark coursing through your veins, electrifying your body and the air around you. The two of you continued to sway while the kitchen spun faster, a blurred whirlwind while you both remained in focus.
“When?” you asked, voice barely audible.
“Since the day I met you.”
“Why didn’t you–”
Steve shrugged. “I wanted to get to know you first. Didn’t wanna be some random dude who just wanted you for your number. You seemed too special to rush into something. Still are,” he sighed. “I wanted to be your friend first, but before I could muster up some courage, Tony swept you out from under me.”
Guilt crawled up your throat. “I– I’m sorry, Stevie.”
He stepped away from you, twirling you, then dragged you back to him. You could’ve sworn your heart stopped beating.
“No, baby, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. I promise. I–” his voice broke. “I wanted you to be happy. I want you to be happy. I just– I wish I did more for you. I should’ve done more for you.”
He tilted his head to the ceiling trying to stop his tears from falling, but you pulled him right back down to you.
“Steve,” you started, keeping on his baby blues while your own voice struggled to remain steady, “you’ve done more for me than anyone else in the entire world. Hell, in my entire life. I just lost the last two years of my life suffering with someone I thought I loved. Who I thought loved me.”
You brought your other hand to his face. “You did all you could. I just… I thought it was gonna get better, you know? I thought, I hoped– God, I even fucking prayed– that he’d get better, but he didn’t. Nothing did. And I couldn’t find a way out. It’s like he conditioned me to believe he was the only one I had, like, he was the only one who’d ever save me.”
Steve frowned, but nodded in understanding.
“I’m glad you came to me. Not just tonight, but every night. It was like reassuring me that I didn’t totally lose you, or like I never totally lost you.”
“You’ll never lose me, Stevie.”
His face, red-hot underneath your touch, moved closer to yours. You couldn’t tell if you were pulling or he was pushing. His hands gripped your waist the tighter you held his face, the two of you crashing into one another in slow-motion. The light above you grew brighter, the humming of the appliances was getting louder, the room spun at an infinitely unfathomable speed.
You crashed together.
Soft lips– softer than either of you could’ve ever pictured feeling– fit together like the perfect puzzle pieces. Neither of you moved, staying locked together until your hands slipped around his neck, pulling him closer and smashing his nose into your cheek. His grip became bruising as his fingers kneaded into your waist, steadying himself with your hips. You felt another surge of electricity as his tongue jutted out, parting your lips and swiping along the bottom before retreating back behind his.
He tipped you backwards on your heel, smirking against your lips as you flinched and grabbed onto the collar of his shirt.
Setting you upright, he pulled away from the kiss and whispered, “I’ll never let you go.”
“Never?”
“Ever.”
You kissed him again, and the butterflies went wild.
#dancing in the kitchen#jen writes#fluff#angst#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers x you#steve rogers x y/n#steve rogers x female reader#steve rogers x f!reader#captain america x reader#college!au#modern!au#college!steve#modern!steve#modern!steve rogers#steve rogers fluff#captain america x f!reader#curvy!reader#best friend!steve rogers#best friend! reader#cap quartet au#chris evans#chris evans characters#steve rogers fic#steve rogers fanfic#steve rogers onshot#steve rogers imagine#protective!steve rogers#slightly posessive!steve rogers
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Story Summary: After spending five years stuck in the World of the Ocean King, Link returns to the Great Sea, only to find it changed beyond recognition. His friends and family view him as a traitor, accusing him of causing chaos across the ocean. With his allies all turned against him and a curse threatening to take his life, he sets out to reconnect with the one person who may be able to clear his name: Tetra.
Meanwhile, something sinister is rising over the Great Sea--a shadow seeking to spill the hero's blood and revive its fallen master. And this time, Link may not be strong enough to stop it on his own.
Ships: Link/Tetra
Rating: T
Warnings: Angst, Trauma, Violence, Blood and Injury, Torture, Harm to Children, Psycological Trauma
Chapter Summary: In a twist on a story you may already know... an encounter with a haunted ship goes horribly wrong.
“There is no place my eyes have seen that can compare to the beauty of my fallen kingdom,” the King told him one evening. “In its prime, Hyrule was a jewel beyond any other, blessed by the hands of the Golden Three themselves. I was just as blessed to once be called king of such a paradise, a land of lush fields, sparkling rivers, and towering mountains. It truly is a shame that you couldn’t have seen it, my boy.”
Link almost told him he had seen it. He’d seen those fields, those rivers, those mountains, all things he hadn’t been able to fathom before descending beneath the surface of the ocean. He just hadn’t seen the version of them the King remembered so fondly.
“Yeah,” he replied. “I wish I could have…”
Click the link to read more; all comments are appreciated!
#legend of zelda#the wind waker#phantom hourglass#spirit tracks#nintendo#jen writes#zelda fanfiction#link#tetra#telink#tetra's crew#king of red lions
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Here's to 20 years of participating in NaNoWriMo, and over one million lifetime words, with my best writing day ever today at 6k+ words. I'm not done with the stories yet, so I'll keep writing during the month. Don't forget, the world needs your novel.
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Chapter 5 of the Hornblower Incident
Another mind bomb has been detonated. This time in the town of Buxing. Sasha and Milla snap to action, but Raz is forced to stay on the plane. Oleander's there to watch him, but we all know neither Razputin Aquato nor Coach Oleander are good following all the rules.
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Summary: They had visited several orphanages and while they were great, none of them had found a child they were ready to adopt. Baldur's Gate was a mostly spontaneous decision on their way back to their cottage. None of them were hopeful, but at least they'd be making the kids days better with a visit from some of the Heroes of the Gate. None of them expected a small dragonborn child to worm his way into their hearts.
Author's Note: I have been working on this fic for a while now and it's finally done. I'm very excited for you all to read it and meet the child that the three of them will be adopting!
I hope you all enjoy!
#bg3#Shadowheart#Karlach#bg3 tav#Karlach Cliffgate#Shadowheart x Karlach x Tav#Shadowheart x Karlach#Karlach x Shadowheart x Tav#Shadowheart x Tav#Karlach x Tav#jen writes
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