cece693

[cece693]

Hiiii this may be a bit of a weird idea but I was thinking something with vision x male reader, Reader could be a wielder of another infinity stone (maybe power stone??) and him coming to warn vision of thanos??

Also idk if u do soulmates aus but if you do, could they be soulmates in this as well?

I TRIED, I REALLY TRIED WITH THIS. I don't know why, but writing for Vision is hard because he talks in this sophisticated, calm tone that I cannot replicate. So, this might not be Vision canon, but I tried. Hope you like it!

pairing: vision x male reader tags: you aren't human, you wield the power stone, soulmate trope, pre-relationship, I tried, that's all I have to say, don't really like how it turned out but it's something, right???? 😭

You feel it long before you actually see him—like an electric current surging through the stars, calling you forward in a whisper of cosmic force. The Power Stone, set within a bracer around your forearm, thrums in sync with your every heartbeat. Its energy keeps you strong and feeds you, for you are not entirely human—your lineage spans ancient cosmic bloodlines older than most civilizations. Your crimson eyes reflect the swirling galaxies you have seen, and your skin carries faint patterns of violet veins that pulse with the Stone’s power.

For centuries, you’ve traveled the furthest reaches of space, mastering the destructive and creative energies that the Power Stone offers. Many have fallen attempting to possess it, but you, shaped by the harsh realities of a thousand worlds, learned how to channel its might without burning your soul.

Tonight, it leads you to him—Vision. The synthetic being who wields the Mind Stone. You sense the resonance like a beacon in a vast, inky sky. With each step, the Stone’s purple glow lights your path until you find him standing near a quiet lake, moonlight dancing across the water’s surface. Vision hovers just inches above the ground, his head angled to the side, as though he, too, hears the call echoing in the night. When his gaze locks onto you, the Mind Stone in his forehead blazes bright, casting ripples of gold over the water.

He lowers himself to the ground, curiosity evident in his stance. “Who are you?” he asks, voice gentle yet wary.

You draw closer, carefully unfastening the clasp that conceals the Stone’s main power. A soft whir emanates from your bracer as the violet radiance spills over your arm. “Someone who understands what it means to bear an Infinity Stone,” you reply, your voice resonating with a quiet, ancient timbre. “I’m here to warn you.”

Vision’s gaze flickers from your crimson eyes down to the luminous Power Stone. “Thanos,” he says, almost as though the word itself pains him. “I’ve felt his presence.”

You nod. “He is gathering the Stones. I’ve sensed his influence on entire star systems. Planets burned to ash, millions slaughtered. He’s relentless, and soon, he’ll come for the Mind Stone. And for me.” Your bracer flares again, the hue growing more intense as if the Stone senses the discussion of its own fate.

Vision steps forward, his crystalline features reflecting not only caution but something you can’t quite define. A gentle recognition, perhaps, sparked by the cosmic pull between you. “I’ve…seen possibilities—dreams of destruction,” he says quietly. “Yet I’ve also felt another presence calling out. It must have been you.”

“When the Stones resonate,” you explain, “they create a bridge between their wielders. We share a connection. I felt your consciousness almost like an echo through the cosmic void.”

Slowly, he raises a hand toward you, stopping just short of your chest. “It’s strange,” he admits, voice colored with awe. “I shouldn’t be able to sense another Stone like this, and yet I do. Every thought in my mind resonates with the Mind Stone in my forehead—and your Stone seems to answer it.”

You lower your gaze, swallowing against the sudden swell of emotion. Your breath comes quicker as the connection deepens, as if the universal tapestry is gently tugging you and Vision toward each other. “Our people might call this a ‘soul bond.’ A pull that goes beyond mere chance. Something the Stones themselves or perhaps destiny created.”

He looks surprised for a moment, blinking as though a new understanding settles over him. “But, you don’t appear to be from Earth. Are you human?”

“Partly, but mostly no,” you say, letting your cosmic side shine through. The violet veins beneath your skin glow brighter, a sign of your inherent power. “My ancestry traces back to an ancient race, long gone. The genes I carry allow me to endure the Power Stone’s might without being destroyed by it. I’ve spent eons learning to master it—and still, it threatens to devour me if I lose my focus.”

Vision’s expression softens with empathy, his voice quiet. “I know what it is to be something beyond human. To hold power that feels larger than oneself.”

Wordlessly, you take another step until only a breath remains between you. He watches as you place your hand against his chest, your Power Stone pulsing, faint purple embers dancing around your fingertips. His own Stone blazes in response, a bright golden flare illuminating both your faces.

“All my life,” you say, voice hushed, “I’ve been wandering the galaxies, searching for something more than just survival or dominance. And then I felt your presence, almost like a lullaby carried on cosmic winds. It felt…right. Whole.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The lake ripples behind you, the wind carrying the hush of distant leaves. And then Vision lifts a hand to gently cradle your cheek, his eyes reflecting a rare vulnerability. “I’ve questioned my place in this world,” he admits. “I am…was…created by humanity’s ingenuity, yet the Stone in my head connects me to something infinitely grander. And now, looking at you, it’s like a missing piece of me just fell into place.”

He leans in until your foreheads almost touch, the glow of his Stone and yours merging in a cosmic dance of violet and gold. Heat floods your body; a powerful sense of belonging overtakes you. “Vision,” you whisper. “Let me stand beside you. Thanos is coming, and we must be ready. But more than that, I…I don’t want to lose the bond we share. It’s the first time in centuries I’ve felt like I’m not alone in the universe.”

His response is barely above a whisper, yet it resonates with every fiber of your being: “Then stay by my side. We will face Thanos together. As one.” Gently, you curl your fingers around the back of his neck, letting the thrumming energy in your bracer resonate with the glowing Stone in his forehead. In that intimate moment, you feel the steady rhythm of his synthetic heart, and he, in turn, senses the cosmic pulse in your veins.

[cece693]

i love your work sm!! im not sure if youre still taking pjo requests,, but i would love to see a solangelo x male reader!!

Thanks for the ask! You weren't specific so I went with the jealousy trope but added comedic elements cause I felt like it. Hope you enjoy it :)

Hypothetically Speaking

pairing: will solace x nico di angelo x son of zeus tags: jealousy, both will and nico have crushes on you, but aren't bothered, cute, short, fluff, they think you're straight, you're not, comedic elements

Camp Half-Blood buzzed with summertime chaos. Sword clashes echoed, laughter drifted across fields, and campers joked beneath the gleaming sun. Yet two particular demigods were consumed by an entirely different form of chaos. Will Solace leaned against the old oak tree near the infirmary, eyes fixed intently on you as you sparred gracefully, wielding a celestial bronze sword, sweat glistening beautifully on your brow. Nico di Angelo stood next to him, arms folded, brows knitted in conflicted admiration.

“Do you ever think he’s too good-looking?” Will muttered, narrowing his eyes. "It's unfair."

Nico huffed, rolling his eyes. “You say that daily. If it bothers you so much, why do you stare at him like a lovesick satyr?”

“You’re one to talk!” Will scoffed. “Yesterday you walked into a tree because you were too busy looking at his shoulders.”

“Shut up,” Nico retorted quickly, cheeks flushing crimson. "At least I'm subtle."

“You were practically drooling,” Will teased, nudging Nico gently. “I had to heal your forehead, remember?”

Nico grumbled quietly. “Okay, so we’re both pathetic.”

Will chuckled softly, gently taking Nico’s hand. “But we’re pathetic together.”

They shared a smile, completely at ease with their mutual infatuation. It was impossible not to fall for you: you were handsome, kind, funny, but also famously, notoriously, and heartbreakingly straight. At least, that's what everyone believed. And for the sake of their own sanity, Will and Nico believed it too. They bonded over their mutual crush, comfortable enough in their own relationship to admit—and even joke about—their feelings toward you.

Will sighed dramatically. “Too bad he’s painfully straight.”

Nico nodded solemnly, as if discussing a fallen hero. “Tragic.”

Just then, Lucas, a son of Aphrodite renowned for his charm and devastating good looks, sauntered toward you with an effortlessly confident grin. “Oh gods," Nico groaned, eyes narrowing sharply. “Here comes Mr. Perfect Hair."

Will winced dramatically. "Why is it always Aphrodite’s kids?"

Both boys watched with building horror as Lucas playfully touched your arm, laughing flirtatiously. The true nightmare began, however, when you leaned in, smiling with your perfect lips, and brushed his arm back. "Did you see that?!" Nico sputtered. “Did—did Y/N just flirt back?”

Will paled dramatically. "No, no, we have to be imagining this. Zeus wouldn’t let this happen."

"Zeus doesn't care, Will. He has bigger problems. Like figuring out how many kids he has," Nico snapped sarcastically.

“Oh, we’re being replaced!” Will moaned theatrically, burying his head into his hands. “By the God of Fabulous Hair, of all people!”

That afternoon, oblivious to the crisis you caused, you walked over to Nico and Will, who sat broodingly at the infirmary steps. "Hey guys," you called cheerily, grinning warmly. Both stared at you blankly, their eyes narrowed in synchronized suspicion. "Whoa," you laughed nervously. "Who died?"

"No one yet," Nico mumbled ominously, earning a gentle elbow from Will.

You cocked your head, clearly confused. “Did I do something wrong? You're both acting like someone kicked Cerberus."

“No,” Nico muttered stubbornly. “Why would anything be wrong?”

“You looked pretty cozy earlier with Lucas,” Will blurted bitterly, unable to help himself. Nico elbowed him sharply, whispering something that suspiciously sounded like traitor.

“Lucas?” you echoed, genuinely confused. Then you laughed—a warm, hearty laugh that sent butterflies straight through both boys' stomachs. “That was just friendly banter. Aphrodite’s kids flirt with everyone. Even Mr. D. I’m pretty sure they’d flirt with a tree if it winked back.”

“Wait—so you're not into Lucas?” Will brightened instantly, hope returning to his eyes.

You chuckled again, shaking your head. “Gods, no. He’s like a brother.”

Nico blinked, trying to hide his relief behind a veil of nonchalance. "Funny, we kinda thought you were...painfully straight.”

“Painfully?” you repeated, raising an amused eyebrow. "Come on guys, Zeus is my dad, not my therapist. No way am I straight."

Will’s mouth fell open as Nico coughed awkwardly, his pale cheeks flushing deeply. "Then…What exactly are you into?"

You paused for dramatic effect, smirking mischievously. "Oh, you know. Dark, mysterious death boys and sun-kissed healer types with hero complexes. Hypothetically speaking."

Will stared dumbfounded while Nico snorted in embarrassment, covering his reddening face. "Hypothetically. Right."

“I suppose,” you continued lightly, “if two such individuals were interested, I'd consider myself incredibly lucky.”

Both boys exchanged wide-eyed glances, their irritation evaporating instantly. Will grinned excitedly, throwing an arm around Nico. "Did he just say what I think he said?"

Nico nodded solemnly, fighting back a grin of his own. "I think he did."

You winked playfully. "Well, boys, maybe instead of brooding like dramatic characters from one of Percy's weird novels, you should've just asked."

Nico groaned in embarrassment, hiding his face against Will’s chest. "Gods, kill me now."

Will laughed warmly, leaning forward. “Too late. You’re already dead, remember?”

You chuckled as you moved closer, wrapping an arm gently around each of them. "So, are we gonna keep moping, or can we move onto the ‘happily-ever-after’ part?"

Nico sighed dramatically, feigning reluctance. "Well, since you're practically begging…"

Will squeezed Nico tighter, grinning ear-to-ear. "Finally! Our trio dream becomes reality!”

"Careful, Solace," you teased, pressing a quick kiss to each of their cheeks. "You sound dangerously close to being a cliché."

Will merely laughed, contentedly tugging you and Nico closer. “For you, I’m willing to risk it.”

“Gods help me,” Nico sighed affectionately, “I’m stuck with two hopeless romantics.”

You grinned mischievously, gently nudging Nico's side. "Correction: You're stuck with two ridiculously attractive, hopeless romantics."

Nico rolled his eyes fondly. “Same thing.”

[cece693]

Johnny depp willy wonka x male

Okay so basically let say you guys got into a big fight over you accidentally being mean to a omoopla loopa (idk) anyway so then Willy is being really consecding and witty and it is a funny argument to watch but not to be in

Okay, but like you read my mind. For the longest time I wanted to write for Willy Wonka but felt some sort of way because it's a kids movie (at least with Edward Scissorhands there were mature themes, but Willy Wonka? That's like toddler level.) But I love his character so much, that I'll probably add mature themes in the future to continue writing for him.

Sweet Insults & Bitter Chocolate

pairing: willy wonka x gender neutral reader tags: changed it to gender neutral cause I don't write for them often, silly argument, make up with a kiss, short, I tried okay?, but I don't see Wonka and their partner getting into any serious argument to garner meanness, do I explain myself?

You had never intended to cause trouble in Willy’s factory, but one accidental slip of the tongue led to perhaps the most ridiculous fight you'd ever had. It all started when you were sampling a new chocolate concoction in Willy’s private laboratory. Distracted by how particularly delicious the new flavor was, you’d nearly tripped over an Oompa Loompa named Milo, knocking the poor little guy's mixing bowl onto the pristine white floor. The vibrant blue candy mixture splattered everywhere, coating Milo’s white jumpsuit.

“Oh no!” you gasped, reaching out in panic. “Milo, seriously, you have to watch where you're standing!” Your voice came out sharper than intended, making Milo’s expression wilt instantly. Your guilt swelled, and just as you started to apologize, the unmistakable voice of Willy Wonka cut through the sugary tension.

“Wowie, someone woke up on the sour side of the candy cane forest today,” Willy remarked dryly, leaning against the doorway with an eyebrow quirked in sarcastic amusement.

You turned, feeling defensive. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean it like—”

“Oh yes, of course, because one should always blame the victim of an Oompa Loompa collision. Really top-notch thinking,” Willy responded, his tone dripping with condescension as his hand tightened over his candy filled cane.

You sighed in exasperation. “Come on, you're exaggerating.”

He grinned, leaning in closer with mock interest. “Oh, exaggerating am I? Did your eyebrows teach you how to make that judgment call, or did you come up with it all by yourself?”

“I apologized, okay?” you snapped, cheeks flushing with frustration.

“Did you?” Willy tapped his chin dramatically, feigning deep thought. “Cause, gosh, I heard more blame than apology. But maybe my ears are full of fudge—let me check.” He tilted his head dramatically, tapping his ear a few times. “Nope! Just wax. Normal human wax.”

You crossed your arms, a bit annoyed and slightly embarrassed at how the situation escalated. “Look, you don't have to turn this into a chocolate-coated soap opera.”

“Don’t have to?” Willy laughed softly, clapping his gloved hands together. “Oh, sugar plum, I absolutely do! Drama adds flavor to everything! Although, I suppose you wouldn't understand that concept; your idea of culinary excitement is probably microwaving instant hot chocolate packets. Heathen.”

You glared at him. "Alright, you're being ridiculous now."

“Am I?” Willy circled you playfully. “But if anyone knows ridiculous, it’s surely the person who talks down to tiny candy-making geniuses. At least I appreciate my workers.”

“Oh please, I love the Oompa Loompas,” you retorted.

“Sure ya do, grumpy gums,” he teased, inspecting his nails. “Is it possible you love them slightly less than you love knocking them around?”

Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t knock Milo—”

“Careful now!” Willy placed a dramatic hand to his chest. “The walls have ears, my dear, tiny Oompa Loompa-sized ears, ready to hear your slanderous insults.”

By now, even Milo had recovered, quietly giggling with his friends from the sidelines, clearly enjoying watching you squirm. You softened your expression, turning pleading eyes to Milo. “Milo, buddy, help me out here.”

The small figure smiled mischievously, shrugging in playful neutrality. Willy tutted smugly. “Oh dear, your witness isn’t cooperating. I suppose you’ll have to plead guilty.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed Willy by the shoulders, staring him down seriously. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? Truly. Let’s call a truce?”

Willy squinted suspiciously. “Hmm, tempting. What’s in it for me?”

You sighed, exasperated but amused. “My eternal gratitude and your dignity remaining intact?”

“Pfft.” Willy waved dismissively. “Gratitude is boring, dignity is overrated, and your puppy eyes aren’t as cute as you think. I demand something sweeter.”

“A kiss?” you offered quietly, your cheeks coloring softly.

A wide grin spread across Willy’s face, victorious. “Ah-ha! Now that is a delicious apology. But…” His finger wagged playfully. “Only if you admit you're a terrible, horrible, Oompa Loompa-scaring, grumpy-pants.”

You groaned, face flushing deeper. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” Willy whispered teasingly, leaning in just close enough to brush noses. “Funny how that works, huh?”

Laughing softly, you finally relented. “Fine. I am a terrible, horrible, Oompa Loompa-scaring, grumpy-pants.”

With exaggerated flourish, Willy cupped your face, pressing a brief, sweet kiss to your lips. Pulling back, he murmured smugly, eyes twinkling, “Apology accepted, sugar rush. Now go apologize properly to Milo—or I’ll be forced to write you a very strongly-worded, candy-coated reprimand.”

You chuckled, turning toward Milo, who seemed thoroughly entertained. Willy stood by, happily humming, watching you make peace with his favorite little worker. As annoying as Willy could be when arguing, you had to admit, you adored every ridiculous, overly dramatic, chocolate-scented moment. After all, life with Willy Wonka was always sweet—even when sprinkled with his delightful nonsense.

[cece693]

So, this might just be an excuse to write a Steve bashing fanfic, but I couldn't help myself. The idea is basically this: Steve leaves you (you're dating) without a goodbye or explanation after the airport fight occurs. So (naturally) you gravitate towards Tony. Steve comes back and doesn't take it well. Hope you enjoy!

What You Left Behind

pairing: tony stark x male reader tags: past relationship with steve, steve bashing, reader moves on with Tony, pro Tony stark because why not, explicit sexual content, emotional angst, verbal confrontation, toxic behavior from steve

You hadn't thought Steve would leave—not really. You'd convinced yourself that somehow you'd always come first, that the deep nights spent wrapped in his arms, whispered promises against your skin, meant something more profound than duty or history. But reality had a sharp edge, and when Barnes resurfaced, broken and hunted, Steve’s loyalty crystallized swiftly around his best friend. He chose Barnes—perhaps the man he'd always wanted deep down—over you.

It felt like abandonment—because it was. Not just a physical separation, but an emotional detachment. He’d left you standing in the airport, eyes stinging with unshed tears as you watched him vanish alongside Barnes, shield in hand, never looking back. Yet you never blamed Barnes. He was a pawn caught in a twisted game that history played mercilessly. Your anger, quiet yet corrosive, was reserved entirely for Steve.

Months passed, during which you withdrew inward, throwing yourself into missions and assignments, barely surfacing for air. Tony, whom you'd always admired—maybe a little more than platonically before Steve—was a steady presence in your peripheral vision, watching, waiting.

One evening, after a particularly difficult mission, you found yourself nursing a drink in Tony’s penthouse. He was there, sleeves rolled up, eyes soft and understanding. He’d known heartbreak, betrayal, abandonment—the shattering loneliness of being left behind. “You know,” Tony murmured quietly, eyes glinting gently with compassion and perhaps something deeper, “he didn’t deserve you.”

“Maybe he didn’t,” you whispered back, staring at the amber liquid swirling slowly in your glass. Your throat tightened. “And maybe I always knew.”

You don’t quite remember who moved first—maybe both simultaneously—but suddenly your lips were brushing Tony’s, hesitant yet filled with pent-up longing. He tasted rich, intoxicating, every touch igniting a new spark between you. You took Tony upstairs, guiding him onto the bed with practiced ease, his eyes dark and filled with want. His breathing grew heavier as you stripped him slowly, savoring the flush that spread down his chest.

“God,” Tony moaned softly when your lips traced along his throat, marking him gently. You moved lower, pressing kisses down his chest, fingertips grazing his hips until he trembled beneath you.

“You sure about this?” you murmured, hovering over him, your eyes locking onto his.

“More sure than I’ve ever been,” Tony whispered, pulling you into another fierce kiss.

You entered him slowly, watching Tony’s face closely, the way his expression melted into pleasure, his grip tightening around your shoulders. You filled him deeply, steadily, losing yourselves to each other. Tony surrendered completely beneath you, vulnerable yet trusting, until you both shattered together in overwhelming release, his name leaving your lips in a breathless sigh.

That night changed everything. If Steve's absence hadn't already been enough to tell you to move on, it was Tony's gentle touches and lingering kisses that convinced you this was far more than a drunken, one-night encounter.

Pepper, Peter, Happy, and the others were delighted when you made your relationship known. And that in itself was liberating. The people who meant more to Tony than anybody accepted you, welcoming you wholeheartedly into their family without hesitation or doubt. It felt like you finally belonged again. Months passed, each day with Tony strengthening your bond—each stolen moment, lazy morning, and shared laugh solidifying your future together.

Then Steve returned.

The rogues were pardoned—half because the public still loved them, the other half because the world needed defenders when another threat presented itself. You'd planned on avoiding them entirely, content to move on, but Steve showed up at the Tower without warning, assuming nothing had changed.

It was early evening when he strode into the main living area, pausing mid-step as his gaze landed sharply on you, sprawled comfortably on the couch, Tony curled up warmly against your side. Something dangerous flickered in Steve's eyes, a mixture of shock, confusion, and anger swiftly settling over his features. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, eyes narrowing, voice ice-cold.

Tony stiffened beside you, but you gently squeezed his arm before standing to face your ex-boyfriend. “Exactly what it looks like, Steve.”

“I leave for one minute—”

“You left for nine months,” you correct, each word clipped. “You walked away from me—from us—without so much as a goodbye. I was patient, Steve. I let you chase Bucky across three continents before the Accords. Was supportive of your decisions even if they didn’t align with my own, and you know why?” Your voice shakes, anger and hurt clawing at your throat. “Because I trusted you. I trusted that my boyfriend would actually come back to me. I told myself we’d talk things through, fix whatever went wrong…but you never bothered.”

Steve sucks in a breath, but you press on, refusing to let him cut in.

“I waited, Steve. Texts. Calls. I tried everything. Hell, I even asked Sam if he’d heard from you. Do you know how humiliating it felt, searching for any hint of your plans, trying to hold on to a relationship you’d already abandoned?”

Steve’s throat works, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he slips into the same brittle, defensive posture that’s become so familiar since he left. “I had to protect Bucky,” he says flatly, almost dismissively. “I didn’t have time to stop by for tea and a heart-to-heart. People were hunting him like an animal.”

“I get that,” you return sharply. “I supported your decision to protect him—even if I didn’t agree with every extreme measure you took to do it. But it wasn’t just about Bucky, was it? You ran off to save him, leaving me to deal with the fallout of everything else.”

Tony stands off to the side, tension radiating through his posture. He’s trying to keep quiet, to let you handle this, but his protective streak is obvious in the worried flicker of his eyes. And Steve, of course, notices. “So you’re with him now? Mr. Shoot-First-and-Apologize-Never?” He scoffs, crossing his arms. “Great choice. You know, he’s got a track record of letting entire cities drop out of the sky, and that’s when he’s not actively trying to murder someone’s best friend in a parking garage.”

“Excuse me?” Tony bristles, fists clenching. “Wanna talk about track records? Because punching your problems away hasn’t exactly been a glowing success, Cap.”

“Says the man who upended the world with killer robots but thinks he’s earned a gold star because he donated some funds and co-wrote a few laws.” The jab lands, and you can feel Tony’s anger roil. You’ve seen the remorse he carries daily—the nights he wakes up soaked in sweat, replaying Sokovia in his head. Steve flings it around like cheap currency, as if it doesn’t cost Tony to admit he messed up.

“Enough." you snap, your voice steeling. “I’m done letting you talk to him like that. Don’t you dare walk back in here after nearly a year and act like Tony’s the only one who’s ever screwed up. You made your choice, Steve. You chose Bucky over everything. Over me. And I…” You swallow hard. “I had to find someone to lean on when you left. Someone who would stand by me, who wasn’t going to run off and disappear.”

“And Stark was the only other option?”

“If you’re fishing for cheap shots, try again. I’m not explaining the basics of how Tony and I got here nor do I owe you an explanation. Maybe you're just angry that I'm not a dutiful little trophy, waiting for the great Captain America to grace me with his presence again.”

Steve’s lips press into a thin line. “I thought you’d understand.”

“That I was just supposed to…what? Approve of you ghosting me for months while you played renegade with a handful of rogues? Steve, you hurt me. You don’t get to come back and pretend we can resume where we left off.”

He looks like he wants to argue—like he wants to push back with all the moral indignation in the world—but he glances between you and Tony, and something snaps in his expression: a raw, bitter mixture of disbelief and betrayal. “You made your choice,” he says, voice tight, so devoid of the warmth he once showed you. “I hope this works out for you, because when Stark screws up again—and we both know he will—I’m not going to be around to pick up the pieces.”

“You were never around to begin with,” you say evenly. “And I don’t need you to pick up anything. I’m not the same person you left behind, Steve.” For a moment, he just stares, eyes dark with anger and something almost like regret. But he sets his jaw and pushes past you, striding to the elevator. The doors slide shut with a harsh hiss.

Silence.

Behind you, Tony exhales, shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry,” he offers, voice hushed. “I didn’t mean for any of that to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” You turn to him. “Steve's hurting, and he’s lashing out. Doesn’t excuse what he said, though.” You pause, letting out a slow breath. “I’m not going to let him treat you like a punching bag for his guilt. Not now. Not ever.”

Tony’s lips curve into a faint smile, gratitude shining behind his eyes. He lifts his hand, lacing his fingers with yours. “Thank you,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “For everything.” Tony’s fingers tighten around yours, as though he’s checking that you’re still real—still choosing him. You bring your joined hands to your lips and press a brief kiss to his knuckles.

“C’mon,” you say softly. “Let’s get out of the blast zone before Steve decides to storm back in for round two.”

Tony snorts, but the sound is thin. “Elevator cameras probably caught him seething the whole ride down. FRIDAY’s going to have a field day with the security footage.”

You guide him toward the kitchen, where the overhead lights are gentler and the hum of appliances fills the lingering silence. A pot of coffee still sits warm on the burner. You pour two mugs—Tony’s in the “Proof That Tony Stark Has a Heart” cup he pretends he hates—and slide one across the counter.

He watches you over the rim as he takes a sip, brown eyes softening. “You really don’t blame me for any of that?”

“I blame you for a lot of things,” you tease, nudging his hip with yours. “Like leaving greasy wrenches on the couch and using the last of the oat milk without replacing it. But Steve’s anger? No. That’s on him.” Your smile fades, earnest now. “I meant what I said. You stayed. That matters.”

Tony sets the mug down and pulls you into his arms, arc reactor pulsing gently between you. “I keep expecting you to wake up and realize you deserve better than a walking cautionary tale.”

“Funny,” you murmur against his shoulder. “I keep thinking the same about you. Except I’m the cautionary tale.” You lean back, meeting his gaze. “So maybe we just keep proving each other wrong.”

A wry grin tugs at his mouth. “Deal.” He dips his head, kissing you—slow and certain, like signing a contract with lips instead of ink. When he pulls away he rests his forehead to yours. “You hungry? I can whip up something carbon‑loaded and terrible for my cholesterol.”

“You mean order something?” you deadpan.

“Hey, I’m a culinary savant when I want to be. I’ve watched Happy make omelettes at least twice.”

You chuckle, the tension in your chest finally easing. “Pizza’s fine, genius. But—” You glance toward the windows where the skyline glitters. “After we eat, maybe we should talk about what happens when Steve comes back. Because he will.”

Tony’s smile falters, replaced by a sober nod. “Yeah. He’s still part of the team—even if the team looks different now.” He exhales. “I can handle him throwing punches at me. I’m used to that. But if he aims for you again…”

“He won’t,” you promise. “Not while I’m standing.”

Tony’s gaze warms, fierce and fond. “That’s the thing—I don’t want you to have to stand alone.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a slim, silver keycard. “Been carrying this around for weeks, waiting for the right moment.” He presses it into your palm. “Full workshop access. Total clearance. It’s not a ring, but it’s the next best Stark‑level commitment.”

Emotion swells in your throat. “You sure? That’s basically giving me the launch codes.”

“I trust you with more than that,” he says quietly. “Besides, you already have the launch codes. I talk in my sleep.”

You laugh, eyes stinging. “Thank you.”

He brushes his thumb across your cheekbone. “Thank you for choosing me.”

A gentle chime sounds overhead—FRIDAY clearing her throat, if an AI could. “Boss, Captain Rogers has left the premises. He did not, however, punch any walls on the way out. Progress?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Mark it in the log, FRIDAY. ‘Rogers: zero structural damage, moderate emotional carnage.’”

“Logged,” she replies primly.

You shake your head, amused. “Let’s eat before another Avenger barges in.”

“Pizza incoming,” Tony declares, tapping the holographic interface on his watch. He pauses, smirks. “Extra pineapple. Just to spite the super‑soldier.”

[cece693]

hii, are you ever planning on making a part 2 of the I Forgive You (reader x bucky), I adore it so much!!

Thanks so much for the comment! I was debating on how to end it, but I couldn't let Bucky suffer...So the second part is filled with angst, fluff and everything in between :) Because this was already getting long, there are soo many time skips, but I think this is a good ending for this fic. I hope you enjoy it!

I Forgive You Pt. 2

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader tags: you die, bucky is depressed, endgame occurs, changes in the timeline, I won't spoil it, but I think you can guess what's going to happen, hint hint bucky goes back in time :), kinda au since some things had to be changed to fit the narrative better

The day you passed away was the day Bucky Barnes’s world collapsed. They rushed you into Wakanda’s medical wing, Shuri and her teams working feverishly, but there was no stopping the internal damage. Despite vibranium-infused treatments, advanced technology, and the dogged determination of the Wakandans, you quietly slipped away in the early hours after the battle. No cosmic power or high-tech intervention could resurrect what Thanos had destroyed.

When the moment came, Bucky was by your bedside, holding your hand in his. Your final breaths were shaky, pain etched across your features. Bucky spoke in frantic whispers, clinging to hope that you would hear him.

“Don’t go,” he pleaded, tears clinging to his lashes. “I—I need you here. I’m…I’m not strong enough alone.” Your eyes fluttered open one last time, just enough to focus on him. You squeezed his hand—a gesture that felt heartbreakingly weak. And then you were gone. Your chest fell still; your fingertips slipped from his grasp.

Bucky’s anguished cry echoed through the pristine Wakandan lab as medical monitors went silent. Shuri’s shoulders slumped, her gaze dropping. She quietly dismissed her assistants, understanding there was nothing more they could do for you. In that instant, any progress Bucky had made in escaping the Winter Soldier’s shadow shattered. He wasn’t just lost—he was broken.

As if your passing wasn’t catastrophic enough, the unthinkable happened: Thanos succeeded. The battle outside ended in an instant of cosmic horror. Half the universe dissolved into floating specks of ash.

No one could forget the way Okoye fell to her knees, watching T’Challa fade from sight; or how Wanda’s breath caught as she vanished with tears still in her eyes. Even rocket ships grounded when Rocket lost some of the Guardians. For Bucky, still cradling your lifeless form, the destruction outside was just another layer of nightmare. But the cruelest twist? Bucky remained.

He had hoped, on some desperate level, that if there was some cosmic design, it would also take him. He’d have welcomed oblivion, a chance to follow you into whatever lay beyond. But the universe, in its cruel indifference, forced him to remain—tethered to life when the one person he’d dared to love was gone.

In the days that followed, Bucky was nearly catatonic. He barely ate or slept. He didn’t respond when Steve tried to reach him, only staring at the vacant spot on the med-lab floor where your blood had pooled. Gone was the peace he’d found in Wakanda, the fragile sense of self that Shuri’s deprogramming and your unwavering love had helped him reclaim.

All that remained was the echo of your final breath, the memory of his own hands betraying him—the Winter Soldier reawakened, by Thanos’s design, to deliver the fatal blow. No matter how many times anyone insisted it wasn’t your fault, he couldn’t accept it. Because he had held the knife. He had heard you gasp in pain.

That knowledge devoured him from within.

Upstate New York, The Avengers Compound (Two Years After the Snap)

Eventually, Bucky found himself at the Avengers Compound, a shell of what it once was. Natasha spent her days clinging to the last threads of her sense of duty, coordinating scattered reports from various corners of the globe. Steve tried to hold group therapy sessions in a local community center, urging people to find hope. Bruce and Tony—before Tony retreated to a private life in the woods—clashed over how to move forward. Thor was gone, wandering somewhere, presumably wracked with guilt.

Bucky offered no solutions. He spent most of his time quietly cleaning weapons or aimlessly flipping through old mission files. Sam had vanished in the snap, which meant there was no one left who could truly break through Bucky’s solitude—except Steve. Occasionally, Steve tried to coax him into conversation.

“What are you thinking?” he asked one day, watching Bucky methodically oil a handgun he barely used anymore.

Bucky glanced up. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights. “Nothing worth saying,” he murmured. His voice was cold, guarded, but Steve recognized the heartbreak beneath it.

Steve laid a hand gently on his friend’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t want you to give up.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the gun. “He’s not here to tell me that, is he?”

Steve’s hand lingered on the metal shoulder a moment longer than usual, and Bucky felt the gentle weight of that gesture like a brand. He swallowed, refusing to meet Steve’s gaze. “Maybe not,” Steve answered quietly, “but I’m here. And I remember exactly how he looked at you—like you were worth saving every day.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. The words burrowed under his skin, scraping nerves already raw. He set the handgun aside with slow, deliberate care, as though it might shatter if he moved too fast.

“Don’t,” he said, voice hoarse. “Don’t put his faith in me like it’s a shield. I dropped that shield the second I—” He cut himself off, throat tight. The second I stabbed him. Even two years later, the memory struck like a knife to the gut.

Steve pulled over a folding chair and sat across from him. The armory lights hummed overhead, dust motes drifting through the beams. Outside, spring rain pattered against the broken skylight. It sounded like a heartbeat that refused to stop. “You blame yourself because you still see the Winter Soldier when you look in the mirror,” Steve said. “I get that. But he saw James Buchanan Barnes. So do I.”

Bucky barked a laugh—sharp, joyless. “He saw who he wanted to see. Everyone does that with me. It’s easier than facing the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That there’s no redemption arc big enough to erase what I’ve done.” Bucky’s eyes were like storm clouds—dark, volatile. “Not just to him. To all of them. I can’t fix this.”

Steve folded his hands. “Maybe you can’t fix everything. But you can still do something. Every day we’re alive is another chance to try.”

Bucky shook his head, rising abruptly. “I’m done with pep talks.” He shoved the chair back and strode toward the exit.

Steve’s voice followed him, quiet but firm. “Running from the pain won’t make it fade, Buck. You taught me that, remember?”

Bucky hesitated at the doorway, fingers tightening on the frame. Rain drummed harder on the roof, like impatient fingers. He turned just enough for Steve to see the grief etched in his profile. “I’m not running,” he muttered. “I’m just…waiting for the part where it stops hurting.”

Steve’s expression softened. “Maybe it never stops. Maybe we carry it, like we carried each other through the war. But carrying it together makes it lighter.”

For a heartbeat Bucky said nothing. Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Save the sermon, Steve. Some weights don’t get lighter—no matter how many hands you put on the bar.”

Five Years After the Snap

When Scott Lang—Ant-Man—reappeared from the Quantum Realm with a desperate, impossible plan to time-travel and reclaim the Infinity Stones, the Avengers reassembled for the first time in years. Tony was coaxed out of his lakeside retirement, Bruce had undergone a curious evolution into a “Professor Hulk,” and Thor stumbled into the compound carrying the weight of his failures.

Bucky kept to the back of the room as they discussed quantum physics and potential paradoxes. The idea of going back in time to retrieve the stones before Thanos could destroy them sounded insane. But there was an ember of something in Bucky’s chest—hope, maybe? If they could undo the snap, perhaps…he'd be here, Bucky thought, half-listening to the frantic conversation. He’d be the first to volunteer for this. He never hesitated to save the world. Bucky’s jaw clenched, eyes drifting over the faces of the other Avengers. Steve caught his gaze and nodded. There was a shared understanding: Bucky was in, no matter how impossible it seemed.

The plan was laid out with careful precision: split into teams, jump through the Quantum Realm, gather the Infinity Stones, and bring them safely back to their time. From Tony and Bruce’s intricate equations to Steve’s measured resolve, everyone moved with one desperate thought in mind: undo what Thanos had done.

For Bucky, however, that glimmer of hope took a wildly different shape. Deep down, he knew the Snap itself hadn’t taken your life, but part of him clung to the impossible dream that maybe, just maybe, if they could harness the Stones or alter the timeline, he could undo his greatest regret. Bucky shoved that hope down where it couldn’t distract him, but it remained a stubborn ember in his chest.

When the Avengers regrouped in the present with the Stones in hand, Bucky felt that ember burn a bit brighter. If these Stones can bring back half the universe, who’s to say they can’t—No. He cut off the thought, jaw clenched. Focus on the mission. Don’t be selfish.

Yet the longing was there, pulsing beneath every breath.

When retrieving the stones, they never expected for Thanos to follow. But the Mad Titan—this time, a past version even more relentless—arrived in a fury, bringing a warship and legions of vicious outriders. In an instant, the Avengers Compound turned to a smoking crater. Flame and twisted steel surrounded them, the air thick with dust and debris.

Bucky was among the first to spring into action, rifle in hand. His mind snapped into combat mode, adrenaline surging. Distantly, he noted Tony’s frantic calls for backup, Thor’s roar, and the clash of vibranium on alien weaponry. He had no illusions about the odds.

“He’s here!” Steve shouted, shield up, voice tight with urgency. “Everyone—scatter and engage!”

Bucky nodded sharply, storming through the rubble, eyes scanning for any sign of Thanos or the outriders. The sizzling hum of energy blasts whined past his ears. Chunks of concrete rained down from collapsed walls. It felt like war—just another battlefield, except the stakes were greater than ever. Bucky was ready to die; he owed you at least that much after what he'd done to you, but it was Tony who made the ultimate sacrifice. Wearing the gauntlet with all the stones, Bucky could only cover his eyes before a bright flash surrounded the battlefield. And then, silence—save for the faint crackle of dissipating cosmic energy.

Bucky’s ears rang. When he lowered his arm, the field was eerily still. The sky, once bruised with smoke and fire, now glowed soft pink in the newborn dawn. Thanos and his armies were gone—reduced to drifting motes of dust that shimmered for a heartbeat before the wind carried them away.

Victory. But it didn’t feel like triumph.

Across the rubble‑strewn expanse, Bucky spotted Stark slumped against a jagged slab of concrete, the makeshift Infinity Gauntlet fused to his scorched armor. Rhodey was already there, hands trembling as he tried to stabilize a reactor that would never beat again. Peter stumbled forward, sobbing apologies. Pepper knelt, voice breaking as she coaxed Tony’s fading gaze to hers.

Bucky stood rooted, rifle limp at his side. He should move—help, comfort, do something—yet his legs refused. The scene blurred through tears he hadn’t realized were falling. Another good man dying in front of me, and I can’t save him. Just like…

Your face flashed behind his eyes: smiling under Wakandan sunlight, then contorted in pain beneath the Winter Soldier’s blade. His stomach twisted. A hand landed on his shoulder. Steve—bloodied, exhausted—looked at him with the same hollow grief. “He saved us all,” Steve whispered, voice hoarse.

Bucky swallowed hard. “And I couldn’t even save one person.”

Days later, after the dust settled and the funeral for Tony concluded, the Avengers made preparations to return the Infinity Stones to their proper places in the timeline. Steve volunteered to be the one to do it—he insisted he should be the one to make it right.

On a quiet morning at the rebuilt Quantum Platform, Steve approached the pad, the case of stones clutched in one hand. Bucky hovered a few steps away, posture tense, arms crossed. Sam and Bruce were there as well, operating the controls. “We’ll see you back in five seconds,” Bruce said, giving Steve a shaky smile. Steve nodded, stepping onto the platform. He glanced at Bucky, eyes filled with a mixture of resolve and something else that Bucky couldn’t decipher. Then Steve was gone in a flash of quantum energy. Five seconds ticked by. Bruce fiddled with the controls, waiting for a signal.

Another second passed.

Then another.

Bucky’s heart sank. Fear twisted in his gut. Why wasn’t Steve coming back?

Suddenly, Sam pointed across the clearing. Near the shoreline by the compound, an older man sat on a bench, gazing out over the water. He and Sam exchanged confused looks before sprinting over. As they drew closer, they recognized him—Steve, aged and wearing a contented smile.

“I’m sorry,” the older Steve said softly, looking to both Sam and Bucky with fondness in his eyes. “I took a detour.”

“You went back to the 40s, didn’t you?” Sam breathed, understanding dawning. “Peggy?”

Steve’s lips curved gently, but he shook his head. “I saw Peggy, yes. But she…she’d moved on. She lived her life. She was happy.” He let out a breath that seemed to carry decades of contentment. “I couldn’t take that away from her, not after everything. Not just because I wanted one last dance.”

Bucky stood there, uncertain how to react. Part of him had always expected Steve to choose Peggy in the end. “So, you just stayed anyway? On your own?”

Steve carefully opened the case on his lap, revealing an Infinity Stone—one that hadn’t been there before. Bucky frowned, and Sam’s eyes widened, confusion etched on his features.

“This,” Steve explained, tapping the stone, “isn’t from the same stash we used. It’s a spare from a slightly different reality. I got advice from someone who owes us a big favor—someone who knows the Stones in ways we can’t imagine. They told me there was a special timeline where certain tragedies happened that could be undone.”

A look of dawning realization flickered across Bucky’s face. “You…you mean…?”

Steve nodded, placing a wrinkled hand on Bucky’s vibranium arm. “I can send you back. Not to the 1940s—” he smiled kindly, “—but to just before all this started. Before Thanos. Before they…” Steve’s voice faltered. “You, out of everyone, deserves that life, Buck. Both of you do.”

Bucky’s chest tightened, eyes burning with unshed tears. “Steve, I…I don’t understand.”

The older man smiled, sadness and pride mingling in his gaze. “I had my dance. It wasn’t with Peggy—she belonged to her own time. But I found something else worth living for.” He patted a small ring on his finger that Bucky hadn’t noticed before. “In a timeline out there, I found a second chance…not the one everyone expected, but the one I needed. We all deserve that, Buck.”

Sam cleared his throat, clearly reeling from the news. “So, you’re sending Bucky back in time to stop everything from happening?”

“Not everything,” Steve corrected. “The Infinity Stones need to remain hidden until Thanos makes his play. But Bucky can change his own path—and theirs.” He looked at Bucky meaningfully. “You can prevent their death, Buck, and maybe help ensure we’re more prepared for Thanos than we ever were.”

Emotions warred inside Bucky: disbelief, guilt, longing. Could he really go back to you, change things so you’d never meet that fate on the battlefield? Could he warn the Avengers without altering reality in catastrophic ways?

“It’s risky,” Steve admitted, reading the turmoil in his friend’s eyes. “Time travel always is. But something tells me you’ll find a way to make it right. You two always did have each other’s backs. And remember—this is your choice, Bucky. You don’t have to—”

But Bucky already knew his answer. He didn’t need a second invitation. He let out a shaky breath, turning to Sam. “You’ll be okay?”

Sam’s eyes held sadness at the idea of losing another close friend, but he forced a reassuring smile. “I’ll manage. You do what you need to do. And if you succeed, I’ll see you on the other side, right?”

Bucky gave a slight nod. Then he turned back to Steve—his oldest friend. Words failed him, so he placed a hand over Steve’s heart. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice rough. “For everything.”

Steve’s eyes glistened. “No, Buck. Thank you. Now go find them.”

Later that day, at the Quantum Platform

Professor Hulk adjusted the settings, hooking up the new Infinity Stone in a protective container that crackled with cosmic energy. “We’ll send you to a specific date,” he explained, tapping on the console. “Right before everything started going downhill. Remember, you can’t just reveal everything outright. That could break the timeline. But you can steer things—nudge them, warn them—to avoid the worst.”

Bucky gripped the handle of the small time-travel device. Part of him still couldn’t believe this was real. When he closed his eyes, he could almost see you, smiling with that bright, fearless grin, calling him to you. Telling him that he wasn’t alone. As the mechanism powered up, Sam and Steve stood nearby, offering silent support. With one final glance, Bucky nodded. Bruce activated the quantum jump. A surge of light enveloped Bucky. The world around him distorted, twisting into a kaleidoscope of color. A second later, he vanished.

Present-Day (Pre-Infinity War Timeline), Avengers Compound

Bucky materialized in an empty room in the compound—one reserved for weapons storage. He immediately recognized the layout, the hum of the building’s air conditioning. He glanced down at himself. He was wearing a familiar combat outfit, minus the dust and grime of the final battle. His heart pounded. This is real. This is real.

Cautiously, he slipped out of the storage room into the corridor. It was bustling with people—agents, recruits, staff—while monitors on the walls displayed mission briefs from around the globe. A part of Bucky wanted to weep at every sight that was normal. No looming threat from Thanos yet, no sign of half the world turned to dust. Bucky’s stomach churned with anticipation. He needed to find you. But how? He paused, remembering the timeline constraints. He couldn’t just announce he’d come from the future; it could unravel everything.

A sudden voice from behind him nearly made him jump. “Barnes? You back from Wakanda already?” The figure approached, wearing standard-issue tactical gear. It was just a random S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison, but it confirmed that you and the others believed him to have been in Wakanda. Perfect cover.

“Yeah,” Bucky managed, forcing a tight smile that felt alien on his face. “Something came up.”

He slipped past the agent, heading towards the living quarters. He remembered exactly where your room was. When he arrived at your door, his hand hovered over the handle. His heart hammered so hard he feared the entire compound could hear it.

Taking a breath, he knocked softly. From within, he heard shuffling, a muffled “Coming!” Then the door hissed open. And there you stood—every bit as vibrant as Bucky remembered. There was that spark in your eyes, that quick smile of curiosity. The same presence that had made him feel safe even in the darkest times.

Your brow furrowed slightly in surprise. “Bucky? I thought you were still in Wakanda."

The sight of you alive, breathing, unharmed, was overwhelming. Bucky’s breath hitched; tears pricked the corners of his eyes. You were about to say something else when he surged forward, wrapping you in a desperate embrace. His metal arm and flesh hand both pressed against your back, holding on as if you might vanish at any moment.

You froze in shock. “Hey…?” you managed softly, unsure what had shaken him so badly.

When Bucky finally pulled back, he didn’t give you a chance to question him further. He looked into your eyes, tears sliding down his cheeks, and before he could second-guess himself, he kissed you—fierce, trembling, full of pent-up grief and longing. The moment his lips found yours, time seemed to stop. A swirl of emotion poured out of him—sorrow, relief, love, desperation. The kiss was messy and unplanned, but he didn’t care. He needed you to feel how much you meant to him—how much he had lost and found again in that single instant.

At first, you tensed, wholly unprepared for such intensity. Then, sensing the genuine anguish behind it, you softened against him, letting your arms slide up to his shoulders. It was as though some fundamental piece of your bond, across timelines and tragedies, recognized his need.

When you finally broke apart, your breathing was unsteady. A thousand questions hovered in your eyes. “Bucky,” you murmured, voice shaky. “What…what happened? Why are you—”

He swallowed hard, thumb brushing your cheek, memorizing every line of your face. You’re alive. “It’s a long story,” he whispered, voice raw with unshed tears. “I-I can’t explain everything right now. But I—please, I just…need to hold you. Need to know this isn't some kind of dream.”

Your gaze searched his, seeing the pain etched into his features. Tenderly, you wiped away the moisture clinging to his lashes. “Well,” you said softly, “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.” Bucky closed his eyes, silently thanking whatever higher power had granted him this second chance. I will save him, he vowed. I will save us.

[cece693]

Hannibal x male reader who is seemingly not that bright been getting away with murder for a LONG time (primary targets r pedos) and 1 night when Hannibal is disposing a body he sees reader doing the same by making it seem like the most recent victim simply died in a cave system?

Thanks for the ask! I changed your request slightly since I thought of ideas for a 'himbo' reader. In this fic, the reader is smart but acts dumb to stray people from looking into his murders. Kinda like Hannibal, but the reader knows if he acts clueless, people would overlook him. It isn't what you asked for, but I think it came out alright. Hope you enjoy!

The Unlikely Confluence

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: you're a murderer, duh, dinner invitations, I changed your ask to have the reader be bright but act like a dummy in the presence of others, I want to write for himbo readers separately, I actually have a lot of ideas and would like to flesh them out in another post :)

You hum softly to yourself, the quiet of the night pressing around you like a heavy blanket. The noises that do manage to break into your concentration—a cricket’s chirp, the low hoot of an owl—seem distant, as though you’ve chosen to exist in a dimension occupied solely by you and your current task. The flashlight between your teeth flickers, illuminating the dripping limestone walls. You pause and delicately shift it in your mouth to bite down on a less chewed groove. It’s easy to lose track of the right angle when you’re elbow-deep in mud and rock, but you can’t afford to drop your only source of light down here.

You’ve never been one to study complicated subjects or chase lofty degrees. People say you’re not that bright, and, in some ways, you agree. Patience has never been your strong suit either; you prefer the direct route in life. You don’t need fancy words to let you know how the world works. If anything, your unassuming nature has become a perfect cloak, allowing you to slip under the radar. And that small oversight on people’s part has kept you alive—and, more importantly, uncaught—for years.

Tonight, you’re making it look like yet another unseemly accident. There’s a labyrinthine network of caves beyond city limits—poorly marked and rarely frequented except by adventurous spelunkers who think they can handle nature’s darkest corners. It’s the ideal place to ensure a body won’t be found, at least not until time and moisture have had their way with it. The person you’re disposing of isn’t exactly a pillar of the community—like most of your targets, he wouldn’t have garnered pity if the world discovered his predilections. You’ve done the world a favor, or at least that’s how you justify it.

You straighten, wiping your brow, and set the flashlight on a jagged rock shelf so you can wrestle the limp body deeper into the shadows. The entire place smells like damp earth and stale air, with the faint metallic bite of blood that you’ve tried hard to rinse away. Suddenly, the small hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

You still.

It’s that primal warning that tells you something is there—someone is there—watching. Standing absolutely still, you pull in a breath, then slowly edge one hand into your jacket pocket. The blade there is a last resort; you’re not used to being caught off-guard. So you wait, quietly, mentally cursing yourself for letting your guard down.

A voice curls through the darkness like a silky cat: “I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

You would know that cultured lilt anywhere—on the news, from that one time you met him in person and swore you’d never get close again. Hannibal Lecter steps forward with the elegance of a well-groomed feline, eyes bright with a curiosity that you can’t fully parse. He carries a bundle wrapped in dark cloth—about the size of a human torso.

His eyes roam the scene, taking in the soaked cuffs of your pants, the wet stains on your jacket, the fresh scuff marks in the mud. You feel suddenly self-conscious, though you can’t quite place why. You’re covered in dirt, blood spatter, and your hair is plastered flat on your forehead. He, by contrast, remains immaculate even in this dank space, as though filth simply doesn’t dare cling to him.

“And who, might I ask, is your unfortunate friend?”

You let out a laugh that comes out more as a short bark. “Somebody who deserved it. I…I only go after certain sorts.” You’re not sure why you choose to disclose that, but something about him invites honesty. Maybe it’s the way he stares like he can peel your mind open on a cutting board.

“Do you?” he prompts, voice curiously gentle.

You nod, a tension flooding out of your shoulders. “Pedophiles,” you say, near-spitting the word. “World won’t miss him.”

There's a flicker in his gaze, surprise and something else—approval, maybe. “I see.”

It strikes you that you might not be the only one in the world who carefully selects their victims. And you can’t help but wonder what draws his lines, what cause Hannibal Lecter finds worthy of a final punishment.

“So, what now?” you ask, looking him in the eye, though you can’t hold that intense gaze for long. “We pretend we didn't see each other and go our merry way or...?"

He seems slightly amused by your directness. “It would be prudent for us both to complete our business and leave no trace.” His gaze shifts to the body behind you, then to the corpse-shaped object wrapped at his feet. “I won’t stand in your way, and I ask for the same courtesy. Mutual benefit.”

You look him over. His posture is relaxed, but you sense the tension in the lines of his shoulders—he’s coiled, ready to spring if he has to. You’re not naive enough to think you have any upper hand. Although some might say you’re a bit slow on the uptake, you’ve got an instinct for trouble. And Hannibal Lecter practically vibrates with it. Yet, he hasn't pounced. There's something else: curiosity in his eyes, a calm, amused interest that doesn't read as immediate hostility. For a man with his intellect, maybe you spark some sense of fascination, an aberration from the norm.

“Guess there's enough space for the two of us.”

An understanding passes between you in the stale, humid air. Neither of you voices the obvious: if one betrays the other, you risk your own exposure. Returning to your tasks, you awkwardly step aside to let him pass. He does so, a soft swirl of expensive fabric brushing past your jacket. Together—but not quite side by side—you maneuver deeper into the winding tunnels. The hush of dripping water and your own carefully measured footsteps become a strange rhythm, punctuated only by Hannibal’s occasional murmur of observation:

“Mind the uneven rock there.” “You seem well-practiced in this.” “Let’s ensure we depart long before dawn.”

He never says your name; you never give it. For the next hour, you’re simply two men working in tandem—clearing away mud, setting remains in places that will be submerged by the rising water, carefully packing out anything that could link either of you to the scene. “Thanks,” you said quietly, hardly believing your own luck. “Never worked with someone before.”

“Nor I. Typically I work in solitude.” He stepped aside, letting you get your footing. The both of you stared at the bodies—yours tucked cleverly against a rocky pool, his still in the tarpaulin. With the ground mostly rid of footprints, Hannibal jerked his chin toward the cave’s deeper passages. “I’ll finish up in another chamber,” he said. “And you…?”

You stuffed your hands in your pockets, trying to feign a clueless shrug, but you felt a twitch of excitement. This man—this gentleman in fine suits, who carried bodies around like an art piece—was oddly magnetic. “Think I’ll head home,” you said. “Probably break up the night with a snack.”

Hannibal stepped closer, just enough that you caught the scent of his cologne—something subtle, refined. “A snack,” he echoed. “That reminds me: might I invite you to my home for dinner sometime?”

You blinked, processing the abrupt invitation. “Dinner?”

His lips curved. “Yes. Given that we share such distinctive interests, I’d like to hear your stories. You have an unexpectedly clever mind, and I have quite the appetite for intriguing conversation.”

You considered it, but were uncertain. “I’m not exactly the fancy type.”

His voice went low, confident. “I can assure you, I welcome many sorts at my table. Even those who might appear less worldly than they truly are.”

Before your mind could protest, you found yourself giving him a slow nod. The quiet quake of adrenaline that had thrummed through your body for the past half hour melted away into a cautious, enthralled acceptance. “Sure,” you muttered at last. “I…That’d be nice.”

Hannibal’s smile deepened by a fraction, as though you’d passed some unspoken test. “I’ll find a way to contact you,” he said, sounding reassuringly certain. Then he inclined his head. “Best not to dally. We both have details to complete before the sun’s up.”

With that, he turned, footsteps echoing into the far recesses of the cavern, dragging the tarpaulin-wrapped body behind him with a grace that belonged nowhere near such a macabre chore. You stood motionless, watching until the darkness swallowed him whole. A shaky exhale left your lungs. You felt like you’d just survived a near-death encounter, yet emerged with an odd sense of possibility. You didn’t know whether Hannibal Lecter was a man to be feared or revered—maybe both. Whatever lay ahead, dinner with Dr. Hannibal Lecter would be anything but ordinary.

[cece693]

You simply cannot leave me with a broken heart after promise to return part 2. I simply must know what happens next! You’ve hooked me!

Uhhh, you're going to have to be more specific 😅. I have so many fics that need a second part or ones that I leave intentionally open ended....

[cece693]

May I request some Will Graham x Werewolf Male Reader? I can imagine Will taking home another stray dog he stumbled upon while driving home at night, totally doesn't care that the dog looks more like a wolf than husky with it's dark fur 🐺

Really smart like covering Will with a blanket when he fell asleep on the couch while doing work and making sure Hannibal don't snoop around Will's stuff when he comes over. Will became ever more conscious of how smart his new pup is after the dog apparently called Hannibal from Will's contact and barked into the phone to let the psychiatrist know that something was wrong (cuz Reader can't turn back into his human form and blow up his disguise) and Hannibal drove all the way from Baltimore to Wolf Trap in the middle of the night to find Will having seizure on the floor and Reader (still wolf) standing beside him so eerily while looking at Hannibal like 'Help him or else'. Such a good boy XD

And if Will ever catch his dog sneaking away into the woods and witnessed the dark furry figure turn/transform into a man, well... Let's just say he'll probably have quite a hot view cuz turning back into a human with no clothes on is just the most logical thing, right? ( ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°) (I never understood how werewolf turn back into a human with at least pants on) Maybe nsfw after that? It's up to you.

So, I was taken aback by this request, but not in a bad way. Like I never thought about this, but it also makes sense when connecting the dots. I didn't include much background info about the male reader, just Will finding him and when he discovers you're actually a werewolf. No explicit smut, but mentions of it. Hope you enjoy!

A Stray In Wolf Trap

pairing: will graham x male reader tags: you're a werewolf, but act like a dog, mentions of hannibal but isn't much of a focus, will is freaky, no he doesn't have sex with a wolf, but his morals are questionable, squint to see you being jealous of hannibal

Will should’ve known better than to pick up yet another stray dog. He had too many already, and the last thing he needed was to put more responsibilities upon himself when he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. Yet, on that chilly Virginia night, when his headlights swept across your dark, wolfish silhouette by the side of the road, he couldn’t just drive by. Something deep in his gut pulled him to stop, and if there was any place you belonged, he decided, it was in his home.

He coaxed you into the passenger seat with gentle words and a leftover half-eaten burger. You almost looked more wolf than dog, but Will dismissed that creeping thought. He tried to convince himself it was your thick coat, the slope of your muzzle. Maybe just a large husky mix that no one cared for. Either way, he promised to put up “found pet” notices. It was only a matter of days—or so he told himself—until someone claimed you.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into a month. You settled into Will’s life seamlessly. You had your own space in a corner by the fireplace, though you were clever enough to saunter over and curl yourself at Will’s feet whenever you sensed tension coiling around him. It amazed him how soothing your presence was—and how quickly you learned his rhythms. On nights when Will tossed and turned, or fell asleep over cold files on the couch, he’d wake to find a blanket draped over him, your enormous head resting on your paws as if to watch him.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” Will murmured one morning, giving your ears a gentle scratch. “You almost make the other dogs look ordinary.”

He’d laugh it off, attributing the thought to his own habit of anthropomorphizing animals. He spoke to you like a person. But it wasn’t long before even Hannibal, who occasionally dropped by for sessions—or to ‘check’ on Will—took notice. In fact, he commented the moment he walked through the front door and you placed yourself squarely between him and Will.

“What an exceptional creature,” Hannibal mused with a polite, curious smile, though his gaze was calculating. You bared your teeth in a near-silent warning, matching his intensity.

Despite your mistrust of Hannibal, you were fiercely protective of Will. When Hannibal tried to wander into Will’s study uninvited, you ghosted after him on silent paws, letting out a low growl. And though Will didn’t see that particular exchange, Hannibal calmly backed off. Will had no clue that “his dog” was the reason Hannibal stayed so carefully within polite boundaries.

One awful night, everything changed. Will had been battling the encroaching migraines and suspected encephalitis for weeks, but this was the first time it struck so suddenly and violently. You caught him right as he started seizing, crashing to the ground in an unsteady tangle of limbs.

Panic crashed through you. You couldn’t turn back into your human form—not here, not when Will might see, not when Hannibal was the nearest professional who could help. You pawed at Will’s phone, pressing the screen with a careful claw until you found the contact for Dr. Lecter. You tapped it, pressing your muzzle to the mic once you heard the line connect. A frantic bark. Then another. Somehow—maybe from the tension in your voice, or the static of your breath—Hannibal understood. A clipped, urgent, “I’m on my way,” preceded the call ending.

When Hannibal arrived, Will was still unconscious on the floor, his limbs occasionally jerking with aftershocks of the seizure. You stood over him, ears pricked sharply, your eyes flicking to Hannibal with an almost human intelligence. If the doctor did not act, you silently warned, there would be consequences. Hannibal gently coaxed you aside, calling an ambulance and administering emergency aid. Will awoke in the hospital later, disoriented but alive, Hannibal seated at his bedside. You waited at home, anxious and pacing until Will returned—but, ultimately, relieved he was safe.

Time passed. Will’s treatments began to stabilize him. You remained at his side through every moment of his recovery. His resolve to put up “found dog” notices weakened month by month. He cherished your presence too much now. You were so quiet, so fiercely loyal, and helped ease his nightmares in a way even the other dogs couldn’t. But Will’s curiosity about your intelligence never was ignored.

It was four months after your arrival when Will caught you leaving the house around midnight. You slipped through the back door, trotting into the tree line as if you had a destination in mind. Will, who never did sleep well, threw on boots and followed.

He almost lost you in the thick of the forest, but he heard the faint crackle of leaves and found you standing in a small clearing. He nearly stopped breathing when your body began to contort. Fur receded into smooth skin. Joints cracked, rearranging themselves, muzzle shrinking into the shape of a human face. And just like that, you stood there, naked under the moonlight: a man.

You froze, feeling that Will was near and had seen everything. Turning to the trees, you saw his eyes locked on you—wide and in disbelief.

A rush of terror and relief coursed through you in equal measure. You’d wanted him to know—but not like this, with you bare and vulnerable. Will’s chest rose and fell as though he couldn’t decide if this was a nightmare or some near-hallucinatory dream. Time stretched. Will approached slowly. He took off his jacket, his voice low and soft—much like when he’d found you on the roadside.

“You must be freezing.”

Typical Will. Only he could witness a seamless transformation from wolf to human and think about your comfort first. His quiet empathy nearly undid you. Gently, he stepped forward and draped his old, worn jacket around your shoulders. The fabric smelled of him—coffee and soap, a hint of the wooden floors back home.

Will keeps his gaze on your face, though you see a faint flush darkening his cheeks; he’s careful not to linger on your naked body. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“I—I should ask what you are,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “but somehow it makes sense, in a way.” He met your eyes, breath fogging in the cool air. “All those little things—how you understood me, how you guarded me. I thought I was projecting.” A shaky laugh escaped him. “Turns out the profiler wasn’t imagining monsters—he was living with one.”

The word monster made your chest tighten. You opened your mouth to apologize, to explain—but Will’s hand came up, thumb brushing the corner of your lips. “Not a monster,” he said, voice steadying. “Just different. And still mine.”

The claim sent a flush through you. “I was scared you’d run.”

“I almost did,” he admitted, shoulders sagging with honesty. “But then I remembered how it felt when I woke up after the seizure and you were the only thing between me and the dark.” His eyes shone, damp in the moonlight. “If you’d wanted to hurt me, you’d have done it long ago.”

You swallowed, throat thick. “I never could.”

“I know.” He reached for your hand, twining his fingers through yours. “Come on. Let’s go home before you catch cold.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady. When you reached the tree line and the scattered lights from Will’s house came into view, you paused. Part of you felt that crossing that threshold—going inside as a human—was a point of no return. In wolf form, you had retreated from the world’s expectations, from fear of rejection or exposure. But there was no retreat now, not when he’d seen you, heard you, and still wanted you near.

Will seemed to sense the hesitation, pulling at you like an invisible tether. He turned, offering an encouraging half-smile before opening the door. The other dogs greeted you both with sleepy wags, unperturbed by your new form—proof that, to them, you’d always been pack. Will guided you to the bathroom, turning on the shower and testing the water with careful fingers.

“You should warm up,” he said, voice a notch huskier in the small, steamy room. He stepped back to leave, but you caught his wrist.

“Stay?”

Color rose to his cheeks, but he nodded. Clothes hit the floor in soft thumps. Steam curled around his shoulders, glistening on skin you’d only brushed in moonlit frenzy. Under the water, you washed away dirt and leaves; Will’s gentle hands lathered soap along your spine, fingertips mapping every scar the forest had never seen.

When he turned you to face him, his vulnerability was laid bare—eyes dark with want, but shining with fear that you’d disappear when the water stopped. “I need to say it,” he breathed, palms framing your face. “If you leave now—if I wake up and you’re gone—I don’t know what will happen to the little sanity I have left.”

A growl—soft, protective—rumbled in your chest. You pressed your forehead to his. “I’m not leaving, Will. Not tonight, not ever, unless you ask me to.”

Relief loosened something inside him; Will surged up to kiss you, water cascading between parted lips. The shower’s hiss masked the broken sounds you both made as need bled into touch—his slick hands sliding down your ribs, yours bracing against the tile while he explored every new plane of your body. “I’ve needed you—more than I realized. Even before I knew…knew you were…” Will swallowed, clearly grappling with how to phrase what you were, what you meant. “What if you decide this was a mistake?—”

You silenced him with a gentle kiss. “I can’t leave you, Will. I won’t.” A surge of protectiveness flared inside your chest. You knew how fragile his psyche could be, how much he second-guessed himself, how the world’s cruelty had left him constantly braced for the worst. Will’s breath hitched at the promise in your words. He let his head drop back, exposing the gentle curve of his throat. You pressed your mouth there, tasting the dampness of his skin.

By the time you stumbled to the bed, droplets clung to your skin like stars. Will pushed you gently onto the mattress, straddling your thighs. “Tell me if it’s too much,” you whispered, brushing wet curls from his brow.

“It’s enough,” he answered, hips rocking forward. “It’s everything.”

And indeed, it was everything.

Sheets twisted, breaths hitched. You moved slowly at first—careful of the lingering ache from the shift, careful of the fragile glass of Will’s trust—until his nails dug crescents into your shoulders and caution gave way to raw, pulsing rhythm. Each thrust was a promise: I’m here. I’m real. I’m yours. Will met you with desperate little noises, gasping your name like a litany.

Now, with the rush of climax behind you both, you felt his breathing slow against your skin. You stayed tucked against his neck, exchanging soft, caressing kisses over the rapid flutter of his pulse. Slowly, you became aware of how tightly he clung to you—arms looped around your waist, chest rising in small, trembling exhales.

He was so warm, so alive against you. It hit you all at once: despite every secret you’d kept, every fear of rejection, you were here, in this moment, wanted. You might have stayed there indefinitely—content to savor the soft hush of his breaths and the subtle brush of his lips on your shoulder. But then Will’s whisper came, and it pulled you from the reverie.

“You feel like home,” he murmured, voice hoarse with emotion.

The quiet admission struck a chord deep inside your chest. You lifted your head, gazing down at him. His curls were plastered to his forehead, lashes damp, pupils still wide with after‑shock. Yet the rawness that had shone in his eyes moments ago was softened now—replaced by something gentler, steadier. Belonging. In that moment, it felt like no distance existed between you, as though you’d known each other for much longer than a few months.

“You feel like home,” he said again, but with more conviction.

Your throat tightened. Home. It was a concept you’d almost forgotten—nights spent half‑feral under foreign moons, never daring to stay long enough for roots to take. But here, in Will’s rumpled sheets, it sounded possible. “Then I’ll stay,” you murmured, voice rough. “As long as you’ll have me.”

A shaky smile curved his mouth. “I’m holding you to that.” He shifted, guiding you to lie on your side so he could curl into your chest, legs tangling with yours. You let him arrange you, draping an arm over his waist, fingers splaying across the subtle tremor in his belly—after‑quakes from pleasure and lingering fear.

Silence settled, broken only by the dogs downstairs padding about, reassured that their alpha and his…mate were safe. Will’s breathing slowed, but you felt the question still hovering in him, delicate as glass. “What happens now?” he finally asked, voice small against your collarbone.

“Now,” you said, “we sleep. Tomorrow we talk. I’ll tell you everything you want to know—about the shift, the full moons, the danger.” Your hand skimmed up to cradle the back of his head. “And we figure out how to keep you safe. How to keep us safe.”

Will’s fingers traced idle patterns over the lines of muscle at your side, grounding himself. “Hannibal will have questions,” he warned softly. “He already suspects you’re…extraordinary.”

A low growl rumbled in your chest before you could stop it. Will huffed a tired laugh, rubbing soothing circles over your ribs. “Easy, wolf. We’ll handle him together.”

Together. The word settled between you like a cornerstone. You dipped your head to kiss the soft spot beneath his ear, feeling him melt. “I’ll be here when you wake,” you promised. “No more disappearing into the woods without explanation.”

“And I’ll stop pretending I don’t talk to my dog like he understands every word,” he teased, voice already slurring with impending sleep.

You chuckled, nuzzling deeper into his curls. “I did understand every word.”

“I know,” he murmured, amusement giving way to drowsy contentment. “Guess that makes me less crazy than I thought.”

You tightened your arm around him, letting the steady rise and fall of his chest guide your own breaths. Outside, the wind rustled through pines, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rivers—but for the first time in years, you felt no pull to run beneath it. Everything you needed was in your arms.

[cece693]

Just something short I thought of—sad Bucky because he thinks reader is planning on leaving him or just doesn't love him anymore. Like, you're ignoring him (not on purpose), but that makes the man go down a spiral of doubts which leads to comfort. It's definitely shorter than my other works, but I hope you enjoy it!

Did I Do Something Wrong?

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader tags: sad bucky, misunderstandings, reader is just busy, I promise, comfort, fluff all the way, short little fic, might even be considered an imagine

Bucky tried not to let the little things get to him. The first time you brushed his hand aside, you’d been running on only a couple hours of sleep. After returning from a week-long mission, you were bone-tired—so you mumbled a distracted “Sorry,” shut your eyes, and promptly drifted off. Bucky told himself not to worry. You were exhausted, that was all.

But days passed, and the pattern persisted.

The next time he reached for you—lightly resting his palm on your waist while you scrolled through mission logs—you shrugged him off without a second glance. Then there were the mornings he woke up alone, the bed already cooling on your side by the time he blinked blearily at the clock. You were usually a late riser, but now? You were gone before the sun had fully climbed the sky. Sure, you’d told him you liked to get a head start on the day, to train or do paperwork, but it still left Bucky feeling abandoned.

And then there was Natasha.

Bucky had caught you and Nat in a quiet corner of the common room, laughing together, your heads bent in conspiratorial whispers. From a distance, it looked so intimate. He tried not to imagine the worst—he trusted you, he knew Nat was a close friend—but old insecurities, the remnants of a lifetime of trust issues, began to creep up. If you were distant from him, but so playful and close with Natasha…maybe your feelings had changed.

It all came to a head late one night when you finally tumbled into bed after a punishing day. Bucky was waiting for you, eyes filled with longing, an unspoken plea hidden in the furrow of his brow. You settled under the covers, practically collapsing into the pillows. You felt Bucky shift closer, his arms trying to wrap around your waist—but you were so groggy you hardly registered it. Without meaning to, you scooted away, giving yourself room to breathe.

It was enough to break him.

“Do I—” Bucky started, then swallowed hard, heart pounding. “Do I disgust you now?”

The sheer pain in his voice made you crack open your eyes. You squinted at him, your exhaustion making things blurry for a moment. His expression was drenched in equal parts hurt and fear. The exhaustion clinging to your brain cleared in an instant as alarm and confusion set in.

“Bucky,” you murmured, voice heavy with fatigue, “why would you say that?”

“I don’t know.” He let out a rough exhale and ran his metal hand through his hair. “You never let me touch you anymore, you brush me off, you’re gone before I wake up. Half the time, I see you with Natasha instead. I just—I can’t figure out what I did, and it’s killing me.”

Your heart twisted as you finally registered the desperation in his eyes. He looked so lost, like a man expecting the worst. Pushing yourself upright, you shifted closer until your knees bumped against his hip, your gaze locked on his.

“Bucky,” you said softly, leaning in to brush a thumb over his cheek. “I’m not—I would never want to push you away. I haven’t been avoiding you on purpose.”

“But you are,” he insisted, voice small. It cracked a little on the last word. “You keep brushing me off, you don’t let me hold you. I…I don’t understand.”

You inhaled, guilt gnawing at your stomach as you realized how it must have looked from his perspective. “I’m so sorry,” you breathed. “I’ve just been so worn down. Between missions, late-night meetings, and a sleepless schedule, I’ve been running on fumes.” Your hand cupped his jaw, urging him to look right at you.

“I wake up early because…well, I know how important rest is for you. With the nightmares and everything, you don’t always sleep that well, and I didn’t want to risk waking you. So I figured if I slipped out quietly, you could stay under for a few more hours, maybe get some real rest.”

He blinked, startled. “You—You left so I could sleep better?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice soft with apology. “You’re not disgusting to me. Far from it. I’m just so drained that half the time I don’t even realize I’m brushing you off. I’m on autopilot.” You sighed, pressing your palm against the place where his flesh arm met his shoulder. “As for Nat, we’re just close, like you and Steve. She’s been checking in on me, and I’ve been venting to her about mission stress. That’s all.”

Bucky’s posture loosened. You could see the confusion in his eyes giving way to fragile relief. Still, the ache in his voice lingered as he asked, “So, you’re not fed up with me? You’re not looking for a reason to leave?”

“No,” you vowed. “I love you. I’m sorry I made you think otherwise. I’ve just been overwhelmed—no excuse, I know, but I promise, it’s not you.” You gently pulled him closer, letting him lean against you. “I’ll always need you, Bucky. Never doubt that.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling the breath he seemed to have been holding for days. Quietly, he brought a tentative hand to your waist, as if checking if it was really okay to hold you. Instead of moving away, you leaned your weight into him, letting your body mold to his.

You pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’m still tired, but not too tired to show you how much I care.” Wrapping your arms around him, you rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades, hoping to soothe his lingering fears. “Just let me make it up to you, okay?”

Bucky managed a small, wobbly smile, eyes burning with unshed tears of relief. “You don’t have to make up anything,” he murmured. “Just let me know what going on. Even if you have to leave in the morning, wake me up first. Tell me, so I know it’s not because you don’t want me around.”

A rush of warmth spread through your chest. “Deal,” you agreed, brushing your nose lightly against his.

With that reassurance hanging like a comforting blanket between you, Bucky allowed himself to settle into the bed, your arms wound safely around him. Soon enough, your shared warmth and the quiet of the night eased the frantic anxiety in his chest. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling that familiar scent that reminded him you were his—and that no amount of exhaustion or misunderstandings could ever truly sever the bond you two shared.

In the morning, you did wake him up, gently this time. You had a briefing in a few hours, but before you left, you let him know—forehead pressed to his, your heart full of affection. Bucky watched you go with a subdued smile, heart so much lighter than it had been before.

[cece693]

Bound By Obsession Pt. 2

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: I feel bad for you, like you're trying so hard to escape but hannibal is always one step ahead, invasion of privacy, hannibal is a dick, wanted to show a more uncivilized/disrespectful hannibal as he finally drops his 'human suit', it will only get worse from here

RECAP: Your breath rattled in your chest, part of you screaming to keep resisting, to never surrender. But another part—terrified, uncertain—couldn’t ignore the chilling inevitability in his words. His unwavering belief that this was right threatened to unravel your hope. Fury warred with fear. Yet as Hannibal gently dabbed at your temples, as if tending to a faint bruise, you realized he’d planned every detail with excruciating precision. You were truly at his mercy.

Time crawled slowly after Hannibal left. You could almost still feel the glancing brush of his hand against your forehead, the memory of his touch making your stomach turn. He had retreated with the same eerie calm he’d shown when he abducted you. He acted like this was perfectly normal, you thought, fury and revulsion warring in your gut. You tried to keep calm, reminding yourself that you just had to survive until help arrived. Any minute now, someone would notice you missing. Franklyn would realize you weren’t answering his texts and phone calls. He’d put two and two together, but the bitter taste in your mouth told you otherwise.

Franklyn…? The same man who idolized Hannibal Lecter? Who practically worshipped him? The same man who was so obsessed with being “friends” with his revered psychiatrist that he dismissed every uneasy vibe you’d ever shared about the man? No. Relying on Franklyn for a rescue was foolish, and the realization hit like a gut punch.

So you catalogued the room instead. Four walls paneled in pale maple, a ceiling vent too small to crawl through, a single recessed light. No windows. No décor. No edges you could splinter into a weapon. Even the chair you were bound to was a single curve of molded wood, impossible to break. Hannibal had designed the space the way a jeweler designs a velvet box: nothing inside but the gem. Time staggered past in slow, uneven heartbeats. Hunger gnawed first, then humiliation—the hot, urgent ache in your bladder. You clenched your thighs, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing you plead.

Footsteps. Measured, expensive shoes on hardwood. The door whispered open.

Hannibal stepped in carrying a silver tray. He looked maddeningly fresh, like he’d just stepped off a magazine spread: shirt sleeves rolled to the perfect midpoint of his forearm, waistcoat hugging a frame built for precision. His eyes lit when they found yours, as though the sight of your discomfort were a private sunrise.

“Dinner is ready,” he said.

“I need to use the bathroom,” you snapped. Your voice came out ragged, the edge of desperation sharpening every syllable.

He considered you for a beat, then inclined his head. “Of course. However, the door remains open.”

“Close or I piss on your Italian shoes.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, delighted. “Such spirit. Unfortunately, I still require the door open—until I’m certain you won’t attempt to bludgeon me with the cistern lid. I will stand outside the threshold and face away. That is my compromise.”

You wanted to fling an insult, but your bladder had other ideas. “Fine. Just—fine,” you relented with a grimace. “But don’t get any weird ideas. You so much as try anything, I’ll—”

“Nothing untoward will happen,” Hannibal interrupted, a faint, humorless smile curving his lips. “You have my word.”

He loosened the restraints carefully, as though unwrapping a delicate object. Once you were on your feet, he placed a light hand on your arm, guiding you from the room. The hallway was dimly lit, lined with a few closed doors whose locks glinted ominously. He led you to a small bathroom. Sure enough, he propped the door open partway, standing just out of view but still there. You felt humiliated, heart pounding with anger and shame as you went about your business under his watchful presence. At least he’s not looking directly at me, you thought bitterly. Small mercies, I guess…

True to his word, Hannibal didn’t try anything—no touches, no manipulative chatter. In fact, he was startlingly polite, a perfect gentleman. Somehow, that unsettled you even more.

Afterwards, he led you down a short corridor. At the end stood a door that opened into another room—a dining area, by the look of it. Candle‑light flickered over linen as white as a surrender flag. Two place settings gleamed: crystal stemware, antique cutlery, plates art‑house arranged with roasted root vegetables, a pale purée, and a slice of meat pink as a blush. The aroma was obscene in its seduction, but you refused to be impressed. You were still his prisoner, no matter how fancy the setting.

He gestured for you to sit. “I imagined you’d be hungry,” he said, as though discussing the weather.

“You imagined correctly,” you muttered, resisting the urge to snap further. Play it calm, gather info.

You settled into the chair, noticing that while you weren’t chained this time, Hannibal had chosen a seat just close enough to intervene if you tried anything. There was a steely vigilance in the way he watched you, like a natural predator prepared to pounce.

Dinner unfolded in brittle silence. You refused to touch the food at first; your stomach betrayed you with a growl so loud it echoed. Hannibal’s lips curved in quiet amusement but he said nothing, content to watch you with that fever‑bright fascination that crawled over your skin. Finally hunger won. You took a cautious bite—savory, buttery, maddeningly perfect. Revulsion warred with relief as warmth spread through your belly.

Hannibal, for his part, ate with a serene air. Now and again, you felt his gaze cutting across the table, a weird, obsessed gleam shining in his eyes. It was difficult to swallow under such scrutiny, but you forced the food down. Finally, you couldn’t stay silent any longer. “So is this it? Kidnapping me and forcing me to have dinner in your…your psycho lair? How long do you plan on keeping this up?”

He placed his utensils down with meticulous care, meeting your glare without flinching. “I have no end date in mind,” he said mildly, as though discussing a lease agreement.

“Why?” You set your fork down hard enough to clang. “Why do all this? What’s the magic word that gets me out of here?”

Hannibal’s expression softened as though you’d asked something tender. “There is no word,” he said. “Language cannot sever what exists between us.”

“What exists is kidnapping,” you shot back. “You’re going to prison for this.”

He laughed—an actual, delighted laugh. “Prison? I doubt it. Franklyn assures me you are prone to sudden disappearances when overwhelmed. He is already rationalising your absence.”

Your heart lurched. “You manipulated him.”

“I merely provided a narrative. He supplied the belief.” Hannibal leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “In truth, I’ve never met anyone like you—someone who balances genuine compassion with an acerbic wit and an undercurrent of fearlessness.”

You practically snorted. “Fearless? Right. I’m terrified out of my mind here.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging the contradiction. “Fear is an instinct. You’ve every right to it. But even in your terror, you maintain a certain core of defiance. That’s rare, and I cherish it.” An icy chill spread across your skin at the word cherish. He talks like he’s in love—and that is infinitely worse.

“So you caged it.”

“I preserved it,” he corrected gently. “In time, the cage will feel less like confinement and more like sanctuary. You will come to understand that freedom is not the absence of walls, but the presence of someone who sees you utterly.”

You swallowed a surge of bile. “You’re insane.”

“Perhaps.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast. “But I am also patient. Fascination, like good wine, deepens when allowed to breathe. We have all the time we need.” The crystal of his glass clicked softly against the rim of yours—an accidental toast you wanted no part of. You set your drink down, untouched, pushing the plate away even though hunger still gnawed at you.

Hannibal watched every small rebellion with fond amusement, as if you were a child refusing bedtime. “Eat a little more,” he urged. “Strength will serve you, whatever path you choose.”

“My path is out of here,” you muttered. “One way or another.”

“That is a destination,” he allowed, folding his napkin with immaculate precision, “but not a path. And destinations are so often less important than the journey.”

You stood abruptly, chair legs scraping the floor. “Show me the way back to my life, Doctor. Right now.”

His eyes glittered. “Would you believe me if I said the door is unlocked?”

For a heartbeat, hope surged—then died beneath his measured tone. “Unlocked but guarded,” you countered. “Or rigged. Or you’ll hunt me the second I step through.”

“Consequences are not chains,” he replied, rising with fluid grace. “But they do guide behavior.” He gestured toward the hallway. “Come. I’ll prove there is no lock.” Wariness warred with curiosity, but you followed, pulse hammering. He led you through a winding corridor lit by low lanterns until you reached a heavy wooden door. At the threshold, he laid a hand on the knob and swung it open.

Beyond lay a dark forest. Tall conifers pressed close on all sides, their branches creating an almost impenetrable canopy that blocked out any hint of moon or starlight. The air smelled of damp pine and moss, and a biting chill seeped in. You could see no roads, no lights—nothing but trees and blackness. “No bolts, no bars. Walk away if you wish.”

A cold wind slid past you, rattling the nearest branches. You squinted, trying to make out a trail or any sign of civilization, but saw only the dark tangle of trunks and undergrowth. Your heart pounded. “Where does this even lead?”

“Somewhere you’re not prepared for,” he replied. “Freedom is rarely found by sprinting into darkness—especially when you have no idea where you are.” An image flashed through your mind of yourself stumbling among those trees, lost, maybe succumbing to hypothermia or exhaustion, while Hannibal followed at his leisure.

He closed the door without force, a quiet click that sounded painfully final. “If you want to wander out there, I won’t stop you,” he said, turning to face you, “but I assure you, it’s a harsh environment. I planned this location for its isolation.”

You swallowed hard. “You couldn’t have just asked me on a…on a date?”

His brows rose with mild amusement. “Would you have accepted?”

“Of course not.”

“Precisely.” He inclined his head as though that single word justified every abhorrent thing he’d done. “Conventional courtship would have led only to your polite refusal. And then distance. I couldn’t allow distance.”

Your anger flared. “That’s not how people function, Hannibal. This—this kidnapping— I’m not going to just fall in line because you’re too cowardly to handle rejection.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved, his soft amusement a nightmarish counterpoint to your rage. “Cowardly?” he repeated in that cultured, low voice of his, as though you’d just made a delightful observation. “Would a coward risk everything to ensure someone precious does not slip away?”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re justifying kidnapping as bravery? That’s twisted.”

“Twisted or simply honest,” he mused, eyes flicking over you with calm interest, like a collector surveying a prized piece of art. “Could it be you’re angered most by the fact that I am willing to do what polite society forbids? Because it calls into question whether you truly know yourself. Whether you might, under different circumstances, be drawn to me.”

“You’re unbelievable.” You spat the words, every nerve alight with fury. “People reject each other all the time without resorting to—to this. You can’t handle the idea that I might say no, so you stole me like some demented child with a shiny toy.”

His expression flickered just once—something close to hurt, as if your fury stung him more than he’d ever admit. Then a measured exhale steadied him. “I prefer to think of it as choosing a path that ensures we fully explore our connection. I will not hide from possibility simply because you or the world might disapprove.”

A tremor rippled through your limbs, pure anger coursing hot. You advanced on him. “No, you’re just hiding behind sedation and locks, creeping around like a monster. That’s the opposite of bravery, you smug—”

The porcelain teacup on the nearby tray caught your eye. Without a second’s hesitation, you seized it and flung it at him. He inclined his head at precisely the right moment, letting the cup sail past and shatter with a piercing crack against the wall.

“Careful.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “You’ll need that energy for what comes next.”

“What comes next,” you snarled, “is me leaving—whether I have to do it over your battered corpse or not.”

You swung a blind punch, your muscles coiling with desperate fury. Hannibal sidestepped it so elegantly, it made your blood boil. Another strike—he dipped under your arm, capturing your wrist. You drove your knee up, aiming for his ribs. He twisted gracefully, letting your momentum pass inches away. A guttural sound tore from your throat—part frustration, part outrage—as you came at him again, swinging for his jaw. He simply circled behind you, and you felt a prick of something cool against your neck.

Instantly, a familiar, sickening warmth spread through your veins. Your blows lost their weight, your vision stuttering. “N‑no—” The word slipped into a groan as your knees buckled.

With obscene gentleness, Hannibal caught you, easing your body against his. Your cheek pressed to the expensive fabric of his vest; you smelled faint cologne mixed with your own sweat. Horror gripped you, but your limbs fell slack, your mind swimming.

“That was quite admirable,” Hannibal said softly, stroking a hand over your hair. “I do appreciate your spirit. It’s part of why you’re here. Why you fascinate me so deeply.”

“Go…to…hell,” you managed, fury still sputtering in your fading consciousness.

“Shh,” he murmured, drawing you close as though comforting a lover. “Sleep now. Anger is exhausting, and we have plenty of time to revisit this conversation when you’re calmer.” Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The world blurred around the edges. Then only darkness remained, along with the nauseating warmth of Hannibal’s arms—his lips against your temple in a final, disturbingly tender gesture before oblivion claimed you.

[cece693]

hi could you write a fic for 1940s bucky x cis male or trans male reader please? maybe bucky gives him flowers and love letters and they watch the sunset together? tysm! :D

My original idea for this request had Bucky confessing his feelings for you out in the sunset along with flowers (the whole shebang), but I couldn't help myself. So, I added some angst (not serious nor heartbreaking as my last) where the reader doesn't think Bucky really 'likes' him like that but he does. Bucky is head over heels for you. I did change some things from the original ask, but I hope you enjoy!

But You're a Playboy

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader tags: 40s, misunderstandings, bucky being soft, only around you though, fooling around, confessing, sweet bucky, Steve being a bro, yeah you're younger than Steve, deal with it

The clamor of Brooklyn streetcars rattled against the windows of your small apartment. You sat at the tiny kitchen table, swirling a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold, your thoughts drifting. Days moved a little slower this side of the East River—especially for someone like you. Maybe you got that restlessness from your older brother, Steve, who had half a dozen ailments to worry about, but twice as much protective energy when it came to you. The pair of you had grown up too fast in many ways, with barely enough to your names. But you’d managed to find pockets of warmth and excitement in your life—a warmth that went by the name of James 'Bucky' Barnes.

Bucky’s bright laughter floated into the apartment as he bounded up the wooden stairs. You glanced at the clock on the wall—half-past five. The closer it got to evening, the more the city’s noise seemed to calm, making everything else feel more intimate. You felt it now when Bucky entered, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the old couch as he caught sight of you in the kitchen. “Miss me?” he teased, his smile full of cockiness.

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the small grin tugging at your lips. “You were gone for all of two hours."

Bucky shrugged dramatically. “Never know what can happen in two hours, sweetheart.” He reached over your shoulder, snagging a piece of day-old bread off the counter and taking a hearty bite. The crumbs dusted his chin. “Coulda gone off to the dance hall, found myself a dame—” He paused, winking. “Or maybe I could’ve stuck around here with you.”

You gave him a playful shove, refusing to let your gaze linger too long on the way his shirt stretched over his shoulders. “Better watch it. Steve’s out grabbing groceries. He’ll be back any minute.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Bucky promised. But his eyes told another story.

And sure enough, within minutes, he had you pinned up against the wall in the dimly lit corridor, mouth meeting yours in a desperate rush. You felt the hum of excitement in your veins—a thrill you couldn’t quite believe you got to experience in these unassuming halls. His body pressed hot against yours, and you let your hands roam his waist, gripping his shirt like an anchor. Bucky’s breath was warm on your ear when he finally whispered, “Bedroom.”

It was hardly the first time—this was the routine for you two, after all—but every time felt more dangerous. More electric. Heat coiled in your stomach as Bucky’s hands found all the familiar places: the small of your back, the curve of your waist, the nape of your neck. You let out a gasp you quickly smothered against his shoulder.

The bed creaked beneath your combined weight as clothes slipped away—hurried, practiced motions that had grown comfortable in the last couple of months. Your body knew his, and his knew yours. When you pressed together, skin against skin, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. The tension, the fear, the sense that it was forbidden, drowned out beneath the rush of his kisses. When the moment peaked, you buried your face into Bucky’s shoulder, muffling the involuntary moans, the coil snapping in your gut as you found release. Bucky wasn’t far behind, grasping you tight against him. The bed springs squeaked in protest, but you hardly cared—lost in the swirl of him, of everything you couldn’t quite name.

Afterward, with your heart pounding and your body still buzzing, you lay there with Bucky’s arm slung over your waist. The sunlight had turned orange through the window, dust motes drifting lazily in the space between the curtains. And, as if given a cue, you gently pulled away, scanning the floor for your clothes. Bucky let you go, though he propped himself on one elbow to watch you. That flicker of amusement was there in his eyes, but there was something else too—something thoughtful.

You glanced over at him, frowning a little. “What?”

“Nothing. Just wondering when you’re gonna realize this isn’t just foolin’ around for me.”

Silence settled between you. In the faint light, Bucky’s eyes shone with sincerity. But part of you—maybe the part that had watched him charm his way through a half-dozen women at the dance halls—winced in disbelief. You shook your head, a humorless huff escaping. “C’mon, Bucky, you don’t have to lay it on so thick.”

He frowned, sitting up fully. “I’m not layin’ it on thick. I’m serious. Can’t you tell?”

“Serious?” you repeated, arching a skeptical eyebrow. “Says the guy who can’t walk down the street without flirtin’ with half the dames he meets?”

“That’s just me bein’ me, sweetheart,” Bucky insisted, voice taut with frustration. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t know how I feel. And I feel somethin’ for you.”

A flush of anger—or was it panic?—gripped you. You swiped a hand across your face. “Look, Buck, we both know this is just physical. You can’t pull the rug out now and call it love.”

“Never said love,” he countered quietly, “but I’m tryin’ to say it could be more. That I—” His words faltered; you saw the hurt flash across his expression.

A tense silence thickened in the small room. Your heart thudded in your chest, torn between wanting to believe him and the fear that he was just Bucky Barnes, the charming ladies’ man, making idle promises he couldn’t keep. Eventually, Bucky stood, scooping up his shirt and tugging it over his head. He stepped into his shoes, silent except for the soft scraping of leather on the floorboards. You didn’t speak or try to stop him; you felt immobilized, your thoughts racing too fast.

He paused at the door, glancing back, hurt still etched into his features. “Guess I’ll just…see you around,” he said under his breath. Then, with a final nod, he stepped out, leaving a chill in the air behind him.

You spent the rest of the evening puttering around the living room, radio tuned to some scratchy big band station you couldn’t pay attention to. Steve arrived home with a slight cough, a paper bag of groceries under one arm. He eyed you suspiciously as you helped him put the food away, likely noticing your distant mood, but he didn’t push. Night fell slowly, the glow of street lamps outside casting a hazy yellow onto the walls. By then, Steve was in his room, maybe reading, maybe sleeping—either way, leaving you alone with your restless thoughts. You kept replaying Bucky’s expression in your mind: vulnerable, earnest, and obviously stung by your dismissal. Guilt gnawed at your insides.

What if he really meant it?

You didn’t let the thought sink in too far. It was easier—safer, even—to cling to doubt. You told yourself he’d forget all about it by morning; that he’d show up with his usual smirk, toss out some witty remark, and you’d both slip right back into your routine of quick kisses behind closed doors and half-kept promises. Because how could it possibly work, the two of you? Even on the best days, being close to Bucky felt precarious, like balancing on the edge of a razor. It was the 1940s, after all, and men simply didn’t love other men without risking everything—reputation, safety, even their freedom. No—better to dismiss it. Better to pretend it was a casual fling, something he’d soon discard. You figured you’d both be better off that way—less complicated, less painful. And if, by some small chance, your own heart broke in the process, well, no one would have to know.

A knock rattled the front door at half-past eleven. Immediately, your stomach twisted. You tiptoed toward it so as not to wake Steve, pressing an ear to the wood. Another knock sounded, softer but urgent, like the person on the other side couldn’t bring themselves to leave. Unease and curiosity battled in your gut as you unlatched the door, opening it just enough to peek out. 

Bucky stood in the dimly lit corridor, shoulders hunched beneath his well-worn jacket, the collar pulled up around his neck against the night’s chill. You could hear the faint rasp of your older brother shifting in his bedroom on the other side of the apartment.

“What are you doing here, Bucky!?” you hissed, stepping aside so Bucky could slip into the narrow hall. Your gaze darted behind him, down the corridor's peeling wallpaper and burned out lightbulbs, as though expecting some neighbor to peer through their peephole. Bucky didn't move. “You just gonna stand there all night?”

“Wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome,” he admitted softly, glancing down at his hands. It was then you noticed the bouquet cradled in his left arm, half-hidden behind his back—a small cluster of flowers, hardly more than daisies and a single rose, but in the barren hush of the hallway, it felt like the grandest gesture in the world.

Your stomach flipped again, this time with something like hope. “Bucky,” you repeated, fumbling for words. “What—why’d you bring flowers?”

“’Cause…” He chewed his lower lip before meeting your eyes. “I’m tryin’ to tell you I meant what I said. I’m not foolin’ around, and I don’t want you thinkin’ this is just nothin’. Figured I’d better back up my words.”

You swallowed hard, the space between you charged with tension you didn’t know how to unravel. You’d spent the past hours telling yourself he couldn’t really want more—that it was safer to pretend your arrangement was fleeting. But here he was, Bucky Barnes, a cocky grin usually fixed to his face—now looking at you with a vulnerability that made your chest tighten.

“You didn’t have to,” you managed, glancing at the flowers. “The daisies, the—” You reached out but froze. “Just come inside, Bucky. It's weird enough as it is."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips before Bucky slipped inside, careful not to make too much noise. In the apartment’s faint lamp glow, you could see the subtle circles beneath his eyes, the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. He still smelled faintly of soap and the cold night air. Slowly, he lifted the bouquet, offering it to you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “I shouldn’t have blindsided you earlier. I just—thought it was time I was honest.” He winced. “But then you said all that stuff, about us just blowin’ off steam, and I realized maybe I hadn’t shown you why I want more. Why it matters to me.”

You curled your fingers around the bundle of flowers. They were a little worse for wear from being held out in the cold, but somehow that only made them more endearing. “Bucky, you know how crazy this is, right?” you whispered, your eyes flicking toward Steve’s closed bedroom door. “This isn’t just about us. If folks knew—”

He nodded, taking a step closer, until you could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the flicker of fear in his eyes that matched your own. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. You’re in my head every damn day. At first, yeah, I figured it was just some fun—two guys letting off steam. But then I realized I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. So here I am.”

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Slowly, you set the flowers aside on the small table by the door, turning back to him. Your hand shook slightly when you reached out to touch the sleeve of his jacket. “What are we gonna do?” you asked, unable to stop the tremor in your voice. “This…it’s not like we can just walk around hand-in-hand, Buck.”

He lifted one hand to your cheek, the pads of his fingers warm and solid against your skin. “We’ll figure it out,” he promised, voice gentle. “I’m not sayin’ it’ll be easy, but I can’t lie to you anymore. And I don’t want you lyin’ to yourself, either.”

You inhaled shakily, leaning into his touch despite the anxiety coiled in your gut. “I just…I’m scared. Bucky, I’m real scared,” you admitted in a whisper. “You’re the biggest flirt I know. You take girls dancing like it’s nothin’. How do I know this isn’t a phase for you?”

Bucky’s eyes softened, and he dipped his head closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. “Because I’m here,” he said, “in the middle of the damn night, basically beggin’ you to believe me.” He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m not used to beggin’, sweetheart. Feels weird. But I’ll do it if it means I get to keep you.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. You could feel the tension rolling off him, sense the weight of the moment pressing in on both of you. And then, gently, he pressed his lips to yours—soft at first, as though you might break if he went too fast. It was the kind of kiss you realized you’d never had from him before: sweet, stripped of bravado, filled with what felt like genuine affection.

Then, a sharp noise—someone clearing their throat. You and Bucky jolted apart, your pulse leaping into your throat. There, in the doorway, stood Steve, his arms crossed over his narrow chest, brow furrowed in that all-too-familiar worried expression.

“Uh,” you managed, cheeks flaring hot. You froze, panic twisting your insides. He saw us. Oh, God, he saw us. The one person whose opinion mattered most—your brother—had just walked in at the worst possible moment.

Your mind spun with half-formed explanations: you’d tell him it was nothing, that you could explain, that you didn’t want to disappoint him. But the words refused to come. Beside you, Bucky’s hand hovered near your lower back, like he wanted to protect you from whatever came next. “I…um,” Steve began, shifting awkwardly. His gaze darted from you to Bucky, then back again. Finally, he let out a short sigh. “Alright,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “So it’s like that, huh?”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Steve, please—don’t be mad. I…I didn’t know how to tell you.”

He gave a small, crooked smile that set your heart at ease—at least a little. “I’m not mad,” he said. “More like blindsided. And worried. You know how the world is.” His attention shifted to Bucky. “But I also know you two mean a lot to each other. And I’m not gonna stand in the way of that.”

Relief pulsed through you so strongly, it felt like your knees might give out. “You’re… okay with it?”

Steve shrugged, stepping a bit closer. “You’re my brother,” he said simply. “Doesn’t matter how skinny I am or how many ailments I’ve got—I’d fight anyone who tried to hurt you, you understand?” Then he leveled a stern look right at Bucky, eyes narrowing. “That includes you, Buck. If you break his heart, I swear I’ll find a way to take you down.”

A flicker of a grin tugged at the corner of Bucky’s mouth—part amusement, part respect. “I’d never do that, Stevie,” he said quietly, sincerity coloring every syllable. “I swear.”

Steve lingered a moment longer, glancing once at the small space between you and Bucky—like he was double-checking that what he’d seen was real. Then he took a deep breath, the tension easing from his posture. “Alright,” he repeated, glancing at you with a shadow of a smile. “Guess that means you two can carry on, but, uh… maybe don’t do it in the living room?”

Heat flared in your cheeks again, and Bucky let out a breathy laugh. “Right,” you muttered. “Sorry about that.”

Steve shook his head in wry amusement, already turning away. He paused in the doorway, catching your eye. “Really, though—I just want you happy. Both of you. Take care of each other.” With that, he ambled down the hallway, coughing lightly into his fist—an ever-present reminder of his frailty, yet also a testament to his iron will. The moment he disappeared around the corner, you released a breath you’d been holding far too long.

“Well,” Bucky said quietly, “that wasn’t so bad.”

You let out a nervous laugh, relief and warmth flooding your chest. “Not at all how I expected it to go,” you admitted, turning to face Bucky. You could still taste the echoes of that gentle kiss on your lips. “He’s really okay with this,” you marveled. “With us.”

Bucky’s gaze was bright, soft around the edges. “Steve’s protective, but he’s not heartless. He loves you. Doesn’t want you hurt.”

“And you?” you sought, voice trembling with a hope you hardly dared acknowledge. “What do you want?”

A tender smile lifted his features, and he pulled you in again—this time, pressing his forehead to yours, a comforting weight that banished any lingering doubts. “I want you,” he whispered. “All of you. Not just the stolen kisses, not just the moments we used to pretend didn’t mean anything. You—exactly as you are.” A flutter raced through your stomach. You tightened your fingers in the fabric of his shirt, leaning up to meet his lips once more—this time without the fear of your brother’s disapproval weighing you down. As his arms slipped around your waist, you realized you’d never felt more at ease in your own home.

[cece693]

Absolutely love your works💗

Could you please do some Hannibal Lecter x Steve Kemp? Mads and Sebastian are literally the hottest. Two cannibalistic serial killers in a room, they might kiss (or maybe fall in love)? ( ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°)💞

So, I didn't really know who Steve was, but a quick google search put me up to date. And from what I'm gathering, he's just a more sadistic (is that the word?) man compared to Hannibal. Like, don't get me wrong, Hannibal isn't innocent, but he doesn't indulge people's pain if it isn't necessary (everything he does serves a greater purpose) but for Steve he thrives off it. I'm intrigued by his character (not ashamed to admit it, he might become a regular if the movie's good.) I don't know if your request only wanted to feature these two characters, but I couldn't help myself to include a male reader. Hope you enjoy it still!

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader x steve kemp tags: you're also a cannibalistic killer, pre-relationship, monsters love too, or whatever they consider love at least, can we even call it that if you're at the first stages of your relationship?, au in a way

You didn’t expect this. Of all the places your macabre interests could lead you, you never thought you’d end up in a dimly lit dining room with two men whose reputations precede them in the darkest corners of rumor and legend. Yet here you are, stepping carefully across the polished floor—every tap of your heel against the marble echoing in your chest.

Hannibal Lecter stands beside a candlelit table as though hosting a dinner party for the most discerning of guests. He wears a tailored suit that hangs perfectly off his slim frame, his dark eyes never leaving you. His posture is regal, almost too poised, like a cat preparing to pounce. Across from him, leaning against a wall with an air of cool dismissal, is Steve Kemp. Where Lecter is refined, Kemp is rough around the edges—swagger in his stance, a slight smirk curving his lips. You can almost sense their energies clash in the room’s heavy air, or perhaps they harmonize, each man possessing that brand of charisma only monsters can wear so effortlessly.

It’s a meeting of twisted minds, a singularly dangerous gathering, and you…You’re the third seat at this table, the new confidant in their circle of secrets. They’ve invited you here because—like them—you walk the fine line between polite society and your appetite for its darker aspects. Maybe they want to see if you can keep up. Maybe they want to see if you’re worthy to indulge in their most prized pleasures.

“Please,” Hannibal says, voice smooth as silk, gesturing to the empty chair. The flickering candles give his expression a strangely tender glow. “Join us, won’t you?”

You settle onto the chair, heart pounding yet oddly thrilled. Kemp eyes you with guarded curiosity, as if he’s deciding whether you’re truly made of the same raw stuff as they are. He lifts a corner of his mouth in an almost friendly greeting before lifting a wine glass to his lips.

Hannibal’s sharp gaze flicks between you and Kemp, faint amusement dancing across his face. “I must say, it’s an intriguing opportunity to break bread”—his tone curls around that phrase knowingly—“with someone of equal taste.”

Kemp snorts a laugh, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Taste. That’s one way to put it.”

Silence settles over you three for a moment. You feel your pulse drum in your ears as you realize that, in this hush, none of you are exactly concerned with covering up who or what you are. Not anymore. The three of you are cannibals—each in different stages of mastery, each with unique philosophies of the “art.” There’s a thrill in acknowledging it openly.

“Shall we toast?” you suggest, forcing your voice to remain steady as you raise your glass. They both follow your lead, though each with a different glint in his eye. Kemp’s is mischievous—like a child about to break a rule just for the fun of it. Hannibal’s is calculating and darkly pleased, as though everything is going exactly as he’d planned. Glasses clink lightly, crystal against crystal, and you all drink. The wine is robust, luxurious, and red as blood.

Conversation flows with surprising ease. You trade stories of near misses—close calls with the authorities, how you lured a target that one time when the moonlight was just right, how Hannibal managed to remain undetected for so many years. Kemp leans forward, describing a particularly brutal hunt out in some isolated countryside. You can’t help noticing how intently Hannibal listens, how his lips curve whenever Kemp’s story peaks in violence.

In turn, Hannibal recounts one of his finer “culinary experiences,” discussing it with the flair of a man describing a Michelin-star dish. There’s something entrancing about how he moves his hands in emphasis, voice hushed but warm. Each word holds a promise of something new and forbidden. And, on Kemp’s face, you catch a flicker of fascination and something deeper—a grudging admiration, perhaps.

Hours seem to pass without any of you noticing, the candles burning low, the wine dwindling. Every so often, your gaze flickers to the door, but there’s a compulsion in you to stay. They’re dangerous, yes—but so are you. And there’s something heady about being in a room with people who truly understand that side of you, who won’t flinch at your confessions or grimace at your appetites.

When Lecter rises to pick out another bottle of wine from a discreet sideboard, Kemp edges closer, regarding you with a tilt of his head. “He likes to make it all elegant,” he says quietly, casting a glance at Hannibal’s back. “Me? I prefer the chase. But I’ve got to admit, there’s something about the way he does it that gets under your skin. Under mine.”

You’re about to reply when Hannibal’s voice floats over, smooth and cool. “If you have something to say, Steve, please share with the group.”

Kemp’s eyes widen fractionally in annoyance, then he snorts. “Just telling our friend here how you’re a man of unique refinement.”

A faint smile ghosts across Hannibal’s lips. “I take that as a compliment.”

It’s not long before you notice the way Hannibal’s gaze drifts across Kemp’s features—no longer just polite or calculating. There’s a curious softness there, tinged with hunger that extends beyond the culinary. It’s in the long glances, the brush of fingers as Hannibal offers Kemp the fresh glass. It’s in the whisper of breath between them as they stand too close for a moment. Kemp, at first, seems unsure how to respond, but he doesn’t pull away.

You sense it too: a sharp tension thickening in the air, a shift from cautious rivalry to something that resonates dangerously between them. You’ve heard stories about Hannibal’s affections—rare, but potent. And clearly, Steve Kemp isn’t immune to that magnetism.

Then Hannibal’s hand comes up gently to rest along Kemp’s cheek, his thumb grazing across the man’s jawline. You hear a whispered breath escape Kemp’s lips, though you can’t tell if it’s a sigh or a growl. It’s a moment suspended in time: two apex predators testing a new type of closeness. You meet Hannibal’s dark gaze. He inclines his head, as though letting you witness the moment or inviting you closer—perhaps both. There’s a flutter in your stomach, an odd blend of fear and excitement. After all, there is no guarantee they wouldn’t turn on you and yet you inch forward, transfixed.

Kemp’s mouth curves into a half-smile as he leans ever so slightly toward Hannibal’s touch. “Not exactly what I expected,” he murmurs, his voice unsteady but laced with a rough undercurrent of desire.

Hannibal’s response is quiet and almost tender: “Life rarely meets our expectations, Steve. Sometimes, it surpasses them.”

Their lips brush, a hesitant meeting that holds a thousand questions in the space of a heartbeat. You wonder if you’re meant to see this, but neither man hides it. And then, in a breath, Hannibal presses just a bit closer, tasting Kemp’s mouth with the careful precision of a connoisseur sampling a forbidden delicacy.

The flickering candlelight catches the reflection of something like acceptance—maybe even longing—in Kemp’s eyes. When they part, the air is thick with the echo of that moment. You realize your breathing has become ragged, goosebumps prickling your arms.

Silence stretches. Your heart feels like it could burst from the tension. Then Kemp speaks, his voice low, directed to you. “So, what do you say?” He glances from you to Hannibal. “Think you can handle being part of…this?”

There’s an unspoken meaning behind his words: not just the partnership in their dark proclivities, but the melding of your shared hungers, your deviance, and the possibility of more. In a way, they’re asking if you can stand in this circle—equal, accepted, involved. You swallow hard, your throat dry, but manage to nod.

A small smile graces Hannibal’s lips as he arches one brow, pleased by your answer. He takes a step toward you, bridging the distance. Behind him, Kemp watches, his smile both relaxed and knowing. You tense for an instant, uncertain if this nearness is safe, but deep down, you’ve never wanted safety. Not really. Hannibal lowers his voice. “Fear can be so exhilarating when shared in the right company, don’t you think?”

You nod, though you can’t quite find words. Even if you could, you’re not sure they’d convey the cocktail of emotions surging through you. Hunger, fear, curiosity, desire—all laced with an electric undercurrent that only these two can bring out in you.

Kemp steps up beside Lecter, and the three of you stand there, locked in a moment that feels as though it could spiral into either violence or intimacy—or both—at any second. There’s a shared understanding in your eyes: that you’re each too far gone into your own darkness for any illusions of normalcy. And strangely enough, that’s the one thing that binds you together.

When Hannibal and Kemp exchange another glance, you feel the tension mount again, as though they’re both inviting you to lean in, to let go of any last scraps of hesitation and join them in something that’s equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

And so you do.

[cece693]

Hey! I really like your writing. And I especially enjoyed your Hannibal and Will Graham fics and latest about stucky x reader. If I can request something with will x hannibal x reader? Gn or male whatever you feel more up to. I would love to hear your original ideas for pairing, but if you'd rather have a concept to start from. I thought about Will having a good friend before canon working in buro. Both having crush on each other, but Will wasn't quite ready to start relationship. Enter Hannibal and his attempts to get Will out of his shell. First thinking reader to be a hindrance for his plan to ensnare Will, but later discovering that they're mesmerizing on their own.

I hope it's not too much to ask. Thank you. I love both good poly and mlm headcanons. There's totally should be more of them and I am glad to see your delightful contribution. 💛✨

Oh, this idea just gave me a bunch of other ideas. Like what if instead of will and the reader having feelings for one another, it was a combined effort from the murder husbands (after the doctor consumed will's thoughts and affections) that finally made you get into a relationship with both. Perhaps will has feelings for you (one sided) as he struggles to find a clutch to normality when his mental state deteriorates, and Hannibal exploits this—making will take action but also try to squeeze himself into that picture. And you, while spending time with hannibal and will, are conditioned to return their affections (like we saw hannibal do to will through touches and understanding.) Ahhh, the possibilities are endless.

You, Me and Him

pairing: murder husbands x male reader tags: you don't like will or hannibal (romantically), but the murder husbands have a way of convincing you otherwise, heavy manipulation, will falls first, hannibal falls second, you are blind, ignoring obvious red flags, but it's will and hannibal so...

Will Graham had never been the best at deciphering his own heart. That was the ironic truth of a man whose empathy allowed him to unravel the psyches of murderers. Yet when it came to you, the one person he viewed as a tether to normalcy, every feeling became painfully tangled. He needed you close—needed your steadiness, your uncomplicated presence—to keep his head above water when the horrors of his job threatened to devour him. But you were a friend, so clearly uninterested in him romantically (much less men in general, Will believed) that he kept his longing chained behind carefully guarded walls. For a long time, watching from the sidelines, enjoying your companionship in even the smallest measures, was enough.

When he stepped into Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s office for therapy, his conflicting emotions became one of many topics he reluctantly confided. At first, Will was hesitant to talk about you. He loathed the idea of Hannibal’s clinical eyes dissecting the one pure comfort in his life. But Hannibal had a way of drawing secrets out as though they were confessions whispered in the dark—gentle, unassuming, yet invasive all the same.

From their first sessions, Hannibal gleaned that Will’s focus on you had reached near-obsessive levels. Whenever your name came up, Will’s eyes lit with equal parts tenderness and desperation. The doctor took it all in. He listened, encouraged, dissected Will’s words with calm curiosity. Whenever Will voiced his fear that his longing for you could drive him off the edge, Hannibal consoled him: “It isn’t a crime to desire closeness, Will,” he would say, voice low and soothing. “If anything, a connection to someone good might ground you. Keep you from unraveling.”

And as Will flinched under the weight of his guilt—he wanted you, but he felt wrong for it—Hannibal delivered subtle reassurances: “Why deny yourself a chance at happiness? You are no monster for wishing to be near him.”

Over time, Hannibal made a space for himself in Will’s life. The patient-doctor relationship merged into a twisted friendship, with Hannibal stepping further and further into Will’s personal sphere. Will was slow to grasp the transformation, perceiving Hannibal’s presence as comforting at first. Someone who understood him deeply, without flinching from the darkness within.

As Hannibal’s influence grew, so did his interest in you. Your involvement with Will—your genuine, unjaded nature—captured Hannibal’s attention. It wasn’t long before he decided he wanted you, too, if only to keep Will’s new bond firmly intact. The idea of shaping your perception—of orchestrating a scenario where the three of you formed an exclusive, unbreakable circle—was alluring.

He carefully watched the interactions between you and Will, noting each time your eyes flickered with concern for Will’s mental state. Each time you offered him a patient smile or a comforting word. In Hannibal’s mind, you were both prime for gentle, consistent manipulation—Will, desperate for your acceptance, and you, yearning to maintain his well-being without suspecting the deeper motives beneath your kindness.

Hannibal began planting seeds during casual dinners. He’d invite you over, always ensuring Will was present, then guide the conversation: “I see such relief in Will when you’re around,” Hannibal would say, touching on your care for Will’s shaky mental state. You, flattered and a bit concerned, would look to Will—who merely wore a half-smile, eyes shadowed but hopeful. These moments didn’t feel unnatural—Hannibal excelled at making them seem perfectly ordinary. Yet each small gesture and pointed remark primed you for what would follow.

Meanwhile, Will was unraveling under Hannibal’s subtle coaxing. He spent nights twisting and turning in his sheets, dreaming of you standing in the sunlight of his dilapidated front porch, the only bright thing in his life. He hated the ache that throbbed in his chest whenever you weren’t near. Hated how, beneath that longing, lived an unsettling willingness to do almost anything to keep you from leaving him behind. Hannibal noticed. And time and time again, he whispered that it was only natural—only right—to keep close what one cherished. Why shouldn’t Will stake a claim on the happiness he deserved?

So it happened one evening after you helped Will through a particularly vicious nightmare. You’d come by late, responding to his shaky phone call. You found him hunched on the edge of his bed, cold sweat on his brow, terror in his eyes. You soothed him as best you could, offering words of comfort and an embrace that felt wholly innocent to you.

But to Will, it was everything.

As you tucked the blanket around him, whispering that it was going to be okay, he lifted his gaze, tears lining his eyes. You’d never seen him so raw, so open—an unspoken plea shining on his face. Before you could question the emotion behind his stare, Will leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours.

You froze. That moment stretched, your mind racing in startled confusion. You’d never considered that Will might want you in that way. You stayed tense, uncertain, before you gently pulled back. Will’s eyes flashed with immediate regret, anguish coloring his cheeks crimson. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I—I didn’t mean—” But he did mean it. You could see it plainly. He meant every second of it.

You managed a quiet, shaky reassurance, “It’s…it’s okay,” even though you felt the distant echo of something too big to process, a boundary abruptly torn open. Will’s need, so potent, made the air feel oppressive. Confused and reeling, you left with a promise to text him later—an effort to keep things calm, to not break him further.

Hannibal found out about Will’s impulsive kiss—Will couldn’t hide it, not with the guilt and mixed desperation etched on his face. Yet the doctor didn’t scold him. Instead, Hannibal allowed a knowing look to pass between them. He recognized this was precisely the kind of bold step that would push you closer to their collective snare.

In the following days, Hannibal carefully orchestrated his own moment. He sensed your unease—your confusion about what had happened with Will—so he extended an invitation for “conversation and clarity.” He offered his home as a safe space to untangle your worries. You accepted, too relieved to have a calm voice of reason to notice the mild triumphant glint in his eyes.

Inside Hannibal’s tastefully refined dining room, you found yourself revealing the tension you’d been carrying since that night. How you felt torn between concern for Will and your own ambivalence—perhaps even fear. Hannibal listened, nodding, never once shaming you for your uncertainty.

When your breathing became shallow and eyes misted with tears you didn’t know were there, Hannibal placed a hand over yours on the table. His voice dropped to that gentle register you’d come to associate with absolute safety. “You care for Will deeply,” he intoned, letting his fingers lightly trace your knuckles. “And that’s admirable. But do not discount the possibility that your affections run deeper than you realize.”

“But I—I’m not…” you began, stumbling over the words.

Hannibal smiled then—self-assured, not smug—before he rose from his seat to stand behind you. He reached out, guiding you to stand as well. You followed, both unsettled and lulled by his presence. With careful gentleness, he turned you to face him. “There is no shame,” he said softly, voice thick with something that made your heartbeat stumble, “in discovering new paths of desire.”

You opened your mouth to protest or respond or something. But Hannibal’s palm slid along your jaw, tipping your face up just enough for him to lean in and press a deliberate, lingering kiss to your lips—quieter, more controlled than Will’s had been, yet just as fierce in its own way. Your body tensed again, mind whirling with confusion. The combined weight of Will’s unexpected confession and Hannibal’s assured advance threatened to overwhelm you.

When he pulled back, Hannibal kept his hand on the curve of your jaw, scanning your expression as though memorizing every flicker of emotion. The world felt dizzyingly narrow, your pulse pounding in your ears. A hundred protests died on your tongue because beneath your shock, something about Hannibal’s closeness felt safe, even if you couldn’t explain why.

From that day forward, there was no denying it. Both Will and Hannibal wanted you in a way that went beyond mere friendship. Their dynamic, once centered on doctor-patient formality, now pulsed with an undercurrent of shared intention. They had found common ground—you.

Through hesitant text messages and quiet, orchestrated meetings, you found yourself toggling between Will’s fragile urgency and Hannibal’s guiding confidence. You noticed how Will’s eyes filled with a desperate hope whenever you walked into a room, or how he’d hover near you, afraid to overstep but unable to pull away. How Hannibal’s hand casually came to rest on your arm or shoulder, an anchoring gesture that left your thoughts in disarray. You were never alone long enough to piece together how deliberately they’d closed in around you.

Confusion gnawed at you; you’d never before felt anything resembling romantic desire for men, and yet their combined attention stirred something you weren’t prepared for. Part of you wanted to retreat, to breathe, to figure out who you were without their influences. But each time you tried to put distance between you and them—perhaps a few days’ break—something would happen: Will’s mental state would plummet, or Hannibal would send a carefully crafted message. You’d end up returning to them, guilt and concern driving you.

And bit by bit, their touches became as common as breathing. Their whispers of gratitude, the gentle smiles, the confessions of how precious you were to them—each act chipped away at your hesitation.

Will was the first to proclaim it in words. One night, as you helped him with an anxiety attack, he clutched your hand and said in a broken voice, “I need you. I—I don’t know what I’d do without you. Please stay.” He didn’t elaborate on what “stay” meant—stay the night, stay in his life forever—both, perhaps. The raw fear in his eyes and the ache in his voice made you feel responsible, compelled to soothe him.

Hannibal, in his quieter moments, would tell you over a shared dinner, “You are a calming harbor in a tumultuous sea,” even as his eyes glinted with an intensity that suggested something far beyond simple appreciation. “I wouldn’t see Will as he is now if it weren’t for you,” he’d add, implying a joint responsibility—one that seemed to unite you, Will, and himself.

It was a carefully orchestrated dance: you, feeling the weight of Will’s fragile psyche; Will, obsessed with maintaining your presence; and Hannibal, the puppet master pulling subtle strings, pushing you further into their shared darkness. By the time you realized the full extent of their devotion, you were already too entangled to easily escape. You found yourself flitting between a swirling confusion of your identity—were you truly opening up to their love, or were you merely shaped to believe it was inevitable?

In Hannibal’s grand design, forging a bond with Will was only half the story. With Will’s acceptance of his own darker impulses—fanned by Hannibal’s influence—the good doctor finally had a partner who could see the world more like he did, unrestrained by common morality. All that was missing from their perspective was you, an untainted counterpart they felt made them complete.

Your presence served as a reminder of normalcy that Will desperately needed, and as a new challenge that Hannibal found irresistible. When the two of them decided to claim you, it was less a spontaneous decision and more the product of Hannibal’s unwavering manipulations combined with Will’s deep-seated fixation.

They became your support system, your protectors, and, unwittingly to you, your manipulators. They smoothed over every apprehension with heartfelt declarations or a soft, well-timed touch. Each gesture was designed to break down any lingering resistance, any chance you might realize this path wasn’t your choice at all.

In the end, there was a weary sort of acceptance in your gaze. A flicker of longing for them—two men who craved you to the point of madness—and a quieter flicker of doubt that you couldn’t quite extinguish. If it ever threatened to surface, one of them would appear at your side, holding you close until that doubt dissolved under the intensity of their love and need. And that’s how you found yourself in a situation you would never have predicted: caught between Will Graham’s trembling devotion and Hannibal Lecter’s calculated passion. One man who feared losing you almost more than he feared himself, and another who viewed both you and Will as beautiful pieces in his private masterpiece.

[cece693]

That fic you wrote about Steve and Buck and the reader drafted for war? How dare you, my heart shattered and now I gotta sweep the pieces up. (I mean this in the best way possible) your writing is absolutely incredible. Keep it up I can’t wait to see what you do next and I’d love to see more of Steve/bucky or just Steve/just bucky.

Awww, thank you so much! I loved how the fic came out and am surprised to see others also liking it. I do have some ideas on how to make it more angsty but for now, I want to include the reader just sending letters to his boys and making them worried sick for his wellbeing. Enjoy!

Promise to Return Pt. 2

Time had a funny way of dragging on in the months after you left. Steve and Bucky both felt it—even when the sun was shining or the city was bustling, there was a hollowness that settled in the space you once filled. It started with little things: Bucky snapping at Steve for something trivial—like leaving the window open or tapping his foot constantly—and Steve responding in a sharp tone. Neither wanted to talk about why they were really frustrated; neither wanted to voice the truth that haunted them: You were gone, in harm’s way, and they could do nothing about it.

The day your first letter arrived, it felt like a jolt of electricity through the tired hush of the apartment. They tore it open together, nearly tripping over each other in their haste. The scrawl inside was messy, words cramped like you’d had to fit every sentence onto a tiny scrap of paper:

Dear Steve and Bucky, I’ve only been gone a short while, but it feels like years. Some nights, I lay awake in the thin canvas tent we’re calling home, and all I can think of is the warmth of your arms. I’d give anything to feel you beside me, even if only for a moment. Life here is a blur of training drills, endless marching, and the constant dirt that clings to everything—my uniform, my boots, my skin. But I’m okay. Sometimes I can almost hear you, Buck, telling me to keep my chin up the way you always do. And Stevie, I picture that soft smile of yours and the determination in your eyes. It gives me courage. We haven’t seen combat yet, but word is we’ll be moving closer to the front soon. I try not to think about the danger. Instead, I think of home—of you two, and how you always fought over who got to hold me first. (I hope you’re still not fighting too much, but if you are, at least kiss and make up afterward, all right?) I miss you both more than I thought possible. Write me back. Tell me everything—tell me how Brooklyn’s holding up, how my folks are doing, and most of all, how you’re doing. Stay safe. I love you, always.

They read it three times over. By the time they finished, tears stained both of their cheeks. They quickly pulled out a pen, set on informing you about what's been happening in town, how your parents are handling things and how much they missed you. They tried to make it sound comforting, hopeful, full of love. Because that was the part of them that still worked—the love. The arguments were brutal, but then another letter would arrive and everything would return to normal—as if you were the glue holding their love from crumbling to dust.

My Steve and Bucky, It’s been a rough few weeks. I don’t want to worry you too much, but I’d rather be honest. The mud is up to our ankles, constant rain drenching us to the bone. The nights are long and cold. I’ve been pushing through, though. Some days, I can’t get the memory of home out of my head—the smell of fresh-baked bread from the bakery near the apartment, the warmth of your arms around me when you’d both squeeze in close at night. We had a scare yesterday—enemy planes overhead. The bombs fell close, rattling our nerves. But I got lucky, walked away with just a few scrapes. I keep telling myself, “If I can make it through one more day, I’ll be one day closer to home.” If you’re fighting, promise me you’ll make up by the time I get back. I’m counting on the two of you to be in one piece—physically and emotionally—when I step off that train. I want to come home to the two men I love, not a cold apartment full of bitterness. I love you both, deeply. Write soon—hearing from you gives me a kind of strength nothing else can. —Yours (always)

They clutched that page, tears trailing down their cheeks. Steve rested his head against Bucky’s shoulder, and for once, Bucky let him. They stayed that way for a while, breathing in tandem, wishing you weren’t so far away.

It wasn’t until months had passed that Bucky and Steve realized, with sinking dread, that your most recent letter had in fact been your final one. At first, neither of them wanted to believe it. It had arrived, tattered at the edges and water-stained from its journey across war-torn oceans, but it had arrived, and so they assumed more would follow. They devoured your words over and over, clinging to the affection you poured onto the page:

My Brooklyn Boys, I’m all right, but things are worse than ever. We’ve moved positions so many times I can’t keep track of addresses. This might be my last chance to write for a while—our lines are closing in on the enemy, and rumor says we’ll be engaged in heavy fighting soon. I won’t lie to you: I’m scared. I’ve seen good men go down this week. Men I shared cigarettes with and talked about what was awaiting us back home. It’s hard to see that and not wonder if I’m next. But I made a promise to come back. I hold onto that promise for dear life, the promise of seeing your faces again, feeling your arms around me. Maybe that’s naïve. But hope is all we have sometimes. Please forgive me if the letters stop for a bit. I’ll try to keep them coming, but I can’t control what happens here. Just know that, no matter what happens, I love you both with everything I have and am. I think about you constantly. Be safe, and be strong for each other.

When your final letter first arrived, neither Bucky nor Steve panicked. You’d warned them: “Forgive me if the letters stop for a bit,” and they assumed it would be a short break—maybe a week or two before you found another chance to put pen to paper. After all, you’d been late before, but never by more than a month. Two months, at most.

But five entire months dragged by. Five months of an empty mailbox. Five months of carefully folded hopes, clutched tight each morning and slowly unraveling each night.

They reread that last note so often its edges grew soft, the folds worn from constant handling. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Steve would wake to find Bucky asleep in the armchair, your letter clutched in his hand as if he’d drifted off tracing the curve of your words. Other times, Bucky would come home to find Steve hunched over the kitchen table, silent tears slipping onto the paper. No matter how many times they scoured each line, the reality never changed: you were gone, and they had no clue where you were, or if you were even alive.

Bucky was the first to snap under the weight of uncertainty. He’d been restless for weeks, ducking out late in the evenings, returning with a haunted look in his eyes. One night, as Steve sat hunched at the dinner table, rereading your last note for what felt like the thousandth time, Bucky slammed the door behind him.

“I just enlisted.”

For a moment, the words didn’t compute. Steve blinked, setting the letter aside. “You—what?”

“I went to the recruiter’s office,” Bucky repeated, his voice trembling with anger and fear all at once. “I signed the papers, Steve. I’m shipping out as soon as they process me.”

Steve shot to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. “What the hell, Buck?” he demanded. “We talked about this! We were waiting—for news, for a letter—”

Bucky’s fists clenched. “That’s the thing, Stevie. There isn’t any news. Not for five months! It’s been radio silence out there. God only knows what’s happened—I can’t just sit here hoping a letter might show up tomorrow.”

“You think I like sitting here, not knowing if he’s alive or not?” Steve’s voice cracked, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “But enlisting— that’s not how we were supposed to handle this. You remember what he wrote. He wanted us to be safe!”

Bucky let out a mirthless laugh. “Safe? While he might be—” His words choked off, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“So your solution is to go get yourself killed, too!?”

The argument escalated quickly—voices echoed off the walls, rehashing every fear they’d kept bottled up. “Why didn't you talk to me first?" Steve sought. “We could’ve come up with something else! We’re supposed to be a team.”

“I am talking to you, right now,” Bucky shot back, though guilt was already gnawing at him. “I just—I couldn’t wait any longer. If you’d seen your own face these past months…you’re wasting away, Stevie. We both are.”

“That’s why we have to stick together!” Steve insisted, tears finally slipping. “He’d want us looking out for each other. Not running off alone.” He stared at Bucky, betrayal written all over his face. “So, that’s it? You’re leaving, and I’m just—what, supposed to watch you go?”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Bucky admitted, throat working as he swallowed back tears. “But I don’t see another option. If the recruiters won’t take you, you’ll be stuck here anyway. At least this way, one of us is in the field. I can look for him, find out something.”

“That’s not good enough,” Steve murmured, voice thick with sorrow. “I can’t lose you too.”

Bucky’s eyes hardened at those words. He heard what Steve said, but all he could feel was anger coiling in his chest. It wasn’t just rage at the war or at your disappearance—it was anger at Steve, for voicing the unthinkable. “Lose me?” he echoed, fists clenching at his sides. “So you’ve already made up your mind that we lost him? That he’s…gone?”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“You’re the one acting like he’s dead!” Bucky barked, voice raw. His breath came shallow and ragged, as if each inhale cut him like glass.

“That’s not what I said,” Steve protested, but his shaky tone betrayed the fear he tried so hard to hide.

Bucky stepped closer, the tension between them bristling. “Then why are you telling me you ‘can’t lose me too’? Huh?” His voice wavered on the last word, hands trembling as he fought the urge to punch something—anything to escape this horrible feeling in his chest. “I’m not dying, Steve. I’m fighting to find him. Because I still believe he’s alive—why can’t you?”

“I do believe,” Steve said, voice trembling. “But it’s been five months since his last letter, Buck.”

“And that means we give up?” Bucky’s tone was half-accusation, half-plea. The weight of those months of silence crashed down on him, but he refused to accept it. His eyes burned. “You think I don’t feel that ache every day? I wake up and wonder if today’s the day we find out…something. But I won’t let it be the day we give up hope.”

Steve looked away, a harsh sob caught in his throat. “We’re not giving up. But we have to face facts. You’re running off to sign up for a war you might not come back from. What if—what if he never…”

Bucky flinched as though struck. “Don’t,” he hissed, voice frayed. “Stop saying ‘never.’ He’s out there somewhere—maybe buried in the thick of it, pinned down, unable to write. Maybe—” His words broke into a choked whisper. “Maybe he’s just trying to survive.”

Steve tried to speak, but emotion knotted his throat, and no sound came out. He watched as Bucky turned on his heel and stormed toward the door, tension radiating off him like a storm about to break. “Buck, please,” Steve managed at last, almost stumbling after him. “Don’t—Where are you going?”

Bucky paused with his hand on the doorknob, shoulders heaving. He half-turned, giving Steve a wounded stare. “I need space because sitting here in this apartment for another second without answers is killing me. If you won't stand by me—" He swallowed hard. “Maybe you never really believed in him coming back at all.”

“That’s not fair,” Steve croaked, but Bucky was already out the door, slamming it behind him with a resounding crack that seemed to echo through the empty rooms.

For a long moment, Steve simply stared, heart hammering in his chest. Then reality hit him like a punch to the gut, and he crumpled to his knees right there in the entrance hall. A ragged sob tore from his throat, shaking his entire body.

He pressed his hands to his face, unable to stop the torrent of tears. All he could see was the half-faded memory of you—your warm smile, the way you used to loop an arm around his shoulders or tug Bucky into a playful headlock. All he could hear was Bucky’s agonized accusation: Maybe you never really believed in him coming back at all.

“It’s not true,” Steve whispered to the empty air, voice cracking. “I swear it’s not.” But there was no one around to hear him. Nothing but the echo of silence, and the ghost of your promise that you’d find your way home—somehow.

Alone on the floor, Steve felt his tears drying on his cheeks. He pressed a trembling hand over his chest, breathing shallowly. There was a decision to be made, and the path ahead loomed like a dark tunnel. If Bucky was willing to risk his life enlisting, then maybe Steve had to do something equally drastic. For you…and maybe, for Bucky too.

But in that moment, he couldn’t do anything but shudder under the weight of it all. Bucky’s words—and your absence—cut deeper than any wound. And the only thing Steve knew for sure was that he couldn’t stand idly by while Bucky charged headlong into the unknown. One way or another, he had to try to keep them all from falling apart.

[cece693]

I wanted to begin writing for twilight again, but didn't have any ideas for who. So this fic is mostly be just going with the flow.

Sparkling Awkwardness

pairing: jasper whitlock x male reader x edward cullen tags: you are a newborn, but even then you can't catch a break, tug of war between two vampires, comedic elements, pre-relationship, reader is not that old, newborn vampire

In Forks, Washington, the perpetual gray skies had always been your friend—before and after you became a vampire. But not even the cozy gloom of the Pacific Northwest could hide the shimmering tension stirring between Jasper and Edward over you, of all people.

You never asked to be so desirable; you certainly hadn’t been in your human life. But now, you were a shiny new vampire with a perfect complexion and a magnetic personality—at least, so you’d been told. You still felt like the same slightly clumsy, socially awkward guy, except you no longer tripped over your own feet unless you were actively trying to blend in. It was weird. Oh, and apparently, both Jasper and Edward thought you might be their “mate.” That word alone was enough to give you hives if your skin could still do that. It made everything feel predetermined—a cosmic real-estate deal on your afterlife.

No, thank you.

You plopped down on the gleaming white couch, adopting what you hoped was a casual position. Edward sat at the piano bench, absentmindedly letting his fingers hover over the keys, while Jasper paced near the staircase. They were doing that silent eye-contact thing—what you liked to call “vampire telepathy” (you knew it was actually Edward reading thoughts and Jasper sensing emotions, but still). Either way, you were definitely the topic, if the frequent side-eye glances were any indication.

You cleared your throat, forcing a grin. “So, are we going to continue the silent stare-off, or do I need to crack a few jokes to break this tension?”

Edward turned to you, lips curving into a tight, apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he murmured softly. “Old habits.”

“You guys have old habits? You’re basically the definition of ancient habits,” you teased. “I’m the new kid on the block. Cut me some slack. I’ve only been a vampire for—what—three months?”

Jasper stopped mid-pace, sending you a faint smirk. “If it helps, you’re doing a fine job adjusting. No unintentional biting incidents this week.”

“I appreciate the recognition. We can add it to my vampire résumé,” you said, only half-joking. “Next up: perfecting the sparkle. Do you think if I rub my cheek up against a disco ball, I’ll blind everyone within a two-mile radius?”

Edward’s eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement. “Might be a bit dramatic, even for us.”

Jasper shrugged. “No more dramatic than having two vampires fight over you, I reckon.”

You grimaced, nose scrunching. “Yeah, about that.” You cast them both a meaningful look. “Are you two really fighting over me? Because I’m not exactly used to…you know, this.”

“Yes,” Edward said at the exact same time Jasper said, “Of course.” Then they flicked irritated glances at each other, as if each wished the other had said anything else.

When Carlisle brought you home after that near-fatal accident, you had been delirious and bleeding out. Edward, in typical heroic fashion, had insisted on saving you. Next thing you knew, there you were: newly turned, hungry for blood, and fitted with a brand-new wardrobe courtesy of Alice.

You’d spent the early days stumbling through the house, flinching whenever someone shut a door too loudly. But from the get-go, you noticed two sets of molten gold eyes on you more than the others: Jasper’s and Edward’s.

You didn’t think much of it at first—maybe they were just protective. But it quickly escalated from polite overprotectiveness to…whatever this was. Tense stands in the living room. Soft arguments at midnight. That time Jasper accidentally crushed a chair arm because Edward “invaded your personal space.” Or the time Edward snarled under his breath for no apparent reason when you innocently asked Jasper for some sparring tips.

Needless to say, that’s when you began to suspect something was afoot. And apparently, that something was the so-called mate bond. You still didn’t buy it.

A creak on the polished floor made you realize you’d been tapping your foot anxiously—only to discover it was Jasper edging closer to you. He had that concerned older-brother-turned-smitten-face again. Meanwhile, Edward looked up from the piano, watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth paying attention to (besides maybe the antique piano itself).

You sighed, addressing them both. “So, as fun as it is being the center of your undead soap opera, can we talk about the whole ‘mate’ thing? I still don’t buy into it.”

Edward studied you, a hint of a frown creasing his perfect forehead. “I’ve heard your thoughts,” he began, “and I understand why you’re—”

“You heard my thoughts?” you cut in, eyes narrowing. “Hey, man, that’s private property up there. At least charge admission.”

A sheepish smile briefly pulled at his lips. “I try to respect your privacy, but strong emotions tend to overflow.”

Your cheeks heated (which was impossible, physically, but you felt it). You cleared your throat. “Well, guess I should keep my strong emotions dialed down—like that’s even possible. I’m brand-new at this vamp thing. I can’t walk across the room without rearranging furniture accidentally.”

Jasper let out a low laugh. It instantly relaxed some of the tension in the room—he couldn’t help broadcasting some of that relaxation to you, as was his empathetic gift. “I’ve got no intention of forcing you into anything,” he said gently. “It’s just…I feel how your emotions waver between us. It’s intense.”

You threw up your hands. “I can’t help it! You two are like walking advertisement campaigns for impossibly cool vampires. I mean, Edward, you’ve got that brooding poet vibe, and sometimes your hair looks like you walked off a shampoo commercial—”

He seemed surprised. “I—thank you?”

You went on. “Jasper, you’re the calm center in a raging storm, and plus, that Southern drawl is kinda hot. Sorry, is that weird to say out loud?”

Jasper blinked. “It’s— it’s not unwelcome.”

Edward’s lips twitched in a smile. “So, you do admit you feel…something?”

“Well, yeah!” you exclaimed. “But does that mean I have to pick and stamp a romantic label on it right now? Because that’s a lot of pressure.” You flopped back against the couch dramatically. “Especially when I’m trying to figure out why my sparkles look more like glitter glue than fancy vampire confetti in the sunlight.”

You heard a snicker and glanced to the side. Emmett was leaning in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, thoroughly entertained. Alice stood behind him, grinning like this was the funniest show on earth.

“You’re both about one push away from a territorial meltdown,” Emmett teased his brothers. “And I, for one, can’t wait to see who’s gonna punch whom first.”

Jasper shot him a warning look. “Not helpful, Emmett.”

Edward winced. “I’d prefer if we avoided violence.”

You rubbed your temples. “Yes, please, let’s not have that. It’s already complicated enough without fistfights.”

“Aw, come on,” Emmett drawled, “vampire fights are the best. It’ll be over in about two seconds and destroy half the house. Great entertainment, if you ask me.”

Alice laughed behind her hand. “I saw a vision of that once. Rosalie was not happy about the furniture repairs.”

In an effort to shift the mood, you sat up straight, cleared your throat, and pointed at Edward and Jasper in turn. “First, you.” You locked eyes with Edward. “Stop reading my cringe-worthy daydreams—I can’t handle that level of exposure.”

He pressed his lips together in a teasing way, then nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“Second,” you said, turning to Jasper, “no more flooding me with calm vibes to manipulate me into hugging you for, like, five minutes at a time.”

Jasper put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “I don’t do that on purpose. Usually,” he added under his breath.

“And third,” you said, scanning between them, “I don’t want either of you jumping to assumptions about being my ‘mate.’ I don’t even know what that truly means aside from it being the vampire version of destiny. Maybe I’m too new to see the big picture, but…” You shrugged, folding your arms. “I’m not ready to commit. I like you both. Deal with it.”

Edward’s eyes flickered with relief and a shade of disappointment simultaneously, as though he’d half-expected you to declare an immediate eternal bond. Jasper gave you a solemn nod, managing a small, humble smile.

“So you want to, what, keep this casual?” Edward asked.

“I want to keep living—uh, un-living—my new existence,” you corrected, “without strapping myself into an epic love saga just yet. Let me be a baby vampire who can’t even do a normal grocery run without wanting to pass out from the smell of raw hamburger.” Your voice dropped into a mock superhero tone: “Time to buy more steak sauce, but oh wait, I can’t eat human food anymore.”

A strained silence passed, then Edward sighed, letting the corners of his mouth lift. “Fair enough.”

Jasper stepped closer, just enough that he could have touched your arm, but he hesitated. “And if we…I don’t know, slip up? If one of us tries to edge the other one out?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You both have about a century of experience on me. I promise, if you slip up, I will find some comedic way to remind you. Maybe I’ll laminate a scoreboard.”

At that, Jasper chuckled quietly. Edward dipped his head, biting back a grin. It seemed the cold war between them was cooling off—somewhat.

Emmett broke into a broad smile. “Aw, man, a scoreboard. Please put me in charge of that. I’ll keep track of who gets the most time with you. Strictly for comedic purposes, of course.”

From across the house, Rosalie’s voice rang out, “Don’t encourage them!”

As the sun sank below Forks’ ever-present clouds, you rose from the couch, nearly tripping over the rug on your way to the door—reflexively, Jasper grabbed your elbow, steadying you. Edward hovered just behind you, poised to catch you if you stumbled further.

“Thanks,” you murmured to both of them, awkwardly aware of their closeness. Being flanked by two protective vampires had once seemed terrifying, but now it felt…comforting. Still weird, though.

“We’re not going to solve everything tonight,” you said, taking a purposeful step back so you could see them both—and so you didn’t spontaneously lean into someone’s chest. “Let’s just agree not to tear each other apart, yeah?”

Edward extended a hand toward Jasper, as if to form a truce. Jasper eyed it warily for a moment before accepting the gesture in a calm, if reluctant, handshake. “Alright,” Edward said. “No tearing each other apart.”

Jasper nodded. “Can do.”

Feeling a spark of mischief, you clapped your hands. “Great. That’s one less lawsuit for Dr. Cullen to worry about. In the meantime, Emmett—please start designing that scoreboard.”

“On it!” Emmett crowed from the doorway.

“Have a good night, you two,” you said to Jasper and Edward. Then, with a flash of a grin, you headed for the stairs, half-dreading, half-anticipating the comedic fiascos tomorrow was sure to bring. Behind you, you heard their faint conversation:

(Edward) “He’s definitely going to drive us insane, isn’t he?”

(Jasper) “Yep.”

(Edward) “… And you’re okay with that?”

(Jasper) “I think I am.”

Your lips quirked into a smile. Even if you didn’t believe in mates, you had to admit—it felt pretty good having not just one, but two admirers who thought you were worth fighting for. Sure, you still sparkled like a glitter bomb gone awry, and your vampiric existence remained confusing at best. But if that’s the price of comedic immortality… well, you could live—er, un-live—with that.

[cece693]

Just something I drafted up where you are younger than hannibal which leads people to think that you're a sugar baby or escort of some sorts. Kind disrespectful tbh, but I just loved the concept where Hannibal kills the rude who dares label his relationship as something so...demeaning. Hope you enjoy!

Assumptions

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: relationship, age gap of 10 years, people think it's some type of transaction, hannibal takes offense, mentions of death and murder, you like it

You first met him under what you assumed were mundane, if slightly prestigious, circumstances: a friend of a friend introduced you to Dr. Hannibal Lecter at the opening of a new gallery in Baltimore. Even in your early thirties, you had carved a comfortable place for yourself in the local art scene, hobnobbing with curators and collectors. The moment you locked eyes with Hannibal—elegant in a perfectly tailored suit, his refined manners and melodic accent setting him apart from everyone else—your entire world seemed to slow to a hush.

You felt his gaze drift over you, assessing and appreciative. Then, in a voice smooth as dark velvet, he introduced himself. “Hannibal Lecter,” he said, holding out a hand. Even that small, polite greeting seemed to carry an undercurrent of something deeper. There was hunger in his deep-set eyes. And you—fascinated and slightly breathless—shook his hand and offered your name.

From that night onward, the two of you fell into a comfortable routine of dinners, private showings, and late-night brandy in his drawing room. It was easy to ignore the whispers that accompanied you both once you became openly involved. The insinuations that Hannibal was your “patron,” an older man with deep pockets who had found a younger companion to dote upon. You tried to brush off the silly rumors, though you noticed how they stung Hannibal’s pride. You were no one’s toy, and he was no mere sugar daddy. You were both well-educated, fiercely independent men who took great pleasure in each other’s company and conversation.

At first, Hannibal managed to keep his focus on you, ignoring every raised eyebrow that followed the two of you at social gatherings or at restaurants. He’d simply slide an arm around your waist, guide you through the room as though the rest of the world existed only in the periphery. You fell deeper in love each time he protected you from the prying, gossiping eyes of so-called high society.

But the assumptions became more pointed, especially among those who had rather unsavory tastes themselves. Perhaps they assumed you were available, for a price—like some decadent ornament on Hannibal’s arm. The first few times men (and even some women) made passes at you, you politely dismissed them. You would return home seething or sometimes laughing, depending on your mood, retelling the events to Hannibal. His brow would furrow, and he’d listen with an intense calm that comforted you more than anything else. He would offer you tea or wine, the timbre of his voice so soothing as he repeated, “They are unworthy of your company, dearest.”

Those misguided proposals began happening more often. You tried not to let it wear on you, but it was difficult. They cornered you at social events, at bars if you went out without Hannibal, occasionally even in the hallway outside your apartment. One particularly persistent man trapped you by the coat rack in a crowded lounge, pressing a business card into your pocket and whispering suggestive offers. You escaped with a polite, forced laugh, but something inside you cracked in frustration. By the time you arrived home to Hannibal’s upscale townhouse, you were seething. Hannibal’s shoulders tightened as he listened to every detail.

“Is that so…” he murmured, eyes glittering with a cold, predatory edge you had never quite seen before.

The next morning, that man’s name was inexplicably absent from the lounge’s guest list. And he was never seen in that circle again.

It happened again and again. Another proposition, another person gone. You were no fool. You read the news, saw the subtle stories of disappearances. Deep down, you understood that Hannibal was handling these individuals far more directly than simple intimidation. He didn’t shy away from blood when it involved protecting you. He never asked for your permission or forgiveness—he simply ensured you wouldn’t be bothered by them again.

You thought you should be horrified. You knew society would expect fear. But instead, a strange, reverent awe filled your chest whenever you caught a hint of what Hannibal was capable of. How far he would go. His violence—so precise and controlled—was an extension of the love that coursed beneath his refined façade. He wore that refinement like a delicate cloak, but you alone felt the primal power that hummed beneath his skin.

One evening, after yet another social function at which you caught a woman’s brazen attempt to slide her hand into your back pocket, you returned to Hannibal’s home. He greeted you in the foyer with a serene half-smile. The woman was nowhere to be seen, though you recalled she had seemed intent on following you both. You didn’t need any explanation. You quietly set down your coat and stepped forward to brush your lips against his, trembling with a fierce, devoted gratitude.

He pulled away, searching your gaze. “You’re shaking,” he observed. “Are you afraid?”

You swallowed, pressing your palm to his cheek. “I’m not afraid. I’m…” Love. Trust. Devotion. You couldn’t quite articulate the swirl of emotions. Instead, you stroked your thumb over his cheekbone and whispered, “Thank you.”

That evening, he made dinner. A sumptuous meal in candlelight that reflected off the exquisitely polished silverware. The conversation stayed light—discussing your recent contributions to a gallery show, the new opera season, his curious interest in Renaissance art. You both tacitly ignored the question of exactly where the woman who had trailed you was at that moment.

In the flickering candle glow, Hannibal reached across the table and caught your hand. There, in the hush of that well-appointed dining room, it truly sank in. The two of you were bound by something beyond yourself, a unity of passion. Society could say what they wanted, whisper about you being his toy, accuse Hannibal of bankrolling your life. Those judgments paled in the face of what he offered. You knew—if anyone else dared lay a hand on you, dared proposition you in such a crass manner—Hannibal would see them gone. And you welcomed that knowledge, thrilling in the safety and the danger all at once.

[cece693]

You’re such a good writer, I love you work! Could you please do some Steve Rogers x male reader x Bucky Barnes? I’d really appreciate it.

I couldn't help myself but write you dating pre-serum Steve and Bucky. I don't really see many fics centered around that time, focusing rather on the future when they reunited. I think this fic came out bittersweet since you are drafted to war and it's up to the reader to decide if you survive or perish. Part 2, maybe—maybe not. Enjoy!

Promise To Return

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader x steve rogers tags: 1940s, you are all in a relationship, pre serum Steve and bucky, you are drafted to war, painful goodbyes, serving your country, but at what costs, sad Bucky and Steve, open ended

You first notice the draft letter in the afternoon, tucked amidst the day’s mail. The bold black lettering on the envelope snags your eye, heart clenching at the sight of the government stamp. It’s a warning sign of the storm about to come crashing down. For a long moment, you stand there on the front step of your parents’ Brooklyn home, the envelope in your trembling hand. The weight of it is unmistakable. You swallow hard, slip it into your jacket, and step inside.

Your parents barely look up—your mother’s in the kitchen, humming while she arranges some flowers in a vase; your father is fiddling with the radio. They’ve both seen the news reels and the notices posted around the city, but they have no idea that one has arrived for you. You skirt past them and hurry up to your room, heart pounding, mind racing with one question: How am I going to tell Steve and Bucky?

That night, you lay awake, letter in hand, re-reading the official summons: your name, the location of your reporting station, and the dreaded date only a few weeks away. No matter how you turned the page or tried to blot out the words, they remained the same. You thought about Steve—about how he’d press his face into your shoulder when he was afraid, about the way he always tried to stay brave. And you thought about Bucky—his confidence, the fierce protectiveness in his eyes whenever he looked at you.

You promised yourself you’d get through telling them. Somehow.

The next morning, you mustered the courage to slip out, telling your parents you'd be seeing "some friends." In truth, you headed straight to the apartment that Steve shares with Bucky. It’s cramped—nothing more than a bedroom and a shared kitchenette, but you three have made the best of it. It’s a place of refuge from a world that wouldn’t understand what you are to each other: best friends, confidants and something much deeper.

You knock once on the rickety door, and you can hear Bucky’s familiar drawl asking who’s there. As soon as he hears your voice, he throws the door open, wearing that quick, welcoming grin. But the moment he notices your tense shoulders, the way your eyes dart anxiously around, his expression falters.

“Hey,” he says quietly, letting you in with a cautious glance down the hallway, checking if anyone’s watching. “You okay? You look spooked.”

Steve, perched on the arm of the couch, sifted though a few sketches he'd done. He’s got graphite smudged on his fingers and a slight crease of concentration on his brow. His face lights up in that gentle way you adore—until he sees the strain in your eyes. “What happened?”

You carefully close the door behind you, take a shaky breath, and withdraw the letter from your pocket. “I—I got this,” you said, offering it to them.

Bucky’s brows furrowed before he even opened it. He scanned the page, and you could practically see his blood run cold. “No. There’s gotta be a mistake.” His voice rose in pitch as fear warred with desperation. “Maybe they got your name mixed up with someone else’s—”

“Buck,” you murmured gently. “It’s official. It’s got my number. There’s no mistake.”

Steve’s hands tremble. He looks up at you, blue eyes wide with an unspoken plea, as though hoping you’re playing some horrible joke. “Is this real?” he whispers. “They’re sending you—”

“Overseas,” you finish flatly, because the letter gives no illusions. “They want me to report for duty in a few weeks. Same as all the other guys on the block who’ve been drafted.”

Steve’s eyes welled with tears he tried and failed to blink back. “I—I can’t believe this,” he choked out. “You can’t go…I mean, you can’t just leave.”

“I don’t want to,” you said, your own throat tight. “But it’s not like I have a choice.”

Bucky’s face twisted, his anger boiling over. “Don’t say that! We’ll figure something out!” He grabbed you by the shoulders. “We can talk to Dr. Erskine—he’s working on that program, the one that helps with—”

"That’s not for me,” you interrupted quietly, your voice trembling. “He’s only looking for certain recruits. And even if it was for me…I still don’t get to say ‘no’ to the Army.”

Bucky looked as if he were on the edge of panic. “Then we’ll hide you,” he insisted, voice ragged. “I know a guy who runs a shipping yard. Maybe he can put you on a cargo ship somewhere until this all blows over.”

“We can’t just—”

“Why not?” Bucky’s tone was pleading, irrational. “You’re not even trying to stop this,” he fired at you, desperation morphing into hurt. “You’re acting like there’s nothing you can do. Like you’re willing to go!”

"I don't want to!” you shout, voice cracking. “But I’ve got no choice. I could get thrown in jail—maybe even worse. And it’d only draw more attention to us. You know that.”

Steve had been uncharacteristically quiet, tears sliding unchecked down his cheeks. Suddenly, he let out a choked sob and pressed himself against you, his fingers gripping the back of your shirt as though he could fuse you together by force of will alone. “I can’t do this without you,” he murmured. “Not now. Not ever.”

All you could do was hold him close. You gently tugged Bucky closer as well, wrapping an arm around him. Despite the swirl of anger and grief in his eyes, he leaned in, burying his face against your shoulder. You stood there for what felt like forever, locked in a silent embrace that felt too fragile for words.

Days pass in a blur of tension. Your parents are proud—once they finally learn the news—and though there’s concern in their eyes, they show you off to friends and family like a soldier-in-the-making. You go through the motions, letting them gush about your “service for the country,” but you're numb to it all.

Steve and Bucky oscillated between tense denial and tearful acceptance. One night, you caught them arguing in hushed whispers. Bucky wanted to bribe a doctor to declare you unfit. Steve tried to reason that if it was that simple, they would have done it for him, too—he’d been rejected from service so many times, but for him it was the other way around. He’d wanted to join, and they wouldn’t let him. Now here you were, being forced in. The irony wasn’t lost on any of you.

As the dreaded day of your departure drew near, you spent every free hour in Steve and Bucky’s company, refusing to let go. You idly flipped through Steve’s sketches, listening to him murmur how he’d draw you every day so he wouldn’t forget a single angle of your face. You let Bucky fold you into his arms while he whispered about the times you’d had as kids—summers spent at the docks, or sneaking into a movie. He spoke as though clinging to those memories would keep you safe overseas.

Finally, the last day arrives. You awaken to your mother’s sad smile over breakfast, your father giving you a stiff pat on the shoulder. There’s that undercurrent of pride in the house, but also dread. You’ve promised them you’ll write whenever possible. Still, your mind’s already racing ahead, thinking about how to spend your final hours before shipping out.

By late afternoon, you’re at Steve and Bucky’s door one last time. The letter with your final instructions sits in your bag, telling you to board a train at dawn. You knock softly, and Bucky yanks the door open, eyes rimmed red as if he hasn’t slept. Steve stands behind him, pale and tense. Neither of them say hello; the weight of goodbye presses down too hard.

Without speaking, they usher you in. Steve hovers, wringing his hands. Bucky folds his arms, leaning heavily against a wall. You can feel the swirl of unsaid emotions in the air. “Hey,” you start gently. “I wanted to be with you both until I have to go.”

Bucky can’t meet your eyes. Steve swallows, steps closer, and takes your hands in his. “You’ll write to us, right?” he pleads. His voice is shaking, raw with emotion.

“Every chance I get,” you promise. “Letters, postcards…whatever I can manage.”

“Promise,” Steve repeats, so desperately you can’t help but pull him into a tight embrace. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” you say in his ear, while your eyes flick over to Bucky. He’s still silent, staring at the floor. “Bucky…”

He exhales roughly and then, in one swift motion, pushes off the wall to stand in front of you. “I’m coming with you.” His voice is hoarse, but resolute.

It’s such a startling statement that your breath catches. Steve spins around, eyes wide. Bucky rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ll enlist tomorrow. We’ll ship out together. At least that way—that way I can protect you.”

Your heart pounds. As insane as it sounds, a tiny selfish part of you wants to say yes. You don’t want to face war alone. But the rational part knows better. You see the alarm in Steve’s face—Bucky is the only one who can keep watch over Steve, scrawny and plagued by health issues he’s had since he was a kid. The last thing you want is for Bucky to follow you into hell when Steve is already so vulnerable.

You shake your head, voice quavering with emotion. “Buck, no. It’s…it’s bad enough that one of us has to go, but you—you don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Bucky barks, tears glistening in his eyes. “I can’t just stand here while you head off to get shot at on some battlefield.”

“And what about Steve?” you retort, your voice trembling. “Who’s gonna take care of him if both of us are gone?”

He falls silent, fists shaking at his sides. Steve, face flushed with emotion, steps forward, placing a tentative hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Don't leave me,” Steve whispers. “I—I can’t lose both of you.”

Bucky’s shoulders heave as he fights back sobs. He shuts his eyes, head tilting back, as though searching for an answer in the ceiling. Finally, he lets out a shaky breath. “I hate this,” he chokes out. “I hate everything about this.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and reach for Bucky, tugging him close until he relents and wraps his arms around you. Steve presses in from behind, cocooning you in warmth. The three of you ended up huddled together for a long, painful stretch of time. Gentle touches, whispered promises, desperate assurances that you’d be reunited, that somehow this war would end quickly. Each kiss felt like it might be the last, pressed to foreheads, cheeks, lips, anywhere to keep the connection alive.

Eventually, when darkness starts creeping in through the thin curtains, you realize your time was done. “I have to go,” you murmur. “I’ll have to be up early for the train.” The words taste bitter. Each one feels like an ending.

Bucky’s hands linger on your arms. “I’m walking you home, then.”

Steve nods, eyes still glossy. “Me too.”

The streets outside are quiet, the lamps casting long shadows on the sidewalk. Steve walks close by your side, as if terrified any gap between you means losing you that much sooner. Bucky’s presence is solid at your other side, glancing darkly at any passerby who looks your way. No one would guess that the three of you share more than just friendship. They just see three solemn men making their way through the late evening gloom.

Finally, you arrive at the front of your parents’ house. The curtains are drawn; the lights are off—your folks likely went to bed early, knowing you had a big morning ahead. You turn to face your boys: Steve looked like he could hardly stand, while Bucky hovered beside him, his arm around Steve's shoulders, the two of them visibly bracing each other.

“Don’t be a hero,” Steve whispers fiercely. “Just stay safe and come back to us. Please.”

“If anything happens,” Bucky adds, voice thick with emotion, “I swear I’m coming for you. War or not.”

A sad smile ghosts across your lips. “I believe you.” You force yourself to step away from them, stepping onto the stoop. “Promise me you'll look after each other." They both nod, though Bucky’s jaw works like he’s fighting more words. Instead, he just reaches for your hand and squeezes it once, hard, before letting go.

“Don't forget to write," Steve says.

“I will. Every chance I get. I’ll write so often you’ll get sick of me.”

“Never,” Bucky said in a choked whisper. “We could never…” He trailed off, unable to finish. You give them a smile before turning around and opening the door to step inside. You watch through the curtains Bucky squeezing Steve's shoulder before walking away, seeing their figures getting smaller until they completely disappear around the curve.