most (arden)tly

Requests: OPEN multi-fandom fanfic enthusiast 26, they/them | minors dni; 18+ only

[ardentprose]

The Estates (Masterlist)

Welcome to Arden's Estates. These expansive lands contain a vast array of domains to explore at your leisure. Meander down rosy lanes, or venture down deeper, darker paths. You are free to stay as long as you please and even leave a sentiment or two, should it strike your fancy. There are ample signposts at our destinations to accommodate your tastes. But be wary, you never know whose domain you may stumble upon - and to whom your interest is returned tenfold.

Daredevil Drive

Foggy's Fortress

Murdock Mansion

That's It?!

Never Fear! There's more to come; however, several buildings are still under construction for the time being.

Take another turn 'round the garden in the meantime.

[vigilantekisser]

Hmm jealous bf!Foggy... Billions must smile

billions must smile indeed!!! i do think that out of NMP though, foggy's the most secure in himself, but also, the man is still human and has eyes and a functioning brain, so...

the thing about foggy is that he doesn't get really jealous easily, which means when he does, it kind of catches you—and him—off guard every time? he'll keep talking and keep being charming, but you'll notice his hand's found the small of your back a little more intentionally, pulling you a half-inch closer. it's nothing crazy. he probably doesn't even realize he's doing it.

when and where does it likely happen?

at josie's, some guy from your office or wherever keeps buying you drinks and leaning in too close and laughing too loud at things you say that aren't even that funny. foggy's just at the bar getting another round and he sees it. without storming over or making a scene, he comes back with your drink, slides into the booth on your side to box you in, and introduces himself very charmingly.

"hey, man. i'm foggy. her boyfriend. oh, you work together? that's great, she's told me so much about the office. right, yeah, we're just celebrating... we won the case, yeah. pull up a chair, this story's actually incredible."

and then he talks for forty-five minutes about nothing and everything. he's funny and friendly and engaging,, and somehow makes the guy feel both welcomed and completely confused. by the time foggy's done, the dude's exhausted, impressed, and has completely forgotten he was trying to flirt with you.

what happens afterwards?

again, foggy isn't insecure and he knows you love him. he knows you chose him, for his wit, for being sweet and handsome, and that some rando at a bar doesn't mean anything. he's not some trigger-happy person that's still quick to impulse or anger despite knowing this either (cough matt).

sometimes though, when you're all cuddled and warm against his chest at night, and he's playing with your hair, he gets a little quiet. and when you ask what's wrong, he'll only deflect with a little joke ("don't worry, i'm just thinking about how i could've been a hand model.")

and you have to blink and pointedly Not Laugh so he's forced to fess up

"i don't know," he eventually admits. "sometimes i just... i look at you? and i think about how you could have anyone. and you picked me. and then i see some guy who looks like he crawled out of a abercrombie bag trying to get your number and i think, y'know, statistically—"

and you have to kiss him to shut up because he's about to say something so weird and wrong and that simply won't stand.

("really, foggy? an abercrombie bag?")

every once in a while, though, someone crosses a line for real. it's rare, but maybe someone doesn't back off when you're clearly not interested, or maybe they get handsy, making you uncomfortable.

this is when you remember foggy's still a hard-ass lawyer after all that teasing and goofing around. he steps in close and puts himself between you and the problem. real-professional like, which makes your tummy real fuzzy... (,,¬﹏¬,,)

"sorry man, you gotta go. i'm going to need you to step back," he says. "now. thanks."

and if that doesn't work: he did grow up in hell's kitchen. he's scrappier than he looks.

(it's funny though. you'd think that when you think of badass foggy, you think of his court wins and him confronting bikers and even running for DA. and of course, you do think of all these, but weirdly enough the first thing you think of is: foggy once broke a reinforced frosted-glass window in the office by swinging his baseball bat too hard while he was messing around at lunch. lol. heh... strong foggy...)

afterwards, he won't make a big deal out of it. he asks if you're okay, he gets you out of there, and then he'll probably make a joke about how he should've been "a bouncer instead of a lawyer." and you don't poke fun at it too much because it's too close to the butcher story, and you don't want to get started on that again tonight.

of course, he thinks about it, though. and he does hold your hand a little tighter than usual on the way home. (´ ᵕ `˶)

the best part, though, is that foggy talks about it.

eventually, that is. because he's emotionally intelligent enough to know that sitting on jealousy just makes it fester and get so much worse.

"okay, so i'm gonna be that guy for a second," he says, the next morning over coffee. you're still groggy from sleep, poking at your eggs and bacon and/or ham. thank you, nelson's meats! "i was a little jealous last night. i know"—he holds his hands up—"it's stupid. i know nothing happened, i'm just gonna tell you 'cause i don't wanna be that guy who lets stuff build up. and becomes weird about it."

and he'll look so earnest about it, about being good to you, that you can't help but feel so giddy and in love.

("it's okay, babe," you say later. "you can say 'matt'.")

but do you get jealous?

yuup. what foggy doesn't always realize is that you're the jealous one. he's funny and warm and genuinely kind, and looks at you like you hung the moon. other people see that and want it. he's oblivious to it, which makes it worse. or better?

"you realize that bartender was flirting with you, right?" "what? no she wasn't. she was just being nice. she gave me extra olives!" "jesus, foggy." "extra olives is just good service, babe."

tldr: jealous foggy is rare foggy, so it's almost sweet when it happens. he just loves you so much that the thought of anyone else thinking they could make you happier or "do better," even for a second, genuinely baffles him (amusing) and irritates him (hot). → then he'll crack a joke about it and buy you ice cream, and everything goes back to normal. such is life in the nelson household. yup.

tagging people i think will enjoy foggy soup: @moth-murdock @sunshine-daydreams0809 @ardentprose heh...

[ardentprose]

Thank you for tagging me in this 🙌. I do in fact enjoy Foggy soup. 😊

I wholeheartedly agree with your take on this. Foggy is refreshingly secure and communicative as a partner - but he is still a human at the end of the day. He has his moments and you articulated that very well!

[ardentprose]

Requests Open (for the first time ever!)

Hello Darlings,

It's been way too long since I've written anything. While life has indeed been busy and stressful, I am determined to find the time to write. Not only that, I have regained (for however long) the motivation to write.

The only problem is:

I have no ideas whatsoever.

So I'm going to do something I thought I would never do. I'm going to be brave and invite anyone interested to make a request.

I'll be working on a longer post for guidelines on how to request but while I draft that, go ahead and request something if you have an idea!

I'll give a general overview of what I will and will not write below, but in the meantime, I'll respond on a case by case basis. I may ask you to tweak something, but as long as it's not Dead Dove Do Not Eat type stuff, you should be good for the most part.

I can't promise any deadlines on the requests, but I'm hoping to start getting into a routine so that writing one shots will come more frequently.

________________________________________________________________

Quick Guide For Requests:

You must be 18+ to request - just for everyone's safety. I will check your age in your blog first.

Characters:

Marvel

BG3

Castlevania

Currently, I have the most experience writing for Foggy Nelson and Matt Murdock...a little Frank Castle. But I'll write for most Marvel characters so feel free to check. (I may just have to refresh myself on them first.)

I'll also write for other characters if I know who they are. If I'm unfamiliar, I will let you know. If you really want me to, I'll try my best and do some quick research, but it may not be as accurate/in-character.

Content:

I WILL write:

fluff / angst / smut / hurt/comfort / etc.

depression / suicide / anxiety / mental health

violence / action (depends on context though)

parenthood / pregnancy / family

any identity in any relationship (to the best of my knowledge)

POC!Readers (I'll likely ask in-depth questions for this)

BDSM (to the best of my knowledge)

These topics I will NOT write:

agegap / underage

non-consenting / assault

incest

abuse against someone in a positive light (like a toxic relationship)

Dex from Daredevil (I'm so sorry. I know it's petty but I just can't with him. No hate to his fans, of course. I'm just not the one.)

Don't be afraid to ask and see if you're unsure about content. If it's something I'm uncomfortable with I will let you know or ask you to tweak it.

Thanks in advance for helping me get back in the flow of writing!

-Arden x

[rylandgracie]

*taps microphone* hello? can we please talk about matt and foggy's thinly veiled D/s dynamic now? i'm ready to discuss matt and foggy's thinly veiled D/s dynamic now

[ardentprose]

*takes a seat and pulls out notes*

Yes, we can absolutely talk about it. I am all ears.

[thedownbaddiaries]

Breaking Orbit

Summary: Orbiting isn’t enough.

Pairing: Foggy Nelson x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: 18+ only, Mostly smut, swearing ig, oral (F+M receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v,

Word count: ~4.4k

Authors note + Tags: I hear the people of Tumblr wish for more Foggy Smut. I agree. So I wrote this instead of doing my 9-5 job. Mostly Unedited

@bex-or-rebekah

Reblogs with Feedback appreciated and highly encouraged

__________________________________________________________________________________________

You met Matt and Foggy on the worst day of your life. Walking through Hell’s Kitchen in broad daylight, a man grabbed your purse and tried to run. but you fought back - hard. Unfortunately, people only saw you take him down and walk away.

Three days later, you were arrested, left crying in a freezing interview room, cuffs biting into your wrists.

Then the door creaked open. Two men entered. One kept his distance, setting his cane aside as he calmly introduced himself. The other followed with your file, his expression soft with concern. They handled you with care, and for the first time since it happened, you felt safe.

The trial didn’t take long. Somehow, they proved it was self-defense. The rest is a blur.

The next time you saw them, after the trial, you brought treats. You had remembered them both liking these truffles you had out at your home at a visit they made, so you brought them some, as well as your “famous” homemade cinnamon rolls, and a four pack of beer for them. Just a thank you. Really, an honest act of gratitude towards them. You stayed for hours, chatting with them. Mainly, foggy if you were honest.

Since then, You had become friends with all of Nelson and Murdock. You frequently visited on days off, or went for drinks with everyone. But one thing for certain was your gravitational pull towards Foggy, and his towards you. Everyone except you and Foggy could tell.

Tonight, almost a year after those stressful months, you were now out for drinks at Josie’s, with Karen, Matt, and Foggy. You finished your drink, and Foggy immediately jumped up to go refresh the table’s rounds. Matt and Karen seemed to share a small laugh, which catches your attention

“What’s so funny?” You ask, glancing between them both, your fingers tapping the side of your empty glass.

“Nothing, nothing” Matt says but he can never hide that cheeky grin when he’s had a few.

“Nothing…” Karen agrees “except the dance you and Foggy have.”

“Dance? Karen what…?”

There’s silence for a moment. “Are you playing dumb or do you actually not see it?” She laughs in response.

“See what?” Your voice is soft. Bewildered.

“You two idiots have been orbiting each other for almost a year.”

“Orbiting?”

“It’s the best description” Matt chimes in. “You both like each other , I know for certain-“”

“How-?”

“I just do”

“Karen-“

“He’s right. Everyone can tell except for you two. I see it in how you both steal glances when the other isn’t looking. Those puppy dog eyes he gives you aren’t fooling anyone. And he waited for your drink to be done before he jumped to get more. Girl he is so into you. And you always remember his favourite takeout or when his favourite show is on. You’re just as down bad.”

You lean back into your seat with a soft thud. dumbfounded. Your eyebrows knit while you put it all together. The way he’d always grab a coffee if he knew you were coming. The way he was always on top of anything you needed. And how you were just as equal in return. There’s a strange burning in your chest and you know your face is flushed.

Foggy returns, and hands out drinks. Yours having extra cherries ontop. All it does is make your ears redder. And you’re grateful for the dim lighting Josie’s offers. You practically down the drink in one chug. And Foggy goes to stand again, but you get to your feet and put your hand up.

“Fog, it’s alright. I’ll grab this one.” You say, but head to the bathroom instead. You needed a moment. Some water on your face and a deep breath seems to soothe the burning in your chest and the redness of your face. You have no doubt that Karen and Matt are having the same conversation with Foggy now. Maybe.. they were right. Maybe you should…go for it. You turn your lockscreen on, the photo of the 4 of you lighting up the bathroom. But your eyes focus on foggy. You notice how he holds you close. And as the motion lock screen changes you can see him look at you. And it stirs something inside of you.

Your pep talk must’ve taken a little too long, as while you’re fixing your hair there’s a soft knock and then Foggy pokes his head in, eyes closed. “Everything cool in here?”

You laugh, finding this adorable. “Yes, Fog. And you can open your eyes it’s only me in here.”

He steps in and closes the door, while you lean against the sink.

“Are you alright? You haven’t had too much have you?” His voice is soft. Concerned. And you feel that burn begin again in your chest.

“No, I’m not sick Foggy.” You say, which he seems to be relieved at. “I’m alright. Just. Lost in my thoughts.” You shrug.

“This definitely seems like a serene enough place to sort through thoughts.” He jokes. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“No…I mean, yes, but no.. just..I mean yeah but..not with you.”

There’s a flash of pain in his face. “Not with…me?” Oh now he sounds like a kicked puppy.

“No. Oh. No, not like that- Fog.” You panic. “I just. It- if I..talk to you about it.. it changes everything and I don’t know if I can take that.”

Now it’s Foggy’s turn to be grateful for the dim lights. “Changes everything..?” His voice tightens in anticipation.

The bathroom is now silent but for the dripping of one of the dozens of pipes in the room, and the dull music thuds outside the door.

There’s a gentle breath. “I’m into you, Foggy. Like. Really into you. I..” your fingers rake through your hair.

“I like you in that way that sticks with me, Fog, no matter how hard I try to act like it doesn’t.

I like you the way Mabel likes Frederic…”

The reference seems to come out of nowhere for Foggy, but for you, Pirates of Penzance holds a vivid memory. It's when you realized you fell for him.

“And Foggy I kno-”

“I feel it too.” Foggy interrupts after taking a moment to process. “I’ve loved you since you brought those incredible cinnamon buns in. I just never thought you’d feel the same.”

You’re so distracted by his mutual confession, the next thing you know he’s right in front of you, hand on your cheek. Your eyes flick up to his and you immediately melt under his puppydog eyes.

You both stare at eachother for a while as if deducing whether you’re ready or not. The only thing you can think is fuck it.

Your lips meet his, as you instigate the kiss. It’s soft, and sweet, and sends tingles down your spine. His hand slides around and cups the back of your head, cradeling it like it’s the most precious thing on earth. His other hand on the sink beside you. Your hands press against his chest. One hand slides up to the side of his neck.

You pull back at the same time, heaving for breath. Then Foggy’s hands slide along your body to rest on your waist.

“You have no idea how long I have waited for that”

“You should’ve kissed me sooner, Fog”

“Maybe. But then I’d have missed the look on your face after our confessions.” He gives a cheeky wink, before leaning in for another kiss.

This one felt different. More urgent, hungry,even. Like another layer of Foggy’s affection was pushing its way to the surface, impossible to hold back. You couldn’t help but eat it up, tilting your head, inviting his tongue in with the kiss. His hand tangles into your hair, the other sliding to your hip, pulling you against him.

You smile into the kiss as foggy shows you what he wants.your arms snake around his shoulders, locking behind his neck. Foggy then lifts you and sets you on the edge of the sink, lips barely parting for longer than a breath, hands in hair, tongues warring.. and one hand that begins to wander.

Foggy’s hand begins to stroke your thigh, higher and higher. His lips trail away from your mouth, down your neck, pulling sighs from you. Your hands ball his shirt up at the chest, as you nod and open your legs just a bit more.

“Fog-” you gasp out as his hand cups your sex through your jeans, giving a gentle rub. Your hand flies to his wrist but you don’t pull him away.

You feel yourself growing closer. Needier. And that’s when you stop him, gently pushing him away.

“F-Fog, Foggy” you breath out, your brain jumbled.

He immediately takes his hands off you. “Yeah? Huh?, you okay?”

“I’m fine, you’re good.” You pull his hand closer. “I just don’t want.. this to be the first time. In… here. Where everything is sticky and it.. smells.” You explain, brain fog clearing.

“Yeah, yeah that’s fair.” He sighs softly, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Your beautiful self deserves more.” A laugh sounds, as he moves to let you hop down. Your legs wobble ever so lightly.

“Do we leave one at a time or together?” You ask as you fix your hair in the crappy little mirror above the sink.

“I bet you Matt already knows, so there’s no point in one at a time.” Foggy chimes, daring to lean on the wall by the door. His hand is offered to you. And you take his. His hand is warm and holds yours so softly, with so much care that you nearly swoon.

After a breath you both emerge from the bathroom hand in hand. And even with the chatter and music you can hear Matt’s amused chuckle. You glance over and see his stupid,knowing grin and roll your eyes at Karen who has an identical look on her face.

“So we are gonna-”

“Yeah, see you tomorrow Fog,” Matt says, amusement in his tone as he wishes you a goodnight as well. You nod at Karen, and wink, confirming you’ll give her the coles notes the next day.

The silence outside is clouded only by the thudding of your own heart in your ears. Foggy hails a cab, and you climb in without hesitation. He slides in after you, and gives his address before leaning back, his hand resting on the inside of your thigh. You share a look. His pupils are wide, you imagine yours are too. You cover his hand with your own. Riding the cab in an anticipatory silence.

The ride feels twice as long as it lasts, and you’ve never been more grateful to see a building in the area that was not a walk up. You both walk into the elevator. Foggy places his hand on your back. With every floor you pass, his hand slips lower. Before he can quite get where he wants, the doors chime open. You glance over at him; his eyes are full of want, a faint pout tugging at his lips.

He fumbles for the keys, as you lean on the doorjam. Amused while he unlocks the door. You gently reach your hand up to stroke behind his ear and the man shivers and.. he whimpers. It’s barely audible, but you catch it and it goes straight through you. The door opens and there’s no time wasted. Shoes off in seconds, and you’re grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, crashing your lips onto his.

Foggy advances, walking you backwards towards his bedroom, until your thighs press into the plush of his bed. In the smallest of hops, you settle into the edge of it, legs hooking around his and pulling him closer. Your hands run up his chest before they begin to peel away each of his shirt buttons. He shoves it off with no ceremony, and grasps at the bottom of your band tee. Lips pulling away long enough for it to fly across the room.

“Oh Fog” you sigh as his lips travel down your neck, your hand tousling his hair. The other slides over his body, before tugging at the belt around his hips. He groans your name softly, his warm hands sliding down to your hips, squeezing needily, before ascending to your bra. His hands circle to the back, only for a confused grunt to leave his mouth.

“The hell?” He mutters. You can’t hold back the amused laugh.

“Front clasp,” you whisper into his ear, making the grown man shudder. His hands correct themselves, and he gazes at your chest as he pinches it just right and the bra pops open. He’s practically drooling as your tits bounce free. Like your shirt, your bra is soon forgotten.

“May-may I?” Foggy’s voice rasps from him. Filled with a need you hadn’t seen before. His eyes flick up to yours, trying to remain respectful. But they fall again a moment later.

“Yes Fog,” you breathe. A sharp inhale when his hands cup your tits, soft, careful. Admiring, before he kisses you again, his one hand cupping your chin, the other kneading softly. Until without warning, his hands fall to your thighs, and flip you onto your back, your knees now pressed to your stomach. Foggy makes quick work of his watch, your socks, and pants, before his knees thud to the floor by the bed.

Lips on ankles, calves, knees.. your breath stills in your throat. His breath on your thighs sends a shiver to every nerve in your body. You let your knees fall apart and flat, baring your clothed core to him.

“You good?” He checks in once again.

“Yeah” you barely are audible. The wet patch between your legs more visible now against the pastel fabric of your panties. Foggy can’t help himself. His finger presses against the wet spot with a smirk before his mouth is over you. Panties and all. His name falls from your lips like a curse word, while his jaw works against your clothed core. Your thighs twitch and hips arch into him.

It happens faster than you can blink. You feel his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, and then you’re gasping as his mouth comes in contact with your bare cunt. Eyes rolling back, your jaw goes completely slack.

Foggy wastes no time, in true loverboy fashion. His tongue slides through to your clit, flattening against it. He glances up at you, before returning to his duties. He slides a finger up and through your folds, prodding it gently at your entry before slipping the digit inside, and crooking just gently. He mouths and sucks your clit, pulling whines and moans from you. His fingers curl in just the right place, and the corners of your vision blur.

“Yes-” your voice is stuck in your throat. Your hips lift, but foggy pulls them back down, hooking his arm under your thigh. His tongue flicks over your clit in a mesmerizing rhythm, while he slides a second finger in, speeding up his movements, and scissoring his fingers. Moans fall from your lips as the coil tightens in your belly, threatening to snap any moment.

Your hand finds his hair and tugs him closer to your core, aching for him to finish you off. And he senses it. His fingers pump harder, curling consistently, tongue swirling the sensitive nub.

“F-Foggy, Fog-oh god-” you gasp as a singular synchronized motion between fingers and lips pushes you right over the edge, your legs clamp on his head, his ministrations slowing, but not stopping until you’re on the other side of the orgasm.

He pulls away and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He stands and takes his belt off. You lean up after a moment, watching him slide his pants off, and step out of them. His cock strains against his boxers, while you back up a bit on the bed. Your eyes meet Foggy’s and his pupils are blown. His hand palms his cock through the shorts, eyes flicking away to roam over your body.

“You taste divine.” He practically moans to you, before pushing his boxers free, revealing his thick cock. Decently above average at the very least. You can’t help but blush, a combo of seeing him bare, and his words.

The bed dips as he climbs onto it, settling between your legs, fisting his cock for a moment.

“Fog, Foggy please,” you breathe. You’re rather impatient now.

He’s amused for a moment. But he can’t hold back. For all the teasing fun he could have with you.. he just can’t do it yet. His arms hold him up, and he kisses you, aligning himself, dragging his cock through your soaked, sensitive folds. You both let out a breathy moan when the head hitches on your entry. Your fingers grip his arm.

Foggy’s eyes flip to yours, wild with need. Wild with you. And all he sees is the same in return as he pushes into you. Your jaw drops, but you maintain eye contact as he pushes in, thick inch by thick inch. Your breath is stuck in your lungs. The stretch is delightful.

Once he’s fully inside of you, there’s a moment. You adjust, and bite your lip. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, before nodding and pulling him down for a kiss, swallowing a moan from Foggy as he drags his hips back before pushing back in with a firm thrust.

“Oh-” your surprised exclamation spurs foggy on, and he sets a rhythm based on that. firm thrusts that make your tits bounce. The sound of skin slapping joins your rhythmic moans in the air, Foggy’s moans occasionally joining in. His face nestles down to your neck, and he begins to suck on your pulse point, only pausing to moan your name like a prayer.

You return the sentiment, with fervor, nails running down his back, while he holds your other hand beside your head. You can feel his cock hitting just the perfect spot and you can’t help the

“Ah- yes- fuck- right there baby,” you keen, and Foggy immediately adjusts to hit that spot again and again, his free hand reaching between them to dance on your clit.

“There ya go” he hums. “Take it, baby-nngh” he moans deep as you clench around his cock over and over.

“ ‘s good, Fog mhm-” your mind can’t make sense of the words you’re saying. Foggy has you dancing on the edge again, and with the next touch of your clit you fall over it, your walls tightening around him, pulling a whimper from his lips, his own hips stuttering as he gets closer to his peak. He holds back long enough to fuck you through your orgasm, before with a final sharp thrust, and a moan, he spills inside of you, face tucked into your neck, your hand in his hair.

Foggy thrusts a few more times, as he softens. He peppers gentle kisses against your neck.

The room is silent but for the fan in the corner, both of you taking in the events of the evening,and basking in the afterglow.

He pulls out slowly, and wanders off to the bathroom. He comes back with a warm, damp cloth and wipes you clean, before handing you a glass of water. Sitting up, you move to lean against the headboard while you drink, flat sheet over your legs.

“That was incredible.”

You hesitate, the words landing heavier than you expected. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says again, softer this time.

You glance at him, searching his face. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I know,” he replies. “I want to. It’s the truth.”

You blush, tips of your ears and nose going red. You fiddle with the flat sheet covering your legs. “It’s..not a one time thing, right?” You ask. Hesitation in your breath.

Foggy smiles, reassuringly. “Not if I can help it.” He leans towards you, tucking a hair behind your ear, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Your eyes flutter shut at the kiss on your forehead. The simple gesture says more than his words can. You let go of the nervous breath in your chest as Foggy pulls you against him. Your head rests against his chest, his fingertips stroking the length of your back for a while before his hand settles on your ass.

You absently trace your fingers along his chest. Listening to the city go by outside, the fan oscillating in the room. Peace. But you can’t seem to find it. No matter how soothing the city, the fan, or Foggy’s heart is. You just can’t settle.

Foggy seems to notice. “Hey you alright down there?” He asks, giving your ass a gentle squeeze.

A smile crosses your face and you look up at him, eyes twinkling in a new sense of mischief.

“Oh boy.” Foggy breathes. As if on cue, his cock twitches to lift against your thigh, and your hand slides down his body, into his boxers. He hisses as you grasp his cock. You pump him slowly, as you scoot yourself down the bed, to sit between his legs. Once he’s back to his full hardness, you pause to tie your hair back into a loose ponytail.

This pulls a pre-emptive moan to come from somewhere deep inside of Foggy. He shoves his boxers down to free his cock once more. You can’t help the smile that comes across your face. You take your turn to settle between his legs, and lick a stripe up the bottom side of his cock. Foggy whimpers. It’s the hottest sound you’ve heard in god knows how long.

He whines your name as you repeat the action, his hand wrapping around the base of your ponytail, not to control, but to be grounded in the moment. Which he’s grateful for the moment your mouth takes him. His eyes roll back and there is a choked moan.

Your head bobs in a steady rhythm, and Foggy’s hips struggle not to meet you in the middle.a strangled “sorry” leaves his lips when you gag after a short uncontrolled thrust from him, but you push through it, letting him go that deep again. His hand tugs at your hair after a while, and you pull back and look at him, panting, drool rolling down your chin.

You smile, pumping his cock still, red and angry, ready for another release. You lean over him, and kiss him deeply, sharing his taste while you swing a leg up to straddle him, grinding his cock between your core and his stomach. He whimpers, hands flying to your hips.

“Shit—”Foggy swears, and your name comes out of him like a beggar. Your whole body tingles. You sit up just enough to slide home on his cock, the now familiar stretch making your eyes flutter in delight. You begin to rock your hips, hands settled on his chest in front of you, pushing your tits out further.

Foggy could admit he hadn’t expected a second round. Or that your hips would ruin him. But here you both were in his bed. Round two, with him being ridden.

“You like that,Fog?” You ask, trying a few experimental bounces that nearly send Foggy off the cliff far too early.

“Yes-fuck” he rasps, guiding your hips now as you find a rhythm that works for both of you. Once you’re comfortable, you lean back some, trailing one hand between your legs, stroking your clit,the other sliding up your body to knead at your tit.

“Oh my god-” Foggy shudders. You can feel how tense his muscles are under your movements. You feel a rush of pride and pick up the speed, smiling down at foggy. He breaks a hand away from your hip, and attaches it to your tit, rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger, causing a momentary fault in your rhythm. Your eyelids flutter. His other hand pushes your own away from your stuffed cunt, and takes over stroking your clit while you ride him.

“You’re taking me S’good-” he moans out to you, watching himself disappear into you with every bounce you make. You can’t help the whine that leaves your throat. You’re losing steam even with how close you both are to your ends.

“Cmon baby, that’s it” Foggy encourages you, rocking his hips to help.

“Fog-” your hand grasps at the wrist between your legs, the other holds his other arm for support. “I-I’m gonna—”

“FOGGY-” You gasp, vision going white, as a pinch to your nipple sends the intense orgasm through your body. Your fingertips tingle, eyes roll back, and your walls spasm around foggy.

Foggy barely hangs on, as your body milks his cock, his hands move to your hips. 1, 2, 3 more thrusts and he spills inside you again, his fingers digging hard into your side, bound to leave at least a small bruise.

You slump forward and kiss him, sloppy, but earnest. He returns the kiss,before falling back into the bed with a soft thunk. You take a moment to let your thighs stop trembling, before you climb off him. Once you wipe him down with Kleenex you take your time in the bathroom, cleaning yourself up, and spying the hickey he left you on your pulse point earlier. You can’t help the smile on your face, as you head back to bed.

Climbing into bed, foggy has already begun dozing. He peeks out at you as you lean over him. He can see the question in your eyes

“What’s on your mind?” He asks softly.

You hesitate. Not wanting to ruin the haze. “I just— We…didn’t spend all that time orbiting each other for just one night…right?”

Foggy smiles, sleepy, but reassuring. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. I’m…pretty set on sticking around.” His voice is soft. Heavy. Honest.

His words put your heart at ease and you lay with your head on his chest, finally feeling your body let you relax. His arm wraps around you, bringing you close to kiss your forehead, before stroking your arm until his snores fill the room. Your eyes flutter closed, a soft smile on your face, feeling right at home in his arms.

You broke the orbit. It was finally time to live in the sun.

[ardentprose]

Before I get into my raving review I want to say first of all THANK YOU for writing for Foggy Nelson. It's always a breath of fresh air to have another addition to his ' x Reader' fics! His fics are few and far between but all of them are a pleasure to read and yours is no exception.

Okay, okay...here we go!

'Everyone except you and Foggy could tell.'

I was already kicking my feet and giggling. Call me cliche but I love a good 'everyone knows except the two idiots in love' AH ITS SO CUTE

I appreciate how you had Matt and Karen play a role in teasing the two of them together. Often one shots focus just on the main couple - which is fine! - but it adds so much environment just having the other two chime in. The more the merrier!

'And he waited for your drink to be done before he jumped to get more. Girl he is so into you. And you always remember his favourite takeout or when his favourite show is on. You’re just as down bad.'

CLOCKED. I was gagged like Matt and Karen aren't lawyer/detective/crazy observant people etc. who would absolutely gather receipts and present it before Reader could even defend themselves.

'You lean back into your seat with a soft thud. dumbfounded.'

Yup. That's the exact word. Dumbfounded.

When Foggy comes into the bathroom and his first thought is one of concern. Asking Reader if they drank too much. I'm meltinggg.

All of Foggy's dialogue is spot on. You've captured his character so well. I could see his facial expressions clearly as he reacted to Reader's struggle to confess. The gentleman he is when he immediately takes his hands off and checks in when Reader stops him.

'Yeah, yeah that’s fair.” He sighs softly, tucking your hair behind your ear.'

TUCKING HAIR BEHIND THE EAR IS SO SOFT IM IN TEARS

and we're not even halfway through

the self-restraint in the cab ride is respectable but i'm also dying imagining them both just sitting there like

i know that cab driver knew what was up

Foggy struggling with the keys is so cute and endearing and so likely to happen. Also Reader touching him and he whimpers has me weak in the knees like yes give me a man who whimpers PLEASE

I love the clumsiness of trying to undo the bra, the asking for consent despite "obvious" permission, the communication - ugh Foggy is an expert at healthy sex, no one can argue with me.

Foggy suddenly manhandling Reader?????

Fuck yes.

(Also Foggy wears a watch in this and I appreciate that detail because it's in my headcanon too lol)

Foggy proceeding to eat like it is his God-given duty and then hold Reader's hips down. Then afterwards wiping his mouth like it's no big deal he just orchestrated an incredible orgasm

the whole act itself is written hot as hell. i couldn't pick out a favorite line because i'd just copy and paste the entire work so just know im dying thank you

the cuddling afterwards only for Reader to spontaneously start a round two YOU READ MY MIND LIKE THATS EXACTLY WHAT I WOULD DO YOU ARE IN MY THOUGHTS. that man is not escaping the bed with one measly round.

Foggy talking Reader through it - I just - how many times can I say you wrote that so well? like you did that shit. you nailed it. no notes.

'You broke the orbit. It was finally time to live in the sun.'

LAST LINE SUPREMACY. Ugh not to make a pun but what a 'full circle' line. Love it. LOVE IT.

Thank you so so much for writing this and I hope you keep writing more for Foggy (but do whatever you want love obvs)! It was amazing.

[thedownbaddiaries]

Are you fuckin kidding meeeeee

I love you!!!! I’m actually in bed sobbing my eyes out right now literally you’re such a lovely human???

And I’ve read your writing so this is like. A compliment from royalty don’t even!!!!! I’m so???

Thank you a million times for this review you are just so!!!!!!!!!

And I strongly agree Foggy needs more fic space. These days I’m trying to include him in all DD works at least a bit. We can all give him the life he DESERVES!!!!

[ardentprose]

Oh my god royalty?!?! Stop now we're both crying. That's a HUGE compliment! Thank you so much but also I don't know how to process that!!

Also thank you for reading my stuff too!! You know what, seeing your post I was like "I gotta get my act together and write again." because I love the exchange between writer and reader. I enjoyed reading your piece and it reminds me I wanna keep giving that same feeling to others too.

Yes, that is a worthy goal!! I love that you're gonna try to include him. I understand Foggy isn't #1 on the fanfic charts but he means a whole lot to a few of us and that counts for something! If the mainstream doesn't wanna acknowledge Foggy Nelson then we'll do what fanfic writers always do and give him a life through us!

[thedownbaddiaries]

Breaking Orbit

Summary: Orbiting isn’t enough.

Pairing: Foggy Nelson x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: 18+ only, Mostly smut, swearing ig, oral (F+M receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v,

Word count: ~4.4k

Authors note + Tags: I hear the people of Tumblr wish for more Foggy Smut. I agree. So I wrote this instead of doing my 9-5 job. Mostly Unedited

@bex-or-rebekah

Reblogs with Feedback appreciated and highly encouraged

__________________________________________________________________________________________

You met Matt and Foggy on the worst day of your life. Walking through Hell’s Kitchen in broad daylight, a man grabbed your purse and tried to run. but you fought back - hard. Unfortunately, people only saw you take him down and walk away.

Three days later, you were arrested, left crying in a freezing interview room, cuffs biting into your wrists.

Then the door creaked open. Two men entered. One kept his distance, setting his cane aside as he calmly introduced himself. The other followed with your file, his expression soft with concern. They handled you with care, and for the first time since it happened, you felt safe.

The trial didn’t take long. Somehow, they proved it was self-defense. The rest is a blur.

The next time you saw them, after the trial, you brought treats. You had remembered them both liking these truffles you had out at your home at a visit they made, so you brought them some, as well as your “famous” homemade cinnamon rolls, and a four pack of beer for them. Just a thank you. Really, an honest act of gratitude towards them. You stayed for hours, chatting with them. Mainly, foggy if you were honest.

Since then, You had become friends with all of Nelson and Murdock. You frequently visited on days off, or went for drinks with everyone. But one thing for certain was your gravitational pull towards Foggy, and his towards you. Everyone except you and Foggy could tell.

Tonight, almost a year after those stressful months, you were now out for drinks at Josie’s, with Karen, Matt, and Foggy. You finished your drink, and Foggy immediately jumped up to go refresh the table’s rounds. Matt and Karen seemed to share a small laugh, which catches your attention

“What’s so funny?” You ask, glancing between them both, your fingers tapping the side of your empty glass.

“Nothing, nothing” Matt says but he can never hide that cheeky grin when he’s had a few.

“Nothing…” Karen agrees “except the dance you and Foggy have.”

“Dance? Karen what…?”

There’s silence for a moment. “Are you playing dumb or do you actually not see it?” She laughs in response.

“See what?” Your voice is soft. Bewildered.

“You two idiots have been orbiting each other for almost a year.”

“Orbiting?”

“It’s the best description” Matt chimes in. “You both like each other , I know for certain-“”

“How-?”

“I just do”

“Karen-“

“He’s right. Everyone can tell except for you two. I see it in how you both steal glances when the other isn’t looking. Those puppy dog eyes he gives you aren’t fooling anyone. And he waited for your drink to be done before he jumped to get more. Girl he is so into you. And you always remember his favourite takeout or when his favourite show is on. You’re just as down bad.”

You lean back into your seat with a soft thud. dumbfounded. Your eyebrows knit while you put it all together. The way he’d always grab a coffee if he knew you were coming. The way he was always on top of anything you needed. And how you were just as equal in return. There’s a strange burning in your chest and you know your face is flushed.

Foggy returns, and hands out drinks. Yours having extra cherries ontop. All it does is make your ears redder. And you’re grateful for the dim lighting Josie’s offers. You practically down the drink in one chug. And Foggy goes to stand again, but you get to your feet and put your hand up.

“Fog, it’s alright. I’ll grab this one.” You say, but head to the bathroom instead. You needed a moment. Some water on your face and a deep breath seems to soothe the burning in your chest and the redness of your face. You have no doubt that Karen and Matt are having the same conversation with Foggy now. Maybe.. they were right. Maybe you should…go for it. You turn your lockscreen on, the photo of the 4 of you lighting up the bathroom. But your eyes focus on foggy. You notice how he holds you close. And as the motion lock screen changes you can see him look at you. And it stirs something inside of you.

Your pep talk must’ve taken a little too long, as while you’re fixing your hair there’s a soft knock and then Foggy pokes his head in, eyes closed. “Everything cool in here?”

You laugh, finding this adorable. “Yes, Fog. And you can open your eyes it’s only me in here.”

He steps in and closes the door, while you lean against the sink.

“Are you alright? You haven’t had too much have you?” His voice is soft. Concerned. And you feel that burn begin again in your chest.

“No, I’m not sick Foggy.” You say, which he seems to be relieved at. “I’m alright. Just. Lost in my thoughts.” You shrug.

“This definitely seems like a serene enough place to sort through thoughts.” He jokes. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“No…I mean, yes, but no.. just..I mean yeah but..not with you.”

There’s a flash of pain in his face. “Not with…me?” Oh now he sounds like a kicked puppy.

“No. Oh. No, not like that- Fog.” You panic. “I just. It- if I..talk to you about it.. it changes everything and I don’t know if I can take that.”

Now it’s Foggy’s turn to be grateful for the dim lights. “Changes everything..?” His voice tightens in anticipation.

The bathroom is now silent but for the dripping of one of the dozens of pipes in the room, and the dull music thuds outside the door.

There’s a gentle breath. “I’m into you, Foggy. Like. Really into you. I..” your fingers rake through your hair.

“I like you in that way that sticks with me, Fog, no matter how hard I try to act like it doesn’t.

I like you the way Mabel likes Frederic…”

The reference seems to come out of nowhere for Foggy, but for you, Pirates of Penzance holds a vivid memory. It's when you realized you fell for him.

“And Foggy I kno-”

“I feel it too.” Foggy interrupts after taking a moment to process. “I’ve loved you since you brought those incredible cinnamon buns in. I just never thought you’d feel the same.”

You’re so distracted by his mutual confession, the next thing you know he’s right in front of you, hand on your cheek. Your eyes flick up to his and you immediately melt under his puppydog eyes.

You both stare at eachother for a while as if deducing whether you’re ready or not. The only thing you can think is fuck it.

Your lips meet his, as you instigate the kiss. It’s soft, and sweet, and sends tingles down your spine. His hand slides around and cups the back of your head, cradeling it like it’s the most precious thing on earth. His other hand on the sink beside you. Your hands press against his chest. One hand slides up to the side of his neck.

You pull back at the same time, heaving for breath. Then Foggy’s hands slide along your body to rest on your waist.

“You have no idea how long I have waited for that”

“You should’ve kissed me sooner, Fog”

“Maybe. But then I’d have missed the look on your face after our confessions.” He gives a cheeky wink, before leaning in for another kiss.

This one felt different. More urgent, hungry,even. Like another layer of Foggy’s affection was pushing its way to the surface, impossible to hold back. You couldn’t help but eat it up, tilting your head, inviting his tongue in with the kiss. His hand tangles into your hair, the other sliding to your hip, pulling you against him.

You smile into the kiss as foggy shows you what he wants.your arms snake around his shoulders, locking behind his neck. Foggy then lifts you and sets you on the edge of the sink, lips barely parting for longer than a breath, hands in hair, tongues warring.. and one hand that begins to wander.

Foggy’s hand begins to stroke your thigh, higher and higher. His lips trail away from your mouth, down your neck, pulling sighs from you. Your hands ball his shirt up at the chest, as you nod and open your legs just a bit more.

“Fog-” you gasp out as his hand cups your sex through your jeans, giving a gentle rub. Your hand flies to his wrist but you don’t pull him away.

You feel yourself growing closer. Needier. And that’s when you stop him, gently pushing him away.

“F-Fog, Foggy” you breath out, your brain jumbled.

He immediately takes his hands off you. “Yeah? Huh?, you okay?”

“I’m fine, you’re good.” You pull his hand closer. “I just don’t want.. this to be the first time. In… here. Where everything is sticky and it.. smells.” You explain, brain fog clearing.

“Yeah, yeah that’s fair.” He sighs softly, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Your beautiful self deserves more.” A laugh sounds, as he moves to let you hop down. Your legs wobble ever so lightly.

“Do we leave one at a time or together?” You ask as you fix your hair in the crappy little mirror above the sink.

“I bet you Matt already knows, so there’s no point in one at a time.” Foggy chimes, daring to lean on the wall by the door. His hand is offered to you. And you take his. His hand is warm and holds yours so softly, with so much care that you nearly swoon.

After a breath you both emerge from the bathroom hand in hand. And even with the chatter and music you can hear Matt’s amused chuckle. You glance over and see his stupid,knowing grin and roll your eyes at Karen who has an identical look on her face.

“So we are gonna-”

“Yeah, see you tomorrow Fog,” Matt says, amusement in his tone as he wishes you a goodnight as well. You nod at Karen, and wink, confirming you’ll give her the coles notes the next day.

The silence outside is clouded only by the thudding of your own heart in your ears. Foggy hails a cab, and you climb in without hesitation. He slides in after you, and gives his address before leaning back, his hand resting on the inside of your thigh. You share a look. His pupils are wide, you imagine yours are too. You cover his hand with your own. Riding the cab in an anticipatory silence.

The ride feels twice as long as it lasts, and you’ve never been more grateful to see a building in the area that was not a walk up. You both walk into the elevator. Foggy places his hand on your back. With every floor you pass, his hand slips lower. Before he can quite get where he wants, the doors chime open. You glance over at him; his eyes are full of want, a faint pout tugging at his lips.

He fumbles for the keys, as you lean on the doorjam. Amused while he unlocks the door. You gently reach your hand up to stroke behind his ear and the man shivers and.. he whimpers. It’s barely audible, but you catch it and it goes straight through you. The door opens and there’s no time wasted. Shoes off in seconds, and you’re grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, crashing your lips onto his.

Foggy advances, walking you backwards towards his bedroom, until your thighs press into the plush of his bed. In the smallest of hops, you settle into the edge of it, legs hooking around his and pulling him closer. Your hands run up his chest before they begin to peel away each of his shirt buttons. He shoves it off with no ceremony, and grasps at the bottom of your band tee. Lips pulling away long enough for it to fly across the room.

“Oh Fog” you sigh as his lips travel down your neck, your hand tousling his hair. The other slides over his body, before tugging at the belt around his hips. He groans your name softly, his warm hands sliding down to your hips, squeezing needily, before ascending to your bra. His hands circle to the back, only for a confused grunt to leave his mouth.

“The hell?” He mutters. You can’t hold back the amused laugh.

“Front clasp,” you whisper into his ear, making the grown man shudder. His hands correct themselves, and he gazes at your chest as he pinches it just right and the bra pops open. He’s practically drooling as your tits bounce free. Like your shirt, your bra is soon forgotten.

“May-may I?” Foggy’s voice rasps from him. Filled with a need you hadn’t seen before. His eyes flick up to yours, trying to remain respectful. But they fall again a moment later.

“Yes Fog,” you breathe. A sharp inhale when his hands cup your tits, soft, careful. Admiring, before he kisses you again, his one hand cupping your chin, the other kneading softly. Until without warning, his hands fall to your thighs, and flip you onto your back, your knees now pressed to your stomach. Foggy makes quick work of his watch, your socks, and pants, before his knees thud to the floor by the bed.

Lips on ankles, calves, knees.. your breath stills in your throat. His breath on your thighs sends a shiver to every nerve in your body. You let your knees fall apart and flat, baring your clothed core to him.

“You good?” He checks in once again.

“Yeah” you barely are audible. The wet patch between your legs more visible now against the pastel fabric of your panties. Foggy can’t help himself. His finger presses against the wet spot with a smirk before his mouth is over you. Panties and all. His name falls from your lips like a curse word, while his jaw works against your clothed core. Your thighs twitch and hips arch into him.

It happens faster than you can blink. You feel his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, and then you’re gasping as his mouth comes in contact with your bare cunt. Eyes rolling back, your jaw goes completely slack.

Foggy wastes no time, in true loverboy fashion. His tongue slides through to your clit, flattening against it. He glances up at you, before returning to his duties. He slides a finger up and through your folds, prodding it gently at your entry before slipping the digit inside, and crooking just gently. He mouths and sucks your clit, pulling whines and moans from you. His fingers curl in just the right place, and the corners of your vision blur.

“Yes-” your voice is stuck in your throat. Your hips lift, but foggy pulls them back down, hooking his arm under your thigh. His tongue flicks over your clit in a mesmerizing rhythm, while he slides a second finger in, speeding up his movements, and scissoring his fingers. Moans fall from your lips as the coil tightens in your belly, threatening to snap any moment.

Your hand finds his hair and tugs him closer to your core, aching for him to finish you off. And he senses it. His fingers pump harder, curling consistently, tongue swirling the sensitive nub.

“F-Foggy, Fog-oh god-” you gasp as a singular synchronized motion between fingers and lips pushes you right over the edge, your legs clamp on his head, his ministrations slowing, but not stopping until you’re on the other side of the orgasm.

He pulls away and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He stands and takes his belt off. You lean up after a moment, watching him slide his pants off, and step out of them. His cock strains against his boxers, while you back up a bit on the bed. Your eyes meet Foggy’s and his pupils are blown. His hand palms his cock through the shorts, eyes flicking away to roam over your body.

“You taste divine.” He practically moans to you, before pushing his boxers free, revealing his thick cock. Decently above average at the very least. You can’t help but blush, a combo of seeing him bare, and his words.

The bed dips as he climbs onto it, settling between your legs, fisting his cock for a moment.

“Fog, Foggy please,” you breathe. You’re rather impatient now.

He’s amused for a moment. But he can’t hold back. For all the teasing fun he could have with you.. he just can’t do it yet. His arms hold him up, and he kisses you, aligning himself, dragging his cock through your soaked, sensitive folds. You both let out a breathy moan when the head hitches on your entry. Your fingers grip his arm.

Foggy’s eyes flip to yours, wild with need. Wild with you. And all he sees is the same in return as he pushes into you. Your jaw drops, but you maintain eye contact as he pushes in, thick inch by thick inch. Your breath is stuck in your lungs. The stretch is delightful.

Once he’s fully inside of you, there’s a moment. You adjust, and bite your lip. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, before nodding and pulling him down for a kiss, swallowing a moan from Foggy as he drags his hips back before pushing back in with a firm thrust.

“Oh-” your surprised exclamation spurs foggy on, and he sets a rhythm based on that. firm thrusts that make your tits bounce. The sound of skin slapping joins your rhythmic moans in the air, Foggy’s moans occasionally joining in. His face nestles down to your neck, and he begins to suck on your pulse point, only pausing to moan your name like a prayer.

You return the sentiment, with fervor, nails running down his back, while he holds your other hand beside your head. You can feel his cock hitting just the perfect spot and you can’t help the

“Ah- yes- fuck- right there baby,” you keen, and Foggy immediately adjusts to hit that spot again and again, his free hand reaching between them to dance on your clit.

“There ya go” he hums. “Take it, baby-nngh” he moans deep as you clench around his cock over and over.

“ ‘s good, Fog mhm-” your mind can’t make sense of the words you’re saying. Foggy has you dancing on the edge again, and with the next touch of your clit you fall over it, your walls tightening around him, pulling a whimper from his lips, his own hips stuttering as he gets closer to his peak. He holds back long enough to fuck you through your orgasm, before with a final sharp thrust, and a moan, he spills inside of you, face tucked into your neck, your hand in his hair.

Foggy thrusts a few more times, as he softens. He peppers gentle kisses against your neck.

The room is silent but for the fan in the corner, both of you taking in the events of the evening,and basking in the afterglow.

He pulls out slowly, and wanders off to the bathroom. He comes back with a warm, damp cloth and wipes you clean, before handing you a glass of water. Sitting up, you move to lean against the headboard while you drink, flat sheet over your legs.

“That was incredible.”

You hesitate, the words landing heavier than you expected. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says again, softer this time.

You glance at him, searching his face. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I know,” he replies. “I want to. It’s the truth.”

You blush, tips of your ears and nose going red. You fiddle with the flat sheet covering your legs. “It’s..not a one time thing, right?” You ask. Hesitation in your breath.

Foggy smiles, reassuringly. “Not if I can help it.” He leans towards you, tucking a hair behind your ear, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Your eyes flutter shut at the kiss on your forehead. The simple gesture says more than his words can. You let go of the nervous breath in your chest as Foggy pulls you against him. Your head rests against his chest, his fingertips stroking the length of your back for a while before his hand settles on your ass.

You absently trace your fingers along his chest. Listening to the city go by outside, the fan oscillating in the room. Peace. But you can’t seem to find it. No matter how soothing the city, the fan, or Foggy’s heart is. You just can’t settle.

Foggy seems to notice. “Hey you alright down there?” He asks, giving your ass a gentle squeeze.

A smile crosses your face and you look up at him, eyes twinkling in a new sense of mischief.

“Oh boy.” Foggy breathes. As if on cue, his cock twitches to lift against your thigh, and your hand slides down his body, into his boxers. He hisses as you grasp his cock. You pump him slowly, as you scoot yourself down the bed, to sit between his legs. Once he’s back to his full hardness, you pause to tie your hair back into a loose ponytail.

This pulls a pre-emptive moan to come from somewhere deep inside of Foggy. He shoves his boxers down to free his cock once more. You can’t help the smile that comes across your face. You take your turn to settle between his legs, and lick a stripe up the bottom side of his cock. Foggy whimpers. It’s the hottest sound you’ve heard in god knows how long.

He whines your name as you repeat the action, his hand wrapping around the base of your ponytail, not to control, but to be grounded in the moment. Which he’s grateful for the moment your mouth takes him. His eyes roll back and there is a choked moan.

Your head bobs in a steady rhythm, and Foggy’s hips struggle not to meet you in the middle.a strangled “sorry” leaves his lips when you gag after a short uncontrolled thrust from him, but you push through it, letting him go that deep again. His hand tugs at your hair after a while, and you pull back and look at him, panting, drool rolling down your chin.

You smile, pumping his cock still, red and angry, ready for another release. You lean over him, and kiss him deeply, sharing his taste while you swing a leg up to straddle him, grinding his cock between your core and his stomach. He whimpers, hands flying to your hips.

“Shit—”Foggy swears, and your name comes out of him like a beggar. Your whole body tingles. You sit up just enough to slide home on his cock, the now familiar stretch making your eyes flutter in delight. You begin to rock your hips, hands settled on his chest in front of you, pushing your tits out further.

Foggy could admit he hadn’t expected a second round. Or that your hips would ruin him. But here you both were in his bed. Round two, with him being ridden.

“You like that,Fog?” You ask, trying a few experimental bounces that nearly send Foggy off the cliff far too early.

“Yes-fuck” he rasps, guiding your hips now as you find a rhythm that works for both of you. Once you’re comfortable, you lean back some, trailing one hand between your legs, stroking your clit,the other sliding up your body to knead at your tit.

“Oh my god-” Foggy shudders. You can feel how tense his muscles are under your movements. You feel a rush of pride and pick up the speed, smiling down at foggy. He breaks a hand away from your hip, and attaches it to your tit, rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger, causing a momentary fault in your rhythm. Your eyelids flutter. His other hand pushes your own away from your stuffed cunt, and takes over stroking your clit while you ride him.

“You’re taking me S’good-” he moans out to you, watching himself disappear into you with every bounce you make. You can’t help the whine that leaves your throat. You’re losing steam even with how close you both are to your ends.

“Cmon baby, that’s it” Foggy encourages you, rocking his hips to help.

“Fog-” your hand grasps at the wrist between your legs, the other holds his other arm for support. “I-I’m gonna—”

“FOGGY-” You gasp, vision going white, as a pinch to your nipple sends the intense orgasm through your body. Your fingertips tingle, eyes roll back, and your walls spasm around foggy.

Foggy barely hangs on, as your body milks his cock, his hands move to your hips. 1, 2, 3 more thrusts and he spills inside you again, his fingers digging hard into your side, bound to leave at least a small bruise.

You slump forward and kiss him, sloppy, but earnest. He returns the kiss,before falling back into the bed with a soft thunk. You take a moment to let your thighs stop trembling, before you climb off him. Once you wipe him down with Kleenex you take your time in the bathroom, cleaning yourself up, and spying the hickey he left you on your pulse point earlier. You can’t help the smile on your face, as you head back to bed.

Climbing into bed, foggy has already begun dozing. He peeks out at you as you lean over him. He can see the question in your eyes

“What’s on your mind?” He asks softly.

You hesitate. Not wanting to ruin the haze. “I just— We…didn’t spend all that time orbiting each other for just one night…right?”

Foggy smiles, sleepy, but reassuring. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. I’m…pretty set on sticking around.” His voice is soft. Heavy. Honest.

His words put your heart at ease and you lay with your head on his chest, finally feeling your body let you relax. His arm wraps around you, bringing you close to kiss your forehead, before stroking your arm until his snores fill the room. Your eyes flutter closed, a soft smile on your face, feeling right at home in his arms.

You broke the orbit. It was finally time to live in the sun.

[ardentprose]

Before I get into my raving review I want to say first of all THANK YOU for writing for Foggy Nelson. It's always a breath of fresh air to have another addition to his ' x Reader' fics! His fics are few and far between but all of them are a pleasure to read and yours is no exception.

Okay, okay...here we go!

'Everyone except you and Foggy could tell.'

I was already kicking my feet and giggling. Call me cliche but I love a good 'everyone knows except the two idiots in love' AH ITS SO CUTE

I appreciate how you had Matt and Karen play a role in teasing the two of them together. Often one shots focus just on the main couple - which is fine! - but it adds so much environment just having the other two chime in. The more the merrier!

'And he waited for your drink to be done before he jumped to get more. Girl he is so into you. And you always remember his favourite takeout or when his favourite show is on. You’re just as down bad.'

CLOCKED. I was gagged like Matt and Karen aren't lawyer/detective/crazy observant people etc. who would absolutely gather receipts and present it before Reader could even defend themselves.

'You lean back into your seat with a soft thud. dumbfounded.'

Yup. That's the exact word. Dumbfounded.

When Foggy comes into the bathroom and his first thought is one of concern. Asking Reader if they drank too much. I'm meltinggg.

All of Foggy's dialogue is spot on. You've captured his character so well. I could see his facial expressions clearly as he reacted to Reader's struggle to confess. The gentleman he is when he immediately takes his hands off and checks in when Reader stops him.

'Yeah, yeah that’s fair.” He sighs softly, tucking your hair behind your ear.'

TUCKING HAIR BEHIND THE EAR IS SO SOFT IM IN TEARS

and we're not even halfway through

the self-restraint in the cab ride is respectable but i'm also dying imagining them both just sitting there like

i know that cab driver knew what was up

Foggy struggling with the keys is so cute and endearing and so likely to happen. Also Reader touching him and he whimpers has me weak in the knees like yes give me a man who whimpers PLEASE

I love the clumsiness of trying to undo the bra, the asking for consent despite "obvious" permission, the communication - ugh Foggy is an expert at healthy sex, no one can argue with me.

Foggy suddenly manhandling Reader?????

Fuck yes.

(Also Foggy wears a watch in this and I appreciate that detail because it's in my headcanon too lol)

Foggy proceeding to eat like it is his God-given duty and then hold Reader's hips down. Then afterwards wiping his mouth like it's no big deal he just orchestrated an incredible orgasm

the whole act itself is written hot as hell. i couldn't pick out a favorite line because i'd just copy and paste the entire work so just know im dying thank you

the cuddling afterwards only for Reader to spontaneously start a round two YOU READ MY MIND LIKE THATS EXACTLY WHAT I WOULD DO YOU ARE IN MY THOUGHTS. that man is not escaping the bed with one measly round.

Foggy talking Reader through it - I just - how many times can I say you wrote that so well? like you did that shit. you nailed it. no notes.

'You broke the orbit. It was finally time to live in the sun.'

LAST LINE SUPREMACY. Ugh not to make a pun but what a 'full circle' line. Love it. LOVE IT.

Thank you so so much for writing this and I hope you keep writing more for Foggy (but do whatever you want love obvs)! It was amazing.

[ardentprose]

Murdock Mansion

Return to The Estates

All the stories centered on Matthew Michael Murdock.

Full description warnings are provided on the individual posts.

the day matt murdock became devout

A short scene exploring the time shortly after nine-year-old Matt Murdock loses his father.

young!mattmurdock; angst; grief; no relationship

[ardentprose]

Foggy's Fortress

Return to The Estates

All the stories starring Franklin Percy "Foggy" Nelson.

Full description warnings are provided on the individual posts.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow...Fonder

After a complicated court case extends your boyfriend's trip, you are desperate for relief. Try as you might on your own, nothing compares to Foggy's touch. Good thing he just walked in the door.

female!reader; smut; 18+

A Sketch in Serendipity

You venture out to get acquainted with your new home, but end up getting acquainted with someone else entirely.

male!reader; fluff

Candlelight Candor

The worst storm of the decade, an unreliable old building, and being alone with your crush, Foggy Nelson.

female!reader; fluff

The Newly-Wedded Nelsons: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The first year of being married to Foggy Nelson is no less than a prime example of what it means to really get to know someone.

female!reader; fluff; 18+

The Perfect Moment

You have it all planned out. The perfect place, the perfect time, the perfect words. But someone else has their own agenda for how things will go down.

female!reader; fluff; comfort

[ardentprose]

Candlelight Candor

A/N: This is the first public one shot I've written in a very long time so bear with me as I find my footing again.

Type: just sweet and simple fluff; Foggy Nelson x reader

Length: 4.8k~ | 20 min

Warnings: cursing; minor suggestive thoughts; fem!reader

Feel free to message me if a necessary warning isn't mentioned.

Summary: the worst storm of the decade, an unreliable old building, and being alone with your crush, Foggy Nelson

Hell hath no fury like a New York Nor’easter. It didn’t matter whether you had grown accustomed to the brutal winters in the city that never sleeps, because each summer lulled you into a false sense of serenity before winter struck again, the sky darkened, and ten inches of snow were threatening to bury the streets.

Any sane person would be hunkered down in their home, buried under an appropriate amount of blankets, and soundly sleeping away the precious hours gifted by the closing of the workplace.

Any sane person not in love, that is.

When you got the call that Karen was trapped north of the city, as the town she was investigating was hit with the storm first, you were tempted to hang up and go back to sleep. But how could you say no to:

“Good morning, sunshine!”

It took an embarrassingly small amount of convincing for Foggy Nelson to coax you from your haven and come to his law firm to lend an extra hand in the last day leading up to a case. The enigmatic lawyer had you wrapped around his finger and he didn’t even know it.

As you tugged on your heavy duty winter coat and forced your triple socked feet into your boots, you dearly wanted to curse the man for taking advantage of your infatuation. Of course, in his mind, he thought you were just a dedicated friend, and while that may be true, it would be more honest to say you were at his beck and call because you were in love with him.

Consequently, you find yourself hunched over a small desk in a small law firm with poor heating, hoping the feeling in your fingers returns.

And that was before the lights went out.

Precarious flames flicker among documents scattered across whatever surface area could be spared. Careful of the two candles flanking your papers - one cinnamon spice and another the supposed ‘scent of rain’ - you hunch lower and squint, trying to make connections between the paragraphs of legal precedents and other such jargon in the wavering light.

You don’t know how much longer you can strain your neck, scrounging every line of text for a loophole or mistype that will get this case thrown out. The ache in your neck grows insistent until you are forced to lift your head and roll your shoulders to appease the pain for a moment. Your eyes, sore from reading in dim light, fall on the lawyer across from you, taking in the welcome sight of him compared to dull printed texts.

Albeit, Foggy sits across from you in a similar position, muttering from down-turned lips as frustration pinches his expression. Occasionally, he heaves a sigh or grunt through clenched teeth as he hits another dead end. Even still, you allow yourself a small smile at how the orange flames cast warmth on his blond locks, causing them to shimmer like spun gold between the shadows.

A prick of alertness wakes you from your dreamy gaze and casting your eyes around you for the sixth sense of being watched, you find the other partner of the firm, Matt Murdock, smiling in your direction as if he could see you.

Your smile falls immediately, though the endeavor is fruitless as your remaining blush gives you away. Despite not having vision, you knew Matt caught you making heart eyes again at your ‘strictly professional legal friend’. It wasn’t the first time Matt sent you an impish smirk or raised his brows in question at your obvious pining. Especially when you laughed too loudly at Foggy’s quips. But what about it? You liked a sense of humor in a man and Foggy Nelson was a comedian in your enamored eyes.

The maddening thing was Matt doesn’t even pause his reading, skirting over lines of Braille with the same urgency as Foggy muttering out paragraphs of legalities.

You roll your eyes and Matt’s grin widens, but you choose to ignore him, checking your wrist watch for the time.

Your glance never makes it to your wrist, but diverges instead to the window when a sudden bang knocks the glass within it’s frame. The forceful wind rattles the glass with vengeance until it settles into an ominous vibrato. It wasn’t the first time that hour, but the three of you jump in your seats all the same.

“For Pete’s sake, this case better be able to fix that goddamn window.” Foggy curses, rubbing a palm over his heart from the abrupt break in silence.

“We have to win the case in the first place.” You lament, heaving a sigh to regain a normal heart rate.   

“We have less than an hour to find a reasonable cause to dismiss this case. But I’m pretty sure I’m reading algebra right now for all the good these candles are doing.”    Foggy groans, tussling his hair into a visible display of his perturbation. Your eyes follow the motion, happy to see something other than poorly lit paper stimulate your vision, though you sympathize with his annoyance.

“Justice never sleeps.” You quip and Foggy matches your wry smile.

“Of course the courthouse is open.” Foggy continues, flipping over another page. “Hell has frozen over but did the courthouse care? Did they reschedule? Of course not! Why indulge the safety of their tax-paying citizens when they could freeze them to death instead?”

“Whoa there, Foggy, is that the hangover talking or just you?” Matt teases, his fingers hesitating over some lines as conversation picks up.

“If anyone is hungover it’s you and your stupid smile that somehow thinks it’s appropriate to make an appearance right now.”

“I’m not the one who suggested shots last night.”

“I’m not the one who drank them all.”

“Hey, I’ve been quiet and well-behaved this entire time.”

“Guys…twenty minutes…” You interrupt, your own sense of justice dwindling by the hour.

You were more than accustomed to the bickering between the two law firm partners. Despite not being a lawyer yourself, your paralegal abilities were usually called into action since being acquainted with Nelson and Murdock over a previous case. You didn’t even work for them, yet you found yourself here more often than your own office. You also found yourself playing referee alongside legal assistance. At this point, you had helped Foggy and Matt win so many cases and stay friends while doing so, that you were an honorary member of the firm.

Foggy flips a page before him, chin resting on his fist. “I say we call the courthouse and tell them we were trapped inside. Couldn’t open the front door cause of all the…”

He squints.

His eyes go wide.

“Fuck! I found the damned thing!”

A groan of relief resounds from Matt and he throws himself back into his swivel chair, spinning to the side slightly. You break into a smile, watching the candlelight twinkle in Foggy’s eyes with his newfound ecstasy.

“Will it help win the case?” You ask, voice soft if only because of your overwhelming affection.

“This piece of evidence - or should I say lack thereof, will get this case thrown out into the nearest dumpster!” Foggy exclaims, meeting your eyes with his own mirth. Your smile grows larger at this revelation.

Matt tilts his head and once more you feel that devil grin, but you refuse to meet his invisible gaze. However, your up-tick in heart rate betrays your fear of a much bigger revelation being exposed by the brunet lawyer.

Matt seems to spare you from your fears, speaking instead of the case at hand.

“Foggy, I don’t know what we’d do without you. I don’t know how I missed such an obvious detail right in front of me.”

As he stands up, Matt compiles his own version of documents into his briefcase.

“What an oversight on my part.”

He grins expectantly.

You throw your head back and groan, then lift your head in order to glare at Matt.

“That’s the last one, Murdock! You’ve hit your ‘blind’ joke quota for today.”

Matt pouts, jerking on his winter pea coat.

“It’s my law firm, I can make as many jokes as I want. Who am I offending?”

“It’s our law firm, buddy.” Foggy comes to your defense. “And your jokes are in poor taste only because they’re not funny.”

“Hey,” Matt lifts the strap over his shoulder and slides out from behind his desk. “I’m funny.”

“Funny-looking.” You tease. Foggy snorts and points the tip of his pen at you in approval. You bite your lip to keep your grin from spreading into ‘infatuated’ lengths.

“Now, I can’t help that,” Matt gestures to the glasses in his hand before slipping them onto his nose, “given, you know, that I’m-“

“No more!” You point your finger at Matt in warning.

“Alright, jeez. Tough crowd.” Matt grins, still clearly proud of his sense of corny humor.

Before he makes his way to the door, he turns partway to explain his departure.

“I’ll head out first to meet the client early. It’s gonna be hell catching a cab in this storm. Plus the traffic will be worse…you get it.” Matt sighs and snatches his cane from where it rests beside the entryway. He lifts it as a form of dismissal.

“Good idea. I’ll revise our argument first then head over. It shouldn’t take more than a few quick amendments.” Foggy says.

Matt nods and turns to leave.

You turn back to clean up your work, but your head snaps up when you hear Matt fall against the door.

“Are you okay?” You blurt as Matt pushes himself upright on the door.

“I misjudged the space between myself and the door.” He chuckles. “Can’t see anything with the lights out.”

“Leave.”

You turn your back on Matt and his snickering.

“I don’t know how you put up with him.” You say once he’s gone and Foggy rolls his eyes in similar exasperation.

“I’ve learned to stop questioning my life choices when it comes to Matt.”

You laugh, humming in agreement. You lift your gaze to hand Foggy the collected papers across the desk and find his eyes already on you.

Before you can contemplate why his eyes take their time traveling down your face to your outstretched hand, the his easy smile lowers into contemplation once he accepts the papers. He licks his lips and begins scribbling down notes with fervor. Now that the essential information has been found, you’re left with nothing else to do but leave it in the capable hands of the brilliant lawyer before you.

Before you realize it, you’re in a candlelight-induced trance, watching Foggy’s eagle sharp gaze flit back and forth. A small, petty part of you wishes his eyes held the same concentration on you instead of the paperwork. You knew from experience how nice it was to have Foggy’s attention on you.

Meeting Foggy Nelson was like the sun breaking through the clouds after a rainstorm. He had come into your life with undeniable presence and charm, which mostly stemmed from how Foggy was unapologetically himself in all contexts. He didn’t put on the airs of the egotistical disposition that many lawyers were known to have.

That’s not to say he didn’t speak up whenever he found himself in an immoral situation,  but more often than not, Foggy reserved his speeches for retelling the repertoire of stories he loved to share with those who spared him an ear. You, always a listener at heart, and therefore his dedicated audience, were usually in hysterics by the end of his theatrics.

Foggy never just told a story. No, he incorporated gestures, voices and facial expressions that brought the characters - real or not - to life. Karen and Matt had heard every story ten times over, but being the newest addition to the friend group, you took in every detail as if there was going to be an exam.

It was his larger-than-life personality that drew you in, but it was his quiet observations that captivated you. Foggy never used his social prowess to embarrass others - Karen and Matt excluded - only ever making himself the butt of jokes. If he teased you, it was only to tease you out of your shell. His questions were genuine and his gaze, reading your body language and expressions, hung on to every answer you offered him.

The first real conversation you had with him, he asked you about your background.

“So what gods - sorry, Matt, God - above orchestrated for you to be doomed with us as friends?” He asked, curiosity making his sincerity clear.

You told him your abridged life story - including the small role you felt you played, despite it being your own life. Foggy’s smile had waned into a wrinkled line and when you finished he looked at you as if you had just admitted to being from another planet.

“You are the sweetest person I know, with a beautiful heart, and I don’t think you know it. But the rest of us sure do.” His eyes sought yours long enough to ensure you believed his sincerity, then he quickly moved on to throw a jibe at Matt,, and the conversation returned it’s levity. You, however, were left reeling from his compliment.

And absolutely in love.

Doomed, more like. You muse, halting the trip down memory lane before you fell down the well-trodden path of self-doubt and hatred. You have been around long enough to hear stories of the women Foggy had dated, slept with, or fantasized about being with. You didn’t think you made the cut. You had no reason to. Foggy was an extraordinary friend but that didn’t qualify you to wish he did more than friendly things to you.

You focus back in where your eyes had taken the opportunity to stare at Foggy fingering the edges of documents while twirling a pen in his other hand. He settles the pen between his soft, pink lips, tapping it before he bites the cap, completed focused on the phrasing of his task.

A hair falls between his eyes, causing him to wrinkle his nose into an unbearably cute expression.

You send the chair stumbling backwards when you stand, and that focused gaze flies to you.

“I…um..I am…What time is it? I think we should start to head over.” You attempt to clarify.

Foggy removes the writing utensil from his teeth as his eyes analyze your abrupt movement. You feel exposed the longer he stares and start to grow nervous he somehow could hear your wayward thoughts about the dexterity of his fingers.

“Yeah…good call.” Foggy clears his throat. He stands up to gather his things and you step forward to help him.

Handing him a file, his fingers brush the back of your knuckles and your eyes flutter in response.

Cheeks warm despite the cold, you turn from Foggy and set about blowing out all the candles until you’re both left in the dark.

You walk to the door and rest your hand on the doorknob. Turning your wrist, you pull the doorknob out the socket.

Wait.

What?

You glance down at your hand.

“What the hell?” A sense of dread fills you.

“What’s wrong?” Foggy asks, immediately reacting to your alarmed tone.

When you don’t respond, he navigates his way around the desk and chairs in the dark to come to your aid.

You turn back to the door and stare at the vacant hole with consternation until you feel Foggy’s chest brush your left shoulder.

“What happened?”

The weight of the doorknob feels condemning in your palm. Foggy leans down, squinting through the dark. His cheek is inches from yours, his height enshrouding you as he peers at your hands, and any other time your heart would be beating out of your chest.

Well, it was, but for the wrong reason.

“Oh.” He says. “Shit.”

“I have no idea!” You insist before he can even turn his grave expression on you and ask. “I guess the other side of it came loose and just fell off.”

“Well. That’s just fantastic.” Foggy hooks his index in the hole and tugs hard. The door jiggles with his attempts but holds fast.

“So we’re locked in our own office?” you conclude.

Foggy growls in frustration. He stalks back over to the desk, muttering curses to himself.

“Perfect. Just perfect. Of course…worst day of my life…”

Foggy pats his waist down, pulls out his phone, and then hits the first speed dial button.

“Hey, Matt.” He says sharply. “…Yeah, the fucking handle fell off the door.”   

Morose, you glance down at the knob still in your palm.

“No, I don’t- Y/N turned the knob and it just fell off!….Yeah, I already did that.”

Foggy sighs, hums in affirmation before his shoulders drop.

“You sure? Yeah…ugh…fine yeah, okay.”

Matt must have asked for the new evidence Foggy was supposed to bring, you assume, as Foggy proceeds to explain the needed information and confirm Matt understood it all.

“Good luck, buddy. Don’t lose.”

Foggy hangs up, ceasing his pacing. His hand runs through his now tangled locks then drops to his waist. He looks at you with resignation.

“Matt says he can handle the case by himself. It’s not a full blown hearing so…he’ll come back as soon as he can. The case has already started so he doesn’t have time to run back here.”

“Oh.” The prickling sensation of tears burns behind your eyes. The last thing you want is to ever be the cause of Foggy’s stress. Hell, you spend most of your time trying to be as valuable to him as possible.

Foggy searches around him until he finds matches. He lights the nearest candle and then sits down behind his desk.

He frowns once he sees you haven’t moved from your tense stance near the entrance.

“Hey.”

Your eyes flit to his face and find Foggy smiling at you with his recognizable optimism. The kind of smile that feels like he’s sharing a secret joke with you. He drags your previous chair around the desk, beside his.

“C’mere and sit back down. We have at least three hours before Matt returns.”

You hum in assent, still clutching the doorknob as you make your way over.

Coming around the desk, Foggy’s hand darts out, shielding your hip from the sharp corner when you almost don’t clear it.

You jump at his fingers against your waist. Foggy jerks back just as quickly, his grimace apparent.

“Sorry! I didn’t want you to run into it. That corner in particular bruises like a bitch.”

You laugh, hoping the airy chuckle doesn’t betray how his fingertips ignited a reaction far from displeased within you.

“I appreciate it. And I assume you’re speaking from experience?” You sit down. Your knee brushes his, tingling with proximity. You’ve never had a reason to sit so close to Foggy before, even in the booths at bars, and without the light, you sense more than see his presence within your personal space.

Foggy snorts. “Yeah, of course. Matt does it all the time.”

“Oh, so you have practice holding his waist too?” You don’t know where this brazen energy arises from, but you blame it on the intimacy of being secluded in the office with Foggy and your only light source being a small flame that smells of cinnamon.

Foggy’s lips split before curving into a smirk. He narrows his eyes.

“Are you accusing me of making a grab at you?”

You shake your head frantically.    “No! Sorry, that was stupid. I-“

Foggy laughs, waving your apology away.

“I would hope you think more highly of me to at least buy you dinner first.” He reasons, pursing his mouth into an easy smile.

You bite your lip, eyes widening at the suggestion. Was he serious? Or were you letting your feelings cloud an obvious joke?

“Of course I think highly of you, Foggy.” You say, settling into the chair. You set the doorknob on the desk. Your brow furrows as it reminds you of how Foggy was trapped here with you instead of at the courthouse winning the case he’s worked so hard on.

“Y/n?”

“Hm?”

“Seriously, don’t feel bad about the door. This whole shitty place is falling apart.” Foggy gestures vaguely around him. Foggy must have mistaken your silence as guilt. He’s correct in assuming so, but why did he have to read you so damn well?

“No, I know…I just feel bad for you because you deserve to be in that courtroom.”

“Ah, don’t sweat it. Matt’s got it handled. I’m sure they prefer the handsome lawyer down there anyways. Case will go in our favor that way.” He chuckles.

“Handsome?” You frown, not getting the punchline.

His eyes flicker over your face as if to gage how serious you are being.

Foggy shrugs. “Out of the two of us, Matt’s the better lawyer, both in the legal department and looks department.” His half-hearted laugh fails to win you over.

“That isn’t- that’s not true.” You stumble over your words, because it would be foolish to deny the attention the brunet lawyer garners on a consistent basis. However, you weren’t about to accept Matt’s good looks at the cost of denying Foggy’s attractive features either.

Foggy snorts. He shakes his head, hair brushing his shoulders as he does so and you’re overcome with an intense need to make him realize just how important he is to everyone. To you.

“Foggy, you’re incredible to watch in action.”

Foggy’s frown is near comical with his exaggerated pout. You lean in, determined to convince him.

“Foggy, you’re a hell of a good lawyer, too. If Matt is so talented then he wouldn’t partner with someone who wasn’t on his level. The two of you have your own firm. Matt’s not your boss. He’s your equal. That goes for the ‘looks’ department as well. You’re an attractive, generous, compassionate lawyer and it’s a privilege to work with you.”

Foggy’s expression is unreadable as he listens to you rant. His eyes search your face, flitting back and forth with thoughts known only to him. His brow falters slightly and you fear he’s uncomfortable with your impromptu speech.

But eventually, that full mouth of his turns upwards.

Unfortunately, the smile he wears accompanies a glimmer in his eye that makes you lean back into your own chair.

Foggy follows you, invading your breathing space with the heady scent of his aftershave and a hint of shampoo akin to vanilla.   

“What other traits do I possess?”

All at once you realize how revealing your compliments are. Blooming crimson, you attempt a verbal retreat that Foggy has no intention of allowing.

“Oh, um…I didn’t-I just mean…”

“C’mon, tell me! Attorney client privilege.” Foggy winks, his grin upheld and only growing bolder as he rests his cheek on his fist, full attention on you now.

Well, you did wish for that.

“Technically, to be your client I would need to pay you first.” You throw out, if only to prolong the inevitable corner of confession he was backing you into.

“Aha! So you do learn a thing or two around this office. I’ll only charge you five bucks.” Foggy retorts easily enough.

“I don’t have money on me, but since you’ve been known to accept fruit baskets, would you accept other forms of payment?”

“What do you have in mind?” Foggy’s grin is downright devious.

Your eyes widen as you effectively have backed yourself into the corner you were trying to avoid.

A nervous laugh bubbles from your racing heart as you shake your head, waving your hand too for good measure.

“Nothing! I’m kidding, Foggy.”

“Blood money? Was it blood money?”

“No?…No, it was a stupid joke.”

“Tell me.” Foggy sits up, his demeanor becoming serious.

“Please?” He whispers.

You chew on your lower lip, trying to swallow down the thundering of your heart as silence permeates the dimly lit atmosphere between you two.

Maybe it’s the influence of the warm fire painting Foggy’s gaze in such a soft, accepting light, as if he already knows what you’re thinking - or is even feeling it too. Maybe it’s the months of holding back the truth from someone you would tell anything to in a heartbeat. Maybe it’s the hope that ultimately outweighs the anxiety that causes you to admit it.

No longer do the candles, blizzard, or darkness feel like a hindrance. Now they feel intimate, cozy, and warm.

Romantic.

“I was gonna say…something super corny like, “just my undying affection.” You feel like an idiot, grimacing with the confession.

Your eyes dare to check Foggy’s expression, knowing he’s probably gonna reel back in aversion.

Instead, Foggy scoffs, shaking his head slightly. “You’re affection? Jeez, now that’s nowhere near corny.” He purses his lips and his hair brushes his cheek as he shakes his head.

“Earning your attention, let alone your affection - damn, I would win a hundred cases for you, guaranteed!”

You want to blame the playful words as an excuse to ignore the sincerity in his tone, but your body reacts before you can, heart leaping with a thrill of joy and your lips begging for more.

“Guaranteed?”

“Nothing drives a man like his unwavering passion for the woman he adores.”

You must look crazed, in the throes of shock as your brain tries to process the meaning behind his words. Foggy adores you? Really?

Your mouth continues to take the lead.

“You mean that?”

Foggy lifts his hand in the distance between you, which is scarce, and hesitates a second before placing his warm hand atop both your hands picking at each other’s fingertips. The weight of his palm and the comfort of his grip squeezes your fretting hands still. You release a soft exhale.

“Y/n, I’ve never been more serious.    I’ve adored every detail of yours since you graced my office.”

You don’t know what to say, so you nod.

You keep nodding until it dawns that your feelings are reciprocated, perhaps more than you dared hope for.

And then you’re smiling, beaming, and still nodding, as Foggy brings the hand up from your grasp and cups your cheek, smoothing his thumb over in a silent hello before he presses his lips to your mouth.

You press in, feeling him wholly as mint overwhelms your senses. Your lips move with his, chin lifting as you chase his mouth and he meets you once more, applying pressure before he withdraws, and releases your bottom lip from his teeth.

You can’t see much in the dark anyways, but right now you can’t see a thing. Only spots that accompany the ringing in your ears. You might be light-headed too.

Your dazed silence breaks when Foggy’s whisper begins to escalate.

“Before I have a heart attack…tell me I didn’t screw this up. If I read it wrong and you were just joking-“

“No, no! It’s just…I can’t believe you like me back.” Your laugh is a soft exhale before a sharp intake of breath.

“This isn’t some ‘lights go out and we’re vulnerable in the dark confession.” Foggy says as he cups your face once more.

“I mean every word I say in the dark.” He kisses you again and you welcome his eager affection before he pulls back. You open your eyes just in time for the lights flicker on with a stumbling hum as the building regains power.

“And the light.” Foggy tacks on to his previous statement.

You snort, biting your lip in vain to stop your giddy smile.

“That was pretty fucking cool timing if you ask me.” He says, the same elated grin on his flushed visage.

“That was, I’ll admit.” You laugh. You run your tongue across your lips, savoring the taste of his kiss.

“I wish someone could have witnessed it.” Foggy continues to rave, basking in your growing smile of amusement.

“I did.”

Matt stands in the doorway with a wicked grin.

“Missing something?” He asks. Your eyes flit down to his hand.

The other side of the doorknob.

Matt waltzes over to the desk, grabs the doorknob, then returns to the entry and slides it back into place.

Your frown deepens when he unpockets a screw. Within ten seconds the door is fixed with a good rattle to test it out.

“Lucky thing the case got canceled. You guys would have been stuck in this room all night.” Matt says, passing you both on his way to his office. Presumably to start the next caseload.

Foggy breaks first, swiveling in his chair to jab a finger at Matt’s retreating back.

“You bastard!”

Matt spins around once he’s behind the door of his office. He gives ample time to leave his smirk on display as he closes the door in a slow, dramatic fashion until it clicks with finality.

And with it, a realization of his strange behavior today.

You gasp.

Matt never left the building.

[duchessdulcet]

Reblogging this again, because it is PEAK <3

[ardentprose]

I still can't comprehend how this blew up so much because to me its just sweet and simple but I APPEECIATE IT SO MUCH!! So glad you're still enjoying it. <3

[danysdaughter]

✰ Sweet Love, All Night Long

pairing | pre-infinity!war!bucky x fem!reader word count | 19.1k words summary | it becomes your responsibility to help the winter soldier heal—not just his body, but the fractured remnants of his mind. what begins as stern guidance slowly grows into something deeper, as you teach him how to be a man again, not a weapon. tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, canon-compliant post–civil war, inspired by Avatar, reader inspired by neytiri, piv sex, unprotected sex, riding, mating press, missionary, desperate touching, body appreciation, emotional sex, breast fixation, lowkey carnal sex, bucky goes primal, creampie, ONE-ARM!BUCKY, fierce!reader, cheeky/playful!reader, shy!reader, angst with comfort, slowburn, lotssss of yearning and longing, mutual pining, bucky healing, emotionally repressed idiots, shuri&t'challa cameos, death of an animal, mythical creatures, wakandan religious and culture practises, meditation, buckys literally whipped, very very emotional aftercare a/n | kms if this flops, deadass

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

MASTERLIST

“…He is a grown man,” you said flatly, arms folded, gold rings catching the light. “Why must I look after him like an orphaned sheep?”

T’Challa exhaled through his nose, pacing slow, as if you were all still discussing this with grace. Shuri, on the other hand, already looked ten seconds from strangling you with her bare hands.

The courtyard was warm with sun, but the three of you had been at it so long the tea had gone cold.

“You’re not looking after him. You’re—”

“—babysitting him,” you cut in. “A man who has killed how many people? But no, let me put aside my entire life and move back to the outskirts so I can make sure he eats his vegetables.”

Shuri’s eyes rolled so hard you thought they might stay back there.

“It is not babysitting. It’s helping him adapt,” she bit back, flicking her fingers in the air like she could swat your sarcasm. “The recovery process is not just about breaking trigger words. He has to be among people. Real people. And you are the only one who will not try to fix him.”

You scoffed, looking between them.

“You two clearly do not value my life. You should say it plainly. You want me to die at the hands of a haunted white man with one arm.”

T’Challa sighed through his nose. “He is not haunted. You are someone who understands silence. Who moves with intention. Who—”

“Who can babysit the winter beast?” you snapped, pushing to your feet. “No. No, this is not fair.”

“You are being dramatic,” Shuri muttered.

“I am being honest,” you bit back, tone sharp but low. “You want me to drag a man out of his nightmares and into the sun like it’s my duty. Why me?”

“Because you can,” came the voice from the stone archway—regal, steady, commanding.

You all turned at once. Queen Ramonda stood framed in gold and violet, hands clasped neatly before her, face composed but clearly unimpressed.

“I could hear your arguing from the throne room, for Bast’s sake,” she said mildly. “Must you bicker like wild dogs every time a request is made?”

All three of you stilled. Like children caught misbehaving.

You spoke first, pointing a hand toward the siblings. “Queen Mother, you must listen to what outrageous things your children are asking of me. They wish to exile me to the outskirts with a half-frozen foreign soldier who wakes with blood on his breath.”

Ramonda gave you that look, the one she’d perfected over years of dealing with all three of you. Calm. Measuring. Ever so slightly amused. “Perhaps the soldier needs someone who will not flinch from the truth. And perhaps you need someone who reminds you the world is larger than your comfort.”

You stared at her, mouth parting, “Once again I say, that is not fair.”

She stepped closer, eyes softening, eyes softening, brushing a hand down your arm. “It would be good for him,” she added gently. “And it would be good for you.”

“Why must everything be good for me when it is inconvenient?”

Ramonda moved her hand, cupping your cheek like she was softening you for the kill.

“He is not the same man they froze,” she said quietly. “We have done much. And we will continue to do more. But he cannot learn peace if he is surrounded only by the memory of war.”

You let out a long, annoyed breath. “So you say, ‘Come do this, come do that. Come leave your bed and your garden and your spirit work to go look after the American white man who—reminder—is an infamous serial killer.’”

There was silence. Then Shuri muttered, “He’s not technically a serial killer, it’s more—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“I’m just saying there is a legal distinction—”

“Shuri.”

“I’m just—”

You lifted a hand, silencing her.

Ramonda pressed a kiss to your cheek, knowing it meant you were already halfway convinced. “Let him learn from someone who still speaks to the land,” she murmured. “Someone who still knows how to listen.”

You didn’t answer, but you sighed loud enough for everyone to hear.

T’Challa smiled. Shuri leaned against the railing, victorious.

You walked away mid-eye-roll, calling over your shoulder, “If he so much as breathes wrong near me, I will send him back to the ancestors myself.”

The first thing he felt was air.

Cool, real air—not the sterile chill of cryo, not the chemical weight of lab filters—but air that moved. That breathed. There was birdsong in it. Dry earth. Smoke from a far-off fire. Something floral he couldn’t name.

Bucky blinked, slow and dry-eyed, the light too warm, too gold. His body felt sluggish, heavy with sleep. He was on something soft. No wires, no restraints. His chest rose unevenly, breath catching against the strangeness of… quiet.

And then he heard them. Giggling. Whispering.

He turned his head—sharp pain blooming at the base of his skull—and found three children crouched beside him, their faces painted with thick lines of white and yellow, watching him like he was some museum piece come to life.

The youngest one leaned closer, nose nearly touching his.

“Who—” His voice cracked like dry leaves.

The kids shrieked with delight and bolted for the doorway in a blur of bare feet and swinging beads. One lingered just long enough to poke his knee before running.

“Nakana! I told you not to touch him!”

The voice snapped across the room like a whip—sharp, feminine, unfamiliar.

Feet on packed earth. Cloth shifting. A figure moved past the curtain of the doorway—tall, confident, annoyed in that particular way adults were when children ran just fast enough to escape consequences. She stepped into the light, brushing the curtain aside with the back of her hand. And he saw you.

Painted wrap slung around your hips. A loose tunic tucked at one side. Earrings glinting like fireflies. You were barefoot, one brow raised like this was the mess you’d been warned about.

Bucky’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

You didn’t introduce yourself. You didn’t ask how he felt. You just tilted your chin toward the door, where the last light of day was spilling gold across the dirt floor.

“Come watch the sunset,” you said, like it was the only thing worth doing.

Then you turned and walked out—as if he’d follow, like that choice was his to make. And he made it.

The ground felt strange beneath his feet. Coarse, sun-warmed dirt. Fine dust that clung to his soles as he stepped out of the hut, squinting into the light. The doorway yawned behind him like a throat he’d just crawled out of. No fences. No guards. Just wind and open air.

He hadn’t seen the sun in—

He didn’t know.

Ahead of him, a narrow path wound gently uphill, flanked by thatched roofs and smooth clay homes, smoke curling from chimneys, cloth lines dancing between poles. A child darted past with a kite made of paper and string. Somewhere a woman laughed, deep and unbothered. The village breathed in rhythm. It felt… alive.

He turned, slow and aimless, until he spotted her.

You.

At the far edge of the clearing, your back to him, already walking—effortless, upright, that same piece of bright cloth now pulled across your shoulders. Your earrings flashed once in the sun before you passed into shadow.

You didn’t look back.

Others were walking, too—small groups, elderly men, a mother with a sleeping baby slung across her back. All of them moving in the same direction. Toward the slope. Toward the horizon.

Bucky didn’t think. Didn’t ask.

He just followed. Barefoot, steps uneven, like the ground might swallow him if he hesitated. The air was too clean. His body felt foreign—stiff, lighter, missing something. His arm…

He glanced down. Still gone. Just skin and metal and a quiet absence where something used to be.

But you were still moving. Up ahead, you slipped between two trees, and he picked up his pace without meaning to. The wind tugged at your top. Your hands stayed loose at your sides, steady, sure.

You heard his footsteps before he spoke—uneven, a little slow, like he hadn’t used his legs in months. (He hadn’t.)

The slope had leveled out by the time he reached you. You were already seated on the flat rock at the ridge, legs folded beneath you, elbows resting on your knees. The view stretched wide below, the village glowing in the last of the sun, children chasing goats through the paths, smoke rising from cooking fires.

He hovered a few feet behind you, hesitant.

“Where... am I?” His voice was scratchy, like rusted hinges. You didn’t turn.

“A village on the outskirts of Wakanda,” you said simply.

There was a pause. He stepped a little closer, slow and careful. “How long was I out?”

“Six months.”

“Six—?” He let out a quiet breath, and you heard him shift his weight like the number knocked something loose in his ribs. “And the Avengers?”

You lifted a shoulder. “I don’t keep up with Western affairs.”

Another pause. He didn’t take offense. You weren’t offering any. “Right,” he muttered. “’Course.”

The wind picked up slightly, carrying the smell of stew and sun-warmed stone. You felt him settle into a crouch beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the tension still tucked into his posture—like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs now that they weren’t weapons.

“Can I get your name?” he asked after a moment.

You tilted your head, half-glancing at him, not quite meeting his eyes. You said it clear and even, shaped by your tongue the way it was meant to be. No pause. No simplification. You didn’t shrink it down for him.

He winced. “Could you—sorry—can you say that again?”

You sighed, “Listen closely this time.”

And you said it slower, more deliberate, each syllable resting in the air between you like a stone placed carefully on sacred ground.

He nodded, repeating it under his breath, not quite right—but trying.

You didn’t correct him. The two of you just watched as the sun dipped low behind the hills, casting the sky in molten gold, when the rest of the villagers began to arrive—a slow trickle of movement from behind, soft chatter and rustling feet.

Children in linen wraps. Old men with carved walking sticks. Women with bowls of roasted groundnuts, passing them between gentle hands. They settled across the slope in small clusters, all facing west, as if the sun itself had summoned them.

It did this time every month.

You scooted slightly to one side on the flat stone, patting the space beside you without looking at him.

“Sit.”

Bucky hesitated only a moment before lowering himself beside you, still stiff, still quiet, the kind of quiet that held years in its throat. You didn’t watch him. Just kept your gaze on the fading orange sky.

“You were taken out of cryostasis a few days ago,” you said, voice even. “Your body was... overwhelmed. Princess Shuri gave you a sedative to keep the transition gentle. Let your muscles wake slowly. Let your heart catch up.”

He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you. Listening.

“You’ve been asleep for three days. Not unconscious—just... resting. Floating.”

Another pause.

“Once a month, we will go into the city. Shuri is still working to untangle what they did to you. She wants to... what did she call it...” You squinted slightly, mimicking Shuri’s tone. “Rewire the synaptic trauma. Remove the trigger pathways.”

Bucky blinked slowly. “So... you’re here to babysit me.”

You didn’t smile, but something near it tugged at your mouth.

“Do not say that in front of King T’Challa. I said the same thing and he got very defensive.”

That got a sound out of him—a small huff. Almost a suprised laugh, if you squinted at it hard enough.

The sky shifted deeper into indigo, casting long shadows across the rocks. The villagers behind you fell quiet. It always did when the last light left the ridge.

You glanced at him then, properly.

He looked... tired. Older than the last time you'd seen him—which, technically, was when he was still asleep in Shuri’s lab. But now, in the open air, the hollows beneath his eyes spoke more clearly.

“You are safe here, Sargeant Barnes,” you said, steady. Not soft, not firm. Just true. “The outside world will not touch you while you are in Wakanda.”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his gaze on the horizon, jaw tight. “It’s James,” he said, low. “But most people call me… Bucky.”

You nodded once, tucking the name into your chest like a small seed.

“Alright then, Bucky.”

Neither of you spoke again.

The sun disappeared, and the sky gave way to stars.

The spot was quiet—further out than most dared to walk alone. You liked that about it.

You sat beneath the same tree every morning, where the grass grew uneven and the air stayed cooler longer. The village lay behind you, just out of sight, and in the distance, birds called to one another in a rhythm older than memory.

He was supposed to be meditating.

You cracked one eye open.

He wasn’t.

The soldier sat across from you, legs folded, posture tight like someone was going to shoot at him any second. His expression was too still, jaw too tense. Eyes closed, yes—but not in the way they should be. Not present. Not breathing. Not with you.

You could see the truth in his mouth. A kind of practiced stillness—the kind you learned when the only time you closed your eyes was to pretend you were human. You exhaled through your nose and let the quiet drag a little longer.

Then, plainly, “You are faking.”

His eyes opened—guilty, but not surprised, “What?”

“You are faking,” you repeated, sharper now. “You are not in your body. You are just... sitting there, pretending.”

He rubbed his hand down his face—his only hand—and gave you a tired shrug, “I don’t see how this helps. I’m not exactly a breathe deeply and find your center kind of guy.”

You stared at him. “You don’t have to believe in anything,” you said. “It is not magic. It is awareness.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Your nervous system is still reacting to things that aren’t there. Your heart still jumps like someone else owns it. Your mind doesn’t know your body’s awake yet. That is what meditation is for.”

“I’m just—” he started, then stopped. “It feels pointless.”

“It is not,” you said, firmer now. “Because if you ever want to get those demon words out of your head, if you want Shuri to rewire the damage, you have to give her something to work with. Your brain is still running Hydra’s script, and if you’re not even willing to sit with your breath, how do you expect to undo any of it?”

His mouth opened slightly. Nothing came out.

“I cannot help you,” you said, quieter now, “if you don’t want to be helped.”

You looked away, letting your hands settle back into your lap. He was quiet for a while—long enough for the wind to shift, pulling a few dry leaves across the packed earth between you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Uncertain. “Can we try again?”

You looked at him—properly this time.

His eyes weren’t guarded now. No walls. Just tiredness. Willingness, maybe. Something softer.

You gave him a long, unreadable look, then nodded once. “Alright.” You closed your eyes, slowly, and this time... you felt him do the same.

No pretending. Just breath.

He wasn’t sure when it changed.

At first, it was just meditation. Eyes closed, back straight, breathing in rhythms he didn’t believe in. But then it became more.

Sweeping the dirt path that led down to the well. Carrying baskets of grain. Hauling stones for someone’s new roof. Lifting crates with his one arm while the villagers watched in quiet silence, like they couldn’t decide if he was a guest or a tool.

You never told him it was for his benefit. You just handed him the rope and pointed. “Pull,” you’d said, tossing a bundle of dried grass at his chest one morning. “You are not made of glass.”

You never coddled him. Never flinched around him. You didn’t offer long-winded speeches or hold his hand through the work. Mostly, you barked instructions and walked away.

He liked that. More than he wanted to admit.

You snapped at him when he did something wrong—called him slow, unobservant, unfocused. Two days ago, he dropped one of the ceramic bowls from the communal kitchen, and you’d stared at him for five seconds before muttering, “Ignorant child.”

And then walked off.

He almost smiled. He hadn’t been called that in decades. Maybe ever.

But hey—at least it was better than being pitied. Better than being looked at like he was something shattered and fragile, waiting to cut whoever came too close.

You didn’t look at him like that. You looked at him like a chore. Like a reluctant task assigned to you by fate and family. And strangely, that made him try harder.

You didn’t ask about his past. You didn’t hover when he had nightmares. You didn’t whisper to the other villagers behind his back—or if you did, you never did it where he could hear.

What you did do was offer him work. Direction. Stillness. A quiet place to sit when the tremor in his fingers wouldn’t stop. And somehow, that mattered more than anything anyone had said in years.

He wasn’t sure what they were celebrating this time.

From inside his hut, the sound bled in slowly—the steady pulse of drums, laughter rising and falling like a tide, children yelling each other’s names across the courtyard. Someone sang near the firepit. A voice he didn’t recognize. Several hands clapping along, rhythm sharp and fast.

It wasn’t unpleasant. Just... too much.

He sat on the edge of his mat for a while, trying to breathe through the heat that settled behind his ribs. It wasn’t panic, not really. But it wasn’t comfort either. His skin felt too tight. The air too loud. His thoughts too sharp around the edges.

Eventually, he pushed to his feet and stepped outside.

The sky was dark—stars blinking through the smoke trails drifting from the fire. Lanterns hung from the wooden beams, casting soft yellow light across the center of the village, where people were gathered in loose clusters. Dancing. Eating. Singing. Moving like their bodies belonged to the moment.

And there you were—almost dead center.

Bright cloth wrapped around your waist. Dozens of tiny golden hoops hanging from your ears. Your hands clapped in time with the drumbeat, your mouth moving with the lyrics of a song he didn’t know. You weren’t the loudest or the most noticeable—but the way people naturally made room around you told him everything.

He crossed the space slowly, cutting through laughter and firelight, until he was just close enough to speak without being overheard.

“Think I’m gonna go for a walk,” he muttered, voice low, almost under his breath.

You didn’t turn your head. Didn’t stop clapping. Didn’t even miss a beat. “I am not your keeper,” you said easily. Not unkind. Just matter-of-fact.

He huffed softly—the closest thing he ever got to a laugh—and gave a small nod you probably didn’t see. And then he turned, slipping past the edge of the celebration like smoke, heading off into the night.

He didn’t know how far he ended up walking.

The ground changed gradually beneath him—the soft packed dirt near the village giving way to stretches of dry veld, low grass brushing against his ankles, warm and clean underfoot. The sky above was still wide, scattered with stars, but out here, the air tasted different. Earthier. Older.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, letting his shoulders drop for the first time all day. He kept walking. No path. Just instinct.

The veld slowly thickened—shrubs first, then low trees, then taller ones that curved toward the moonlight like they were reaching for something. The sounds changed too. The distant hum of the village faded behind him, replaced by the rustle of leaves, the call of some bird he didn’t recognize, the chirping of something small and fast darting through underbrush.

And beneath it all, steady and sure, the sound of running water. He moved toward it.

Every now and then, he’d slow—not because he was tired, but because something would catch his eye. A strange patterned insect climbing a tree trunk. A glowing flower the size of his hand. A lizard with golden eyes that watched him like it understood something he didn’t.

He didn’t touch anything. Just looked. It was quiet here. But not empty.

When he reached the water, it was shallower than he expected—a smooth stream cutting through the trees, tumbling over dark stone in gentle cascades. He crouched down by the edge, dipping his fingers into it. Cool. Clean. Real.

He sat there a while. Just listening. Not thinking. Not fighting anything. Just… being. No boots. No guns. No Winter Soldier. Just him, the wind, the pulse of water moving like a second heartbeat through the dark.

He didn’t hear it until it was too close.

At first, just the shuffle of leaves, the breaking of a branch—then the low, guttural snort that made every muscle in his body lock.

Bucky stood slowly, rising from the streambank, eyes scanning the trees. The light was dim out here, moonlight filtering through thick canopy, casting long shadows over the underbrush.

Another snort. Then another.

He turned.

A warthog stepped out of the trees—broad and low, tusks curling like ivory hooks. It stared at him, twitching its head slightly. Then another emerged beside it. And then two more. Snorting, circling. The ground vibrated faintly beneath their feet.

Shit.

He backed up a step.

One of them growled—an ugly, wheezing sound—and lunged.

Bucky reacted instantly, sidestepping as it charged past, kicking a loose stone at its flank. Another came from the side. He ducked, moving fast, breath short, arm raised.

He didn’t have his left arm. No weapon. No metal. Just instinct.

They weren’t mindless—they were testing him. Flanking. The kind of animals that learned how to bring down bigger things.

He moved toward the stream again, keeping it at his back, trying to funnel them. He landed a solid kick against one’s shoulder, stumbled, pivoted—

And then the big one came. It was almost silent, massive, barreling through the trees like it had been waiting for its moment. Bucky turned too slow.

The impact knocked the breath from his chest, sent him crashing backward into the dirt. His head hit the ground hard enough to blur his vision. He grunted, legs kicking, trying to push it off—its tusk caught his side, not piercing, but grinding hard into his ribs.

Then—

THWIP.

A sound cracked the air. The warthog stilled. Another second passed before it collapsed sideways, heavy and limp. Blood pooled quick and dark beneath its belly.

The others froze. And then, as if obeying some silent command, they scattered. Back into the underbrush. Vanished like ghosts.

Bucky lay there on his back, blinking up at the canopy, breathing hard. Then he turned his head.

You stood between the trees, bow still half-lowered, another arrow notched loosely between your fingers. The celebration wrap still clung to your waist. Your hair was mussed, cheeks flushed like you’d run here fast.

Bucky blinked up, dazed, ribs aching.

You didn’t rush toward him. You didn’t say anything. You just stood there, framed by the trees, breathing a little hard.

He looked back at you. Mud on his back. Shirt torn at the shoulder. Dirt on his face. One arm pressed to the ground.

And the two of you just... stared at each other.

His breathing hadn’t even steadied yet. He was still flat on his back, arm aching, ribs sore, heart drumming uneven against his spine. The warthog’s body slumped a few feet from him, blood pooling from its flank where your arrow had pierced through clean.

He looked at you again, still standing just beyond it. “Thanks,” he managed, voice rough.

You turned your head sharply toward him. “Don’t thank me.”

The words came fast. Not cruel, but firm. Your jaw was tight. “Do not thank me for this.”

You pointed to the dead creature between you, with weight, like you needed him to see it. To really look. “This is sad,” you said, kneeling slowly beside it. “Very sad only.”

He pushed himself upright, wincing a little as he leaned on his arm, dirt still stuck to the side of his face. “What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Let it maul me to death?”

You didn’t look at him right away. Your hands moved quietly, efficiently—fingers brushing through the coarse bristles of the warthog’s fur, your other hand gripping the arrow still lodged in its side.

You pulled it out in one motion. Clean. No hesitation. “Would you not protect your home,” you said softly, still not meeting his eyes, “if a stranger wandered in?”

He blinked, saying nothing.

“He wasn’t evil. He was defending what he knew.”

You laid your palm flat against the animal’s neck, eyes lowered. “We are not like your western people,” you said. “We do not kill for fun. Or pride. Or sport. All life has value in Wakanda.”

There was no judgment in your voice. Just truth. Plain and unmoving.

You lowered your head slightly and whispered something low under your breath—a few words in Xhosa, voice soft and unhurried, almost like a lullaby. A parting gesture.

Bucky watched you, lips pressed together, jaw tense with something that wasn’t quite shame, but lived near it.

You finally glanced at him—your eyes skimming his shoulder, then down his arm. The fabric was torn just above his bicep, and there, beneath the edge, blood. Not much. But enough to pull your mouth into a thin, unimpressed line.

You didn’t sigh. You didn’t roll your eyes. You just reached down, placed your palm gently over the warthog’s neck once more, a slow farewell, then stood.

“Come,” you said simply, brushing your fingers against your thigh to clear the dirt. “Let me help you.”

He didn’t argue. He rose behind you without a word, steps a little slower now, and fell in step as you turned back toward the path. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. The trees closed behind you like a curtain, muting the sounds of the forest—leaving only the soft rhythm of your feet in the grass, his breathing just behind yours, and the hum of crickets filling in the spaces where conversation might’ve gone.

By the time the village came back into view, the celebration had mostly fizzled out.

The fire still smoldered low in the pit, casting orange light across scattered baskets and half-finished plates. A few villagers moved quietly between the homes, collecting things in tired silence. Someone’s laughter drifted faintly from behind one of the larger huts, but even that was subdued. The pulse of the night had passed.

You didn’t slow as you reached the center, only shifted your path slightly—guiding him past his own hut, toward yours.

He followed.

You held the beaded curtain aside as you stepped through. The interior was warm, dimly lit by candles spread out. Neatly arranged baskets lined the shelves, bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling in fragrant clusters. There were folded cloths stacked in a corner. A clay bowl of water sat near a wooden stool.

You crossed the space, already moving with purpose. “Sit.”

He did.

The cloth was warm now—soaked in water and crushed herbs—when you pressed it to the scrape on his upper arm. Not deep, but messy. You didn’t flinch when he winced. Just kept working.

The paste came next—a thick mixture, greenish-brown, smelling faintly of aloe and dried mint. You scooped a bit with your fingers and began to smooth it over the broken skin, slow and deliberate.

He watched you. Didn’t speak at first. But then, softly, without looking up, “I’m sorry. For the warthog.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers paused just slightly before you pressed a little more paste into the wound, careful. “It is finished now,” you said after a breath. “In the past.”

You met his eyes, steady but not sharp. “And… I doubt T’Challa would be pleased if you got killed under my care.”

That earned a small huff from him. You almost smiled. Almost. You set the bowl down.

“Still,” he said, quieter now, “you’ve done a lot. I haven’t exactly given back the same.”

You tilted your head, watching him.

His face was serious. Not guilty—not exactly. Just... honest. And unsure. Like he wasn’t used to naming these things out loud.

You wiped your fingers on a cloth, then folded it neatly. “I don’t need much,” you said. “You try. That is enough.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure how to respond.

You didn’t wait for one. You stood and moved to rinse your hands at the small bowl near the corner, shoulders relaxing slightly now that the adrenaline had passed. The room smelled like ash and herb oil, and you could feel the weight of the day starting to settle into your back.

The lab always smelled faintly metallic—polished, too clean, like it had never seen real dirt in its life.

Bucky sat on the edge of the diagnostic table while Shuri adjusted something near his temple, wires trailing from a slim headset and disappearing into the projection panel above him. His shirt was off. The room was cool. The back of his neck itched.

You were standing at the foot of the table, arms crossed, watching everything with narrowed eyes like you were trying to make sense of it through sheer observation alone.

A holographic projection hovered above him—a soft blue outline of his brain lit up in faint pulses, scattered red flickers trailing across certain regions.

“What does that do?” you asked, pointing at a blinking node near the center.

“It maps neural response patterns,” Shuri said, without looking up.

“But why is it glowing like that?”

“Because it is active.”

“What kind of activity?”

Shuri exhaled—not exasperated yet, but on the edge.

“It just is, alright? Can you please not do this right now—”

“Do what?” you asked. “Ask questions? I thought this was a lab. Are you not supposed to love curiosity?”

“I love informed curiosity,” Shuri muttered, moving to the display console. “You are just pointing at things and saying ‘what’s that?’ like a child.”

“If you were really that smart,” you said under your breath, “you’d be able to focus through a few questions.”

That did it.

“You are distracting me.”

“Then maybe you should be better at multitasking.”

“Maybe you should go sit down.”

“Maybe you should say please.”

Bucky lay back against the table, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t laughing—not really—but there was something easy about the way he exhaled. Something lighter.

He’d never seen you like this.

Not still. Not sharp. But familiar in a way he didn’t expect. Comfortable enough to annoy someone. To be annoying. There was a rhythm to it—not harsh, not for show.

Shuri flicked through a few data fields, ignoring you now. You were muttering under your breath about how you’d name the next hologram just to bother her.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” she asked.

“This is my better thing,” you said. “Watching you stress about brainwaves.”

You watched the blue projection pulse gently above Bucky’s head, those same red flickers darting across the map of his mind like warning signs. You didn’t understand all of it—the readings, the frequencies, the cortical tracking—but you understood what mattered. The shape of a wound. The parts that still lit up when they shouldn’t.

“When can you take them out?” you asked, eyes still on the light.

Shuri didn’t look up from the console.

“Take what out?”

“The demon words.”

That earned you a slow, deliberate blink from across the table. “They are called trigger words,” she said, enunciating each syllable like you were hard of hearing. “And you know that. Don’t act brand new.”

You rolled your eyes. “Demon words sounds more accurate.”

“That’s not how science works.”

“That’s not how trauma works either.”

Shuri gave you a flat look, but didn’t argue.

Behind you, Bucky shifted slightly on the table, adjusting the way his head rested against the padding. You hadn’t noticed how you’d leaned in—just a little closer to where he lay. Not hovering, not touching. Just there. Like your body had moved on its own. Like you were with him now, instead of just watching from a distance.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He just noticed.

The faint change in your voice when you asked the question. The crease between your brows when Shuri answered. The way your elbow nearly brushed the edge of the table now, when ten minutes ago, you were standing by the console.

Shuri sighed and ran a hand down her face.

“It’s been two months,” she said. “These things take time. I cannot erase conditioned trauma with a switch. I’m working on a way to reroute the neural spikes when the words are spoken, but his system is still adapting to being stable.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing the answer. You didn’t press further. You just looked back up at the display—not with confusion, but with focus. Like you were trying to memorize something that couldn’t be learned in words.

The lab went quiet again, save for the soft hum of the monitors and the occasional clack of Shuri’s fingers across the console.

A Few Weeks Later

The river water was warm beneath your hands. You wrung out the cloth and snapped it once, sharp, before folding it over your knee to scrub the next piece.

The women around you moved with easy rhythm—buckets sloshing, fabric slapping stone, idle conversation drifting between them in patches. One of the elders was humming, her voice low and tuneless, but steady. A child ran past the edge of the clearing barefoot, laughing at nothing.

You dipped your hands into the basin again, reached for another wrap, and glanced up without thinking.

He was further down the slope, maybe twenty or thirty steps away, near the bend in the river where the trees curved in tighter and the bank dipped. Not with the other men hauling baskets of cassava or arguing about whose turn it was to carry the grain. Just... there. A little separate. Like always.

He had one of the wide clay basins hoisted against his hip, arm hooked under it to steady the weight as he moved slowly across the uneven ground. One-armed. Careful. Determined. His shirt clung damp to his back, sweat darkening the fabric between his shoulder blades. His jaw was tight with focus, but not frustrated—just focused.

You didn’t mean to keep watching. But you did. Just for a second.

There was something about the way he moved now—less guarded than before. Still cautious, still scanning his surroundings like it was habit, but not shrinking from it. He wasn’t waiting for approval. He was just working. Sweating. Trying.

He looked up mid-step—maybe sensing your eyes on him—and met your gaze before you could shift it away.

It wasn’t a long look. No lingering. Just a beat. A pause. His expression didn’t change. Yours didn’t either. Then you looked back down, hands moving automatically over the fabric in your lap.

You didn’t smile. You just kept scrubbing.

But you were still thinking about it long after he passed out of your eyeline.

The air had cooled, but the stone beneath you was still warm.

You sat across from him again, legs folded, palms resting against your knees. The same tree overhead. The same quiet rhythm of crickets starting up for the night. The wind carried the faint smell of cooked grains and herbs from someone’s home nearby. A dog barked once. Then quiet again.

He had his eyes closed. Jaw relaxed. Shoulders looser than they used to be. Not completely still, but close. “The kids,” he said quietly, breaking the silence, “they keep calling me something.”

Your eyes stayed closed, but a faint crease touched your brow. “What do they say?”

“It's hard to say,” he murmured, a little sheepish. “It starts with... an 'N'? Ends with something like ‘lope’?”

You opened your eyes slowly. “Ingcuka emhlophe.”

He looked over at you, “What does it mean?”

“White wolf.”

He was quiet a second. Then, “Why?”

You shifted slightly, your fingertips brushing against the ground beside you as you spoke. “Because that is how they see you.”

He turned his head toward you more fully now, just enough to really listen.

“You are not a monster here,” you said, voice calm. “You are a wounded predator. One who was forced to kill. One who now needs healing. And structure.”

You let the words settle. Gave them space. “And,” you added, “because you are not one of us.”

His eyes dropped at that. Not sharply. Just a quiet motion—a flicker downward, like he’d already known, but it didn't mean he liked hearing it said aloud.

But you weren’t finished. You turned toward him more fully now, arms still resting loosely across your lap. “That does not mean you are alone,” you said. Softer. Measured. “You may not be of us. But you are ours to protect.”

His gaze lifted again, meeting yours.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t mean it as a comfort. Or a promise. It was just the truth. Offered, plainly. Without condition.

He didn’t respond right away. Just blinked once, slow. And let his shoulders drop a little more.

The silence had stretched comfortably now, not heavy but full. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once, low and rhythmic.

Bucky shifted where he sat, thumb tracing over the inside of his palm—a nervous habit you’d started to recognize when he was thinking about how to say something.

“They, uh…” he cleared his throat slightly. “The villagers. Some of them call you something too.”

You looked over at him, but didn’t interrupt.

“I… don’t know how to pronounce it.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Ooh—moy… ya?”

You blinked once, then ducked your head—not fast, but quiet, like you were hiding a smile before it got too visible.

For a second, Bucky wondered if you looked… shy? Not embarrassed. Just unguarded in a way he hadn’t seen before.

“Umoya,” you said, gently. “Almost.”

He watched you, carefully. “What does it mean?”

Your fingers brushed a leaf off your knee. You weren’t looking directly at him now, but your voice softened a little when you spoke.

“Windsister.”

The word sat in the space between you, light and deliberate.

“Why do they call you that?” he asked.

You glanced at him, smiling—a small, close-lipped smile. One that felt like it came from a private place. “I’ll tell you that in time.”

He didn’t push it. Instead, after a beat… “Will you teach me?”

“Teach you what?”

“Your language,” he said. “Xhosa.”

Except he said it wrong—"Kosa," too flat, no shape to it. You smiled again—this time openly—and shook your head a little. “Not ‘kosa.’ It’s Xhosa.” You made the click sound with ease, like it belonged to you. Which it did.

He tried to mimic it, but it came out awkward and slightly too sharp.

You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. “Better,” you said, almost kindly. “But not quite.”

“You’ll teach me,” he said again, like he meant it this time.

You tilted your head, thoughtful, but still smiling. “If you keep trying,” you said, “then yes.”

And then you both went quiet again—but it wasn’t like before. It was lighter now. Settled.

The stars overhead said nothing. But something between you had already shifted

He woke up with the taste of metal in his mouth.

His chest heaved once, twice—sharp, uneven. Like he’d surfaced too fast and the air hadn’t caught up yet. The room was dark, his mat damp beneath his back. The blanket stuck to him, sweat down his spine. His fingers dug into the fabric at his side.

The dream was already slipping.

Just flashes now—hands holding him down, voices in languages he didn’t speak, the jolt in his skull as something snapped in place. A cold room. A number instead of a name. Commands like teeth.

He sat up slowly, pressing his palm to the center of his chest, counting each inhale until the tightness started to loosen. His mouth stayed closed. No sound came out. The kind of panic that was practiced—not new, not rare, just managed.

The hut was still. The village beyond it quieter than usual. Even the dogs weren’t barking.

He stood, movements automatic. No shoes. No wrap over his shoulders. Just stepped outside into the cool night air, his arm curled close to his body like it still expected the other to be there. His breath steamed slightly, fading quick.

He didn’t think about where he was going. His feet knew before he did.

Past the firepit, long since burned out. Past the old tree with the hollow near its roots. Through the side path where the lanterns weren’t lit. The gravel shifted beneath him, cool under his soles. The beaded curtains on the doorway ahead barely moved in the breeze.

Your hut. The one with the low-burning lamp always left on near the far wall. The one that smelled like sage and something citrusy he hadn’t placed yet.

He didn’t pause.

Just stood outside for a beat, the beads brushing faintly against his chest as he breathed once—then lifted his hand to gently part them.

Inside, it was quiet. He knew you weren’t awake. But that wasn’t why he came.

The beaded curtain fell shut behind him with a soft rattle, barely louder than the candle burning low in the corner—its flame guttering in the draft, casting a faint, trembling glow across the walls. The room smelled familiar now. Like oil and wood smoke.

You were lying on your side, one arm curled beneath your cheek, your breathing slow and even. A woven blanket rested low on your hips, the edge of your shawl slipping slightly off your shoulder. Your face was relaxed in sleep in a way he hadn’t seen while you were awake.

Bucky hovered near the doorway for a beat too long. His breath still hadn’t fully leveled out. Sweat clung to his chest, cooled now, uncomfortable. He hadn’t brought anything with him—not a cloth, not even his sandals.

He should’ve left. He almost did.

But his legs carried him forward, slow and quiet. He lowered himself down beside where you lay, not close enough to wake you, but close enough to feel your warmth off the floor. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, not at first. Just let the silence hold him.

You stirred before he realized you were awake. Not startled—not fully. Your eyes blinked open, heavy with sleep, brow creasing faintly as you took in the shape beside you.

Him.

Your gaze moved over his face. His chest. His breathing. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t ask why he was there. You just saw him—flushed, sweaty, jaw tight like he hadn’t fully come down from whatever it was that woke him.

Your hand moved before you spoke. You reached out, resting your fingers gently against his upper arm. Your palm didn’t press or grip. It just touched, soft and grounding, like you were reminding him where he was.

You moved without saying a word, the beads at the entrance rustling faintly as a breeze crept in behind you. The candle in the corner had nearly drowned in its own wax, flickering low and dying out just as you lit another.

Bucky stayed crouched, watching as you crossed the room—still quiet, bare feet brushing over the cool mat as you retrieved a small carved bowl from a shelf near the wall. You reached for the small bundle of dried herbs beside it, crumbling some between your fingers.

He caught the scent even before you struck the match, sharp and earthy, almost bitter, like crushed bark and smoke and something floral buried deep.

“Lie down,” you said simply, nodding to the mat you’d been curled on. Your voice wasn’t soft, exactly. It just wasn’t up for debate.

He hesitated.

You glanced at him, already moving to light the herbs. “Where I was,” you added, as if that would help.

And strangely—it did.

He laid back slow, muscles tense, still shirtless. The mat was still warm from where your body had been. His eyes followed as you knelt beside him, with the bowl between your hands, smoke beginning to rise in soft ribbons.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged.

“I’m going to ease you,” you said simply.

He blinked. “Ease me?”

Your brow lifted faintly as you shifted closer, the bowl now resting just beside his chest. “Breathe it in.”

He gave you a look—wary, frozen. “… You tryin’ to get me high?”

That earned him a slow eye-roll, the first of the night. “Do I look like I have time to poison you?”

You reached out and tilted his head gently sideways, your palm warm against the back of his skull as you lowered him slightly toward the smoke. It curled around his face, slow and sweet, sinking into his lungs before he could second-guess it.

He didn’t resist. Didn’t speak again either.

Your thigh was firm beneath his head as you held him steady, a quiet rhythm to the way your thumb absently moved behind his ear. His eyes fluttered, the tension in his chest loosening incrementally with each inhale.

It didn’t feel like getting high. Not quite. But the weight in his limbs was shifting. His breathing evened. The pounding in his skull—that leftover echo from the dream—finally began to fade.

He felt it first in the weight of his limbs. Like gravity had changed its mind about him—pulled him lower, slowed everything down. Bucky blinked slowly as you guided him back, your hand pressing flat against the center of his chest. Not pushing, just steady. Coaxing.

He let himself fall flat.

The bowl still smoked somewhere nearby, but all he could see was you. Leaning over him now, your silhouette catching candlelight in your hair, your palm cupping the side of his face as your fingers moved to his temple in slow, circular strokes.

His eyes fluttered again. Lulled.

Your thumb skimmed along his brow. You were saying something—not to him exactly—a soft murmur in Xhosa that moved like song under your breath. He didn’t know the words, but the cadence alone sunk into him like warmth. A lullaby hummed in a language he didn’t speak.

He swallowed thickly.

You stayed close, your face just above his, eyes downcast in focus as you massaged around the edge of his skull, careful with the ridges of scar near the base of his hairline.

He sighed. Not because he meant to—it just… escaped. “This is nice,” he mumbled, voice heavy with haze.

Your hands didn’t stop moving.

His eyes cracked open again, barely. “…Your hands are warm.”

Still, you said nothing. Just kept tracing his temple, like drawing a map of him you already knew.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “They used to tie me down,” he murmured. “Did you know that?”

The question wasn’t really a question.

He closed his eyes again. “They thought it was easier. When I was screamin’.”

You didn’t flinch. Not once. Instead, your fingers moved to the edge of his jaw. Gentle. Respectful.

“I hated that room,” he said faintly. “Hated how it smelled. Burnt wires and metal. Like blood and cold sweat.”

Another breath. This one caught a little. He didn’t open his eyes. “You’re the only thing that’s smelled… good. In a long time.”

It was so quiet, you almost thought he’d fallen asleep—except his eyes blinked open again, glassy and half-lidded. Staring straight at you.

“They told me I was a weapon. Like I wasn’t supposed to feel anything.”

You didn’t stop touching him.

“They lied,” he whispered.

His head turned into your palm just slightly. Seeking. Grounding.

“They fucking lied.”

You didn’t mean to linger. But something in his voice—low, cracked open, more confession than conversation—held you in place. Your thumb brushed just under the curve of his cheekbone, and you felt it then, the smallest shift in him.

A lean. A sigh. His body loosening under your hands like a knot coming undone thread by thread.

“I know,” you murmured, so softly you weren’t sure if he heard.

But your hand remained at his face, thumb tracing that same quiet path. His skin was warm now—flushed from the herbs, from the still-fading fear.

“You are not that anymore,” you whispered. “You are not theirs. Not here.” Your words felt like breath. Like they were meant to stay close to him.

He didn’t respond at first. Then, slowly—almost unsure—his right hand lifted. Calloused, scarred, rough. He hesitated before his palm settled lightly over yours. Not holding. Just touching. Covering your hand with a kind of care that startled you.

And then… his lashes lifted. And in that moment, the weight of his gaze hit you like a rush of wind—not cold or cutting, but steady. Deep.

Blue. Honest. Exhausted.

He looked at you like he didn’t know how not to.

You swallowed, suddenly too aware of how close you were, how the candles flickered against the curve of his jaw, how your knees were pressed into the woven mat beside his hip. But you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

“I see you,” you said, and it slipped out before you could decide whether or not to say it at all.

His brow twitched—not a frown, not confusion—just a quiet ripple of emotion you didn’t have words for.

“You are not a weapon,” you added, a little firmer this time. “You are not lost. You are here.”

And he was still staring. Not blinking. Not speaking. Just looking at you like maybe—just maybe—he believed you.

Your heart beat quietly in your chest, a gentle rhythm you were sure he could hear.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. His fingers pressed ever so slightly tighter over yours—not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

You didn’t let go. Neither did he.

The curtain rustled before his eyes had even fully opened.

Morning light bled soft through the thatch walls, and there you were—standing in the entrance of his hut, framed by sunlight and fabric still shifting behind you in the breeze. You had a wrapped bundle in your arms, a satchel hanging over one shoulder, and a look on your face that made him blink.

Not your usual expression. Not the pointed sort you wore when telling him to focus or pull his weight or eat slower. No—this was different. You were… trying not to smile.

“You’re awake,” you said, like it wasn’t fully a question. “Good.”

Bucky sat up on one elbow, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. His shirt clung to him slightly—the nights were warmer now. “Didn’t expect visitors this early,” he muttered, voice still hoarse with sleep. “What’s going on?”

You hesitated for a second—a small pause, almost invisible, but he caught it.

“I want to show you something,” you said at last.

Your eyes flicked to the ground for just a heartbeat. You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. He could see the way your fingers fidgeted briefly around the bundle you were carrying, then stilled with intention.

“It is a little far,” you added. “We will be back before nightfall. Pack something light.”

He blinked again. “Where?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just gave a small shrug and tilted your head toward the basin where he kept his things.

“Not telling?” he asked, still trying to gauge you—trying to figure out why you looked half-excited, half-nervous.

Your gaze finally landed on his, steady this time. “It is… something special,” you said simply. And then, just like that, you turned and stepped back into the morning sun.

The curtain swayed behind you, still fluttering when he stood up.

He packed slowly. His mind didn’t race, but it moved—steady and curious. It wasn’t like you to act unsure. Wasn’t like you to seek his company without a task or a lecture or Shuri’s requests behind it. Something about your voice—the soft lilt, the careful pause—sat low in his chest.

Something special.

He tightened the strap on his satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out into the day, where you were waiting at the edge of the path. Arms still full. Eyes on him now, expectant and quiet.

“Ready?” you asked.

He nodded.

It started with open veld; long grass brushing their legs, morning sun angling down warm and full, but the terrain shifted quickly. The trees grew thicker, their shadows stretching over soft ground as you moved ahead, light on your feet, sure in your steps.

Bucky followed, just a few paces behind. His satchel bumped gently against his side. He watched the way the earth darkened and softened the deeper you went—dry clay giving way to rich soil, winding roots and low, knotted branches marking a path that was clearly familiar to you.

“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” he asked, stepping over a ridge of rocks.

“No.”

You didn’t even look back when you said it—your voice playful, almost sing-song.

Bucky exhaled a small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Will you ever give me a straight answer?”

You turned your head just enough for him to glimpse your smile. “When I feel like it.”

He shook his head, but kept moving. Your pace wasn’t rushed, but it had that same unbothered ease he’d come to recognize in you—like the wind chose its own path and you simply followed.

Birds chattered high in the trees above. The air smelled green and damp and alive.

“You always do this?” he asked after a beat. “Wake people up at dawn, drag them into the jungle?”

“No,” you said over your shoulder, ducking beneath a low branch with fluid grace. “Just the ones I like.”

That earned a real breath of laughter from him—short, surprised, and involuntary.

And you caught it. You didn’t say anything, but he saw your shoulders shift a little. Not in smugness, but in something softer. Like you were pleased with yourself—with him, even—in a way that wasn’t sharp or teasing. Just light.

He realized then that he liked this version of you. This playful one. This confident, grounded energy without the sharp corners. The way you didn’t explain every step but still made it feel like there was nowhere else he was supposed to be.

And he didn’t even mind not knowing where the hell you were going.

They moved through the underbrush in companionable quiet now—his boots crunching lightly on fallen leaves, your bare feet moving soundlessly over earth you knew like breath.

You brushed aside a low-hanging vine, glancing back at him. “Do you know of Bast?”

Bucky blinked. “Your goddess?”

You smiled. “She is not just a goddess.”

The path curved inward, narrowing between thick trunks and flowering branches. As you walked, your fingers reached out absently to the trees—not brushing them, but acknowledging them, as if they’d notice.

“Bast is…” You took a breath, choosing your words carefully. “She is the protector. The first of us. The one who saw we needed help when the world was chaos. She gave the first king his vision. She gave him the heart-shaped herb. She gave him strength, and clarity. She still gives it.”

He didn’t speak, but you could hear his footfalls behind you—steady, quiet.

“She is not like your god,” you added after a moment. “She does not punish. She does not ask us to kneel.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. You didn’t see it, but you could feel the curiosity from him like heat.

“She is in the land,” you said softly. “In the wind. The soil. The water. She is breath. She is mercy.”

You stepped over a cluster of stones, your voice low but sure. “When a child is born, we whisper her name over their skin. When someone dies, we sing them back into her arms. That is how we know no one is ever truly gone.”

Bucky was quiet for a long stretch. He didn’t say he didn’t believe in that—didn’t scoff or question or turn away. He just kept following, gaze flicking between the trail and you.

You glanced back again, caught the way his face looked softer than usual. Not skeptical. Just… listening. Open in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“Sounds like a lot to believe in,” he said finally, but his voice was gentler than usual.

You shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s simple.”

The terrain shifted as you led him higher—from jungle undergrowth to uneven stone. The trees thinned, and the light changed with it. What had been filtered green was now brighter, sharper, streaking through cracks in the canopy above.

“Careful here,” you said, offering your hand without ceremony as he eyed the ridge ahead.

He took it without hesitation.

The incline wasn’t steep, but the rocks were slick with moss, and his footing was still off sometimes—one arm making balance harder than it should be. You watched the way his boots scraped and slipped, how his jaw tightened when he stumbled. But he didn’t complain. Not once.

You steadied him by the elbow once, and he let you. It wasn’t until the path leveled that he spoke again, a little breathless. “You Wakandans love hiding things on mountains.”

You snorted. “No one hides them. The world just forgets how to look.”

You moved ahead, parting the tall grass with your hands. It gave way to a clearing—and beyond that, the edge of the cliffs. The wind picked up, rolling over your skin in cool waves. “This is where they used to live,” you said quietly. “The Isisa.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he stepped beside you. “What’s that?”

Your lips tugged upward. “Once, they filled the sky.”

You pointed out over the horizon. The view stretched endlessly—ridges layered like waves, sky sweeping wide and untouched.

“They were winged creatures. Huge, the size of a small plane. Sleek like birds, but not quite. They used to fly in flocks above the cliffs, circling during spiritual rites. Watching. Guiding.”

He glanced at you, watching the way you stared out, like you were seeing more than what was there.

“They were Bast’s messengers,” you said. “People believed they carried souls. That when someone passed, an Isisa would come for them, guide them to the next realm.”

Bucky was quiet.

You didn’t look at him when you added, “They were also protectors. They flew during war. During coronations. During births. When Bashenga became king, and the tribes united… they began to disappear. People thought it was because they had done their part.”

He looked up again, scanning the empty blue sky. “And they haven’t been seen since?”

You hesitated, then gave a small smile. “Not exactly.”

He turned to you.

You looked at him then—really looked. The wind caught your hair, moving it gently. There was a softness to your features now, one he hadn’t seen before this day. You took a breath, grounding yourself.

“Most thought they were extinct,” you said, voice quieter. “But some believe they only return when truly needed. When something sacred is reborn.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than it should’ve. You felt it, and pretended not to. You turned your face to the wind instead, eyes closing briefly, before you continued onwards.

The path narrowed into a ledge carved into the cliffside, half-swallowed by roots and vines. You moved with ease, hands brushing the moss-damp bark, ducking under low-hanging branches. He followed carefully behind you, keeping his steps even, his eyes scanning everything.

The wind shifted as you climbed the last steps—stone smoothed by time and ritual. You turned, offering your hand as he reached the final ridge. He took it.

And then he heard it.

A sharp, high-pitched cry split through the air—haunting and strange, like a hunting eagle crossed with a lion’s growl. His whole body locked up, and his hand unconsciously went to his hip like he expected to find a weapon there.

You didn’t flinch. You only smiled softly and turned your head upward.

That’s when he saw it.

Wings spread wide above the trees, slicing through the sunlight. The creature was massive—its wingspan nearly the width of the cliff itself, casting a long shadow as it descended. Its body was sleek and long, somewhere between reptilian and avian, but graceful in a way that didn’t make sense for something that size. The skin shimmered teal when it caught the light, streaked with gold at the edges of its wings and lined with deep, black butterfly-like patterns.

It wasn’t just beautiful. It was divine.

Bucky’s mouth parted slightly. “Shit.”

You didn’t laugh. You just watched her circle above once, then land effortlessly on a thick branch extending from one of the ancient trees—her claws gripping bark, wings tucking in slowly with a low rumble of breath.

She turned her head toward you. Her eyes were wide and amber-gold, intelligent. Knowing.

You stepped forward, head bowed just slightly—not in fear, but something gentler. A quiet greeting. When you turned back to Bucky, your expression had changed. Something softer, more vulnerable.

“This is Za’ta,” you said quietly. “She is… my soul sister.”

Bucky looked at you, then at the creature, then back at you. You weren’t looking for a reaction. You weren’t showing off. If anything, you looked a little shy—bashful in the way your shoulders tilted, how you rubbed your fingers together absently at your side.

He took a step closer, eyes never leaving Za’ta. “Soul sister?” he said, voice low.

You nodded. “She found me when I was a child. I thought she was a dream. No one believed me at first.”

“And now?”

“Now they call her a sign. A reminder that Bast is still watching. That something lost can still return.”

Za’ta gave another low sound in her throat, deep and resonant, like a purr wrapped in thunder. She didn’t seem threatened by him. She only stared. You stepped closer to the base of the tree and reached up, fingers brushing her forelimb with a familiarity that spoke of years. “She is very protective. So don’t be surprised if she does not like you.”

Bucky gave the smallest huff of amusement. “Fair. Most people don’t.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, your hand still resting on Za’ta’s forelimb. “Come,” you said softly. “She won’t hurt you.”

Bucky stood a few feet back, boots pressed into the soft earth just beyond the tree’s wide roots. His gaze flicked between you and the massive creature now crouched along the thick branch above, wings slowly folding in. His shoulders stiffened slightly.

“She looks like she wants to bite my head off,” he muttered.

You smiled at that, a quiet thing. “Only if I ask her to.”

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

You extended your hand to him—palm up, open—and held it there.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stepped closer. The wind tugged at his hair, and his left sleeve—still pinned and folded neatly—brushed his side as he raised his right hand to meet yours. You wrapped your fingers gently around his and guided his palm toward Za’ta’s snout.

Her breathing shifted as she leaned her head forward just slightly. Her nostrils flared as she scented him, and Bucky went still—not frozen, just… alert. Present.

You watched his face, not the moment itself.

His brows were drawn just slightly, lips parted, eyes wide with something more than awe. Wonder, maybe. He was still looking at her like she was something out of a world he hadn’t earned the right to see.

“She’s incredible,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like her before.”

You didn’t look away from him. “I understand what you mean.”

You said it quietly—so quietly it barely rose over the breeze—but he heard it. Your fingers still laced with his. His handwarm in yours.

For a long moment, he didn’t look away from her. And then he did. His eyes dropped down to yours—slow, like gravity had to drag them—and when they landed, you felt it. Something pulled low in your chest. The hush between you suddenly thick.

You didn’t mean to lean in. He didn’t either.

But you did.

The space between you narrowed inch by inch, slowly, without urgency. Like neither of you realized it was happening until it was. His eyes dropped to your mouth for a breath—just a breath—and you felt his hand tighten around yours slightly, like a tether.

Then—

A sharp screech cut through the air, sudden and piercing.

You both flinched back.

Za’ta’s wings rustled as she shifted her weight impatiently, clicking her jaws once and tilting her head between you. Watching. Demanding.

You exhaled a shaky breath and laughed under it—embarrassed, heat prickling behind your ears.

“She… she hates when the attention is not on her,” you said quickly, stepping back and letting go of his hand. “She has always been like this.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He was still watching you. His expression unreadable—but softer than you realised.

You looked anywhere but at him.

And Za’ta huffed again, smug.

The jungle held its breath.

Night clung thick between the trees, but the clearing was cast in amber—the flames from the ritual fire dancing in wide arcs, casting flickers of gold across both your faces. The logs crackled, popped softly. A slow curl of smoke drifted into the canopy, disappearing into the dark.

Bucky sat cross-legged before it, his bare arm resting loosely on his thigh.You stood across from him, wrapped in your ceremonial drape. Quiet. Still. He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked on the flames, unmoving. His breath was steady, but shallow. Too even. Like if he let it go, he’d break.

“It is time,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond right away. His fingers flexed once against his knee. Finally, his voice came—low and rough. “Are you sure?”

You took a step forward, slow and deliberate. The beads around your ankles chimed gently as you moved through the red light.

“I would not have brought you here if I wasn’t,” you said.

He nodded once, jaw tight. Still didn’t look at you. His voice was quieter the next time. “What if it doesn’t work?”

You watched him, “Then we keep trying.”

“And if it does… if I change—” His throat bobbed. “If I become him again?”

The fire was between you, but only barely. Its warmth licked at your skin. “If it comes to that,” you said gently, “I will stop you.”

He looked up then. His eyes met yours—and you saw it. The fear sitting just behind the surface. The quiet, desperate hope.

You held his gaze. Firm. Steady. “You will not hurt anyone,” you said. “Not tonight. Not here.”

The fire hissed.

Bucky blinked once, then nodded—almost imperceptibly. You saw the way his shoulders drew in, not from shame but from restraint. He wasn’t bracing for failure.

He was bracing for possibility.

You reached into the small carved bowl at your side and pinched a bit of the dark herb Queen Ramonda had prepared—a grounding agent meant to stimulate memory but soften the nervous system. It burned bitter in the flames.

He didn’t flinch.

You closed your eyes for a moment, whispered something under your breath—not for him, but for Bast. Then opened them. You met his gaze again.

The flames painted shadows along his cheekbones, flickering across his skin like something alive, but he didn’t blink. His eyes were fixed on the center of the blaze, shoulders taut, chest rising just a little too fast to be calm.

You took a slow breath, grounding yourself before you spoke.

“Тоска.”

He flinched. Not hard—not visibly—but his body gave a slight jolt, like something deep inside him had twitched on instinct. His eyes didn’t leave the fire, but his jaw clenched.

You continued, voice low but even.

“Ржавый.”

A breath stuttered out of him. You saw it; the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the slight widening of his eyes, like a thread was pulling somewhere in the back of his mind. A place he hated.

“Семнадцать.”

He swallowed thickly. His shoulders rounded in a little tighter, like he was bracing for impact—not physical, but worse. A memory pressing down on him from the inside out.

“Рассвет.”

His breathing hitched again, shallow and audible now. Still no movement. Just his eyes, fixed in the fire, wide and shining.

“Печь.”

A sharp inhale.

“Девять.”

A small tremor in his hand. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t speak.

“Доброкачественный.”

His teeth gritted, muscles in his jaw tight. You could see the glassy sheen now, clinging to his eyes, but he refused to blink. As if even that was too dangerous. Too vulnerable.

“Возвращение домой.”

A flicker. His mouth opened slightly—not to speak, just to breathe. His chest rose in short, sharp pulls. Still, he sat.

“Один.”

The fire popped, as if it had heard. You waited just a second longer. A breath. And then—

“Грузовой вагон.”

It landed like stone dropped in still water.

You watched his face. The glassiness turned to wetness. One tear—not sudden—just… there. Sliding down the side of his face, unbothered by pride. His mouth parted with a sound so small you almost missed it. Not a cry.

A release. A breath he'd been holding for years. You moved then, quietly and carefully, until you were kneeling beside him. You didn’t touch him.

“They’re gone,” you said softly. “The words have no power over you.”

He gave a small nod, barely there, then looked down at his lap. And that’s when it cracked.

A sob escaped—quiet and short, like it had snuck out without permission. His head dropped forward slightly, shoulders hunching. Just… shaking. As if his body didn’t know what to do now that the chains were gone.

His head hung low, his spine curved inward like his body was trying to protect something it no longer knew how to hold. The fire behind you cracked and hissed, but it felt distant now, a heartbeat outside your own.

You sat with your legs tucked beneath you, your hands resting in your lap, eyes fixed on the tremble of his shoulders. You didn’t speak. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t crumble the moment.

Then—quietly, like the words had to be dragged from somewhere inside him—he lifted his head. His eyes were swollen, lashes wet, his nose red, and he looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

“…Thank you,” he breathed.

And just like that, your resolve gave out.

You leaned forward without thinking, hands rising to gently cup his face. Your palms were warm against his skin, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes with more gentleness than you meant to show.

He stilled.

His hand stayed in his lap, clenched tight. His left shoulder twitched once against his side, useless, aching. It made him feel unbalanced, almost childlike.

But you didn’t care. You guided his gaze back to yours, close enough that your breaths tangled.

“You are free,” you whispered, your voice a little shaky now. “You hear me, James? You are free.”

His mouth moved like he was going to say something—maybe your name, maybe nothing at all—but no sound came. Just another breath, sharp and broken.

And then he leaned forward. Not rushed, not messy. Just… drawn to you. His forehead came to rest against yours, tentative at first, like he was afraid you’d pull away. But you didn’t. You stayed still, your hands still holding his face, and you let him come to you.

His body trembled against yours as his head dipped, resting against your temple, your hair, your shoulder—wherever he could find something solid.

You didn’t need to speak.

You just stayed with him in the firelight, your hands still cupping his face, while he finally let himself cry.

He couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.

“You’re not gonna tell me where we’re going, are you.”

Your back was to him, but he heard the grin in your breath—light, soft, teasing.

“No.”

The path had narrowed again, the jungle around you thick with dusk. The last hints of sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken threads, but you moved easily, your pace quick and effortless as always. Bucky followed, trailing just behind you—not struggling, just distracted.

Mostly by you.

You were walking a little slower than usual, like you wanted him to catch up, and he did—only to stop again when you turned just slightly and the dying light caught your skin.

He hadn’t said anything yet, but he’d noticed. How your clothes tonight was lighter. Lower on your shoulders. A slit along your hip he was trying very hard not to stare at. Your jewelry caught what little light there was—gold and copper tones that glittered faintly at your throat and wrists. And your scent—

He couldn’t ignore it. It hit him in waves, warm and sharp and soft all at once. Something creamy, but richer. Something smoky and sweet underneath it, like crushed herbs rubbed gently between warm palms.

It made something tighten in his gut before he had a chance to understand why. “You know I don’t like surprises,” he muttered, pushing a low branch aside with his hand.

“You say that,” you hummed, “but you always follow me.”

That made him huff a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. Just enough to admit you were right. He didn’t ask again. He just kept his eyes on the way your bare shoulders caught the last of the gold light, the way your hips shifted gently with each step, how loose your body was—not careless, just… unguarded.

And then he heard it. A low, rushing sound from somewhere ahead. Not wind. Not animals. Something steady. Powerful.

He slowed his steps. “…Is that a—?”

Bucky ducked beneath a cluster of vines, one hand brushing the trunk beside him for balance, his boots sinking slightly into damp moss. The roar of the waterfall grew louder as the trees thinned. The path narrowed again—now more of a ledge than a trail, sloped slightly downward, leading toward the sound.

You turned to him with a small nod, lifting your hand toward the curtain of water ahead. It shimmered silver in the last breath of evening light, a wall of liquid glass pouring down the cliffside like it had been doing so for centuries.

“This way,” you said, voice softer now.

He raised a brow. “Through it?”

You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “Trust me.”

He didn’t hesitate.

You stepped first, your hand skimming the rock as you angled your body along the edge of the cliff wall, slipping through the narrow gap between stone and water. Bucky followed, keeping close behind you.

The moment he stepped under the fall’s spray, he sucked in a sharp breath—the water hit cold at first, soaking his shirt instantly, cascading over his shoulders like a slap.

“Shit—”

His foot slipped on the smooth stone, and for a second he flailed, only for your hand to shoot out and grip his wrist—your fingers strong, grounding. You steadied him.

He blinked the water out of his eyes, still hunched slightly as the current pelted his back. You looked up at him, already drenched too, and laughed—not loudly, just a small, surprised sound that slipped out like you hadn’t meant for it to.

He stared for a second before something low in his chest gave—and then he was laughing too. Just a breath. Just once.

You held his arm a second longer than necessary before releasing him gently. “This way,” you said again, tilting your head toward the dark behind the water.

You led him through it—deeper, drier, into a space carved by nature and time. And then he saw it.

The cavern opened gradually, its walls slick and smooth, the ceiling arching high above like a dome. Faintly, impossibly, light glimmered from within the stone itself—streaks of soft violet pulsing through the walls like veins. White engravings—symbols, words, maybe names—had been carved by hand, some so old the edges had worn to nothing.

The sound of the waterfall became muffled here.

Bucky’s voice came quietly, like he couldn’t help it. “What is this place?”

You didn’t look at him at first. You stepped further in, water dripping from your arms, your back straight but your voice gentle.

“A place for prayers,” you said. “To be heard.”

You turned slowly to face him. Your eyes flicked to the glowing walls, then back to his face.

“…And sometimes answered,” you added, a little quieter.

You walked further in, your bare feet silent against the cool stone, stopping near a small rise in the floor where smooth slabs had been arranged in a wide circle—natural, almost like a nest of rock.

Bucky trailed behind you, slowly, eyes adjusting to the cavern’s low light. The pulsing violet veins in the walls gave just enough to see—shadows flickering gently over his face, the damp curve of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

His hand drifted out to trace the symbols nearest him. He didn’t touch them at first—just hovered. Then, slowly, he let his fingers graze the stone. The grooves were faint, worn, but still there. Words in a language he couldn’t read.

“We call this place…” you began, your voice echoing gently off the walls, “Umqolomba wezandi.”

Bucky glanced toward you. You were standing near one of the glowing crests, your hand resting lightly against the rock, like greeting an old friend.

“It means…” you turned toward him, “the cavern of echoes.”

His gaze flicked to the ceiling, then around again—like he was finally beginning to feel what this space was.

“Wakandans believe the walls carry the voices of our ancestors,” you continued. “When someone prays here, the wind returns the sound. Not loud—just… enough. Just a whisper.”

He didn’t speak. You stepped forward slowly, closer now, until your voice dropped slightly. “Some come here to seek guidance. Some to mourn. Others come to whisper things they’re too afraid to say out loud.”

He didn’t take his eyes off you.

The violet glow from the stone etched itself along your cheekbones, catching in the curve of your nose and the line of your collarbone. Your skin shimmered with it—like the cave was pulling its light from you, or maybe the other way around.

Bucky stood a few paces away, one hand still pressed lightly against the wall, fingertips resting on the carved stone.

“Why’d you bring me here?” he asked quietly.

You met his gaze just for a moment—and then turned away, eyes flicking toward the deepest part of the cavern. The faintest smile tugged at your mouth, sad and barely there.

“I thought…” you began, voice low, nearly drowned by the hush of dripping water, “you might like to see one last thing that is special to me.”

He stepped closer, slow and careful. His hand fell to his side. He didn’t rush you. Just stood there.

“One last thing?” he asked, softer this time.

You nodded once. Still not looking at him. “You are free now.”

The words came out smaller than you expected. You swallowed and pressed on, forcing them to be steady.

“Your mind, your body. They belong to you again.” You let out a tight breath, arms folding lightly over your stomach. “You are no longer bound to this place.”

He heard the shift in your voice. Not anger. Not even grief. Just that quiet thing that sits under both—a kind of sadness people don’t name. You kept your eyes forward. “You can go home. To America. To whatever life you have waiting for you.”

A beat passed. And then another. He said nothing.

You finally turned your head, just slightly, your gaze still somewhere near the floor. “You are not a prisoner, James.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then, voice low—not confused, not sudden, just certain.

“…What if I don’t wanna leave?”

That made your breath catch and you looked up. He was watching you. Not the way he looked at the walls, or the fire, or even the sky above the cliffs. He was looking at you.

You averted your gaze when you spoke again—voice lighter now, but not quite free of its ache.

“Well, you are free now,” you said, almost teasing, but not fully. “You can do whatever you want.”

Behind you, Bucky didn’t answer, but you heard the faint shuffle of his boots against the stone—inching closer.

You kept your gaze ahead, eyes following the purple light in the walls like it was safer to look at than him. “You could stay, if you wanted. Here in Wakanda.”

He was closer now—not quite beside you, but you could feel the warmth of him just over your shoulder.

“There is a place for you in the city. Or the village. You have many skills.” You gave a small shrug, hoping it looked casual. “They’d be lucky to have you.”

Your voice dropped slightly. “And if you wanted…” You shifted your hands in front of you, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “You could create a family. Start again.”

You meant it. You did. Even if it scraped something raw inside you.

You exhaled slowly. “Wakanda has the most beautiful women in the world.” You glanced sideways, just enough to see his profile in the low light. “As you’ve seen in our village.”

That came out more bitter than you meant it to. He didn’t call it out. Didn’t acknowledge it it. Just kept his gaze on you, mouth twitching like he was biting back something.

“Amahle sings like a bird,“ you said, voice soft, but flat as you rolled your eyes, “Everyone says her voice could wake Bast herself.”

“... I don’t want Amahle.”

His voice came quiet, close behind your ear. You tried not to react, but your lips twitched before you could stop them. You turned a little more toward the wall, hiding your smile with another breath.

“Mandisa is a good hunter,” you added casually.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little lower now. “She is.”

You turned sharply, brows furrowed, head snapping toward him, a frown growing on your lips.

Bucky was already smirking.

You sighed. “You are trying to be funny.”

“I’m succeeding.”

He looked pleased with himself. His face was relaxed in a way you didn’t see often—that boyish ease creeping through, tugging the lines of his mouth into something crooked and soft.

The smirk faded from his face slowly, but the closeness stayed.

He didn’t step back. Instead, Bucky leaned in—just a little—until his chest nearly brushed yours, the heat of him warming the air between you. You felt it rise, all at once, like your body had only just now realized how close he really was.

His breath touched your cheek. His nose almost grazed yours.

And then, gently, he raised his hand, fingers calloused and careful as they lifted to your jaw. He didn’t rush. Just let the back of his knuckles skim the side of your face first, like asking permission without speaking. When you didn’t flinch, his palm settled softly against your cheek.

You leaned into it. Barely. But you did.

He watched you. Every part of you. The slight part of your lips. The flutter of your lashes. The way your breath caught in your throat when he spoke.

“I know which woman I want,” he said, voice low—not raspy, not strained, just… quiet. Truthful. “But this woman must also choose me.”

The words sat there between you, trembling slightly in the stillness.

And then you smiled. Soft at first. Small. But real.

It bloomed slow, like light warming over your face—the kind of smile that reached your eyes, crinkled the corners, made your lashes lower like you were trying to shield the joy behind them.

And Bucky…

He didn’t breathe for a second.

Because it hit him suddenly—that smile. That it could burn brighter than any fire in this cave. That it made something stir in him, deep and good and maybe desperate.

You tilted your head just slightly into his palm. And your voice came in a murmur—so quiet, it almost disappeared into the echoing stone.

“She already has.”

He didn’t move at first.

Even with your words hanging between you—soft and sure—he stayed still for a breath. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone slowly, once, and you watched the way his eyes dipped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, asking without asking.

And then, finally, he leaned in. Slow. Careful. Like he was still waiting for you to change your mind.

You didn’t.

Your eyes stayed on his, heavy and unblinking. You could feel the way his breath trembled against your lips just before they touched—feather-light, a brush more than a kiss, like the moment itself was scared it would shatter if either of you moved too fast.

The first contact was barely a second.

He pulled back an inch, eyes searching yours again—checking. Not for rejection. For permission to fall apart. And then your fingers found his wrist and you held it there as you leaned forward this time, mouth tilting up to his again.

This kiss was deeper.

His lips pressed more firmly, shaping to yours with growing certainty. Warm. Intentional. His hand cupped your jaw tighter, not possessive, just present—thumb slipping behind your ear as your mouth opened slightly beneath his.

He tasted like breath and earth and the faint hint of herbs still lingering on his tongue. You sighed into him, your lips parting again, more confidently this time—and he met it, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until your noses brushed and your mouths moved like they’d done this before in another life.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. But it was hungry, like something long-denied finally unfolding itself without shame.

You felt the drag of his bottom lip against yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe—only to kiss you again, mouth firmer now, more certain. You answered with a small sound in your throat, something soft and needing, and his hand slipped from your cheek down to your neck, holding you there.

Your lips stayed locked —deep, slow, and consuming. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of it, learn the exact pressure that made you sigh, how long to linger before pulling away and pressing back in.

His dragged his knuckles lightly down the line of your throat. You shivered, not from cold, but from how warm your skin felt under his touch—slick, soft, prepared.

He felt it too. His fingers paused at your collarbone, as though registering something he hadn’t noticed until now—the way your skin gleamed faintly in the purple cave light, the faint shimmer of oil that clung to your shoulder.

He broke the kiss, just barely, lips still brushing yours as he whispered, “You smell really… good.”

You smiled, small and shy, as his hand moved again, trailing along the curve of your shoulder with a gentleness so soft it didn’t need the word.

“Shea butter,” you murmured against his mouth. “And… rose oil.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Thought I was going crazy.”

Your noses bumped again as he kissed you once more—deeper this time, tongue sliding gently against yours. Your lips parted easily, like you’d been waiting for him to stop holding back.

His tongue moved slow—careful, tasting—coaxing yours to meet him with the same rhythm. The heat pulsed low in your belly. You leaned closer, your body drawn to his without needing to think, and you felt his hand skim further down—across the line of your upper chest, fingers splayed. The pads of them gliding over oiled skin, the slip of it making his breath hitch in his throat.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

His hand kept moving—lower now, tracing the inside of your arm, then circling back up to press against the small of your back, guiding you closer into him. The kiss had deepened into something more now—your mouths slow but messier, wetter, tongues sliding in practiced rhythm, breath catching between swallows.

Your body responded in kind—your chest rising, brushing his, your hips tilting slightly, angling into his heat. His hand moved again—back to your neck, then your shoulder—his thumb slipping over your collarbone, down the swell of your chest, just grazing the upper curve of your breast through the fabric.

You broke the kiss gently, your lips lingering against his for a second longer before you pulled back, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

“Let me see you,” you whispered.

His brows twitched slightly, his breath shallow, but he didn’t ask what you meant. He just looked at you—looked through you—for a moment longer, then reached for the hem of his shirt.

The fabric stuck slightly to his skin, damp from the air and the heat between you. He tugged it upward in one slow pull with his hand, careful not to rush, and let it fall behind him with a dull whisper on the stone floor.

You exhaled.

The cave light caught the lines of him—soft purples and muted whites streaking across the planes of his chest, the hard curves of muscle shaped by war and grief. His torso was broad and strong, marred with a constellation of old scars. Some long-faded. Some newer. Some you’d seen before, from a distance when he washed by the river.

But now, they were offered to you. Your hands lifted slowly, sacred without trying to be. You let your fingertips touch his chest first—just a brush, testing. He stayed still.

You dragged your hand up, tracing the faint slash beneath his ribs, then higher, over the long scar that cut across his sternum. His skin was warm. Alive. Steady.

Your other hand joined, smoothing along his chest, rising toward his shoulder—his right—where flesh still met bone. You felt the dip of his collarbone under your thumb. The tension in his neck.

And then you saw it. The left side. The end of it.

The soft, healed edge where the metal used to continue. Now just a metal shoulder, curved and cold where limb had once been. You didn’t hesitate—your hand moved there too, fingers slow, brushing the edge where metal had once been forced into living body.

That’s when he looked away.

He dropped his head slightly, jaw tight. You felt the shift in him, like something pulling back. “I wish…” he said softly, the words caught on something raw. “I wish I could feel you with both hands.”

Your chest ached.

You moved without thinking—both hands rising to cup his face, gently but with certainty. His skin was warm under your palms, scruff along his jaw. You tilted his face back toward you.

“Don’t look away,” you whispered.

His eyes found yours again, guarded but open. Flickering. You held him there.

“This,” you said, your thumb brushing lightly beneath his cheekbone, “is a symbol of your survival. Your strength.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his, letting your hands fall back to his chest—grounded, present.

“I want you,” you said quietly. “Just like this.”

Bucky couldn’t remember how they got to the ground.

One minute, your mouth was on his, your hands mapping his chest with slow adoration, and the next—he was on his back, the cool stone of the cavern floor beneath him, smooth as water-worn bone.

You were in his lap, straddling him, your knees braced on either side of his hips. His hand was on your waist, fingers digging in, not hard—but anchored, like he needed the contact to keep himself tethered to this moment. To you.

Your lips never left his. It was slower before. Gentle. But now—

Now it was need.

You kissed like it had been years. Like it had been denied for lifetimes. His mouth was open against yours, breath ragged, tongue dragging against yours in a rhythm that was no longer careful. Your hands had disappeared somewhere—he couldn’t even tell where—because all he could feel was your body moving against his, your chest brushing his, your thighs tightening every time your hips rolled just right.

His beard scraped against your cheek, your chin, the underside of your jaw as he kissed lower, biting softly at your throat, open-mouthed and warm. You arched into him, your back curving, and his hand followed instinctively—pressing flat along your spine, guiding your body closer until there was nothing left between you but heat.

You smelled like sweat now—like skin, oil, the scent of perfume still clinging to your pulse points. The smell of you dizzying, something earthy and warm and faintly sweet. He wanted it everywhere. On his tongue. In his mouth. On his body.

He grunted something low in his throat and pressed his mouth to your collarbone, his lips dragging over the slick warmth there, tasting the rose oil and salt. His hand moved up, cupping the back of your neck, thumb pressing under your jaw as he pulled your mouth back to his.

He needed to feel you everywhere.

Your hips shifted again—slow, grinding, and his cock twitched hard beneath the fabric, trapped between your bodies. You felt it. He knew you did. The noise you made—soft, breathy—went straight to his spine.

His kiss turned rougher—still careful, still wanting to worship you, but there was nothing polite about this now. This was hunger. This was claiming. Your lips swollen, breath catching between gasps and moans. You kissed like you were already ruined. Like the fire you’d started weeks ago had finally reached its burn point.

You broke the kiss first. Not far—only enough to breathe—but he followed you instinctively, chasing your mouth like he wasn’t ready to let it go. His lips brushed yours again and again, searching, impatient.

“Wait,” you whispered.

He stilled, breathing hard, pupils blown wide as he watched you.

Your hand lifted slowly to the knot at the base of your neck—the simple tie holding your wrap in place. The movement was deliberate, almost shy, though your chest was rising fast enough to betray you.

Bucky’s gaze followed every second.

You tugged once.

The fabric loosened.

You tugged again.

And it slipped.

The cloth fell away from your chest and pooled around your waist, leaving you bare to him in the soft purple glow of the cavern. The cool air kissed your skin, but you barely noticed it—not with the way he was staring at you.

He looked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Your breasts rose and fell with your ragged breaths, skin shining faintly from oil and warmth. You could see the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand twitched against your hip like he didn’t know where to touch first.

You leaned forward and kissed him again before he could say anything. But his attention had shifted.

His mouth left yours almost immediately, sliding down to your neck, tongue dragging along the damp curve of your skin. He kissed there, slow and messy, lips open, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“Wanna taste you,” he murmured against your throat.

You gave a small nod, barely able to think, and his mouth moved lower. His hand slipped up your side, thumb brushing over the underside of your breast as his lips followed the same path. You felt his breath first, hot and shaky—then his mouth closed around your nipple.

The first pull of his lips made your head fall back.

A soft, unguarded moan slipped out of you as he sucked, gentle at first, then firmer—tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk forward against him.

Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, holding him there as he switched sides, giving the same attention to the other breast. His hand kneaded at your waist, dragging you closer, guiding your body to move against his.

You rolled your hips again—harder this time—grinding down against him. You could feel him beneath you, thick and straining through his pants, and the friction made you gasp.

“My James—”

He groaned at the sound of his name, mouth still on you, and the vibration of it went straight through your body.

Your hands fumbled at the waistband of his pants, his breath hot and shaky against your neck as you kissed him between desperate, half-laughed curses. The sound of fabric dragging against skin filled the cave—wet with sweat, clinging, urgent—as he finally shoved them past his hips with your help.

You sat up just enough to tug them off the rest of the way, tossing them aside. He was already bare beneath, hard and flushed and waiting, the sight of him making your thighs tighten.

The air was thick around you, warm and damp, your bodies gleaming in the violet glow. Your chest was still rising fast, skin slick with oil and heat, and he was staring up at you now—flat on his back, hand firm on your waist like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

His mouth was parted, eyes trailing slowly from your breasts to your stomach to the place between your thighs. Adoring. Devouring. And still, just softer than lust. Like he was seeing a vision he didn’t think he deserved.

You leaned forward again, kissing him once, slow and open-mouthed, before whispering against his lips, “Now we become one.”

And then you reached between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance.

You angled your hips carefully, breath catching when the head of his cock pressed against you—thick and hot and already leaking, your folds slick from want and desire. He groaned beneath you, the sound strained and breathless as your hand stroked him once, then lined him up again.

You held his gaze as you began to sink down. Slow. Stretching.

Your body opened around him inch by inch, the burn sweet and perfect, your walls clenching as he filled you. You gasped, forehead dropping to his, and his hand clamped harder on your waist, thumb digging into the soft dip of your hip as he breathed through it with you.

“Fuck—” he rasped. “So tight—”

You whimpered against his jaw, your thighs shaking as you lowered further, the stretch making your head spin. He was thick, every inch dragging against you, and you could feel the way your body adjusted to take him. Your cunt fluttered as you seated yourself fully.

You stayed still a moment, chests heaving, foreheads pressed and breath shared.

And then you started to move—slow at first, easing into it, your hips rocking gently as you adjusted to the weight of him inside you.

Bucky groaned, the sound guttural and rough, his hand gripping your waist like a lifeline. His eyes were fixed on where your bodies met, the slick drag of you gliding up and down on his cock. He watched with his mouth parted, sweat already clinging to his brow, chest rising fast.

“Shit… you feel—fuck, you feel so good—”

You moaned at the praise, your hands braced on his shoulders as you picked up the rhythm—grinding down, then lifting, riding him slow and deep. Each time you dropped your hips, he hit that perfect spot inside you, and your breath came shorter, messier, your thighs beginning to tremble.

The cave amplified everything—the slap of skin, the wet glide of your cunt around him, your moans echoing off the walls, layered over the low roar of the waterfall beyond. The air felt thick with it, humid and alive.

You rode him harder now—hungrier.

Your breasts bounced with each thrust, your ass smacking against his thighs as you worked yourself over him, chasing every drop of friction. Bucky’s hand dragged from your waist up to your breast, cupping it, thumb brushing your nipple as he thrust up into you from below.

He could only touch what his hand could reach—but he touched you like it mattered. Like he meant it. Palm sliding down your stomach, fingertips trembling as they traced the sheen of oil and sweat, down to your pelvis where he pressed his thumb against your clit and rubbed.

You cried out, head snapping back, the pleasure white-hot.

“Look at you,” he groaned, voice cracking. “So fucking beautiful—riding me like this—”

You leaned down, panting against his jaw as you rode him harder, messier now, the rhythm losing its grace, becoming more primal. Your walls clenched around him, slick dripping down your thighs, the sounds of it loud, obscene, echoing like prayer.

He was too far gone now. The need—no, the craving—to feel more of you, to bury himself deeper, to give in overtook whatever control he’d been holding onto. And even with only one arm, he moved with purpose.

“C’mere—” he rasped, voice wrecked and low, and with a groan of effort, he shifted.

It wasn’t graceful—his balance off, his body strained—but somehow he managed to turn you beneath him, easing your back down onto the stone floor with a grunt and a clumsy half-roll that made both of you gasp-laugh through the haze. His hand braced above your shoulder, his knees sinking between your thighs, body hovering over yours.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he murmured, breath hot against your cheek. “Tighter.”

You obeyed, locking your thighs around his waist—holding him close, keeping him there, right where you wanted him. Right where you both needed this to happen.

And he started to thrust again. Harder now. Deeper.

Each stroke knocked a cry from your throat, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into him like your bones didn’t know how else to respond. His pelvis pressed flush with yours on every pump, the rhythm steady and sharp, and you could feel how deep he was—how full you were—how good he made you feel, even with just one hand and every ounce of concentration funneled into you.

He kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, tasting your whines as they broke free, his body slamming into yours faster. When your head fell to the side, he kissed your neck, your shoulder, your jaw—everywhere he could reach, panting between moans, sighing your name into your skin like it was prayer.

And then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

His thrusts slowed for a beat.

The cave light shimmered across his face, sweat lining his brow, his chest heaving above yours. You could barely keep your eyes open, pleasure swimming behind your lashes.

But then he said it. Voice thick, barely a whisper.

“Ndiyakubona.”

I see you.

Even through the haze, your mouth broke into a smile—soft and dazed and full of everything your body couldn’t say. And without answering, you pulled him down, crashing your lips to his again, arms around his shoulders as your hips lifted to meet each thrust as it turned rougher.

Unrelenting.

It was no longer slow or sensual—it was instinct. The slap of his hips against your thighs echoed through the cavern, the air thick with sweat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of your cunt clenching around him with every punishing stroke.

He adjusted his stance, gritting his teeth, and shifted you up—pressing your knees toward your chest, his hand gripping the back of your thigh, holding it open as he fucked into you deeper. Your body arched under him, your head thrown back, mouth open, moaning without shame.

This was carnal now. Primal.

You were folded beneath him, trapped in a mating press, your legs shaking around his waist, your hands clutching uselessly at the slick stone floor as he drove into you like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

He was panting—loud and sharp, every muscle tight—but his eyes never left you. He was watching. Watching your face, your mouth, the way your brows twisted, the way your back arched higher with each thrust, like you were caught somewhere between ruin and salvation.

“Finish for me,” he grunted. “Let me feel it. Let me—fuck—let me feel you.”

You whimpered, your voice breaking with each slap of his hips, the pleasure unbearable. And then it happened.

You cried out, legs clamping around his waist, your body locking up as the orgasm crashed through you—white-hot, full-body, helpless. Your walls clenched around him so tight it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

Bucky felt it.

Felt you milk him, tighten around his cock like your body was made to take him. His head dropped forward, his mouth falling open in something like awe.

“Holy fuck—”

He stared at you, wild-eyed, stunned, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

You were still cumming—still gasping—your thighs trembling around him, your cunt pulsing as aftershocks rippled through your belly.

And Bucky had never felt anything like it.

Not in his entire life. Your pleasure, his name on your lips, your body spasming beneath him, because of him—

He was close. So close.

You were still panting, your body limp beneath him, your skin slick and glowing under the cavern’s low purple light—but he didn’t stop.

Bucky kept thrusting—slower now, but deep, deliberate, like he was chasing something he was scared to catch. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, holding you steady, your cunt still fluttering around him, soaking and spent.

“Fuck—” he groaned, voice cracking. “I’m close—”

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, lips parted, skin flushed.

And he leaned down. Pressed his mouth to yours—soft at first, desperate beneath the tenderness—and kissed you through it.

Then he broke away just enough to breathe.

He thrust once.

Twice.

And on the third—he came.

With a broken sound in his throat, he drove into you, hips jerking as his release tore through him. He spilled deep inside you, thick and hot, his whole body shuddering from the force of it. His thighs trembled, his jaw slackened, and he dropped his head forward, forehead pressed to yours as he tried to catch his breath.

His arm shook beneath him, struggling to hold his weight, but he stayed there—inside you, skin pressed to skin, sweat dripping from his temple to your cheek.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You kept your eyes open, watching him through the haze—not touching, not speaking. Just watching. The way his lashes stayed low, the small twitch of his jaw, the slight wince in his expression as the high began to ebb.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

He looked down at you, lips slightly parted, his chest heaving above yours. The expression on his face wasn’t something he could name—not yet. Not exactly. But it looked a lot like being broken open in the gentlest way.

He swallowed hard.

“…Shit,” he muttered, voice low and rough. Not ashamed. Just overwhelmed.

He was still inside you. Still hard, still twitching faintly from the aftershocks.

But even in that fog, he shifted—careful not to collapse onto you. He slid out of you with a low groan, drawing a quiet whimper from your throat at the loss, and moved onto his back beside you, his chest rising and falling in heavy waves.

You both stared up at the cavern ceiling for a few long moments. The stone above glowed softly, the walls still humming faint with the pulse of the violet veins.

Neither of you spoke.

And then—after maybe two breaths too long—he reached for you.

His arm came up and around your back. He pulled you into him, not forcefully, but fully—pressing your bare body against his chest like he couldn’t bear to let the space grow cold between you.

You folded into him easily, instinctively. Your head rested just below his jaw. His lips found your forehead.

And then—as if pulled—your mouth tilted up, found his again. Slower now. Softer. Still open-mouthed, still wet, but no longer frantic.

Your lips finally parted again, not out of need, but because you both simply ran out of air.

The kiss faded into stillness. Your forehead stayed against his, your fingers still resting on his chest, tracing absentminded shapes into the skin just above his heart. You could still feel it beating—slower now, steadier. But still there. Still real.

His hand smoothed along your back, dragging a lazy line down your spine like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

You didn’t either.

Until finally, he murmured—barely audible, but firm,

“…Thank you.”

You blinked. You pulled back a little, just enough to see his face. His eyes were still on you. Heavy-lidded.

“For what?” you asked, soft.

A pause.

Then he said it—slowly, like every syllable cost something.

“For saving me.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

“I didn’t save you,” you said eventually, after a beat. “I only helped—”

“No,” he cut in, quiet but certain. “You saved me.”

Your brows pulled slightly.

He exhaled through his nose. Not out of frustration—just trying to find the right words. Words he wasn’t used to saying.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever… feel like a person again,” he said, his voice rasped with fatigue, but not hesitation. “Not after what they did to me. Not after all the decades that I was just a… a thing.”

He looked at you again. “And then I came here. And I met you.”

Your expression softened, almost imperceptibly, but you didn’t interrupt. You let him speak.

“You didn’t flinch when you saw me,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Didn’t look at me like I was some... broken weapon. You just looked. And listened. And existed.”

He paused again.

“I haven’t been able to breathe in years,” he whispered. “Not without waiting for the trigger to pull again. Not without thinking someone’s gonna drag me back into something. But here… with you…”

His fingers flexed faintly against your back.

“I can finally fucking breathe.”

You blinked slowly. Your heart pulled so tight it hurt.

He didn’t need to say I love you. This was deeper than that. He still wasn’t looking at you directly now—not all the way. Just barely off, like it was too much.

And when you finally spoke again, it wasn’t to dismiss his words or soften them. You just said, simply,

“…You saved yourself.”

His eyes flicked back to yours. Still wide open. Still raw.

“I was just there to hold the net,” you said. “You did the climbing.”

You didn’t know how long you stayed there.

The rhythm of your breathing had synced again, like the hush between waves. The cavern, once echoing with gasps and desperate cries, was still now. A sacred hush laid over everything—water still falling outside, glowing rock pulsing soft violet all around you, but inside, it was just the two of you.

He was still staring at you.

You were still staring back.

At some point, you had propped yourself slightly onto your elbow, the cool of the stone under your skin grounding you as your other hand tangled with his. His thumb brushed yours absently, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And then he spoke. Quiet. Uncertain.

“Maybe…” he began, the rasp still clinging to the back of his throat. “…maybe I had to go through all of it. The war. Hydra. All of it.”

You blinked slowly.

He swallowed.

“Maybe I had to lose everything so I could find you.”

His voice wasn’t smooth. It cracked halfway through. But he didn’t look away this time. Not when he said it.

Your chest tightened—too full, too much. Your heart hurt with it. In the most devastating way.

Your fingers lifted to his cheek, brushing the hair back that had fallen near his brow. His eyes closed under your touch—not from shame. Just from… feeling.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your voice almost a whisper.

“You did not deserve what they did to you,” you murmured. “Not any of it.”

His jaw clenched slightly.

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“But you survived. You endured.”

You kissed his temple.

“And if the path led you to me…” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes again.

“…Then I am grateful for every step you took.”

a/n | if you’ve made it this far, well damn, what did you think?

Okay so obviously i made up the Isisa based on the Ikran to make our girl extra special. and is based on Neytiri’s first Ikran, Seze:

I literally have a full on fic in my head of our girl being present in Black Panther's plot and Infinity War, but lets just put it in my back pocket for now. The warthog and cave scene are directly taken from Avatar, when Neytiri first met and saved Jake; and their bonding and mating scene. I still wanted to have more fluffy scenes before she became soft with bucky, with him watching her when she’s soft and playful with others, like during a baptism celebration, or more scenes with Za’ta she’s supposed to give off this:

andddd also realised there wasn’t that many wakandan!reader fics, wonder why…

people can write and imagine themselves as russian assassins, goddesses and literal aliens… but never as an indigenous girlie, smh

[ardentprose]

I am in awe.

This is incredibly immersive and written so well it's beyond my ability to give it the praise it deserves. The attention to detail not only in atmosphere, culture, language, etc. but in the characters themselves and how they behave and the wording used to describe them and their progression towards each other is mastery level writing.

As someone who is POC, this made me desperately homesick for a place that doesn't even exist. I felt seen - despite it being fiction. Reading this felt like a temporary escape from the real-world events going on. I'd give anything to forget it all to read it for the first time over and over.

Not only is this representation so rare, it's written with a clear level of care and attention, making it that much more enjoyable and appreciated.

This is definitely going on my 'greatest fanfics of all time' list.

[ardentprose]

I wish you healing from what you're going through, and may 2026 be a year of relief for you and for all of us! Hugs!🫂💚

You're too sweet 😭 🥰

I hope 2026 brings much more joy than sadness and more triumph than tragedy for us all, too.

Hugs! 🫂💚

[and-fishing-equipment]

in 2026 DO NOT ask yourself whether your art is GOOD

instead ask:

is it SINCERE

was it CATHARTIC

was it FUN TO MAKE

is it MADE BY ME

and don't forget to stay silly

[ardentprose]

#gonna try to return with this energy #writers block is just self doubt and perfectionism in a trenchcoat

[moniquill]

[ardentprose]

#sobbing #please i need the relieffff #you know what yeah #im choosing to believe this as my reality now

[ardentprose]

A Sketch in Serendipity

A/N: This is a request I volunteered to write for @alexs-arcade. Sorry it took me yearsssss.

Type: Foggy Nelson x M!Reader; fluff

Length: 7.3k~ | 30 min.

Warnings: suggestive sexual themes; cursing; male reader

Feel free to message me if a warning isn't mentioned.

Summary: serendipity (noun): the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for

in other words: you venture out to get acquainted with your new home, but end up getting acquainted with someone else entirely

(i know i wrote Foggy with long hair in this but if you think i'm not gonna take the chance to use these new 'gasm-inducing gifs you're out of your mind. imagine whichever Foggy you please.)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bar you’re situated in is the latest in a string of ventures since moving to Hell’s Kitchen two weeks ago. Every day you’ve chosen a local bar to visit in an attempt to paint a more comprehensive picture of your new community and build a list of places to frequent.

Tonight’s selection is Josie’s: a brick and mortar without any advertising beyond the neon sign in the window. It was only after a particularly late commute home you witnessed a biker crew spill out the door and realized it was a bar. On that whim alone, you deemed it your next location.

Newspaper clippings and posters of local bands amongst neon beer signs and community ephemera decorate the wood-paneled walls. Hanging crimson lamps and half-heartedly strung lights create a dimly lit but comfortable atmosphere - as if you were drinking beers and watching TV in a friend’s basement.

You sit at the weathered bar counter, nursing a beer as you observe the locals.

Most of the crowd are older men with burly tattooed arms, donning tattered denim and biker boots like the group you saw the other night. Others are part of the sports crowd, jeering at the mounted TVs with sloshing beers. Even the pool table tucked in the back is seeing some action as players exchange harmless insults at one another’s shots.

A peal of laughter breaks out at one of the cocktail tables drawing your attention over your shoulder. Four young women stand around the table sipping cocktails. From what you gather, they’re swapping tales of escapades in bed and giggling over the deliciously explicit details. A typical work night gossip session. Despite their raucous laughter, they are definitely a more approachable table than some others in the bar.   

You turn back to your beer, tilting it up to drain the last of it. You catch the bartender’s eye, a woman of few words and plenty glares, and gesture for another beer. She grabs a new bottle, cracks it open and slides it to you with barely an acknowledgement, her head whipping in the opposite direction to yell at the rowdy sports fans spilling beer on her counter.

You take the first sip, allowing your attention to fall open again to the entirety of the bar.

The giggling women from before are still chattering, each voice competing to be heard and rising in volume. It isn’t distracting, but the jarring silence when their voices stop short does catch your ear. You peek over your shoulder, curious as to the abrupt quiet.

A man now stands at the table, his back to you as he speaks to the women who’ve grown quiet  at the sudden interruption into their girls’ night.

Intrigued, you turn in the chair and lean your elbows back against the counter, the neck of your beer bottle held loosely in one hand as you observe the interaction from your stool.

You can’t hear what the man says, but it must be a pick up line. Three of the women burst into laughter, while the potential prospect, a flustered brunette, grimaces before shaking her head. You wince, raising the beer to your lips as you watch the scorned man turn on his heel and beeline straight for the counter.

You jolt, managing to swallow most of the bitter liquid and wipe the excess from your lips.

He was hot.

Did that woman really turn him down?

You hurry to sit up and spin back the right way as the man falls into the chair beside you, lest he somehow discover you were a witness to his rejection.

You duck your head over your bottle. With a subtle side eye, you watch the man release a heavy sigh, brows downcast over glassy hazel eyes. His features were soft, full cheeks flushed a deep scarlet and round nose wrinkled as he lifts a hand up to push back loose blond strands behind his ear before waving the bartender down.

You swallow and straighten up. Two more covert glances at the sullen man’s disposition and you lean over despite yourself, betraying your knowledge of the situation.

“Never a fair fight when she has friends with her, huh?”

The bartender delivers the man’s bottle and shot glass with a grimace. She must not only recognize him to know his order, but saw his defeat as she doesn’t wait for payment.

The man looks up at you and shrugs instead of commenting on your eavesdropping. He pours himself more than a shot glass worth of alcohol. He offers a sorry smile, raising the precariously filled glass.

You tilt your own bottle towards his.

“Can’t blame a man for trying, I guess.”

The drinks tap with a soft clink and you both drink. Though he downs the entire glass in one go. He clears his throat, beating his chest with a fist a few times. The flush on his cheeks instantly deepens.

You drop your endeared smile when his eyes find yours again.

“I guess I just don’t know when I’m out of my league.” He chuckles.

You snort and shake your head.

“Some people’s worth can only be revealed when they’re given a fair opportunity to showcase it.”

The man snorts this time, refilling his glass. “You sound like some kinda guru.”

He lifts up the drink prompting you to clink it once more.

“Foggy Nelson.” He grins, and the authenticity in it makes your heart beat harder than it already was since he sat down next to you.

You share your name and he nods, repeating it back to you after another sip that wrinkles his nose. You relish in the way his voice carries your name and hope biting your lip stops the imminent smile.

“So,” Foggy repeats your full name and your smile breaks. You hope it appears more friendly than flustered. “What brings you into town?”

“Do I look that out of place?” You arch a brow, turning towards him.

Foggy purses his lips, mirroring you by turning outward as well.

“Yes, you do. You have this fresh and still hopeful look about you.” Foggy says, eyes grazing up and down your form.

You’re suddenly aware of the brown slacks and loose maroon dress shirt you donned before venturing onto the city streets. You wanted to appear tastefully blasé. Put together with minimal effort. Apparently, you only achieved looking like a fashionable sore thumb amongst the blue collar atmosphere of this bar. Your exposed chest prickles beneath Foggy’s pointed gaze at your unbuttoned collar.

“I wouldn’t say hopeful. Moreso….remaining open to people regardless of what happens.” You deny his claim. Foggy’s eyes jump back up to your face.

“Damn.” Foggy says your name a third time. “You are definitely some type of guru. Or at least you gotta be a therapist.”

He presses one hand into the counter and leans into your space. You can’t help the beer-aided warmth that flushes your cheeks.

“You do life-coaching or something? I could use it.” Foggy offers the suggestion with a wave of his open palm.

Foggy’s eyes crinkle when you laugh, his grin wide with amusement.

“Nothing of the sort. I just tend to study people and end up picking up on stuff. But, I’m more likely to lead you astray than offer any good advice.”

“Hey man, you can’t do more harm than I’ve already done myself.” Foggy shrugs, but you shake your head again, albeit chuckling at his insistence.

“I doubt you’ve screwed up your entire life.”

“The night is still young.” Foggy winks over his glass as he drinks his third shot.

You roll your eyes in mock judgement.

“Well, I can’t help you if you plan on intentionally seeking danger out.”

Foggy chuckles. Then he checks his watch, a gold Rolex that glints beneath the string lights behind the bar.

Damn. If the brunette noticed the amount of money on Foggy’s wrist she may have changed her answer.

Though to be fair, Foggy’s casual demeanor would have never suggested a wealthy background had you missed the expensive watch.

Foggy’s lips turn down sharply, drawing your eyes to how the pink hue glistens from his drink. It’s a full-blown pout - one you want to either kiss away or bite.

What would his lips taste like mixed with the sting of alcohol? With the savory heat of his mouth or his tongue-

You push the empty beer away from you. It was your third, and clearly, you needed to slow down.

“Not to worry, you’ve only said quotes I plan on living by from now on.” Foggy slides off the stool, now incidentally standing between your spread knees, his hips brushing the inside of your legs.

Before your attraction manifests itself in less socially acceptable ways, you slide back as much as physically possible in your seat, turning slightly to allow Foggy to escape.

Foggy remains where he is, reaching over the bar, thigh pressing into your leg for a moment  as he finishes off his drink before slamming the glass down. He steps out from the bar and your legs, never acknowledging the proximity. You find yourself spinning slowly to face him, though this time with legs not so spread wide.

“Good luck, then.”

“Thanks, I’ll need it.” Foggy’s mouth quirks. “I need to be up bright and early tomorrow - well, earlier than my partner at least.”

Oh.

“Oh, yeah?” You fix your expression to be pleasantly interested, despite your heart plummeting to your stomach.

Wait, then why was he flirting with that woman? Why was he flirting with you?

Was he even flirting or did you just interpret everything wrong due to your own interest?

Foggy misses the consternation across your face as he nods.

“Yeah, gotta make sure he’s up outta bed first or else we’re both gonna be late.”

You hum, finding your beer bottle behind you and raising it up to him in salute.

“Have a good night then, Foggy.”

“You too, man. It was nice talking. Don’t forget me when you’re a famous life guru on Oprah.”

Despite your disappointment, you chuckle, rolling your eyes at him again.

“Oprah doesn’t even have a show anymore.”

“Just take the compliment, smartass.” Foggy teases. He stands over your seated position, eyes locked with yours.

You run your tongue over your lips. You don’t have a quick enough comeback beneath the growing intensity of his gaze. You can only offer a wavering, flustered smile.

Foggy spares you and with a hand held up in parting, he turns away. Your eyes trail after him until he departs from the bar and the door shuts behind him.

Josie’s is definitely going on your list.

_____

The location changes but the details remain the same. The imposing judge’s seat centered on a raised dais. The jury box climbing up against the far wall. The smaller tables for the court reporter, judge’s associate, and court officer in their designated positions. The infamous parallel tables for the defendant and plaintiff. Behind a half wall, the public gallery of enclosed benches for curious onlookers and invested attendees to watch justice be carried out.

Your hand flits back and forth over the sketchpad, replicating the stage for the impending case as people file in. Having started with the mock layouts in college classrooms to the intimidating architecture of the government’s most prestigious buildings, you could draw a courtroom in your sleep at this point.

That being said, you’ve lucked out on this courtroom in particular. Elongated arched glass windows reminiscent of cathedrals douse the courtroom in late morning hues of gold, illuminating the cherry wood furniture set upon the navy carpet.

The base of the sketch consists of grey and black lines done in soft lead with minimal strokes in the colors you want to remember for later.

Having the skeleton of the room established, you spare a quick glance to the bailiff and court reporter, denoting their cursory features.

The hushed conversations of the gallery quiet down as the bailiff remarks the entrance of the presiding judge. A once over supplies you with a short, rotund figure. Thinning brunet and dewy black eyes. Jowls like a bulldog.

Next is the plaintiff’s table. A white man in his late 60’s with a wispy combover and a suit the color of concrete. His lips are pursed in a grimace, making the wrinkles more prominent in his face. Two lawyers sit on either side of him. A redhead with voluminous curls to her shoulders and a bold rosy lip. She wears a suit in navy with matching pumps. The male lawyer is a cropped straw blond with a charcoal suit. They shuffle papers and reassure their client of their imminent victory.   

At the opponent’s table, the defendant hunches over herself. She’s a woman with tight black curls and ebony skin. Her features are soft, youthful, but crinkled in despair.    Beside the defendant, a brunet man with red shades-

Red shades indoors?

Your brow creases for only a millisecond before you locate the seeing cane leaning against the table’s edge.

Holding back a shrug, you sketch him in his sharp black suit as he murmurs to the young woman. You lean down in your chair, bending over your sketch pad but wary of your tie smearing any of the fresh lines. You flip over the partition of your open pencil case. The justice system tended to make for dreary palettes so you became accustomed to the usual colors needed for everyone in attendance. Needless to say, it isn’t often you see red glasses in court.

The room silences as the judge asks for the opening statements. There’s the beginning of an explanation from one of the lawyers that is quickly cut off as the door opens and someone rushes in and apologizes profusely for being late. The judge allows him to proceed and the late lawyer launches straight into his opening statement.

Caught between carmine and crimson, you bite your lip, then choose the more vibrant of the two. Admittedly, you’re a little excited to have an excuse to pop some color into your sketch.

Sitting back up, your eyes find the presumably late lawyer, a broad-shouldered man facing the jury with expressive hand gestures. You take in his words for the first time, hoping to gather his demeanor from his cadence.

“…..more than just stolen goods, easily replaced.”

Beige suit. Chestnut shoes. Gold watch. Blond hair.

His hair brushes his shoulders, which you find odd for a courtroom. But stranger things than shoulder length hair on men have been seen in the courtroom. Like red sunglasses.

“I simply ask the jury to consider this,” The lawyer pauses for emphasis.

“Some people’s worth can only be revealed when they are given a fair opportunity to showcase it.”

Your pencil stills against the paper.

The lawyer turns on his heel as his sentence finishes, leaving his stance facing directly where you sit.

“And…” Foggy’s eyes meet yours. A slight twitch of his brow and quirk of his lips goes unnoticed by those not already memorizing every detail of his startled expression.

“And that is why we ask the jury to consider the entirety of someone’s life. Not just an action made out of desperate circumstances.”

Foggy finishes smoothly, nodding to the judge and returning to his table without glancing your way.

Your stare remains on Foggy. He shuffles his papers while his partner leans in and mutters something into his ear. Foggy’s twisted frown deepens as his partner’s smirk grows sharper. Apparently, Foggy isn’t amused by whatever is whispered into his ear, because with a sharp turn of his chin, nearly missing his partner’s mouth, he mutters back a comment that shuts the lawyer up. The partner acquiesces and leans back, but a self satisfied smile remains on his lips.

Your beating heart has only just managed to slow down when the man in red shades angles his shaded attention towards you. You know better, but you feel like you’ve been caught staring. You duck your head, drawing a few listless lines to appear like you’re still working.

When you chance another look, the blind lawyer brushes a smile from his mouth with his fingers and adjusts in his seat, turning back to the case at hand.

You exhale and reprimand yourself to focus on the task at hand - and your main source of income.

Switching pencils quickly, you flip to the next page and catch up by speed drawing the prosecutor and witness on the stand.

Though every case is unique, there’s an ebb and flow, a dash of action, then a pause of deliberation that you’ve come to predict after a number of cases. This case proves to be no different. An hour or so into the proceedings, an outburst occurs.

Your pencils dive across the page, racing back and forth when the defendant yells at the plaintiff. Your eyes flicker up and down, capturing screenshots of the scene as the judge demands civility in his court. You flip pages with an expertise, recording the prosecutors demanding a heavier sentence from the judge while the defendant’s lawyer, the one in glasses, manages to verbally combat the two of them into submission and convince the judge to forgive the outburst. Foggy corrals the young woman, convincing her to sit back down.

As the drama recedes, your pencil cuts to more languid detailed strokes. Thankfully, the rest of the case ends on a more civil note, although the verdict remains postponed.

As people exit, you flip through the sketches, making sure each frame captures the significant moments of justice - and injustice - in the court room.

One sketch towards the middle catches your critical eye. Among the blurred lines of the scene, a lone figure clad in beige with long golden hair comes into sharp relief against the less detailed subjects around him. The sketched sunlight reflects his golden hair like a spotlight in the scene.

When did you draw the sun beam? And why?

You flip the page and the next sketch portrays Foggy’s earnest gaze, his intimate lean as he speaks firmly but quietly to the distraught woman. The solid hazel of his eyes, the streaks of blonde that fall across his cheek. The way his hands grasp the client, fingers curling with enough pressure to steady her, yet restrain her from running if need be.

You huff, lips parted with disbelief.

It would be foolish to redraw all of these just to diminish his features. You don’t have time for that.

But sometimes these drawings are broadcast on the news. Will anyone notice how prominent you made his eyes? Or how his own partner is nothing but a stroke of black and two red circles, while Foggy is portrayed in full frame, down to the little dolphins on his tie?

Okay, yeah, you would definitely have to trash these. Well, maybe you could keep-

“My life guru! Please tell me you’re here as some coincidence of employment fate and not because you are actually more than a life guru. More like a guru of life and death and you’re here to tell me I’m about to die or something.”

You slam the sketch pad closed in the first two seconds Foggy opens his mouth. It takes three more seconds to register what he’s saying as you stare up at him with your mouth agape.

Hoping the easy grin you flash him casts off any doubt about your delayed reaction, you slide your sketchbook safely into your bag as you retort.

“Once again, I’m not your life guru. Neither am I qualified to be anyone’s guardian angel. I don’t think my doodles are gonna strike any revelations about life’s purpose.”

You zipper the bag closed, releasing a private sigh of relief.

“So you’re a sketch artist.” Foggy acknowledges, leaning both palms on the partition wall. Immediately the scent of his cologne hits your nose and you find it dizzying on your inhale. “That makes your ‘I study people’ comment make a lot more sense now.”

He remembered that?

Well, it seemed he remembered your entire conversation, given he used your words verbatim in court.

You lean against the back of your seat, dropping loosely crossed fingers between your spread knees. Feigning casual in spite of your pounding heart.

“I don’t usually tell people my occupation given the mixed reactions I’ve had in the past.”

Foggy chuckles, nodding as he lowers to rest his forearm and cocks a hip out, now further into your proximity.

“Dude, I absolutely feel that. Claiming you’re a lawyer isn’t the flaunt people think it is at family gatherings.”

“At least you make money.” You nod towards his wrist.

Foggy wrinkles his nose and grimaces. “This was from a very short-lived and poorly made career move.”

You chuckle. “Never mind.”

“You manage to catch that little stint my client pulled today?” Foggy lowers his voice.

You swipe your bag and stand, now taller than Foggy’s hunched over position.  It causes his eyes to look up into yours. You resist the urge to step closer and tower over him, or step back and completely run away. Instead, you stand in the liminal tension of being a hair’s breadth from his nose brushing against your dress shirt.

“Hate to break it to you, Foggy, but this isn’t my first time sketching an outburst in court.”

You tilt your head, frowning. “Though it is the first time a lawyer has stolen something I said.”

Foggy smirks, rising back to his full height. “Last time I checked, you can’t legally steal what’s verbally said.”

You step around the partition and he easily steps right back into your personal space. He lowers his voice, as if sharing a secret.

“Besides, I’ve made it pretty clear what comes out of your mouth is pure gold.”

Willfully ignoring your heart picking up speed, you tilt your chin up in a show of confidence you do not feel for a damn second.

You lift a brow for good measure.

“Then you owe me a favor at least. Next time, wear a more suitable tie.” Before you think to, you knock the tie on his chest with the back of your hand.

“I didn’t bring that exact shade of green.”

Foggy breaks into a wide grin and his hand runs over his tie. Holding his hand against his chest, he squints.

“What? You saying you don’t have celadon in your arsenal? How long have you been doing this, really?”

You balk.

He knows the correct shade of green his tie is. Why is that hot? That shouldn ’t be so hot.     

Foggy basks in your reaction, smug with satisfaction. You regard him in a new light, your tongue running over your teeth as a smile grows, clearly impressed.

“Most men -“ You purse your lips and correct yourself before the lawyer can, “Most people wear neutrals or dark tones. So no, I don’t exactly bring the colors of the rainbow. I’m not an amateur.”

“Hey man, wearing a statement tie does wonders for a man’s confidence. You should try it sometime.”

“Oh yes, I’ll definitely feel more confident in -“ You lean so far into Foggy, your nose almost brushes his chest as you make a show of squinting.

“Are those dolphins? Yes, I’ll make sure to wear dolphins next time.”

“And you’ll fucking love it.” Foggy insists, winking. You laugh.

“Foggy! Our client is waiting outside. Let’s go.” You both turn your heads towards presumably Foggy’s law partner. The one with carmine shades.

Foggy turns back to you, his wide grin making his blushing cheeks bigger. He’s adorable and the urge to bite his cheeks flares across your mind.

Foggy leans in and squeezes your bicep, whispering.

“What a hypocrite. Ignore him. Matt is chronically late to every case we’ve had since the start of our firm. I even have to wake the guy up in the morning.”

You blink away the haze from Foggy’s pink lips moving inches from your own. It dawns on you all at once. Matt, the law partner, is who Foggy was referencing the other night at the bar. Which means Foggy is single.

Not a boyfriend.

Not taken.

Very much available.

_____

The court readjourns three days later.

Witnesses are brought in to establish character. You capture poignant moments, such as a mother’s tearful plea which has the jury wiping their own eyes, to the emboldened witness who breaks off on a fiery tangent about upholding the American way of earning your own money rather than resorting to thievery - until he is cut off by the hammering gavel and the defense’s sharp objections.

Still, the moments that resonate not only on paper but in your rapt attention, are in the way Foggy moves. He directs the court’s morale like an orchestra, releasing tension with an appropriate joke, or snapping in and sharply cutting off irrelevant questions, before once more imploring the judge and jury to think over their decisions with persuasive earnesty.

Eventually the final verdict is announced. Not Guilty.

You don’t even bother to temper your artistic hand, bringing the victorious scene to life with more flair than was warranted for court artwork. It was all you could do to keep up with Foggy’s movements; his celebratory fist in the air, his congratulating hug with the client, the solid handshake and pat on the back for his partner.

The elation in his eyes became dazzling on your paper.

This time your sketch pad is closed and already in your bag when Foggy waltzes up with all the confidence of a victor.

Because yes, once again, the charismatic lawyer earned the most flattering poses from the court’s allegedly neutral sketch artist.

“Congratulations.” You say.

“Thanks, man.” Foggy says. You collect your things and stand.

Whatever statement Foggy means to start dies on his parted lips. The moment you come around the barrier, he steps closer and his cologne hits your nose. It’s a refreshing and sharp scent that you only smell because he’s an inch over what’s deemed an appropriate space for two men to converse.

If Foggy’s joy was already apparent, now his broad grin is nothing short of radiant.

“Nice tie.”

His eyes are glued to the center of your chest - where a sky blue tie with little white clouds resides beneath your collar.

“How do you feel?”

“I hate it.”

Foggy snorts. Then squints at you.

“Really?”

You shake your head, fingering the tie’s silky texture.

“I don’t think bold colors are my style. Maybe it’s years spent being professionally in the background. But I’ll leave the bold colors and crazy patterns to the confident lawyers in court.”

Foggy’s shoulders lift at the implied compliment.

“Fair enough.” He shrugs.

His eyes dart from your hand, to the bridge of your nose, over your shoulder, then back to you. You remain in place and allow him to collect his thoughts.

Foggy bites his lip, then releases it into an easy smile.

He takes a deliberate step forward.

Now he’s inarguably ‘too close’ for social comfort.

You are more than just a little comfortable with it.

“Let me make it up to you. My fashion sense might not be suitable, but my taste for food sure as hell is.” Foggy pockets his hands and shrugs. “And since you’re new in town, I’m the best option to show you around. I’ll even share all the hidden local haunts.”

“You do this all day?” You say.

“Do what? Ask the newest guy in town if he wants a tour?”

“No. I mean lawyer every person you talk to.” You scoff. Foggy’s smile flickers, his frown second-guessing.

“You just presented an entire argument. One which makes me look stupid if I disagree.”

Your amusement at his momentary panic is short lived as soon as his demeanor shifts.

Foggy turns conspiratorial; his gaze narrow and his voice low as he leans in. His lips brush  your jaw when he turns to speak into your ear.

“I suppose you’ll have to find out how I really behave when I take you to dinner.”

_____

The sun melts into an array of colors cast across various glass skyscrapers - a fractured reflection of the expansive sky you could only ever dream of conveying with such natural artistry. As you walk the streets among evening commuters, the humidity that had steadily climbed throughout the day, now sinks low with the sun, exacerbating the ever-present smog with a stubborn desperation. It clings to the streets, the air, and your clothes by the time you arrive at the little hole in the wall.

Foggy had texted you the address the same day he invited you to dinner. That was the the end of last week, but, miraculously, both your Friday nights were available the following weekend. Still, not seeing Foggy since last week allowed your nerves to foster a sense of anxiety and self-doubt. Out of curiosity, you made the mistake of googling his name. You learned how incredibly well-loved Foggy Nelson was in the community, but also how successful he was, winning some of the most serious cases in recent history.

You carefully wipe sweat from your forehead, wary of the styled hair you had spent too long crafting, and that you now prayed remained presentable after your walk in the sweltering heat.

You glance around, then duck your nose as subtly as possible to your shoulder, making sure you don’t smell of the sweat you can feel trapped in your armpits. Thankfully, your cologne masks it - a dark profile that boosted your confidence and made you feel alluring.

Hopefully, it’s just as enticing to Foggy.

Not seeing the man in question hanging around outside, you inhale a strengthening breath and decide to stop stalling and bite the bullet.

Foggy was a chill and fun guy as far as you knew. Sure, he was also an extremely competent, sharp-witted lawyer who handled cases of national reputation, but he still seemed like a guy who was eager to have a fun time.

You pull open the door.

Hopefully, you qualify as his kind of fun.

Your eyes adjust to the indoor lighting as a familiar voice calls your name. You spot the glinting watch first on his raised wrist, then Foggy’s signature grin. With a smile all too easily returned, you hope it disguises the rising anxiety as you approach Foggy Nelson.

Foggy is plenty striking in court, all crisp edges and slicked back hair. Now, he’s just as striking, but in a devastatingly casual way. His hair is gelled but tousled, free strands framing his clear hazel eyes and curving towards his full pink lips. His burgundy shirt only accentuates his features with it’s sultry hue. The collar is split open and generously reveals the top of his chest - and the curved black edge of a hidden tattoo on the right side of his ribcage.   

Your heart thrums to life as the intense desire to reveal what exactly lies etched into his torso falls to the forefront of your mind. As well as what other tattoos are scattered across the upstanding lawyer’s body.

Instead, you lick your lips and glide into your seat.   

“Damn.” Foggy doesn’t disguise the slow, appreciative gaze that runs up and down your form. “The hell I ever thought you needed a tie?”

You chuckle, shoulders dropping slightly in relief.

“Ties remind me too much of work. They’re so restrictive and formal.”

“Depends on the setting.” Foggy quips. You don’t have time to react before he clears his throat.

“So how long have you been doodling professionally?” His grin evaporates before you open your mouth.

“Shit, sorry. That sounds so rude. I meant-“

“No, you’re right. That’s basically what they are.” You laugh. You lean over the little square table, necklace softly swinging against your chest.

“No, they’re not. They’re good! I mean I assume they’re good. I haven’t seen them yet, but I’m sure-"  Foggy drags a hand down his face, groaning at his flustered word vomit.

“God, are you sick of me yet? Because I am.”

“Foggy.” You level him with your gaze. He freezes, hand pressed to his cheek.

“Relax. I want to be here with you. I wouldn’t have walked the ten blocks if I didn’t.”

Foggy’s consternation breaks into laughter. He drops his hand beneath his chin.

“Ten blocks? However did you survive?”

You draw back. “I almost didn’t! It’s hotter than hell twice over outside.”

Foggy coos, earning a glare which he only laughs at as well.

“I was gonna take the subway, but I don’t have a pass yet.”

Foggy snorts. “Oh, we have got to get you acclimated to New York if you’re gonna survive here. Next, I’ll take you to a place I know in Harlem. Then, you can complain about walking….maybe.”

You can’t decide if you want to defend your walking capabilities or acknowledge Foggy is suggesting a second outing, so instead you take a sip of your water.

At the break in conversation, a waiter approaches and Foggy guides you through the menu, bantering with the waiter about the best dish to serve someone new in town. After the orders are taken, Foggy returns his attention to you.

“So what’s your story? How’d you end up in the city, let alone Hell’s Kitchen?”

You shrug, and rub the bottom of your lip against the ring on your finger as you reflect. The habit calms you down and helps you think.

You pretend not to notice Foggy taking his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches the innocuous motion.

“I went to college for art. I’ve always wanted to help people. People already judge you for being an artist, but I naively thought if I did it for justice it was respectable. Not the case. My colleagues with art degrees thought I was a sell-out and the law students thought I was an airhead. So I stopped telling people. I stopped trying to convince people that what I capture in courtrooms depicts justice visually for the public to witness.”

Foggy listens and a smile rests on his lips. He waits for a pause before responding in kind.

“I understand you exactly.” He slides his glass of water towards him and shrugs.

Before he takes a sip he says, “People think lawyers are these billion-dollar hot-shots without a heart.”

He sets the glass down, his eyes watching his own fingers tap on the glass. “Most of them are. But not all of them. Some of us got into this shit show because we truly want to do the best we can with the time we are given.”

“You are. It shows.”

“Thanks.” Foggy flashes a self-conscious grin. You nod, relishing in the bond of shared recognition.

He shrugs. That must be a mannerism of his.   

“Hey, I’m top of the totem pole. A white male with blond locks and a killer smile. I gotta make up for all that pretty privilege somehow.” Foggy says.

You shake your head. There goes the moment.

“Well, as far as the pretty part goes…” You catch his eye. “I’m benefiting from that privilege right now.”

“You know it.” Foggy winks.

You laugh to cover the thunder of your heart.

Dinner arrives and the food is delicious. The conversation flows as easy as the wine, escalating higher and higher until you start getting dirty looks from other tables. Foggy and you cover nearly every topic under the sun. He shares his extensive collection of stories from his large family. You share your background and some insightful stories from your college days. When you’ve begun to overstay your allotted time - the waiter keeps appearing to ask if you both need anything else - Foggy pays the bill and you thank him as you exit together.

His fingers brush your back as he holds the entrance open for you to pass through.

The moon is somewhere in the hazy night sky as you two meander down the street without a clear destination. Foggy’s expression is sporadically washed in passing headlights. His jokes grow quieter as his gaze darts everywhere but your face.

“Tonight was cool, man. Really cool.” Foggy watches his feet walk. His eyes dart to your face, each time finding you already observing him with a content smile.

“I had a great time, Foggy. Thanks for inviting me out.”

“Of course, man! I promised you a tour of the city and I am a man of my word. I have to be. My career is built on words, haha.”

Foggy coughs, shuffles his feet.

“Hey, but uh, if you wanna do this again, just hit me up. We don’t have to do this whole date-style thing. I can totally be more chill and-“

“So this wasn’t a date?” You stop walking. You regard him with a raised brow,  lips twitching with your teasing - even though your heart is racing in anticipation of his rejection.

“Well- I mean uh- not…it’s not like…it can be just chill, man. Like cool or whatever.” Foggy is thoroughly flustered and so you take a risk.

You take one step closer to the fidgeting man.

“That’s a shame, Nelson. I was kinda counting on you inviting me over tonight.”

Foggy freezes as if he was electrocuted, shoulders up to his ears and eyes wide as saucers.

He blinks rapidly, then his lips start trembling over the words flying past them.

“I mean it was a date. It was totally a date. I absolutely one hundred percent was asking you out- I just didn’t want to pressure you in case you didn’t- you weren’t- I mean, I am fine being friends but- unless you-”

Your laughter overtakes you with your relief and joy. Tilting back, you grab Foggy’s arm to reassure him - and to stabilize yourself. You manage to catch your breath with a big exhale.

Your hand slides down his forearm to grasp his hand. You intertwine your fingers and squeeze.

Foggy squeezes back, though his pursed lips and puffed cheeks showcase his annoyance.

“Are you done?”

You’re finally composed enough to look at Foggy without snickering.

“It’s not often I get to startle a lawyer,” You bite back a smile, “but it’s always amusing when I do.”

“You should know better than to mess with lawyers.” Foggy’s fighting his own smile, trying to stay perturbed, but his affectionate voice gives him away. “We don’t always fight fair.”

“That’s what makes knocking you down a peg so fun.” Foggy rolls his eyes and playfully yanks you. You knock shoulders, catching the other’s eye with the proximity.

“You owe me.”

“Then by all means,” You level your tone. “Lead the way, counselor.”

Foggy’s stance shifts at the title and the insinuating tone in which it is delivered. He gives you a playful tug as he turns to walk with more purpose towards his place.

“Though, just to be clear,” You warn, voice laced with unabashed humor, “I usually wait until the third date to accept nude commissions.”

Foggy bursts out laughing, nearly tripping over his feet as he keels over. You run into him, letting go of his hand to slide your palm over his back, dropping to squeeze his waist.

It’s all you two can do to keep things decent before you make it to his apartment.

Foggy fishes out his keys to unlock his door while you squeeze his waist and relish in the breathy exhales from his lips.

Foggy inserts the key. You spin him around and cup his face, diving in for a kiss he meets halfway. Foggy’s hand grasps your shoulder and slides up your neck, while his other hand turns the knob. You press into his body and he pulls you in by the collar. Together you fall into his apartment for the night.

_____

Three Months Later

“You’re staring again.”

“Shut up, Murdock.”

“Look,” Matt sighs and shifts in his seat to lean closer to Foggy’s ear. “I don’t care that you’re ogling him enough to feed whatever dirty fantasies are going through your head right now. But, I do need you to not get caught, and I need you to focus so we can win this case.”

“First of all, you swore to never call me out on my bodily functions again, Matthew.” Foggy tears his eyes away from the sketch artist hunched over a sketchpad, already immersed in his own element. He turns to whisper-reprimand his partner.

“Second, I have the credibility to stare at my boyfriend all day and win a case. Whereas you are the one who needs to be reminded to lock in. My, how the tables have turned.”

Matt wrinkles his nose at Foggy, a harmless glare, as he leans back in his seat and adjusts his glasses.

“It takes one to know one. And I’m just saying I would know,” Matt shuffles papers, already fighting a smile. “Celebratory sex is way better than consolation sex.”

He braces for the kick Foggy sends him beneath the table, coughing to hide his snickering.

Foggy’s lack of response is all the confirmation Matt needs that there isn’t a shadow of a doubt they are winning this case.

And they do.

You capture the glorious, blazing trial in swirling strokes and vivid colors.

Your hands are already reaching for Foggy’s tie when he approaches the minute the client leaves with Matt.

You adjust the geometric patterned tie, relishing in the way Foggy’s glazed over eyes stare at you with all the affection and desire in the world.

“You get my good side?”

“Always.” You smirk, tugging a little extra and earning a soft grunt from Foggy. “I’ve had a ton of practice.”

“Have you?” Foggy raises a brow.

“I’ve been working on something.” You drop your hands and try to remember you're in public. In a court of law where the highest professionalism is required.

To busy your hands, you gather your bag and sling it over your shoulder. Foggy falls into step beside you as you two walk down the center aisle of the court.

“A new art collection of Foggy Nelson, hot shot attorney-at-law. But it’s important. So I want to make sure I get all the features just right.” You keep your voice light and neutral, watching him from the corner of your eye.

“Well, that should be easy enough seeing as I’m all yours this weekend. I can harness some old tips from my modeling days.”

You suppress a smile, remaining silent. Foggy holds open the door, his fingers grazing your back as he follows behind.

“But artist-client privilege be damned, who the hell commissioned that? Was it a TV station? Am I gonna be on the news? Are they gonna do a profile of me? Like 60 Minutes?”

You stop short and grab Foggy’s bicep, pushing him out of the foot traffic of the main hall to stand against the wall.

Stepping close and leaning in, you whisper covertly in his ear. To the public it looks like two men sharing confidential legal information - though the public could never guess just how confidential it is.

“Sorry to disappoint, but there’s no TV station. This is a personal commission. One that only my hands can draw, only my eyes will see, and only my body will have the pleasure of revisiting many times while you’re away.”

Foggy, for once, is speechless.

You’re so close you see the thrumming pulse in his neck.

He swallows, eyes dilated with pure lust as he finally looks at you. His lips part several times.

Somehow, he manages to ask, “W-What….why…the reason?”

“You don’t remember, Foggy?” You tease. You press your lips against his ear, public be damned.

“We’ve had more than three dates. That nude commission is overdue.”

You kiss his cheek before you step back, mercifully.

Foggy grabs your arm so tightly it’s almost painful in his desperation to maintain composure. You relish his expression; the tainted flush of his cheeks, the quick exhales over his full pink lips, and the unbridled arousal in his eyes.

You’re already mapping out the sketch in your mind’s eye when Foggy finally regains the gift of speech.

And uses it to say:

“Draw me like one of your French girls.”

[ardentprose]

the ao3 author curse is real af

not sure if this is necessary, but to those wondering or vaguely interested - i am not dead. i am not gone. i intend whole-heartedly to keep writing and posting fics. i intend to finish the works that i've started or taken on as a request.

but holy fuck i am in the deep end

my current life affairs are all aflame, in every category. major life changes are coinciding and playing out like a symphony of chaos.

i love how as soon as i got into the flow of writing - a little hobby that makes me happy (god forbid) - my life immediately fell apart.

this isn't to complain or whine or make excuses. simply to update anyone who might be wondering where the hell i've been.

the answer is:

crashing the fuck out

but even while everything around me implodes, i am reminded why i love fanfiction. i am not fucking kidding when i say this niche art form is keeping me going. when everything has been stressing me to the point of sickness, my only reprieve from it remains the stories that people create.

if only for a millisecond, my mind can find refuge in another time and place, (regardless of its reality), i find myself clinging to the fraction of hope that things will eventually be okay again. and those little pieces of hope are scattered among all the stories people share on this site and Ao3.

it really comes down to stories and their power to heal. to help you envision a world in which you can be loved. in which you can achieve your dreams. in which you can survive the worst days of your life.

in which you are not so achingly alone.

it doesn't matter if it isn't real. if it's a silly little one shot or blurb. if it makes you see alternatives to your current circumstances, through the telling of fictional characters and fictional circumstances, then that's what makes all the difference. that is what makes stories works of art.

In conclusion to this impromptu essay, I am definitively Not Okay, but I will be back to writing as soon as things settle down.

And to those that need to hear it: please keep writing the stories you want to tell. Please share the ideas, the characters, the stories you are passionate about. It doesn't matter what format they come in. Because I guarantee you someone (me) will read that one blurb or one shot or work and find so much joy in it.

Okay, I'm done,

Arden x

[bellsbookshop]

Welcome to tumblr!!! I'm loving your posts so far! I was wondering if you could write a little something for Foggy? There's a CRIMINAL lack of fics for my man on here

Maybe something like he's always hyping you up? Like bad day for your self esteem, and he's there telling you how perfect and wonderful you are, or you have a work/college project coming up and he's totally focused on you talking about it and telling you he knows you'll pass/do amazing?

thank you for the kind welcome honey ! you’re right, the lack of foggy is absolutely illegal, and i think we need to sue !

foggy nelson is your number one cheerleader, no doubt about it — that man lives to support you any which way he can, and we all know he’s a certified yapper. talking you up is the easiest way for him to lift you up emotionally, and even if you’re not having a bad day he’s doing it. it could be the simplest, most menial accomplishment and he’s acting like you hung the moon and stars, because to him everything you do is amazing !

specifically however if you’re not feeling confident about something you’ve got to do — a presentation, a difficult conversation, even just doing a deep clean of your closet — he’s immediately breaking out the metaphorical pom-poms, ready to cheer you on. he’ll bring you little snacks, like cut up fruit he tried to make into smiley faces, or a few pastries from your favorite bakery. he’s got a never ending stream of praise for you too, even if you’ve only just started; “wow, that already looks amazing !” “can you run through the pitch again ? you’re just so good at explaining it, it’s so interesting !” and his personal favorite “wow, how’d i get so lucky ? you’re so … incredible !”

and god forbid your brain is fighting you, trying to drag your self worth to the floor — foggy will not stand for it ! he’s cajoling you out of your funk with two warm hands over your own, singing off key to the radio cause he knows it makes you laugh, dancing with you in the kitchen while he tries to make your favorite food and pressing so many kisses to your face you can’t help but smile. he’s human sunshine when your mood is cloudy and gray, smothering you with all the love and affection you can handle ♡

[i love you foggy nelson pls sing off key at me ♡🥹]

[ardentprose]

This is so uplifting and sweet. He's so cute. Ugh.

-

If Foggy ever said this line “can you run through the pitch again ? you’re just so good at explaining it, it’s so interesting !” I think I would burst into ugly sobs. I would die if someone asked me to willingly overexplain something again and again lol

I can totally hear Foggy singing off-key and now I'm lonely.

Just kidding! Kinda. This is super sweet and I'm filing away this visual in my head for rainy days.

These scenarios are so endearing! I didn't even send the ask but I'm benefiting so thank you for writing them!!

[moth-murdock]

Foggy Nelson Headcanons

SFW:

- one time he scared the (almost) literal shit out of you when you got up in the middle of the night for water and you didn't hear him follow you to the kitchen. You didn't notice he was there until he tried to give you a sleepy hug from behind, to which you jumped "three feet in the air" according to him (he will never let you live it down)

- he has synesthesia and you didn't notice until you kissed him once and he said you tasted like an orangey yellow

- usually humming some song from a musical

- will try to fall asleep after you because he knows how loud he snores. He did it for a long time until you noticed and told him you didn't mind it, and that you even found it soothing like white noise.

- there isn't a day that goes by that you don't laugh with him. Even if you two are fighting, he'll find a way to make you laugh

- that being said, when you two fight, he hates it. He doesn't like being mad at you or you being mad at him. (He'll do literally anything to avoid a fight if he knows it's coming, see above gif for an example)

- always man enough to admit when he's wrong once he realizes it. Then he's apologizing with so many hugs and kisses like he's trying to make up for all the time you were fighting

- absoLUTELY knows how to do your hair. He has sisters, plus that time in college when he had long hair. Want a certain braid done? He can do it with his eyes closed.

- definitely is an absolute wizard with meat. Any cut, beef pork or chicken, he knows. He may not have ended up as a butcher, but he picked up some tricks along the way

- the best at cuddles

- you best believe that he has the absolute goofiest picture of you for your contact in his phone

- absolutely loves when you two are cuddling and you start to scratch his scalp. He practically purrs at it while he melts even further into you (if even possible)

- pronounces "fajita" wrong

NSFW:

- aftercare KING. Snacks? You got it. Cuddles? Bring it in. Shower? He'll help. Want space? He's chill with that. Sore? He's got it all, sweetheart.

- absolute munch

- absolutely capable of rocking your world (daredevil s3e7 for proof)

- loves to make you laugh during sex. Also loves to see how quickly he can make those laughs turn back into moans

- not against using toys. Anything that'll help you get there, he's game. Although he does like to secretly compare when you finish with versus without toys to know what steps he might need to add to aftercare

- one thing that took him some convincing is if you want him to hurt you in any way. It was a hard no at first, but then he spent some time researching safe ways to do it and setting ground rules with you when he finally did agree.

- loves some good old cockwarming or SMS.

- slightly above average length, but pretty girthy. And he knows it. Keeps it tidy down there.

- not a huge fan of quickies, he likes to take his time and enjoy you. However, he is not against having one if it's been a while and this is the only chance you guys will get

- LOVES hearing how good he makes you feel. Will actually stop if you cover your mouth until you uncover it and stop holding back

- absolutely will not do anything in the office with you after Matt accidentally told him that he knew when he was jacking off in college. He lives in constant fear of Matt hearing him do stupid shit in the office as is, but letting him hear the two of you getting frisky? That's where he draws the line.

- loves it when you tug his hair lightly and honestly he may or may not postpone his haircuts a little bit because of it

[ardentprose]

This is all completely true. Foggy told me himself.